Swords of Eveningstar

by Greenwood, Ed

  “There are always guards at the citadel gates, and around the palace,” Pennae snapped. “Just match my pace, keep walking, and don’t look guilty. Ignore the Dragons; to you, they’re … furniture.”

  “Really?” Semoor murmured. “Remind me not to sit down on anything in your home.”

  “If I had a home, Holy Wolftooth, you’d be the sort of man I’d turn away from my door,” Pennae hissed. “Now stop playing the fool! There are Dragons and war wizards all around us!”

  “Strangely enough, I’d noticed as much,” he muttered as the Swords passed between the palace and the gaudy windows of Dulbiir’s Finery and Finer Promises, still bright at this late hour. The rain was no more than a light, clinging mist now, but the Swords were growing more worried about the clinging tendencies of the lawkeepers of Cormyr, patiently closing in around them.

  “Pennae,” Florin murmured, “I hope you know where you’re—”

  “I’m looking for an inn I know only by name,” she muttered over her shoulder. “It should be right along here … and if we’ve coins enough, or give good weapons in lieu, they’ll both give us rooms and help hide us.”

  They walked in slow, steady procession the length of a long block ere Pennae relaxed with a sigh, and turned in at the door of the nearest corner building of the next block.

  “The Falcon’s Rest,” Islif and Agannor murmured in rough unison, looking up to read the sign.

  Pennae tapped at a small sliding panel in the door. When it slid aside, revealing only darkness, she announced, “We must go to ground, for the Dragons hunt.”

  The door clicked open and a dry, elderly male voice said, “Then hurry in, turn to the right, and walk far enough to let all your fellows in behind you. Be welcome in the Rest.”

  The Swords hastened inside, the door was closed, bolted, and barred, and lamps were unhooded to reveal a common room with a huge oaken stair rising up to unseen levels above. As they blinked at the staff of the Rest, who nodded welcome to them over loaded and ready handbows, the owner of a rather sly smile stepped back from a lofty landing on the stair, nodded, and stole away into deeper darkness.

  The Swords of Eveningstar were in Arabel, and in the Rest. Which meant a certain someone, whose orders had been explicit and forceful, must be informed without delay.

  Green adventurers are so easily baited and blamed. This was going to be fun.

  Chapter 19

  DARKSOME CESSPITS, AND MORE

  Married thrice, and a lover of many men more, I have seen into the minds of many men with my spells. ’Tis astonishing, even after all this time, what darksome cesspits most men’s minds are.

  Murathauna Darmeir

  Forty Years Loose-Gowned:

  Memoirs of a Noble Lowcoin Lass

  published in the Year of the Wanderer

  Narantha knew by now what she carried. The small coffer in her chatelaine held something Uncle Lorneth had told her to describe to the disloyal young lordlings as “my gift to you: a thing of pleasure magic deemed suitable only for those of noble blood by its makers, a priestess of Sharess and her lover, a priest of Siamorphe.”

  Like all of her earlier offerings, it was a gem enspelled to display softly shifting scenes of beautiful unclad women in its depths, that she could handle safely but that would magically sink into the skin of the men she met with, and melt away.

  Uncle Lorneth claimed not to know the precise details of what it did to those lordlings, but Narantha suspected it laid a magic upon them that allowed the war wizards to eavesdrop on their thoughts for signs of treason—and perhaps even trace their whereabouts.

  She was well content to broaden the reach of the Crown against those who plotted against it, though she found most of the young, perfumed, arrogant lordlings she encountered even more stomach-turning than she’d thought them before coming to know Florin Falconhand.

  Now there was a man …

  Narantha purred at the memories that rose at the very thought of him, and almost bit her lip as she smiled. Then she remembered she was alighting from her carriage at the very gates of Erdusking House, and hastily schooled her face and mind to cool attention to the task at hand.

  So far as the finer folk of the Forest Kingdom knew, the Lady Narantha Crownsilver was seeking suitable mates among the eligible male nobility of Cormyr. Her quest had commenced with this tour of brief courtesy visits, that favored no particular young lord, but allowed her to meet them all—alone and face to face—without the many distractions of revels and court balls.

