The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [103]
The struggle between rage and a love for food was obvious in Pater’s features. Finally he grabbed for the bell pull again and jerked it several times. “Tars!” he called. “Bring my traveling coat and boots!” He glowered at Vounn. “You play foul. Write your note. There’s pen and paper on the desk.”
By the time Vounn had scribbled down a message to the noted baker of Sentinel Tower—along with a request that Pater also be served up the best Karrnathi ale and sausages available—another servant had appeared with a pair of boots and a pale coat embroidered with the crest of House Orien.
“Tell the staff and my wife that I’ll be back in the morning,” Pater told the servant as he pulled on boots and coat. “And show Lady Vounn out once I’m gone.”
The servant nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a spot of grease from Pater’s face. The viceroy ignored him and instead gave Vounn one final glare. “You owe me, Deneith,” he said. “This bread better be good.”
He glanced at her note, tucked it into a large pocket along with the bundled letters, and took a step back. He closed his eyes, and a distant expression crossed his face, as if he were picturing some far away place. After a moment, his nose wrinkled in concentration as he invoked the power of House Orien’s dragonmark. He took a step—and vanished.
He would already be in Karrlakton, probably stepping out of the air in some Orien waystation and sniffing the air for sausages and vedbread. The essence of diplomacy, thought Vounn, was using what people wanted to get what you needed. She felt a warm glow of satisfaction.
“This way, lady,” said the servant, ushering her to a door.
She was a little surprised to discover that night had fallen while she’d been inside. Olarune was just rising, its orange disk fat and full, though the moonlight would be little help against the shadows of Rhukaan Draal. The Orien compound was lit, but the street beyond the gate was very dark. Vounn found Aruget waiting where she had left him. The hobgoblin was pacing back and forth. His ears rose when he saw her. “You’ve been too long,” he said in his own language.
“I did what I came to do,” she said. “Take me back to Khaar Mbar’ost.”
He held something out to her. At first she thought it was a blanket stolen from one of Orien’s horses, then she realized it was a cloak, speckled with straw and heavily patched. Her mouth turned down in disgust. Aruget bared his teeth.
“It’s cleaner than it could be,” he said. “I bought it from a carter. Put it on.”
Vounn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a disguise. I can defend myself.”
“You haven’t been in Rhukaan Draal at night.” He shook out the cloak and thrust it at her. “Wear it or we stay here until morning. Lhesh Haruuc assigned me to protect you. I will not fail him.”
Grimacing, she took the cloak and threw it around her shoulders. Aruget had been right—it didn’t smell as bad as it could have. The hobgoblin had purchased a torch as well. He lit it from another torch beside the Orien gates and they left the compound for the shadowed streets. Vounn looked around as they walked. While the streets may have been dark, they were far from abandoned. Goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears went about their business without light, as did a fair number of dwarves, elves, and shifters. A few humans and halflings were abroad as well, but most of them walked in the darkness rather than use torches or lanterns. Fixed light sources were few and far between, and unlike in the cities she knew best, they were open flame rather than cold fire.
“You walk too proudly,” Aruget growled at her.
“Do you want me to shuffle like a slave?” Vounn asked. “I’m being escorted by one of Haruuc