Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [73]
Arclath started to nod—then stiffened, plucked imperiously at the palace messenger’s arm, and pointed.
One of the weary figures who had just lowered her emptied bucket was the very dancer they were seeking. He said as much, hissing out the words.
“You’re sure?” Delnor muttered excitedly.
“I have seen her without her mask, more than once,” Arclath said, nodding. “I’m sure.”
Unaware of their scrutiny, she turned and stumbled sleepily out of their sight behind the dung wagon. They hastened after her, but when they rounded the reeking wagon, there was no sign of her among the trudging neighbors.
“She must dwell hard by, in one of these,” Arclath said, peering up and all around. Then he started purposefully for the nearest door.
Delnor ran two swift steps, hesitated, then dared to lay hands on a noble lord, and held him firmly back.
“We can’t scour out a score or more tallhouses,” he protested. “Most folk won’t even answer their doors; are you going to try to break them all down? And what’ll you tell the Watch? I’m Lord Arclath Delcastle, and I’m searching for a mask dancer because I—uh, because I—”
Arclath nodded. “Your point is made.” He stared up at the surrounding balconies once more, sighed, then asked briskly, “The club, tonight, then? Dusktide?”
Delnor agreed, then stifled a yawn of his own. As the dung wagon rumbled off along the alley again, he waved farewell, then turned and started trudging in the direction of the royal court.
Arclath watched him go then caught sight of a young lad trailing past with an empty nightsoil bucket.
“Lad!” he called and held up a copper coin.
The boy stopped, and Arclath tossed it to him. Watching it get snatched deftly out of the air, he said, “A silver falcon to go with that if you bring me a hire coach right speedily.”
The boy stared at him for the moment it took to judge Arclath’s fine clothes and sword then grinned and sprinted off, tossing the bucket over his gate as he went.
He was back before Arclath reached the mouth of the alley, a small coach clattering in his wake.
Coin, Arclath reflected ruefully for about the hundredth time thus far that month, can work wonders.
The coach was a swift one; he soon overtook Delnor and called up to the drover to stop.
“Don’t you have all sorts of Crown errands and inspections to do?” He grinned, beckoning Delnor to enter the conveyance with a grand flourish.
The messenger’s mouth fell open, and he shied back. “Yes, but not in a coach! I can’t be spending Crown coins like that!”
“You’re not,” Arclath said sweetly. “I am.”
Delnor blinked. “Uh—ah-yes, but—but everyone will think you’re buying my approvals and Crown business!”
“They already do. You’re a courtier, remember?”
Delnor sighed, shrugged, and climbed into the coach. “That’s … overly cynical,” he murmured.
“That’s Cormyrean,” Arclath corrected airily. “We border Sembia, by the gods! We’d have to be barking mad not to be cynical!”
Mockingly Delnor made a halfhearted barking sound by way of reply—but broke off abruptly as he saw a shopkeeper staring curiously at him.
By the gods, indeed.
Storm peered out of the secret passage again, then drew back her head and slid the panel closed in calm, smooth haste.
“Court and palace certainly seem to be in something of an uproar,” she observed.
Elminster nodded silently, looking tired and less than pleased.
As they’d worked their way through the cellars, heading south from palace to court, seeking a way they could depart either royal building unobserved to slip into Suzail for some Amarune-hunting, neither of them had failed to notice the large and frequent armed patrols of Purple Dragons who were suddenly tramping tirelessly through the halls of both vast buildings—or standing alertly, guarding most secret passage entrances.
To say nothing of the many grim-faced trios and quartets of war wizards searching this room and that.
“They’ve found the bodies,” Elminster growled. “And that, plus the inevitable rumors of assassins and worse being prepared for the council—or by or for the nobles now