Thornhold h-16

by Elaine Cunningham

  She bent down low so that she could speak the words in a normal voice rather than shouting. "A man who recently lost a child."

  He leaned back and eyed her with speculation. "Don't have much use for brats, myself"

  "No one's asking you to have anything to do with this one. Have you heard anything?"

  "Can't say I have. Who's this man that got shed of his brat?"

  "His name is Doon. He's a dark man, probably not exceptionally tall."

  There was a flicker in the man's eyes, but he shook his head. "Sorry. Can't help you," he said as he reached for his mug.

  Bronwyn caught his wrist. "Can't, or won't?"

  He shook her off and turned aside in obvious dismissal. "One way or another, it's much the same to you."

  A trickle of fear ran down Bronwyn's spine. Always before, this man had tried to sell her something, spinning out any scrap of information into something she might wish to buy. His outright refusal and the gleam of avarice in his eyes alerted her to danger.

  Bronwyn nodded and worked her way back to the bar. The fighting had spread into the main floor, and it would be a while before she could get to the door. She ordered an ale and took a stool to wait out the storm.

  A hand seized her arm. Bronwyn spun, gripping the hilt of her knife. She measured the man with a glance and decided that this would be an easy battle. Though still south of mid-life, he was the thinnest, frailest person she had ever encountered. The spark of life had apparently drained from his body to center its last flame in his small black eyes.

  "Move your hand, or I'll slice it off," she said in an even voice.

  The man halted her with an impatient gesture, an upraised palm. Her eyes bulged. Tattooed, or perhaps branded, into his palm was the emblem of the evil god Bane-a small, black hand.

  Instinctively she eased away, raised both of her hands in conciliation. Though the god himself was considered dead and gone, and no longer a power to be feared, Bronwyn had no desire to tangle with someone who purported to be an acolyte of such evil.

  "I heard you. You want a man who is seeking a child. Where is this man?" he insisted in a voice that recalled a viper's hiss.

  Bronwyn licked her lips nervously. "That's what I'm trying to find out. If you know anything of him, I'd be willing to trade for the information."

  A terrible chuckle wheezed from the former priest's lips. "If the item you have to barter is his yellow hide, then you have a deal, wench. I want him. I want him dead," he specified, as if there could be any doubt concerning his intentions.

  Bronwyn quickly weighed the risk against the possible gain. If this priest had knowledge of Cara's father, she really had no choice but to endure conversation with a Banite and accept the danger inherent in such company. She reached for her mug and signaled the barkeep to bring another drink for her "friend."

  "I don't know where he is, but I'd be happy to turn him over to you once I locate him. Because of the child," she said quickly, when he turned a suspicious stare upon her.

  "Alt" He smirked, then tossed back the contents of the mug the barkeep set before him. "Your tale rings true. He always was one to walk away from what he started."

  A horrible suspicion took root in Bronwyn's eyes. "He was once a follower of Bane?" she asked, striving mightily to keep her voice neutral.

  "That he was. Defected, the damn traitor," he sneered, raising and clenching his fists.

  Bronwyn let out her breath in a long sigh. The possibility that Cara's father might be a follower of an evil god was chilling, but, perhaps, in seeing the error of his ways he had made enemies. It was better so than that he should earn the fate of the man beside her, with his skeletal face and wild eyes. Bereft of spells, cut off from the source of evil power, the former priest of Bane was little more than an insane shell.

  "When I find Doon, I will send word here," she said, her mind racing as she planned how she could kept this promise without endangering Cara's father. "I will write the name of the place where he might be found on a sketch of a black dragon and post it on the cloakroom door. Watch for it."

  "Doon? What are you talking about, wench? The man's name is Dag Zoreth."

  She quickly covered her surprise. "Of course," she said with feigned bitterness. "He would not want to be known by the name he gave to a woman he'd betrayed and abandoned. He was always cautious. Most likely, he is also frank and earnest-Frank in Luskan, and Ernest in Neverwinter!"

  To her surprise, the hoary old jest earned a wheezing chuckle from the Banite. She supposed that, in the company he was accustomed to keeping, humor was not a common commodity.

