“No, your mother was Amnian,” Greyt mused as he sipped his wine.
After a moment, he became aware that Lyetha was staring at him. He looked over at her, met her cold blue gaze, and shrugged.
“Pay it no mind, dear,” he said. “Young men say things without thinking. I’ve oft thought he needs a cool head to temper him, but I haven’t found any worthy woman.”
Lyetha sniffed.
They sat in silence for a few moments, then she rose and silently took her leave. She stopped at the door but did not turn.
“Dharan,” Lyetha asked, without looking back. “About Gharask … and Rhyn. Is there any doubt that your father killed my son?”
“No, my dear. Of course, no,” he replied without turning his head or missing a beat. “No more than scarlet falls the snow.”
He took another sip of his wine and pretended to ignore her. It was not difficult.
Lyetha sighed and slipped out the door, seeking the refuge of her chambers.
After spending plenty of silver on drinks for potential informants and learning nothing of import, Arya gave up and climbed out of the tavern. The meaty barkeep Brohlm thanked her and swept up her coins with a flick of his thick wrist.
While the customers of the Red Bear were very knowledgeable about Quaervarr’s history and the surrounding lands, they knew nothing of Stonar’s couriers. They had told her all about Greyt and Stonar’s rivalry—the two seemed at odds over every public issue, but it was a friendly competition, by all appearances. She did not blame them—they were simple frontiersmen—but she found her search’s fruitlessness irritating.
Besides, she had heard far too much about her adored step-uncle.
In the cold once more, Arya shivered and adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. The ale stain on her breeches was freezing. Not for the first time, she wished she had sent Derst on this foray instead. He was more adept at gathering information, for pressing into the right threads of a conversation, and for discerning something useful where she found only local history and superstition. Perhaps she would have him go out the following night.
Arya set out through the streets toward the Whistling Stag, where a warm bed and a pair of drunken, invariably laughing compatriots awaited her. She knew she would enjoy the former, but she wasn’t especially looking forward to the latter.
Arya turned around a corner and caught sight of the Stag. She shivered and continued on, looking forward to the warmth.
A hand reached out from the alley between two buildings and caught her by the arm.
Arya tried to wrest out of the grasp, but her reflexes were too dulled by the cold. As it was, she inhaled the breath to scream, but a hand pressed itself over her mouth to stifle the sound. She tasted tanned deer hide.
“Wanderin’ late at night, are ye, pretty wench?” a growling voice asked in a rough accent. “Not lookin’ where ye be—Ah!” His words turned into a gasp of pain as she bit him through the leather glove. She managed to worm out of the loosened grip as he reeled, and brought her elbow back hard, catching him in the stomach. She whirled to face him, instinctively reaching for her sword—which wasn’t there.
Arya turned right into a backhand slap, a blow that left her spinning and dazed. The only weapon she carried was a long dagger in her boot, but when she stooped, a knee caught her in the chin and sent her staggering back into the wall. The impact knocked whatever breath she’d been able to recover from her lungs and she sank to her knees.
Her assailant was on her in an instant, catching her by the shoulders. Before she could punch at him, he clutched her wrists with an iron grasp. “Not going to play nice?” His voice had changed, his accent shifting into something less rustic. He sounded familiar, but she couldn’t recognize it through the gruffness and the pain.
“No’ so intimidatin’ with-outta sword, are ye, Sir Serving Wench?” The gruff, broken language was back. It might have sounded slurred, but Arya knew her attacker was not drunk. She was about to ponder the implications when another slap caught her face.
“Who said … I was a … knight…?” Arya managed through swelling lips, though she was painfully aware of the Silverymoon brooch that shone brightly through her open cloak. Blood trickled from her split lip.
“Count thyself fortunate ye harlots disgust me,” he said. He held a dagger to her throat but then paused. “Still, I could reconsider, seeing thy face….” He ran a finger down her cheek, and a shiver ran down her spine.
Then a dark shape dropped behind the attacker, silently, with what seemed like wings billowing wide.
