The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [73]
The man standing in that doorway peered around the room suspiciously. He was fleshy, and wore fine clothes, but no one had ever dismissed him as fat or stupid. He could see some evidence that followers of the Serpent had recently used the gigantic stone as an altar for rituals involving snakes and candles and blood. He'd seen a brief glimpse of such a rite, through a window in a place no respectable tersept would want to be seen in: naked servant girls lying on their backs with snakes slithering all over them as robed and hooded men chanted and swayed. Idiots. No, make that dangerous fools.
Thankfully, there were no Serpent-folk here now, only old Gelgert shuffling out of the rear of the tomb, where-under a heavy stone lid, thank the Three-the dead lay mouldering in their pit. It was to be hoped that the folk of the nearby hamlet of Waendaster lay deep and content in the eternal sleep… for the rest of this day, at least.
"You're sure?" the man in the doorway asked sharply, waving a hand at the darkest depths of the tomb. Without waiting for a reply, he sat on the bench closest to the door and settled his weathercloak more closely around him.
The tall, thin man in threadbare robes inclined his head politely. "Lord Tersept, I am," Imbert Gelgert replied, in his slow, earnest way. "The dead stir not, and no magic is awake in this place."
"Then get you gone, mage," the Tersept of Sart snapped, "but be ready at my call. Don't let him see you."
The old wizard inclined his head and shuffled out. Tersept Glarsimber Belklarravus, called by some the Smiling Wolf of Sart, favored his mage's back with the slow, soft smile he was famous for. Some dogs respond best when kicked often and with enthusiasm.
Through the entry arch, the tersept could see the rolling lip of the hill that hid the road below from view, a line of trees marching away beyond it that marked the meeting of two fields, and-in the distance, where a death-wings circled lazily in the sky, looking for carrion-the silver glimmer of the river.
He was crazed, meeting in a tomb to plot a royal slaughter with only his favorite handful of magical tricks and one old, bumbling wizard to protect him from brigands or Serpent-folk or agents of the king or… treacherous barons.
The man appeared quite suddenly over the brow of the hill, trudging as if tired, even reeling a little-but he was alone, as agreed, and wore only a belt knife that the tersept could see, and he was, unmistakably, the Lord Baron Berias Loushoond.
If any of the farmers hereabouts got curious about why a tersept and a baron were meeting in a remote hillside tomb, such curiosity would swiftly be their last misfortune. The ruler of Sart resisted the temptation to go to the door of the tomb for a wary look around, and instead got up and moved away from the light, to the darkest of the benches.
The baron thrust his head into the tomb with no sign of hesitation or even alertness, and lurched forward almost as if he was drunk.
"Loushoond?" the tersept snapped. "What ails you?"
The baron turned stiffly toward the source of the voice that addressed him, blinking. It seemed a long time before a reply came to his lips. "Nothing, Sart," he said flatly, in the deep voice he used when trying to impress.
Tersept Glarsimber smiled in the darkness. So even bold barons get nervous, and drain a flask or two before going to plot treason. A weak shield, then-but he only had to last until the turn of years, and Snowsar's recrowning. After that, King Glarsimber the First would have need of bumbling servitor barons. Good ones were so hard to come by these days.
"Sit, then. We've much to discuss."