Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [139]
Those wizards were all dead. Which left him.
Turning to begin hastening, he got to work on the cursing part.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
WE MUST DO WHATEVER WE MUST
Arclath prided himself on a certain supple grace of stride, a smooth saunter that drew the eye. He’d needed it that morn to thread his way through all the rushing chamberjacks and chambermaids without too many jarring collisions.
He’d also needed all the charm and glib tongue-work he could master to fend off frequent challenges from Purple Dragons as he sought out wizard of war after wizard. The ones he did find seemed to delight in frowningly directing him this way and that.
Not that the one he was standing in front of, at the moment, was any trial on the eyes. A real beauty, with a long, glossy fall of blue-black hair—the hue they called “midnight”—and large, liquid, dark eyes to match.
“I am Lord Arclath Delcastle,” he replied to her query. “What’s your name?”
“Raereene,” she replied, adding a polite smile and a calm wave of her hand that told him that his come-hither glance was wasted, and that she was more than used to the blandishments of men both young and old. “You’re seeking someone?”
“One of your colleagues,” Arclath told her. “A wizard of war who asked me to report to her, and gave her name as Glathra.”
The young beauty nodded and pointed at a nearby door. “I know not her present whereabouts, but if you wait in yon chamber, I can promise you she’ll be there soon. It’s where we always find her, sooner or later.”
Delcastle gave her a bow and smile of thanks, and made his way to the door. It proved to open into a little office—at the same time as an old, bearded man closed a secret panel behind himself on the far wall of the room and turned to face Arclath.
Who let the door close behind him as they stared at each other, and a crooked smile grew across the old man’s face.
“Well met, Lord Delcastle,” he said, going straight to a sideboard along one end of the office—ignoring its honor guard of a ceremonial suit of full armor, set up all lifelike on a stand—and selecting a decanter from the neat row atop it. “Care for a drink?”
“Who are you?” Arclath asked, waving the offer away. “A war wizard?”
“Yes,” the old man replied, “and I’d like to have something of a chat with thee. I’ve been hearing some strange things about young Lord Stormserpent and magic and some famous adventurers known as the Nine, and I’d like to know what ye know of such matters. What’re the fair nobles of the realm saying, hey?”
Delcastle stared at the old man in bewilderment. “Glathra?” he asked, frowning. “Is it you? Is this some sort of test? I’ve been known to enjoy little games, yes, but right now I rather lack the time—”
“Ah, nobles, nobles!” Elminster lamented mildly, sipping from the tallglass he’d just filled. “So important. Never have time for anything of consequence; so busy with feasting and dalliance and debauchery—”
Arclath sighed. “A tune I’ve heard more than a few times before. Saer, not now! This council must go perfectly or—”
“Or thy head’ll be served up on the next feast platter? Well, if ye don’t listen to me, it will go rather less than imperfectly; ’twill be a disaster, perhaps even offering the realm a regicide!”
Arclath arched an eyebrow. “My, my, so dramatic …”
He strolled across the room toward one of the two closed doors at its other end from the sideboard. “However, you don’t seem to be the person I’m looking for, so I’ll just be—” He reached out, hesitated for a moment, and then chose the handle of the right-hand door.
“Dead in about ten breaths from now,” Elminster finished his sentence for him briskly, “if ye step blindly through yon door. The elder Lady Illance is changing her gown in the chamber beyond, and her guards are very swift with their blades. Their poisoned blades, may I add, despite Crown law.”