Part 37 (1/2)

Elminster was slowly getting used to the weight and awkwardness of the armor-without its leather underpadding, it s.h.i.+fted loosely at his every movement and seemed to have a great abundance of sharp, jabbing edges-and had long since concluded that King Duar Obarskyr must have been more mighty bull than man.

In his postprandial discomfort, and seeking to avoid unpleasant confrontations with Purple Dragons or officious wizards, he had taken his overfull stomach and copious resulting wind down to the lower levels of the palace. Where he trudged along damper, colder pa.s.sages, correctly believing he was not so likely to be noticed and thought out of place down here and challenged.

”Send no hounds to hunt me down,” he muttered, belching sage and eggs.

”Stop daydreaming and attend attend my words!” my words!”

This sort of bark meant Hallowdant was really angry. O Purple Dragon, preserve us all.

The man who called himself Lothrae when he was sitting masked in front of an orb talking to foolish young Stormserpent stifled a sigh and put a pleasantly attentive smile on his face. ”Yes, Lord High Steward?”

Rorstil Hallowdant preened visibly. He loved it when someone p.r.o.nounced his full t.i.tle with just just the right hint of reverent awe. the right hint of reverent awe.

Lothrae wished he could enjoy toying with the buffoon, but the man was was in office over him, and- in office over him, and-Great G.o.ds Above!

And, very suddenly-as ice raced down his spine and he felt himself breaking into a sweat-he greatly desired to be elsewhere in the palace, right then.

The ring on the next-to-smallest finger of his left hand had once belonged to the legendary Laspeera, and it had just awakened. For the very first time in all his years of wearing it.

He tried not to stare at its warning glow-silent, but so vivid and so sudden sudden-then turned it on his finger to hide that radiance inside his closed hand, and cursed silently. Its warning meant someone had opened the royal crypt from the outside-but he dared not go to see who just then, with the steward literally jawing in his face, thundering order after order at him.

My, but Hallowdant was in fine form for that time of a morning. An hour at which he was usually nowhere to be seen. Lothrae tried to console himself with the thought that one of the royals must have given him a real blast, to put him in such a state and have him up and about so early...but that musing utterly failed to improve his own mood.

”-and another another thing! The candles in the balcony sconces in Anglond's Great Hall are half-burnt and need replacing! Now, before the council is upon us and we're too busy to remember them, but need their light to fail not!” thing! The candles in the balcony sconces in Anglond's Great Hall are half-burnt and need replacing! Now, before the council is upon us and we're too busy to remember them, but need their light to fail not!”

”Ah, yes yes, Lord High Steward,” he agreed hastily, starting to hasten along the hallway. ”If you'll excuse me, I'll see to it and report right right back to you for more instructions-” back to you for more instructions-”

”Stand where you are, man!” the palace steward stormed. ”You'll stay still, right here, and listen! I haven't the palace steward stormed. ”You'll stay still, right here, and listen! I haven't finished finished yet!” yet!”

”Lord Hallowdant, please,” please,” Lothrae tried again. ”I really Lothrae tried again. ”I really must must relieve myself-” relieve myself-”

Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant could radiate towering disgust just as devastatingly as the very best n.o.ble matriarchs; it was one of his best talents. Wordlessly he pointed over Lothrae's shoulder.

At the door of a jakes that was literally four paces away.

It was not one of the few that had secret panels in its rear wall, either, curse the luck.

Lothrae sighed, resigned himself to perhaps never knowing who'd opened the crypt, and took his feigned need to empty his bladder into the jakes.

As the door swung closed behind him, the ring on his finger quivered and shone even more brightly, and he discovered, all of a sudden, that he truly did need to relieve himself. Badly.

In one of her favorite rooms of the palace-the nursery with the high round window she'd always loved watching the moon through-what was left of Alusair Obarskyr felt the activation of the rune, nine or so floors beneath her.

Not to mention the stirring of someone who had long been silent.

”One of Vangey's old locking runes!” she hissed, alarmed and excited-and rushed through the palace like a ghostly wind, racing to the spot.

The ring's brief blue glow faded, leaving Storm Silverhand blinking in the chill darkness.

Ah, royal crypts are such cozy places. Suzail's was no exception. Still, it was one spot in a palace that, elsewhere, must resemble an agitated anthill about then, where she shouldn't have to worry about being interrupted while- There came a faint clank and rasping of sliding metal about four paces in front of her-and then the louder sound of a heavy stone door grating open. In the dim rectangle of resulting light, Storm found herself staring at a menacing figure in full armor.

Who stumbled toward her with a m.u.f.fled curse, fumbling with its skirting plates.

Thankfully, that pleasantry was uttered in a voice she recognized.

”Well met, El,” she greeted her armored visitor cheerfully, sidestepping deftly in case she startled him. Archwizards-hah, all all wizards-were...dangerous. Like unsheathed carving knives forgotten in a dark drawer, they could imperil all who blundered too near. wizards-were...dangerous. Like unsheathed carving knives forgotten in a dark drawer, they could imperil all who blundered too near.

”Urrah? Storm?” Storm?” The Sage of Shadowdale sounded astonished. ”When did ye return?” The Sage of Shadowdale sounded astonished. ”When did ye return?”

”Now,” she replied simply, stepping around him to close the door. ”Whence this sudden thirst for wearing armor?”

”Stops idiot wizards of war hurling spells before they stop to ask who I am,” came the m.u.f.fled reply. He produced something from under the skirts and thrust it at her. A tray, wobbling more than a little. ”Here, hold this-and, ah, help thyself. Must get this blasted helm off.”

”Savory tarts?” Storm asked, her stomach suddenly rumbling. When When had she last eaten, anyh- had she last eaten, anyh- The world erupted with a white-hot roar.

The scrying exploded in his face, but Manshoon never flinched. He let the tears stream as he smiled.

Lothrae and Mreldrake might be drooling idiots for days, but he'd managed it.

Yes.

Strike hard and fast enough, and you can fell even the mighty. Storm Silverhand should be a broken thing spattered across the back wall of the crypt, and Elminster sorely wounded.

That armor would have saved his life, but he'd be in great pain. And alone once more, as Manshoon wanted him to be.

Aye, this was much better. He busied himself casting another scrying spell to look into that crypt again as soon as possible. Spending days tainting its wards to let him through had been worth every irritating moment, after all.

”Storm?” he gasped when he knew he was Elminster again. He was lying sprawled on stone, afire with pain.

Silence was the only reply offered by the darkness.

”Oh, la.s.s,” he whispered. ”Oh, no. Not like this...”