Stormlight - Ed Greenwood [11]
"And, of course, myself." The boldshield swung his eyes back to Broglan Sarmyn. He was of average height and build. His hair was the hue of mud and going thin on top. It turned grizzled gray in his large but carefully trimmed sideburns, the man's only touch of visible personal style. Permanent worry lines creased a high forehead, and a touch of grimness hovered about the mouth. His robes were a year or two behind high fashion.
Ergluth knew Broglans sort: a man uneasy in court society but decisive behind closed doors and out among the common folk. A good teacher who adopted the pose of the gruff, growling bear favored by so many swordcaptains of the Purple Dragons. A good man-principled, and with a love of the realm.
The others…well, more love of self and of mayhem that anything else, if he was any judge. A murderer loose in the keep, and we’re adding these?
The boldshield gave them all a grave smile, and said loudly, half-turning toward his own men and the other armsmen in the courtyard, “Be welcome in Firewall Keep. May your mission meet with success. His Majesty has every confidence in you, and so do we all. Do not hesitate to call upon me, or any of my men, should you require aid.” Then he turned fully to face the ranked guards, and barked, “Dismissed!”
The armsmen scattered like so many disturbed pigeons, clearing the cobbles in a whirl of weapons and trotting feet and jingling harnesses. The boldshield turned back to the wizards. "If you'd like, I'll conduct you to your quarters, where you may ease the rigors of so long a coach journey. You can meet with the seneschal before evenfeast, if you prefer."
"That would be acceptable," Broglan said with a smile, and turned to the other mages. The look in his hazel-gray eyes was a clear and cold command to utter not one word more until they were alone; smart comments about bucketheads in armor or rude backwaters would be neither appreciated nor received without cold rewards.
The rooms were dark-paneled, gloomy, and cold, like those in many a castle. Still, they were probably quite opulent by the standards of this place. Pelts had been laid in profusion across the threadbare patches in the carpet, until the floor seemed a deep, yielding grassland under their boots. A row of doors led into private sleeping-chambers; Broglan raised his brows at this unexpected luxury, and made the silent gesture that bid the mages examine unknown territory for dangers. They curtly ordered the servants standing by their heaped baggage to begone, and began to roam about, peering under tilings and casting detection spells, listening here and sniffing there.
Not long afterward, they reassembled around Broglan. "Nothing," Lhansig muttered.
"A passage behind that wall, not far off," Hundarr said, pointing, "but probably not intended for… stealthy scrutiny."
"Concealed servants' door there," Insprin said, "and an old dweomer-probably a warning magic mouth."
Broglan nodded. "We won't worry about that. Any other dweomers?"
Heads shook in silent negatives. Their leader sighed, and said, "I'm sure you noticed the baths, and after Insprin and I are done, you can all enjoy them in order of age. Next time, we'll reverse the order. No griping-they seem plenty hot right now." He reached for his belt, and said, "Choose your rooms; they all seem the same. Now, Murndal-tell me in brief what should interest us most about this mission."
Every inch the careful pupil, the handsome Claeron stroked one arm of his maroon silk overrobe, and said, "We have two murders, and reports from presumably competent priests that the bodies can't be raised, spoken with, or magically read in any way. They seem burned out from within, and utterly dead and lost to magic-worse than stones, which can at least be made to tell us something. Whoever did it, we want to find out how… or Cormyr, and Faerun in general, may have far larger dooms upon them than merely two killings."
Broglan nodded in satisfaction, his face momentarily