by Ed Greenwood
“These Swords must be something, if the Zhentarim are this worried about them,” Tessaril commented, helping herself to cheese and shaking her head ruefully. She’d known she’d be unable to resist, once the viands were out and she could see and smell them.
The war wizard nodded. “They won their charter by saving the king’s life, and ride now with the young Lady Narantha Crownsilver, much against the wishes of her parents.”
“Hmm. Am I to detain the lady?”
“Neither the Crown nor the royal magician have sent instructions. Lord and Lady Crownsilver will send instructions, likely howled loudly-but they don’t know she’s still with them. Yet.”
Tessaril smiled. “I like adventurers. Matchless entertainment.”
Malbrand rolled his eyes.
Tessaril snorted. “Stop that. And tell me of this saving of Az-of His Majesty’s life.”
The young mage was beginning to get over his awe of her and embarrassment at being served a meal by a lady lord of the realm clad only in a nightrobe, not two strides from her bed. He leaned forward eagerly. “Of course.”
Sipping glowfire and lifting his brows to her in appreciative salute-which she returned, silently raising her own glass-he asked, “Now, where to begin? Ah, I suppose with…”
The next morning dawned slow and chill, a reluctant sun slowly brightening an Eveningstar beset with the drifting smoke of thick ground mists. The dew had been heavy, and most folk busied themselves indoors, awaiting the warmer full sun.
Apothecaries, however, are desired in haste or not welcomed at all. The wooden box of his satchel rode heavily on Maglor’s hip, its shoulder strap creaking, as he strode along the village roads. Old Mother Naura wanted clearthroat syrup for her ailing youngest, Beldrak’s old wounds were stiffening and needed deepfire liniment, and Two rose-robed figures came striding out of the mists toward him, talking together in low tones. Ah, yes. The other brave farers forth in any sort of weather: priests of the House of the Morning, on holy business bent.
“Fair morning,” Maglor greeted them heartily. He was not loved at the temple, he knew. Though the priests of Lathander weren’t known for selling little bottles that soothed and healed, he was probably seen as a major reason for their lack of that particular source of easy coins.
“Fair morning, Master Maglor,” one replied briskly, deep-voiced. Hamdorn the Hand-Wringer, that would be, the large, florid, balding man who comforted grieving folk of Eveningstar with empty platitudes and soothing nothings.
Which meant the other priest would be Hamdorn’s nigh-constant companion, Claerend. The two conducted much of the temple’s daily dealings with the village, and so would be a good way to begin darkening the reputations of these Swords. Right now, before they’d even been seen in Eveningstar.
A few fell falsehoods, hints of “involvements” and “they say that,” would be a solid beginning. When he was done delivering bottled comfort, a visit to the Lady Lord of Eveningstar to impart similar tidings-as a frowningly troubled apothecary, passing on what he thought she should know, overheard from gossipy passing merchants-would be a second step of even greater solidity. Solid coin, solid progress; Maglor liked solid things.
He rubbed his hands as the priests drew nearer and a plume of wet mist slid away to confirm their identities, and asked, “Have you heard the latest? Seems the king’s decided to rid himself of some troublesome sorts and have another go at the Haunted Halls, at one stroke. He’s granted a charter to a band of younglings who call themselves ‘the Swords of Eveningstar’-not that they’ve ever set boot in our fair village yet, mind-and ordered them up here, to play at being adventurers! I’m thinking we’d all best be alert, lest more than a few chickens start to go missing, if you catch my drift…”
Hamdorn and Claerend stopped dead and leaned forward, interest clear on their faces.
Maglor hid a grin. Solid progress.
Jhessail was starting to get used to the constant creak of saddle-leather and jingling of bits and bridle-rings, but she suspected the ache in her thighs was only going to get worse. By the furrows on her roommate’s brow, Martess was feeling the same pain.
“Not used to riding, hey?” Agannor had asked with a friendly grin, spurring past her on his way to the front, back when they’d been leaving the inn yard. In his wake, Bey had looked away and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Strengthens the thighs!” Well, at least he hadn’t delivered those words with the delighted leer Semoor would have wrapped them in. Dhedluk was a full day’s ride ahead, halfway to Eveningstar, but the road ran through deep forest and the sun seemed in no hurry, so the mists would cling and roll along it for most of their way.
“ ’Ware outlaws,” the grizzled leader of a patrol of king’s foresters had said, coming into Waymoot as they were riding out. The mist had beaded the ranger’s beard with water, droplets that hung along his jaw like jewels. “This-and full night-are when they’re at their worst. Show those swords of yours, and wear the shields.”
Agannor and Bey, looking seasoned and formidable in the best armor and weaponry among the Swords, had gone to the fore. With a silent jerk of her head and firm hand on the bridle of his horse, Islif had taken Semoor with her to the rear-largely to keep him away from all the lasses and so curb his tongue a trifle, Jhessail suspected.
