Elminster's Daughter

The doorguard raised his eyebrows. "That makes me even more determined not to let you pass. News of that sort should not be—"

"Yes, Melarvyn? What's the trouble here?"

The steward of Haelithtorntowers was a brusque and efficient man. He was not disposed to look kindly on any wastage of his time, trivial matters, or u

"This—ruffian—is demanding an audience with the Lady Ambrur. He won't go away, even when threatened with the Watch, and insists that his business is urgent and that he has a personal relationship of some sort with the Lady. I believe him not, but in fairness—"

"Fairness? Melarvyn, since when did fairness play any part in life, beyond nursery tales? Since when have I allowed any hint of 'fairness' into the daily governance of Haelithtorntowers?"

Without waiting for a reply, the steward looked coldly down his nose at the aforementioned ruffian on the threshold and began, "As for you, sir—"

The dusty man peeled off his mustache and said quietly, "Enough foolery, Elward. Take me to Joysil now or I'll inform the Watch of the fate of Iliskar Northwind. And the matter of the missing Selgauntan crab shipment last month. To say nothing of your part in the disagreement between the Seven Traders and the port tax-takers here two months before that. Or the new Marsemban trade-agent of the slaver Ooaurta

The steward had gone the hue of old cracked ivory during the stranger's soft little speech, and he'd begun to swallow repeatedly, his left eye twitching as if there was something in it.

The doorguard had slowly stepped back from Steward Elward Daunthideir as his own face had slid from a

"Uh, wha ... whuh .. . ahem," the Steward began then suddenly smiled, stepped forward to offer the stranger his hand and asked brightly, "Why, Lord sir! Whyever didn't you mention all of this before? Of course the Lady Ambrur will be happy to see you—immediately, I might add, and it would give me the greatest pleasure, it would indeed, to escort you to see her myself!"

He ushered the dusty stranger across the threshold and in through the thick outer wall of Haelithtorntowers with swift, florid gestures, almost sweeping him along the short, curving path to the nearest grand door of the mansion. The doorguard stared after them with an amazed whistle on his lips and wonderment in his mind.

He broke off whistling to remark, "I'll bet it would, I do indeed— and I'll bet yon stranger had best look sharp, or he'll never reach the Lady alive." His face darkened. "Whereupon my hide will be next, as old Elward knows I heard all of that, too. Wherefore I'd best confide in the Lady myself, and soon, too. Hmmm . . . what if she knows about all of these matters? What if he fronts for her in them? Oh, gods . . ."

The Lady Joysil Ambrur was in her retiring-room, reclining in a vast couch strewn with a waterfall of pillows. Her gown was of a rose-pink silk, her feet bare, and her hair unbound to spill and swirl across the pillows.

Tomes were piled all around her, some of them larger than the tops of her small, ornate side-tables. It was a wonder how her slender, languid limbs could lift them—but perhaps servants assisted with the larger ones. Some of them looked magical and dangerous.

One such was spread open on her lap as she looked up, more surprise than a

Her steward bowed lower than she'd ever seen him do before and raised pleading eyes to her. "Ah, Lady, a very special guest has come to us in some urgency, with a private message for your ears alone! He says you know him well."

A shapely eyebrow arched, long fingers closed the book and set it aside, and a hand extended in a beckoning gesture.

"So bring him to us."

The steward bowed again, his ma

Roldro Tattershar strode in wearing a grave expression. At the first sight of him the Lady Joysil said sharply, "Elward, you may withdraw. To the south pond, where the rainbow-fins are in need of feeding."

The steward nodded stiffly, face frozen impassively, and departed. The bard in dusty leathers waited, his hand raised to signal silence, and after a few breaths went quietly back to the door, opened it, and peered out. Elward was gone.

He returned, nodding in satisfaction, and the Lady Joysil rose to embrace him fondly and murmured, "What is it, Roldro? No good news, I can tell."

"Ammaratha, I've just come from Suzail, where I overheard two War Wizards talking about the retired Lord Vangerdahast's current work."

"Yes, he's crafting new spells at his sanctum—difficult magics, it would seem. Powerful ones, without a doubt. Binding spells to establish new guardians for Cormyr to replace the Lords Who Sleep, who were all destroyed. Some of his early ones had to do with finding and calming the guardians he intended to hunt for, I believe."

The Harper nodded. "Indeed. So much We Who Harp also believe. However, I doubt you've discovered just whom he intends to bind."

"I'll pay you what I did last time, Roldro, to learn this," the Lady Ambrur said calmly.

"That much coin will be quite acceptable."

The noblewoman looked at him sidelong. "Why are you backing away from me?"

"To give you room," the bard replied calmly.

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Ammaratha, hear this: For his new guardians of the realm, Vangerdahast intends to bind—dragons."

"What?" The air shuddered with a furiously rising thunder, and Roldro Tattershar winced then scrambled back to the foot of the couch.

Silver blue scales flashed and shone, mighty wings spread and flapped heedless of the cracking, groaning ceiling, and the glare of those piercing turquoise eyes froze the cowering Harper where he crouched.

The great tail lashed, long legs sprang—and the ceiling was crashing and falling in huge chunks of plaster, riven wood, dust and tumbling stone all around Roldro. The room rocked, and its pretty oval skylight vanished forever into tinkling shards. A much larger window was left behind in its place: The entire top of the chamber gaped open to the misty Marsemban sky.

The song dragon was soaring up into the blueness above the city-stink and heading northward, flying fast and furiously.

Roldro stopped holding his breath, gasped for air—and promptly started coughing furiously. He was covered in thick dust and could hear faint shouts from below as guards and servants wondered aloud of the gods what had happened.

Ammaratha Cyndusk was already no more than a tiny, dwindling dot. Roldro struggled across the room, scooped up one of her jewel-coffers as the first installment of his payment, and started searching for the way into the secret passage he knew departed this room from the westernmost closet. Crooked stewards he could handle—but crooked stewards commanding a dozen or more furious and well-armed guards might well be another matter.

"May you find fair fortune, Ammaratha," he whispered, between coughs. "If I could turn into a dragon, I'd not go roaring openly down on Vangerdahast unless I was seeking my own swift death."

There was a decanter of wine on a shelf in the closet, and the last of the Tattershars decided to take it with him and banish his coughing the enjoyable way. The panel gave him some trouble, for the wall above it was buckled and sagging . . . but he got it closed behind him a good two hearty swigs before the furious pounding on the retiring-room door began.