“Will’s good at his trade. As are you.”

  Dorn, scowling, replied, “I’m a big, mean freak with a knack for slaughtering big, mean animals. Maybe I help a few people that way, folk who would otherwise get eaten. But the notion that thousands of men and women I’ve never even met will live or die depending on not just my ability to hunt but to unravel arcane mysteries and the gods only know what else… it’s laughable and terrifying at the same time. You’re sensible. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “When I was a boy,” Raryn said, “living with my tribe on the Great Glacier, we went forth every day and hunted. If we found enough game, everyone could eat, and everyone would live. If we failed, some or even all of us would die. It was very simple. Then I developed a yen to see what lay beyond the ice, and drifted south to the lands of men.”

  “Where you found everything was much more complicated.”

  “No,” Raryn said, grinning. “That’s what I expected to find, but truly, I discovered life was just the same in its essence. The only complicated thing is the way ‘civilized’ folk fret about their problems. You twist and pick at them until they look bewildering, but really, they’re not.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You said it yourself. Ever since you ran away from Hills-far, you’ve fought to protect others, and you still are. The fact that more people are in jeopardy this time around doesn’t change anything. Just do your work as usual.”

  Dorn smiled slightly. He felt a little better, though he wasn’t quite sure why. The dwarfs stark perspective on duty, struggle, and survival didn’t actually seem all that comforting.

  “This way of thinking heartens you, does it?” Dorn asked.

  “Well, when it fails, I tell myself that none of this foolishness with indecipherable papers and conspiracies of rogue dragons matters a hair on a mole’s rump. Surely Mystra and the Chosen know all about Sammaster’s scheme and are even now hurrying to foil it. We just can’t tell it from our vantage point.”

  “If we really believed that, we could cut Kara loose and forget all about the cursed Rage.”

  “But where would be the sport or profit in that?”

  “Nowhere, I suppose.” He used his hand of flesh and blood to clap Raryn on the shoulder. “I guess I’ll see if I can get at least an hour or two of sleep. We want to be down at the harbor well before the morning tide.”

  SIXTEEN

  1 Tarsakh, the Year of Rogue Dragons

  Before his academy burned, Taegan had possessed a number of outfits so fine they were even suitable for a formal appearance before the Council of Lords. Now he was down to one, purchased with coin he’d obtained by selling the pearl ring Kara had pressed on him at their parting. She tried to give him other jewels, but he’d refused her. Foolish of him, perhaps, but she was a comrade, not a patron, and it just hadn’t felt right.

  In point of fact, the new suit was only barely good enough. Cognizant of his misfortunes, all the best tailors had refused to create anything new for him until he paid the considerable sums he already owed. He’d had to make do with a journeyman’s efforts. He straightened his scarlet caffa doublet, checked the hang of his newly oiled leather scabbard, and tugged his billowing black cambric sleeves down, making sure he looked as elegant as possible.

  The liveried servants, evidently responding to a signal he’d failed to notice, swung open the tall, arched double doors. A herald thumped a staff on the floor and announced him. Taegan strode over the threshold.

  The white marble hall with its high, barrel-vaulted ceiling was a place of blank surfaces and simple lines, considerably more austere than Taegan would have expected of an important chamber within the royal palace. That, however, was not the biggest surprise awaiting him. Everyone said Impiltur’s queen was more devoted to her pleasures than the cares of government and generally content to leave the latter to her ministers. Yet Sambryl, a thin, sharp-featured, but comely middle-aged woman with dyed brassy hair piled high in an elaborate coiffure, attended their deliberations that afternoon, enthroned alone on the higher tier of the semicircular dais. She had a sour look about her. Perhaps she wished she was elsewhere, or maybe she was simply cold. In keeping with its severe appearance, the hall lacked a fireplace or any other means of warding off a chill.

  Nine of the twelve lords sat along the step below their sovereign. The other three were evidently otherwise engaged or absent from the citadel entirely. Paladins all, not merely barons but mystic warriors sworn to one or another of the gods of light, they wore-as protocol required, evidently-plate armor and white surcoats emblazoned with their arms, which incorporated emblems of Ilmater, Lathander, Helm, or Sune. They’d left off the helmets, though. No doubt it made it easier to hear one another’s pronouncements.