The man grunted as the newcomer threw him against the opposite wall. The dagger that had threatened Arya’s life skittered into the shadows. The gruff attacker went for another knife, but a gleaming sword point appeared at his throat and the hand froze.
“Inadvisable,” the savior rasped. The assailant cringed at his broken voice, and even Arya felt a chill when she heard it.
Arya’s vision swam, but she heard the assailant chuckle.
“You not going to tell me to drop the knife?” he asked. “Just that my suit is ‘inadvisable?’”
“Your choice,” came the reply.
A knife clattered down. “So you’re the one they call Walker,” the assailant said. His voice was back to normal. It seemed familiar, somehow.
“Perhaps,” her savior—Walker, she knew in her heart-replied. His manner was filled with a terrifying resolution.
“You don’t seem all that impressive to me,” the assailant said. “You fool us all from a distance with your cloak and your silence, but you don’t impress me up close.”
“Irrelevant,” Walker replied. “Yours is the judgment of a coward in a mask.”
Arya’s vision was just clearing. She saw that Walker had not withdrawn his sword and the unnamed attacker was still standing at the end of the sharp steel. He didn’t look cowed at all; rather, his stance was a challenge to Walker. The assailant wore a tattered black cloak and had his cowl pulled low. Even so, his mouth was just faintly visible stretching into a sneer.
“This isn’t over, whoever ye be, Walker.” He was feigning the drunken voice again and slipping away along the wall. “The People of the Black Blood will have your heart for this.”
“I doubt it,” Walker replied, though which assertion he doubted, he showed no sign. He kept his blade up until the hooded man ran out of the alley. Walker watched him go for a moment, sheathed the sword, and turned back toward the street.
“Wait!” Arya managed as she struggled to climb to her feet.
Startled, as though he had not noticed her, Walker turned to regard Arya. His collar was pulled up high and his face was half concealed, but Arya took careful note of his features—they were the only things she could focus upon. His pale skin and black cloak contrasted starkly in the moonlight. He was dark in dress and wild of hair, as though he were a demon come to Faerûn. Arya, however, could only see the light of his eyes. At first, his presence had been terrifying, but she found that as she looked on him, she became less and less afraid. There was something about him, something that told her he was important, a key to the entire unfolding mystery.
And there was something she could see in his eyes—a call waiting to be answered, a terrible vengeance….
Then Walker’s eyes vanished into shadow as he turned away. Arya tried to follow him, but her vision swam. He was gone.
Staggering, off-balance, and with her head splitting, Arya managed to limp back to the Whistling Stag, where she could hear the sounds of raucous laughter issuing from the windows. She ignored it as she pressed through the doors and made her way up to her room.
For Arya knew two things: that her business with the dark stranger was not finished for the night, and that she would need her blade.
CHAPTER 7
27 Tarsakh
Parry, parry, thrust, parry, thrust,” Greyt intoned silently as he worked through the familiar movements. His opponent fell back with each of his attacks, but pressed whe
n Greyt took the defensive. The Lord Singer’s hand lacked the speed and strength of youth, but it was all the more deadly for experience.
His opponent thrust high suddenly, his sword a silver blur.
Greyt ducked, his knees bending apart. The weapon passed harmlessly over his head. Even as the younger fencer tried to reverse his blow, Greyt’s rapier slashed open the dark leather covering the man’s side. A line of bright red appeared on his pale flesh.
As his opponent staggered back, Greyt took the opportunity to cuff him on the side of the head. “Keep your guard up, fool!” he shouted. “I should run you through for your stupidity!”
“I’m sorry, Lord Singer—” Tamnus said, dropping immediately to one knee.
Greyt promptly kicked him in the face, launching him backward. Blood streamed from his nose. When Tamnus looked at him in shock, the Lord Singer’s mouth was hard.
“Did I say the duel was over?” he snapped. The aide shook his head. Then he cringed when Greyt raised his rapier once more, as though to thrust it through Tamnus’s head.
A banging at the door startled Greyt, and he almost thrust. A tingle ran down his spine, and he whirled on the portal.
“Who is it?” he shouted.
