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Elminster sighed inwardly. Revelry was the same everywhere, and he'd managed to enjoy it for the first thousand years or so ... but no more. Too much noise, too much pretence and sneering and nasty rumors—and too many wonderstruck lovely young things, all hope and excitement and bright laughter, who lived now only in his memory, gone in their countless legions to graves. He'd even helped to put a few of them there.
Yet he strode on, not hesitating for a moment. Meddling and stepping into distasteful danger was, after all, what Elminsters did.
Threading his way through the guards with the purposeful stride of a man who has every right to be present and considers himself greater in rank than all others, he advanced—and was two long strides from the archway that opened into noise and full lamplight when the challenge came.
Blades suddenly slid out to bar his path and rise up behind him. "Down steel," he ordered curtly.
The swords menacing him moved not a fingerwidth.
"And who are you," an unpleasant voice hissed from the other end of one of them, "to be giving us orders? Or coming up from cellars we searched very thoroughly?"
The tall, scarred man with the jet-black hair and the grand rapier at his hip turned his head coldly. "My name is Cormaeril, my lineage noble, and my patience limited. Who are you to be stopping me?"
"You're older than the other Cormaerils," a different voice observed coldly from behind another sword.
"Easy, now! They said they hoped some of the older branches would make an appearance," a third voice said hastily. "Some Cormaerils were out of the realm long before the order of exile, with no chance to make claims nor set affairs in order. Let him pass—there's only the one of him."
"Have you any magic on you?" the first voice demanded.
"Of course," the scarred newcomer replied icily. "But no spells up my sleeves nor things I can hurl doom with, if that's what you fear."
Reluctantly, the blades drew back, and Elminster was aware of a lot of armed men drifting disappointedly away into the far corners of the room again. There wasn't going to be the fun of watching a little bloodletting after all.
The scarred Cormaeril glanced all around to make sure no covert blades were within reach, gave the grim bladesmen a wordless nod, and stepped out into the revelry.
* * * * *
The Silken Shadow reached into the bodice of her leathers and drew forth the black cloth hood she'd made several seasons ago but so rarely used. It made her look like some child playing at being hangman, with its eyeholes and ragged edge, but it covered the pale flash of her skin in dim light and might hide her femininity for a few moments from an inattentive observer. Which was most folk, really.
Narnra pulled it on, sheathed her knife, and flexed the too-long-clenched fingers that had held it. She stretched like a lazy cat and hunched down to the floor to smell and listen.
Yes, this smelled different than Waterdeep, somehow. More dead things in the water but fewer taints of spilled strange cargoes from afar.
Revels meant servants, or guards, or people peering in at the fun from around the edges—or all three. She'd have to be very careful as she went on from here.
Why, gods bless me, how unusual for a thief. . .
* * * * *
"So which noble family are you part of?" the masked merchant half-shouted through the chattering din, wine sloshing in the warhelm-sized metal goblet he clutched in both hands.
The cold-eyed warrior in worn and much-patched leather armor eyed him sourly and replied, "None of them. The benevolent Obarskyrs have exiled many more folk than our precious nobles. Most of us lowborn were hurled out by personal proclamation— because they couldn't get us with their blades or nooses before we scampered."
"Oh?" the tipsy merchant leaned forward to peer at the warrior more closely. "So what'd you do?"
"Wounded Duke Bhereu for dallying with my sister. Cut him good and proper and gave him a limp that lasted through two seasons of high-coin healers. Id've had his life, too, if he hadn't had a dozen bodyguards within shout. Cursed Obarskyrs can't even go out rutting without help!"
Elminster swayed around the warrior's elbow and edged past in the press of bodies.
"Ho for the conspiracy!" someone bellowed across the crowd— again. Several other someones took up the cry, as they had done on several previous occasions. "The Rightful Conspiracy!"
"A new king, a new hope!" someone else bawled.
"Aye! Let Cormyr rise again!"
Elminster felt like rolling his eyes. How many centuries had he heard these same cries, now? 'Twas as if the Forest Kingdom had a set script all would-be rebels and traitors came and consulted, perhaps under the watchful eyes of the scribes and Master Scroll-keeper at the Royal Court.
"And why are you here?" the warrior asked. Elminster stiffened then turned slowly, his face cold and haughty—to discover that the question had been directed at the merchant and not the tall, scarred noble sidling past.
"Money," the red-faced merchant replied promptly, punctuating this emphatic declaration with a belch. "They want some of mine now to buy blades and hireswords in Westgate and such but promise me contracts and trade-hires enough to make it back ten times over, once their king's on the throne. Haven't said who that'll be yet, 'course"—he belched again—"but I don' really care." He waved a dismissive hand, his goblet spilling a line of wine drops floorward, and added, "All the same anyway, they are. 'S'just that we'll be on the take with the new one, 'stead of shut outside the gates, lookin' in at all the lovely coins and whisper-deals."
The warrior caught Elminster's eye and snapped, "What're you listening to, high'n'mighty?"
"Overloose tongues," Elminster grunted, "if the War Wizards are listening or there're any Highknights lurking amongst us. I'm a little uneasy that this—" He waved at the merriment all around. "—might be a way to gather us all together so we can be slaughtered without them having to take the trouble to chase us all down."
The warrior nodded grimly. "Such thoughts have crossed my mind, too. You're noble, right?"
"Noble by birth, nameless by nature," Elminster told him with a smile. "Call me: Nameless Cormaeril."
The warrior gri
The merchant swayed toward Elminster. "W-well met, grand sir. I'm Imbur Waendlar, I am, and am ... am ... delighted to make your acquaintance. Should you ever have need of—ahem—coffins, or strongchests, or splendid greatchests to grace the finest of chambers, I'm your man. Best work and best price in all Suzail, wares to fit the needs of one so noble as yourself! Why, let me—"
Elminster and the warrior exchanged winks and grins. "Drunk as a bear drowning in honey," the duke-whittling warrior muttered, "but still manages his pitch. Gods bless stubborn merchants."
Master Waendlar blinked at him. "I cry: 'stubborn'? I ca
Elminster and the nameless warrior sidestepped in opposite directions, leaving the merchant turning to continue his converse rather unsteadily. His disagreement was with the warrior, so he clung to that path, leaving Elminster free to move on.
Or rather, as free as two excitedly squealing ladies in very low-cut and well-filled gowns would allow.
"Gods a-mighty," someone growled, from Elminster's left, "but if I had those, I'd be squealing in excitement too."