  Bronwyn rose and tossed several silver coins onto the counter and nodded her intent to the barkeep. "Drink what you will, with my thanks, until the coins run out."

  She left quickly, while the former priest was still contemplating this unexpected bounty, and all the way to the door she felt the eyes of her Zhentilar informer following her.

  Algorind rode swiftly through the crowded street on his tall white horse. He still did not understand how Icewind had returned to the Halls of Justice. The horse had been well treated and seemed none the worse for having been stolen by a treacherous dwarf.

  He scanned the wooden signs that hung from the many shops, looking for the Curious Past. What he found was a bit of a surprise. Unlike most of the signs, it did not rely on an image of shoe or cloak or mug to convey what goods could be had within. The name was carved with runes in Common, as well as in several other languages. A learned woman. That did not fit the picture he carried of Bronwyn, who would steal from Hronulf and consort with a dwarven horse thief.

  He pushed open the door. A bell tinkled merrily, and a white-haired gnome woman appeared from behind a counter. "How can I help you?" she said cheerily.

  Algorind heard a door bang in the back room. "I am looking for Bronwyn."

  "Then I'm afraid I can't help you," the gnome said with evident regret. "She is out of town on business."

  The young paladin nodded. "You expect her?"

  "That I do. No more than two, three days. Would you like to stop back or leave a name?"

  "I will return," he said simply. "Thank you, good gnome, for your time and help."

  He left the shop, walking briskly toward the narrow alley he'd seen by the cobbler's shop a few doors down. That banging door interested him.

  A small figure darted toward him in hot pursuit of a young alley cat, her hands outstretched for the grab. She hauled up short when she caught sight of him, and her large brown eyes rounded in terror. She shrieked and whirled away, dashing back down the alley.

  It was the child! The same girl he had taken from the farm and turned over to Sir Gareth's keeping. What she was doing in this city, and on her own, Algorind could not begin to fathom. He took off after her, ducking low to avoid a string of long wool stockings hung out to dry in the alley.

  The girl could run like a rabbit. She darted down the alley and out into a small, open area. A wooden sign proclaimed the site to be Howling Cat Court. A few women strolled about, their faces garishly painted and their bodices laced indecently low. They mocked Algorind as he dashed past in pursuit of the child, bidding him leave off with his playmates and learn some adult games. His face heated when he realized what they meant.

  His quarry swerved and dodged, evading his grasp nimbly. She turned and darted toward another alley. Algorind began to follow suit when a heavy thunk resounded painfully through his skull and stopped him where he stood. He turned, dazed, and looked incredulously at one of the over-ripe women. There was a small oak cudgel in her hand. She gave him a hard smile and kissed her fingertips to him in a mocking salute, then melted away into the shadows of an alley.

  Algorind shook off the numbing pain and took off after the girl. He was almost to the alley when a loud, trembling horn call resounded through the court.

  "You, there! Stop where you are."

  The young paladin knew authority when he heard it. He stopped and slowly turned around. Four
men and two women, all wearing leather armor dyed green and black and reinforced with gold-colored chain mail, strode toward him, small clubs in their hands. A band of mercenaries, no doubt. He decided to try to fight his way clear.

  His resolve must have shown in his eyes. "Yield to the city watch," the speaker said. "You will not be harmed unless you resist."

  This put Algorind in a quandary. The rule of his order stated that he was to obey all lawful authorities unless they constrained him to do evil. These city guards were standing between him and his duty, but that was not necessarily evil.

  "Good sirs, ladies," he said earnestly. "You do not understand."

  "We understand that you were chasing a little girl. She yours?"

  "No, but-"

  "You responsible for tending her?"

  In a maimer of speaking, that was true, but not plain enough truth to give Algorind comfort in speaking it. "I wished to return her to her rightful place," he said, which was more precise.

  "Uh-huh," the watch captain said, skepticism deeply etched on his bearded face. "What was her name?"

  Algorind was utterly at a loss. "I do not know," he had to admit.

