by Ed Greenwood
She started to stroll, hands clasped behind her back like a swordcaptain glowering at disobedient novices, and added sharply, “Cormyr needs gallant adventurers-but Arabel has no room for villainous rogues, miscreants brutish in words and deeds, and impudent, cheating, lying, thieving outlaws. Your charter gives you no right to take coins by force from others, nor swindle them to support lazy, sneaking, or disloyal lives within our walls.”
Florin’s eyelids flickered. He’d heard such words before, from… ah, yes. He smiled. Dauntless tensed.
“Many folk do little but cower and try to keep warm in winter, sewing or whittling or honing blades,” Myrmeen added. “I will understand if you do little while the snows howl and deepen. I will understand far too well if you grow restless, and decide a little danger-lawless danger-is a good way to pass the cold days. It is my hope never to have cause to suspect you of anything, and to be able to smile when I hear of the Swords of Eveningstar, recalling heroism and gallantry. It would please me very much if you did not dash my hopes and disappoint me.”
She stopped strolling. “Have you anything you wish to say to me?”
“Lady Lord,” Pennae said, “you can depend on me, and us all.” Jhessail nodded.
Florin raised a hand. “May I request a private audience with you, Lady Lord? Now?”
“You may. All save Falconhand, withdraw to the outermost guardpost. Return their weapons to them.”
Dauntless and several other guards frowned, and the ornrion was bold enough to ask, “Lady Lord, is this wise? This man-”
“Heard the orders I gave as well as you did,” Myrmeen Lhal said. “And probably expects you to obey them as much as I do.”
Dauntless dropped his gaze to his boots, mumbled an apology, and turned and gruffly began to shoo everyone out.
“Horses of the Wargod,” Agannor growled, “but I mislike the smell of this! What if they never come back? The lady lord could clap them all in irons in her deepest cell and just forget all about them! Leaving us…”
His voice trailed away as a slender, large-eyed, pretty lass whose skirts seemed slit right up to her armpits sat gently in his lap and murmured, “You were so brave, both of you! Standing up to the Dragons like that, without even drawing blade! I’m Taeriana.”
“Uh, well met, Taer-”
“And I’m Kestra,” a slightly shorter and plumper version of Taeriana said breathlessly to Bey, deftly depositing herself in his lap.
“Ladylasses,” Bey said, “we must watch for our friends, and haven’t coin to spare for-”
“We understand,” Kestra said, licking his stubbled jaw. “We don’t want coin-not this time, at least-”
“And feel you deserve a reward,” Taeriana purred. “How about just a few moments together, behind yon curtain? Aviathus keeps yon for us, clean and safe; he’ll come if your friends return.” The wandering tip of her forefinger dipped inside Agannor’s jerkin, heading for his left nipple, as she added, “Like us, he admires you for standing up to the Dragons. So peacefully… but, ohhh, so sternly! ”
Agannor and Bey exchanged glances and shrugged.
“I like to look behind curtains,” Agannor said, clapping a wary hand to sword hilt.
The hearty din of the Lion continued unabated as the four rose together-the tavernmaster bustling up with a nod and smile to cast his apron over the table to signify that it was still claimed-and made for the rear of the taproom.
The two Swords were almost surprised to discover no men waiting for them with knives or clubs, but a low-lanterned alcove with two well-padded cots.
Kestra and Taeriana were affectionate, eager, and had their tongues in the ears of Agannor and Bey within a breath of sitting down on the cots together.
A breath later, both Swords stiffened as cold and slimy mindworms rode those warmly darting tongues into their heads.
Then, of course, Horaundoon’s spell hit them.
Lord Maniol Crownsilver stared blearily at the ceiling for a long time before his mazed mind told him that it was a ceiling, and was in fact his own.
Faces were bending over him. Drawn and sour faces. Holy men.
“You’re healed, Lord,” one told him. “We’ll leave you now.”
The priests filed out, leaving Maniol blinking up from his bed at other, frowning men who’d been standing behind them: war wizards, dark and terrible still in his mind, their cold voices thrusting like sharp blades into his innermost secrets, his private reveries…
He turned his face away, knowing hatred and fear were all over it. After the lass who’d led them had departed, these mages had hurled their spells into his mind, uncaring of his grief, hounding him from misery into senselessness.
