“No, no! Guidance concerning the real aims and natures of our … new four.”
Islif and Semoor nodded in unison, even before Doust added, “For the safety of all our hides!”
“Eveningstar has one of the foremost temples of Lathander in all the realm,” Semoor said slowly. “I would have presented myself there for prayer and advice anyhail. Some say the House of the Morning is too sleepy a backwater, no longer a-kindle with the ‘true fire’ of Lathander—whatever that is—but worship there is led by Charisbonde Trueservant, and Holy Lathander hasn’t allowed many of the Anointed to take so bold a consecration name.”
Islif looked grave. “And how will you seek his advice without informing him you have your suspicions about our new members? Bearing in mind that even if those doubts are baseless, letting a high priest hear of them—if he takes note at all of anything said by a mere novice from the dust of Espar, wearing a homemade holy symbol—may make them real? If he and his flock treat any of us with suspicion, damage is done. Based on nothing, and nigh impossible to wash away. Be very careful.”
Semoor nodded. “Yet you dispute not our underlying concern?”
“No,” Islif murmured, giving both priestlings long and level looks. “No, I don’t.”
“So, lass? Have you come to scold me for not taking to my bed last night? Or to tell me someone’s prepared me a meal? A royal pet’s gone lame? Or is it something important?”
“No, Lord Vangerdahast.” Laspeera gave the royal magician a rather pert look. “Merely reporting in, as you ordered me to.”
Then she brought her hand out from behind her back. There was a handwheel of onion-and-mushroom cheese in it.
“Stolen from the kitchens for you. To keep you from falling flat on your face with hunger until you get yourself down to the Unicorn Chamber—where Samdanthra will shortly be serving you a meal you will eat, if I have to stand over you with a bullwhip.”
Vangerdahast gave his favorite aide a bristle-browed look. “Stealing food? Bullwhips? Have you been talking to Queen Filfaeril again?”
“No, Lord. What befalls behind closed palace doors is none of my affair,” came the oh-so-innocent reply, delivered by a Laspeera who was carefully studying the ornately molded plaster ceiling overhead.
“Ah, but it is, lass. It is. As you well know.” Vangerdahast sniffed the cheese, bit into it cautiously—then started to devour it like a starving lion. “So,” he managed to say between bites, “report!”
Laspeera inclined her head politely. “I have the pleasure to inform you that the Hammerfall affair seems to be moving to a satisfactory conclusion. The Goldsword situation remains very much as before, but we’re working on a stablemaster right now, hoping he’ll confess. You were right about Ruirondro; Vaelra and Straekus are working on some suitably horrifying dream-visions right now, to scare him appropriately. We thought you’d prefer that to any trial.”
“You thought correctly,” Vangerdahast grunted. “Blood of the Dragon, I busy myself for half a day watching just one of the usual traitors, and you get up to all this! You know I prefer to have a hand in everything.”
“Yes, and we worry about you losing fingers, thereby.”
“Ha ha. The trouble with clever-tongued lasses is that they too seldom resist being either clever or wagging their tongues about it. Anything else you’ve been up to?”
“Yes, Lord Vangerdahast. You set Braelrur and Daunatha to watching the Swords of Eveningstar. Well, as of last night there are four new Swords, duly written in on the charter and riding with the king’s chosen heroes.”
“Dragon! Who? Any sign of this being prepared beforehand?”
“None at all, as far as the Esparran are concerned. However, we worry that any or even all of the four may be members of, or agents for, various noble cabals, the Zhentarim, or Sembian sneak-coins.”
“ ‘Sneak-coins’? Lass, I’ve chided you before about using cant. What are ‘sneak-coins’?”
“Since Royal Undertreasurer Aliss Thondren invented the term—some two centuries ago, Lord—sneak-coins are Sembian cabals or even formal syndicates who covertly try to gain control of businesses in Cormyr, and all too often attempt to secure influence in the realm by bribery, blackmail, and otherwise influencing officials. Or nobles.”
“Huh,” Vangey grunted, inspecting his fingers and licking the last of the cheese from them, “as if a Sembian would behave any differently. We called those cabals ‘cabals’ in my day.”
He got up from the chair he’d been slumped in. “I agree we should know more about them. Get Belthonder and Omgryn onto this; their current work can wait.” He strode to the door. “The Unicorn Chamber, you said?”
