Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [20]
“They—they—?” Marlin knew he was going white; he could feel the coldness rushing across his face.
“No, they’ll not come bursting in on you. I took care of them as they discussed you, before they could spread word of your fumblings among all the wizards of war. Right now, among those who’re left, you’re suspected of being as restless and opportunistic as any other arrogant young fool of a noble, but no more than that. I was going to wait until we’d found and secured all of the Nine, but we’ve run out of leisure; some clever war wizards have remembered the old tales and have started their own search for the Nine, with an eye to making Cormyr unassailable. It won’t be long before one of them starts wondering if the Flying Blade of the Stormserpents might just be something the Crown should confiscate—for the good of the realm, of course. So it is time.”
“Yes, Master! Time for—?”
“You to hear and obey, Lord Stormserpent,” the cold voice coming out of the orb told him dryly. “So listen well …”
It was getting harder and harder to force the courtier to be Lothrae; the Cormyrean’s mind was actually growing stronger. Almost enough to begin fighting him.
Astonishing.
Though after all his years, he really shouldn’t be astonished at what humans could—and did—do.
The strain of controlling that distant body was making this other host, a body chosen largely for its youthful agility and darkly handsome appearance, sweat profusely. He sent a mental slap through their fading link that should leave the courtier dazed and staggering for a time, and withdrew from the man’s mind entirely.
Leaving himself just time to wipe his dripping face and stride to the door. If there was one redeeming quality shared by Cormyr’s more ambitious nobles, it was punctuality. Only the lazy, stupidly overconfident, groundlessly self-satisfied, and hopelessly old-fashioned made a habit of being fashionably late.
Not that there weren’t plenty of those among the nobility of the Forest Kingdom.
His hand was reaching for the door bolt when he heard the careful knock.
He slid the well-oiled bolt aside soundlessly, drew the door open, and murmured, “Be welcome, Lady Talane.”
He felt rather than heard his guest stiffen, and added, “Yes, I know who you are. I’ve known for a long time, yet the wizards of war, the highknights, and the Crown behind them are still unaware of your … hobby. Take reassurance from that.”
His guest hesitated on the threshold then sighed and stepped into the room.
It was small, dim, and richly paneled—panels that could hide any number of doors where none were visible. It held a small table with a lone chair and a sideboard. Not a picture or banner adorned any of its walls; they were bare save for a single small, round mirror. The small, plain fireplace was empty and cold. Though he was slender and darkly garbed, he dominated the room like the prow of a great gilded warship.
“You could have ruined me and chose not to,” she stated, her voice just on the tight side of calm. “Meaning you have some other use for me. May I know it?”
“Informing you of that is why I asked you here. Will you sit, Lady, and take wine?”
Without taking his eyes off her for a moment, the darkly handsome man opened one of the sideboard doors, drew out a tall, dark, slender bottle of wine and a sleek wineglass, and advanced to place both on the table beside her, ere smoothly backing away again.
“I’m given to understand this Arrhenish is highly regarded at court; pray satisfy yourself that the bottle is still sealed. You’ll have to pour your own, I’m afraid. In the interests of discretion, no one else is closer to us than my agents down at the doors—who I posted there primarily to make sure you reached this room alone, bringing