The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [148]
Ithim's voice rose. "I felt our foe-cold and gleeful, more a master of magic even than you! Yes, of course my Maelra could not have grown so in sorcery, in such a short time." His voice changed, becoming a wavering, conspiratorial whisper. "So strong… Dolmur, do you think we can do this?"
"Ithim," the patriarch of the Bowdragons whispered back, "I think we must do this-or the Three Watching Gods will not have lost just one over-proud human family this day, but all Darsar!"
He waved a hand, and a few sparks kindled in the darkness as he added, with more bitterness than Ithim had ever heard in Dohnur's voice before, "And what will they do for amusement then?"
"So of course," Overduke Delnbone was saying airily, "I had no choice but to accept her surrender-minus her cloak. She protested, as women do, saying the night was too cold to be running arou-"
"Craer," Embra Silvertree said into his ear, though she was to be seen nowhere in the room, " 'twould be a very good idea to fall abruptly silent right now. Right now. I very much doubt your lady will want to hear all about the time you chased an unclad Naevrele Lashantra down three streets in Sirlptar… especially as she happens to be Tshamarra's cousin."
"Ooop," the procurer remarked brightly, as Flaeros, the king, and Suldun Greatsarn all broke into grins-and across the room there sounded the rhythm of sharp raps upon the door that announced the arrival of the two Lady Overdukes.
"Well, I'm afraid I'll have to finish this little tale some other time," Craer gushed hastily, catching up his saddlebag. "Hawk and I have a noble audience with some heaping platters in the kitchens."
Greatsarn waved a hand. "Oh? And the saddlebag?"
Overduke Delnbone straightened, assuming a look of dew-washed innocence, and replied, "I didn't say just how many platters, now, did I?"
"Craer," Embra Silvertree said into his ear, in person this time. "Get out. Get out now, while you still can."
The procurer whirled around with a flourish-but the soft breast he'd been intending to run into wasn't there. Instead, he found himself staring into a pitying smile. It belonged to Embra, who'd spun away in unison with him, to fetch up facing him just out of reach. She gave him a sigh and the words, "Procurers are so predictable."
Craer was still trying to think of a dignified answer to that observation, with the delighted laughter of all the men in the room ringing in his ears and a scornful Tshamarra Talasorn giving him a hard stare, when Hawkril strode past, smoothly took hold of his ear, and swept him out the door.
"Finest shalarn," the cellarer told the towering armaragor eagerly, almost panting with fear. "Brought straight from far Sarinda."
"Man, 'tis green," the warrior growled, holding the bottle in one hand with surprising gentleness-considering the iron strength and increasing tightness of the grip he had on the cellarer's belt with the other.
The castle officer's legs dangled well clear of the ground, kicking slightly. He was busy deeply regretting his earlier swift rudeness-but how was he to know these two ruffians had the king's leave to raid the palace kitchens, let alone the royal winecellar!
"Ah, well, ah-ha-ha, so 'tis," he offered hastily, fervently wishing he'd donned his older, looser truss that morning, as the armaragor's grip made all his hidden underbelts-and their buckles-dig ever deeper into soft, private areas of his anatomy. "A very splendid emerald green, ah-ha, yes!"
"Deep green and aromatic, you say?" the armaragor asked skeptically, giving the wine another critical stare. "Well, then, you drink some, whilst I watch!"
He rammed the cellarer down into a chair and thumped the bottle down in front of him. Well behind the quivering official, the four guards summoned earlier by the Lord High Cellarer to scourge and then expel the two intruders chuckled openly.
They shall all boil in oil, screaming for mercy, the cellarer vowed silently, as he gulped eagerly. "Why, I couldn't! Friend warrior,