“I didn’t say, but I’m not a slaver, if that’s what you’re thinking. I find lost antiquities. You’d probably call me a treasure hunter.”
He nodded, clearly understanding this bias; after all, collecting treasures was a very common dwarf impulse. “Whereabouts do you keep your hoard?”
“It’s more of a shop, really, and I’m seldom there. Most of my days are spent on the road, searching for new pieces. I often work on commission, but everything I find is for sale.”
“Practical,” approved Ebenezer. “Don’t need stuff lying around gathering dust. Too much trouble to be toting it around. Where’d you learn to fight?”
Bronwyn chuckled helplessly, feeling somewhat dizzied by the quick change of topic. “By doing, mostly. I’ve had no formal training as a fighter, but so far, I’ve won more times than I’ve lost.”
“Best training there is,” he said. He cast her a stern look. “You always fight dirty?”
She shrugged. “When I have to.”
He nodded again. “Good. Well then, let’s have a look at this Skullport of yours.”
Eight
Algorind and his newfound companion headed south on foot toward the great port city. One of the Zhentilar horses had been regrettably lamed during Algorind’s attack and had to be put down. The men tried without success to recapture the other horses. It seemed that the steeds lacked the sense of loyalty and duty that was trained into a paladin’s mount.
Jenner, the former Zhent, was a surprisingly good companion. He could sing rather well, and he knew some old ballads that spoke ringingly of deeds of heroism and valor—strange songs indeed to come from the throat of a man who had spent his youth riding patrol around Darkhold. This puzzled Algorind greatly.
“How is it that you fell into the service of evil?” Algorind asked him.
The young paladin’s words drew a rueful smile from the man. “I didn’t see it that way. It was more like survival. I was born in the Greycloak Hills, grew up herding my father’s sheep. The land and the sheep would go to my older brother. I always knew that, but then came three bad years running with no crops and few lambs. Didn’t have much of a choice but to take whatever work came to hand.”
“There are always choices,” Algorind said firmly. He laid one hand on the man’s shoulder. “You have made a good choice this day, the first of what I trust will be many.”
“Trust, do you?” Jenner chuckled without amusement. “Seems to me that you’re a trusting sort. That’ll bring you to grief, come soon or late.”
Algorind could not dispute that. The treachery of the dwarf he’d saved from the zombies still troubled him deeply.
“There is a travelers’ rest not far ahead,” he commented. “We can fill our waterskins at the well and gather some of the berries that grow in profusion nearby.”
Jenner let out a sigh of great longing. “I like spring berries. They’re good any way you can get them, but best with honey and new cream, heaped over a pile of sweet biscuits. I mean to have some of that, first thing, when we reach Waterdeep. After a nice roast of venison and a few mugs, that is.”
The paladin was mildly offended by this picture of gluttony. “You would do better to seek gainful employment for yourself.”
Jenner winked. “And what better place than in a tavern? That’s where men come to hire swords and to hire their swords out.”
“You would find work as a sell-sword?”
“It’s what I know. Don’t worry yourself,” he said, casting a wry half-smile at Algorind. “I’ll do well enough as a caravan guard or some such. Well, there’s the rest house.”
Algorind nodded, then froze. The sight before him was one of such boldness and villainy that it stole his breath.
The red-bearded dwarf came out from the stone structure, leading Icewind by the reins. With him was a young woman with exceptionally long, thick hair plaited back into a single braid. She was comely enough to suit the Zhent’s description of “a pretty wench,” and, since women traveling alone were uncommon in these wild lands, she was probably the one that the Zhentarim of Thornhold sought. The dwarf tossed her up into Icewind’s saddle as if he had every right to dispose of the horse, and then hauled himself up onto the back of a squat, nasty-looking pony. He glanced back and did an astonished double take when he caught Algorind’s dumbfounded gaze.
The dwarf lifted a hand in an insouciant salute, then kicked the pony into a surprisingly quick canter. The woman followed along behind on Algorind’s stolen horse.
