The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [52]
"I-I hardly know where to begin," the tersept told him, a genuine smile on his face. He raised his goblet, and then said in a rush, "I know: with a good long drink!"
"Exactly!" Craer agreed, sloshing wine into the seneschal's goblet despite Urbrindur's irritated expression.
"Tongue-loosening time, eh?" the lornsar growled. "Well, why not?"
He held out his own goblet to the prancing procurer. " 'Tis not every night we entertain overdukes!"
"Well, thank the Scaled One for that? Undercook Maelree snarled, peering down from the window. "Ryethrel has it right-that's exactly what that little foulness is up to! Get the tersept drunk and listen while he spills all. We've got to do something!"
The Mistress of the Pantry smiled serenely. "Already taken care of, Ree. Josmer got my signal."
The cook peered at her, brightening. "You mean-?"
"I mean there's nothing our proud tersept likes more than baked sugar tart smothered in rubywine sauce, a generous helping of which will very swiftly be set in front of him and the rest. The tersept's only-that bitch is using her magic to check everything put in front of any overduke-will have Josmer's little addition. I give Lord Stornbridge about six yawns before he's facedown in his tart and snoring."
"Klaedra, you're a wonder!"
The Mistress of the Pantry smiled again, smugly this time. "I know. The Serpent-priest said the same thing." She drew open her bodice-and the cook gasped.
Klaedra always wore a black silk ribbon about her throat; from it a number of keys hung on fine cords, riding within her bodice. Maelree knew those keys-but she'd never before seen so many gleaming golden coins as the row of punched and laced-together Carraglan zostarrs that hung down from one cord between Klaedra's full, tanned breasts, disappearing from view beneath her belt. Maelree blinked. She'd heard no telltale clinking, nor seen the rope of riches moving beneath the tight, dark gown the mistress wore… which meant the linked coins must be long enough to pass under that broad black cummerbund, and descend still further. The priest had paid Klaedra a fortune.
She shivered suddenly, wondering how long he'd leave Klaedra alive to spend it.
7
Fangs in the Dark
Embra raised anxious eyes across the table to her father, but said nothing. She'd been vigilant with her magic-in fact, she was clutching her Dwaer under the table now, and setting her veins afire with yet another scouring-spell. Yet something was not right, inside her. Something that clenched and then wriDied, moving deep in her gut, climbing… into her chest, leaving a trail of twinges, as if something with sharp claws was moving within her…
Blackgult grimly gave her the slightest of nods. Embra drew in a deep breath-yes, she did feel odd-and tossed her head to take her hair back out of her eyes. Air. She needed air.
She felt… warm. Warm and numb. She reached for her goblet and turned her head with apparent casualness to look at Tshamarra, whose eyes-just for a moment-flashed back alarm.
A warning that meant her fellow sorceress was feeling the same discomfort. So they might not have much time left, if she didn't "Your arrival at our gates somewhat surprised us," Seneschal Urbrindur was saying in the lightly jovial manner with which veteran courtiers make politely meaningless conversation, "given that you were seen in Gilth not two days ago, heading west on the road to Sirlptar. Or do you use magic to leap about the Vale, traversing entire baronies at a single step?"
"Someone's using magic," the Lady Silvertree told him said shortly, "or perhaps just overly vivid imagination. We haven't been through Gilth this season."
"Oh, now!" the seneschal protested with a smile. "Your secrets are safe with us! I hardly think a herald of Flowfoam is apt to invent a meeting with all the Overdukes of Aglirta, however passing, or mistake your faces."