by Ed Greenwood
Thundaerlel Maurlatrimm
Four Decades of Innkeeping published in the Year of the Highmantle
R oyal Scribe Blaunel, did you eat something bad?”
“No, Royal Scribe Lathlan,” came the somewhat weary reply through the garderobe door. “I ate something at highsunfeast that disagreed with my patrician bowels. However, I’m hrasted sure they’re empty now!”
“Good to hear. I’m not doing this new charter alone.”
The door opened and Blaunel emerged, waving his hands to shake away the last few drops of rosewater. “What is it? Those dolts in Arabel haven’t finally managed to agree on a name for their rushcaning guild, have they? Or run out of dissident rushcaners to knife in alleys?”
“No such luck, Tymora forfend. ’Tis our bold Azoun-saving adventurers, claiming their royal reward whilst their deed is still on everyone’s tongues!”
“Huh,” Blaunel grunted, sounding profoundly unimpressed as he slid back into his seat and reached for his favorite quill. “What are this lot calling themselves? No more ‘Flaming Banners of the Valiant Valorous,’ I trust?”
“Ha! These are upcountry hay-noses. They’ve not the learning to spell ‘Valorous,’ nor ‘Valiant.’ No, they just wanted ‘Swords of Espar.’ ”
The senior scribe sighed. “Know they nothing of the lore of the realm? Some of the Swords are still alive-and dwelling right here in Suzail!”
“Aye, I saw Mlaareth a ride ago, striding along the Promenade like he owned it with a lass on each arm. And to answer you straight: no, I guess not. You’d think, growing up in Espar, they’d at least have heard of the Swords of Espar-minstrels only tell the tale of the Dragondown Slaying once a month or so!”
Undermaster of the Rolls and Scribe Royal Blaunel belched delicately, raising the back of his hand to his mouth more out of habit than politeness, and shrugged. “Mayhap they have. If they’re as simple as all that, they may not know they can’t name themselves after an adventuring band that still holds a charter, retired or not.”
He fell silent to finish shaping an elaborate swash, did so with practised skill, and grunted, “So what’d they pick, when told they couldn’t be Swords of Espar?”
Lathlan smiled. “Swords of Eveningstar.”
Blaunel snorted. “Strained their wits hard, didn’t they? Surprised they didn’t call themselves the Trollblood Blades!” Shaking his head, he began to shape the first fanciful “S” of “Swords.” Then another thought struck him.
“Still, I suppose if they had wits, they’d not be adventurers. They’d be merry-swindling merchants instead.”
“And dwelling in Sembia, awaiting daggers in their backs,” Lathlan replied promptly.
The two scribes exchanged grins, dipped their quill pens in unison, and bent their noses to the charter in unspoken accord.
The sooner done, the sooner off to the Swan for a tankard. Or three.
When it grew late and the back room of the Watchful Eye crowded with tired, well-slaked farmhands all too easily irritated into swinging their fists, the oldest topers of Espar were wont to drift outside for a last pipe and a word or two in the moonlight, ere ambling off home.
Under the moonlight, the usual six or seven old hardjaws were leaning against Dammurth Talgont’s back stable wall, across the street from the inn, trading comfortable jests and the latest gossip.
That clack for once concerned not just highborn doings in Suzail, the latest flareups of those flamebrains in Arabel, unfolding schemes of the murderous and serpent-tongued smugglers of Marsember, and most recent flamboyantly coin-wasting idiocies of the legions of gold-for-brains gaudy prancing dolts who dwelt in Sembia. This night, talk touched on Espar itself!
On every tongue hereabouts, in the wake of the swift-racing news of the great Battle of Hunter’s Hollow-wherein a lone local lad had singlehandedly hewn down a sinister and mysterious invading army lying in wait to ambush the king-was the name of Florin Falconhand.
Old Durrust the miller took his long clay pipe out of his mouth long enough to say, “Oh, he’s a pretty one. The ladies all agree on that.”
