Narantha? Lady? Hear you me? A kindly war wizard has cast a spell to let me mindspeak you.
Florin! Lord of my love, how fare you? I miss you!
And I you. I fare very well, but cannot speak long, and of course have no privacy for our speaking. So I’d just like to say this: I’ve just spoken with someone special to all Cormyreans, and learned about your superb service to the king. Nantha, I’m so proud of you. All the realm should be thanking you, and yet can never know what you’re doing, but I must thank you. And pray you keep safe. And thank you again!
Oh, Florin.
Narantha’s flood of affection was like a warm rush, so strong that it left Horaundoon’s mouth dry. He blinked; Bane and Mystra, he was squirming in his chair!
His influence over Narantha via the mindworm in her head was well-nigh perfect! He felt delight to match Narantha’s own, now surging through him …
Gods, this was hard work. Pleasant, thanks to this wench’s emotions, but—best ended now.
Narantha, the wizard wilts. I must go. I love you.
And I you, Florin. And I, you!
Horaundoon broke the link and found himself drenched with sweat, the hargaunt rippling and quivering across his face. He smiled and reached for his glass.
The success of his deception and the efficacy of his control were both worth toasting.
“And,” he told the hargaunt triumphantly, “while we’re gloating anyhail, it will soon be time to send the oh-so-handsome Florin to the noble bedchambers of Arabel, and start subverting some noble ladies, too!”
Rhalseer’s was a much cheaper place to live than any inn, but it was a lowcoin Arabellan rooming house.
Which meant it was rather bare, none too clean, as cold inside as the wind was outside, and had been down-at-heels to start with. Shutters covered windows that had never known glass, and boards creaked underfoot.
They were creaking now, as Florin marched across the sagging upper floor and angrily flung open the door of the chamber shared by the female Swords.
Pennae, barefoot and wearing breeches and dethma, was sitting cross-legged by the lone open window, where the light was strongest, sewing up a long tear in the sleeve of her leather jerkin. She looked up at Florin, saw his expression, and sighed.
“Close the door, Florin. If you’ve come to shout at me, we’d probably prefer the rest of Rhalseer’s lodgers not to hear every last word.”
Florin reached out and closed the door. Then he strode across the room, sat down beside Pennae, and said to the wall, “I’ll try not to shout. D’you know how foolish you’re being?”
Pennae gave him a lifted eyebrow. “By indulging in a little merry thieving?”
“Yes,” Florin snarled, “just that. By indulging in a little merry thieving.”
“Lad,” Pennae asked, “how heavy is your purse?”
“That’s not the point—”
“Ah, but it is. We’ll starve and freeze come winter, if we haven’t amassed enough coin for a fire in the grates of both these rooms, and Rhalseer’s rent, and food to fill our bellies. The king gave us a charter, but no coins to live on—and thus far, our grand adventures haven’t won us much more than a handful.”
“Arabel’s expensive,” Florin said, “but we shouldn’t be here at all.”
Pennae laid aside her sewing and put a hand on the forester’s arm. “We’re not going back to Eveningstar,” she told him. “Not now. Not with Tessaril watching us with the help of every war wizard she wants to call on—and a number of men with crossbows all too eager to shoot holes through us all; men we don’t even know the names and faces of, to strike at before they take us down. Oh, no. In Arabel we’re safely away from making trouble in the heart of Cormyr, and besmirching the reputation of a certain young Lady Crownsilver—don’t blush, Florin; I know you were forbearing nobility itself toward her, but you must admit she was smitten with you—so the king can safely forget about us.”
“But I—”
“You’re smitten with guilt that we’re not dying in the Haunted Halls, to please the king. You’re also—forgive me, lad, but we can all see it—as restless as a boar come rutting season, stuck here in this city without trees, thornvines, and small furry things everywhere underfoot, scurrying to and fro. If you want to return to Eveningstar, tell me this: how? Are we to walk, with no coin for food, drink, or shelter, and our horses back in Eveningstar? We haven’t enough to pay a carter to share an open cart with his turnips, by all the helpful gods!”