  Her gown was demure yet spectacular in its elegantly shaped and luxurious way, the spires of its high collar rising on either side of her elegantly piled and styled hair. Her earrings dangled a-sparkle with gems of the most exquisite gaudiness, and her eyes glowed as large and mysteriously dark as her maids could make them.

  One of the Erdusking gateguards swallowed visibly as he handed her down; the other, kneeling before Narantha with his greeting-cloak flourished just so for her to tread upon, was devouring her hungrily with his eyes.

  She gave him the briefest of winks, and made sure to advance her left foot first so her slit gown swirled to show him a daringly high glimpse of her upper thigh, but kept her face expressionless.

  Having a servant in charge of a gate smitten with you might well come in useful in time to come.

  Narantha carefully kept her face blank as she passed through the gate and felt the strange fluttering in her mind that meant a wizard’s probe was biting deep, battering against whatever it was that Uncle Lorneth had put in there to defend her.

  She was annoyed at the invasion—but, uncomfortably, something inside her head was even more angry than she was.

  “I’m beginning to truly like the lass,” Horaundoon said, in answer to the hargaunt’s inquisitive chime. “ ’Tis almost a pity she’ll be dead soon.”

  The hargaunt gave forth a melodious rising burst of chimes.

  “No,” the Zhentarim told it, “they’re not really gems at all. They look and feel like gems when my spells are complete, yes. That’s to stop anyone from destroying a mindworm before it goes into them.”

  Horaundoon strode across the chamber to the articulated claws set atop a spell-scorched pedestal, and the faintly glowing not-gem in their grasp. He plucked it forth and turned it in his hand, watching tiny sparkling motes of unbound magic play along its facets.

  “A beautiful stone, or so it appears, with a sequence of spell-images in its depths, of languid unclad maids that fade in and out of view in an endless cycle. They make the males Narantha’s subverting for us pick up the stone, to gaze in at the beauties more closely.”

  The hargaunt chimed again. Horaundoon put the stone back into the claws, and smiled a slow wolf’s smile. “The moment they touch this mindworm of mine, a spell floods into them, imparting such intense pleasure—the greatest rapture most of them will ever know—that they clutch and hold it, enthralled by the sensations, as it melts into them. Conquering another mind in this ripe-for-plucking kingdom.”

  The Erduskings were a suspicious house, it seemed. Two hulking guards—in full plate armor, all black enameled and teased into spike points in many impractical places, and worn with skirling, clashing scabbard chains—met her at the grand entry doors with their visors down and pointed the way she was to proceed with the spikes on the heads of their battle-axes. Then they escorted her, their boots making ominous thunder on the thick owlbear rugs.

  Up a grand and seemingly endless stair with steps broad enough to be landings, then down a passage past the stuffed and mounted heads of many beasts who looked quite annoyed to have been slain by an Erdusking, to the double doors that led to an audience room furnished in old Erdusking armor and yellowing marble heads of Erdusking ancestors.

  Narantha’s quarry stood alone in the center of the room, smiling ever so slightly. The eldest son and heir of House Erdusking had to dismiss the guards no less than three times before they reluctantly stepped out of the room, closed its doors—and u
ndoubtedly took up swords-drawn positions on the other side of them.

  The treasure they were guarding seemed hardly worth the trouble.

  Malasko Erdusking was tall, hook-nosed, and cruel of face and manner, supercilious when he wasn’t being openly lustful. The reek of his oiled, dyed, jet-black hair made her nostrils flare and her throat tighten, and Narantha had to fight for the control of her face and eyes she’d need to fulfill her latest delivery for Uncle Lorneth.

  Thankfully, like many nobles, Malasko saw what he wanted to see.

  “You shudder for me, I cannot help but notice,” he purred archly, shifting his long limbs to strike yet another pose. The man seemed to live in a series of indolent poses, impressive in his skin-tight black hose and tunic.

  Malasko saw where her gaze rested and smiled a velvet-soft smile. “We seem very well suited for each other. Don’t you agree?”