  A halberdier stood at attention on the floor at either end of the curved platform. Most monarchs would have demanded more bodyguards. But Impiltur had been peaceful and prosperous for a number of years, and perhaps Sambryl had no fear of assassins. Or maybe she believed the martial prowess and supernatural powers of the lords rendered additional protection superfluous.

  After what felt like a long hike under the cold regard of the aristocrats, Taegan reached the section of floor between the curved arms of the dais, bowed low, and straightened up again. Even the greatest folk in Impiltur didn’t require the extreme deference that would have required a commoner to remain in a servile posture until granted leave to rise.

  An old man with a hooked blade of a nose and a lipless slash of a mouth sat up even straighter, if that was possible. His coat-of-arms was an elaboration of the eye-and-gauntlet symbol of Helm, god of vigilance.

  “Maestro Nightwind,” he growled.

  “Lord Oriseus,” Taegan replied.

  Of all the council, Oriseus was the most vehement opponent of the fencing academies and had tried to shut them down on a number of occasions. Which ought not to matter in relation to the current situation, but the elf already had an inkling it was a shame the old buzzard wasn’t one of the paladins busy elsewhere.

  “You escorted several yeomen of the watch through the cellars of an old tannery,” Oriseus said as he lifted a piece of parchment. “I have the commander’s deposition here.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it,” Taegan said. “It took me a while to persuade the officers of the law to accompany me, and a considerably longer time to gain admittance here. It’s good to know we won’t waste any more time trying to lay hands on the captain or his report.”

  Oriseus frowned. “You’re insolent.”

  “So people tell me, but truly, I don’t mean to show disrespect to Her Gracious Majesty or her deputies, either. If I seem out of sorts, I beg you to attribute it to the fact that I have serious matters to present for your consideration, and I fail to understand why you’ve chosen to keep me waiting.”

  “Did it occur to you it might have something to do with your trade and reputation?”

  “My trade is teaching people to defend themselves, a right that Her Majesty’s law justly and compassionately recognizes. My reputation, if it speaks the truth, is that of a master who gives sound instruction and exhorts his students to use their skills prudently. But even if I was the vilest blackguard ever to set foot in Lyrabar, the tidings I bring would still be vitally important.”

  “Perhaps so,” said a beefy, relatively young man with a pink complexion and curly, sandy goatee. The device on his surcoat featured the bound-hands sigil of Ilmater. If Taegan wasn’t mistaken, he was Lord Rangrim, a dragon rider celebrated for his campaigns against the raiders of the Pirate Isles. “Would you give us your story from the beginning? We know what you told the watch, but it’s evident you have a good deal more to say.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Taegan replied, and he spun the tale as he’d rehearsed it, omitting any mention of Kara, her circle of rogues, Brimstone, or the folio lest word of them reach either wyrms devoted to Lareth or surviving members of Sammaster’s conspiracy. Dorn’s hunters became a fellowship of wandering adventurers with an old score to settle against the Cult of the Dragon, who’d helped Taegan smash the Lyrabar chapter before heading out to parts unknown. Similarly, the avariel maintained he never had succeeded in learning the true identity of Gorstag’s employer, and would have told the same lie even if Kara hadn’t urged him to keep certain aspects of the affair a secret. He was reasonably certain the paladins wouldn’t like the thought of cooperating with a vampiric smoke drake any more than Pavel had.

  By the time he finished, his throat was dry. Unfortunately, the only beverage in evidence was in a golden cup sitting on a little table by the queen, and even he wasn’t impudent enough to request a sip from that.

  Lord Idriane, another of Ilmater’s warriors, a petite woman who would have been rather pretty if not for her broken nose and the close-cropped hair that exposed a pair of protruding ears, said, “This is… unfortunate.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Oriseus said. “Private feuds and vendettas… slaughter in the street and in hidden warrens underground…At the start of this interview, Maestro,I alluded to your reputation. Whatever you may imagine, you’re infamous as a promoter of brawls, duels, and licentiousness in all its aspects, a common whoremonger, in fact, and your conduct in this matter proves you fully deserve your notoriety.”

