The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [41]
He tried a laugh that fell unappreciated into silence, and quickly faded-but almost as swiftly caught up his own enthusiasm and went on. "Yet I'm most heartened by the news you bring, esteemed Overdukes! To have a King who desires to know what we think-even unto blacksmiths and mushroom-pickers! Such wisdom, such a chance for a bright future! I-"
The tersept's endiusiasm faltered for a moment as he caught sight of Craer eyeing his platter dubiously and exchanging a look with Embra, and her swift unleashing of Dwaer-magic on the food, but again Stornbridge caught himself up into a beaming smile, and gabbled, "I find myself quite excited at the prospect of new ideas, a closely guiding hand at work in the realm making the roads safe and settling the many petty disputes that divide one town from the next, and family from family-not that you'll find any of that sort of thing here in Stornbridge, mind you! Ah, no, but I welcome you, brave Overdukes, and hope you'll take a good look around, and talk to many folk, to see the true quality of my stewardship!"
The tersept faltered again, and his undoing was more serious this time. Hawkril and Tshamarra were both visibly struggling to restrain mirth- though Stornbridge had no way of knowing that it was not because of his ridiculous words, but due to the reactions to them of Coinmaster Eirevaur (droll, eye-rolling impassivity) and Seneschal Urbrindur (openmouDied disbelief, broken by silent winces of disgust).
Stornbridge visibly weighed the consequences of reacting with anger to the two miscreant guests, and finally asked, in a strained voice that held mingled coldness, stiffness, and diffidence, "Is there, ah, some problem with my sentiments I should know about? Or some affliction or condition befalling you, perhaps?"
"Horns of the Lady," Undercook Maelree whispered, from her hard-won perch at a high gallery window, "but this is better than a six-bard show!"
Mistress of the Pantry Klaedra chuckled, and then nudged Maelree. "Ssshh. Musn't miss a word!"
They grinned at each other and leaned toward the sill, made bolder by all the tumult below.
"Magic would be the problem," Embra told the tersept briskly. "Spying-spells have just reached into this room!"
"Wha-? But who? Why? Stornbridge seemed genuinely astonished.
"To hear what we decide, obviously," Craer replied, in tones that unmistakably added the words "you idiot" to the end of his sentence.
Tshamarra and Blackgult both shot puzzled looks at Embra. "Able to pierce my shielding and elude your probings for the same reason," she told them tersely. "A reaching not directly to us, but rather to observe through the eyes and ears of someone in this room… the servant standing behind Coinmaster Eirevaur."
Craer promptly vaulted from his seat up onto the table, touching down once amid the platters, and sprang from it at the chamber knave. Servants ran forward to meet and stop him-all but the one he was seeking, who whirled around and fled through an archway. The procurer sprinted in hot pursuit.
"Be careful, Craer!" Tshamarra called, rising.
With a triumphant snarl, Lornsar Ryethrel struck aside the hovering blade at his throat and clawed at the hilt of his sword, eyes fairly flaming as he glared across the table at Blackgult.
The Golden Griffon never moved. The flying needle, however, did-and Lornsar Ryethrel found himself staring at its point, perhaps an inch away from his left eyeball.
"Unless you'd prefer to lose your right eye first?" Tshamarra Talasorn inquired sweetly.
The lornsar let go of his sword and sank back down into his chair in careful silence, the hovering blade moving smoothly with him.
"I see Champion Pheldane has almost recovered-so long as he sits still and puts no weight on his leg," Embra said, every inch the noble hostess. "Perhaps he could reflect on the ease with which I could enspell