“The woman you seek,” Algorind said grimly, “she is allied with the Zhentarim?”
Jenner shook his head, obviously not following this line of reasoning. “Not that I know of. Why’d you ask?”
“That white horse is mine,” Algorind said, pointing. “The dwarf stole him from me in an act of base treachery. If the woman consorts with horse thieves, one must ask if she could be allied with the very scum of evildoers.”
The former Zhent let out a snort of laughter. “No offense intended, I suppose.”
Algorind looked at him in puzzlement. “No, I had no wish to offend. Why do you ask?”
Jenner chuckled dryly and shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s just get us to Waterdeep the fastest way we can—or let me put it better, the fastest way your scruples will allow.”
* * * * *
Late in the afternoon, two days after the fall of Thornhold, Bronwyn led her new companion into the Curious Past. When they entered the shop, the dwarf looked around in begrudging wonderment at the old and rare things that crowded the shelves and tables in glittering display.
“Lot of dusting to do,” he concluded gruffly.
A loud huff announced Alice Tinker’s presence. The gnome rose to her full height, her brown face peering over the rim of the large brass vase she’d been polishing, her small form quivering with indignation. “Dust, nothing! I challenge you to find a single pot, gem or book in this entire place that isn’t polished to a gleam.”
Ebenezer folded his arms. “If I were a betting sort of dwarf, I still wouldn’t take that one. You can stuff that so-called challenge in the who-cares bucket and take it on out to the slop heap.”
“Alice, meet Ebenezer Stoneshaft,” Bronwyn said dryly. “He’ll be with me for a tenday or two.”
The gnome’s face went wary. “And staying where?”
“Neither of us are staying. A bath and a meal, and we’ll be on our way.”
Alice huffed. “Well, by the looks of you, child, you could certainly use a good meal.” Her eyes slid disdainfully over the dwarf, leaving the last part of her insult unspoken.
Bronwyn noted this exchange with great puzzlement. Alice was the most genial of souls; it was not like the gnome to so mistreat a visitor to Curious Past. She was about to admonish her assistant when she noticed the delighted battle gleam in the dwarf’s eye. He had spoken little on the journey south, and she’d given him silence and time to deal with his loss. Judging by the animation on his face, maybe she would have done better to pick a fight or two with him.
“Grow a beard, woman,” Ebenezer gruffly advised Alice. This comment baffled Bronwyn, but Alice seemed to understand it perfectly. The gnome’s eyes widened, then turned coy, and bright color bloomed on her already rosy cheeks.
Belatedly, Bronwyn got the point. Dwarven women were as bearded as their men. Apparently, Ebenezer was expressing his approval of Alice’s gruff reception, even flirting with her a bit. Bronwyn cast her eyes toward the ceiling—which, despite Alice’s claims, was liberally festooned with cobwebs. “Did anything interesting happen while I was gone?”
The gnome collected herself. “Your friend Lord Thann has found excuse to stop by, or send someone on his behalf, at least thrice a day. He seems most concerned about you.”
“I can just imagine,” Bronwyn muttered. “I suppose he has been watching me and reporting back to Khelben all this time, too. No offense meant, Alice,” she added hastily when she saw hurt and self-reproach creep into the gn
ome’s eyes.
Watching. Reporting back.
Suddenly something else occurred to Bronwyn, something that widened her eyes with shock and fury. When she had wanted to identify herself to her father, she named her telltale birthmark. Surely that identifying mark was one measure used by those who once searched for Hronulf’s missing daughter. The Harpers might have heard of the search, and remembered that birthmark. Was it possible that the invitation to join the Harpers, to move to Waterdeep and work under Khelben Arunsun’s direction, was not motivated by the skills she could bring to the Harpers, but by who she was?
All these years, she had searched so desperately for her family, and they had known.
If that was so, then the brief days and nights of merriment that she and Danilo had shared several years before suddenly took on new and ominous meaning. And with that realization came a stab of betrayal so painful that it almost sent her to her knees. Danilo had known who she was—or at least suspected. By the time he left Amn, he knew beyond doubt.
