"D'you think you could stop playing the fool, on this foray?" the Golden Griffon snapped at the irrepressible procurer.
Craer gave the glowering old noble a merry smile. "Lord Blackgult, in a word: no. If my… foolishness won me the tide of 'Overduke,' then I shall cling to it. 'Tis not as if I could do anything else-and I refuse to become a grim, stone-nosed old noble… ah, like some folk I could mention. If Craer of the Wagging Tongue was good enough to rescue Aglirta from itself thus far, that same Craer shall see the Realm of the Vale safely through the next few days, as well. I'll not change into some bootlicking sobersides. Demand it of me, and farewell empty overduchal tide and good greeting to the outlaw life once more!"
Surprisingly, the Golden Griffon merely nodded.
The moment the Lady Talasorn's horse quieted and Blackgult rode up close enough to get a hand on its bridle and prevent it from bolting, Hawkril spurred past and caught the reins of Craer's mount, bringing it to a gradual halt.
They gathered in a jostling huddle of snorting horses where their trail traversed a small and shady hollow. Tshamarra sighed, looked left and right with her hands on her hips as she sat in her saddle ignoring Craer's impudent gropings, and announced, "This still looks to me like a place all too suited for a brigand ambush."
Hawkril looked at his own lady. "Well?" he rumbled.
Embra did something with the Dwaer that made the air around them sing with a high, jangling note, and then shook her head. "We're alone."
"Then let us confer," Blackgult said firmly. "Craer, get back to your own saddle."
The procurer surprised them all by nodding and deftly doing so in silence, waving at Blackgult to speak.
"Mucklar was the market town we rode through this morn," the old baron said promptly. "Ahead is Osklodge, where there's been no tersept's lodge since a fire that raged when I was a boy. A mere trailmoot now. There, our trail branches into ways no grander than this one, heading southeast to the town of Stornbridge and west to the village of Jhalaunt. Unless things have changed since our last halt, our Stone warns of no other awakened Dwaers within its range. Still so, Embra?"
The Lady Silvertree nodded, and Blackgult continued. "As to the second concern, I've summoned Flaeros Delcamper-now reportedly on his way to Flowfoam-to stay by Raulin's side as both guardian and spy, and called on two certain courtiers to do the same. Men I trust, mind you, after extensive discussions with them eavesdropped upon by Embra and her Dwaer. They know of each other and of Flaeros, but the bard's unaware of their sworn duties. Thus escorted, I hope to give young Castlecloaks at least a fighting chance against treachery in our absence."
Craer snorted. "I know not which of your trusts is the flimsier: depending on the musical flower of the Delcampers to do anything-or counting on any Tersept of Aglirta to remain loyal when tempted by almost any lure."
'Judge not all men as nursing as dark a mind and morals as your own," Blackgult said rather sternly. "If we were all so self-serving, the Vale would have drowned in shed blood long ago, and this would all be beast-country, haunted by the restless spells of murdered mages and roamed by desperate outlaws."
"Now there's as good a description of Aglirta as I've heard in years," Craer remarked.
Tshamarra nodded. "Forgive my forthright speech, Lord Blackgult," she murmured, "but many in other lands would agree. 'Cursed Aglirta' is not an unfamiliar expression anywhere on the coasts of Asmarand."
"No doubt, and not without reason, either, but surely we know better- and work to make it doubly false."
"We stray," Hawkril rumbled. "Let us accept that the King is as well guarded as we can manage for now, and return to our personal progress: across country, or halt nigh Osklodge for some reason, or more likely on to either Stornbridge or Jhalaunt-but which?"
"Stornbridge," Craer said promptly. "More to do."
Embra lifted one eyebrow. "Steal, you mean?"
The procurer blinked at her. "Lady Silvertree, you wound me. You wound me deeply-"
"Not yet, Lord Delnbone, but the fate you anticipate may soon befall if your lips continue to spew such sly foolishness," Embra told him. "Quell the clever comments for once and speak plainly. You favor Stornbridge. For other reasons, so do I."
Craer grinned. "More places to buy gowns, sleep in decent beds, and shop?"
"Now who wounds who? I thought more thus: The larger place is more likely to house someone with a Dwaer, given that our fellow folk of the Vale seem unable to keep patient-and hide treasures-for long."
"Sarasper managed it," Hawkril rumbled. There was a little silence ere Craer sighed and turned to look upriver, as if his eyes could somehow pierce miles of trees, hills, and riverbends to the grassy mound on the far prow of Flowfoam, where their friend now lay buried.
"He grew old doing so," Embra said gently, "as did the Crow of Cardassa, remember?"
Blackgult half-growled and half-snorted in agreement. "I'm not feeling all that young myself, these days."
Craer grinned at him. "And so you ride with us to regain your lost youth. A chance once more to adventure, swagger, and rut again like a youngling!"
"Really? Is that why I'm here?" The man who had once been best known across all Asmarand as the Golden Griffon-the most handsome and dashing of all barons-asked mildly, as his saddle creaked under him. "In front of my daughter?"
Embra lifted her eyebrow again. "This hampered you before?"
Her father gave her a smile that held more than a touch of sadness. "I'm not one of those who shows a different face to different folk-though betimes I've been plunged into feuds and troubles for doing so. Many barons find such bright-faced acting the easiest way to rule, but 'tis a weakness that dooms them in the long run, for greater ease on this day or that."
"But what about a baron's duty to his people?" Tshamarra asked quietly. "If a baron invites the swords of a stronger neighbor if he says or does the wrong thing, what 'strength' is there in doing that thing-and dooming many folk who have no part in his quarrel, or chance to speak in its unfolding, one way or the other? I mean no disrespect, Lord Blackgult, but again: There are some in other lands who lie and smile through their rage daily, to get along with countrymen and avoid daggers drawn-and they look upon the Vale as a place harmed by its ever-warring barons."
"So Aglirta is," Blackgult agreed gravely. "I've never claimed to be a wise ruler, or even fit to rule. In the Kingless Land, power fell to those who could seize it. I used and misused it-throwing away far too many lives in a mistaken attempt to snatch the Isles was only my largest folly-and the blood of many men stains my hands. Yet I know and admit this, where many of my smiling, slydog fellow barons never did ere they were slain in strife that their own treacheries kindled and nurtured. I enjoy what I do, and have from the first. By standing proud, dealing bluntly, and paying the price for my misjudgments, I loved the passing days, and did the better for it-unlike those barons who cowered and schemed and feared poison and blades at their backs nightly, and passed their days like anxiously quavering rats."
"My, my," Craer said. "And here I thought being a baron was all snarling orders and bedding wenches and putting boots up on the best furniture. 'Tis not so different from being a procurer by choice, after all."
"No, 'tis not," Blackgult agreed. "But I fear we've crept back to procurer philosophy once more, and the Lady Silvertree is quite right as to its arch nature and lack of daily usefulness to those not yet standing trial for their misdeeds."