“What are the local war wizards up to during this oh-so-quiet time?”
“Scrying Arabel, seeking petty lawbreakers among the merchants there.”
“Come now! Whilst the war wizards of Arabel do what?”
“The same task. It seems they’ve one of those pushes to cleanse Arabel; they start one every five or six summers.”
Sarhthor shook his head in disbelief. “Cleansing Arabel I can well believe. Leaving Eveningstar unwatched, I cannot. Watch sharp, or you’ll be caught. This ‘attentiveness elsewhere’ of the war wizards known to you means some of Vangey’s other spell-vultures are scrying Eveningstar—rotation of duties to lull you, catch you unguarded, and train fresh eyes in the detection of Eveningstar’s little troubles. Such as you.”
“No one can scry me unnoticed,” Whisper said, “and I’ve found no hint of anyone trying. Vangey’s skulkers are busy elsewhere, I tell you. Most of them in and around Arabel, and others gathering at High Horn—I know not what for, but I’m trying to find out.”
“Huh. Next you’ll be telling me the Purple Dragon has returned, or someone with spellfire’s been found striding around the Dales. Be careful, Whisper, or your blind overconfidence may soon be the death of you.”
“Thank you, honored superior,” Whisper replied tonelessly.
“Dismiss my advice not, mageling—to do so brings you near to death from two directions, and I doubt you’re a good enough dancer to dodge both the war wizards and the Zhentarim. So take my warning to heart. In the meantime, keep in mind two things: that ‘caravans quietly through’ remains our policy, and that there’s much infighting going on at Zhentil Keep right now; we must all be very careful to obey orders diligently and in every detail.”
Whisper nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, Sarhthor. I hear and will obey. You may count on me.”
As he spoke, a ruby-red radiance flared into being far down the room. Part of a map graven into the top of a massive stone table was glowing balefully.
Sarhthor’s eyes narrowed. “What intrusion does yon spell warn of?”
“Several persons wearing garments marked by my agents have entered a part of the subterranean stronghold known as the Haunted Halls. Specifically, a part where I may well be able to slay them with relative ease, given the traps I’ve crafted there and the layout of the rooms and passages.”
“And your agents marked these ‘several persons’ because?”
“Because I was suspicious of them. These individuals are the Swords of Eveningstar, members of a newly chartered adventuring band, just arrived in Eveningstar. Mere restless younglings out of Espar, who saved the life of the king of Cormyr and claimed a charter as their reward—but bumbling and soon-slain as adventurers may be, they can still draw unwanted attention and unwittingly harm many schemes and proceedings in their blunderings.”
Sarhthor nodded. “Agreed. Deal with them.” And with those blunt words still hanging in the air, he was gone, leaving Whisper gazing across his empty spellcasting chamber at that distant ruby glow.
“Deal with them, indeed,” he murmured, and waved a hand to awaken a nearby scrying crystal.
It floated obediently nearer, quickening into brightness: the glows of no less than four bobbing, approaching lanterns. The Swords of Eveningstar, shining-eyed with the excitement of having found no less than two secret doors, and through them a huge labyrinth of rooms and corridors running in seemingly all directions, were coming along a passage into what had once been a throne room—and was now home to one of Whisper’s most cunning traps.
Whisper smiled as he strode forward to peer closely into the Haunted Halls—or at least, what little could be seen of them in the depths of the crystal. ’Twas enough, though. ’Twas enough. This should be good.
“I mislike the look of this,” Martess hissed. “There’s magic everywhere in the room ahead of us.”
Agannor and Bey were almost leaning through the open doorway, holding their lamps high. A heap of splintered, gilded ruin lay right in front of their boots: the remnants of fallen, once-grand double doors that had echoed in wood the size and grandeur of the bronze doors guarded by the lightning-spitting statues, somewhere back behind the Swords.
