Swords of Eveningstar komd-1

by Ed Greenwood

  Thankfully, like many nobles, Malasko saw what he wanted to see.

  “You shudder for me, I cannot help but notice,” he purred archly, shifting his long limbs to strike yet another pose. The man seemed to live in a series of indolent poses, impressive in his skin-tight black hose and tunic.

  Malasko saw where her gaze rested and smiled a velvet-soft smile. “We seem very well suited for each other. Don’t you agree?”

  Narantha ducked her head a little, letting him think her smile was one of shy desire. “My lord,” she murmured, “I need…”

  She let her words hang, to see how he filled the silence.

  His smile broadened. “A lord and master worthy of your beauty,” he breathed. “Little Crownsilver lass, I am the answer to your every need.”

  Afraid she might giggle, Narantha bit her lip, cast her eyes down to the eternally snarling head of the dire bear rug at her feet, and murmured, “I begin to believe so, Lord Erdusking. Yet, as you must have heard, I am, above all, obedient. To you, if we are wed, but until then to my parents-and ’tis their will that I see all unmarried noblemen of suitable age in the realm who will receive me, ere I make a far narrower choice. I have other mansions and men to visit yet, I fear.”

  “Ah, but surely none can even begin to-”

  “Lord Erdusking, this may well be so, but I follow my father’s will in this.” She raised her eyes to him, and said almost pleadingly, “And while it would take a man of Cormyr-shaking bravery to defy Lord Maniol Crownsilver, any man who would think to defy the Lady Jalassa Crownsilver must be several different kinds of babbling fool. A description that obviously can never fit you, Lord.”

  Malasko was momentarily-for the first time in more than a season-at a loss for words. Laughing uneasily-had he just been insulted, or had he not? — he said soothingly, “Of course not, Lady Narantha.”

  “Yet so that hope fades not entirely from your eyes,” his shapely visitor said huskily, taking a small, glossy coffer from her chatelaine, “I deeply desire that you accept this small token from me, to remind you of my desires, that burn always, close beneath the smiles and manners I present to the watching world.”

  She held out the coffer, opening it with deft elegance.

  Malasko Erdusking was chuckling, “Ah, Lady, such a gift is hardly necessary, between such as we two…”

  His voice trailed away as he caught sight of the gem-impressively large even to the wealthiest of nobles, which the Erduskings were not-and his eyes grew larger.

  Then he peered closer, and his eyes grew larger still.

  Plucking the gem from the coffer, Malasko held it under his nose for a searching examination of its depths, his gaze filling with wonder.

  He stared for a long time, swallowing once, ere he lifted his eyes from the gem in his hand to look at her with a gaze that smoldered with promise.

  The Lady Narantha Crownsilver met that gaze with a look that sizzled. Parting her lips, she licked them very slowly, as one of her hands strayed to her own throat, and caressed it languidly.

  She was lifting that hand to her mouth when the gem sank entirely from view into Malasko’s fingers, and his look of naked lust slid into blank-eyed happiness.

  Suspicious eyes peered through an ornate oval window, watching every moment of Narantha Crownsilver’s disappearance back inside her waiting carriage. As that conveyance rumbled away over the cobbles, the watcher sighed, turned from the window, went to a room hung with tapestries and lit by a lone lantern, and carefully cast a spell.

  The palm of his left hand tingled and glowed-then he seemed to be holding the moving, talking face of a woman in it.

  “Yes, Nardryn? What befalls?”

  Nardryn Tamlast was a careful, conservative man. To last more than a month, any house wizard of the Erduskings would have to be.

  “Laspeera, some misgivings have arisen here.”

  “Yours alone? Or are the Erduskings party to them?”

  “Mine.” Tamlast was a middle-aged man with a forgettable face, who had never had much coin to call his own. He was as sparing with words as with the spending of his wealth. “You’re aware of Lady Narantha Crownsilver’s tour of suitable nobles, I’m sure. She’s just departed here. I do not believe she found the younger Lord Erdusking to her liking-but I also fail to believe she is truly seeking a mate. She’s not quite the skilled actress she thinks she is.”

  “She’d not have to be, to cozen young Malasko-or most of his ilk, for that matter. Yet I agree with you. Her public reason for visiting all of these young noblemen is so much piffle. Did you observe anything of their meeting?”

