the aliasof the merchant who served as her sometime contact with the Cult of the Dragon.
“Morthan is otherwise occupied. You have me instead.”
Mirabeta absorbed that. She disliked surprises. “You are authorized to speak for the Cult?”
The woman nodded. “I am. And here is what I say: My mistress, Aurgloroasa, is mildly intrigued by the overmistress’s offer.”
The minstrel’s playing ceased, so Mirabeta lowered her voice so that she would not be overheard.
“The offer will expire soon. ‘Mildly intrigued’ is not a commitment. My mistress, the Overmistress of Sembia, requires a firm promise of assistance with the problem of Selgaunt.”
An adolescent serving boy approached the table with a tray of crystal goblets and a decanter of wine.
“Wine, milady? Goodsir?” he asked.
Mirabeta declined but the young woman said, “Please.”
The boy poured a glass, bowed, and stepped away. The young woman did not drink, but moved the glass before the empty chair to Mirabeta’s left.
The minstrel appeared, abruptly pulled back the chair, and
sat.
“What is this?” Mirabeta said, pushing her chair back and beginning to stand.
“Please stay seated,” the young woman said softly. “Please.”
Mirabeta lowered herself back into her chair, eyeing the minstrel. None of the Cheek’s patrons seemed to have noticed, or they did not care.
The young woman said, “Vendem is my associate.”
Vendem drank the goblet of wine in a single gulp and smiled a mouthful of overlarge teeth. As Mirabeta watched, his brown eyes turned green, with vertical reptilian slits, then back again.
“Well met,” he said, in a baritone as rough as gravel.
Mirabeta knew instantly what he was. She steadied her breath and controlled her heartbeat. She was not fearful for her safety. Rynon maintained a contingency spell on her person that would whisk her instantly to the chambers in her tallhouse if she were attacked. No, it was not fear she felt, but awe. She was sitting in a festhall beside a force of nature. She had seen the destruction a dragon could wreak during the Dracorage.
“I hear your heart… milady,” the dragon said.
Mirabeta started to protest but the dragon held up a calloused hand with fingernails like claws. He leaned in her direction, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
“Your appearance is a fraud. You are female, over forty winters in age, and last bathed two, perhaps three days ago. The smell of sex is still on you from about as many”
“Enough,” Mirabeta snapped.
The dragon chuckled.
“More wine,” he called loudly, and the pretty boy scrambled over to refill his cup. “Leave the decanter,” the dragon said, and the boy did.
After the boy had departed, the masked woman said, “Intriguing. You are actually a woman. You show little fear at the presence of a dragon and give orders as one accustomed to obedience.” She looked across the table at the dragon and cocked her head. Mirabeta could imagine her smiling behind the mask. “Vendem, I warrant we are in the presence of the overmistress herself.”
Mirabeta saw no point in denying the claim. She said, “We were discussing the offer. My offer.”
The dragon chuckled and a thin stream of acrid green smoke floated from his nostrils. The smell burned Mirabeta’s nose and made her eyes water. She waved her hand in the air to disperse it.
The dragon was a green, his breath a burning, deadly gas.
The woman, seemingly unbothered by the gas, said, “Respectfully, Overmistress, you have made only a request, not an offer.”
Mirabeta understood the point. She said, “The Shadovar are allied with Selgaunt. Should my armies lose this war, the Shadovar will have established themselves in Sembia. Not far from Daerlun.”
The dragon growled.
Mirabeta had learned that the Cult of the Dragon regarded the Shadovar with hostility. She did not know why and did not need to know. She also knew that the Cult had a strong presence in Daerlun. A
“Morthan is otherwise occupied. You have me instead.”
Mirabeta absorbed that. She disliked surprises. “You are authorized to speak for the Cult?”
The woman nodded. “I am. And here is what I say: My mistress, Aurgloroasa, is mildly intrigued by the overmistress’s offer.”
The minstrel’s playing ceased, so Mirabeta lowered her voice so that she would not be overheard.
“The offer will expire soon. ‘Mildly intrigued’ is not a commitment. My mistress, the Overmistress of Sembia, requires a firm promise of assistance with the problem of Selgaunt.”
An adolescent serving boy approached the table with a tray of crystal goblets and a decanter of wine.
“Wine, milady? Goodsir?” he asked.
Mirabeta declined but the young woman said, “Please.”
The boy poured a glass, bowed, and stepped away. The young woman did not drink, but moved the glass before the empty chair to Mirabeta’s left.
The minstrel appeared, abruptly pulled back the chair, and
sat.
“What is this?” Mirabeta said, pushing her chair back and beginning to stand.
“Please stay seated,” the young woman said softly. “Please.”
Mirabeta lowered herself back into her chair, eyeing the minstrel. None of the Cheek’s patrons seemed to have noticed, or they did not care.
The young woman said, “Vendem is my associate.”
Vendem drank the goblet of wine in a single gulp and smiled a mouthful of overlarge teeth. As Mirabeta watched, his brown eyes turned green, with vertical reptilian slits, then back again.
“Well met,” he said, in a baritone as rough as gravel.
Mirabeta knew instantly what he was. She steadied her breath and controlled her heartbeat. She was not fearful for her safety. Rynon maintained a contingency spell on her person that would whisk her instantly to the chambers in her tallhouse if she were attacked. No, it was not fear she felt, but awe. She was sitting in a festhall beside a force of nature. She had seen the destruction a dragon could wreak during the Dracorage.
“I hear your heart… milady,” the dragon said.
Mirabeta started to protest but the dragon held up a calloused hand with fingernails like claws. He leaned in her direction, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
“Your appearance is a fraud. You are female, over forty winters in age, and last bathed two, perhaps three days ago. The smell of sex is still on you from about as many”
“Enough,” Mirabeta snapped.
The dragon chuckled.
“More wine,” he called loudly, and the pretty boy scrambled over to refill his cup. “Leave the decanter,” the dragon said, and the boy did.
After the boy had departed, the masked woman said, “Intriguing. You are actually a woman. You show little fear at the presence of a dragon and give orders as one accustomed to obedience.” She looked across the table at the dragon and cocked her head. Mirabeta could imagine her smiling behind the mask. “Vendem, I warrant we are in the presence of the overmistress herself.”
Mirabeta saw no point in denying the claim. She said, “We were discussing the offer. My offer.”
The dragon chuckled and a thin stream of acrid green smoke floated from his nostrils. The smell burned Mirabeta’s nose and made her eyes water. She waved her hand in the air to disperse it.
The dragon was a green, his breath a burning, deadly gas.
The woman, seemingly unbothered by the gas, said, “Respectfully, Overmistress, you have made only a request, not an offer.”
Mirabeta understood the point. She said, “The Shadovar are allied with Selgaunt. Should my armies lose this war, the Shadovar will have established themselves in Sembia. Not far from Daerlun.”
The dragon growled.
Mirabeta had learned that the Cult of the Dragon regarded the Shadovar with hostility. She did not know why and did not need to know. She also knew that the Cult had a strong presence in Daerlun. A
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