The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [211]
With his arms wrapped around his softly weeping lady, Hawkril Anharu gazed down at the man who'd been his master for so many years. The grave would be next to Sarasper's. "Four no longer," he murmured-and then discovered he was crying too.
The taverns and feasthouses of Sirlptar were astir with merchants arguing excitedly about one man's arrival in their streets. Word had raced like a storm breeze through the city: Regent Raulin Castlecloaks of Aglirta had come to Sirlptar.
Prelude to an invasion, some said hotly. Come to beg union, or coins from Sirl city to rebuild the Vale, others claimed. In need of seeing what real wealth could bring but he could only dream of, a few insisted. Here like everyone else, to shop or pay debts-or even to collect them, others reasoned, though what some penniless lad from war-torn Aglirta could have lent anyone in Sirlptar was hard to say.
Wherefore curious crowds of the idle, those too wealthy to work, and those whose profession it was to peer and overhear things followed the lad and his sizable entourage wherever they went-which was, eventually, down to the bustling docks, specifically to a wharf of some age and little importance where a long, slender sea-rel creaked at the pilings.
There the sometime king greeted the master of that vessel-one Tel-gaert, whose ship was the Fair Wind-who seemed to be expecting him. The crowd drew close to hear what might unfold, and saw the regent embrace a handsome young lord of about his own age.
"May you have a fair wind for Ragalar, Flaer," Raulin said huskily, his throat suddenly tight. "You always come when I need you. I'll miss you."
"Not nearly as much as I'll miss you, and all green Aglirta, too," the bard replied. "Send word if ever you need us, or want to see us, or hunger to spend some time smelling the sea in Varandaur."
"Aye," Hulgor Delcamper put in, clapping Raulin on the shoulder, "where Orele can mother you like a warcaptain!" He roared with laughter as the aged Lady of Chambers gave him a glare and a prod with her cane.
"Gentles," Master Telgaert murmured, waving a hand at the waters, "the tide turns already."
"And we're late, as usual," a short, slender man who had the sleek look of a successful procurer said heartily. "But of course. So let's be kissing and cuddling and getting you Delcamper rabble aboard, hey?"
The slender woman beside him winced. "There are gentler ways of saying that, Craer."
"What, the sly nothings courtiers tongue all the time? Aren't you sick of them by now, Tash?"
"Longfingers," a taller woman said firmly from behind him, "say farewell, get out of the way, and shut your mouth for once-or we'll all soon be able to watch how well overclever scions of House Delnbone swim!" Embra raised the toe of her boot meaningfully.
"Like unto an eel," Craer boasted, bowing with a flourish.
"Well, that doesn't surprise me," Tshamarra Talasorn told the sky just above her innocently, "given what I see of my lord in our bedchambers, of nights."
The procurer assumed a scandalized expression, and drew back from his lady to utter a shocked protest-only to have his ear grasped firmly by the Lady Orele, who towed him around to face her, kissed him firmly on the lips, said, "Farewell, lad. Call on us when you grow up," and marched toward the waiting ship.
When she reached its gangplank, calmly ignoring the mirth behind her and the rude gestures Craer was enthusiastically making at her back, she nodded to the slender woman in leathers who waited there-a grave nod of recognition that was returned in kind.
"Orathlee," the woman of the ship identified herself with a warmly welcoming smile, holding out a hand to help her aged passenger aboard. Two of the Wise would have much to talk about, on the run to Ragalar.
Flaeros Delcamper was