Florin stared into her eyes, anger still alive in his own—then shook his head, looked away, and said, “You have the right of it, as always. ’Tis just … this is not what I dreamed of, when wanting to be an adventurer!”
“Oh?” Pennae asked, casually flipping up her dethma to reveal a rope of coins bound around her ribs. She tapped a tricrown, amid a long row of golden lions. Florin, who was trying to look away and failing, leaned forward to peer at it in spite of himself.
“Aye,” Pennae said dryly, “a tricrown. Never seen one before?”
Florin flushed and quickly looked away. “No,” he said shortly. “Never. But those coins right there are enough to get us back to Eve—”
“No,” the thief told him. “Unless,” she added slyly, “you think you can seize them from me.”
Florin looked back at her, scarlet to the tips of his ears, and mumbled, “You know I’ll not try any such thing. I—”
Pennae put her thumbs under the coin-rope, and thrust it toward him. “Take a good look, lad, before you start flapping your jaws abou—”
The door opened, to reveal Doust and Semoor. Their faces lit up.
“Well, now, valiant hero of the Battle of Hunter’s Hollow,” Semoor said, “it seems we arrived just in time to share in whatever Ladylass Durshavin’s offering! Share now, there’s a good lad!”
Still proffering her treasures in her cupped hands, Pennae smiled at Florin. “And then, of course, there’s the pleasant prospect of traveling all the way back to Eveningstar with Master Cleverjaws, Bright Servant of Lathander, here.”
She put her dethma back in place, took up her sewing again, and left Florin staring at her … then at the two priestlings … then back at her.
Doust took pity on him. “We’re here,” he explained, “to tell Pennae we loaned Vaerivval the gold, just as you suggested. He tried to offer us a coach as surety, rather th—”
“You didn’t take it?” Pennae asked.
“Nay, nay, sit easy, lass,” Semoor told her. “We have the deed to his share of the Touch, right here, to be surrendered only upon payment of our gold and another gold piece every tenday, or, ahem, ‘remaining part thereof.’ See? I can follow directions surprisingly well for a holy man.”
“Good dog,” Pennae said. “Be sure to give the deed to Islif, to put in her codpiece, the moment she’s back.”
“Her—? Give it to Islif why, exactly? ’Twas my gold, for the greatest part, and—”
“Oh, stop blustering, Semoor. Vaerivval saw you take the deed into your hand and put it into your pouch, did he not?”
“Uh, yes …”
“So he knows where to have the young snatchfingers he’ll undoubtedly hire retrieve it from. Wherefore ’tis time for you to carry this in your pouch instead. Only this, mind; give your coins to Doust to carry.”
“This” proved to be a folded scrap of rather dirty parchment with a snatch of someone’s woodcutting accounts on one side, and a sentence in Pennae’s hand on the other: “Don’t expect to keep our gold this way, Vaerivval.”
Slowly, Semoor started to chuckle. Doust nodded and smiled—and so did Florin, when the note was shown to him.
“You’re a witch,” he said to Pennae almost fondly, watching her finish sewing and bite off the thread. “You have us all dancing to your tune.”
She gave him a wink. “You mean to say I’m a minstrel, lad. Drinks are my treat at the Barrel tonight. Oh, and expect this minstrel’s thefts to grow bolder. Mere shady investments
with lone shopkeepers won’t bring us enough coin—and we dare not deal with larger schemers.”
“The Black Barrel, then, at dusk?” Semoor asked.
Pennae nodded. “Don’t be sneaking out to the cheese shop, Master Wolftooth. You’ve got just time to get our forester here out the south gate and back in again before they close it.”
“What? Why would we rush to do that?”
“To show him a tree, of course.”
Chapter 20
THEIR FANGS WANT BLOOD
Guard yourselves well, all, for the vipers are out, and their fangs want blood.
The character Borstil Roaring,
in the first act of
Dooms of the Dragon
A play by Athalamdur Durstone
published in the Year of the Highmantle
The Lady Jalassa Crownsilver,” the aging steward announced with precise dignity, ushering the last of the three noble guests into the Turret Room.
