Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [137]
Ah, that voice was Mallowfaer, the Master of Revels, in full pompous bluster.
Elminster rolled his eyes and glided to a cautious halt by the spyholes, taking care to keep well back from them as he peered through.
The robing-room on the other side of the wall was crowded with courtiers, and war wizards, too; facing El but half-hidden behind the shoulder of Understeward Corleth Fentable was a rather bruised-looking Rorskryn Mreldrake. The spyholes were situated behind and just above the left shoulder of Khaladan Mallowfaer, who evidently wanted to impress everyone with his authority and exacting attention to detail, but also sounded determined to demonstrate just how pompous and nasty he could be, in the process.
The burdens of his song were intertwined harmonies of exasperation at unfolding chaos, glee that the problem could not—by any stretch of verbiage he would allow—be laid at his door, and that he was in charge of formal protocols at the moment and could therefore decree with nigh royal authority. It seemed the palace had become aware that Ganrahast and Vainrence both seemed to be missing, with our wizards of war very alarmed about it and rushing about searching here, there, and everywhere without wanting to admit that anything at all was amiss—with the council only days away! What to do? What to do?
At that moment, with a sputtering roar, it became clear that Understeward Fentable’s superior, the bullying, blustering, and overblown Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant—who was both lazy and a drunkard and therefore spent much of his time snoring somewhere, leaving things to the highly efficient and widely liked understeward, much to the relief of most courtiers—had heard quite enough of someone else being haughty and giving orders right and left.
“The Master of Revels,” he said in a voice that had a finger-lopping-sharp edge to it, “seems to forget that everyone in this chamber right now is a dedicated, skilled professional, from the clerk of the shield here beside me to the under-clerks of protocol yonder, all four of them. It is our common business to know the location and deeds of each royal personage, both before and throughout the council, from the smallest appointment to the grandest feast, and from our beloved King Foril to Lord Royal Erzoured and the Countess of Dhedluk. The Master of Revels needs only to coordinate, and not to command.”
“Of course,” Mallowfaer responded in a voice that had an edge all its own, “but the Crown Prin—”
“Crown Prince Irvel confers with me often. I last spoke with him—and with Princess Ospra, Prince Baerovus, and Princess Raedra—just before departing the Sunstatues Chamber to come here. All of them are confident the customary support of the entire palace will make this council a success, however tense matters become. I should add that even one not born to high station, the Lady Solatha Boldtree, shares this confidence and has said as much. To me.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless,” the palace steward said crushingly, “we deal with functions and courtesies large and small here in this great seat of rulership, day in and day out, and shall continue to do so without any need for the Master of Revels to try to alter or gainsay the usual precedence or procedures. I fully expect each and every one of you to—”
Elminster shook his head and strolled on down the secret passage, Hallowdant’s coldly cutting words fading behind him. He found himself both amused—he could practically complete the palace steward’s speech by heart, without any need to actually hear the rest of it—and heartened. Murmurs of agreement had been backing Hallowdant in a sort of chorus.
The court was bent on their duties.
Ganrahast or no Ganrahast, things would go on. Haughty and fussy and backbiting though they were, the courtiers of Cormyr would deal with things.
King rise or king fall, regicide or nobles poisoning each other with abandon or chasing each