“Oh, my god and goddess,” she whispered in a appalled voice, stunned by this duplicity in a man she had long called friend. “Sweet sister Sune.”
“Some might think it’s a bit early in the day to be invoking the goddess of love and beauty,” observed a familiar, languid male voice behind her. “Myself, I see no reason to put off what I might want to do again later.”
This observation, coming on the heels of her sudden and disturbing insight, raised Bronwyn’s temper past boiling. She fisted her hand and spun toward the shop door, swinging out high and hard.
Danilo dodged the blow and caught her wrist. “Really! Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he chided her.
Bronwyn wrenched her arm from his grasp and backed away. “You son of a snake,” she said in a low, furious tone.
“Ah.”
Just that. He didn’t bother to ask her what she meant. Of course not. But if Bronwyn had not known what a chameleon her fellow Harper could be, she would have sworn there was real regret in his eyes.
He took a step toward her, one hand held out in entreaty. “Bronwyn, we need to talk about that.”
“The hell we do. Get out of my shop.”
Ebenezer came to stand beside her, and the expression on his bearded face suggested an entire battalion taking flank position. He folded his arms and looked Bronwyn’s visitor up and down. He snorted when his gaze fell on Danilo’s jeweled sword. When his scrutiny was completed, his upper lip curled, leaving no doubt concerning his opinion of the faired-haired dandy. “Haven’t killed anyone today,” he announced. “Might be I ought to, just to keep in practice.”
“Hold that thought,” Bronwyn told him, secretly rather touched that the dwarf would come to her defense without question or hesitation. It helped a little, especially when all her perceptions and alliances seemed to be shifting, and her emotions in such chaos that she couldn’t think things through with her usual clarity.
But at that moment, another disturbing piece molded itself into the spreading puzzle. It suddenly occurred to Bronwyn to wonder about the reason for the Harpers’ recent, intense interest in her. Did Khelben suspect the Zhentarim had designs on her father’s keep? If the Harpers had known and had done nothing to stop it, then she was finished with the lot of them!
She whirled back to Danilo, her pain over his earlier transgression forgotten. “How much of this did you know?”
He spread his hands, palms up. “I swear to you, Bronwyn, I had no idea who you were when we met in Amn,” he said earnestly, “nor did I know of your lineage until a few days ago. There was no subterfuge or design in our friendship. We were young and congenial. When I vouched for you as Harper many months later, I did name your distinguishing marks. Such things are important for a Harper Master to know, and when Khelben asked the question I thought nothing amiss. I told him, but I made no mention of how this knowledge was acquired.”
“Ever the gentleman,” she sneered. “But that’s a small thing. A few moments ago, I wouldn’t have thought so. This new betrayal outshines all that went before.”
This clearly took him aback. “What is this about?”
“You deny it still!” Furious now, she snatched up a carved ivory statue and hurled it at him. It missed and crashed into the lintel, breaking into several pieces. “You killed my father! If you hadn’t withheld information, he might still be alive.”
Bronwyn was raving and knew it, but she was beyond caring. The bitter words tore from her like living things determined to be born, regardless of the pain of their birthing.
Danilo stooped and gathered up the ivory bits; Bronwyn suspected he wished to buy time to gather his composure and shape his next remarks. But when he rose, his face was still bewildered. “Bronwyn, what is going on?”
“Tell me this: did you know that Thornhold would come under attack?”
Danilo looked honestly and thoroughly stunned by this news. He sank down to sit on a carved chest, and he rubbed both hands over his face. “Thornhold was attacked?” he echoed.
“And taken,” she said shortly.
From the corner of her eye Bronwyn noticed that Shopscat was showing keen interest in her visitor’s ear-cuff and was starting to edge closer for the attack. Out of habit, she started to grab for the raven—then thought better of it and left the bird alone to do as it willed.
“The fortress of Thornhold is now held by the Zhentarim,” she said, her voice gaining volume and passion as she spoke. “Isn’t that why Khelben Arunsun was so concerned about my dealings with Malchior? He was afraid I might give away family secrets, is that it? Or perhaps you thought I was in collusion with the Zhentarim?”