Only, these doors had been adorned with magnificent relief carvings of knights riding leaping war-horses, and from their saddles hewing down orcs, sinister helmed men whose arms seemed to be long tentacles, and what looked like wyverns and wingless dragons. It was hard to tell what all of the monstrous foes were, because the blows of a hard-driven axe had long ago cleft and marred many of the carvings, and time and the damp had caused the edges of those wounds to crumble.
“Looks like a throne room,” Agannor grunted. “A fair place to look for treasure, wouldn’t you say?”
“I say again,” Martess murmured, still on her knees. “Magic—some of it very strong—is everywhere in yon chamber.”
“Hah! Couldn’t some of the treasure we seek be magical? Hey? Like the healing flasks Pennae found?”
“Agannor,” Pennae told him, “we are not alone in these halls. If someone—or something—that speaks Common and understands us is lurking in the darkness anywhere near, you’re loudly telling them everything we’re doing and so telling them exactly when and how to best harm us. So still your tongue. Please.”
Agannor bared his teeth in anger at the slender thief—who shrugged, smiled, and murmured to Martess, “Take all the time you need to be sure, Tess. I want to know exactly where the magic is before I put one toe into the room. And so help me, Agannor, if you lose patience with our caution and go striding in there: I’ve got some concoctions that can make the bites of my knives very interesting—and you’ll feel those bites, if you go on endangering the rest of us by playing the reckless fool here and in any more rooms.”
“Sabruin,” Agannor spat at her. “Just sabruin!”
“After you do, dearest,” Pennae replied lightly. “After you!”
He growled and waved disgusted dismissal at her—but stayed out of the throne chamber. It was Bey who gave Pennae a hard look and asked, “So, Sharptongue, where would you head from here? What would you do, that’s so much better than just walking into yon room? Hey?”
“Well,” Pennae said, “the first thing I’d explore, before I moved on into that throne room and so left the thing behind me—and between me and the sunlight!—is this niche here in the wall. Small, but placed just where a hand can easily reach into it, and graven with these two symbols. Anyone seen them before? Anyone know what they mean?”
The Swords took turns shuffling forward to peer, and one after another shook their heads in open, obviously sincere denial.
“Well,” Pennae said, when they were done, “I can see something at the back there that I want to probe with my dagger. See the carving of the castle rampart? I wonder why—”
Something cold and blue flashed around her extended dagger—and the passage in front of the throne room was suddenly empty of all trace of Alura Durshavin.
Chapter 18
JUST ANOTHER NIGHT IN ARABEL
Daggers are drawn
Look, one man is down
fading his eyes
fallen his crown
Wizards rush in
Wizards rush forth
Dragons swoop down
To eat towers out
Priests run screaming
Temple domes fall
Orc hordes are coming
And plague will take all
But one thing I know,
And I know it full well
’Tis just another night in Arabel
Thumbard Voakriss,
Minstrel Mighty, from the ballad
Another Night In Arabel
published (as a broadsheet)
in the Year of the Spur
As full night fell over Filfaeril’s private garden, the servants lit the last of the lamps to keep its darkness softly at bay and fled in soft-skirted haste, unspeaking. All in the palace knew how much the queen loved h
er privacy.
In twilight and the early night, when affairs of state permitted such leisure, the Dragon Queen liked to walk alone, or sit quietly in a bower seat and think. Save for the rare occasions when she shared this time with her husband the king or the even rarer occasions when she was accompanied by someone else, she preferred tranquility and solitude, free from all prying. She had famously insisted on this in discussions with the royal magician, disputations that culminated in an argument Filfaeril had ended with a punch to Vangerdahast’s jaw.
Whereupon (once the reeling wizard had fallen, regained his feet, and collected his stammering wits) she had won matters her way, and now walked her gardens very much alone. Powerful wards prevented anyone from stealing up on her through the thick forests and rolling lawns of the royal park, and trios of war wizards and highknights guarded all access between the palace and her small, exquisite garden, their attention carefully turned away from the queen, toward the palace itself.