  “No, Lady. Such things are not done in this house.” Something that might have been the long-dead ghost of a smile rose briefly to the vicinity of Tamlast’s lips, ere vanishing without a trace. “Not with all the spell-shields and trap-magics the Erduskings collect so enthusiastically and apply so lavishly. They think themselves of vital importance to the realm-and important folk deal in many secrets.”

  “Of course,” Laspeera agreed dryly. “So you believe we war wizards should-”

  “Lady, please. I’d not waste your time just to send needless advice. I uncovered something specific that should be of great interest to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Nardryn. What is it?”

  “I made so bold as to probe at Lady Crownsilver’s mind, upon her arrival. She’s protected, of course, by something that seemed to respond to my spells as if it could think-though the lady cast no spells of her own, that I observed. Yet before it walled me out, I learned this much: the lady believes she’s carrying out some sort of secret mission for the king.”

  The face in Tamlast’s palm cursed, uttering the most fearsome words in a whisper.

  Tamlast quirked an eyebrow. “Is this reaction due to a fear you’ve uncovered treason? Or some private stratagem of the king’s? Or the hand of the royal magician at work?”

  “Yes,” Laspeera replied, in an even drier voice-and winked into nothingess, leaving the house wizard staring thoughtfully at his empty palm.

  In all the years they’d worked together, the motherly second-in-command of the war wizards had never abruptly broken off a spell-link before.

  Horaundoon grinned. The hargaunt’s chimes sounded strange when it was plastered over his face.

  “That makes eleven she’s wormed for me, now,” he told it with solid satisfaction. “And the beauty of it is that the war wizards can’t find me. All the mindworms are linked to the first one: Narantha’s worm. Not to me directly. If they move against her, I can just withdraw and be ‘not there.’ In fact, never there for them to find.”

  The hargaunt’s chiming was almost a trill this time. Even it was getting excited.

  Horaundoon put his fingertips together and smiled at nothing over them. If this scheme worked, it would be his most brilliant achievement, and should win him the favor of Manshoon and much awe among all Zhentarim-and make his planned “disappearance” urgently necessary.

  The hargaunt chimed again, insistently, and Horaundoon hastened to answer. “Through the worms I can make those young nobles speak and act as I desire. If one fights me, I can prevail only for a short time-yet it will be more than enough to mislead war wizards, Purple Dragons, and others as to his loyalty and plans.”

  Horaundoon strolled across the room toward his decanters for a spot of Berduskan Dark.

  “This,” he added, before the hargaunt could tell him again that it was tiring of half-answers, “should result in these nobles being discredited and killed while resisting arrest-for unless they’ve minds stronger than most archmages, they’ll remember nothing coherent of my compelling them, and so will be bewildered at the treatment they get from the authorities. If they submit, they may well get executed for treason-and surrender, die fighting, or flee into exile, whichever they choose. Their families may well end up dispossessed and exiled.”

  He unstoppered the decanter he was seeking, spun around on his heels triumphantly in search of the r
ight tallglass, and continued, “The Obarskyrs acting against these nobles will of course spread fear and hatred of the royals among the rest of the nobles, about the Obarskyrs mayhap turning on them next. Which will make”-he poured, sipped, sighed appreciatively, and filled the tallglass-“said nobles much more receptive than they’ve traditionally been to sly, secret offers of coin, alliances, trade assistance and ties, and suchlike, from handy, smiling, local Zhent agents.”

  Horaundoon set down his glass and murmured, “Speaking of which…”

  He settled himself in the nearest chair and thought of Florin. When the mindworm in the forester’s head stirred, he reached through it very gently, not wanting to have the young man feel his presence, get alarmed, and fight him.

  Ah. Our Florin was upset and angry with someone-a friend-and striding to a confrontation with her. Good. He’d not notice a light delving to capture the way he spoke, the phrases he liked to use…

  The knowledge settled into Horaundoon’s busy mind like a cold, heavy weight, and he winced, wiping sudden sweat from his face. Forcing a mind to reveal something or say something was swift, simple work; this was more like trudging, on a slippery hillside, under a heavy load that kept shifting… Steadying himself under the cold heaviness, he thought of Narantha Crownsilver-and in a trice felt her stiffen at his touch in her mind. He made himself feel like Florin, so he’d sound like Florin when mind-talking.

  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 p
iece 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