Crusade - James Lowder [11]
"Please, my friends," the king said, "there's no need for that. We are here as allies, to solve a common problem." He slowly scanned the crowd, meeting the gaze of as many people as he could. "Let us relax and speak as friends."
The lords and ladies, magicians and generals, visibly relaxed, and a murmur of renewed conversation washed over the room. Many of the thirty or so people sat down again. When they did, the king saw a handsome, darkhaired man sitting alone in front of the room. The blood-red shirt the royal bard wore was neat and proper, and it mirrored the embarrassed flush on his face quite well. Azoun smiled and walked to the young man's side.
"No doubt you were the cause of that outburst when I entered the room," the king said. "Just what story were you telling them, Thom?"
"I was trying to lighten the mood a bit, Your Highness," the man said, bowing his head and hugging his harp tight to his chest. His fingers slid nervously over the whales carved into the instrument's neck. "Vangerdahast told me to play for the gathering until you arrived. They were all rather somber … so I told them the tale of Sune and the hayward."
Azoun flinched slightly. That particular story of Sune Firehair, the Goddess of Beauty, was one of Thom Reaverson's better. Still, though not vulgar, the tale was a bit bawdy for mixed company. "Was that a wise choice, Thom?" the king asked, turning to look at the gathered nobles. Various polite excuses ran through his mind as he studied the assembled rulers of the most powerful cities and countries in Faerun.
"They requested it, milord."
"What?"
Thom smiled and pointed to an attractive young woman. As the king watched, the Cormyrian lady tossed her head back slightly, laughing at another noble's jest, letting her hair dance luxuriously around her bared shoulders. "She asked if I knew that particular story," the bard quietly told the king. "When I said yes, she requested I tell it. I tried to suggest another, more appropriate tale, but the other lords and ladies followed her lead."
King Azoun sighed, then smiled. "Thank you, Thom. You did the right thing.
They probably wanted a little light fare to cut the tension before the meeting started." He pointed toward the doorway. "I'd like you to remain in the meeting hall, but at the back of the room. Observe what you can. We'll talk again later."
The bard nodded, then quietly moved from the front of the room. A few of the nobles applauded Thom, and he smiled and bowed in response. As the bard reached the door, Vangerdahast and a very, very old woman entered.
"Time for us to begin," Azoun announced, and the assembled men and women took their places at the long, polished wooden tables. Chairs lined one side of each table instead of the benches often used with them, and the three tables themselves formed a large U. The opening in the tables' arrangement faced the front of the room, where Thom Reaverson had played and Azoun now stood.
The room in which the dignitaries gathered was large and had a high ceiling, with brightly colored pennants hanging from the rafters. The king had purposefully chosen the meeting hall, located deep inside the castle, because it had no windows, a single door, and thick walls of stone. If someone thought to assault the assembled leaders, he would have found the task difficult, if not impossible.
Still, though the hall was secure, it was rather drab, apart from the pennants hanging near the ceiling. Barren stone walls, whitewashed like all the walls in the castle, surrounded most of the room. Brightly glowing globes hung at regular intervals around the hall and sat upon each table, but shadows crept into corners and made many a face look far more ominous than it did in daylight. The only unusual ornamentation, a large, colorful clothand-thread map of Faerun, covered much of the wall behind the king.
Azoun stood framed by the tapestry, waiting for the assemblage