This still and surprisingly cool evening, Filfaeril lingered not as long among the opening, faintly glowing night-blossoms as she usually did. Instead she strode soft-slippered, in plain skirts and with a half-cloak about her shoulders against the chill, to the darkest back corner of her nine linked bowers, under the tree-shade where the moonlight would take some time yet to reach.
Hooking her fingers through the wide belt she wore around her slender hips, Filfaeril on a whim broke into a few dance steps and kicks, then spun around to stare back at the palace.
Only one balcony overlooked her here, and it was empty. The battlements high above it bore no trace of staring Purple Dragon heads. The garrison was up there, she knew, but had their orders not to look down into the garden and, she knew from covertly testing them in the past, were diligently obedient in this regard.
Stretching as luxuriously as any idly purring cat, the Queen of Cormyr went to her favorite bower seat, settled herself gracefully, and idly sang a snatch of a well-known ballad: “Are you there listening, pretty nightbird? Pretty nightbird?”
“Yes,” came the soft whisper beside her ear, “but so is a highknight spy, behind yonder statue. Send him away.”
Filfaeril did not have to feign her anger. Springing to her feet, she marched across the velvety sward to the whitestone statue of Azoun Triumphant—the only statue in her garden—and snapped, “Come out, man!”
The only reply was silence. Mouth tightening, the Dragon Queen sprang up two artfully placed stones among the plantings and embraced the statue, swinging around it to confront—a black-garbed man crouching behind it.
“Highknight,” she snarled, “who ordered you to this duty? Tell me!”
“I—Your Highness, I—”
“I’ve given you a royal command,” Filfaeril said, striding forward until her great belt buckle was almost touching the man’s nose.
He could feel what she could hear: the crackle of the spell-shield emanating from it. If he bore any steel about his person, he must also be feeling the pain of its ironguard warding.
The highknight rose and stepped back from Filfaeril in one smooth motion, to kneel to her then rise, saying, “The wizard Vangerdahast, my queen. I am to report any speech you may have with other persons whom you meet with here, and identify such persons.”
He hesitated, eyes meeting the queen’s simmering gaze, and added, “I should tell you that it is my belief that Wizards of War assigned by him indirectly scry you, even now, by scrying me. I submit myself to any punishment you may decree.”
Filfaeril threw back her head, drew in a deep breath as she looked at the stars, and then told the man tightly, “Loyal Highknight, go you and tell the Royal Magician Vangerdahast I would speak with him. Immediately. Seek not to compel him, but deliver this my message and depart from him, saying other orders of mine ride you. Answer not any queries as to those orders, but absent yourself from duty until the coming highsun. Go to a tavern, a festhall, or a club, and take your ease this night through—but go now.”
The highknight bowed. “I hear and will obey. Your Highness is merciful.”
“With some,” Filfaeril hissed at him. “With some.”
He descended onto the sward so she could clearly see his departure. The Dragon Queen swung down from her statue to stand and watch him go, the length of all her bowers, ere returning to her seat.
“Well, that was fun,” she remarked, her breathing still faster than normal. “How goes your harping?”
“I can still break strings,” came the low-pitched reply, “and have eyes that yet work well enough to notice your signal. How d’you keep your maids from tidying that coverlet right back off the balcony rail?”
“Promise to flay them alive,” Filfaeril said sweetly. “I had to start in on one of them once, but from the moment I cracked the whip and ordered her to bare herself, and they all stared at me and got a good look at my face, they … found obedience.”
The woman lying at ease under the bushes chuckled. “You should try the same tactic on Azoun.”
“Dove,” Filfaeril said, “don’t tempt me. He’d probably enjoy it, which is about all I want to say on the matter—given that Vangey just might decide that teleporting himself into my lap and storming at me, any moment now, is his best tactic. ’Tis more likely he’ll make sure he can’t be found by anyone this night, and in fact has been at some remote border locale of the realm all along, but …”
Dove chuckled again. “Wise words. So, what would you learn from the Harpers, and what will you trade in return? Bearing in mind that if Vangey is still eavesdropping, you may be handing him the chance to rant to the king that high treason flourishes in the bosom of Cormyr’s queen.”
