Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [72]
Arclath shrugged. “Tables are like beds; far better shared.” In unspoken accord they set off along the promenade together, walking at a leisurely pace, as he added, “So tell me more of this tumult at the palace—does the king seem agitated? Or Ganrahast? Or is it mainly courtiers fussing and hand-wringing as they contemplate favorite possible dooms?”
Delnor winced and flushed simultaneously. “You know the palace well.”
“Well enough to spot a palace messenger looking for a way not to answer me directly, yes.” Arclath grinned. “So give, friend Delnor. Worry not; I won’t be asking you for guard deployments or whom our wizards of war are most attentively going to be farscrying. Just the general mood, and who’s setting it … or trying to.”
They’d been strolling around the great arc of the promenade in no particular haste but were already within sight of where it met the city wall in one of Suzail’s great gates. Arclath turned to walk into the nearest side street, entertaining the vague notion of heading to the harbor, when a fanfare of warhorns rang out at the east gate.
As the flourish had intended them to, they stopped to watch. A large group of armsmen on matching horses came riding into the city, a great clattering of many hooves echoing off the gate arch. The riders surrounded a string of richly appointed coaches.
“A noble coming to the council,” Delnor said uncertainly, peering at the pennants fluttering from lance points.
One glance at those banners had told Arclath the identity of the arriving party. “Lord Daeclander Illance,” he volunteered. “Arriving early—as he does for all court events he deems too important to ignore—so as to have plenty of time for tasting the, ah, pleasures of Suzail and transacting as much shady business as he thinks he can get away with before the war wizards and highknights actually start sitting in his lap to listen in.”
He grinned. “I imagine Rothglar will be more than a little annoyed. He has to rein himself in a trifle and behave when his father’s in town. Daeclander has so run out of patience with his eldest son that disowning him might well be a positive pleasure. It’s not as though Velyandra’s birthed him only a few sons; Rothglar has eight brothers, last time I checked.”
The riders started to fan out, to form a broad front across the promenade to create the maximum inconvenience for others and stir up as much notice as possible; Arclath sighed in disgust and led Delnor firmly into a side street. “We’ll turn south at the next street crossing,” he murmured, and they did—but soon detoured hastily back westward at the intersection after that, as a dung wagon came rumbling toward them, bringing its reek with it.
“I knew there was a reason I usually tarry at the Eel until the highsun patrons start to flood in,” Arclath declaimed—and then swore as a second dung wagon came their way, goading them into ducking up the nearest alley.
It was wide and relatively uncluttered and clean-smelling, as Suzailan alleys went—they could tell without looking for tall landmarks that they were close to the palace and far from the Westwall slums—but the courtier and the lordling soon came to an abrupt halt as a third dung wagon rumbled into the muddy midyard of the city block that the alley had led them to, and came to a creaking stop, blocking their path.
The drover drew a knife from his boot and with its pommel struck a two-toned chime next to his head—and Arclath and Delnor were mildly interested to observe that this signal bore immediate fruit. Many sleepy figures promptly shuffled out of the lofty back balcony doorways or stout back doors of the surrounding shoulder-to-stone-shoulder tallhouses, down a rickety variety of back stairs, and out through various locked or latched gates at the bottom of those stairs to proffer a coin each to the drover—copper thumbs—and then empty their buckets of nightsoil.
Delnor looked pained. “Let’s go another way.