All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [67]
"It's too much," he told the Realms at large. "No man should have to deal with such cheery females. Haven't either of you heard of respectful silence?"
There was no reply. Mourngrym had taken the decanter back to the table, sipped from it without bothering with a flagon, and lifted his fork to deal with the sausages before the silence registered. He looked up- into Storm's impish eyes, dancing with mirth as she regarded him, lips pressed tightly together. He shot a look along the table to Shaerl, who had seated herself with dignity and was regarding him, chin on hand, in equally amused silence.
Mourngrym opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and shrugged. "That's certainly more peaceful," he told the first sausage as he raised it.
"Unhand that sausage!" a voice bellowed from somewhere very near.
Mourngrym choked, tried to spring up, arms flailing, and toppled sideways, gabbling for breath.
He and the chair met the flagstone floor with a solid, head-ringing crash amid an explosion of laughter. Mourngrym found himself then face to face with Rathan Thentraver.
The stout priest was crawling out from under the table. He winked, deftly plucked the sausage off Mourngrym's fork, bit into it, and said, "Umm. Very good! Thank you for offering me this excellent viand!"
"I am going to kill someone," Mourngrym announced calmly to the ceiling, "and probably soon. How long have you been under here?"
"Not long," Rathan rumbled cheerfully. He emerged. "How long do you plan to sleep in every morning? Not turning into a vampire, are you?"
"No," Mourngrym told him shortly, and rolled to his feet. "No fangs to you."
"Ah," Storm said, "that's better. I was afraid you were going to play the grim stone-headed tyrant all day." As she spoke, the wall gong chimed.
Mourngrym looked at it sourly and sat down again. "And what does that signify?"
" "Tis the signal that you've finished your morning feast, my lord," Shaerl said sweetly, "and that yet another Realms-shaking war council is about to begin."
"But I haven't fin-" Mourngrym began. He snatched his platter to his chest just before Storm plucked it away. He brandished his fork at her. "Keep back, woman!"
There was laughter from the doorway. Belkram and Itharr of the Harpers stood there, staring delightedly into the room. "Now that's a sight worth walking here from Berdusk to see! We battle the Bard of Shadowdale with blades… but great lords use sausage forks on her!"
Mourngrym sighed, backed away to the sideboard, and set his plate down. Picking up a sausage, he pointed at the chairs ranged around the table and said, Tray enter, Lords, Ladies, and Gentles, and be seated. There, there, and there… ah, and I believe that seat's available too… very good." He glanced at the gathering: Knights, Storm, a swirling radiance by her shoulder that must be Sylune, the two Harper rangers, Shaerl, and-who was missing?
Elminster, of course, and Lhaeo… not surprising. He bit into the sausage thoughtfully. Ah!
"This room's too quiet by far," he announced grandly. "Where's Term?"
"I thought you'd never ask," the smooth voice of the thief replied from the doorway. "While you've been snoring, I've been working. Pretty soft being lord of a dale, isn't it?"
"You?" Mourngrym snorted, making a rude gesture with what was left of his sausage. "Working?"
"Indeed," Torm replied with dignity, "I have just returned from a dawn foray-a bold and brazen foray, let me say, fraught with peril and shining bravery-into the road camp just south of Voonlar, looking for certain things our departed Zhentish friends may have left behind!"
"More women?" Merith asked slyly. "Torm, how many can one man have?"
"The answer, Sir Elf, would surprise you," Torm said loftily, "but that is a matter for converse at some more relaxed time. I speak of the Central Blade's pack train… sixteen wagons of it, at any rate."
"Thieving still?" Shaerl