She found just what she wanted on the roof of Hundar’s Fine Carpets, Perfumes, and Lanterns, and was able to secure and disguise her riches in a few hard-breathing moments. The rumblings of four passing slate-carts even raised enough echoing racket to cloak any small noises she made.
Then she stretched, catlike—it had been a long day—and crept to the edge of the roof to peer down. Her friends should be strolling out of the Barrel about now … yes, there they were, Florin turning to say something to Islif as they spilled out into the street … probably something about having a thief among the Swords who left early to do dark-work …
Then Pennae saw something more.
Something that had her tense and alert in an instant.
A gently sloping half-roof ran along the front of Hundar’s, a floor below her perch, and a man in smoky gray hostler’s leathers was lying full-length on it, cradling something in his hand that few hostlers would have carried casually at their belts: a handbow. Four more of the little hand crossbows—all cocked and loaded—were laid ready on the roof, arranged in an arc in front of the man’s hands. The man looked vaguely familiar … Ah: because he’d come into the Barrel earlier, for a lone drink at the bar, and had looked across the taproom at the Swords.
An assassin. Who was even now raising his bow, steadying the arm that held it with his other hand, taking aim—
Pennae had the knife that lived in her sleeve in her hand and was dropping heels-first over the edge of her roof, body angling back so she’d slump against Hundar’s uppermost windows and shove the hired slayer out toward a fall over the edge, rather than taking that tumble herself.
He’d have a backup—must look—find—
Indar Crauldreth heard something, twisted his head to look up, holding fire—and Florin Falconhand lived a little longer without a crossbow bolt buried fletchings-deep in his face. Indar’s neck was twisted when both of Pennae’s boots, with all her weight behind them, came crashing down on it.
The assassin bounced, writhing spasmodically and sending a crossbow bolt cracking away into the night, in the general direction of the rear of Ongluth’s Ropeworks. As Indar, his neck and throat crushed, made a sort of wet spewing sound, Pennae landed hard on her behind, grunting at the pain. The last despairing, unthinking thing Indar did was to try to get away, to spring …
Into oblivion. Over the edge, plummeting to the cobbles below. With Pennae’s left boot caught somewhere in his clothing, dragging her—
Pennae made a desperate, twisting lunge, and managed to pluck one of the handbows into her grasp as she went over the edge.
They crashed to the cobbles together, right in front of the astonished Swords, and Pennae, feeling bones break under her, slit the man’s throat out of sheer habit ere she rolled to her feet, looking wildly around at the rooftops.
“Scatter!” she spat at her fellow adventurers. “There’s sure to be—”
Even as the words left her lips, she caught sight of what she was seeking: a small man in the shadows behind the Barrel, balancing a full-sized crossbow on some crates, aiming—
Pennae shouted wordless alarm as she raised her handbow and fired.
Fired nothing. The string hummed and writhed uselessly; the bolt had fallen out during her tumble.
The second slayer’s crossbow cracked, deep and loud, and a war-quarrel capable of tearing a hole through a man came humming hungrily at the Swords.
Pennae was already sprinting at the man, knowing she was too late, and hoping—
There was only one Sword anywhere near the path of the quarrel, and he was a tired forester who’d recently downed two large drinks. A forester who seldom hesitated in battle, and thought nothing of hurling himself face-first at hard, dirty cobbles.
Florin dived and rolled. The quarrel passed harmlessly through where he’d been, streaking across the street to smack deep into one of the ornate window frames adorning the turreted mansion of the wealthy local landlord and sundries merchant Kraliqh.
Whose servants heard nothing—or affected not to—as Swords shouted, weapons singing out of their sheaths and scabbards and into their hands, and a hard-running Pennae saw the hired slayer let the bow fall as he turned to flee.
Bey’s hurled dagger flashed past her to bite deep into the back of the man’s neck. He fell, as heavily as a full, wet grainsack, groaned once, and lay still.
When they turned him over, his eyes were staring at nothing, and the dagger was protruding bloodily from his throat.
