Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [8]
Lightning crackled and thunder roiled. The man in black stood over him and reached a tentative hand up to touch his own shoulder.
The woman whimpered. After a heartbeat, Walker regarded her.
Then he vanished as lightning struck.
CHAPTER 2
25 Tarsakh
The day was born stormy, brooding in a shifting downpour that grew in intensity and slackened off unpredictably. The weather seemed unable to decide whether to rage viciously or merely to simmer with mocking drizzles.
For Lord Singer Dharan Greyt, on the other hand, there was no such ambivalence: This was not a pleasant morning.
The capricious weather spoiled any chance of decent hunting. He had a terrible headache such that even being awake was a trial. Meris was nowhere to be found. And, finally, the man Greyt liked least in the Silver Marches had come to call.
"Why Speaker, what a pleasant surprise," he said to the large man in his sitting room. Then he muttered sarcastically under his breath, "I was just hoping for banality at sunrise."
With one meaty hand, Speaker Geth Stonar smoothed his bountiful moustache. "Well met to you, too," the lord said with a note of weariness in his voice.
"Won't you sit down? Can I offer you some wine-Cormyrean red? I have a bottle of feywine, but I'm saving that for a special occasion."
From his expression, it was clear the gruff Lord Speaker had missed the subtle barb.
Greyt sighed. Typically oblivious.
The sitting room was large and lavish, as was the rest of Greyt's home. In a town where every building had at least five-and usually eight or more-residents, Dharan Greyt and three others lived in an expansive house that could have held thirty or forty comfortably. It was a frontier manor, and Greyt had decorated the interior appropriately, with tapestries depicting epic battles, monsters, and legends. He kept it, he said, in the style of Waterdhavian high society. The trinkets and treasures he had won in his adventuring days were scattered around the mansion-many were cheap imitations, but starry-eyed youth rarely knew the difference. A trip to Greyt Manor was a journey into the castles of old, like walking into a dragon's chamber.
"If you'll just look over these papers and documents, I'll deliver them to Alustriel in Silverymoon," Stonar said brusquely. He declined the drink but took a seat. "She's calling a council of the league within the month, and several matters need to be handled before I can give her my report."
"Matters such as getting the hunters to stop talking about the mythical silver pheasant?" Greyt asked. "Or perhaps redecorating the Whistling Stag? Indeed, I have no doubt those are tasks for Alustriel's personal attention." Then, softly: "The hag."
Stonar frowned. "Of course not," he said. "Matters of real importance-matters relevant to the survival of our city!"
Almost rolling his eyes, Greyt looked at the Speaker askance. Stonar wore a rich green baldric with a rearing stag, the symbol of Quaervarr, emblazoned on his thick chest. Greyt found it distasteful.
Stonar wasn't exactly fat, but he was quite sturdy-a life of smithy work had made him that way. Greyt expected that the last few years in his authority role, lodging in Quaervarr's second largest house, and Stonar's recent diet of more rothe and potatoes than roots and venison, hadn't hurt the process either. He was a dull man without a mind for politics who relied more on his hands than his head. Of course, leadership like that carried much weight in uncivilized frontier towns such as Quaervarr.
"What matters?" Greyt asked. He absentmindedly plucked at the strings of his yarting and eased himself back in his gilded chair. "As though we have matters of interest to deal with in Quaervarr. At the very height of danger, we are." The unintentional rhyme brought a smile to his face. He was a natural.
"Matters such as getting the hunters and rangers to stop bickering over territory and hunting rights. They all get commissions in the Whistling Stag, but there are only so many travelers who come through and more than enough rangers to go around!