  Narantha ducked her head a little, letting him think her smile was one of shy desire. “My lord,” she murmured, “I need …”

  She let her words hang, to see how he filled the silence.

  His smile broadened. “A lord and master worthy of your beauty,” he breathed. “Little Crownsilver lass, I am the answer to your every need.”

  Afraid she might giggle, Narantha bit her lip, cast her eyes down to the eternally snarling head of the dire bear rug at her feet, and murmured, “I begin to believe so, Lord Erdusking. Yet, as you must have heard, I am, above all, obedient. To you, if we are wed, but until then to my parents—and ’tis their will that I see all unmarried noblemen of suitable age in the realm who will receive me, ere I make a far narrower choice. I have other mansions and men to visit yet, I fear.”

  “Ah, but surely none can even begin to—”

  “Lord Erdusking, this may well be so, but I follow my father’s will in this.” She raised her eyes to him, and said almost pleadingly, “And while it would take a man of Cormyr-shaking bravery to defy Lord Maniol Crownsilver, any man who would think to defy the Lady Jalassa Crownsilver must be several different kinds of babbling fool. A description that obviously can never fit you, Lord.”

  Malasko was momentarily—for the first time in more than a season—at a loss for words. Laughing uneasily—had he just been insulted, or had he not?—he said soothingly, “Of course not, Lady Narantha.”

  “Yet so that hope fades not entirely from your eyes,” his shapely visitor said huskily, taking a small, glossy coffer from her chatelaine, “I deeply desire that you accept this small token from me, to remind you of my desires, that burn always, close beneath the smiles and manners I present to the watching world.”

  She held out the coffer, opening it with deft elegance.

  Malasko Erdusking was chuckling, “Ah, Lady, such a gift is hardly necessary, between such as we two …”

  His voice trailed away as he caught sight of the gem—impressively large even to the wealthiest of nobles, which the Erduskings were not—and his eyes grew larger.

  Then he peered closer, and his eyes grew larger still.

  Plucking the gem from the coffer, Malasko held it under his nose for a searching examination of its depths, his gaze filling with wonder.

  He stared for a long time, swallowing once, ere he lifted his eyes from the gem in his hand to look at her with a gaze that smoldered with promise.

  The Lady Narantha Crownsilver met that gaze with a look that sizzled. Parting her lips, she licked them very slowly, as one of her hands strayed to her own throat, and caressed it languidly.

  She was lifting that hand to her mouth when the gem sank entirely from view into Malasko’s fingers, and his look of naked lust slid into blank-eyed happiness.

  Suspicious eyes peered through an ornate oval window, watching every moment of Narantha Crownsilver’s disappearance back inside her waiting carriage. As that conveyance rumbled away over the cobbles, the watcher sighed, turned from the window, went to a room hung with tapestries and lit by a lone lantern, and carefully cast a spell.

  The palm of his left hand tingled and glowed—then he seemed to be holding the moving, talking face of a woman in it.

  “Yes, Nardryn? What befalls?”

  Nardryn Tamlast was a careful, conservative man. To last more than a month, any house wizard of the Erduskings would have to be.

  “Laspeera, some misgivings have arisen here.”

  “Yours alone? Or are the Erduskings party to them?”

  “Mine.” Tamlast was a middle-aged man with a forgettable face, who had never had much coin to call his own. He was as sparing with words as with the spending of his wealth. “You’re aware of Lady Narantha Crownsilver’s tour of suitable nobles, I’m sure. She’s just departed here. I do not believe she found the younger Lord Erdusking to her liking—but I also fail to believe she is truly seeking a mate. She’s not quite the skilled actress she thinks she is.”

  “She’d not have to be, to cozen young Malasko—or most of his ilk, for that matter. Yet I agree with you. Her public reason for visiting all of these young noblemen is so much piffle. Did you observe anything of their meeting?”

  “No, Lady. Such things are not done in this house.” Something that might have been the long-dead ghost of a smile rose briefly to the vicinity of Tamlast’s lips, ere vanishing without a trace. “Not with all the spell-shields and trap-magics the Erduskings collect so enthusiastically and apply so lavishly. They think themselves of vital importance to the realm—and important folk deal in many secrets.”