The rest of the Swords were strung out between, riding in pairs… though, as she’d expected, Doust was falling back now, to join Semoor. Those two were as thick as Hmm. Now, was or was not Pennae a professional thief? And if she was, what sort of trouble would that land them all in, and how soon? Islif had firmly chosen to room with Pennae last night, and hadn’t said anything much this morn, but perhaps a word or two…
Alongside, Martess was riding quietly. Jhessail liked her, thus far at least. She kept to herself, but watched the world alertly from under those arresting black brows. Just as eye-catchingly ivory skin-she seemed to own only high-collared gowns and tunics of black, dark blue, and purple, that made her look bone-pale. Black eyes, that ink-black long hair; if she’d been aggressive or insolent or acted sinister, she’d be the sort folk would be quick to call a “witch.” Slender, petite, child-sized-and still largely a mystery.
Not that many of the Swords would give much thought to who and what Martess Ilmra really was, when they had Pennae purring and jesting all over the place in skin-tight black leathers, with a coiled whip riding one of her hips. Just now she was riding with Florin, and when she wasn’t leaning close to say something tart or chuckle, she was running nimble fingers along his thigh, or striking poses in her saddle that best displayed her to his polite glances-small but nicely curved bells of which much could be readily seen, as she seemed to have forgotten to lace up most of the front of her leathers this morn. Oh, yes, that one was going to be trouble.
Jhessail sighed. Then she shrugged, smiling a little. A few days ago her troubles had been rooted in trying to think of a way out of Espar, and a waiting life of marriage into drudgery; at least she now had a fresh new set to ponder.
Greenwood, Ed
Swords of Eveningstar
Chapter 12
TROUBLE TRAVELS NORTH
And when at last Prince Rarvarrick came to the Dread Door and struck mightily with his fist upon it, setting up a great storm of boomings and crashings, a tiny door within the door did open, and out from it thrust a head with no body, that floated in the air where most severed heads would have fallen, and spake unto him: “Thou art too late by a night, puissant prince. For, behold: the foe you seek hath flown. I am bid to say unto you: ‘Trouble Travels North.’ Make of this what you will, for being but a lonely head with no body, all that befalls is as one to me.”
Thaele Summermore
The Roisterings of Bold Prince Rarvarrick published in the Year of the Grimoire
L et the favor of the Morninglord touch us all,” the patriarch of the temple intoned with dignity. Then Charisbonde sat back in the tallest and most ornate of the chairs in the rose-hued
alcove, and asked less formally, “Now what occasions such haste, you two?”
“News of adventurers, soon to arrive in Eveningstar,” Claerend began.
“From Maglor, to us, just now,” Hamdorn put in.
Charisbonde glanced at the man who sat beside him. Myrkyr, Bright Banner of the temple, returned that look, then leaned forward in his chair to ask, “The Swords of Eveningstar?”
“Yes!” Claerend sounded relieved, rather than startled, that the two priests who led the House of the Morning knew of the adventurers already. “The apothecary said they were… less than trustworthy. That the king had chartered them to be rid of them, and sent them here to scour out the Haunted Halls.”
“And that all in Eveningstar had best beware thefts and worse, once they were here,” Hamdorn added.
Charisbonde and Myrkyr exchanged looks and nodded.
“Brothers,” Patriarch Charisbonde told them gently, “I would ask you not to place any credence in words said by the apothecary. He serves Zhentil Keep, and whispers at their will.”
Hamdorn and Claerend blinked at him, clearly astonished.
“Then-” Claerend cleared his throat, visibly steeling himself to dare to say what he asked next. “Then why haven’t we denounced him long since? So dark is that brotherhood that he’d be hounded out and away from our midst, and so much the better. We can physic all Evenor at half the prices Maglor charges-without worry that this ointment or that pain-quaff might be poisoned, to do dirty Zhent dark-work.”
“We have at least reported his allegiance to the Crown?” Hamdorn looked anxious. The patriarch nodded.
Myrkyr rubbed his mustache in the back and forth manner that meant he was choosing his words carefully. “We await the right time,” he told Claerend. “Violence always births new things, but the Morninglord is best pleased with splendid new beginnings.”
Patriarch Charisbonde Trueservant stirred in his chair. “Of one thing I can promise you,” he said, rising to signify that this interruption of his midmorning prayers was at an end. “By our hands or others, Maglor will be dealt with very soon.”
“ ’Twould be best,” Islif said firmly, “if you two bosom chortling holy men did not ride together this day, dispensing your usual jests and airy comments. Not until we know our new friends rather better.”
“Agreed, Liff,” Semoor said quickly. “Clumsum here just wants a swift word with me.”
“And I’d prefer you listen in, too,” Doust told Islif, in a low murmur. “This concerns us all, and prudence, and-”
“Just say whatever you came back here to say,” Islif said curtly, in a voice as low as his.
“Well, then: I think we two should pray to our respective gods for guidance.”
“Regarding?” Islif’s voice was cool. “You’re not going to try to decide where the Swords go and what we do in accordance with what you claim the gods want, are you?”
“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 Durshavi
n, 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?”