Lady Amdranna Greenmantle inclined her head to him imperiously. “My thanks, Thaerond. You may now withdraw from the North Tower and wait in the entryhall until we ring for your presence. No one is to enter the tower—or the hall itself, for that matter, until I say otherwise.”
“Very good, my lady,” the steward replied, bowing low and backing out of the room. They heard him close the doors, and the doors of the passage in the distance beyond.
“Is he reliable?” Lady Muscalian asked.
“Completely.” Lady Greenmantle handed her a decanter and a tallglass. “I let him pleasure me once, and he hungers to do so again. Fulfillments of special orders I reward with special favors.”
“He looks about sevent—” Lady Yellander started to say, then blushed and went silent as Lady Muscalian gave her a glare as chill as the winter winds.
Imruae Muscalian had seen somewhat more than eighty winters, and had no hair left to call her own. Her long lustrous black mane outshone Rharaundra Yellander’s own, but was said to owe more to the manes of certain palfreys than the scalps of servants. Most noble matrons of Waterdeep had a wig or two, if only to thrill their husbands on rare nights with memories of long ago moonlit adventures with other women, but “Old Shrew” Muscalian was the only person Jalassa Crownsilver knew who owned—and always wore—a wig-mask.
It was a thing crafted in Sembia by locksmiths and wizards, a metal band that screwed tightly to Imruae Muscalian’s skull. That was unusual enough, but it did more than bore into the head of its wearer: its fore-edge was adorned with a row of little claws that pulled the wrinkled skin of her face tight before all the powder was dusted on by her three hard-working maids. Some said Imruae Muscalian’s shrewishness was due to years of the barbed cut-and-thrust of Suzailan high society; others said it was rooted in the everpresent headache her wig-mask gave her. Whatever the cause, stooped, birdlike, sharp-boned Lady Muscalian seldom engaged in converse without making dry, nasty comments.
By contrast, Lady Rharaundra Yellander had seen perhaps forty winters, and was tall, jet-haired, statuesque, and briskly cutting-tongued when she wasn’t being loftily urbane.
Their hostess, Lady Amdranna Greenmantle, seemed altogether more approachable. She was a shorter, plumper honey-blonde of lush charms, sleek wit, and warm, welcoming beauty.
All three women were looking to Jalassa for guidance.
She gave it to them, as briskly as was her wont.
“Your house wizard?”
Lady Greenmantle smiled. “Safely on the way to Marsember, riding alongside my husband. To ensure that House Greenmantle does nothing too stupid—or treasonous—in our dealings with fleet owners.”
“You should have bought your own boats, long ago—” Lady Yellander began.
“Ships, dear. They’re called ships.” Lady Muscalian was as peevish as ever. “And we can talk about them another time. Jalassa’s here and by the look in her eye, ’tis time to thrust hard into the vitals of the Crown of Cormyr at last!”
“Hush, Imruae,” Jalassa hissed. “Until you all put on these necklaces, my warding protects only me from war wizard spying!”
“Oh, but Jalassa, we’re all wearing ward-baubles—the best that coins can buy! Really, I—”
“Mine, I’m certain of. Yours could be anything, sold to you by any trickster—even Vangerdahast himself, in a spell-spun disguise! And even good wards can clash with each other, leaving gaps a war wizard can find from afar. Take yours off, throw them on yonder couch, and put these on!”
Three hands reached eagerly for the plain silvery chains she held forth. Jalassa watched a ring on her hand. When its changing glow showed her all of the wards were linked and working, she smiled, took up the decanter and tallglass Amdranna had put in front of her, and leaned forward.
“Yes, ladies, the time has come at last!”
She let them cheer and wave their glasses, then added, “As you know, I have schemed against the Crown of Cormyr for years, seeking to free our fair realm from the decadent, lust-brained Obarskyrs and the sinister war wizards who have made the foolish Obarskyrs their toadies—mages who truly rule the land without having the slightest right to do so. Since I recruited you, those I’ve been working with have covertly tested all of you, several times—”
There were stiffenings of alarm and looks of dismay, which Jalassa smilingly waved away.