  “Of course,” Laspeera agreed dryly. “So you believe we war wizards should—”

  “Lady, please. I’d not waste your time just to send needless advice. I uncovered something specific that should be of great interest to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Nardryn. What is it?”

  “I made so bold as to probe at Lady Crownsilver’s mind, upon her arrival. She’s protected, of course, by something that seemed to respond to my spells as if it could think—though the lady cast no spells of her own, that I observed. Yet before it walled me out, I learned this much: the lady believes she’s carrying out some sort of secret mission for the king.”

  The face in Tamlast’s palm cursed, uttering the most fearsome words in a whisper.

  Tamlast quirked an eyebrow. “Is this reaction due to a fear you’ve uncovered treason? Or some private stratagem of the king’s? Or the hand of the royal magician at work?”

  “Yes,” Laspeera replied, in an even drier voice—and winked into nothingess, leaving the house wizard staring thoughtfully at his empty palm.

  In all the years they’d worked together, the motherly second-in-command of the war wizards had never abruptly broken off a spell-link before.

  Horaundoon grinned. The hargaunt’s chimes sounded strange when it was plastered over his face.

  “That makes eleven she’s wormed for me, now,” he told it with solid satisfaction. “And the beauty of it is that the war wizards can’t find me. All the mindworms are linked to the first one: Narantha’s worm. Not to me directly. If they move against her, I can just withdraw and be ‘not there.’ In fact, never there for them to find.”

  The hargaunt’s chiming was almost a trill this time. Even it was getting excited.

  Horaundoon put his fingertips together and smiled at nothing over them. If this scheme worked, it would be his most brilliant achievement, and should win him the favor of Manshoon and much awe among all Zhentarim—and make his planned “disappearance” urgently necessary.

  The hargaunt chimed again, insistently, and Horaundoon hastened to answer. “Through the worms I can make those young nobles speak and act as I desire. If one fights me, I can prevail only for a short time—yet it will be more than enough to mislead war wizards, Purple Dragons, and others as to his loyalty and plans.”

  Horaundoon strolled across the room toward his decanters for a spot of Berduskan Dark.

  “This,” he added, before the hargaunt could tell him again that it was tiring of half-answers, “should result in these nobles bein
g discredited and killed while resisting arrest—for unless they’ve minds stronger than most archmages, they’ll remember nothing coherent of my compelling them, and so will be bewildered at the treatment they get from the authorities. If they submit, they may well get executed for treason—and surrender, die fighting, or flee into exile, whichever they choose. Their families may well end up dispossessed and exiled.”

  He unstoppered the decanter he was seeking, spun around on his heels triumphantly in search of the right tallglass, and continued, “The Obarskyrs acting against these nobles will of course spread fear and hatred of the royals among the rest of the nobles, about the Obarskyrs mayhap turning on them next. Which will make”—he poured, sipped, sighed appreciatively, and filled the tallglass—“said nobles much more receptive than they’ve traditionally been to sly, secret offers of coin, alliances, trade assistance and ties, and suchlike, from handy, smiling, local Zhent agents.”

  Horaundoon set down his glass and murmured, “Speaking of which …”

  He settled himself in the nearest chair and thought of Florin. When the mindworm in the forester’s head stirred, he reached through it very gently, not wanting to have the young man feel his presence, get alarmed, and fight him.

  Ah. Our Florin was upset and angry with someone—a friend—and striding to a confrontation with her. Good. He’d not notice a light delving to capture the way he spoke, the phrases he liked to use …

  The knowledge settled into Horaundoon’s busy mind like a cold, heavy weight, and he winced, wiping sudden sweat from his face. Forcing a mind to reveal something or say something was swift, simple work; this was more like trudging, on a slippery hillside, under a heavy load that kept shifting … Steadying himself under the cold heaviness, he thought of Narantha Crownsilver—and in a trice felt her stiffen at his touch in her mind. He made himself feel like Florin, so he’d sound like Florin when mind-talking.