  “Because I didn’t report my troubles to the authorities as soon as they began?” Taegan asked. “I promised a dying friend I wouldn’t and only recently realized it’s a pledge I must disregard for the kingdom’s sake. Anyway, considering the scorn with which you knights regard me, would you have credited my story?”

  “What makes you assume,” Oriseus said, “that anyone credits it now?”

  Taegan felt a surge of anger but made sure the emotion didn’t show in his face.

  “Milord,” said Taegan, “I perceive that you and I, however dissimilar we may be in many respects, are alike in one. We both love to spar, be it with blades or words. But is this the time? Your priests and wizards have examined the lair of the cult. They saw the remains of the zombies and abishai as well as the glyphs, pentacles, and grimoires, instruments all for invoking Velsharoon, Shar, and the rest of the deities and lesser powers of evil. I gave them the Tome of the Dragon to authenticate. I explained why Cylla Morieth absconded in the night. Surely it’s obvious I truly have been brawling and dueling with necromancers and traitors to the Crown.”

  “He has a point,” Rangrim said, “so much as we may regret the way he handled this business, let’s concentrate on matters of greater import. Maestro, would you like to know why it took us so long to grant you an audience? It’s true, your reputation, fairly earned or not, was partly to blame. But it was mainly that we have other urgent matters to concern us.”

  “He doesn’t need to know about that,” Oriseus snapped.

  “The news will reach the city at large soon enough,” Rangrim said, “and perhaps, given his recent experiences, he can contribute something to our discussion.”

  “If I can,” Taegan said, “I certainly will.”

  “Until you came to us,” Rangrim said, “we had no inkling the Cult of the Dragon was currently active in Impiltur. But we had heard tidings of dragon flights. Wyrms are attacking out of the Earthspur Mountains and from across the Easting Reach, threatening Sarshel, Dilpur, and the whole northern part of the kingdom. Three lords have already ridden forth to direct the defense. The rest of us will follow soon enough. Perhaps you understand the implications.”

  The elf hesitated, then said, “I see it lends additional credence to my story, but I take it you refer to something more.”

  “We don’t have any drakes attacking out of the west,” said Idriane. “If you were a war captain, in which direction would you march your forces?”

  “It’s possible,” Taegan replied, “Sammaster himself set the wyrms on their rampage as a feint to keep your attention off the Gray Forest. Or maybe the frenzy is to blame. Either way, you can’t let the problem, grave as it is, prevent you from addressing an even greater threat. As I understand it, dracoliches are even more formidable than living dragons, indeed, virtually unstoppable and indestructible.”

  “Yet no one has seen any dracoliches,” Rangrim said. “Perhaps things aren’t going according to plan in the Gray Forest. Perhaps, for whatever reason, nothing is happening there at all.”

  “Whereas things are definitely happening to the east and north,” Oriseus said. “Thousands of people are in danger, and the farmers flee their lands. If they can’t manage the spring planting, the entire realm will starve in a few months’ time.”

  “I understand” Taegan said. “But you must confront both menaces.”

  “Why?” Oriseus said. “Because of hearsay? For that’s really all you’ve given us. You tell us what Cylla Morieth and Gorstag Helder allegedly said, but the one vanished and the other is dead. We can’t interrogate either for ourselves.”

  “I give you my word,” Taegan said, “that I’ve accurately repeated what they said. If you doubt me, cast a spell to test my veracity. I know you can.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Rangrim said, “that isn’t necessary. I suspect you haven’t told us everything, Maestro, nor are you a person of saintly character. But I certainly don’t sense the wickedness required to send the royal army chasing off on a fool’s errand while countless innocent lives hang in the balance. I’m satisfied you believe you’re giving good advice.