“Captain Unddreth, Lord Singer,” a rumble came. “I wish an audience with you.”
The bard ran a hand through his graying hair. Then he turned on his training aide with a vicious glare. “Out of my sight,” he ordered with a hiss. Tamnus wasted no breath in hesitation. He ran away, clutching at his side in obvious pain.
Greyt cared not. When Tamnus was gone, Greyt flicked the blood off his rapier and sheathed it. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he assumed a more comfortable stance.
“Come,” he called.
The doors swung open and the massive Unddreth entered Greyt’s ballroom. The floorboards, hard, good wood, did not creak, even under his heavy boots. Situated in the center of the mansion, the ballroom was the largest—if not the finest—room in Quaervarr. Tapestries of scarlet, bold white, and vibrant purples adorned the walls, laced with ivory and gold thread. In the center of the ballroom, marble statues of dancing nymphs poured water from basins down into a great copper fountain. If it had not been so dismal outside, sunlight would have cascaded through high, stained glass windows depicting dancing fey, dueling heroes, and wheeling dragons.
If Unddreth was impressed as he entered the grand ballroom—useless in such a small town—he showed no sign of it. His blocky face was stoic, as always.
“What is it, Captain?” Greyt asked.
“I bear grave news,” the earth genasi growled.
“Of course you do,” the Lord Singer said. He started away, toward a tapestry depicting a dragon in flight. Unddreth did not follow. Greyt thanked the gods for that.
“I have come to inform you of a murder that transpired last night,” Unddreth said. “Sir Torlic, a lieutenant in the Quaervarr guard, was killed in his house last night.”
“What do I—” Greyt started angrily, but stopped himself. “Why bring this to me?”
The genasi’s lip twitched. “He was once of the Raven Claws,” Unddreth said. “I thought perhaps you might help me find the one who killed him.”
“Ah.” Greyt wanted to claim that he knew nothing, but that would make Unddreth suspicious. “I well remember our days on the road, but I know of no enemy who would kill him, nor even seek to attack him in his humble abode.”
He had thrown out his hand in imitation of a performance and now became aware of a small spot of Tamnus’s blood on his palm. He clenched his fist and looked back at Unddreth.
“Perhaps Jarthon and his People of the Black Blood. They have been quiet for long enough. Could your soldiers have relaxed their guard, I wonder, Captain?”
Unddreth’s already dark complexion became black. “I personally fought the man responsible,” he said. “And he was no werebeast. We are dealing with another attacker, one very skilled with a blade, and possessing powers I have never seen before.”
“Powers?” Greyt asked idly. He peered intently at a tapestry of a military victory, with a knight of Cormyr leading a host of soldiers. One of the Azouns, perhaps? He could not recall.
“The villagers are whispering about a shadowy man named Walker,” Unddreth said. “That may have been him.”
That produced a stir in Greyt. The name sounded like a discordant note on his yarting. He rubbed his gold ring, as was his habit.
“And what do you want me to do, kill this shadow for you?” Greyt said, suppressing his reaction. “You and your soldiers find this attacker and deal with him as is proper. Or …” He drew his rapier with a flourish. “Could it be you have come to ask for the aid I can offer?”
“We need none of your thug rangers, Greyt,” Unddreth spat. His animosity toward the Lord Singer was matched only by his contempt for Greyt’s servants—as Greyt well knew. “Undisciplined scum, all of them. Especially Meris the bastard.”
“I can’t argue,” the Lord Singer laughed, unsurprised. “It’s very true.”
Nor was he surprised that Unddreth had spoken so crassly. Unddreth had always been free with his tongue—it came from being raised a commoner. Greyt waved the captain away and sheathed his sword.
Blaming the Black Blood was a ruse—for all Greyt knew, the bastard werebadger and his kin were all prowling Malar’s infernal forests in the Abyss, or wherever Malar’s forests were. He cared little for theology.
After a moment, Greyt looked back and saw that Unddreth had not moved.
“You’re still here,” he said.
“I am.” Unddreth, not prone to fidgeting, gazed at him stonily.
