Crusade (10 page)

“No, I really didn’t think so.”

Noting an irritability in the king’s voice, Vangerdahast decided to tread carefully with his questions. It was obvious Azoun had slept little. “Are you ready to meet with the Zhentish envoy?”

The king chuckled a humorless laugh and pushed himself away from the window. “I must be,” he said firmly. “I can’t let madmen or intractable dalesmen or anything else get in the way of this crusade. I must be ready.”

Without waiting for a reply, the king spun on his heels and headed out into the hall. The wizard trailed behind him, making mental notes of the orders the king snapped off. Finally, Azoun reached his study. Before he opened the door, he noted that a sizable reward should be sent to the man who’d captured Bors in the crowd and that the would-be assassin’s trial should be convened immediately.

“He’ll almost certainly be put to death,” Vangerdahast replied, watching the king’s eyes for a reaction.

Azoun’s expression, a mixture of cold resolve and vague distraction, didn’t change. “If he hadn’t killed those people it might have been different. I have to uphold the law. I want the masters of the Trappers’ Guild called to court, too. They have much to answer for.”

Vangerdahast hesitated before he replied. Anger, not just irritability, had a hold upon the Cormyrian king, the wizard realized. It was very much unlike Azoun to act that way, but, then, the last few days had been unusual themselves.

“Perhaps I should reschedule the meeting with the Zhentish envoy,” Vangerdahast ventured, hoping that his friend might recognize the cause for the suggestion.

Azoun’s forehead furrowed deeply as he narrowed his eyes and glared at the wizard. That expression was only temporary. The dark look on the king’s face passed as quickly as a lone storm cloud on a bright summer’s afternoon. Vangerdahast silently breathed a sigh of relief.

“That won’t be necessary,” Azoun noted, clasping his hands together in front of him. “Besides, if I don’t convince the dalesmen that we can leave in the next tenday or so, the Tuigan will conquer most of Thesk. At that point, we might as well do as Lord Mourngrym suggests and wait for the barbarians to show up on our doorstep.”

Vangerdahast sighed and hoped that the king could shake off his concerns long enough to parley with the envoy that afternoon. “Should I bring our Zhentish visitor here when he arrives?” the wizard asked as he turned to leave.

“No,” Azoun replied. He opened the study’s door. “I want to skim a book or two and clear my mind. Bring the envoy to the throne room.”

Vangerdahast raised an eyebrow. “You don’t usually meet mere envoys there, Your Highness.”

The king smiled—a little wickedly, Vangerdahast noted with mild surprise—and said, “No doubt the ambassador will know that and expect a more casual greeting. I think it wise to keep him off balance, don’t you?”

The royal wizard returned the king’s smile, though his was undoubtedly tinged with a mischievous malice. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said. Vangerdahast bowed, then hurried down the hall, his concern for Azoun lessening as he pondered the king’s strategy.

Azoun quietly entered the study and sat at his desk. First, he scribbled a note to Torg, the dwarven king of Earthfast, informing him of the crusade’s status. That done, the king opened the large, leather-bound book that lay on the desk. For a short time, he read and reread the passages describing the “black days” under Salember, the Rebel Prince. The citizens of Cormyr, and especially Suzail, were reportedly very supportive of the crusade. Despite this, Azoun wondered—as he had for much of the night—whether or not his people really did believe his plans to be in their best interest.

The king knew that history might report him to be the next traitor to Cormyr if Bors was an accurate manifestation of his subjects’ true feelings about the crusade—his crusade. What his descendants thought of him mattered to Azoun more than it probably should have, so before he headed to the throne room to meet the Zhentish envoy, he devised a plan by which he might discover the people’s real opinion of the crusade and uncover any plots the trappers might have hatched for open revolt.

Putting that plan into action would have to wait for the following night, when he’d have a chance to make a suitable disguise.

The royal chamberlain, decked out in his finest costume, entered the throne room. He strode pompously to the center of the large hall and bowed to the figure on a throne at the room’s opposite end. After a few moments of silence, which seemed to the Zhentish envoy like an hour, he sharply rapped the tip of his gold-shod staff on the polished marble beneath his feet.

“Your Highness, may I present Lythrana Dargor, special envoy from Lord Chess at Zhentil Keep.”

