“Then Vala will pay for her treachery in helping Galaeron escape,” Telamont pronounced.
“That would certainly be a great waste of womanly flesh.” As fond as Malik was of Vala, he was less worried for her than he was relieved at not hearing his own name. “But a waste that matters little to me, as I am quite sure the only thing I would ever find in her bed is a quick death.”
“That might be preferable.”
Again, Malik found himself asking a question he did not really want answered.
“Preferable, Most High? To what?”
“To taking her place,” Telamont answered.
“Take her place?” Malik exclaimed. “But I am a man!”
“And if you want to stay that way, I suggest you make good on your plan.”
Malik felt the blood leaving his head and knew he was close to fainting, which was hardly something that would inspire the Most High’s confidence. Knowing from his long experience as a merchant and a spy that the best way to cover a weakness was to bluff, he forced himself to meet Telamont’s gaze.
“You must know that in my service to Cyric, I have suffered a hundred injuries worse than that.” It was as true a statement as any he had ever made. “If you wish to inspire me, you must do better than that.”
The murkiness beneath Telamont’s cowl stilled with shock.
“You dare demand a boon?”
“When the risks are great, the reward must be even greater,” Malik said. “That is the first rule of business taught to me by my wise father.”
Telamont remained motionless for several moments, staring at Malik in disbelief. Finally, the purple crescent of a smile appeared beneath his eyes.
“As you will, then,” he said. “Bring me Galaeron Nihmedu, and you shall name your price. Fail … and I shall name mine.”
CHAPTER SIX
16 Flamerule, the Year of Wild Magic
Even had there not been a giant-sized gap in the caravan between Galaeron and Ruha, the group of wealthy citizens holding a farewell party at the city gate practically announced that Aris of Thousand Faces was leaving town. The Arabellans had turned out in their finest splendor, many standing in silk-draped wagons beside their latest acquisitions—masterpieces in granite and marble, bought the day before at giveaway prices. All eyes were fixed on the long line of riders and draft animals coming down the street, and as soon as the onlookers saw the unexplained space where the invisible giant was walking, they raised sparkling flutes of champagne in silent tribute.
“I’d say your idea worked, Ruha,” Galaeron said quietly. “Had we hired a crier to stroll the streets all night, we couldn’t have spread our ‘secret’ any faster.”
“Yes, I have always found that the surest way to proclaim a thing is to say it should not be repeated,” Ruha said. “I only hope it did not pain Aris to part with so many works so cheaply.”
“Why should that pain me?” Aris whispered. “Their owners will enjoy the pieces all the more, and I don’t have to carry so much gold.”
“There are plenty of Arabellans who would’ve been happy to shoulder the burden for you,” Galaeron said. “The way they hoard the stuff, one would think they eat it.”
As the front of the caravan reached the gatehouse, the caravan master slipped out of line to pay the gate tax. The bursar held himself primly upright and made a show of tallying each draft animal as it passed through the gate. His guards stood at strict attention, their gazes fixed on the opposite side of the archway and their halberds posted at full-arm. Though Cormyrean officials were reputed to be generally honest—at least by human standards—they were no more prone to perpetual diligence than other men, and Galaeron realized that Aris’s well-wishers were not the only ones who had come down to see them off.
When their turn came to pass under the archway and be counted, Galaeron glanced into the arrow loop behind the guards and found a familiar cascade of golden hair shining in the depths of the gatehouse. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. The hair moved closer, and Princess Alusair’s familiar face appeared on the other side of the loop. Her eyes were red and glassy, though it was impossible to say whether from weeping or exhaustion.
“Thank you.” Galaeron mouthed the words without speaking them aloud. “Your kindness has lit my heart.”
Alusair smiled. “And your courage mine.” She also spoke the words silently. “Sweet water and light laughter, my friend.”
“Fare you well.” Galaeron did not give the traditional “Back soon” reply, for they both knew he would not be returning to Cormyr. “May your realm prevail and your people know peace.”