Misbegotten goat-whoring bastards.
“So just what was it you wanted to say to me, young forester?” Myrmeen Lhal gave Florin a smile, and indicated an empty chair at her table.
Florin remained standing, suddenly hesitant. What was he doing here? This woman was of the king’s lords, a hardened, keen-witted veter Something warm smiled inside his head, and he let that smile take over his lips.
“Lady Lord,” he heard himself saying, “until this day I’d never met a woman I could admire more than…”
Lorbryn looked down at the shattered nobleman and traded sighs with Jalander Mallowglar. Lord Crownsilver was guilty of nothing more than being an arrogant fool and boor-and he’d loved his wife far more than Cormyr had thought he did.
“Mages,” the man said, rolling over to fix them with burning eyes that trailed tears down his unlovely face, “help me find my jewel-my Narantha! Please!”
Well, why not?
Lorbryn leaned forward. “We’ve been watching over her closely for some time, Lord. She’s just arrived at the house of the Creths, in Arabel.”
Crownsilver shook his head, bewildered. “Whatever’s she doing there? ”
Jalander gazed across the room at the Crownsilver arms, gaudily emblazoned on a tapestry, and told them, “We believe she’s seeking a husband, Lord. She’s been visiting many young noble lords, all across the realm.”
“What?” Maniol sat up, slack-jawed in horror. “Doesn’t she know I’ll pick her husband? Uh- hem — myself and the lad’s father, of course!”
“Of course,” Lorbryn echoed, unable to entirely keep contempt out of his voice.
“Well,” Lord Maniol snarled, not noticing, “at least she’s over that foolishness of wedding Falconfoot, or whatever he is, of the Swords of Eveningstar breaknecks! Where are they, anyway?”
“In Arabel,” Jalander said, with some satisfaction.
“ What? I must get to her!” Lord Crownsilver’s howl was comical. “And you, ” he spat, scrambling up off the bed and wagging an imperious finger at the wizards, “must arrest those Swords at once!”
Wizard of War Tathanter Doarmond, who’d been listening from the doorway, announced grandly, “We’ll send her to you, Lord Crownsilver. I trust you’ll be pleased to learn the Swords are under arrest right now.”
“Gods be thanked!” Maniol Crownsilver exulted, reaching his decanter-adorned sideboard and filling a goblet.
“To the watching gods!” he made offering, holding the goblet on high. Slamming the flaming fortified wine down on the sideboard, Crownsilver caught up its decanter again, grinned fiercely at the dark-robed wizards-and drained the entire vessel in one long quaff.
Reeling back to the bed, he sank down onto it, still clutching the empty decanter, called out, “Victory at last!”-and promptly sank back into insensibility.
The war wizards looked down at him.
“Nobles,” Jalander said in disgust. “And they think we’re unfit to be anywhere near the service of Cormyr!”
Lorbryn nodded. “Some of us are. But at least we know it.”
“ Out, clumsy gallant,” Myrmeen Lhal said with a smirk. “I’m not one of your husband-hunting Esparran lasses. Take your good looks and come-kiss-me smile elsewhere. Lad. ”
Florin stared at her, h
is hopes of winning some favor and leeway for the Swords falling in shards around him. He felt-stunned.
What had gotten into him? Of course she thought of him as a boy who had nothing to offer her but smilingly insulting effrontery…
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at her in horror. “I’m so sorry. I’ve insulted you beyond all honor, and-gods, Lady Lord, I’m sorry.” He sank to his knees, despairing. What had he Firm fingers took hold of his ear and pulled, hauling him painfully-and in great startlement-up to his feet, to stagger nose-to-nose with the Lady Lord of Arabel. Who was smiling almost fondly.
“Flog yourself not,” she told him. “You were, at least, flattering and entertaining. Idiot.” She kissed the tip of his nose, then turned him around by his ear. “Now, out! ”
Chapter 23
SWORDS-OUT AND SHOUTING
Oh, so ’tis time for the old swords-out and shouting, hey? How many do I get to kill this time?
