The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [130]
The sorceress winced as a buckle not made for her dug into one shapely hip, and the armaragor's fingers froze on the gorget he was settling into place. "All right, Em?"
"I will be," the sorceress replied, "if Craer would learn to keep his hands on the buckles!"
Hawk gave his friend a pointed look. The procurer grinned, spread his hands in a gesture of innocence, and asked the room, "Is it my fault that none of this fits? Silvertrees didn't expect their daughters to put on armor-and they all had big, meaty sons, it seems."
"Don't just happen to look at me when you say that," Hawkril growled. "I've no choice about my size, either. At least these new plates fit me well enough."
The Band of Four had fought at least six intruders in the dark and dusty rooms of the Silent House, and slain five. The sixth had fled too far and fast to easily hunt down-and they'd heard others creeping about in distant chambers. A thrown knife had laid open Embra's right forearm from wrist to elbow. A room later, after she'd saved her throat from a desperate swordslash by offering that blade bosom to carve, instead, Hawkril had grimly bustled her down a bewildering succession of back passages-in one, clambering over a massive fallen stone block that sported a dark pool of blood spreading from beneath it, and a smell-to an armory of sorts that Sarasper knew of, to encase her in armor before worse befell her.
"We aren't fighting sleepy, drunken chuckleskulls in inns now," the armaragor had growled, positioning Embra by her hips as if she'd been some nursery doll. "Anyone coming at us here will be good, or desperate… or both."
"You make it sound quite inviting," Craer had said, calmly stealing Silvertree dagger after Silvertree dagger and sliding their crumbling leather sheaths here, there, and everywhere about his person.
When Embra had snapped at him to leave her a little of her ancestral property, he'd smiled sweetly from his high perch atop a wardrobe, and begun removing small items from hiding places here and there on his body, dropping them with casual plinks into the open top of the breastplate Hawkril had already laced up around her. They were more magical statuettes and trays and salt-knights for the table and decanter-stoppers that glowed and the like-and they all dropped bruisingly onto her breasts before rattling down to various uncomfortable lodgings between her and the unfamiliar armor.
Embra's angry sputters had almost, but not quite, drowned out the snorts and oh-so-innocent hums of mirth from Hawk and Sarasper-the product, it seemed, of seeing her face during Craer's lazy barrage. The armor was heavy and hot, despite her snarled insistence on not wearing half the padding that Hawk claimed was essential. He'd warned her darkly of metal edges cutting into her as she twisted or the armor took blows-but most of the leather underarmor had crumbled into ruin despite its enchantments, and what was left was little more than scraps, so Embra was now encased in a too-large, echoing casing of armor that might, or might not, keep her from being slain before her fellows even knew they were under attack. Dwaer-hunters seemed to love throwing knives.
Hawkril had gained some new and better armor, too, and seemed as happy as a young boy with new toys. Embra sighed; that was probably just what he was.
"What if I have to cast spells in a hurry?" she asked. "This is all going to get in the way, and-"
Craer gave her a look. "Sarasper warned me about that," he said, waving at the furry and menacing bulk of the longfangs. "Don't. Just don't. Fire and lightning will backlash around the armor and hurt you as well as whoever you're hurling it at. The rest… only if you really have to."
Embra sighed again. "This is not… as wise as it seemed. Some King's Heroes we are."
"He did not," Hawkril growled, turning to look at them suddenly, "seem to me to have many loyal Aglirtans from which to choose. But we said yes… and we're standing in much better boots now, Craer and I, than when we were wavering on the banks of the Silverflow, eyeing the cold