Galaeron could not be certain Alusair saw enough of this last wish to understand, for she vanished behind the edge of the arrow loop as the caravan continued forward. They passed beneath the spikes of the iron portcullis and clomped across the drawbridge onto the beginning of the High Road.
Once they were outside the city walls, a small army of beggars—farmers and craftsmen rendered destitute by the ravages of the Goblin War—emerged from the tents and ramshackle huts of Pauper’s Town to beg alms. Aris slipped sacks of gold to Galaeron and Ruha, who tried to avoid calling attention to their friend’s generosity by proclaiming, “Here’s a copper for you,” and pressing the gift firmly into the supplicant’s hand each time they passed out one of the gold coins.
The strategy proved even less effective than their “effort” to sneak out of town undetected. Whenever the astonished beggars—especially the children—opened their hands and saw what they had been given, they could not help crying out in delight. Soon, Galaeron and Ruha were surrounded by a moving throng, many of whom noticed the giant-sized gap between them and guessed the true identity of their benefactor.
They reached the small bridge that separated the marshaling fields from Pauper’s Town, and the press of beggars brought the caravan’s progress to a near standstill. The curses of drivers behind Galaeron and Ruha began to grow both in volume and vehemence but were drowned out by a steady chorus of, “Ilmater’s blessing on the Generous Giant,” or, “Thanks to the Tall One!”
It was in the middle of this madness that a slender hand wearing two silver rings reached up for a coin. Clasped around the wrist above the hand, hidden almost out of sight inside the cuff of a purple sleeve, was a silver bracelet bearing the skull-and-starburst symbol of Cyric, Prince of Lies. Galaeron ran his gaze up the sleeve to a silver-trimmed collar, where he found himself looking into the sunken eyes of a hollow-cheeked woman with ropy blond hair.
“I have had a vision,” she hissed. “One you love—”
Galaeron pressed a coin into her hand and said, “Here’s your copper. Take it and go.”
She let the coin drop in the dust, nearly felling Galaeron’s horse as a knot of beggars dived beneath its hooves to retrieve the offering.
“Listen to me, elf!” Her hand grabbed his reins and brought his progress to a stop. “You must return to Shade. I saw the Seraph in a dream—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Galaeron said. He pulled his boot free of the stirrup and planted his foot in the center of her chest. “This caravan is bound for Iriaebor.”
He started to push her off—and found the tip of a stiletto sliding up under the armor on his calf. The sensation of cold steel pricking his leg caused a dark fury to rise inside Galaeron. Leaving the half empty sack of gold to slide off his saddle and spill on the ground, he reached across his body and grabbed the hilt of his sword.
“Shade,” the woman hissed. “Go, or she will die.”
Galaeron’s heart began to pound like a Vyshaan war drum. Though he desperately wanted to ask the woman about her vision, he held his tongue and drew his sword half out of its scabbard. Even had he thought he could trust a Cyricist, he would never have risked his plan by telling her that Shade was exactly where he intended to go.
“You have mistaken me for someone else, Madam,” Galaeron said. “Now, step back or lose your head.”
The woma
n’s eyes turned black and sun-shaped, with long tongues of darkness wagging around the edges.
“Believe.”
She sank her stiletto a quarter of an inch into his calf, and Galaeron’s blade rasped free of its scabbard almost of its own will. The woman raised her chin and waited with eerie calmness as it arced toward her collarbone.
“Believe!”
Galaeron’s attack came to a sudden end as his forearm struck a huge, invisible hand.
“No,” Aris’s voice rumbled down from above.
“Leave her be, friend,” Ruha called from the other side of Aris. “The mad cannot be blamed for their madness.”
“Nor the messenger for the message,” the woman added. Her voice was gravelly and multifold, as though there were a hundred people speaking at once. “Go.”
The black suns faded from her eyes. Leaving her stiletto hanging from Galaeron’s calf, she stumbled back and fell into the throng of beggars fighting over the coins he had let fall. Aris’s grasp slackened, and Galaeron lowered his blade, his hand trembling so badly he could barely slip the tip into its scabbard.
