The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [3]
"Yet consider," the old man went on, "how it seems if you loudly trumpet the perils outlying folk suffer from a few raiders and make a show of the diligence with which you rush to defend them. And lo-some of these foes are renegade wizards; your patrols suffer under dark spells! To keep Silvertree safe you need fresh swords, and put out the call, urging friendly barons to do the same, proclaiming a blood price on this dark legacy of darker Blackgult, come down on fair Aglirta like thieves in the night. None cry out at the strength you build against a phantom foe. Those who do come raiding taste your strength and turn to harry other baronies, weakening your rivals-and hastening the day you'll reach out and snatch them down, one by one. Cunning."
Flaeros looked wonderingly out the window at the night and a single twinkling light he could now see, and protested, "You speak of scheming that rushes lands to war and cares not for lives shed in the doing!"
"Ah," the old man whispered over his goblet, "that's where the madness comes in."
Eyeball to eyeball young man and old stared at each other, until Flaeros asked almost despairingly, "How is it that you know all this?"
Old lips laughed without a sound. "I am Inderos Stormharp."
Flaeros gasped, thrust his chair back as if he'd strayed too close to a hot fire, and gaped at the old man-who raised his glass in an almost mocking salute.
Inderos Stormharp! Most famous of the master bards!
The oldest and most respected weaver of ballads in all Asmarand, the seldom-seen master of enchanted harps who could call forth the strains of a dozen instruments out of empty air to dance with his voice. The man who'd wooed the sensuous Nuesressa of Teln, only to unmask her as a dragon using shape-shiftings to lure men as a spider catches flies. The man who'd called forth unicorns with his singing and danced with dryads in mushroom groves to learn their secrets.
Flaeros knew he was staring like a man brain-smitten and searched for something intelligent to say. It was a doomed quest. "I-I-ahhh…," he began.
Stormharp waved him to silence. "Gabbling is not needful, nor the fawning I find myself in constant over-supply of," he said lightly, and then cocked his head and asked, "You looked at me strangely when first 1 spoke to you… have you seen me before?"
Flaeros blinked. "Ah, no," he said truthfully, "I know I haven't. Heard of the great Stormharp, yes, but… bards come seldom to Ragalar, and respected merchants look ill on their sons learning ballads when they could-should-be mastering a trade."
The old man nodded silently. There was something of danger removed in that gaze, like a dagger being slid back into a sheath. Out of habit Flaeros called on the Vodal then, letting it govern his right eye, while he kept his left gazing unchanged on the old man with the golden eyes.
His right eye regarded a rather different man looking back at him over a goblet. A younger man, though no youth-a man of weathered features, piercing black eyes, and the lionlike build and manner of a warlord who rides into battle rather than lounging on a baron's throne. A man who was holding a hand-length deadly firelance wand trained at the breast of Flaeros Delcamper.
The hairy-knuckled hand that held that wand so patiently and steadily bore a large gold ring, and its large head in turn bore the device of a golden griffon.
Flaeros drew in a tense breath and devoted himself to looking innocent. It would have been more difficult if he'd known what, by the Three, was going on-yet thanks to those same gods, truth had always been in short supply in Darsar.
"So," he asked, with a joviality he did not feel, "what should a man visiting Sirlptar do to stay out of trouble?"
Inderos Stormharp chuckled. "Too late, lad," he added, waving to Maershee for more wine with a hand that-without the Vodal-seemed empty of both ring and wand. "You'll just have to settle down to enjoying yourself instead."
1
The Lady of Jewels
The River Coiling is cold at night. It slid endlessly and restlessly past Hawkril's