That cheerful thought carried her right into a smell that made her stomach complain again. Stew!
Just ahead, where the alley met with another street, and started to reek like men spewing up too much ale, was a small, dingy tavern, its signboard dangling from one hook and too dark to read anyway. Light was spilling out into the night all around its warped, ill-fitting door. Much chatter came from within, and pipesmoke too. Reversing sword and dagger downward, and transferring them both into one hand, Princess Alusair thrust open the door and stepped inside.
The taproom was small, low-ceilinged, thick with drifting smoke, and crowded. She paused for a moment, expecting the room to fall silent in reverence, but no one seemed to so much as notice her—one more wet, bedraggled visitor from the night outside. When she peered around, she saw a few eyebrows, here and there, lifting in surprise at the blades in her hand and then at her gender, but everyone looked away, and no one remarked. Wise Arabellans tended not to comment on such things.
Alusair found an empty table and sank thankfully down into its lone chair, setting her blades carefully on the table and running her fingers back through her sodden hair to get it out of her eyes. Two none-too-clean men facing each other over tankards at the next table leered at her and then turned back to their converse. Their noses were long and sharp, their eyes sharper. Alusair ducked her head a little so the curtain of her wet hair hid her eyes from them, and tried not to seem like she was listening.
“Darthil, see the one in green? That’s him,” one of the sharp-nosed men said.
The other turned a ring on his tankard hand a little with his thumb. The ring caught the candlelight with a flash, and Alusair saw it had been polished mirror-bright—to serve, in fact, as a mirror.
“Aha. My, he’s the prance-dandy, isn’t he? We’ll deal with him later,” the other muttered. “But Mhaulo, tell me: Who’s the old mountain of meat beside him? His bodyguard we’ll have to fight?”
“No, far from it. Another he owes coin to, more likely. Gulkar has no bodyguards, not after—” Mhaulo cast a glance across the taproom at the white-haired, heavily muscled man sitting beside Gulkar, turned back in almost the same movement, and said with a smirk, “That, Darth, is Durnhelm Draggar Lenth B. Stormgate.”
Darthil lifted an eyebrow. “He’s called all that? No wonder he has shoulders that broad, if he has to carry all those names around. What’s the ‘B’ for?”
Mhaulo’s smirk widened. “Blade. But I’m not done; ’tis better than that. Old Durn asked his mother why he was called Durnhelm Draggar Lenth. She said those were her best three guesses as to who’d sired him.”
Darthil sighed. “Her last three lovers?”
“Her brothers.”
Darthil gave Mhaulo a decidedly disbelieving look, lifted his tankard, and said cautiously, “ ’Tis a good thing she only had three brothers.”
“Oh, I don’t think that matters all that much. Blade was the name of her horse.”
Princess Alusair suspected her face was reddening, and turned away swiftly to lean her chin in her hand and so block any view Mhaulo or Darthil might have of her. She found herself facing a weary-looking woman in an apron, who’d just stopped by her table and asked, “What’ll it be, good-lass?”
“That stew I’m smelling, and—” Alusair caught sight of some sweet buns on another table, and pointed. “Oh, and what wines d’you have?”
The serving maid’s voice sharpened. “None, lass, ’til the new vintage comes in. High-coin cellars are for grander houses. Here in the Hound, we serve good honest ale.” She started to turn away, and then said, “And being as you’re not wearing a face I know and you’ve blades bare on the table before you, I’d best ask for coin up front.”
Alusair stared at her. “Why—” She started to make the airy gesture that would refer the maid to the chamberlain at her shoulder, and then remembered there wasn’t any chamberlain at her shoulder.
And princesses a-prowling around the Palace didn’t carry purses full of coins at their belts. She had nothing.
Panic stabbed at her—until something caught the candlelight, on the table in front of her, and she remembered she was wearing several rings besides the magic one that had brought her here.
The plainest was a band of plain gold surmounted by a single small, dainty pearl. She twisted it, hoping her wet fingers would let it come off easily, and the gods smiled on her. Alusair held it up triumphantly. “With this.”