“Not that. Never that.” Danilo rose and took a step toward her. His progress was halted when a very angry dwarf stepped between him and Bronwyn.
“Back away,” Ebenezer growled. He reached up and thumped the Harper’s chest with his stubby forefinger. “Seems to me the lady of this here shop told you a ways back to git. And you ain’t got yet. Now, I see a problem there that we could solve one of two ways.”
The Harper took a long breath and exhaled with a sigh. “I have no quarrel with you, good sir. Bronwyn, even if you are content to lay to rest the old matter, we must discuss this new one. Send word, when you are ready.”
Her only response was a stony stare. After a moment Danilo nodded a silent farewell and left, unwittingly evading the quick stabbing attack of Shopscat’s beak.
“I could get to like that bird,” Ebenezer observed, eyeing the raven with grim approval.
* * * * *
Danilo strode through the streets toward Blackstaff Tower, hands clasped behind him and brow deeply furrowed in thought. He caught a glimpse of himself in the polished glass of a milliner’s shop window, and the sight-pulled him up short. It took him a moment to realize what bothered him about the reflected image. He had seen that stance before, and the expression was a mirror image of that he’d often beheld on the visage of the archmage he served.
“I have been at this business far too long,” Danilo murmured as he took off down the street again, this time at a saunter.
He found the archmage at his table, which did nothing to brighten his mood. Khelben had a perverse fondness for such foods as pottage of lentil, thick oat porridge, and fruit unadorned by pastry or sugar. If that was the secret of the archmage’s long life, Danilo fervently hoped to die when his naturally allotted span was through.
As they exchanged greetings, Danilo selected a ring of dried apple from a tray. He sat down across from the archmage, munching the leathery fruit as he pondered how best to pass along the dire message Bronwyn had hurled at him. Danilo had given his word to Alice, albeit tacitly, that he would not report to Khelben word of Bronwyn’s trip to Thornhold. Nor would he tell the archmage that Bronwyn was back in the city. Khelben would find that out soon enough. Danilo’s days of reporting on his old friends were over.
A simple ruse came to him. Nothing annoyed Khelben more than reference
to Danilo’s bardic pursuits. Perhaps that very pique would serve to keep the archmage from examining the tale too closely.
“I heard a most amazing ballad last night at the Howling Moon,” Danilo began, naming a new tavern popular with traveling bards of all stripe. “The singer described the fall of Thornhold and claimed that this dire event occurred but two days past. I am inclined to believe him, Uncle. I do not wish to criticize a fellow bard, but the song sounded rather hastily composed.”
Khelben stared at him for a long moment. “Wait here,” he commanded.
The archmage rose and swept from the room. In Khelben’s absence, Danilo nibbled away at the plate of dried fruit and studied the dining hall. There was not overmuch to see. Polished wood covered the walls, and the stone floor had been neatly strewn with fresh rushes mingled with sweet-smelling herbs, as was the custom. The room was dim and cool, lit only by the light that filtered in from the ever-shifting windows. The archmage had remarkably simple habits and insisted that there was no need to waste candles unless they were needed for reading.
Khelben returned in moments, his visage even grimmer than the reflection of his own face that Dan had glimpsed in the shop window.
“It is as you say,” the archmage said. “How could such a thing occur without word or warning? How could a siege force of sufficient size march not more than two days’ ride north of this city and no one notice anything amiss? What good are we doing here in Waterdeep?”
The last question was a challenge, leveled at the Harpers in general and Danilo in particular, and delivered with the force of a thrown lance.
“It is possible,” Dan ventured, “that the Zhentarim have been preparing for this attack for a long time. There would be no time better, given the coming of the spring fairs and the heavy traffic on the High Road. Soldier and horse could easily be disguised as part of a merchant caravan and could pass unnoticed. Small groups could slip away into the hills and mountains and gather at the appointed time.”
Khelben looked at him with surprise. “That is well said.”
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