There came the briefest of blue flashes—again—and the passage was suddenly empty of all trace of Florin Falconhand.
“Oh, ye gods most marvelous,” Jhessail cursed. “Now what?”
Islif shrugged. “None of us live forever,” she said, striding forward with her sword ready. “Adventure, remember?” She slid her sword deftly into the niche, and vanished in an instant.
Doust shrugged, fumbled forth his belt knife, and followed suit. Then Martess and Bey, who laconically handed his lantern to Jhessail.
With various shrugs, in their own manners, every one of the Swords followed, leaving the passage in the Haunted Halls dark and empty again.
Jhessail wrinkled her nose and blinked into many wet reflections of lamplight. “It stinks,” she murmured, looking around her at her fellow Swords, who were crowded together in an alleyway, peering in all directions and looking just as lost as she was. “Where are we?”
The alley reeked of rotting refuse and chamberpots. The lamplight was coming from a cobbled street the alley opened out into, a street walled in by tall, narrow stone buildings on all sides, where wagons were rumbling through the night.
Folk were trudging purposefully everywhere, close-cloaked against the light rain, and Pennae was flattened against the alley wall, beside its mouth, gesturing frantically to her fellow Swords to get over to the wall beside her and quiet down.
Looking right down the alley and across the street beyond, Jhessail found herself gazing into the hard stares of a trio of Purple Dragons, who were nodding together as they watched the Swords, suspicion written large on their tight lips, narrowed eyes, and set jaws.
As she watched, they seemed to reach some sort of agreement. One hurried off, his boots splashing through puddles. The other two stayed right where they were, glaring at the Swords.
Doust stepped away from the wall, Semoor inevitably trailing by his elbow, and strode right out of the alley, ignoring Pennae’s hissed warnings.
The Swords all watched, Agannor starting to grin openly, as the two priestlings marched right across the street to the two Purple Dragons.
Giving those still in the alley a stern ‘stay here’ hand signal, Islif started after Doust and Semoor, sheathing her blade. Then she changed her mind and spun around to stop her fellow Swords from spilling across the street. Pennae ducked past her, but the rest crowded forward, leaning over Islif’s outstretched arms to best hear what befell, but making no move to win past her.
They found the street busy in both directions with stopped wagons involved in the busy loading and unloading of crates, coffers, and kegs to and from various shops.
Across that cobbled way, the holiest of the Swords reached the unsmiling soldiers.
“Well met, this fair even,” Doust said with a bright smile. “We’ve just been brought here by the favor of the goddess Tymora—”
“Ahem,” Semoor interrupted, “and the magical might of the bright Morninglord Lathander.”
“—and though we know full well by your very presence, stalwarts, that we stand yet in Cormyr, we are sadly unaware of what city this is. Ah, around us. Here.”
The flat stares of the Purple Dragons had been burning holes in the smiling priestlings during their approach, and went right on doing so in the silence Doust gave them, in which to reply. Neither Dragon said a word.
Smile wavering, Doust tried again. “We all of us find our surroundings unfamiliar, and would very much like to know where we are. So, could you tell us? Please?”
“You’re drunk, that’s what you are,” the tall Purple Dragon growled.
“Or playing us for fools,” the other said. “Get gone with you!”
“I … could you at least tell me where the local temple of Tymora is?”
“If you’re truly favored of Tymora, just start walking,” the first Dragon sneered, “an’ you’ll be sure to find it, hey?”
“This,” Semoor said, “is less than good.” He put a hand on Doust’s arm. “Fellow priest, we should tarry no more talking with these impostors. We can tell Azoun of them, and he’ll see that they’re rooted out. Or rather, Vangey’s pet war wizards will.”
The Dragons blinked at him. Then their eyes narrowed.
“Impostors?” the tall one snarled.
“Speaking slightingly of the king?” the shorter, stouter one growled. Their hands went to their sword hilts in unison, and they seemed to loom forward over the two Swords.
“Just why,” the tall Dragon asked Semoor, jaw jutting angrily, “d’you call us ‘impostors’? Hey?”