  The captain sniffed. "Thought as much. Take him in. We'll let the magisters deal with this one."

  This was utterly beyond Algorind's comprehension. "I cannot go with you."

  "You don't have much of a choice. You can come easy, or we'll take you in trussed and hooded. You choose."

  "I will come with you," Algorind said, bowing his head in defeat. "Will you grant me one kindness, though? Carry word to the Halls of Justice, and tell them of my fate?"

  "There are messengers in the castle. They'll get around to your cell sooner or later, and you can send word to whomever you like. Now, move."

  Bronwyn hurried back to her shop, cutting through the back ways. As she came through Howling Cat Court, it seemed to her that one of the low-rent courtesans who strutted along the far walk sent her a knowing smile. The woman looked vaguely familiar and harmless enough, so Bronwyn lifted a hand in friendly response as she strode past.

  She found Alice in a fit, wringing her tiny hands and pacing the floors with enough fervor to raise a cloud of dust. Bronwyn's first thought was for Cara. She pounced on the gnome, seizing her shoulders and turning her so that they faced each other. "Where is she?"

  "Gone!" mourned Alice, confirming Bronwyn's worse suspicions.

  Bronwyn ran a hand over her forehead and back, smoothing her hair in a gesture of pure frustration. "Did you see anything?"

  "A young man came looking for you. A paladin, I think. He wore a blue and white tabard and carried a broadsword. Fle was young-no more than twenty-but taller than most men. Pale yellow hair, curly. He left his horse at the door."

  Bronwyn had a very bad feeling about this. "A big horse? White?"

  "I believe so. I didn't get more than a glance. Why?"

  "Long story," Bronwyn mumbled. Ebenezer had told her of his rescue by a man who could turn undead to dust. That would make the man a priest-or a paladin. The man who came looking for her, who might have taken Cara, was near Thornhold. What he knew, what he wanted, she could guess all too well.

  At that moment the shop bell tinkled, startling them both. Woman and gnome jumped and whirled to face the door. In it stood Danilo Thann, a broad smile in his face and a small, half-elf girl in his arms.

  "Cara!" Bronwyn cried. She rushed forward to reclaim the girl, gave her a quick hug, then she set her down and turned her attention to the man. "Danilo, what happened? Where did you find her?"

  "Actually, I did not. Cara was brought to me by some Harpers who happened upon her."

  Bronwyn's face clouded. "Still watching me?"

  "Strictly speaking, no. We've been keeping an eye out for the paladins, and one of them happened by your shop."

  "I should thank you, then," she said softly, looking at the child. Cara was happily chatting with Alice, telling her all about the ginger cat that she'd almost caught, and wouldn't it make a fine pet?

  Bronwyn sighed. "I promised I would find her father, but I don't know if I can keep her safe until then."

  She spoke softly, but the girl looked up. "I will be safe, Bronwyn. Look at this. Come to me, Shopscat!"

  Before the raven could respond to the summons, the child disappeared. Bronwyn blinked rapidly, as if she could conjure the girl by clearing her vision. There was nothing, save for a childish giggle outside the front door. Before Bronwyn could move, Cara was back, just as abruptly as she left.

  "Look!" she said proudly, showing Bronwyn the three bright gems in her hand. "A ruby, a blue topaz, and a… citrine?" she asked, looking up at Danilo for corroboration.

  He nodded, his eyes bright with the child's reflected pleasure. "That's right. You remember well."

  "Gemjump," Bronwyn murmured, remembering tales she'd heard of stones that enabled the holder to magically transport to the location of any of the gems. They were rare, and exceedingly expensive. Three of them was a princely gift.

  "With these, Cara can get herself out of the occasional tight spot," Danilo said lightly. "Put them back in their bag, Cara, the way I showed you."

  The child beamed and did as she was told. Danilo drew Bronwyn aside. "You've got a remarkable new friend," he said softly. "I think you will have your hands full, though."

  Bronwyn nodded. "Cara is no trouble, but I think she's in trouble. I just don't know how much, or what kind."