The character Veldin the Valiant, the third act of Old King Dragon
A play by Thelva “the Maid” Dunstel published in the Year of the Sword and Stars
H oraundoon scowled into his scrying orb. A tight-lipped, crestfallen Florin striding through the streets with the two loudest Sword wenches at his shoulders, heading back to the Lion. There-and there-and there, too-behind them, the watch spies, following. Last, the Martess lass, following the watch agents.
Enough to make this Zhentarim smirk, yon little parade. If he hadn’t been so hrasted annoyed, that is. The lad had seemed to throw off much of the influence of the mindworm, even before Myrmeen Lhal had spurned him! But how?
Florin peered around the busy taproom, fire rising in his eyes. There was the table, right enough, with the tavernmaster’s apron spread across it to “Tavernmaster!” he called, letting some of his anger show. “Where are my friends, who were here with us? Did the watch-?”
“Nay, lord,” Aviathus assured him, bustling up to them. “The way of it is: they conferred, heads together-your friends, I mean-then the hard-faced woman-ah, forgive me…”
“Forgiven,” Pennae said. “Out with it, man!”
“I, uh, yes, well, she led them out, all but the two war-swords, who sat right here for a time-long enough to empty a talljack of firewine between them, and eat a skewer of roast bustard each, too-ere they went behind yon curtains, and out, with Kestra and Taeriana.”
“Who,” Jhessail asked flatly, “are Kestra and Taeriana? As if I can’t guess.”
The tavernmaster’s head bobbed eagerly. “Coinlasses, right enough, and the best and cleanest in the business, let me tell you! Six seasons a-working here, and never a-”
“Out where? ” Pennae snapped.
“Ah. Well, ’tis my way of speech more than truly ‘outside,’ really,” Aviathus said hastily, pointing at the ceiling. “Faster than saying ‘up the back stairs.’ ”
Jhessail rolled her eyes, Florin growled, and Martess and Pennae both gave Florin “See? Someone else besides you” looks.
Pennae told Florin firmly, “ We’ll go and look for them. A woman looking gives less offense, but can deliver more scorn to shame them back down here, when they’re found.”
Horaundoon gasped, reeled, and shuddered, sweat streaming down his face and dripping off his chin. Four minds, now, two of them strong-willed and wayward…
Riches, he promised Agannor and Bey, showing them chests of gleaming coins and coffers a-glitter with gems. Women, splashing through their minds ivory curves, dark and mysterious eyes, alluring smiles, and languid beckonings. Power, and each of the two Swords saw himself striding, a great-cloak streaming from his shoulders, through palatial rooms, hurling open doors by which servants hastily knelt, and emerging into courtyards where white stallions in gold-plate-bedecked harness awaited, and riding forth through portcullis after arch after tunnel, out of a soaring castle, as folk thundered acclaim from balconies…
All theirs, the sweating Zhentarim mind-promised, if they but willingly served him.
More splendors he conjured, and thrust upon their minds, burying them in banners and glittering courts, impossibly beautiful courtesans writhing in welcome on beds made of thousands of coins… and he saw their mistrust, reluctance, and wary fears crumbling and fading, loose black earth swept away before his cleansing flood, an onslaught that laid bare eagerness, leaping up bright with desire, daring hope Agannor, he mind-spoke. Bey. Are you with me?
Their roars of assent were like raging flame in his mind, searing him even as his delight grew, sending the hargaunt into wild, clashing chimings of alarm and excitement.
Horaundoon shuddered in pain, slumped over a table with his fingers trying to pierce its edge as if they were claws, and smiled.
Then show me your loyalty. Step onto the great way to glory I’ve shown you. Slay these two wenches-who are in truth foul witches seeking to enslave you!
He spun an illusion of leering fanged fiend-faces, revealed dark and gloating behind the slipping masks of Kestra’s and Taeriana’s ardent smiles-and was still strengthening and improving that imagining when Agannor snarled, snatched his dagger out of its sheath, and drove it hilt-deep up under Taeriana’s chin.
Pennae frowned. The bedchambers in the Lion stood dark and empty, doors ajar, awaiting brief use by coinlasses and their clients.
From the landing where she stood, the stair went on up to the roof, and a narrow, gloomy hall stretched away from her a surprisingly long way. Martess was already going from door to door on the left.