Semoor spread his hands, looking earnest and eagerly helpful. “Look you, sir, no true Purple Dragon would answer a citizen of Cormyr so—and even less, a priest of Lathander. Still less, two priests, both of whom personally stand in the high regard of the king.”
He shrugged, almost mournfully. “Wherefore I can only conclude that you’re impostors. Or, just perhaps, high-ranking, veteran Dragons, playing a game of words to flush out enemies of the state, who have merely mistaken us for such.”
The two Dragons looked at each other, their faces sagging a bit.
“Oh, great,” the stout Dragon said sourly.
The tall Dragon looked at Doust, then at Semoor, before he asked the priest of Lathander reluctantly, “So you’re friends of the king? Is that it?”
“The king himself poured me wine—at his table—less than a tenday ago,” Semoor replied truthfully.
“Naed,” The tall Dragon muttered. “Pray accept our apologies, holy lords. When we saw you come through yon way, we were sure you must be Zhents, an’ were treating you accordingly.”
“Zhents? The dark wizards of Zhentil Keep?” Doust managed to look shocked. “They use, uh, ‘yon way’ often enough that you keep watch over it?”
“Lord, they do. That’s why we’re standing here, in the rain an’ all: to keep watch down that alley. Where all your friends are.” The tall Dragon squinted. “Any wizards among ’em, anyhail?”
“Yes,” Doust said reluctantly—at the same moment as Semoor said, “No.”
The Dragons frowned in unison, patting their sword hilts, before the stout Dragon said with heavy sarcasm, “So, now, which is it? Have you mages among you—or not?”
Doust put his foot down hard on Semoor’s instep, and said firmly, “We have two young lasses among us who have just learned to cast their first spells. To me, that makes them mages. Obviously, to my fellow servant of the divine here, it does not. Look you at the one with flame-orange hair? And the dark-haired one standing beside her? Those are the two we’re speaking of. Look they like sinister Zhent wizards to you?”
The stout Dragon’s smile, as he shook his head, was almost a leer.
The tall Dragon, however, was frowning. “I’m more concerned with the one in black,” he said—then blinked. “Hoy! Where’d she go?”
Semoor leaned close. “Shush! She’s a highknight, and doesn’t take it kindly if any of us so much as looks at her sidewise. If you go hollering after her, there’s no telling what she’ll do!”
“And if you lay a hand on her,” Doust added, “there’s no telling what the king will do. Seeing as how he likes to be the only one who—ahem—lays hands on her.”
“Arntarmar!” The tall Dragon hissed feelingly.
Wincing, the stout Dragon nodded, growling, “Talandor!”
Oaths of Tempus. As might be expected of Purple Dragons.
“So, men of the Wargod and of the Great Dragon who rules this land so gloriously,” Semoor asked, his face and voice perfectly serious, “what city is this?”
Both men blinked at him. “Arabel,” Tall Dragon said. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Semoor could not resist saying, pique clear in his voice.
The stout Dragon’s face started to darken, and Doust hastily spoke up. “You’ve been most helpful to us, stalwarts of the king, and we shall remember you in our prayers this night, to Tymora—”
“And Lathander!” Semoor put in.
>
“—after we report to the Lady Lord of Arabel, as Az—as the king asked us to,” Doust concluded grandly. He turned back to face the alley and pointed at what was just visible over the roofs of the buildings there, flickering in the rain-filled night as sodden banners flapped half-heartedly: storm lanterns atop the battlements of tall, frowning fortress towers. “Yonder is the citadel, yes?”
The Dragons both nodded, and the tall Dragon pointed and spoke: “An’ the palace where you’ll find her stands just in front of it. The temple you seek, the Lady’s House, is the second building north of the citadel, going along the west wall. Looks like a grand house, all cone-shingled turrets, five balconies high.”
“Well met and better parted,” Doust said, bowing his head to them with folded hands. “The Luck of the Lady be upon you, and shine back from you to please the Lord of Battles himself.”
“And the rosy glow of Lathander also, that Holy Tempus be most richly pleased,” Semoor added glibly, turning away before the two Dragons could see him rolling his eyes.
Dodging rumbling carts, they returned to the alley, where Islif greeted them grimly, “Swagger not too proudly, you two. Remember that Dragon we saw hurrying off? He went to report to someone—probably his duty commander. And who stands beside every duty commander?”
