Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [158]
No one looked surprised. Handragon and Ormblade confirmed for him again that they would be attending the council to represent their families, and Stormserpent asked them to watch and listen for any talk of himself or any of them or their activities—such as the hunt for the hand axe—or any denunciation of younger nobles. If the Crownsilvers or Illances or any of the other oldblood families tried to wrest even more power for themselves, they must be vigorously denounced.
“The rest of us,” Marlin advised, “would do best to stay away from council. We can move swiftly, ere everyone departs the city when all the formal clack and chatter is done, to reach disaffected nobles if need arises.”
Handragon smiled. “And it will.”
“This will be dangerous, you know,” Arclath told Amarune severely. “You shouldn’t …”
His voice trailed away under the heat of her fierce glare, and he managed to add only, “Sorry.”
“Accepted,” she told him, putting a hand out from under his mother’s cloak to touch his arm.
Then close around it like a claw and drag him back, pointing with her other hand even before he could start to curse.
An old man in flapping sea boots and leathers was lurching and wheezing along the street ahead in purposeful haste, bared sword in hand.
Stalking along in his wake and closing in on him fast were two figures wreathed and cloaked in crawling blue flames.
The old man cast a swift glance back over his shoulder at his pursuers, but kept going.
“Arclath Delcastle,” Amarune hissed fiercely, holding onto the young lord’s sword arm for all she was worth, “don’t you throw your life away trying to fight those—”
A patrol horn sounded, and the street was suddenly full of Purple Dragons—and the bright burst of a spell that blossomed all around the two flaming men and sang a weird cacophony as it sought to harden and the men fought to get free of it.
The old man kept running, if that lurching shuffle could be termed a run.
“Come,” Arclath said sharply, ducking down an alleyway that led in the direction the old man was going. “I—we—need answers.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Amarune replied as they started to sprint.
His conspirators had departed, leaving Marlin Stormserpent pacing his rooms too excited—and in too much pain—to seek slumber. He contemplated forcing one of the maids to rut with him, but fancied none of them; the few he’d taken were familiar goods and hadn’t been all that entrancing the first time around. No, it was time to hire a playpretty instead …
He rang for one of his trusties, and Whelandrin answered the summons. Marlin sent the impassive older man out into the streets to hire “a tall, dark, buxom lass—with most of her teeth, mind, and not sporting a face like an old boot or my backside—from the House of the Lynx, or the Lady Murmurs Yes, or the Blackflame Curtain. Give her ten lions and the promise of twenty more for my choice of deeds until dawn; no disfiguring, no floggings.”
Still carefully expressionless, Whelandrin bowed and took his leave.
The old man whirled around with a snarl, blade flashing up at Arclath’s throat—but the heir of House Delcastle had already backed out of reach.
“Keep clear!” the old man growled warningly, ere turning to lurch another few steps—only to stumble as Amarune rolled right in front of his shins, her dagger up warningly.
“We don’t want bloodshed,” Arclath said firmly, “just to talk. I’m Lord Delcastle, and this is … the Lady Amarune.”
“I’m still Mirt,” the old man rumbled, “lord of Waterdeep. So speak.” His sword point moved from one of them to the other with the sure, deft speed of a longtime bladesman.
“Where are you headed?”
“Stormserpent Towers,” the old man snapped. “To kill the young bull-behind who set those two flaming killers on me, so I can command them myself—or to force him to call them off.”
“Would that bull-behind be Lord Marlin Stormserpent?”
“ ‘Marlin’ I know not, but aye, the young lord in Stormserpent towers.”
“Let us take care of him,” Arclath said grimly. “If you go straight to the palace and