“There is more?” Greyt asked.
“Speaker Stonar left the city in your hands,” Unddreth said. “Thus, when an event transpires that threatens the welfare of the city, it is your responsibility to deal with it, is it not?”
“And I have,” Greyt said, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “I want you and your soldiers to find this attacker and kill him. Or her. Or it. Just do what you are paid to do.”
Dim-witted Unddreth. Greyt scowled. Are you as stupid as you look?
“We must inform Speaker Stonar of the event,” Unddreth said.
Not stupid then, Greyt decided. He should have foreseen the suggestion.
He didn’t miss a beat, though. “So send to the druids to communicate with their magic,” he said dismissively. “They may not be under our control, but they will aid us.”
“I already have,” Unddreth said. “Something blocks their magic, some barrier they cannot pierce.”
“Probably another of their foolish excuses—a damned equinox or something,” Greyt said quickly. It was plausible, after all. Quaervarr was a frontier town in every sense: unless matters were really out of hand, the people preferred to settle their own problems, without help from the High Lady or her armies of mages. The druids would expect no less from the Watch. “Or it’s a sacred time for their gods, or perhaps the guild of Silverymoon has better things to do than listen to our minor complaints—”
“So we must send a courier,” Unddreth said.
“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Greyt said with a shrug as if he meant to forget the whole thing. “As you said, it is only one man. Some independent town we would be if we ran to Silverymoon with our troubles every time a lunatic crops up. How much trouble can one man be? Take a few of your best soldiers and scour the Moonwood for him.”
Unddreth hesitated, but finally nodded. “As you command, Lord Singer,” he said curtly. Turning on his heel, the genasi strode out of the ballroom.
Greyt watched his retreating form for a long moment, tracing with his eyes the image of the white stag emblazoned upon the huge shield Unddreth wore on his back.
“As I command,” he repeated to himself with a grin. He liked the sound of that.
Wrapped in steel, Arya was approaching the front doors of her uncle’s manor when they flew open and the hulking Unddreth stamp
ed out. His face was even harder than usual. She dropped into a light bow.
“Well met, Captain Unddreth,” she said.
The genasi’s frown turned to a soft smile when he saw her, and Arya was acutely aware of her appearance. Her silver armor gleamed and her auburn hair burned in the soft light. Shining on her breast, the badge of the Knights in Silver—a clasp with the sigil of Silverymoon—secured a deep blue cloak around her shoulders. Arya knew Unddreth admired her simple elegance, and embarrassed warmth blossomed in her cheeks.
“Good morning to you, Lady Venkyr,” Unddreth said. He gestured to the sword belted at her hip. “Going about armed, are you?”
She smiled shakily. “One can never be too careful,” she said in reply.
“True.” He patted the warhammer at his own belt. “Very true.”
His face was still stony. Something about his voice, though, told Arya that he was thinking about the audience with Greyt he had just left. He perked up, though, when he caught her staring.
“Thank you for your assistance last night,” he said. “I hope it is clear that any momentary hesitation or doubts about your abilities—or loyalties—have been put to rest.”
“It is, Captain,” Arya said. “I serve the Silver Marches, so I serve Quaervarr as well.”
Unddreth bowed his head then plodded on his way.
Arya nodded, smiling as he went. She had read the characters of many people in her time with the Knights in Silver, and she knew that there went a just and noble soldier.
As Unddreth walked farther away, though, Arya looked back to Greyt’s doors and her smile vanished. She turned smartly on her heel and headed to the portal, where she rapped the gold wolf knocker. She pulled the cloak tighter around her armored body, trying vainly to warm the cold steel strapped around her limbs. Armor was impractical in this cold, but she wanted to be in full uniform when she confronted her uncle once more.
Claudir arrived in a moment to take her inside. The steward looked at her with the same uninterested, detached look he always had. He led her through Greyt’s spacious manor without paying attention to her. Once Claudir had ushered Arya into Greyt’s study, he sniffed, as though to assure her that Greyt would arrive shortly, and left without a word.
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