“Fear not, ladies; none of you have been found wanting. My superiors have gone so far as to promise me that I and all of you shall be given positions of importance in the governance of Cormyr after the Obarskyrs and the wizards who own them are gone. Provided, that is, that we carry out certain tasks.”
“Tasks?”
Three faces were thrust forward, eyes blazing into hers.
Jalassa smiled thinly. “It is work of a certain … delicacy, that I know—for your tongues have told me so, repeatedly, in our gossip together—we are all suited for. And in doing it, we will do much to free Cormyr!”
“Yes?” Lady Greenmantle blurted out, unable to wait longer.
Jalassa examined her freshly painted nails, then addressed her remarks to them. “Most war wizards are men—and all men can be seduced, one way or another.”
“Yes?” It was Lady Yellander’s turn, this time, and the delight in her voice made it clear she’d guessed just what was coming.
Jalassa’s smile broadened. “We shall each contrive to be alone with a certain senior war wizard. These men have been chosen because they are suitable, and because they are known to favor older women of sophistication and power. We shall bring about ‘accidents’ that befall them in private. Harming their heads is best. Topples down stairs or over battlements, being underneath falling statues … that sort of thing. To maim or preferably slay—but ’tis vital that no magic nor any overtly hostile acts on our part be involved, so if our unfortunate old war wizards happen to survive, they won’t suspect we meant them any ill.”
Jalassa knew her fellow conspirators. Bored, jaded, and spiteful, they erupted not with scandalized fury or misgivings, but with savagely eager glee.
Even Lady Muscalian had nothing sneering or belittling to say. What she did was lick her wrinkled lips and hiss, “Who and when?”
Even Jalassa knew not that the ward-necklaces were shields against all but one watching wizard.
To that smiling watcher, they were eyes and ears.
It was why he was smiling, despite the annoying singings clashing and ringing around him: the collective din of the strongest ward-spells he knew how to craft, which were now cloaking the meeting in the Turret Room of Greenmantle Hall far better than the necklaces alone could.
The noblewomen could not help but be caught, of course, and removed. That had become desirable. It was past time to be rid of them and their meddlings. He’d been careful that no link even the brightest mage might follow stretched from him to Jalassa Crownsilver. So he was safe.
The four would probably fail, in the main. Yet any harm they managed was helpful. Their targets were the very war wizards who by in
clination or active investigation stood closest to uncovering this watching wizard, whether they knew it or not.
Ah, such spite, ladies. You are the perfect dupes.
As he toyed with his favorite ring, tracing the smooth curves of its unicorn head, the watching wizard’s smile grew.
It shone even brighter a breath or two later, when Jalassa so precisely relayed the task he’d given her to her fellow lady traitors.
Precisely, that is, save for one small omission. Somehow Jalassa Crownsilver neglected to tell her eager audience that her mysterious superiors based in Westgate—for so Jalassa believed “them” to be, never knowing who she was truly dealing with—had promised her two thousand rubies, all of them larger than her thumb, if she successfully carried out all of the killings.
But then, perhaps Lady Crownsilver was smarter than he’d judged her to be. Perhaps she knew the rubies did not exist, or that neither she nor her three conspirators would live long enough to collect them.
Perhaps she even thought the paltry magic items she’d so carefully collected down the years would safely whisk her away to a far country, to dwell out her days under another name, safe from any vengeful spell that could reach out to her from Cormyr.
Now, that would be amusing.
There was nowhere in Rhalseer’s to hide coins. Every second floorboard could be easily pulled up—they were riddled with dry rot—and every lodger knew it. The ceilings were hardly better, and trying to make holes in the walls was more likely to bring the place down on an energetic thief’s head than craft a hiding place.
Now that it was full dark and Dragons on the battlements of the citadel and along the city wall couldn’t notice her at a casual glance, Pennae was up on the crumbling slate-shingled roofs of Palaceside Arabel, seeking to lash her precious bundle in the right sort of angle between chimneys, and cover it with the bird dropping-infested remnants of old birds’ nests she carried in the small sack at her belt.
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