Part 10 (1/2)
The Dragonriders' had been open for only two summers but had established itself firmly at the social height of the ”daring” private clubs that catered to the young and rebellious, rather than oldblood money, centuries-old heritage weighing in members.h.i.+p, and stiff courtesies. Anyone who had coin enough could roll into the Dragonriders' to drink and talk, but no one would if they didn't also want to watch mask dancers. Or even do more than watch them by paying steep extra fees and seeking out back rooms with doors decorated by painted masks to match those worn by the dancers they'd seen on the raised stages out front-wearing only only masks. masks.
Arclath was much of an age with his two palace friends and knew they might be stiffly mortified-or trying to seem so-for the first few drinks, but would be hungrily watching thereafter. By the Dragon, the dancers were beautiful and skilled enough that he he loved to watch them, and he could hire his pick of la.s.ses anywhere in the city or enjoy the company of many an ambitious beauty for free, purely on the strength of being Lord Delcastle. Yet he loved to watch here as hungrily as the next man. loved to watch them, and he could hire his pick of la.s.ses anywhere in the city or enjoy the company of many an ambitious beauty for free, purely on the strength of being Lord Delcastle. Yet he loved to watch here as hungrily as the next man.
Mask dancers had been the rage in Suzail for less than three summers, but it was a fury that, as far as Arclath was concerned, could last forever. Some began their dances clothed, and others didn't bother, but always their faces were hidden behind grotesque, long-beaked, birdlike masks. These la.s.ses danced on raised stages, almost almost-but never quite-touching the front-row patrons.
Tress was already smilingly showing the men to Arclath's usual table, right in front of the club's lone half-oval stage. She was the owner of the Dragonriders' and more properly known as ”Mistress,” but it had been two years since Arclath had heard even a Watch patrol address her thus. Just ”Tress” she was, to everyone. She was tall, urbane, and always clad in leathers that made her resemble some bard's fancy of what a s.e.xy, wingless, humanoid dragon might look like. But she never danced on the stage, and there was no backroom door with any mark of a dragon on it. He'd looked.
She patted Arclath's shoulder like an old friend, murmuring, ”Your guests, Lord?”
”Of course,” he smilingly a.s.sured her. ”And I do believe they're as thirsty as you are strikingly beautiful, high lady!”
”Flatterer,” she purred fondly, gliding away to fetch some decanters herself, rather than signaling her maids.
The two uneasy, blus.h.i.+ng young men sitting beside Arclath might have bolted from their seats right back out into the street if they'd had the slightest idea how much Tress knew about them at a glance, though they'd never darkened her doors before. She caught Arclath's eye as she came back with the wine, interpreted his grin and slight shake of his head correctly, and did not address either of his companions by name.
Even as she smilingly called them ”saers,” and bent over them to give them their choice of wine and a pleasant view of the dragon she'd painted sinuously arising from her cleavage, the owner of the Dragonriders' knew the paler, thinner one in plain street tunic and breeches with the black curly hair was the young but dedicated Wizard of War Belnar Buckmantle. While the slightly larger, agile, and darkly handsome man in palace chamberjack's livery was Halance Dustrin Tarandar, an amiable courtier of low rank but longtime, trusted service. It was the business of many club owners to know faces and names. For one thing, it prevented husbands and wives from encountering each other unexpectedly and unpleasantly when they were availing themselves of a club's services to temporarily forget each other. For another, it kept inferiors and superiors in common service from seeing each other to the embarra.s.sment-or worse-of both. It was also always handy to know when a senior courtier or a n.o.ble was in the house and not wanting to be recognized. It was even more useful to know when a wizard of war was visiting. Or several war wizards, especially if their faces warned that they might be ready for trouble and expecting it.
The style of Tarandar's uniform sleeve told any Suzailan who cared about such things that he was a senior chamberjack, head of a duty of eight chamberjacks, the fetch-and-carry men who ran errands, delivered messages and small items about the palace, moved furniture as required, announced guests entering a chamber, and guided visitors through the chambers of state. The crook of the smile on Tress's face told Arclath she regarded Tarandar as a fellow underappreciated and underpaid toiler in personal service to the too often ungrateful. If that smile had been a comment, it would have been ”Poor lad.”
Seated beside Arclath Argustagus Delcastle-in his beribboned clothing, gilded wig, curl-toed boots, and all-his two court friends looked like two of his drab, timid servants. Who suddenly, despite their wide-eyed stares at the stage, were yawning. Tired little servants of the Crown, the both of them.
”So,” Arclath began, when Tress had poured each man his mumbled choice from the decanters and smilingly had withdrawn, ”tell me about this Council of Dragons from the inside, as it were. Will there be wine? Dancing? And are we all going to have to put on fetching little dragon suits like the one Tress pours herself into?”
”Where's he heading now?” now?” Storm murmured, as the last of Stormserpent's men vanished around that distant corner. ”Not the Dragonskull, after all.” Storm murmured, as the last of Stormserpent's men vanished around that distant corner. ”Not the Dragonskull, after all.”