“Yes, Lord Vangerdahast.” Laspeera bowed, but Vangey spun around.
“Stop that,” he snapped irritably. “You’ll have me thinking I’m one of those popinjay nobles. Who are these four arrow-swift opportunists?”
“Lord, all youthful humans, two men and two women. The men are Agannor Wildsilver and Bey Freemantle, hireswords, and the women are Martess Ilmra, commonly known as ‘Lowspell,’ and Alura Durshavin, commonly known as ‘Pennae.’ You’ll not have heard of them—”
Vangerdahast sighed. “Ah, such a dolt is our royal magician, waddling through life oblivious to the business of the realm and all the folk who throng it. As it happens, I have heard of the two lasses—and some time ago assigned Delavaundar and Marlegast, quite separately, to learning all about them.”
Laspeera gave him a sidelong, challenging look. “And?”
“They’re still learning, but as I recall, have told me thus far that this Pennae is a Mask-worshipper and an accomplished thief: acrobatic upper-balcony work, for the most part. Born in Arabel to a pastry cook, now passed on. Father unknown, probably a codloose Purple Dragon of the garrison. Martess is one of those lasses who came to Suzail with a feel and a hunger for the Art but no spells or tutor, and tried to make a living on her looks while seeking both. ‘Lowspell’ for her lack of spells, of course, though I hear she gained a handful from lonely old mages who wanted their limbs warmed; she probably fell in with Pennae in a tavern somewhere in the city. So, clever lass, what can you tell me?”
Laspeera smiled. “As to the women, you’re far ahead of Braelrur and Daunatha. They did ask a few folk in Waymoot about the men, this morn. Hearsay, nothing more, suggesting Wildsilver and Freemantle are just swordswingers. Easygoing, a trifle brutal but not ‘mad slayers,’ and apt to be lazy and prefer the flask over vigilant patrolling. Came out of upcountry Sembia and bounced around here and there doing short-coin work, never for long with one patron: caravan-escorting, valuable-package-protection, and bodyguarding.”
Vangerdahast grunted. “Inform me when they truly learn something. I’m for the Unicorn Chamber.” The door banged, and his voice came back through it: “Oh, lass?”
“Yes, Lord Vangerdahast?”
“Thank you.”
Teasing fingers slid along his thigh again. “Lord Florin?”
Florin blinked, unsettled again. “I’m—I’m no lord, nor ever likely to be. I’m a forester.”
And favored of Mielikki, which sounded wonderful. If only he knew what it really meant.
Had—had Mielikki been the Lady in Green?
He stared again into those dark blue eyes, flaring silver just that once. He’d be seeing that gaze until his dying day. There’d been no sign of her this morn, and no one at The Old Man or The Moon and Stars knew where she’d gone, though they all said this wasn’t unusual for her … none even knew where she dwelt and what she did.
“Flor-in,” an impish voice, close by his ear. “Strike me down, but you’re half asleep this morning! Anything on your mind you want to share? Anything at all?”
Florin blinked again. Firmly thrusting aside—for now—memories of dark blue eyes he could fall into forever, he turned to look down at Pennae with his full attention—and found himself gazing down the unlaced front of her smoky black leathers. Again.
; Blushing, he dragged his gaze back up to where it should be, and found himself gazing into eyes that were very dark brown—and laughing at him. Above a smile that could only be described as catlike. She was actually purring, reminding Florin amusingly of the tressym that betimes rode Lady Lord Winter’s shoulder. “You seem … quite flirtatious, Alura,” he said carefully.
She pouted. “Oh, now, call me Pennae. Please.”
Florin glanced into the forest, put his free hand back on his sword hilt where it should be, checked that he had a firm grip on the reins with the other, lifted his chin, and told the ears of his mount, “You still seem quite flirtatious, Pennae.”
He waited for a reply, and when all that he got was a low, husky chuckle, he added, “Why?”
“Oh, Florin, don’t you know how you look? What they’re saying about you: the man who singlehandedly fought off dozens of outlaws to save the life of the king?”
Florin wondered whether to roll his eyes or just give this elf-faced little temptress a cold look and tell her to leave off the verbal dung. He was still wondering when someone made a loud retching sound nigh his elbow—the elbow closest to Pennae.