“Let’s get gone,” Bey snarled, jerking his blade free. “I don’t want to spend all night explaining to suspicious Dragons why we butchered two fine upstanding citizens of Arabel in the street.”
Pennae whirled and called, “Move! To our rooms, like the very wind!”
The Swords moved.
The war wizard came up the trail stealthily, wand ready in one hand and dagger in the other—and at his every move tiny motes of light winked, sparkled, and faded.
Maglor’s lip curled. A shielding spell of some sort, to keep the mage oh-so-safe against spells, arrows—and swords, too, no doubt.
Brave men, wizards were, these days.
The cleft between the two rocks gave the apothecary a limited view, but he could see his trap well enough. Three of his mixing bowls, the cups that had held the two powders and the third he’d combined them in … and the glowing symbol he’d made, once the mixed powders had begun their glow.
Wizards can never resist magical-looking symbols.
This one came cautiously to the edge of the old campsite and peered warily around into the deepening night-gloom. The symbol—a thing of circles, arcs, squiggles that looked like writing, and similar nonsense, a mere fancy Maglor had gone on drawing until the powder had run out—glowed at the mage’s feet, bright and impressive.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Maglor crouched, watching.
The wizard looked around, long and hard—and his eyes fixed on the trap itself: a rock, six or so paces from the symbol, lying on the ground. It was covered in glowing fingerprints, where Maglor had picked it up with the glow-powder still thick on his hands, and set it down again. Atop a piece of parchment.
Wizards can never resist pieces of parchment.
The war wizard stalked forward, carefully keeping to the edge of the trees, looking around often for signs of movement, and peering the rest of the time at the ground in front of his boots.
The night was almost still, and Maglor kept his breathing as shallow and quiet as possible, the six large, sharp stones arrayed in front of him for throwing. He hoped he’d not have to face this hound’s spells.
The war wizard had been snooping around Eveningstar for days now, obviously under orders to seek out lawbreakers and conspirators. Zhentarim, for instance. And suspicious local apothecaries, who might well concoct poisons. Malbrand—that was his name—had spent the better part of a day poking into simmering concoctions and peering at the fading labels on Maglor’s vials, asking oh-so-casual questions about the uses of this and who’d ordered that.
He’d hinted heavily that Vangerdahast and every mage who worked with him knew all about Maglor’s Zhent loyalties, and were just waiting for some Brotherhood mage of importance to visit before swooping down to capture, torture, maim, and slay the apothecary of Eveningstar and his guest. For why butcher one, when two could be had by using the one as bait?
Why, indeed? But let us see, now, what bait tastes best …
Maglor held his breath. The wizard was much nearer, only a few paces from the rocks where Maglor was hiding. And he was stopping just above the rock pinning down the parchment.
Stopping, and squatting down over it, he peered all around, listening long and hard.
Silence. Stars glimmered, no breeze stirred … here on the edge of the high pasture overlooking the mouth of Starwater Gorge, high above Eveningstar, the night continued to pass, uncaring.
Abruptly Malbrand turned back to the rock, pushed it aside with his dagger, and sprang away to
avoid any eruption, striking snake, or—
The stone rolled over, revealing more glowing writing: also nonsense, but small and close-packed, intricate nonsense. The war wizard peered at it, then picked it up to look at it more closely.
Still holding his breath, Maglor smiled in relief and satisfaction. The man had doomed himself.
Malbrand took up the parchment in his other hand and turned it over.
Which meant he was now, in the glow of the rock still in his other hand, reading the words Maglor had written there:
Die at the hands of one who has outwitted you all along, War Wizard fool. Maglor murders you.
The war wizard’s head came up sharply. Then he got to his feet—or tried to. Halfway up his limbs started to tremble and failed him, leaving Marbrand to topple helplessly onto his face in the trodden earth and old ashes.
The same poison was thick on the rock and on the parchment, and to someone who hadn’t imbibed the antidote, touching either meant death.
There was enough hardiclaw on either to slay a dozen war wizards.
