Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [103]
Most of the lesser nobility had quietly striven for centuries—against several handfuls of Obarskyr kings—to force the Dragon Throne to give them “their due.” Marlin’s conspirators, however, were largely drawn from newbloods, families ennobled after the exilings of House Bleth and the dispossessions of the Cormaerils and others.
Young and wealthy nobles can find sycophants and toadies in plenty, but friends among their fellow nobles are rarer to come by and harder to keep, among all the feuding, pride, and burning ambition. Nobles tend to cling fiercely to the few real friends they do make—and friendships had inevitably complicated Marlin’s choice of conspirators. Choosing a man he wanted might well bring along a second one he might not have ever chosen to trust with secrets that could cost noble necks.
Yet among the young heirs of Houses available in the realm, Marlin judged he’d done about as well as he could, if he wanted to retain any semblance of dominance at all in enterprises that could lead to swift graves if handled poorly. He had no stomach at all for recruiting stronger fellows who’d thrust him aside into the role of lackey—or scapegoat—once success was near.
They were all in their seats; Marlin sipped from his glass and studied them, his face once more a smoothly unreadable mask decorated by the faintest of smiles.
Windstag was a good blade and better hunter, but the sort of big, florid, blustering hothead that could all too easily land them all in disaster—and, there beside him, Sornstern was a nothing, Windstag’s toady. Dawntard, though sly and a drunkard, had swift and sharp wits and could steer Windstag where none of the rest of them could.
Dawntard could be trouble, though; trouble for Marlin himself. The sort who waited for weakness and then betrayed fellows to step forward and seize the spoils for himself. So were Handragon and Ormblade, for that matter; he must take great care to keep the three of them opposed to each other, not working together.
Irlin Stonestable was sour-faced and dour of outlook, one who’d endure and do what was needful and no more—but stand like stubborn stone for the cause, when others would slip away and run.
Mellast Ormblade he still could not read as much as he wanted to, nor had he means enough to blackmail. The man was the worst snob among them, but a saturnine, sophisticated, smooth-tongued diplomat, who just might deserve to look down his nose at almost everyone else in all the realm.
Marlin knew a bit more about Sacrast Handragon, whose family’s fortunes had fared perhaps the most poorly of them all—but what he knew made him firmly resolved to treat Handragon with wary respect. The man had the face of a statue when he wanted to, and iron self-control his every waking moment, it seemed. Swift and ruthless when that would benefit him, and a superb diplomat and actor all the time.
Aye, Ormblade and Handragon would bear watching. Hard and constantly too.
He smiled, raised his glass, and announced, “It’s time, friends, for me to impart some truths.”
By the gods, how he loved watching men stiffen in fear, waiting for his next words! This must be how it felt to be king.
Marlin waved a dismissive hand at the paling faces and stiffenings around the table, and let his smile broaden.
“Have no fears! This is not a moment of betrayal, I assure you. Rather, it is when I demonstrate my deepest trust in you by revealing my dearest secret: the very thing that made me dare to think a small, loyal-to-each-other band of true nobles could succeed in remaking—in rescuing—the land we all love. Before I reveal it, let me reassure you once again that no war wizard—not even the Mage Royal himself—can eavesdrop on us here. I have assembled magics they cannot hope to