The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [110]
"You'll step out of that shape," the Lord of Loushoond murmured. "Whom will you find to fill it, before the swords strike?"
"The most loyal and competent close retainer of the king we can find," the wizard said with a smirk, "because having removed him, I'll have to step into his boots… and so come to stand that much closer to the royal ear." He would have been surprised to know that the noble frowning consideringly at him had read his next thoughts almost as precisely as if he'd spoken them aloud: And having gained such a rank, 'twill be a matter of swift ease to have a certain Baron Loushoond slain in tumult soon to come.
"You seem in some haste to unfold your plan," the baron growled, "leading me to think this shielding spell of yours will die soon. That raises an all-too-pointed question: what happens to me, and to these secrets of yours, the first time a Serpent-priest delves into my mind again, or tries to compel me or simply drive me down?"
Ingryl Ambelter spun around, soundlessly, and for a moment the Lord of Loushoond could have sworn his boots were hovering inches above the floor-rubble. "Ah!" he cried, almost as if delighted. "If any Serpent-priest tries to break your mind, and so disturbs my deep spells, I'll know it-and will come to you in speed, to hurl my own Serpent-slaying magics!"
The baron made the slightest of elegant court bows in his direction. "I'm greatly reassured to hear that," he said, in a voice so dry that Ingryl Ambelter's face darkened, and he half-lifted a hand to hurl magic.
"Wherefore," the Lord of Loushoond added, as he turned to stride back out through the ruined arch to his waiting horse, "I believe we understand each other well enough to have a deal, wizard." He knew as he said it that that he was speaking flat, cold truth-and that Ingryl Ambelter, who had been Spellmaster to Faerod Silvertree, knew it too.
The Silverflow is never far from view no matter where one stands in Aglirta, and the barges that carry the richest, most exalted, and mightiest Aglirtans are usually aflap with proud banners that none can mistake-but in times of trouble, travelers of rank and power often go mage-cloaked, and cross the Vale rather less grandly but more swiftly.
So it was with little surprise that the steward of Tathcaladorn, the private castle and hill-forest hunting lodge of the Baron of Cardassa, answered the gate-gong on the night of the same day as Baron Loushoond enjoyed an outing to ruined Kaerath's Keep, to find a small company of masked and cloaked men on splendid mounts craving entry in requests that, for all their cultured pleasantry, stood a bare shade away from being commands.
Attentively, expressionlessly, and without delay he yielded to them the forecourt, tapping the gong that would alert the archers on the battlements that ringed it to make ready their shafts, and passed into the inner ward, where he sent lancemasters to the guardhall and to the House Wizard before striding on across the central garden to rap upon the guarded doors that led into the private dining hall of the Great Lord of Cardassa.
Ithclammert Cardassa looked up from his goblet of wine, his ever-present sheaf of contracts and treaties and letters of commerce awaiting amendment or signature, his clariontar of many candles, and the remains of what looked like a very fine brace of pheasant poached in leek and river-turtle soup, and asked expressionlessly, "Visitors, Taurym?"
The steward was too senior to show surprise, even if he'd felt it; he merely bowed his head and said, "Fourteen riders, Great Lord, all armed. More than one, I'd judge, is used to command-and the six largest riders, at least, sit in their saddles armored for war. They're in the forecourt now, with our archers alerted. I've roused the guard and the House Wizard."
The Baron of Cardassa's response was a hand signal that brought a lancemaster to his side, to whom he murmured, "Bring me my sword,