The loud groans of mock vomiting were followed by a familiar feminine voice inquiring brightly, “Do thieves in Arabel specialize in clumsy seductions? Or comedic minstrelry? That is the most unsubtle, hilarious to hear ‘come hither, large lad’ blandishment I’ve heard in months!”
The Lady Narantha Crownsilver had deftly slipped her horse between Florin’s and Pennae’s. She left off ridiculing the Arabellan just long enough to give Florin a wink, then clapped hands to hips, rounded on Pennae—who was white with anger, but open-mouthed in indecision—and continued, “As you’ve heard so much about Florin Falconhand here, are you not aware that he’s the beloved of a goddess? Do you truly think you can outshine the Lady of the Forest? Because if you do, I think your sanity is much too far gone for you to be a Sword of Eveningstar! If, on the other hand, your little performance has been mere teasing to amuse the rest of us, I apologize unreservedly, for it’s been brilliant! Florin may personally find it a trifle tasteless, but the rest of us have been nigh wetting ourselves with mirth!”
Whatever reply Pennae might have been considering was lost in the wild, whooping applause of both Agannar and Bey, enthusiastically supporting Narantha’s contention from the front of the Swords—and of Semoor, standing up in the stirrups of his snorting mount at the rear of their procession, to guffaw and drum his shoulder as Purple Dragons do when clanging blades against their shoulder armor.
By the time the clangor died away, Pennae had mastered her ire enough to give Narantha an apparently genuine smile, and ask lightly, “So you liked it?”
The Lady Crownsilver answered her kindly, and offered up some silly noble jokes that soon had the two women laughing easily together. Florin, however, noticed Pennae flicking some thoughtful glances his way in the converse that followed, and when there came a lull in the chatter, she quickly peered across Narantha to ask Florin directly, “Are you truly the beloved of Mielikki? That is, what does that mean, exactly?”
Florin looked at her, wondering what to say. If he told truth, that stripped away the defense against her that Narantha had just given. Yet if he lied, he risked Mielikki’s wrath, and who knew what darkness that might bring. Oh, hrast. He would have to choose his words very carefully, to lead astray and thus deceive without actually uttering falsehood.
And he’d better begin with a prayer to the goddess, just in case. “Oh, Lady of the Forest,” he murmured, “forgive me …”
The Dragon Queen of Cormyr shut the garderobe door behind her and drew its bolt. That bolt—old, ornate, and heavy enough to stop a dozen Purple Dragons for a snarling breath or two—was one of the reasons this cold, gloomy, marble-lined garderobe was the queen’s favorite, of all such facilities in this wing of the palace. Not that she discussed her preferences with anyone.
In truth, she hated the garderobe’s tall, spider-haunted ceiling and hard seat. However, she really liked the other reason this room was her favored place of relief: the secret door in the wall right beside the seat, that opened right through the thick stone outer wall of the palace, into the rear of a tiny litter-yard hidden in the high-hedged depths of the Royal Gardens. A place where the cracked and leaning statues and urns of yesteryear stood crowded together, leaning against the palace walls for the birds to bespatter and the dead leaves of a hundred seasons to blow through. A labyrinth of discarded stone seats and bird-baths, all hidden away behind the oldest, most ruinous growhouse. In all the years Filfaeril had been visiting it, she’d never seen so much as an undergardener. She’d heard their voices from several growhouses away or on the far side of tall, impenetrable hedges, but none of them disturbed their queen here, or even knew of her presence.
And if she could trust the Blackstaff about the powers of the necklace she’d slid from an inner pocket and donned before slipping out the secret door, neither did Vangerdahast, or any other war wizard. She was temporarily invisible to all their spells and scryings.
She strode a few soft paces to a particular cracked stone seat, settled herself on it in a graceful shifting of skirts, and laid her hand on the head of a reclining stone lion that flanked the seat, half-lost to view in weeds.
Almost immediately Filfaeril felt a familiar stirring tingling under her hand, and from half Faerûn away Khelben Arunsun’s voice spoke in her mind.
Yes, Lady of Cormyr?
“Word has come to me of two wizards in the north of the realm I’d fain know more about. Who is Amanthan of Arabel?”
