The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [6]
His steward carefully did not raise an eyebrow at his master's tone, but they'd known each other for long years. His careful lack of expression, as their eyes met, meant very much the same thing.
Margurpin was swiftly growing gaunt and old beyond his years in the service of Glarond, plagued by constant small troubles-like the matter that was troubling him now. "Lord," he said without pause, "you have visitors. Two men, cowled, by their voices strangers to me. They stand now at your garden gate, saying they are expected and would have words with you, and will say no more. Three guardposts they must have passed or forced passage through, to get so far-without a horn-cry or even a shout."
The steward's weary gray eyes were almost accusatory as he lifted a habit-driven hand to stroke his thin moustache.
The baron merely nodded, and said, "Show them in, to this room, and then withdraw for the night, good steward. All is well, and shall be."
Those last words were empty, a phrase that fell from the baron's lips twoscore times a day or more, but Margurpin seemed to take comfort from his master's confidence, and bowed gracefully as he echoed, "Well, and shall be." The three flying swans of Glarond embroidered tastefully on the foreshoulder of his tabard caught the candlelight as he turned to go.
The baron plucked up the offending book of poetry with one hand, and made a certain signal with the fingers of the other; in answer, a curtain far across the room twitched aside, to reveal an old, pinch-faced man with a long, sharp nose and magnificent high-collared robes. As he stepped forth, for all his splendor, there was something furtive in his gait and manner. Not for nothing was Rustal Faulkron, Court Wizard of Glarond, called by some (behind his back and in dark streets) "Old Man Rat."
"Mar seems perturbed," the baron said, mild amusement in his tones.
"He always is," Faulkron replied, doing something deft in the air with his fingers that caused sparks to wink into brief life around his hands, "and yet the sun always rises the next morn, unmoved by his worryings."
The wizard was shrinking as he spoke, dwindling down into something gray and hairy. Something low and sinuous, that stretched, catlike, while the baron watched with a kind of fascination. It was only a matter of moments before a gray cat paused to regard Audeman Glarond thoughtfully before slinking under the baron's chair. The wand the wizard had placed ready there was winking with tiny witchlights of aroused power, but the cat curled up on top of it as if it had been the softest of sleeping-furs, hiding it from view, and settled down in feigned slumber, its eyes mere slits.
By then the baron had made his own preparations for the receiving of important guests. The book of poetry had been set flat on the wide, bare lip of a high bookshelf-and from behind the books crowding that shelf their owner had drawn forth something small and spiked that nestled easily into the baron's palm. He put that hand behind his back as he turned to face the candlelit passage.
The flames there were already aflicker, Mar's careful face seeming almost to float among them as he came. The cowled heads behind him seemed to glide along with sinister grace, like too many self-important priests the Lord of Glarond had seen, as the steward stepped into the room and stood aside.
"My lords," he announced, "behold the Lord Audeman Glarond, sun of all our days in this fair barony."
Two heads tilted in brief acknowledgment, but spoke no words. The steward turned from them to his master, and added blandly, "My Lord, two guests for you," before pivoting smoothly and setting off back down the passage. One of the cowled heads turned to watch him go; the other measured Baron Glarond, seeing a tall and muscled man wearing a magnificent green silk evening robe with the easy grace of the lion who knows his looks are splendid. Flawless skin, a mane of long, flowing, curly auburn hair bedewed with much perfume,