Which meant making common cause with the Sage of Shadowdale was the only prudent thing to do.

“Aye,” he said aloud, awkwardly. “There can be. Peace between us, I mean.”

Amarune’s slender-fingered hand clasped his as firmly as any warrior’s, and a bright smile spread across her face.

“Good, glad that’s done,” El growled then, causing her to roll away and fling back the furs. “Rune’s bladder is bursting!”

Understeward Corleth Fentable was in none-too-pleasant a mood, but even if the fearful shadow of Lord Manshoon hadn’t loomed everpresent in his thoughts, Fentable’s displeasure so early in the morning was hardly surprising.

Unless ordered on duty by Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant, he seldom saw the dawn or much of the bright and chill early morning that followed it.

He was here on Hallowdant’s orders, curt and stiff, snapping commands at half a dozen war wizards and twice that many Purple Dragons. More soldiers were standing guard in all the crimson-carpeted passages that led to the newly refitted Hall of Justice, where the Council of the Dragon was to be held. They were making certain all maids, doorjacks, and everyone else stayed well away.

Fentable’s superior would probably have delegated this duty to him regardless, but the understeward had the minor satisfaction-if it could in truth be deemed that-of knowing it was no accident that Hallowdant had suddenly fallen ill. He was doubtless groaning away in his garderobe, enduring the effects of whatever Sraunter had provided for a servant-another of Lord Manshoon’s pawns-to slip into the decanter Hallowdant was wont to sip from whenever he awakened at night.

Manshoon left no detail unattended. As he’d reminded them all to frighten them into utter loyalty.

Fentable’s tight mouth became a thin line of fury.