Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [80]
Then in came Narm, in a grand great-sleeved tunic of wine-purple velvet, matching silk hose, and boots trimmed with fur. Hanging from his belt was the lion-headed dagger. His hair had been washed and trimmed and doused with perfume-water, and his eyes outshone the rings on his fingers.
He came in eagerly, mouth opening in a smile to speak- and stopped in awe. Eyes shining, he took a hesitant step forward. "My lady?" he asked.
"Shandril?" His voice was very quiet. "You are beautiful," he added slowly. "As graceful as any high lady I have ever seen."
"And how many such ladies have you seen?"
Shandril teased him. "It's still the same me, if I'm in plain gray robes or a man's tunic and breeches, hair washed or unwashed."
"Yes," Narm said. "But I fear even to touch you, when you are clad so-I could only mar perfect beauty." His voice was husky and serious. His eyes shone.
"Shameless flatterer" Shandril said reprovingly.
"But if that is so, I'll have them all off, at once, and go down in my thieves' garb. I would much rather go on your arm in rags, than walk grandly clad and alone."
"No, no," Narm said, taking her arm. "I can conquer my fears-see?-only promise me you'll talk with me after all the hurly-burly, and in good light. I would not soon forget how you look now."
"Talk, and in good light? Let us go down to table, my lord. Your hunger is weakening your wits,"
Shandril teased, and led him to the door. Thus it was in the hallway outside, under the politely averted eyes of a guard, that the young mage turned Shandril about and kissed her. The soft horn fanfare that summoned all to first table sounded twice before they parted and went down the stairs. The guard kept his face carefully expressionless.
"Thank you, but no, Lord. Truly, I can eat no more,"
Shandril protested, holding up a hand in front of a planer of steaming boar in gravy. Mourngrym laughed.
"Well enough," he warned, "but the more you eat, the longer you can drink. When none of these here can eat a crumb more, you will find that they can yet find room to drink. It's a mystery to me why some who come to my table say they are come to a 'feast,1 when what they do is eat a few bites and then hoist flagons all the night through."
"I-I should be sick if I tried, Lord" Shandril said simply. Mourngrym smiled again.
"Good, then. I am similarly affected. If the two of you can spare us a few words before retiring, my Lady Shaerl and I would be very happy to have your company in the bower upstairs. I believe you have met Storm Silverhand and Sharantyr. We will have other guests: Jhessail and Elminster, and possibly Illistyl. Go up when you cannot hear each other any more-oh, yes, it grows much noisier than this. If you will forgI’ve me, I must walk among my people.
When their tongues are wet and loose, I learn their true grievances and concerns." He nodded to them both and rose. Shandril and Narm exchanged glances.
All around them was tumult. Softly glowing luminescent globes of glass, enspelled earlier by Illistyl, lit the hall. At one end, a gigantic fire blazed merrily beneath spits of boar and ox, filling the room with aromatic smoke. The long board was crammed with platters of food and decanters and skins of wine.
A harpist and a glaurist played almost unheard amid the din of sixty-odd people laughing and talking all at once.
Most of the knights were there. Torm was almost unrecognizable in dazzling, almost foppish finery of slit and puffed sleeves, fur-trimmed silks set with winking gems, and many fine chains of gold studded with large rubies and emeralds. A single giant king's tear hung in silky-smooth clarity upon his bared breast, encupped in a webwork of polished strips of electrum, the first that either Narm or Shandril had ever seen. The thief outshone Mourngrym and, indeed, all the bejeweled ladies in the room, and strode grandly about drinking from a massI’ve chased silver tankard as tall as his forearm was long.
He caught Shandril's eye