The serving-woman’s eyes widened, and she pointed at the sword and dagger. “Lass,” she said helplessly, as heads turned at tables all around them. “Lass, you didn’t slice up a husband with those and go running out into the storm, did you? Tell truth, now.”
Alusair blinked at the woman angrily, and then drew herself up in her chair, throwing her shoulders back as she’d seen courtiers do all her life, and snapped, “I always tell the truth. The realm depends upon it.”
Alsarra and many other maids and guardians and courtiers had instructed her to say—and do—as much, from before she could walk.
“Ooooh,” said someone at a table nearby, in mocking mimicry of a haughty, oh-so-pompous noble—the very sort of parody Alusair loved to indulge in herself. She cast a glance around, and saw astonishment on many hard-bitten faces.
“Lass,” a fat man asked, from a table not far off, “who are you?”
Alusair stood up slowly, planted her fingertips on the tabletop, stared at the serving maid, then slowly turned her head to survey everyone around her, as far to the left and right as her stance permitted.
“Folk of Cormyr,” she said proudly, “I am your princess. The Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, daughter of the Purple Dragon himself.”
Her last few words reminded her that in troubled Arabel, every last man of the local Watch was a Crown-sworn Purple Dragon, and as her eyes fell on Mhaulo and Darthil, gaping at her in staring astonishment, she added sternly, “It is my royal command that none of you, here or after departing this place, tell any man of the Watch or war wizard of my presence.”
In the awed silence that followed, she held out the ring again to the serving maid, who shrank back from it as if it were red-hot and flaming from a forge.
“By all the Watching Gods, are we to believe this wild-tongue work?” a tall merchant scoffed, from far across the taproom. “If this drab is Princess Alusair, I suppose then I’m Vangerdahast, wearing the crowns of all the dead kings of Cormyr as I play my grand games, lifting up the king and queen and setting them as his unwitting playing-pieces, and—”
“Be still!” Another man was on his feet, a gray-haired trader in once-fine robes, his voice shaking with anger. “You dishonor us all, man! I have been to Suzail, and been slipped into a grand revel to watch from a balcony as the royal family swept in—and this is the princess.”
And in the sudden, utter silence, he went down on his knees to Alusair.
In the warehouse next door, men growled instructions, grunted with effort, and hastened to and fro as new stacks of crates and coffers were shifted by lanternlight. The stable, however, was dark and silent except for the sounds of horses tossing their heads and pawing at the straw.
The most restive horses seemed to be the ones made ready for the Knights, their reins tied to pillars. Things did not improve as the Knights mounted up.
“Fare you well, Knights of Myth Drannor,” Melandar said, walking along the row of horses with a hand that glowed faintly. He calmed each horse at a touch. “Your horses now all know the way to the Eastgate, and will desire to go only there. The gate will open at your approach. Know that the good wishes of Cormyr go with you, and that agents of the Crown will bring word when you are welcome back.”
“Thank you,” Semoor murmured. “Is that word expected in our lifetimes?”
The war wizard gave him a wry smile, said gently, “Of course it is, Sir Priest. This is no exile nor punishment. Consider it a personal service to the queen. I will not be surprised to see all of you back at Court far
sooner than you expect to be there. Yet now I must leave you to attend to my next task.”
His wave was the last of him that the Knights saw. His body vanished, swallowed by some silent magic or other, his moving hand winking out last.
Florin sighed, shook himself as if coming out of a deep slumber, and said, “Well, we’d best get out of Arabel without delay, as such is obviously expected of us, and—”
Something moved in the darkness, swift and near. Islif ducked to let a knife flash past, then lifted an arm to strike aside a dagger whirling at her. Jhessail’s horse reared and screamed. Pennae launched herself from her saddle at a man who dodged out from behind a pillar and a heap of hay, running at them with a drawn sword and dagger in his hands.
Another man sprang up beside Florin’s horse, knife flashing. The ranger kicked out as hard as he could, taking the man under the chin.
