The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [13]
Tshamarra shook her head. "Nay, drowning, definitely. Toss the rider, pin him down with one hoof, empty bladder downwards-and 'tis done, simply over, and avoids all that chasing about looking for a handy overhanging branch… Oh, my; such as the one approaching now!"
Craer made a rude sound and a ruder gesture in her direction. "Really, Lady Talasorn, such an old ploy is unworthy of you. Even street urchins in dusty backtrail villages like Fallingtree rise above such crude gambits. May I remind you that I'm no longer a mere vagabond and outlaw procurer, but an Overduke of Aglirta, bright-belted and apt to-"
"Be found loitering around ramshackle whorehouses by night," Embra supplied helpfully.
Craer gave her a wounded look, ignoring Tshamarra's urgent pointing gesture, and said grandly, "Lady Baron Silvertree, that remark is similarly unworthy of you. I can perhaps overlook the transgression of the Lady Talasorn, hailing as she does from an outland and some may say-though I for one do not-barbarian culture, but your lineage-"
"I withdraw my warning," Tshamarra told him with a snort, folding her arms in mock dudgeon. "Let yon branch have its way with you, sirrah!"
"-is much grander and could even be said to rise from the very roots of Aglirta, like that of my former employer Lord Blackgult here, and-"
Craer's horse trotted on, and the handy overhanging branch attacked.
Pounced, actually. The procurer let out a momentary and somewhat strangled yelp as it jabbed into his side and thrust him from his saddle, but Craer was as swift as many striking serpents, and twisted in the air enough to bat at the branch and so propel himself onto the back of Tshamarra's mount, right behind her.
His personally painful arrival upon the high rear cantle of her saddle more than startled the horse beneath the Lady Talasorn, and it reared, snorting in alarm. Embra laid a hand on her Dwaer to send a soothing spell if need be, but Tshamarra was equal to the task of wrestling her mount back to head-tossing complaint and then normalcy, despite Craer's distracting hands upon her, as he-or so he insisted-merely reached for reliable handholds.
"D'you think you could stop playing the fool, on this foray?" the Golden Griffon snapped at the irrepressible procurer.
Craer gave the glowering old noble a merry smile. "Lord Blackgult, in a word: no. If my… foolishness won me the tide of 'Overduke,' then I shall cling to it. 'Tis not as if I could do anything else-and I refuse to become a grim, stone-nosed old noble… ah, like some folk I could mention. If Craer of the Wagging Tongue was good enough to rescue Aglirta from itself thus far, that same Craer shall see the Realm of the Vale safely through the next few days, as well. I'll not change into some bootlicking sobersides. Demand it of me, and farewell empty overduchal tide and good greeting to the outlaw life once more!"
Surprisingly, the Golden Griffon merely nodded.
The moment the Lady Talasorn's horse quieted and Blackgult rode up close enough to get a hand on its bridle and prevent it from bolting, Hawkril spurred past and caught the reins of Craer's mount, bringing it to a gradual halt.
They gathered in a jostling huddle of snorting horses where their trail traversed a small and shady hollow. Tshamarra sighed, looked left and right with her hands on her hips as she sat in her saddle ignoring Craer's impudent gropings, and announced, "This still looks to me like a place all too suited for a brigand ambush."
Hawkril looked at his own lady. "Well?" he rumbled.
Embra did something with the Dwaer that made the air around them sing with a high, jangling note, and then shook her head. "We're alone."
"Then let us confer," Blackgult said firmly. "Craer, get back to your own saddle."
The procurer surprised them all by nodding and deftly doing so in silence, waving at Blackgult to speak.
"Mucklar was the market town we rode through this morn," the old baron said promptly. "Ahead is Osklodge, where there's been no tersept's lodge since a fire that raged when