Swords of Eveningstar komd-1

by Ed Greenwood

  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 Faerun 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 h
er 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 published in the Year of the Storms

  Ah, I’m afraid you’ve been sadly misled, Lady Greenmantle,” the elderly war wizard said. “These aren’t spell scrolls at all.”

  He looked up from them, genuine sorrow in his eyes. Bleys Delaeyn was a kindly man, and it distressed him to think that someone had caused any upset to one of the kindest and most beautiful noblewomen he’d ever met. Still more that she’d been duped out of coins, and might well be angry with him for telling her so.

  She’ll think I’ll rush back to my fellow Wizards of War to have a good laugh about her.

  Lady Greenmantle was, indeed, looking upset. Her lower lip trembled, and what looked alarmingly like tears glimmered in her large emerald eyes.

  “Lady,” Delaeyn said, “rest assured that this shall remain a secret between us, not shared with anyone else-even Lord Vangerdahast himself. I’m afraid you’ve been duped by a clever charlatan. If you’d like me to try to recover your coins by hunting him down with some of the best Crown agents Cormyr can muster, I’ll be happy to do so, but if my silence is what you prefer, I-”

  Lady Greenmantle had somehow found her way around to his side of the table, and was plucking the offending sheets of parchment from his hand. As he stared at her, open-mouthed, she flung them over her shoulder, heedless of where they might fall, and faced him, their knees touching.

  “Lord Wizard Delaeyn,” she whispered, “I care not a whit about spell scrolls or false scrolls, so long as you call me Amdranna, and bide here with me for a time. There is something I very much need you to do.”

  Bleys Delaeyn blinked at her. “Uh, Lady, uh-”

  “Amdranna,” she whispered, leaning forward to say the word almost into his mouth. Her bosom brushed against him, and Delaeyn was suddenly very much aware of her nearness, the spiced scent of her perfume, her softness, gliding against him…

  “Uh, La- Amdranna, ” he almost wailed, leaning back from her, “what… what’re you doing? ”

  “Seducing you,” she murmured, licking his throat and the edge of his jaw and leaving Delaeyn trembling with unaccustomed excitement-and the realization that his aging back wouldn’t bow away from her any farther. “If you’ll let me. For years I’ve admired you, Lord Delaeyn-”

  “Uh, ah, I’m not actually a ‘lord’ of any s-sort, Lady-”

  “Amdranna,” she told him sternly, crawling up him like an affectionate tressym until he was on his back, draped over the flaring arm of the bench, with her avid face poised above his. She reached up, nostrils flaring, and tore her gown with sudden ferocity.

  “Amdranna, I-this is so sudden! I-”

  “Don’t you want me?” she asked, sudden tears on her cheeks. “After I’ve dreamed of you so long?”

  She ground herself against him, and a shuddering Bleys Delaeyn knew that he wanted her very much, and-and Her hands were at his belt and the lacings of his breeches, and he moaned a wordless protest and tried to throw her off, thrusting upward with his hips.

  With a smile that was pure tressym she caught hold of his belt buckle and sat back up, pulling him with her. The buckle proved unequal to the strain, and came open-and in a trice Bleys Delaeyn found himself being towed across the room to a low couch right at the edge of the open stair that descended to the entryhall.

  “Lady!” he hissed. “What if one of your servants sees-”

  “Hush,” she said, and covered his mouth with hers as she dragged him down.

  He shouldn’t be doing this, Delaeyn told himself, he was a long way from nineteen winters old, and an even longer way from Memories that faded like morning mist before her warm yielding, her hot kisses, her She was under him no longer, but above him, hair a wild tangle about her bare shoulders, eyes afire, bending down to him, falling sideways Oh, no, they were Amdranna Greenmantle rolled, tucking herself down tight beside the couch, shoulders slamming hard onto the stone floor. Her hands held the old mage’s sagging, hairy chest like claws, her knee came up into his crotch as she let go of him, and she twisted And with a startled, despairing cry, Wizard of War Bleys Delaeyn was hurled over the unguarded edge of the old stone stair.

  The steps were of old, smooth-worn stone, some sixty feet down, and he greeted them headfirst. Lady Greenmantle listened to bone shatter and teeth spray, and then calmly rose and went to hide her torn gown-it was best kept, rather than tossed down a garderobe, in case she needed it to prove her claim of the old wizard going mad with lust and trying to force himself on her-and wash and redo her hair.