  “But that,” the curly-bearded human continued, “doesn’t mean it really is. Perhaps your informants misled you, either intentionally or because they themselves misunderstood the situation. In any case, it’s my opinion we should first devote all our efforts to suppressing the dragons who are even now devastating the settled parts of our country. Afterward will be time enough to take a look at a wood where no one lives. What do the rest of you think?”

  Without exception, though some looked more certain than others, the other lords declared their agreement.

  Oriseus gave Taegan a smug, unpleasant smile. Had it not come from a knight of unimpeachable holiness, the avariel might even have deemed it spiteful.

  Taegan looked up at the woman seated on the uppermost portion of the dais.

  “You see…” the noble began.

  “Your Majesty,” the avariel cut in, “it appears the lords have formed their opinion. But surely it’s the queen’s decision that counts.”

  Oriseus glared at him as he said, “Her Majesty trusts her knights’ judgment in military matters.”

  Taegan kept gazing up at Sambryl as he said, “Your Majesty, I love Impiltur, this splendid land that has accepted me as one of its own even though I’m not human, nor even a dwarf or haloing. Terrible as this current crisis is, I thought I discerned one glimmer of light amid the darkness. I believed it had put me in a position to repay the kindness and opportunity I’ve found here. If that isn’t true, if I’m simply a fool wasting a great monarch’s precious time, I beg you to tell me so directly. I at least want to go away knowing that my wise sovereign herself has weighed my words and found them wanting.”

  Oriseus twisted his head to look up at Sambryl.

  “Yes,” he said, “please do tell him, Your Majesty, if that’s what it takes to shut him up.”

  Perhaps it was his manifest certainty that the queen would do as he said that irked her. At any rate, she gave him a frigid stare.

  “Without even a thank you, Lord Oriseus? Whatever you think of him and whatever the worth of his suggestions, he was instrumental in rooting out a nest of traitors none of my paladins or Warswords even suspected.”

  Oriseus hesitated a beat then said, “So it seems, Your Majesty, and a reward is probably in order. I’ll see to it.”

  Taegan’s pulse quickened at the mention of payment, but not enough to permit the paladin to buy him off and so vanquish him in their duel of words.

  “I don’t want coin,” the maestro said, reflecting that he seemed to be saying that constantly anymore, even though nothing could be farther from his actual sentiments. “I want you to act on the information I risked my life to obtain.”

  “We told you,” Oriseus said, “that would be reckless and generally inadvisable.”

  “And I told you,” Taegan said, “I’m still waiting to hear the queen’s opinion. Please, Your Majesty.”

  Sambryl sat and chewed at her lower lip for a few heartbeats, her little white incisors marring the scarlet paint Evidently it was her habit when pondering.

  “We’ve been at peace for a long while,” she finally said. “Our soldiers have repelled the occasional band of marauders but have had no occasion to fight an actual war or endure the losses such a conflict brings. Which means that barring gross mismanagement, we should have plenty of men, horses, and supplies. Enough, perhaps, to send one force northeast and another west.”

  “Your Majesty,” Oriseus said, “we don’t know precisely how many enemies we have to fight in the country along the Easting Reach, but we do know they’re all dragons.”

  “And our men-at-arms,” she replied, “constitute the assembled might of a powerful kingdom.”

  “It’s still my opinion we may need every bit of our strength. I hope you trust my advice, and the judgment of my peers, over the fancies of a troublemaker, an outlander from who knows where.”

  “I may look peculiar in your eyes,” Taegan said, “but I reiterate, I consider myself a son of Impiltur no less than you. A loyal subject who reveres his noble queen and looks to her, not her deputies, to decide the most vital questions facing our homeland.”

  Sambryl laughed. It startled Taegan, and by the looks of it, the lords as well.

  “What a paragon of virtue I must be,” she said. “So far, Maestro, I believe you’ve praised me as gracious, just, compassionate, noble, wise, and great. Is this relentless parade of compliments the technique you use to lure rich merchants and their sons to your school and their wives and daughters to your bed?”

  “I’d like to think I generally display a lighter touch,” Taegan replied with a grin, “but in some measure, I suppose the answer is yes. It’s been my experience that the wealthy are susceptible to flattery.”