she was trying to get rid of him, but he halfexpected she spoke the truth about the perils in Piergeiron’s palace.
Nodding knowingly to her, he made a quick exit. The heir of the Nesher estate had just rounded one slim column of the room when be heard his father’s voice ask, “Where’s that brat off to now?”
Stelar’s reply was appeasing. “Oh, off to save Faerun again, I’m sure.”
*****
The white-suited groom, Piergeiron Paladinson, and his eight-foot-tall bodyguard, Madieron Sunderstone, headed past banqueting tables filled with nobles and guildmasters. Or, at least, they tried to head past. Every one of the guests stopped Piergeiron to ask a favor.
The guests had been sitting long enough to become entrenched and fidgety. Forks, knives, and other weaponry lay tantalizingly close. Roasted boar taunted from steaming platters. The very air smelled of opportunityall of it just out of reach. This combination of heightened appetites and suppressed activities conspired to make the guests aggressive, suspicious, and covetous of Piergeiron’s attentions. Until they could feast on boar, they would dine on groom.
First had been the Nesherslumber money of the most vulgar kind. Piergeiron noted the conspicuous absence of their ever-prodigal son, Noph, the most pleasant member of an unpleasant crew. Laskar Nesher ended his greeting with a request to be moved closer to the elven nobles of the High Forest. He hoped to “trick the longears” into bartering away logging rights.
Ever the diplomat, Piergeiron answered with a tactful version of, “Not if Ao himself commanded it.” The elves, perhaps not out of longear-shot, insinuated that at Piergeiron’s next wedding, he should avoid inviting tree killers and stone hackers.
To that, the Open Lord replied enigmatically that many current guests would be excluded, should there be a “next wedding.”
As to the stone hackersdwarves who considered themselves descended from Delzounthey requested only prompter refills of their ale mugs. Already, they had drained a quarter barrel apiece!
Piergeiron sighed and ruefully rubbed his shock of black hair. There would be a few more tufts of gray in it after tonight. Surviving his own wedding, and making sure the rest of the celebrants did, would be his greatest feat of statesmanship yet.
“I will arrange for a tapped barrel to be placed on your table,” he told the dwarves before continuing on.
Not all the annoyances were this harmless. After departing the dwarves and before encountering the next barrage, Piergeiron turned to his mop-headed bodyguard.
“Keep your eyes sharp.”
That advice seemed ill-considered, given the sheepdog locks dangling in Madieron’s eyes, but the bodyguard nodded dutifully.
Piergeiron continued. “I’ve gotten wind of plots against the trade pact. It must be sealed tonight. Some factions would cause any disturbance to prevent it. But, more than the pact, I fear for Eidola. Guarding me means keeping one eye on her.”
Madieron’s eyes struggled askew beneath his bangs. “Got it, milord he said.
The Open Lord nodded dubiously. Madieron was a good man, as steady, strong, patient, and smart as a rock. Piergeiron was his close match in battle, but tonight he’d supply the more cerebral virtues for the pair. Between the two of them, they were ready for anything.
A tremendous clangour of silver tea services and overturned platters rang from the end of the banquet hall, along with a shriek that stilled the chatter and bustle of the party.
With none of their previous decorum, Piergeiron and his bodyguard shouldered past the guests, who were too busy gasping or rising to their feet to detain them. The room went deathly silent except for the scud of chairs, the clank of Madieron’s war-shod feet, and the sound of angry voicesthree male and one… one…
“Eidola,” Piergeiron croaked out, rushing toward his bride.
His cry, hoarse though it was, settled all din for a moment.
Nodding knowingly to her, he made a quick exit. The heir of the Nesher estate had just rounded one slim column of the room when be heard his father’s voice ask, “Where’s that brat off to now?”
Stelar’s reply was appeasing. “Oh, off to save Faerun again, I’m sure.”
*****
The white-suited groom, Piergeiron Paladinson, and his eight-foot-tall bodyguard, Madieron Sunderstone, headed past banqueting tables filled with nobles and guildmasters. Or, at least, they tried to head past. Every one of the guests stopped Piergeiron to ask a favor.
The guests had been sitting long enough to become entrenched and fidgety. Forks, knives, and other weaponry lay tantalizingly close. Roasted boar taunted from steaming platters. The very air smelled of opportunityall of it just out of reach. This combination of heightened appetites and suppressed activities conspired to make the guests aggressive, suspicious, and covetous of Piergeiron’s attentions. Until they could feast on boar, they would dine on groom.
First had been the Nesherslumber money of the most vulgar kind. Piergeiron noted the conspicuous absence of their ever-prodigal son, Noph, the most pleasant member of an unpleasant crew. Laskar Nesher ended his greeting with a request to be moved closer to the elven nobles of the High Forest. He hoped to “trick the longears” into bartering away logging rights.
Ever the diplomat, Piergeiron answered with a tactful version of, “Not if Ao himself commanded it.” The elves, perhaps not out of longear-shot, insinuated that at Piergeiron’s next wedding, he should avoid inviting tree killers and stone hackers.
To that, the Open Lord replied enigmatically that many current guests would be excluded, should there be a “next wedding.”
As to the stone hackersdwarves who considered themselves descended from Delzounthey requested only prompter refills of their ale mugs. Already, they had drained a quarter barrel apiece!
Piergeiron sighed and ruefully rubbed his shock of black hair. There would be a few more tufts of gray in it after tonight. Surviving his own wedding, and making sure the rest of the celebrants did, would be his greatest feat of statesmanship yet.
“I will arrange for a tapped barrel to be placed on your table,” he told the dwarves before continuing on.
Not all the annoyances were this harmless. After departing the dwarves and before encountering the next barrage, Piergeiron turned to his mop-headed bodyguard.
“Keep your eyes sharp.”
That advice seemed ill-considered, given the sheepdog locks dangling in Madieron’s eyes, but the bodyguard nodded dutifully.
Piergeiron continued. “I’ve gotten wind of plots against the trade pact. It must be sealed tonight. Some factions would cause any disturbance to prevent it. But, more than the pact, I fear for Eidola. Guarding me means keeping one eye on her.”
Madieron’s eyes struggled askew beneath his bangs. “Got it, milord he said.
The Open Lord nodded dubiously. Madieron was a good man, as steady, strong, patient, and smart as a rock. Piergeiron was his close match in battle, but tonight he’d supply the more cerebral virtues for the pair. Between the two of them, they were ready for anything.
A tremendous clangour of silver tea services and overturned platters rang from the end of the banquet hall, along with a shriek that stilled the chatter and bustle of the party.
With none of their previous decorum, Piergeiron and his bodyguard shouldered past the guests, who were too busy gasping or rising to their feet to detain them. The room went deathly silent except for the scud of chairs, the clank of Madieron’s war-shod feet, and the sound of angry voicesthree male and one… one…
“Eidola,” Piergeiron croaked out, rushing toward his bride.
His cry, hoarse though it was, settled all din for a moment.
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