Elminster's Daughter

Vangerdahast sighed. "All right, lass—what do you want?"

"To stand with you and die fighting at your side. I, too, am sworn to defend Cormyr."

"Right then, so you shall. Now put that damned lamp aside— carefully!—and get your distracting self up and off my writings so I can fulfill my promise!"

The binding took a long time, and Vangerdahast was trembling with weariness when he finished. They exchanged glances, and Myrmeen put a steadying hand on the mage's shoulder. "And now?"

The former Royal Magician shrugged. "And now we wait for someone to attack. My spells are ready, each set to unleash when certain conditions are met. We wait to die, I suppose."

Myrmeen gave him a dark-eyed look then set down her sword. "Well, then, I'm going to dare to bed the greatest man Cormyr has ever known," she said firmly, grasping at the front of his robe.

"I'm—Lady, I'm centuries too old for you," Vangerdahast protested, "and ugly, besides. I—"

Her lips found his.

When he could speak again, it was to cough, shake his head, and whisper, "Lass? Would you?"

* * * * *

The fang dragon hissed in rage and fear when no less than a dozen wyrms suddenly alighted on the edge of the great rock-cauldron mountaintop that was its lair—but the song dragon that approached from among them did so murmuring words of polite supplication in a soft thunder that held no malice.

In truth, the fang dragon was gigantic among its kind and bore the scars of many battles won, including a vast, rainbow-hued swath of scales on one flank where a great old wound had healed imperfectly. Had the song dragon been alone, it would have pounced and torn apart the overbold intruder very swiftly.

"I need you," Joysil said gently. It had been a very long time since Aeglyl Dreadclaw had heard such a sentiment. He laid aside his wild schemes of escape and revenge in an instant to listen . . . and when she was done speaking and laid bare the bald truth of her words with a spell that Aeglyl had last seen cast in his youth an age ago, the great fang dragon drew itself up and hissed, "Lead me, and I shall fight wing to wing with you. This peril must be swept away for all our sakes."

The song dragon turned, flapped her wings, and all of the wyrms took wing, climbing and drawing apart to let her and the newly recruited Dreadclaw soar into their midst.

"We must hasten," Joysil called and hurled herself through the air toward Cormyr—with a dozen dragons in her wake, a scaled host going to war.

Twenty-One

NO SWORD SHARPER THAN HER TONGUE

The din of battle can be deafening, even to dying ears—but give me twenty such deafenings over one bitter dispute with my wife.

Sarseth Thald, Merchant of Amn

Musings On Being A Merchant Prince

Year of the Turret

"B'gads, Surth! How much longer must we sit here in the dark starving, eh?" Aumun Bezrar wiped his sweating brow with one plump and hairy forearm, and waved at the window with his knife. "The rest of Marsember grows richer by the passing hour, while here we sit!"

The tall, lean figure leaning on the windowframe straightened and said icily, "We're not starving, Bezrar. You've sliced open a good dozen cheeses since I started keeping count—and emptied an entire hand-keg of Sembian jack, too! I chose this warehouse for two good reasons and the plentiful supply of food was one of them. Mind you don't 'starve' too much or you won't fit through the door when the time comes to go!"

"When will that be? Stop me vitals, Surth, they can't care enough to spell-hunt us forever—just as I can't eat cheese forever!"

"I know," Surth said darkly. "The other reason I chose this place, dolt, is that crate you're sitting on. Tis full of Selgauntan glowstones, and their enchantments—duly registered and duty-paid—should hide us from any seeking spell that's not cast from right inside this building. I hope."

"Odd's fish, Surth—don't you know? For sure? We could be cowering here for nothing?"

"Stop waving that fish-gutter of yours and sputtering at me, Master Importer Aumun Bezrar, and—"

Malakar Surth fell silent in mid-sarcasm and threw up a hand for silence. With a warning hiss, he slapped a finger to his lips and took two swift steps toward his fat, sweating business-partner to drive home the urgency of his warning. With his other hand, he pointed repeatedly at the floorboards below. Someone had entered the vast, cavernous ground floor of their warehouse.

"You're sure this place is safe?" a cultured male voice asked doubtfully, bringing a whiff of strong musk with it. Surth bared his teeth in a silent sneer. A noble, for all the coins in Marsember.

"As safe as anywhere in this rotting fishgrave of a city," another man replied in amused tones. "The rogues who own this cargo-barn haven't been seen for some days—and small wonder, with the Watch looking everywhere for them!"

"All the better reason to be wary," the perfumed noble said angrily. "Who's to say there isn't a purple-noses patrol in here now or heading here for a regular peer-about?"

A sudden glow flared below, shining up through gaps in the floorboards to show Bezrar and Surth each other's tense faces.

"Behold," the amused noble said, "my glowstone. We can take a good look about as we talk and be gone before anyone's the wiser.

If the Watch does burst in, saw you the 'storage for reasonable coin' sign outside? Well, we're two empty-handed nobles inspecting the place to see if it's dry enough to store the next incoming shipment of the wardrobes of Eastern silk our wives have gone mad for, hmm?"

"All right," the perfumed noble said grudgingly. "Shine it over there—I thought I saw something moving."

"You did."

"Tymora's sweet tea—!"

"A big one, yes. No, let it go. A rat that big is the main nightfeast for some dockers' families in this city."

"Thandro, you're sick!"

"So my mistresses often say—but they never refuse my gifts nor company, I've noticed. Enough of this. Satisfied?"

"I suppose. Thundaerlyn Hall, yes, and I've found five minor baubles my kin won't miss—a comb that slays lice, the head of a walking-stick that knows north, that sort of thing."

"Good. How many blades can you muster?"

"Seven at least, three trained to the blade, and two experienced hireswords. When and where?"

"Under the broken lantern on Thelvarspike Lane—you know it?—by five-toll at the latest. We have to be in our places well before First Candlelight, when the royals are supposed to arrive."

"They'll bring dozens of War Wizards and Purple Dragons, Thandro!"

"Of course. We of the Rightful Conspiracy shall be ready for them. Act like you're out for a night of scouring the taverns, get to that lantern-post, and all will be well. We've blades and wizards enough to take care of any army the Obarskyrs bring—and yes, we expect to have to deal with the Mage Royal and her bully-spells, too."

"I don't like it."

"Your sort never do, Sauvrurn. If it wasn't for men like me, you'd be muttering darkly about Obarskyr misrule from now until doddering to your grave seventy summers hence—doing nothing all that time but fuming. You want a new Cormyr? Well, we'll give it to you and the 'true power' you crave so loudly. You can use it to order Alusair—or whatever's left of her—brought bound to your bed by morning and stop boring our ears with that oft-repeated demand, too. Who knows? You might even get to father the next King of all Cormyr, you lucky dog!"

"My family beast," the perfumed noble replied icily, "is the winged lion—not some mongrel hound."