The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [57]
And a reaction that could only be two things: hostile and deadly.
"Lady Embra," Sarasper asked suddenly, "isn't it high time for our disguises? Wizards may sit unawares for heroes to burst in on them in minstrels' tales, but I've never found them to be quite so careless in real life-my life, at least."
"So it's you, is it?" Craer joked, firmly setting aside memories of being snatched to the Palace in midstep and then back again, several rooms and slayings later, just as abruptly. By the gods, he was Craer, and he would be Craer, merry tongue and all. "Without the walking ill fortune you bring, healer, we'd still be able to dance right in and pilfer hairs right out of the noses of sleeping mages without even interrupting their snores! Three take you! How long is it going to take me to steal enough for an early retirement to a life of idle leisure?"
"Judging by the mountain of coins and gems necessary to meet your needs for 'idle leisure,' I'd say about another sixscore years," Hawkril grunted. "Naetheless, Sarasper's right. It's time. Farmers' poacher-bows put quarrels through you that are just as hard as a guard's sword-or a hedge-wizard's farknife spell."
Embra sighed and spread her hands, palms downward, in a "stop" gesture. "You've the right of it," she granted, "and I've got to stop thinking of this as some sort of pleasure outing. Aglirta is in truth still ruled by no one. Stand still, all of you."
Craer made a brief, muted sheep's bleat at her, but all three men obeyed.
"Are we to be the Lady Baron and three courtiers, lost after losing our horses, or-?" Hawkril asked, his mouth lifting in the not-quite-grin that meant that his query wasn't serious.
"Why stoop to such a lowly rank? Why not be the Risen King himself," Craer asked, "and the three of us all barons? I'd quite like to be a sneering, mincing bar-"
"If it's to be left alone we want," Sarasper said sourly, "and you two can stop playing clowns-of-the-manor for a moment, we'd do better to be four Serpent-priests. Everyone will give us wide sword-room then!"
"And hiss in fear, and remember our passing, and not lift a hand to help us, should we ask," Embra Silvertree told them. "Nay, I think we'd do better as pilgrims seeking a relic of the Lady."
"No," Hawkril put in, "that will have us having to ask questions everywhere about hunting cats or white falcons or suchlike. Pilgrims of the Huntress always seem to be seeking unusual beasts, remember? Better to be of the devout of the Forefather."
Ignoring Sarasper's wince, the armaragor rumbled on, "Then it's just us seeking flowers or seedlings in reverent silence, peering everywhere and speaking only to pass on soft blessings on everyone."
"Blessed Hoaradrim," Craer murmured, "that'll do. It's been years, though, since I've seen pilgrims dare to walk the Vale."
"Ah, but the king has returned," Embra said triumphantly. "A new peace dawns, we spread confidence by showing our trust in the king's guarding hand, and I spell-spin those long brown 'leaf-loving' robes for us all and need not worry about reshaping every last one of Craer's hundreds of daggers."
"Or Sarasper's hundreds of worries," the thief murmured in agreement, ignoring the dark look the healer gave him.
"Faithful of the Oak worries me not at all," Sarasper told them. "Do it, lass."
That earned him a twirl of Embra's hips and the mock-breathless reply, "By your command, Lord." Craer and (a little more slowly) Hawkril chuckled.
The old healer rolled his eyes and asked disgustedly, "Do none of you idiots take anything seriously? Anything at all?"
"Our meals," Craer said quickly. "Hawk's concerned most with belly-filling, whilst I apply myself to best filling flagons with quality dr-"