Cormyr_ a novel - Ed Greenwood [201]
Then, mastering his face and emotions, he turned and strode back to the king's pavilion.
As before, Gondegal had chosen to run rather than fight. But this time he'd left a city behind, a city that would laud the arriving king as a savior and forever crush the bandit king's hopes for an empire. Not a bad little war. Mabel regained and its loyalty ensured for the next generation, with not a drop of blood shed.
They'd have to check with the outriders, of course, but the wizard believed his spy. There would be no report of any horsemen fleeing the city, no signs of any foul play among Gondegal's supporters, no bodies turning up mysteriously. And in the morning, they'd form up as planned, in full array, and go ahead-but instead of death and falling walls, the gates to Mabel would be swung wide, and the city would be spared. The king would get flowers instead of swords.
But best to tell Azoun alone about this, the wizard reasoned. If a surrender did not occur, the army of Cormyr would have to proceed with the attack. Men braced to fight would respond well to celebration, but men expecting a surrender would not be ready for battle.
Vangerdahast's route took him through the wide circle of outward-facing Purple Dragons, who passed him through with silent nods of recognition. He proceeded around the pavilion and along the back of the king's private tent. The low light within cast the shadow of the royal occupant onto the canvas-no, two occupants' shadows, sithouettes moving and merging. Through the tent walls, he heard gasps, heavy breathing, and soft sighs.
The wizard cursed to himself. Even on the eve of battle, in the middle of an armed camp, Azoun could not keep his Obarskyr blood from boiling over. There had been enough misadventures over the years to teach any king a little prudence, but the hardheaded kings of Cormyr never seemed able to care about the danger inherent in trysts.
Vangerdahast circled the tent. A single guard was posted before the hoop-arch tunnel that led to its door.
The noise and shadows were not obvious from this side, facing the crowded camp, and the wizard thanked Tymora for the king's good sense-or blind luck-in choosing his bedroll spot. The guard was fresh-faced and young, a new conscript from some country town.
"Tell the king to contact me as soon as he is done," the Royal Magician said in a loud, brisk voice, then lowered his tones and added, "And see that the young woman is escorted quickly and quietly from the campground as well."
The youngster goggled at the elder wizard as if he had suddenly spoken of flying dogs.
"Done?" asked the youth, his voice cracking. "His Majesty was retiring for the evening and dismissed me from his quarters. There was no woman there then, and none have passed me since!"
Vangerdahast looked at the boy but could discern no lie on that set, firm, loyal face. He peered to the right, and the guard turned to look that way as well. With a snarl, the wizard brushed past the guard on his left, and the confused youngster snapped a quick protest and then trotted into the tent after the wizard's fast-moving back.
The king's personal sleeping quarters were at the back of the tent, behind a fabric screen that muffled both sound and light. The wizard burst through these and cursed at the sight.
King Azoun was lying on the raised divan he always used on campaign, his armor and robes both set aside. Astride him was a woman who wore an open red gown and not much else. She had one hand raised-and that hand bore a bone dagger, ready to plunge into the king's chest.
Vangerdahast's curse slid into a snapped spell-simple magic, quickly effected. A gust of air filled the tent, booming its sides outward and hurling the red wizardess from her perch.
The wizardess was on her feet in a moment with the grace of a panther, backing away from the divan toward the edges of the tent, keeping Azoun between herself and the wizard. The young guard had the presence of mind to snatch at his belt whistle and