Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [133]
Lothrae leaned forward to speak loudly and firmly. “If there’s a traitor in your conspiracy, this is your best armor; he has struck against you, and behold, you are so strong that you simply ignore the blow.”
The masked man spread his hands. “You can live looking behind you at every shadow, fear strangling you—but that’s hardly a life worth living, is it? Continue with our plan, and the throne can one day be yours. Waver, and it shall never be. Break, and it’s your life you’ll be frantically seeking to cling to, not dreams of kingship. But none of this should be new to you; you should already be well aware of the choices before you and the risks woven around each of them.”
“Yes, yes,” Marlin agreed hastily. “Yes, I’ll do that—uh, those things.”
Nodding, Lothrae was abruptly gone, leaving nothing but dark and empty air above Marlin’s orb.
Cursing softly, the heir of House Stormserpent restored things to their rightful places, took up his lantern, and hastened back to his own chambers.
Lothrae had spoken of the best tactic, but those bold words did nothing at all to lessen the danger. Someone who’d sat around his table plotting treason—or even a cabal of several of them, grinning at him behind their masklike faces—wanted him dead.
Taking to his bed was easy enough, but finding slumber proved harder. Fear was in him, his mind whispering peril after betrayal after knife in the dark.
Marlin tossed and turned, hissing curses through cold sweat after drenching cold sweat, fear never leaving him. He was so agitated that Thirsty took to flitting back and forth across the bedchamber, flapping from post to post of Marlin’s great four-poster bed.
It was no use. He could not sleep. Not when there could be a dozen hired slayers prowling Stormserpent Towers at that moment, blades in hand and gentle smiles on faces, drawing nearer … and nearer …
“Farruking Hells,” he snarled, thrusting himself up from the bedclothes in a fresh fury.
He staggered as his bare feet hit the floor, but yawningly steadied himself against the nearest bedpost, then made for the chalice and the Flying Blade.
When Langral and Halonter of the Nine were standing coldly facing him once more, blue flames raging endlessly about them, Marlin commanded the two ghosts to watch over him as he slept and guard his person from all intruders.
Thirsty the stirge hastily flew from the bedpost up to the loftiest corner of his highest window to perch well out of their reach.
Langral and Halonter nodded silently at those orders. Silently flaming, they took up positions over Marlin as he settled himself on his pillow once more.
He’d feared he might not be able to sleep with the blueflame ghosts looming so close and menacing, but before he could so much as fully remember that fear, dark and falling oblivion claimed him.
And so never saw the thief and the fighter of the Nine, standing there in their flames, turn to regard each other over Marlin’s faintly snoring form—and then in unison look down at him, open contempt on their faces.
“Saving the world or not,” Amarune mumbled, finding her nose perilously close to the tabletop for about the tenth time, “I can’t stop yawning.”
“Of course, lass. Ye need rest. We’ll talk more on this later.”
Elminster produced a pouch from somewhere under his robes, and from it poured a generous stream of coins into his empty tallglass in the center of the table.
Then he rose and offered Amarune his arm. She was very thoughtful but also stumbling weary, and almost fell as she found her feet and took that proferred arm.
“Where—?”
“I’m escorting ye back to thy rooms, where I’ll part from thee and let ye enjoy a good long sleep. As long as ye need, mind; I’ll settle things with thine employer so ye’ll not be greeted by swords when ye come next to dance. The Dragonriders’ should be reminded that drunken wizards can and do accuse any innocent lass of being almost anyone. I’ll play a