“Let him try,” Filfaeril snapped. “Just let him try.”
Her fists were clenched, Dove saw—and so leaned out under the foliage to gently knead Filfaeril’s tense shoulders.
The queen stiffened at first, but slowly relaxed under the Harper’s skilled fingers, going so far as to groan briefly, three or four breaths later.
Then, without preamble, she said, “Bhereu’s pryings are aimed at uncovering what he believes to be men under his command making covert investments in Sembia via Sembian factors who’ve come to court several times, now, with trade proposals. The investments are probably nothing sinister in themselves, but he’s concerned that the Sembians are buying influence over his officers. The two most energetic factors go by the names Rrastran Ravalandro and Atuemor Ghallowgard. I believe that was one matter you Harpers were curious about.”
“You believe correctly,” Dove replied, her massaging fingers digging deeply into Filfaeril’s hitherto rigid neck and shoulders. “Anything else?”
“No. Court is quiet at the moment, so those who scheme and intrigue most vigorously—Vangerdahast and those my husband directs in their whisperings included—confine their hissings and soft threats to private moots well away from here. When they see the queen approaching, they recall an urgent need to be elsewhere.”
Dove chuckled again. “So, you’ve given me no state secrets but mere gossip; what would you know?”
“To match my paltry offering, a minor matter, to whit: this new band of adventurers my Azoun took such glee in anointing. He came back from Espar bubbling like a young lad at play, Dove! These Swords of Eveningstar: who are they, and what are they up to?”
“A handsome young forester of Espar who saved your Azoun’s life when he was attacked in Hunter’s Hollow by Sembian hireswords in the employ of certain nobles of this fair realm—just who, we Harpers know not, but we do know Vangerdahast has personally mind-reamed the lone hiresword Florin spared, when Azoun ordered him to do so—and the forester’s friends, and a few seekers-of-adventure they picked up in Waymoot. Ah, sorry: that ‘Florin’ is the young forester; Florin Falconhand.”
“That name I have heard,” Filfaeril murmured. “Are they young, eyes shining with thoughts of treasure, or—?”
Dove nodded. “Young and filled with hope, indeed. Your Azoun sent them
to scour out the Haunted Halls—”
“As he does all adventurers who lack noble parents to protest them being sent to their deaths,” Filfaeril murmured. “They are, then, not deemed sinister, but merely untested in their loyalty and heroism?”
“Indeed. They may yet fall, of course, but already their naive explorations are doing more to discomfit the Zhentarim in northern Cormyr than anything you—or we—have managed thus far. Zhentil Keep still has its spies, drug-sellers, and smugglers everywhere, but stolen goods and Cormyreans drugged to be sent into slavery are no longer casually added to every third caravan passing through Arabel or Eveningstar. The Zhents are being forced into the longer and more dangerous Stonelands routes—and I’ve even heard tell of their trying again to run large caravans through Anauroch.”
The queen turned her head, eyes widening. “You tell me true? One band of adventurers has managed all this? Unwittingly?”
Dove nodded. “And if unwitting adventurers can do this much damage, just think of what a handful of your worst idiot courtiers can wreak. Unwittingly.”
“Pennae! Pennae!” Florin rushed forward, his drawn sword flashing.
“Agannor!” Florin snapped, standing where Pennae had been, moments before. “Your lantern! Here! Now!”
Blinking in astonishment, Agannor obeyed, thrusting his lantern forward, low, where Florin was waving frantically at the floor.
There was nothing. No scorch mark, no ashes, no tiny, thumb-tall Pennae squeaking up at them and waving insect-sized arms. She was simply—gone.
Florin pointed furiously up at the niche Pennae had been probing, and Agannor brought the light up to show everyone … a carving at the back of the niche that looked like a castle wall, crenelated and with a tiny hinged door that looked like it actually swung back and forth, if touched.
Eyes hard and breathing heavily, Florin looked around wildly at the rest of the Swords—then thrust the point of his sword into the niche.
Swords of Eveningstar Page 25