“A war wizard to mind him,” Florin said. “So we’re being watched—unless we can ‘disappear’ very quickly.”
“So let’s move!” Agannor growled.
“Wait!” Florin snapped. “Where’s Pennae?”
“Here,” came her voice, from the shadows down the alley. “I like to see where alleys lead to—in case I have to hurry that way. This one takes us past a very well guarded warehouse, into the heart of this block and then out its far side, onto a street that in that direction leads to the local temple of Tymora. Oh, yes: this is Arabel.”
“We know,” Semoor said grandly. “Yon Purple Dragons told us.”
“Well,” Pennae observed in dry tones, “they do have orders to assist simpletons.”
“The Lady’s House,” Florin said. “Let’s get to it! I don’t want to be standing here a few breaths from now trying to bluff my way past a few sternly disapproving war wizards. They may well take the view that we’ve disobeyed the king’s commands just by coming here.”
“Well said,” Bey growled, shoving Semoor forward. “Hasten, hrast it!”
In a few breaths they were all trotting along the alley, heading away from the busy street and the two watching Purple Dragons. The warehouse was a gigantic, very new stone building bristling with hard-eyed armored men with loaded crossbows in their hands—Agannor shuddered involuntarily—and the Swords hurried past it, out onto a street of rich-looking shops. Under ornate awnings, all faced Arabel through fine glass windows, through which could be seen ornate lanterns, glittering wares, and smartly uniformed nightguards standing watchfully within.
Pennae led the Swords north, past shops selling fine silk gowns, masks, and gem-adorned boots, and several dazzling shops that contained only several guards each, standing amid all manner of gemstones that flashed and glimmered back reflections from the rain-soaked streets. The street soon ended in a moot with a wider, busier way, down which could be seen three grand, towering buildings.
The most distant, central one matched the Dragon’s description of the temple to Tymora—and reeling out of its tall, ornate double doors, as the Swords strode purposefully toward it, came a large man in robes and a weathercloak of rich blue: a priest of the luck goddess.
They could tell what he was by what bounced on his ample chest and belly at the end of a heavy neckchain: the largest silver coin they’d ever seen, as wide across as both of Florin’s hands, bearing the face of a smiling yet dignified Tymora, rendered in the old fashion.
The priest wearing it was somewhat younger. He looked to be an energetic forty summers old or so. Beneath unruly brown hair, his nose, jaws, and ears were all as overlarge as the coin; it looked as if the head of a giant rode human-sized shoulders. He also looked (flushed scarlet and drooling slightly), sounded (by his incoherently slurred bellows), and smelled (Jhessail winced at the reek of strong spiced wine, laced around the edges with spew) very drunk.
As tall as Florin, and long-limbed, he covered much of the cobbles as he came staggering, growling half-audible oaths and complaints through his scraggly mustache.
“Wors’ novice ever? Worst novice ever? I doan’ think so! Rabra—Rabbraha—Radrabryn was a killer an’ a thief, an’ I … I never killed anyone yet, a-purpose, at leas’ …”
He caught sight of Doust’s homemade Ladycoin and drew himself up to fix the Swords with piercing brown eyes. “Pilgrims, be ye? Hey?”
“Well,” Doust began, “not exactly …”
“Doan’ go in there! Fellow Ladysworn, stay away from the House this night! They’ve all gone crazed—crazed, I tell thee!”
“Crazed?”
“Crazed, or my name’s not R-Rathan Thentraver.” He hiccuped. “Which ’tis. So, they are. Y’see?”
“Ahh,” Semoor ventured, “you’re saying this isn’t the best time for us to visit the temple?”
“S’right. Not.” Rathan waggled a finger. “Go ’way. Come back ’morrow. Better then. Trus’ me.” Drawing his cloak around him, he lurched away.
Semoor smirked at Doust. “Well, if they all drink like that, you chose the right faith, of us two.”
Doust reddened. “I did not ‘choose’ the Lady,” he said. “She chose me. Appearing to me in my dreams, so strongly that … well …”
He waved his hand, as if to hurl away Semoor’s suggestion, and stared after the reeling priest. Beyond Rathan, he saw a Purple Dragon patrol approaching briskly out of the night, a robed and hooded man marching grimly in their midst. “Look you,” he said warningly.