Florin could feel the man’s neck and jaw shatter as his boot heaved the writhing, spasming man up into the air. A few teeth flashed back lanternlight momentarily as their owner spun away. Florin’s mount bucked and screamed in fear, and he wrestled with the reins to stay in the saddle.
Doust cried, “Tymora be with us!”
At the same time Semoor chanted, “Lathander’s light sunder this night!” and light flared in the air around them—only to be extinguished an instant later, by a spell that made the air all around the Knights crackle and crawl.
The horses screamed in terrified unison, a horrible sound that was cut off as abruptly as if by a slicing knife, leaving only silence. A silence that swallowed everything except a man’s cold, cruel laughter.
“Die, Knights of Myth Drannor,” the unseen man said, “at the hands of the Zhentarim. Faerûn will be much improved by the removal of a queen’s toys before they have any chance to become annoying. You are as nothing—so be nothing!”
“There are six Knights of Myth Drannor now. Behold, and mark them well. All but one from the flourishing, upcountry spired-city of Espar.”
The guards chuckled, but went on peering at the glowing spell images. Even the house wizards of minor nobles were apt to be testy with underlings who treated their orders with anything less than eager attention.
“This tall, handsome ladies-swoon hero is Florin Falconhand. Honest, true, swift with a sword, and a lot more naive than his manner will make you think—or than he thinks he is. This ruddy-faced farm lass who looks capable of wrestling him to the ground is Islif Lurelake. Strong, doesn’t say much; you know the sort. The dainty little thing with the big elflike eyes is Jhessail Silvertree, who knows a spell or two. Looks like a little girl just ready to flirt, eh? Beware her—aside from this one, skulking here at the end, she’s the most dangerous if the Knights ever step over our threshold.”
“And will they?”
The house wizard shrugged. “Who knows? They’re saying these Knights now serve the queen—and you know what that means.”
“I know what it usually means, but notorious adventurers with blades hanging off them are hardly effective spies.”
“Aye, but they can be effective distractions. And threats too.” The wizard’s voice sharpened. “Which we can speak of later. For now, learn these last three. The dangerous one is the outlander: Pennae, she calls herself, though she’s used a score of other names across Sembia in the last ten winters. A sneak-thief, and a good one. Learn her face if you remember none of the others.”
“And the holy men? Aren’t they mere novices?”
“They are. This handsome one is Doust Sulwood, dedicated to Tymora. Shy, unassuming, but misses little. The other’s Semoor Wolftooth, of Lathander. He’s ruled by his smart tongue and inability not to use it all the time. What comes out of his mouth will give us all the excuses we need to attack, imprison, or run off these Knights, if they show up here. Any questions?”
“Have they any weaknesses?”
The house wizard sighed. “They’re adventurers, Dlarvan. Therefore they’re reckless fools, by definition. Inexperienced reckless fools. Surely you can deal with a handful of such dolts?”
“I’m sure we can,” Dlarvan said—at the same time as a guard somewhere in the shadows well behind him muttered, “Well, we deal with a wizard every day.”
The look the house wizard gave them all then was his best withering glare, but they looked back at him with identical expressions of moon-faced innocence. Motherless bastards.
Black-clad men were everywhere in the darkness, swords flashing in the gloom of the stables. Pennae threw a dagger into one man’s face, then leaped in another direction to stab a half-seen warrior.
Doust threw himself awkwardly out of his saddle, bare moments before a sword stabbed at where he’d been. Its wielder ducked around the hind end of Doust’s horse—and was flung hard against a pillar as the horse kicked angrily.
Jhessail reached out for a rafter, to try to haul herself off her bucking, kicking horse, but arched back and away with a little shriek as a man swung down out of the loft to thrust a sword along the beam she’d been reaching for.
In the eerie spell-silence, with her fellow Knights fighting for their lives all around her, Islif spat out an oath that no one heard.
People were crowding around the preening princess, as she sipped thankfully from the cooling-spout of the most ornate soup bowl in the tavern, and sighed her appreciation. Everyone was trying to get a good look at royalty, and many faces wore a hesitancy that betokened an inward war between wanting to touch the princess for good luck, and not daring such a boldness lest it offend—and cause spell-hidden war wizards and Purple Dragons melt out of the air to slay anyone so profaning an Obarskyr.