  It had been so long since she’d seen to her tresses without the maids-like all the other servants, banished for the day-that she’d almost forgotten how. Almost.

  The precious cigar was almost done. Taltar Dahauntul tasted its smoke and leaned back in his chair, in the heart of the aromatic blue cloud, with a contented sigh.

  Narooran’s Finest were halfling-crafted, somewhere in Sembia-seemingly everything was crafted somewhere in Sembia-and all too rare. He hoarded his dwindling supply like the precious things they were. Even on an ornrion’s coins, they were dear, and the extra lions now falling into his lap for being Acting Captain of His Majesty’s Loyal Watch of Arabel wouldn’t last forever. Nothing did.

  Aye, if there was one lesson long service as a Purple Dragon taught, to those who cared to learn, it was that nothing lasted. Things change.

  Perhaps, one day, things would change for the better. Perhaps, though it was so hrastingly easy to put a foot wrong these days. Yet even those who disliked him respected him for being capable. The men called him “Dauntless,” and that was far better than “Old Ironbreeches” or “Idiot Screechtongue” or “Lord Stonehead the Sixth,” which is what they referred to his three immediate superiors as, among themselves.

  “Lord Dauntless”? Nay, not for him. Lords were arrogant, fat-bellied idiots with monocles, foolish notions, and casual rudenesses, who deserved all the contempt they were held in.

  Sir Dauntless, now… a man had to earn a knighthood. He stared at the shield in his lap through the last of the thinning smoke. Its blazon was an unfinished chaos of chalk, because Dauntless wasn’t much of a limner and because he hadn’t quite settled on what he wanted-wings and a lion, yes, yet a lion with wings was a manticore: a stupid, evil, nuisance beast-but he could copy out ornamented characters with the best of them. His motto, framed by a flowing scroll, blazed forth from the shield proudly: “Bold to face the foe.”

  Well, so he was. Someday, perhaps, Cormyr would say so.

  Reluctantly stubbing out the butt before it burned his knuckles, Dauntless slid the shield safely back into its hiding place in the lid of his locker, between the real top and the false top he’d constructed so long ago, folded down the edge-flap over the slot between them, and carefully adjusted the pins that secured it, sprinkling a pinch of pepper over them to look like dust. If the wrong person found this, it would mean utter disaster.

  The distant bell tolled, right on time. Sighing, Dauntless stood, put the cigar butt on the usual tray on its high shelf, jammed his helm onto his head, and strode out of his quarters, every inch a
stern, erect, on-duty ornrion.

  It was time for this particular gruff, cigar-smoking veteran of burly build, shrewd sense, and a huge mustache to flog Purple Dragons into shape once more.

  And by Helm and Torm both, they took a lot of flogging.

  “We-that is, all house wizards-are under orders to investigate any accidental death of any noble, knight, mage, or priest, Lady,” Treth Ohmalghar said. “Moreover, both your lord husband and myself find your orders to all Greenmantle servants to depart the hall for the day… interesting.”

  Lady Greenmantle’s face was white with anger. “You dare-? ”

  “Lady,” Ohmalghar said gently, “I do, and must. Please bear in mind that Lord Greenmantle and myself have taken care that I speak with you in private, to spare you even the slightest stain to your reputation. Just as you consulted with Bleys Delaeyn in private.”

  “Very well,” the noblewoman said, still obviously furious. “Ask your questions.”

  The Greenmantle house wizard inclined his head to her politely, spread his hands, and murmured an incantation too quiet for Lady Greenmantle to hear.

  “Mage, what are you doing? ”

  “To save us both much time and ill-feeling, I’m seeking answers in your mind,” Ohmalghar explained. “Innocent folk have nothing to fear from such a proced-” He stiffened, his eyes going sharp.

  Lady Greenmantle gave a little cry, like a dismayed bird, one hand going to her mouth. Her eyes darted to the bell that would bring servants on the run, then to the two doors out of the room… and all her rage seemed to drain away from her, leaving only fear, when she realized the house wizard-who suddenly seemed an above-himself servant no longer, but something far more menacing-had deftly placed her so that he stood between her and both the bell and the doors.

  There was a wand in his hand, and it was pointed at her.

  “Lady Greenmantle,” he said, the snap of command in his voice, “sit down. In the chair just behind you. Now. ”