A good man. One of my apprentices, not so long ago. Too shy and kind to ever be a leader, or have much to do with power or politics around him. He’ll keep behind his high walls and work on spells for as long as Faerûn lets him.
“Right. Who’s Whisper?”
A Zhentarim who dwells in hiding underground, in the Stonelands. He has wits, ambition, and malice, but his Art is middling at best. He’s charged with overseeing Zhent-controlled trade through your realm and past it to the north, through the Stonelands and Anauroch. Vangerdahast is aware of him, and your Wizards of War keep rather inattentive watch over him. He bears watching, of course.
“Of course. As do we all.”
Indeed, Lady. As do we all.
Horaundoon had wasted most of the morning waiting for a wagon-merchant in a sufficient hurry to get to Arabel that he’d not stay over in Waymoot, nor turn at Dhedluk down to Immersea, and buck flatter and safer country but much heavier traffic to take Calantar’s Way from there to Immersea.
However, one had come at last, in the person of Peraegh Omliskur, dealer in scents and sundries. It seemed a new fragrance was all the rage among wealthy would-be-noble ladies in Cormyr, and the matriarchs of Arabel wanted to be as enraged as everyone else. More than that: no lady can ever have enough silk scanties, facepaints, and nailbright, and Omliskur had been waiting for a valuable cargo to pay the costs of running another wagon or two of such luxuries—pardon, necessities—north. That was why he was here now, his great dray-horses breathless and blown, enriching the horsebreeder Tirin by selling his drays at a loss and paying top coin for twice as many, so as to make lighter, swifter work of a fast haul through Eveningstar.
Not that the Zhentarim had waited in idleness. With the help of the hargaunt, Horaundoon had spent the morning in the shape of a wrinkled old man, quaveringly seeking a means of getting to Arabel “by way of the House of the Morning in Eveningstar, where I must pray at the grave of my grandmother, the Morninglord keep her!” He offered coins enough to more than make up what the wagon-merchant Omliskur had lost on the horses, so that wheezing worthy was delighted to take him as far as Eveningstar—and give him privacy in a crowded-with-coffers, rocking and pitching wagon, besides.
Horaundoon was crouched among strongchests and carry-coffers, hunched over to avoid having his skull split by the high stacks as their tiedown straps groaned and stretched at every bump and y
aw, casting the only sort of scrying spell he dared try with the war wizards doubtless peering at the Swords constantly with their own spells.
Rather than try to find and watch the adventurers, riding on the road ahead of him, he’d set about watching a spot on the road he knew, waiting for them to reach it.
And here they were now, riding right into his view! He—
Around them, rainbow hues swirled.
Horaundoon cursed and banished his spell in an instant. Someone was watching the Swords from afar, and someone else was using magic to watch for anyone trying to scry them. That someone had become aware of Horaundoon’s scrutiny, but hopefully had lacked the time to trace it or identify him.
Hopefully.
“To Eveningstar,” he growled. Restlessly, the hargaunt shifted across his face, literally making his skin crawl.
Horaundoon sighed and settled down to, ahem, enjoy the long, bumpy ride to Dhedluk. Then on to Eveningstar, without using a trace of magic along the way.
And as usual, the hargaunt was starting to itch.
The sun was starting to lower in the west, near the end of a day later, when the Swords of Eveningstar reached the little bridge that marked the edge of Eveningstar, where a lone roadguard stood under a lantern, challenging all travelers.
“Swords of Eveningstar?” that Purple Dragon asked, peering up past the noseguard of his old-fashioned helm at the riders in the road. “Is this all of you?”
Bey Freemantle, who happened to be closest, was a man of few words, but Agannor smilingly bowed in his saddle and assured the guard that before him were indeed all the Swords of Eveningstar Faerûn had ever held.
“Right,” the guard replied. “Go you right along this road, and tie your mounts up at Tessaril’s tower. Stone building, big porch along the front, rises to the closest thing to a tower Eveningstar has—until you get to the temple, that is. The tower’s two buildings this side of the Tankard, that’s the Lonesome Tankard Inn, standing in the corner where this road meets, and ends at, the High Road ’twixt Tyrluk and Arabel. Go nowhere else, for the Lady Lord of Eveningstar has pronounced summons on you.”
Swords of Eveningstar Page 17