  "Let me help you," Danilo said earnestly. "Tell me what I can do."

  She smiled at him, her anger nearly forgotten. "You already have. The gemstones give her a bit of control over her fate. She needs that. And a little control," she added somberly, "is usually the best any of us can expect."

  TWELVE

  Dag Zoreth had seen his former teacher Malchior give way to anger on only one occasion. Before his ire had cooled, a half battalion of inept soldiers lay on the ground, some fried black by Cyric-granted lighting, a few still jerking spasmodically. As Dag looked at the older priest's angry countenance, he silently rehearsed his own prayer to Cyric. If one of them had to end this conference writhing and twitching on the carpet, Dag would prefer it not be he.

  He rose from the chair in deference to the higher ranking priest. "This is a surprise," Dag said mildly. "I did not expect to find you in Waterdeep."

  "No doubt!" the priest retorted. "What is this I hear about you?"

  Dag strolled over to the table and helped himself to a piece of the spiced shrimp that the maid had brought along with the midday meal. A fine place, this inn. This meal was enough for two, and to spare. He took the entire tray and handed it to Malchior. The older priest hardly seemed to notice. He popped one shrimp into his mouth, chewed briefly, and kept talking.

  "You have not yet found your sister, but one of our informers has," Malchior said, punctuating this statement by snatching another shrimp. "She was asking about a child. Said it was yours."

  Dag shrugged. "She would not be the first woman to make such a false claim of me. Since I did not know I had a sister, you cannot hold me to account for violation of consanguinity laws."

  The priest stuffed his mouth again and chewed angrily. "You are sidestepping the question."

  "It has become a habit," Dag said lightly. "You have taught me well."

  The priest's eyes narrowed, and he studied the younger man as if he was suddenly considering whether his lessons might have been learned too well. Then the look of speculation was gone, and with it Malchior's ire.

  "These are excellent," he said easily, nodding at the nearly empty tray. "Perhaps we could start on that savory pie while we speak of other matters? You have heard of the gathering of the paladins. I have some advice on the administration and safeguarding of your new command. That is, if you are willing to listen."

  Malchior's jovial expression was back in place, but Dag was not fooled for a moment. This man was a dangerous enemy, and he wanted Cara. If Dag had to, he would kill him. Until then, he wou
ld learn from him.

  "My dear Malchior," Dag said with a smile, "I am interested in every word you have to say." And even more interested, Dag thought, in what you choose to keep shrouded in silence.

  The glint in the priest's eyes suggested that he sensed Dag's unspoken addition and marked it well. Smiling at each other like a pair of circling sharks, they sat down to play out the game.

  "I tell you, Bronwyn, your friend will be a resident at the castle for the rest of' the day," Danilo swore. "Several of the messengers who attend the prisoners are Harpers. They will take care to leave young Algorind's request until last."

  Bronwyn nodded and shot a glance toward Cara. The child was kneeling on the floor of the shop, playing some elaborate game of make believe with some chess pieces, and singing softly to herself. "That's something," Bronwyn admitted. She bit her lip, considering.

  "What?"

  "This might sound frivolous," she warned him.

  That amused her friend. "Remember to whom you're speaking."

  She chuckled and got to the point. "Cara has spent her life on a small, remote farm. Other than her trip to Water-deep as a prisoner and a brief voyage on a slave ship, she hasn't had a chance to see the world. What better place to begin than Waterdeep?"

  He nodded. "Your reasoning is sound. And you should be safe enough. With your permission, I'll make certain that you are discretely followed and ainpiy protected."

  The years of unseen Harper eyes still rankled. "And if I did not give my permission?"

  "Then I would respect your wishes," he said. "Regretfully, but I would respect them."

  He spoke firmly, with not a hint of his usual lazy drawl. Bronwyn believed him. She smiled and turned to Cara. "Cara, what is your favorite color?"

  The little girl looked up, startled by this question. "I don't think I have one."

  "Well, if you could pick out any dress you liked, what color would it be?"

  Feminine longing lit her eyes. "My foster mother wore purple but said I was not to," she said. "She would not say why."