The introduction rang through the room, echoing off the stone floor and beautiful stained glass windows, eventually getting lost in the rich tapestries that covered most of the walls. Special Envoy Dargor stood patiently still, despite the fact that she had been told in Zhentil Keep not to expect any formality when dealing with Azoun IV.

On the throne, the king tapped his foot, silently counting off the time before he would allow the Zhentish politician to advance. He fidgeted slightly and toyed with his long purple cloak. At Azoun’s side, Vangerdahast stood, resplendent in his most colorful robe. A closer look at the wizard would reveal red, bloodshot eyes and a slight pallor about his cheeks, but he hid his exhaustion almost as well as Azoun masked his.

After a short time, when Azoun felt certain the wait must be seeming like an eternity to the visiting dignitary, the king sat up straight and said, “Let her advance, Lord Chamberlain.”

The chamberlain bowed again and turned to Lythrana. She straightened her gray blouse, petulantly brushed a stray strand of raven-black hair, then started toward the king. Her high-heeled boots sent sharp, cracking footsteps throughout the hall, and her black, high-collared dress hissed where it dragged along on the floor behind her.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet Your Highness,” Lythrana said in a low sibilant voice after she bowed.

“We are pleased that Zhentil Keep sent such an accomplished politician to discuss Faerun’s needs,” the king responded. Though Vangerdahast chuckled inwardly at Azoun’s use of the royal “we,” an affection he rarely adopted, he knew the king was serious in his praise of the Zhentish envoy. Lythrana Dargor’s reputation as a shrewd negotiator was well known throughout the lands around the Inner Sea.

Noting the king’s praise with a slight smile, Lythrana said, “On my way from the Keep, I learned of the recent attempt on your life. Lord Chess would certainly wish me to send his hopes that you escaped unscathed.”

“This was the first you’d heard of the attempt?” Vangerdahast asked, a bitter taint of sarcasm edging his voice.

Spreading her long-fingered, white hands open before her in a sign of peace, the sultry envoy said, “It is natural for the king’s worthy advisors—” she bowed slightly to Vangerdahast “—to suspect Zhentil Keep in this matter. We make no secret of the methods by which we solve our problems, or the gods we worship.” The envoy brushed her long bangs out of her eyes. On her forehead lay a circle of black, surrounding a white, grinning skull—the symbol of Lord Cyric, the God of Death, Lies, and Assassination.

“We appreciate your honesty,” the king said coolly.

Again Lythrana nodded and let her hair fall back over the symbol of her god. “While we are being honest, Your Highness, might I be so bold to ask why the Keep was not invited to the general meeting you held with your nobles, the Sembians, and the dalesmen?”

Vangerdahast shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable at the bluntness of the discussion. The wizard glanced at the king and was a bit surprised to see that Azoun was taking it all in stride. “The others were not in the right spirit to discuss plans for a foreign war in front of a Zhentish representative,” he stated without hesitation. “Had you been at the meeting, I might not have found the other politicians very cooperative. Still, the lack of an invitation did not prevent you from spying on the conference.”

Lythrana studied the king for a moment, puzzled by his honesty. She close to ignore the accusation, tacitly confessing the Keep’s guilt. Instead she noted, “I infer from your comments that your crusade is gathering the support it needs.”

“I told Lord Chess as much when I requested a special envoy.”

After a moment of tense silence, Lythrana turned her green eyes back to Azoun. She forced her face to show a calm she did not feel. “It is a crisp, clear day, Your Highness, and I understand you have marvelous hunting a short ride to the north of Suzail. Could we not discuss your crusade under less formal circumstances?”

Azoun paused, perhaps a little too long, and tried to think of a way to politely decline Lythrana’s request. He felt far too tired to ride and really didn’t care much for hunting. Lythrana had probably guessed that, Azoun decided. But as soon as he had realized that the envoy was expecting him to decline, he smiled as brightly as he could and said, “Of course. Vangerdahast,” Azoun added to his slightly shocked friend, “please have the groom prepare my horse and ask the royal huntsman to gather a suitable hunting party.”

To Lythrana, who was staring in undisguised surprise at him, the king said, “Hawk or hound, Lady Dargor?”

“Hound,” she replied, then motioned to her dress. “Perhaps I suggested this too hastily. I’m not quite attired—”

The king smiled graciously. “That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll find you something to wear.” That said, he sent the royal wizard away to prepare for a hunt.

