The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [90]
"Have no fears," Craer murmured almost jauntily. "Hawkril will provide."
The armaragor turned and gaped at him. "I what?" Swiftly scowling eyebrows drew together. "With what?"
"With this, Tall and Menacing," the procurer replied smoothly, plucking a gold coin from the cuff of the armaragor's boot and a handful more from under the knuckle plates of Hawkril's right gauntlet, and displaying them with a flourish.
Hawkril's jaw dropped-and then his lips quirked into a smile. "I was richer than I knew," he told the door of the inn, as he booted it open and turned to shield Embra from its return swing. "Perhaps our favorite procurer will enlighten me as to how long I've been carrying around such epicene wealth."
"Since Adeln," Craer replied merrily. "I couldn't risk being caught with them in my possession at the tavern I was stealing them in-and there you were, sitting like a patient mountain beside me, draining tankards like a horse at a water trough."
"While there you were," the armaragor replied, "stealing coins like Craer in any tavern I might name."
"No names, Tall and Mighty," the procurer said warningly, as they arrived at the inn desk together. "We're romantically involved, remember?"
"I was forgetting that, yes," Hawkril said heavily. "Help me remember, O ardent lord of my dreams, won't you?"
"By the Three," Sarasper muttered to the armaragor, "he does get going, doesn't he?"
"He always gets good rooms, though," Hawkril murmured. "Watch."
The procurer leaned close over the desk and murmured dark warnings to the stiff-faced clerks, tossed a few gold coins carelessly into their laps, accepted some looks of new respect, and was done.
"Act haughty and mysterious," he said out of the side of his mouth, as they went to the stairs. "We're high-ranking baronial agents, securing a private room for a very discreet meeting with certain high priests-and foreign envoys."
"Don't embellish," Hawkril grunted. "The only outlanders we know where to find hereabouts are lasses who remove overmuch of their clothing and dance in taverns."
"That's why I included them," Craer replied archly. "After all, one never knows, does one?"
"Sounds like you've already chosen your baronial motto to me," the armaragor grunted. "Now there's just this small matter of acquiring a barony…"
Three stairs rose out of the lobby. The southernmost, curving up the left wall, was the darkest and least used. With four loose keys in his fist, Craer led the way up two flights, to a small landing where a third flight ascended and two doors faced each other. He applied his key to the door on the right with an air of mischief, shrugged when it rattled in the lock but failed to open the door, and turned to the door on the left-the clearly marked door of the room they'd rented.
"Displayed enough cleverness yet?" Hawkril grunted. "This bundle grows no lighter as the hours pass!"
"Complaints, always complaints," the procurer murmured, as he peered out windows and pulled open doors in swift succession, his drawn sword in hand. At last he turned to face them and announced with a sigh, "It will serve."
"I'm glad of that," Hawkril replied in dry tones, "seeing as I've put the lass into this bed already."
For all his dash and dazzle, the procurer had missed seeing the door across the landing open a finger's width for a few moments and someone peer across the landing as the Four entered their room.
The someone was a man possessed of a weathered face, a short and close-trimmed beard, and a pleasant expression. He wore trail leathers of the sort favored by bards-and vagabonds. One eyebrow rose in surprised recognition ere he pulled his door closed again and was joined by a thoughtful frown as he shot the bolt.
The Lady Silvertree played at disguise the way most mages did: all folk enspelled together saw each other's true seeming, not the disguise provided by the magic for others to look upon. Her three sword-companions were obviously unaware that her magic had failed, and their true appearances