“Another patrol yonder,” Pennae added, nodding down a different street. She peered in all directions, then pointed. “An inn! Hurry!”
“ ‘The Weary Knight’?” Agannor read aloud. “Lass, ’tis right across the street from the citadel—which is also the city jail! Are you trying to save the Dragons trouble?”
“In the back door, fast,” she snapped, “and straight through, out the front. The moment I open that door and start talking to guards, no one act anxious or in a hurry. I’ll be haughty, and will likely tell some very large lies, hear you?”
Semoor rolled his eyes. “Now why does that not surprise me?”
“Purple Dragons everywhere,” Jhessail murmured as they ran. “Doesn’t this city have a watch?”
Bey laughed. “Lass, Arabel’s rebelled so often that the Dragons are the watch, these days! Just as the Blue Dragons serve in Marsember, the other city that’s none too happy to be ruled by the Dragon Throne!”
Then they were at the inn’s back door. Pennae whirled, snatched Florin’s sword out of its sheath, and held it up solemnly before her, blade vertical. Assuming a stern look, she opened the door.
Two startled nightguards shoved themselves away from where they’d been lounging against the walls, grabbing for their weapons.
Pennae ignored them, both hands holding the sword out before her as she strode between them with slow, stately tread.
“Hoy!” one guard told her, skipping sideways to get in front of her so he could bar her way with his arm. “Hold!”
“Hold what?” Semoor inquired innocently.
“Sirrah, make way,” Pennae told the man. “We are pilgrims of Tempus, the Drawn Sword.”
“You’re what?” the other guard asked. “Well, you can’t all just come charging in here, after dark! This is—”
“One of Arabel’s best inns, I’ve heard,” Pennae said, “which is why we chose it. Make way, lest holy displeasure fall upon the Weary Knight! Make way!”
Uncertainly, the two guards did so. “Uh, the steward of the house can be found straight down this hall, in the front—”
“Thank you,” Pennae called back in firm dismissal, pacing on in
a stately manner, her sword held high.
Florin matched her gait, and so did Islif; the other Swords saw and did likewise.
Behind them all, the two nightguards traded looks, shrugged, and rolled their eyes. Truly, the strange-in-the-head guests came thick and fast, this time of year …
At the sound of the chime, Narantha Crownsilver put down her goblet of warmed zzar, rose, retied the sash of her gown, and went to the door.
It opened onto a smiling face.
“Uncle Lorneth,” she said in genuine pleasure, stepping back to let him in. “Zzar?”
“My thanks for your thoughtfulness, Ladylass, but I fear not. I’ve much clear-headed work still ahead of me this night.”
“Work I can help with?” Narantha asked wistfully.
Her uncle hugged her. “Ahh, would that Cormyr had a dozen like you! You’re doing the Crown great service!”
Narantha grinned at him. “If I go on doing it well enough, will there come a time when I’ll truly be told what I’m doing? How it fits in with greater plans to confound the foes of Cormyr? Learn some deep secrets?”
Uncle Lorneth’s face grew solemn, and he laid a warning finger across her lips. “Little one,” he murmured, “you already know several deep secrets. That I’m alive, for one thing.”
“Wha—do Mother and Father not know?”
“No, and they must not, yet, for fear they’ll tell ‘just a few close friends,’ and so warn certain folk who should not yet be warned. As for secrets, your mother and father have never known what you already know: that I’m among the most secret and highly placed agents of the Purple Dragon himself.”
Narantha smiled. “In a handful of days I’ve learned my own worth, found something useful to do—and drunk deep of adventure!” She raised her goblet in salute.
“Actually,” Lorneth Crownsilver said brightly, “I think you’ll find that’s zzar …”
Then he turned his back in a flash, in case her snort of laughter heralded the goblet being flung at him.
It did not. When he turned around again, the glass was empty and Narantha was poised over it, chin on hands, regarding him with bright and eager eyes. “So, my highly secret uncle, what’s my next task?”
Swords of Eveningstar Page 26