Pennae sighed, shrugged, and started down the doors on the right.
In the other bed, Bey backhanded Kestra so viciously across her face that her head boomed against the wall. Dazed, she had time neither to draw breath nor scream before she was choking on her own blood, slumped over the edge of the bed, dripping and dying…
The partition walls between the Lion’s bedchambers were but a single panel thick, and Agannor’s snarl had been unmistakable.
Pressed against the wall in one corner of the dark and vacant next room, Martess listened, shuddering.
Plink. Plosh. Plink. Life-blood, dripping. They’d just killed the two coinlasses.
Mother Mystra, preserve us all…
Agannor blinked at Bey. “The master-he’s gone from my mind!”
“Mine too,” Bey muttered, “but I can still feel his regard. He’s watching us. Seeing if we stand strong, I think.”
He rose from the bed, looking down at what he’d done. “Naed,” he added, turning to the washstand and plunging his bloody dagger and hand into the full ewer of water. “We can’t let the watch see this. ”
Agannor nodded and tugged forth his own fang, looking away as Taeriana’s jaw fell open in its wake, sliced tongue dangling.
Wincing, he went to wash up, too, glancing at the closed but boltless door. “What’ll we-?”
“The roof,” Bey said. “That stair went on up. Bundle them into the bed-linens, get them up there for the carrion crows, and use the wash-water to get rid of the blood. We’ll be long gone from Arabel before rats start gnawing off fingers and dropping them around for folks to find.”
Agannor nodded. “The master should be pleased. Gods, such power he has! None of this fighting orcs for a few coppers, winter after winter, while Purple Dragons give us suspicious glares. We’re going to be lords! ” He grinned at Bey. “Any regrets?”
“Having to break from the Swords this swift and sharp. I’d sort of hoped to bed our own Flamehair, sooner or later.”
“Gods, yes, little Jhessail-though in truth I’d want Pennae. Now, there’s a wench!”
“Aye, if she was safely tied down so you’d live through it,” Bey said wryly. “Perhaps the master…”
Agannor grinned. “If we plead prettily enough?”
Pressed against the cold, hard panel, Martess shuddered. Dared she stay still and silent, to keep safe? Or run like nightwind out of here, to warn Pennae before they came for her?
If they caught her, ’twould be he
r blood dripping onto the floor-and all her friends would be doomed. These two would blame the Swords for any killings they did, falsely reporting to the watch or arranging matters so folk would think the Swords of Eveningstar were guilty…
My head full of spells, yet I’m so helpless.
“There’s another mind very close to them,” Horaundoon muttered, frowning. Surely a mere coinlass can’t be under magic to bring her back from a slaying?
Unless she’s not a mere coinlass…
A Harper? One of Vangerdahast’s spies?
Ignoring the hargaunt’s curious queries-chiming so rapid and shrill it sounded like a tree-cat chittering-Horaundoon closed his eyes and felt for that errant mind with his spell, putting a hand on the scrying orb to call on its energies, to make his seeking more powerful…
There! In the chamber next door, a mind dark with fear and despair, the glows of feeble spells riding it-one of the Sword magelings!
Charging into her mind would burn his own; even those feeble spells would burst, blaze, and sear, wrecking her mind but doing him harm he neither wanted nor dared suffer.
Horaundoon snarled and thrust himself back at the two handy mindworms, bringing Agannor and Bey out of their room in a snarling rush. Sometimes a sharp sword is enough.
Martess heard the thunder of boots through the wall and thrust herself up and away from it, feeling sick. Against those two she was nothing, less than nothing. She must The door behind her burst open. She whirled, gasping in alarm-and managed the beginnings of a shriek before Agannor’s sword, his teeth furiously bared behind it, burst into and through her, plunging like ice, driving her stumbling back.
Bey Freemantle, wearing the same wide and friendly grin on his face she’d seen so many times before, rushed in from the side.
His steel slid into her like fire, so hot against the cold of Agannor’s blade that Martess couldn’t breathe.
So the spell she might have lashed them with, that she not perish without at least dealing pain to her slayers, faded unleashed as Martess Ilmra sank down into soft and endless darkness, fire and ice fading around her.
