The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [153]
Hulgor strode through a doorway and was gone. Phelinndar furiously desired to keep Hulgor in sight, glaring down at the mists and blue lightnings and shifting windows of light. There was a brief whirling of Dwaer-mists, and then he was seeing Hulgor in another room, large and richly paneled and lit with many candles.
Those flames flickered in many-spired silver candelabra fashioned like castles with many turrets-castles that looked to be about three feet high, as they rose up from long, mirror-smooth wooden tables. Hulgor looked restless, and stumped down this dining hall glaring at portraits of women who looked just as irritated to be up on the walls as he did to be looking at them. This must be Varandaur, the great Delcamper family castle that faced the stone city of Ragalar across a bay. Wasn't a Delcamper a friend to the boy king? A bard?
Flaeros, that was his name. He must be nephew to Hulgor. Hmm. Perhaps Varandaur would not prove so safe a bolt-hole after all…
Well, 'twasn't as if this particular baron had a great array of folk he could trust, to call on. Phelinndar sighed. In fact, 'twas Hulgor or no one, if one spread blunt truth bare before the gods.
"Hulgor," he hissed, willing the old noble to hear him. "Hulgor!"
The man in green stiffened and then shot a dark, suspicious glance over his shoulder. Then he turned to follow it, and stalked down the room, peering in all directions.
"Hulgar!" Phelinndar whisper-shouted, trying to will himself into the old man's way. The Delcamper man came to an abrupt stop, as if he'd seen something in front of him, and stared at Phelinndar-or through him.
Hear me, the baron willed, and see me. Let me hear you. Hulgor's lips were moving-angrily, by the looks of them-but Phelinndar could hear nothing. Nothing but softly swirling mists, like distant waves lapping on a beach.
Three look down! Bebolt this grauling Stone, anyway, and all such things! Why should mages swagger around hurling doom with them, and all the rest of Asmarand have to bow and cringe or the? Why couldn't a baron "Downdaggers!" Hulgor Delcamper growled in astonishment, stealing a quick glance at his flagon as if drinking the wine might have brought him this vision.
"Yes!" Phelinndar shouted. "It works! It works!"
The old man in green winced. "Magic! I forgot you're a baron now, Downdaggers. I suppose some spell-bauble came with your keep and blazon and all. What's afoot?"
"Plenty, Hulgor, and I need your help. I've got something powerful that the Spellmaster of Silvertree-the worst of the Dark Three, remember?– very much wants. I'm living in his lair right now, wondering how much longer he'll put up with me."
"Run," Hulgor suggested, taking a quick swig of wine.
"Not yet, but soon-and I need somewhere to run to."
Old Delcamper eyes narrowed. "So you want me to imperil the ancestral seat of my family for you, hey, and court Spellmasters as foes? You'd be thinking of coins and gems and the like to make such colossal idiocy worth my while, now, wouldn't you?"
The baron winced. "I'm a poor man, Hulgor…"
"The old gambits are the good ones, hey?" The old noble grinned. "Well, so am I. As my teeth fall from my head and my body hunches and my skin sags, young lasses no longer leap lustfully upon me as they once did, and I've heard of a spell that'll fix all that. I'll need a Sirl thou-sandweight in gold to get it, mind you…"
Phelinndar gave a little crow of laughter. "Hulgor, what're you drinking?"
"Something my sisters brought back from their last shopping voyage, south," the noble growled. "The one we're all still paying for. Better make that two thousandweights…"
"Two Sirl thousands? Hulgor, you must be mad!"
They were both grinning, now, and Hulgor almost rubbed his hands as he sampled his flagon again, sighed in pleasure, and said, "Pity you can't taste this, old friend. But of course