Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [156]
“I—ah, pray pardon—,” Amarune began hesitantly, at the same time as the steward turned to her, bowed low, and announced, “The Lady Marantine Delcastle!”
“Lights, dolt!” the unseen Lady Delcastle snapped, and lanterns were unhooded by a servant to reveal her standing in a wide doorway flanked by two unsmiling bodyguards in armor, glaring at Amarune and the steward.
At the same time as a door swung wide in another wall to admit light and the young scion of House Delcastle.
“Arclath!” Amarune cried. “Urgent news!”
“Amarune!” he exclaimed in delight, striding to her and reaching out in greeting.
Mother frowned at son. “Arclath? Do you know this wench? She looks common—hmmph, worse than that, either a strumpet or a thief, or both—to me!”
Arclath gave her a bright smile and said almost jovially, “I’m sure to palace courtiers we look strange, Mother!”
Firmly he took hold of Amarune’s hand and drew her to yet another door, murmuring to the steward, “Torold, light the lamps in the receiving room for us.”
“If yon wench is from the palace, I’m the queen of Aglarond!” Lady Delcastle declared scornfully. “You’ll have nothing to do with her that I don’t see and hear!”
“Suit yourself, Mother,” Arclath called calmly back over a shoulder that was busy shrugging.
The receiving room had been made for a large Delcastle family to greet as large a family of guests; under the glare of Arclath’s mother, Amarune felt as if she was in some sort of hall of trial, standing alone at the center of its gleaming marble floor. Arclath whirled away to a sideboard—gods, did nobles have ready rows of decanters in every room of their vast houses?—and poured her a drink, unbidden, while Amarune stood blushing and silent.
“Before you blurt out whatever’s most urgent,” he told her, obviously trying to set her at ease while his mother stared right through her with eyes like the points of two drawn daggers, “have a sip, and tell me what else is riding your mind.”
Somewhat hesitantly, Amarune said, “Ah—uh—much news from city taverns and eateries of elder members of the nobility, newly arrived in Suzail for the council.” She sipped, winced at the strength and fire of the strong wine, choked it down, and added, “Brawls, the chasing and slaughtering of a live pig with swords, servants being flung from upper windows, a cart set on fire …”
Her voice trailed away under Lady Delcastle’s darkening scowl, but Arclath chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. “The usual. The elder lords indulging all of their longtime feuds and vices, many of which must seem odd or even suspicious to the rest of the realm. Right, then, out with it: the reason you came rushing here to see me.”
“The coin you offered her to satisfy your animal lusts here in our house, of course,” Lady Delcastle told the ceiling. “Probably on the scullery floor or over the arm of a handy lounge in my foreparlor.” Her expressionless bodyguards seemed to lean toward Amarune, as if they were impatient to topple onto her and crush her.
Amarune kept her eyes on Arclath, swallowed unhappily, and sighed, knowing she was going to blurt and babble like a youngling, but not knowing how to say it better. “Three lords you know, of about your age,” she began. “Windstag, Dawntard, and Sornstern. The news is all over the city; they spent last night through hunting everywhere for a particular axe—a hand axe! Drawing steel on folk, turning rooms out, offering coin, threatening—”
“What?” Arclath and his mother roared in unison.
Arclath strode toward Amarune, waving furiously at a sputtering Lady Delcastle—who was launching into a tirade about “selfish, ill-behaved young nobles”—for silence. Surprisingly, he got it.
And promptly filled it again by starting to think aloud. “Windstag, of course. Always up for a little mayhem, and Sornstern’s his lickspittle, but Dawntard has wits to set the other two to his bidding. And those three