A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [2]
The high, lacy harping died away into a few last, aching tones as Flaeros bounded down the Urdragon Stair and paused on the landing overlooking the High Hall. "Under the lamps below, a great crowd of servants jostled with Delcamper uncles in their crimson and gold, goblets dangling empty in many hands. And no wonder, with nary a maid hastening to refill them. Everyone was speaking at once, hurling questions at the sad-eyed man in worn leather, who sat on a stool perched atop the long feast table nearest the great open sea window, his harp still thrumming in his hands.
News from Aglirta was always worth hearing-and here was a taleteller who could be asked things, not the usual few paltry, suspect whispers heard seventh hand…
The minstrel looked up at Flaeros and seemed to nod slightly, though his drooping moustache made the gesture hard to read. "I came to this happy house," he said abruptly, his words hewing a sudden stillness out of the clamor of voices, "because amid all the latest tidings of barons' boasts and lost lasses and trade shortages, there's real news for one here: the Regent of Aglirta has put out an urgent call to parley with one Flaeros Delcamper!"
Heads turned, brows lifted, and murmurs rose. "Flaeros?" more than one uncle asked, in astonishment that might have pained the young bard had he not been hastening down the last flight of stairs so eagerly, spilling out the words, "I am he!"
The minstrel- Three bless him!--waved his free hand out from his harp in the flourish with which folk of music salute bards. "Lord Flaeros, I am Taercever Redcloak, harp of the road, and honored to meet you. Before you ask: I know nothing more than the bald proclamation I've just imparted. The regent hopes to see you at Flowfoam soon, for parley."
Flaeros drew himself up, feeling all eyes in Varandaur on him, and made his voice as deep and mellifluous as he knew how. "I thank you, Master of the Harp. Your music honors our house, and I'll ask no more, save what all here would know: what news rides high in Aglirta?"
The bard Taercever smiled, something akin to mockery in the twist of his lips. "The usual chaos of barons clawing for power. The waiting hands of hireswords are filling with coin in plenty again, as brigandry is so sharply on the rise."
"And is it?" the nearest uncle of Flaeros growled, waving a gleaming goblet as large as two servants' heads like a disapproving finger.
The minstrel shrugged.
"When armed men at loose ends wander so rich a realm, Lord," he told the glossy curves of his harp, "trouble always awakens, and with a sharp edge. Yet so much swift and unforeseen trouble that only dozens of lancers and scores of bowmen can quell it?"
"Aye," another uncle rumbled, "I take thy point. Tis a tune we've all heard a time or two too often before. So it's war again, sooner or later. Anything else?"
"A talking cow shown at market in Ibryn," the minstrel said lightly, pausing for the expected-and enthusiastically given-snorts and dismissive growls. "Oh, and something more: word hisses over all Aglirta like shaken bedsilks that the regent is looking for-this!"
From the folds of the weathercloak bundled beside him the minstrel plucked up something bright, that caught and flashed back hearthfire like a hand mirror. It was a scepter of massy gold swept into the likeness of a dragon's head, jaws slightly agape, atop the proud curve of a many-scaled neck.
The minstrel moved his arm slowly, so that all gathered around him could see its magnificence. The eyes-amber-hued gems?-seemed to glitter, as if the wyrm could truly see them.
There were gasps, and some drew back. "The foe of the Serpent," someone in the crowd muttered, before Flaeros could.
And then from among the servants crowded to the fore a figure darted. A handsome steward, who thrust aside the plucking arm of a Delcamper uncle with a hand whose fingers were suddenly hissing,