“My friend, what is it?” Ruha asked. “Why are you so frightened?”
“More startled than frightened,” Galaeron said. He reached down and plucked the woman’s dagger from his calf, then displayed the bloody tip. “A message from our friend the cuckold. He wants to see us.”
Ruha’s dark brow rose, and Galaeron tossed the dagger over the beggars into an empty place in the field. When he turned to urge his horse forward he saw that it was hopeless. The road ahead was blocked by at least a hundred paupers—all with their hands out, praising Aris’s generosity—and the little bridge was occupied by two dozen caravan guards on their way back from the marshaling fields.
Once they were clear of the bridge, the guards began shouting at the paupers to clear the road, using their shields and the shoulders of their big war-horses to enforce their demands. Galaeron did his best to remain patient. Whether or not the message had truly come from Malik, it only served to heighten his concern for Vala. His feelings for her were not as spiritual as the love for Takari that he had denied all those years on the Desert Border South, but only because a human and an elf could never come together like two elves could.
Nevertheless, Galaeron did love Vala—if not as deeply as Takari, then at least as strongly—and it had tormented him to remain comfortable in Arabel while she served Escanor as a bed-slave. Not a day had passed that he did not dream of returning to free her. If only she could hold on until he got himself captured.
When the guards began to grow impatient with the paupers and slap at them with the flats of their blades, Aris hit upon a helpful solution and began to fling handfuls of gold away from the road. It took two throws before the beggars realized what was happening and fled, all yelling Aris’s praises and pleading for him to throw a handful their way.
Once the road was clear, the guards moved quickly to secure the caravan, thundering past on both sides and barking orders to get moving. Five of their number peeled off and came up beside Galaeron and Ruha, placing themselves so that any beggars returning for more handouts would have to go through them first.
The largest, a hatchet-faced woman in a helmet and dusty fighting leathers, came alongside Galaeron and waved them across the bridge. The guard’s voice was as familiar as it was biting.
“Well done, elf. I doubt there’s a deaf man or blind woman within a league of here who doesn’t know you’re sneaking out of Arabel.”
Galaeron took a closer look. The speaker’s gaunt features softened into those of Storm Silverhand, the hair that looped out from beneath her helmet turning silver and silky, the thin-lipped mouth growing full and shapely.
“This wasn’t part of the plan.” Fearful of betraying the identity of his guards, Galaeron was careful to avoid the honorific one usually showed the Chosen. “The gratitude of the paupers took us by surprise.”
“Oh, well that’s fine then,” growled the rider behind her. “How comforting to know things just slipped out of control.”
They started across the bridge. Galaeron glanced over his shoulder to find the visage of an old horse-faced guard yielding to the black beard and frowning features of a man who could only be the renowned elf-friend, Khelben Arunsun.
Galaeron decided not to mention the message from Malik. The Chosen appeared less than enthusiastic as it was, and the last thing he wanted was to give them an excuse to change their minds.
“I apologize for the mistake,” he said. “I should have realized how gold would affect—”
“Galaeron is not to blame,” Aris said, his voice booming down out of the empty sky. “I am the one who wanted to give them the gold.”
“Will you be quiet up there?” Khelben demanded. “At least pretend you’re trying to sneak out of here unnoticed.”
“I apologize,” Aris said, his voice a low rumble that made the bridge planks quiver beneath the horses’ hooves, “but you mustn’t blame Galaeron—”
“There’s no need to blame anyone,” said a third guard. Riding opposite Galaeron on Ruha’s far side, she had only one arm and a voice similar to Storm’s. “No one should be condemned for sharing with the hungry.”
As she spoke, Galaeron began to see through the illusion guarding her identity and realized that this had to be Khelben’s consort, Laeral Silverhand. There was a tiny arm growing from the stump of the one she had lost in the Shaeradim, but even this did not detract from her beauty. She was, if anything, even more lovely than her sister, with a warmth and charm alien to Storm’s brusque manner—or perhaps it merely seemed so to Galaeron because Storm never bothered to hide the dislike she bore him.