Old retired Purple Dragons shuffled forward in reverent silence, and outlanders peered and even stood on chairs to feed their curiosity. Among all the others seeking to gaze upon the Princess Alusair, no one noticed a lone diner—a quiet little man in a dark weathercloak, tunic, and breeches—eyeing the princess very thoughtfully from his nearby table. He nodded, as if in respect, rose, edged out of the press of awed Cormyreans, ducked through a curtain into a back room, and failed to emerge again.
Chapter 5
RESCUING A PRINCESS
It’s not all the bowing and fawning
over princesses as turns my stomach
whilst giving me bloody wounds and white hairs.
No. It’s rescuing the princesses—again!—
when they blunder witlessly into doom
after doom. Hard life lesson after hard life lesson
that our heroics let them ignore.
No wonder they learn so little.
Horvarr Hardcastle
Never A Highknight:
The Life of a Dragon Guard
published in the Year of the Bow
The eerie silence faded. Florin’s lunging, rearing horse almost brained him on a low crossbeam for the third time. He gave up on staying in the saddle and flung himself sideways into a heap of hay.
Pennae rolled over and over on the floor, viciously stabbing the man she grappled with, her dagger wet and glistening to her very knuckles. As the man’s groans ended, she rolled to her feet, giving Florin a cheerful grin, and sprinted across the stables to pounce on a man who was trying to haul Jhessail out of her saddle.
As her dagger found the man’s ribs from behind, the lashing hooves of Jhessail’s terrified mount crashed into him from the front. The man crumpled, Pennae coolly slitting his throat as they went into the straw together. Florin saw a trail of three sprawled corpses behind the one he’d seen her slay.
Three brightnesses flared from someone’s fingertips at the far end of the stables—and streaked through the air, curving around pillars to follow the hastening, battling Knights—and Florin saw Pennae gasp and reel as one of the spell-bolts struck her. An instant later, Islif grunted and stiffened in midparry, her attacker seizing the chance to drive her blade aside and send her staggering back. As Florin launched himself at the man, the last missile struck Doust and slammed him head-fi
rst into a pillar. He fell without a sound.
Florin’s charge carried him into the swordsman with a solid crash. The man went down. Florin trampled him and ran on, heading for the spot where some Zhentarim wizard had cast that spell. Islif could handle her foes without his aid, but if that mage took it into his head to, say, blast a few of the pillars with a fire spell that brought the stables down on top of them all and set it afire.…
The Zhents all seemed to wear motley leathers and everyday traders’ vests and boots, and to be wielding similarly mismatched swords and daggers. They also seemed to be dying very swiftly—behind him, a man screamed suddenly and started choking wetly, and he heard Pennae laugh and call, “I’ve run out of foes again! Over here, all craven assailants!”—which would not be viewed favorably by the Watch of Arabel.
Was this whole affair a trap? These men had appeared the moment the war wizard took himself away. Who was left to attest that the Knights had been given these mounts and weren’t just horse-thieves in the night?
Those thoughts took Florin up a dimly seen hayloft ladder, a fleeing black robe flapping not far ahead of him, and out through an open hatch in a frantic, stumbling run so he could get through before the wizard readied any sort of spell, onto a rooftop of old shakes slippery in the slackening rain.
The wizard was backing away from him with an uncertain sneer, as more Zhent warriors waving swords and daggers came hurrying from the warehouse roof to surround him in a protective ring—and then advance on Florin. Ten … a dozen … Florin planted himself, and wondered how long it would take a newly knighted young ranger from Espar to die.
In the back room of the Old Warhound tavern, Andaero Hardtower of the Zhentarim hissed fiercely into the face of the short man in the dark weathercloak, “Ravelo, I don’t care if all the kings of every last Border Kingdom are out in the taproom—and all their jeweled strumpets too! I’m late reporting in and the scrying crystal’s starting to glow and I must be alone! Get gone!”
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