The ghostly princess lifted shapely shoulders in a shrug. ”He certainly knows where he's going. Which is more than I do. Elminster?” certainly knows where he's going. Which is more than I do. Elminster?”
”Why do folk always think I know everything? Hey?”
”Perhaps because you've spent more centuries than I'd care to count very loudly pretending that you do,” do,” Storm said sharply, before Alusair could say something worse. Storm said sharply, before Alusair could say something worse.
The grin Elminster gave them both then was one Storm Silverhand had been seeing all her life. It had probably looked very much the same riding his possibly then-beardless face when he'd been about six summers old, back in long-vanished Athalantar.
”Well,” the Sage of Shadowdale said mildly, ”he's obviously going to wherever the treasure he's seeking is really hidden. Somewhere nearby; near enough that he could use the Dragonskull Chamber as a navigational landmark to reach it.”
”A pirate, sailing my palace in search of buried treasure.” Alusair's smile was bitter.
Elminster's impish grin brightened. ”That's a very very good way to think of Cormyr's n.o.bility. Rapacious pirates, all of them.” good way to think of Cormyr's n.o.bility. Rapacious pirates, all of them.”
”A wizard would know,” Alusair said over her shoulder as she departed the balcony through the nearest wall.
Storm and Elminster hastened to follow her. After all, they had to use the door.
Amarune danced at the very edge of the stage, tossing her head to let her unbound hair swirl as she crawled along the polished rim like a panther, growling and purring playfully at the men-and a few women, too-gazing longingly at her from the nearby tables.
Though not a hint of it showed on her face or in her manner-she was good at that-she was slightly irritated and almightily interested in what was going on at just one of the tables.
The one right in front of her.
Whereas the Lord Delcastle and his two companions seemed not to think she had ears at all, the way they freely discussed the council so close to her.
Oh, they knew she was there, all right.
The other two couldn't keep their eyes off her, and Lord Fancybritches Delcastle, wearing his usual easy smile, was idly tossing coins to her in a steady stream, to keep her posing right in front of them.
His aim was as unerringly teasing as ever, too.
Yes, by the Dragon, the three genuinely seemed unaware she could hear all they were saying-and she was listening to them intently.
Such a gathering of n.o.bles, after all, would mean the richest business of this season coming right into her arms, if she was able to spread word of her charms just just right. Exclusive, that's what they'd want; something they can have that others won't be able to taste...something thrillingly dangerous and dirty... right. Exclusive, that's what they'd want; something they can have that others won't be able to taste...something thrillingly dangerous and dirty...
She'd seen the chamberjack just once, when visiting the royal court to pay her taxes. He was quiet, perhaps the politest courtier she'd ever encountered, and darned handsome to boot. That's why she'd remembered him...Tarandar, that was his name.
The other one was a war wizard, but that was all she knew about him. Except that if he was a spy and a veteran hurler-of-spells, he was also the greatest actor in all the Realms. If he wasn't an inexperienced, thoroughly embarra.s.sed youngling, she'd eat her mask-right then, in his lap, and without sauce.
She decided she'd much rather decorate Tarandar's lap, instead.
As for the loudly effeminate fop across the table from them, well, he was good winking fun, but there was a reason he was mockingly known among his fellow n.o.bles as the Fragrant Flower of House Delcastle. Not that he preferred men in his bed, but because he was all overblown fripperies and dwelt in a Delcastle Manor that was legendary for florid, beribboned, rose-hued decor.
Tossing her hair as she caught Tarandar's eye, she parted her lips longingly, ran her tongue around them-and watched him blush. Delcastle chuckled, of course, and the chamberjack looked so overwhelmed by her displayed self that she almost burst into laughter. His tongue was actually hanging out.
She wondered what his face would look like if she told him who and what she truly was: Amarune Lyone Amalra Whitewave, an orphan from Ma.r.s.ember, who for some very hard-bitten years had earned her meals with her body-and thievery. A string of bold thefts every wizard of war had been publicly ordered to stop, if they could, by any and all means.
Not that anyone knew she was the Silent Shadow.
So hearing who she really was would make his face change, to be sure.
Yes, mageling, behold my bared charms. I'm your very own Silent Shadow-mask dancer, sometime forger, and busy prost.i.tute.
The daughter of a much-respected and trusted war wizard, too, though Beltar Whitewave had been slain decades earlier in a frontier battle by hire-spells working for Sembian smugglers. Those same smugglers had later knifed her mother and her brother, leaving Amarune kinless in the world. She'd fled Ma.r.s.ember across its rain-slick rooftops that very night, never to return. If she'd waited until morning, she was sure she'd have suffered the same fate.
So, drooling young war wizard, you think I'm for you? Well, if you've coins enough in your purse, certainly.
Yet will you ever dare take them out and proffer them? I think not.