Khelben was silent a moment, then said, “You’re right, of course.” He sighed heavily. “Again.”
This drew a laugh from the last two guards, and Galaeron recognize the same silver in their voices as in Laeral and Storm’s. He hazarded a glance in their direction, and as he began to see through the illusions, he recognized in their sparkling eyes and silver hair two more of Storm’s sisters. The slimmest of the two, and the most feminine in her carriage and manner, could only be the celebrated Lady of Silverymoon, Alustriel Silverhand. The other, a more imposing figure as powerfully built as a man, had to be the mighty Dove Falconhand—Harper, Knight of Myth Drannor, and friend to the elves.
The Chosen had not only answered Galaeron’s call for help, they had answered it in strength. If Khelben seemed tense, it only made sense. With Elminster still missing with the Simbul, and ghostly Syluné more or less confined to her farm in Shadowdale, the only available Chosen they had not brought was the Dark Sister, Qilué. Given his limited experience with drow during his days in the Tomb Guard, Galaeron was just as glad.
They left the bridge and rushed to catch the head of the caravan, which was stopped in the marshaling field while the captain of the guards grouped the draft animals by swiftness and burden and assigned personnel to watch over them. He placed Galaeron and Ruha with a group of lightly burdened riders, and at Storm’s magically enhanced suggestion, assigned the five Chosen to watch over them.
Once the captain had moved on, the Chosen gathered their horses in a tight circle around Galaeron, Ruha, and the still invisible Aris.
“Here’s my plan, Galaeron,” Khelben said. “We’re going to make a few—”
“Darling?” Laeral interrupted. “Aren’t you forgetting who thought of this in the first place?”
Khelben scowled but said, “All right.” He turned back to Galaeron. “Your plan’s a sound one, but we’re going to—”
“Pardon me,” Alustriel said. “But I’d prefer that someone who’s actually been inside the city does the planning.”
Khelben rolled his eyes. “Very well.” He turned back to Galaeron and said, “We all like your ideas.”
“Very impressive,” Dove said.
Khelben nodded almost reluctantly then continued, “But there are some things we should bring to your at
tention.”
He stopped to check for the others’ approval.
Storm whirled her hand to urge him on. She glanced back toward the rear of the caravan, which was already coming across the little bridge.
Khelben looked irritated but he said, “First, you won’t be able to eat until we’re inside the city.”
Galaeron raised his brow and said, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“We didn’t think you had,” Alustriel said, “but I’m sure you understand. The journey will be unpleasant enough as it is.”
“I don’t think I could ride for more than a few days without eating anyway,” Galaeron agreed. “We’ll put that part off as long as we can.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Khelben agreed. “Second, you may have noticed there are five of us.”
“I can do it instead,” Aris said. “I’m larger.”
“Actually, we were thinking of splitting the group into two teams,” Laeral said. “As insurance.”
Though Galaeron was reluctant to ask Aris to assume any more risk than he already was, he knew better than to argue. The giant had made his feelings on the subject clear when he smashed the table in their courtyard.
“Splitting is a good idea, if Aris is willing,” Galaeron said.
Khelben smiled. “Good,” he said, “then we’re all agreed.”
“Not quite.” Galaeron raised his hand, and avoiding Ruha’s gaze, said, “Ruha can’t come with us.”
“That is not your decision,” Ruha replied. Her tone was angry, though not surprised. They had spent most of the night arguing the point, finally letting the matter drop only because the time had come to join the caravan. “This has nothing to do with Evereska.”
Galaeron ignored her and fixed his gaze on Storm.
“The Shadovar need me,” he said, “and they value Aris, but Ruha is nothing to them but a problem. If she comes with us, there’s every chance the Shadovar will put her to death.”
“That is my risk, not yours,” the witch said, running her gaze from one Chosen to the next. “He is trying to protect Malik. Malik saved his life, and now the foolish elf believes they are friends.”
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