Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [67]
“Lord Delcastle,” Arclath observed calmly, selecting a decanter and a clean tallglass, “is a real man.”
His mother’s shrug was far more dramatic than his. “He was, once. Now he’s too drowned in drink to be much of anything.”
It was an open secret in Suzail that Arclath’s father, Lord Parandur Delcastle, was a habitual drunkard who spent his days walled away in his favorite turret in Delcastle Manor, drinking.
“And so?”
“And so, nothing. Disposing of him would make you Lord Delcastle—and you are even less of a man.”
“And would I be a man if I came to you reeking of sweat and blood and danger?” Arclath asked calmly.
His mother laughed throatily. “Oh, yes. Not that such a celebratiory moment is all that likely to befall, is it?”
“Not all that likely,” Arclath agreed, setting the decanter down again and sipping the vintage he’d chosen. “Pleasant dreams, Mother.”
He strolled out, back into the dimly lit passage—where a hard-faced House guard stood watching him, a loaded and ready crossbow aimed at Arclath’s breast.
The younger Lord Delcastle raised an eyebrow. “Has heir-hunting season begun, Trezmur?”
“Orders,” came the curt reply. “Sons have murdered mothers before.”
“And will again, I fear,” Arclath replied, strolling away down the passage with his tallglass in hand. “Yet not this son. Such a deed would be entirely too … noble. I seek other delights in life.”
It was a good thing one of those delights wasn’t sleeping, he thought to himself, knowing just how soon he’d be up again and out of the bed that was waiting for him.
Two passages later, when he arrived at his own chambers, he handed the now-empty tallglass to the doorjack waiting there, went inside, and firmly closed the door.
Only after the inner door beyond that first one had closed behind him did he add aloud to what he’d told Trezmur, “And when at last I discover the delights I should be seeking, life can truly begin.”
Bright early morning was flooding through windows that thankfully weren’t framed in sculpted roses. Not that Arclath was lounging and enjoying the view.
He was at his usual desk, looking over documents, deeds, and an ever-rising pile of cross-strapped-between-boards parchments; the endless scrip of family investments and business dealings.
Around him, the front chambers of Delcastle Manor were bustling, as various family factors, clerks, scribes, and coin-stewards hastened up to him to receive their directions among his crisp stream of orders.
They might have been concealing yawns, but their smiles were genuine; the sooner they were done, the sooner their time was theirs, and once Lord Delcastle left his chair, their days were ordered for them, their tasks clear.
As he spoke, the factors bowed and bustled out, one by one; trade agents get about early, or inevitably find themselves picking over leavings spurned by others.
Soon enough, Arclath followed them, spiking his quill and deeming his day’s work done.
Catching up his favorite gem-handled cane, he gave the clerks an airy wave and swaggered out into the streets, twirling his spike-ended stick like a carefree child.
These days, success meant departing Delcastle Manor before his mother, exhausted by her parade of hired lovers, awakened and began her daily tyranny. And today, if the gods smiled, would be a string of successes.
With deft skill, Arclath speared a warm bun from a baker’s tray being rushed past, and before the runner could even start to snarl a curse, tossed the man a lion—enough to pay for four such trays, buns and all.
The bun was hot and greasy, the spiced meat inside it splendid on his tongue but threatening to leave his chin glistening.
“Ravenous, Lord?” a hot-nuts vendor called.
“Not at all!” Arclath replied heartily, not slowing. “Merely keeping in training! And how is the trade in roasted jawcrackers this fine morn?”
“Hot, Lord—hot! Get them hot while I have ‘em!”
“Words my mother lives by!” He sauntered on, already hailing the next vendor to indulge in more silly repartee as he tossed a coin to a dirty barefoot