Craer shrugged merrily, gave the lornsar a cheery smile as he took his seat, and asked, "What did I miss? Barbed threats? Little gems of glowering menace? Or just a little tongue-fencing?"
Lornsar Ryethrel regarded his newly returned table companion sourly. "A little peace and quiet. My lord."
Hawkril snorted with laughter, and Tshamarra smirked at her platter and said, "He's got you there, Longfingers!"
Craer regarded her haughtily. "That'll be 'Lord Longfingers,' if you don't mind."
"Would it be impolite of me to inquire, as seneschal of this castle, if the Lord Stombridge is, ah, short one chamber knave at this time?" Urbrindur asked.
Craer gave him a bright smile. "No, and no. He has a bit of a headache, and is sleeping it off-comfortably, I trust. There's another man lying beside him who is-or rather was-a. priest of the Serpent. A man who arrived here but two days ago, I understand. He's dead now, and whoever pulls his own knife out of him had best beware poison on its blade. Oh, yes, two of your cortahars need some weapons practice, and someone named Thalas is being far too mercenary in his rental of certain rooms."
"I beg your pardon?" Seneschal Urbrindur asked, in the heavy tones affected by those so scandalized that they're really doing nothing of the kind.
However, on the other side of the uncertainly smiling tersept, Coinmaster Eirevaur smiled, nodded, made a note, and murmured, "Thalas again. Thank you, Lord Delnbone."
Craer gave him a wink, and then addressed the seneschal directly. "No, I'm afraid not."
Urbrindur gave him a baffled but nonetheless disapproving look. "You're afraid, my lord?"
The procurer took a healthy mouthful of boar and sluiced it down his gullet with a swig from the decanter. "I'm afraid I can't grant the pardon you've so energetically begged for, at this time. Still, the Three work in wondrous ways, Seneschal. Perhaps I shall, sometime soon-if you can overcome this regrettable tendency to judge everyone around you. Take folk as you find them-"
"Aye," Hawkril rumbled, "take them for all they've got, is the usual Longfingers manner."
Craer shot his old friend a look that mingled mock pain and shared mirth, and continued, "-and enjoy life all the more. Some wine, perhaps? A timely flagon comes never amiss." He waved the decanter, but Urbrindur shook his head curtly.
"To continue, my Lord Stornbridge," Embra said patiently, "we consider that what's most important for every noble of Aglirta is to take great care to not follow the dark road of ambition favored by some of their more foolish fellows in the past." She sipped daintily at her wine, and added, "There's no need for anyone to go whelming armies beyond what's needed to patrol his own territory, or to conspire with others up and down the Vale in petty little alliances that in the end will only be manipulated by the Serpent-worshippers or another Bloodblade desiring to snatch the throne."
Blackgult nodded. "If every noble of the Vale kept loyal to the throne, and bought peace with wise decisions, ready swords, fair justice, and vigilant patrols, Aglirta would soon know greatness again, and the peace would bring prosperity to all."
"Your diligence on the road this day may have been misplaced, but it speaks well for your regard for your own people, and for all Aglirta," Embra added. "Though this may surprise you, we are thus far well pleased with you, Tersept of Stornbridge."
The Lord of Stornbridge visibly sat straighter and taller, looking delighted. Craer saluted him with the decanter, and then bounded to his feet and skipped around the table. Chamber knaves started forward uncertainly to intercept him, but the procurer was already refilling the tersept's goblet with the bubbling words, "That's right! Celebrate! A most excellent wine, this. You must tell us more of life here in Stornbridge-the fishing, say, and how the crops are doing, and who stops by to trade in the market, and what trade goods your people never see enough of. Let's stop all this snarling at each other, put our boots up, and talkl"
"I-I hardly know where to begin," the tersept told him, a genuine smile on his face. He raised his goblet, and then said in a rush, "I know: with a good long drink!"
"Exactly!" Craer agreed, sloshing wine into the seneschal's goblet despite Urbrindur's irritated expression.
"Tongue-loosening time, eh?" the lornsar growled. "Well, why not?"
He held out his own goblet to the prancing procurer. " 'Tis not every night we entertain overdukes!"
"Well, thank the Scaled One for that? Undercook Maelree snarled, peering down from the window. "Ryethrel has it right-that's exactly what that little foulness is up to! Get the tersept drunk and listen while he spills all. We've got to do something!"
The Mistress of the Pantry smiled serenely. "Already taken care of, Ree. Josmer got my signal."
The cook peered at her, brightening. "You mean-?"
"I mean there's nothing our proud tersept likes more than baked sugar tart smothered in rubywine sauce, a generous helping of which will very swiftly be set in front of him and the rest. The tersept's only-that bitch is using her magic to check everything put in front of any overduke-will have Josmer's little addition. I give Lord Stornbridge about six yawns before he's facedown in his tart and snoring."
"Klaedra, you're a wonder!"
The Mistress of the Pantry smiled again, smugly this time. "I know. The Serpent-priest said the same thing." She drew open her bodice-and the cook gasped.
Klaedra always wore a black silk ribbon about her throat; from it a number of keys hung on fine cords, riding within her bodice. Maelree knew those keys-but she'd never before seen so many gleaming golden coins as the row of punched and laced-together Carraglan zostarrs that hung down from one cord between Klaedra's full, tanned breasts, disappearing from view beneath her belt. Maelree blinked. She'd heard no telltale clinking, nor seen the rope of riches moving beneath the tight, dark gown the mistress wore… which meant the linked coins must be long enough to pass under that broad black cummerbund, and descend still further. The priest had paid Klaedra a fortune.
She shivered suddenly, wondering how long he'd leave Klaedra alive to spend it.
7
Fangs in the Dark
Embra raised anxious eyes across the table to her father, but said nothing. She'd been vigilant with her magic-in fact, she was clutching her Dwaer under the table now, and setting her veins afire with yet another scouring-spell. Yet something was not right, inside her. Something that clenched and then wriDied, moving deep in her gut, climbing… into her chest, leaving a trail of twinges, as if something with sharp claws was moving within her…
Blackgult grimly gave her the slightest of nods. Embra drew in a deep breath-yes, she did feel odd-and tossed her head to take her hair back out of her eyes. Air. She needed air.
She felt… warm. Warm and numb. She reached for her goblet and turned her head with apparent casualness to look at Tshamarra, whose eyes-just for a moment-flashed back alarm.
A warning that meant her fellow sorceress was feeling the same discomfort. So they might not have much time left, if she didn't-
"Your arrival at our gates somewhat surprised us," Seneschal Urbrindur was saying in the lightly jovial manner with which veteran courtiers make politely meaningless conversation, "given that you were seen in Gilth not two days ago, heading west on the road to Sirlptar. Or do you use magic to leap about the Vale, traversing entire baronies at a single step?"
"Someone's using magic," the Lady Silvertree told him said shortly, "or perhaps just overly vivid imagination. We haven't been through Gilth this season."
"Oh, now!" the seneschal protested with a smile. "Your secrets are safe with us! I hardly think a herald of Flowfoam is apt to invent a meeting with all the Overdukes of Aglirta, however passing, or mistake your faces."