Cormyr_ a novel - Ed Greenwood [173]
Ensrin swallowed, raised his blade in salute, and quivered in excitement. "Lady, it shall be done!"
"Aye," the others echoed in a ragged chorus. The eyes of fire looked around at them all, and the voice of Brantarra said, "Good. Do this, and the wealth I promised is yours. You'll never have to lift swords-or anything else-again. Go!"
Ensrin nodded sharply and drew a black silken mask from a belt pouch. As he drew it on, the others followed suit, and the little sphere of whirling lights sighed again and faded away.
Five masked men boiled out of the room and hurried along darkened back passageways of the palace. It was too bad for the lone Purple Dragon who happened to round a corner in front of them. Swords plunged into his face and throat without hesitation, and he fell against the wall and then slid to the floor without making more noise than a gurgle. Dealing death, it seemed, was very easy.
Back in the hidden room, the last motes of Brantarra's light finally faded away, and something promptly moved atop an armoire in the corner. A moment later, a woman in dark mottled leathers, who wore a locket on a ribbon around her throat, dropped lightly to the ground and hurried to the door. The nightmare-young nobles rushing around the palace with blades ready in their hands and the will to use them-was beginning at last.
Emthrara raced down the corridor, drawing her own blade as she ran. If the gods smiled for once, perhaps she'd not be too late.
At the first corner, the fallen form of a Purple Dragon lay sprawled. A hulking form, his back to Emthrara, rose up from the body, the spilled blood spreading around the man's feet in gleaming ribbons. The Harper rushed toward the man, raising her blade for a thrust that would slay him before he had time to react.
She was delivering that deadly thrust when the man looked straight up at her. Emthrara shouted as she saw his face, her sword in midswing.
He ducked, but it was too late. She half checked her swing, and instead of biting into flesh managed to strike the hallway corner. Her sword left a pale chalky streak where it clanged against the metal.
"Rhauligan!" she shouted. "You didn't-"
"Of course I didn't," said the turret merchant, looking down at the fallen Purple Dragon. "Whoever did passed this way recently. The body is still warm, and no one else has found it yet."
"Then who did this?" asked the Harper.
"And more importantly, where are they now?" said the merchant, pulling from his belt a long, wickedly curved knife. "What say we find out?"
* * * * *
Aunadar smiled silkily. "Hear me, then, wizard: I, the nobles who stand with me, and my lady, the princess, will accept you as royal regent of the realm for a brief period of clearly proclaimed duration, during which you will involve the princess constantly in all of your decisions so that she can learn how you govern the kingdom. We will not accept any regency of more than five winters in length. Have we any dispute on this?"
The Royal Magician shook his head in agreement. "Your words thus far simply define what a regency is, a definition I have no quarrel with." He smiled thinly. "So I'm sure there are more conditions."
"Just one," Aunadar said coolly. "One that a mage who likes authority so little and counsel so much should have no difficulty at all in accepting: a regent's council of a dozen or so nobles who have the right to overturn or stay your decisions by a two-thirds majority vote."
"And who will choose these nobles? And how will they be unchosen?" the wizard asked.
Aunadar frowned. "Unchosen?"
"If council members do not serve for finite periods and then leave office, you do not have a council," Vangerdahast said pointedly, "but a dozen or so petty kings. A realm under such chaos would be