The paralysis would have reached Malbrand’s lungs already, slowly suffocating him—but Maglor had gathered the stones to hurl, and he wanted to use them.
They thudded into the helpless mage’s head and shoulders with satisfying force; when he was done, the back of Malbrand’s head was far less shapely than before.
Chuckling, Maglor bent to pick up his satchel and the largest basin he owned.
It would take a lot of the concoction he’d have to mix now to dissolve the wizard’s body, and he might as well get started.
Just as soon as he’d harvested the eyes, tongue, brain, and heart, of course.
The door banged shut behind Doust, and Pennae reached out of the gloom by the wall to hand him the door-bar. He helped her to settle it into its cradles, puffing from the haste of his run, and look up at her to gasp, “What I … want to know … is how you knew to look for a second killer.”
“Good hired slayers work in pairs,” Pennae gasped in reply as they clung to the railings in Rhalseer’s unlit back stairwell together, trying to catch their breath.
“Oh?” Semoor looked shaken. “And how is it you know that?”
Pennae, still panting hard, stared at him without saying a word.
All around her, hard-breathing Swords waited.
For a reply that never came.
When it became clear she would say no more, Florin observed, from beside her, “I don’t believe you’ve ever told us anything specific about what you’ve done in your life, up until we met in Waymoot.”
She gave him a level look and said flatly, “No. I don’t believe I have.”
“It’s been a full tenday since Indar Crauldreth tried for them and failed. Are these Swords still looking for hired slayers around every corner and inside every shadow?”
“No,” the best of Varandrar’s spies replied. “They did for five or six nights, yes, but they’re young, and still think themselves nigh-invincible. Even the gravest of warnings fades fast at that age.”
“I remember,” Varandrar said. “My youth wasn’t all that many years ago, whitebeard!”
“Your words are heard and heeded, Lord,” Drathar replied.
Varandrar almost chuckled. Most Brotherhood mages he’d met were cruel, humorless men, only too eager to slay or maim underlings who so much as looked at them askance. They’d not have been able to coax a tenth of the loyalty out of any band of spies that Varandrar had managed to foster in his men.
For that reason, Varandrar, lacking the slightest ability to craft spells or even feel most magic, made money fist-over-gauntlet for the Zhentarim in Arabel, where wizards of higher rank and much higher opinions of themselves had met with swift disaster.
“Does anyone know who hired Crauldeth, anyhail?”
“No, Lord. Or rather, there are the usual twoscore wild rumors, none of them backed by much of anything.”
“And have the Swords crossed any of our men or doings?”
“No, Lord. The one called Florin—with the aid of the woman Islif Lurelake and the novice of Tymora, Doust Sulwood—is keeping them well-behaved and seeking work. Not that they’ve found any, yet. A few merchants need warehouses or their own bodies guarded, but they haven’t happened to meet with these adventurers yet. The Dragons are suspicious of them, of course, and the regular patrols are watching them, but the stalwarts have put only a few coin-hire lads to tailing the Swords thus far, rather than raising an alarm. They’re mindful of the fresh ink on the royal charter, I’d say; no one wants to be too quick to show the king he’s been a fool.”
Varandrar did chuckle, this time. “You say this Florin is keeping his fellow Swords in line; what then of the overbold thieving that drew your eye in the first place? Are these Swords learning caution, or—?”
“Ah. Aye. The lone exception to their good behavior is a lass hight Alura Durshavin, whom they call ‘Pennae.’ A thief of some daring, who’s thus far confined herself to emptying merchants’ bedchamber coffers and snatching the occasional haunch of roast boar, but seems to have an eye for larger and larger prizes as the days pass. So circumspect are the Swords that the Dragons haven’t yet connected them with the thefts—but if she goes on snatching like this, half Arabel is going to be looking for her, and when uproars start, outlanders tend to get blamed.”
“True. Well enough. It seems you have this well in hand, an—”
Varandrar stiffened, and as his speech faltered, his eyes momentarily rolled up in his head.
