Cormyr_ a novel - Ed Greenwood [76]
And would a certain Royal Magician be strong enough to do what he would have to do?
Chapter 12: The Insufficient King
Year of the Dun Dragon
(245 DR)
Sagrast Dracohorn, nobleman of Cormyr and steward of the Royal House of Obarskyr, fidgeted in his duskwood chair, wondering if he were strong enough to do what needed to be done. An upstairs room in the Ram and Duck would not have been his first choice for a meeting of traitors. Indeed, Sagrast would prefer not to be a traitor at all, but the reigns of mad Boldovar and now poor, inept Iltharl had given him little choice.
The room itself was rough-hewn and ill-kept, a memory of Suzail's early days. There were fewer and fewer of these rough inns in the city itself these days, though they were common enough beyond the city's walls, in the countryside and in distant Mabel. The timbers were exposed, with muddy patches of dried wattle crumbling between them. Most of the furniture had been broken and inexpertly repaired several times. None of the line of peg-hung mugs on the wall matched. Every tread on the floor reverberated through the loose floorboards of the building.
There was one advantage to this place, Sagrast thought. There was little chance of meeting any of the aristocracy here. That's probably why the wizard had suggested it.
The window shutters, mostly wooden slats set with broken bottle bottoms, had been swung fully open, allowing the sounds and smells of the street below to waft into the room. It was the first hot spell of the summer, and the rot of meat and smell of bodies and offal and horses rose to Sagrast's nostrils. The stench almost took away the bitter taste of the dark, grainy ale that clung tenaciously to the sides of the nobleman's mug.
Sagrast hung back from the open window, knowing on one hand the chance of being seen was minimal, but fearing such a discovery nonetheless. Even if this meeting should prove innocuous, being seen in this place would raise questions in King Iltharl's delicate court.
From his viewpoint, he could see a small part of the city. Most of the buildings were wood-and-wattle, with rough thatched roofs. A few builders on the hillside had taken to using stone for the foundation and lower floors. Only after several goblin raids on the city and complaints from the soldiers about trying to fight in the thick smoke of a wall set alight by brush-carrying foes had Iltharl approved replacement of the wooden palisade with a real stone wall.
Faerlthann's Keep was stone, of course, from shallow dungeon to highest battlement. The great tower, seat of the Obarskyr power, rose from the hillside like a stake from a vampire's chest and seemed to accuse Sagrast of his intended crimes. The keep's windows were barred slits, a memory of Boldovar's time, and Sagrast wondered if anyone stood behind those slits, scanning the city… watching for traitors. Watching for him.
The wizard was there when Sagrast turned back to the room. The nobleman hadn't heard him enter, but then again, he never did. Despite himself, Sagrast started at the sight of the mage sprawling like an ancient spider in the chair on the opposite side of the table.
Baerauble the Venerable, High Wizard of Cormyr, sprawled across the chair like a discarded child's doll, all elbows and knees. The mage had always been thin-nay, emaciated, a scarecrow of a wizard. His beard showed only the slightest streaks of its original red, and his hairline had retreated to the crown of his head. His eyes were as cold and ancient as a dragon's. He was dressed, as ever, in the forest green that had become known as "his" color, but the cut of his robes was archaic, harking back-like this tavern-to older and better times in Cormyr.
"Good of you to come," he said simply.
"When a wizard calls, you cannot pretend to not be at home," said Sagrast, bowing slightly. The High Wizard was the most powerful man from Suzail to Mabel, and with the death of Boldovar three winters back, the most dangerous.
"How are matters with Iltharl, the young king?" asked the mage.
Sagrast