The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [70]
In a turret not so far off, Ingryl Ambelter sprawled in the soft grip of the huge, high-backed chair that was his greatest pleasure, dangling one foot over an arm of the chair and smiling faintly as he magically "read" all of Klamantle's thoughts. "A clever lad, our Klamantle," he echoed the unwitting wizard sardonically, and reached for his glass of ice-dark wine.
He'd not only seen what Klamantle was up to, he'd managed to subvert the incantation so he could tracelessly slip past any magics employing the phrase Klamantle had used to twist the shielding. That meant that Ingryl could slip through the shielding and trace a shield wearer just as well as clever Klamantle. It also meant that Ingryl could, if he cast the right magics, override anything Klamantle tried to do through such a shield.
Moreover, it allowed everyone's favorite Spellmaster to pass undetected through any other spells into which Klamantle chose to incorporate this personal phrase-such as Klamantle's own shielding spell, and-of course-the wards on his rooms.
Klamantle's mind, however, was small and almost entirely consumed with schemes for domination, destroying foes, and gaining more power-quite dull to eavesdrop on. Ingryl took a long, lovely sip from his glass, and smiled grimly.
Controlling Klamantle would probably prove necessary someday, but in the meantime, there were more interesting and important minds in Aglirta to visit… such as that of Baron Faerod Silvertree.
"We're getting too far without stiff battle," Hawkril growled, peering around at the slowly brightening world. Huge cliffs towered above them as the boat rounded the bend that would hide Adeln from view. Mists hung thick above the murmuring water; Craer kept peering around as if he expected a dozen boats full of plate-armored Silvertree armaragors to loom up out of them at any moment. The water was running swiftly, carrying the boat along at impressive speed. Aside from a crewman slumped half asleep over the tiller, aft, the boat seemed deserted, sailing itself through the last wisps of night.
"Easy, Hawk. It's the magic, isn't it?" the procurer muttered, never ceasing his glances in all directions.
The armaragor gave his old friend a long look, and then admitted, "Aye. You're just as wary, I see."
Craer shrugged. "Like you, I'd not be unhappy if, one happy night not far from now, every wizard in Darsar got grabbed, trussed up, and drowned-all together, in the same vat of the blood they've caused to be shed. It'd have to be every wizard, though… if one is missed, that'll be the next tyrant to rise over all of us. They balance, see?"
"Over years and lands, yes," Hawkril said grimly. "But not if you're standing right beside one."
"Even if she's easy to look upon? She's just about your height, too," the procurer teased.
The armaragor gave him a dark look. "She hasn't used her magic to compel you yet. I'll never forget being marched along like a child's toy. Never. I might forgive her, some day, but I'll never be able to trust her the way I could, say, a swordsister."
"She has the tongue to be a swordsister!" Craer chuckled, hooking his fingers through his belt and looking at nothing for a moment, as if seeing something in his memory rather than out over the rushing water.
"They all have that," Hawkril grunted, "or so it seems. Perhaps I'm just good at getting them angry."
"Hawk," the procurer said quietly, "we're in it up to our necks now. It's my fault if anyone must be blamed, for thinking of her gowns adrip with jewels…but we're riding the storm now, and if we try to get off, we'll be like that Griffon trainer-Landaryn, was that his name?-who tried to jump off that runaway stallion."
"And broke his neck," Hawkril growled. "I know, you're right… but I still