“While we wait for Vangerdahast to get things ready,” the king commented smoothly after his friend had departed, “let us discuss the Tuigan threat to Zhentil Keep.”

Realizing that she was being overwhelmed by a far better politician than she, Lythrana Dargor smiled and let the king of Cormyr expound upon the menace of the horsewarriors. They had a leisurely stroll around the castle, Azoun alternately relating the history of each ancient family artifact they passed in their walk then describing the preparations for the crusade.

Within an hour, they moved the discussion outside, onto Suzail’s main road. As the royal procession moved through the city, Azoun realized that it was a very good thing for the citizens to see him alive and healthy after the assassination attempt. Crowds quickly gathered at the side of the Promenade, cheering the monarch as he made his way to the northern gates of the city.

As soon as the hunting party was clear of the tent city that clustered around Suzail’s walls, they let their horses speed over the open road. The chilly air whipped cloaks and made eyes water, but Azoun found it revived him. Though he didn’t enjoy hunting, he did love the feeling of freedom riding a powerful horse gave him. So, grimacing against the chill breeze, Azoun pulled his purple cloak tight over his fur-lined surcoat and let his horse race on.

Eventually, the party slowed down again. As they brought their horses to a canter, the master of the hounds gathered his barking charges closer to his lead. The busy, thriving farms that surrounded Suzail had given way to wilder country, and the king and his party found themselves surrounded by thicket-covered fields and sparse forest. Azoun trotted his horse to Lythrana’s side.

“Will this do?” he asked politely. “I suspect these fields and stands of trees might hide a suitable wild boar or two.”

Lythrana nodded. Her green eyes were red from the wind, but that didn’t dull their intensity. “This is as good as anywhere.”

Signaling to the master of the hunt, the king took a barbed spear from a young squire. He handed the weapon to Lythrana, then took another for himself. The king’s huntsmen hurried off into the woods with the hounds in search of game. Only when they’d flushed a large boar or stag from the trees would the hunt begin for the nobles. In the meantime, a handful of guards spread out around the tall grass in the clearing to protect the king.

While he waited, Azoun resumed the discussion of the crusade he’d begun earlier with Lythrana. As the king had expected, Lythrana knew a great deal about the Tuigan presence in Rashemen and Thesk. However, he was surprised to learn that the leaders of Zhentil Keep thought a peremptory strike against the barbarians a very wise idea—as long as it was accomplished by the other nations of Faerun.

“If you understand the importance of the crusade,” Azoun said to the envoy, “you must also see the importance of a temporary truce with the Dales. I need Mourngrym and the others to commit troops. They won’t if they think you’ll attack the minute they’re gone.”

Lythrana squirmed in her saddle slightly. The tight riding breeches and warm woolen jacket she had obtained at the palace itched uncomfortably; she was far more accustomed to silk than coarser, more functional fabrics. “Do you think the dalesmen will believe any pact we sign?” she asked.

Azoun sat up straight in his saddle. “Of course,” he exclaimed, “but only if you also agree to send crusaders to Thesk as a sign of good faith.”

Poking the ground idly with her spear, Lythrana considered Azoun’s suggestion for a moment. “It’s unlikely,” she finally concluded. “Unless we get something in return—other than the satisfaction of doing good.” She almost spat the final word.

From her tone, Azoun knew Lythrana already had a price in mind. “What do you want?”

“Darkhold,” she said matter-of-factly. “The Keep wants you to stop harassing the patrols from Darkhold.”

“Out of the question,” Azoun snapped. “The citadel of Darkhold houses criminals and brigands. They prey upon our western border. I could never—”

Azoun saw Lythrana’s cool smile and stopped speaking. “You didn’t expect me to request something silly, like food or trade agreements, did you?” she asked. “Zhentil Keep has an… interest in Darkhold, and your patrols are jeopardizing that. If you want the Keep to sign a pact with the Dales, you’ll have to sign a pact with us.”

A high, shrill note echoed over the field. Azoun turned toward a copse of trees a hundred yards to the east and pulled his spear into battle-ready position. The latter action was really a reflex, borne of both battles fought when younger and training in the law of arms. The trumpet was always a call to attention and action.