Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [71]
Delnor buried his face behind his tankard, trying to look as if he weren’t there. Arclath gravely tendered his apologies for rousing Tress at such an hour and asked her the name of the dancer who’d performed for him the previous evening, and if it would be possible to speak with her. Immediately.
“No,” Tress said simply. “She’s not here.”
“And her name would be—?”
“The Mysterious Dancer You Seek,” Tress announced flatly. “She’ll be performing on yon stage again at dusk tonight and thereafter until near dawn, unless trade’s too paltry to make it worth her pay.” She yawned again.
Arclath dipped into another purse—Delnor blinked; just how many did the man have, anyway?—scooped out a heaping handful of gold coins, and held it up. “Her real name?” he asked quietly.
Tress frowned and shook her head. “I won’t give, Lord Delcastle. I’m sorry, but unless you have a Crown warrant or someone I know to be a senior war wizard asking that for you, you won’t learn it from me. I must protect my girls.”
“So must we,” Arclath murmured, waving a hand to indicate he and Delnor were a team.
Tress snorted. “Against getting cold from being all alone when they’re bare in their beds?”
She turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Come back at dusk and ask her yourself. You’ll need all those coins and more, if I know her. Her company can be had at competitive rates, but her name she guards—and why shouldn’t she?”
Arclath and Delnor exchanged glances, shook their heads at each other soberly, then looked up at Tress and tendered their thanks.
She merely nodded, looking as if she was sliding right back into sleep again, while still on her feet. They rose, bowed to her, took a last swig of broth each, and made for the door.
Tress roused herself. “Your coins, Lord!” she said sharply, pointing at the pile on the table.
Arclath gave her a smile and a wave. “Consider them a donation for your hospitality, and some fumbling reparation for so clumsily attempting to bribe you,” he said lightly, and he departed the club, Delnor smiling apologetically in his wake.
Tress watched the door close behind them and shook her head. “Now just what was all that about?” she asked softly. “Stlarn it.”
“Nobles are crazy,” the maid who’d awakened her offered helpfully.
Tress sighed. “So they are, Leece. So they are.” She padded back toward the loft stairs. “Yet they always have been—and they don’t all come to my club with callow young palace messengers every morn, asking after my best dancer.” She sighed again. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
The magic faded at last, leaving the long-bearded wizard and the curvaceous silver-haired woman free to curse heartily.
They did so with enthusiasm, though Elminster spat out his words at a trot.
“We’ve lost the night and some of the morning,” Storm added, lengthening her stride to keep up with him.
“I know that, stormy one,” El snarled. “I also know just how careless I was to fall afoul of a dolt-simple war wizards’ trap, so ye can refrain from commenting on that, too!”
“Hmm. Someone’s very touchy this morning,” Storm told the ceiling.
Elminster made a rude sound popular with small boys, turned a corner, and started along the corridor even faster.
“What if she turns willful and impatient?” Elminster asked suddenly, as they rushed along the damp and dark passage together. He shook his head. “She could do so much damage …”
Storm snorted. “And we, down the years, have not?”
“Ye know what I mean, lass. Goes wrong, like Sammaster and—well, too many others. The Realms could be in real trouble.”
Storm put a hand on Elminster’s shoulder. His muscles were as tight as drawn bowstrings. “Then we’ll have to destroy her,” she said softly. “As we’ve had to destroy bright weapons we forged before. The needs of the Realms demand, and we must meet those needs.”
“And then what? How shall we find a successor if she’s gone?”
Storm grinned. “Again, needs demand. You’ll just have to father some new ones, won’t you?”
“Ah, thanks for that broth,” Delnor said hesitantly,