Drathar drew back in alarm, making the swift ‘Mask be with me’ gesture to ward off fell magic or peril—but by the time he’d done it, Varandrar had reeled and relaxed again, his eyes his own and his voice as steady as before.
“—and I’d caution you in only one matter: pay no attention to the Swords Agannor Wildsilver or Bey Freemantle. You are to watch only the others.”
In the bright depths of the scrying orb, the last of the spies could be seen filing out. Varandrar waved a friendly farewell to Drathar, who closed the door.
Leaving Varandrar alone again.
Horaundoon smiled and ended his spell.
The orb showed the Zhentarim trading lord reeling again, and looking bewildered.
Hmm. Not a mage at all, yet the man had a more sensitive mind than most. Merely withdrawing from it left him like that, hey?
Perhaps Horaundoon of the Zhentarim needed to recruit a dozen Varandrars of his own.
The figure came out of the night like a flitting shadow, landing on the moonlit roof of Rhalseer’s rooming house with the softest of footfalls.
Florin let her gain her balance and draw in a calming breath or two before he uncoiled himself from the shadow of the tumbledown wreck of Rhalseer’s cluster of aging chimneys.
Her knife came out in less time than it took her to hiss and back into a crouch, ready for battle.
“Pennae,” he said, “ ’tis me. Put the blade away; I mean no harm. I only want to talk.”
“You waited up here for me?”
“It seems so.”
“Why?”
“I very much need to know some things. Before ’tis too late, and the questions I’ll ask gently will be roared at you—at us all—by many furious Purple Dragons, as we hang in chains in the darkest cell they have.”
Pennae sighed. “You want to know all about my lurid past.”
“Just the jailings, and the crimes you’re still sought for. If any, of course. Oh, and what folk say about you. And where they say it: the realms, the cities …”
“Of my notoriety?” Pennae sounded amused. Sheathing her blade, she went to the three-board-wide walkway that crowned the peak of the roof, hard by the chimneys, and sat down, beckoning Florin to sit beside her.
He did, and they stared at each other in the moonlight for a breath or two, arms clasped around knees, elbows touching.
“I was born here,” Pennae said. “In Arabel, not all that many years ago.” She stretched then
let her knees fall and stretched out on her back, bowed over the roofpeak with her hips closest to the stars. Florin turned onto his side so he could hear what she murmured next.
“My father I never knew. I gather he was here for but a season. A Purple Dragon of the garrison, who caught the eye of my mother: Maerthra Durshavin, not a bad pastry cook, but hard of hand, voice, and manner. She had few friends, drank much, and beat my bones raw until I fled. She’s dead these three winters, now.”
Pennae fell silent, stretching her lithe arms again, arching her shoulders—and wincing.
“Bruise there, that I knew not I had … anyhail, I made my own life. Ate what I could get, took all I could, hadn’t much to conquer Faerûn with but my wits, my scampering, and my good balance and leaping about. Alone, always alone. Whenever I trusted someone else, they made me rue it soon enough.”
She let silence fall again.
“Ah, Pennae?” Florin’s voice was uncertain. “Have we Swords made you … rue trusting us?”
She sat up, managing to keep a flaring flame of amused satisfaction out of her eyes. Men were so predictable; so easily led by reins they didn’t even know they wore.
Nose to nose, she said huskily, “Not yet. I pray me: never.”
She let her voice become a desperate whisper. “Oh, Florin I am so tired of being alone.” She shaped the last words into a sob and opened her arms to him. When his lips timidly found hers, Pennae devoured them hungrily, rolling against him.
Yes, men were so predictable.
Her tongue entwined with Florin’s, Pennae glanced up at the stars overhead with eyes that smiled, and allowed herself one more prediction: there would be no more questions about her past this night.
Chapter 21
THINGS CHANGE
That’s the hard thing about life: things change. We hate it. We all hate it. Loved ones die. Friends drift away. Remember this: You can cling to nothing without harming it.
Blors ‘Brokenblade’ Ghontal
One Warrior’s Way
Swords of Eveningstar Page 29