“More’n’that,” Barth the Barrelhead put in, “plenty of lads look to him, too. He’d make a good Purple Dragon commander, he would.” The local cooper was one of the few men adorning the wall who’d not been a Purple Dragon-and so of course considered himself an expert on all matters, large and small, of warfare and the Cormyrean military.
Thorl Battlestorm spat thoughtfully into a nearby clump of weeds. “Ah, but would he? What if he’s a clevershanks, all selfish-or a real bad ’un? We don’t know that, now, do we? I’d be fair surprised if he doesn’t get up to some of the same foolishness all young lads do. Some come out of it, but some go on to greater and greater folly, and come to bad ends… usually long after the gods should’ve served them with what they deserved.”
“That’s just it,” Durrust agreed. “He’s young, yet.”
“Aye,” agreed the horse breeder Nornuth, “and as young bucks go, those looks and knowing the forest and all, bid fair to make him better at charming the lasses than most.”
Durrust tapped out his pipe. “Sound not so rueful, Norn. I hear you did all right in your day, in such- hem — valorous pursuits.”
There were chuckles, but Battlestorm overrode them with a stern, “Let’s not ride down that road, lads; my ears have heard more than enough chortling memories of lasses long gone and how soft and splendid they were. ’Tis this Florin lad, late of Hawkstone’s forges-where he acquitted himself well, I’m told-who’s on the brink of knighthoods and royal favor and riding off to Suzail in mirrorbright armor and all. We’ve chewed over our elder days oft enough, and can again when other fancies falter. What I want to know is: Is he a shining hero sent to Cormyr by the gods, or a dullard who just happened to do the right thing when excitement landed atop him, or something in between? Is he really a brilliant bladesman, and a swift-as-a-hawk fearless strategist, and truly noble of heart and character? Or do we just want him to be?”
“Those are thoughts every loving mother wrestles with.” A calm, quiet woman’s voice came out of the night, from the shadows nigh Tarreth Oldhall’s back shed. “I’m no different than most, Thorl.”
The men fell silent, abashed, as Florin’s mother stepped out into the moonlight. Imsra Skydusk’s spells and the regard they all held for Hethcanter Falconhand, whose name still held weight in Purple Dragon barracks ten years after he’d last worn the king’s armor, had kept her from the bother of any man of Espar trying to romance her, or even leer and wink at her over tankards. Yet her every stride was liquid grace, and she was the darksome half-elf beauty many local men thought about, when lying in their beds seeking sleep that would not come. Cloaked in moonlight, she was throat-tighteningly beautiful.
“I…” Thorl Battlestorm tended to dominate any gathering, and men of Espar looked to him. He felt he should say something now, and rather uneasily continued, “owe you an apology, ma’am. We-ah-meant no offense, but merely-”
“And you’ve given none, Thorl. None of you have. Every mother loves her son and wants to see him rise high and far in life, to be happy and looked to by all. Yet I very much fear my Florin will put a foot wrong-and the more exalted the company, the harder will be his fall. More than that, I can’t and won’t chase after him and spy on him every day, and so see not all that he does. Though I’ve seen nothing to make me worry, I’m afraid he may have put a foot or two wrong already.”
Semoor spread his hands. “Why ‘Eveningstar’?”
Florin shrugged. “The king suggested it. He said I’d learn why when he presented the charter to us.”
“He’s giving us a mission,” Islif said flatly. “Go and get yourselves killed in the Stonelands, and mind you report in to Lord Winter along the way.”
Jhessail rolled her eyes. “Grimtongue! A little cheer, please! ”
Islif drew herself up, strode over to Jhessail, loomed over the flamehaired mage-and put a wide, idiotic smile o
nto her face, all teeth and oh-so-wide eyes. Then she let it fall right off her face again, leaving her looking as stern as ever.
“Soooo,” Semoor drawled, regarding the ceiling. “What really happened between you and the lovely Lady Narantha Crownsilver during your little walk in the woods? It gets cold out there in the dark night, I’m thinking…”
“You’re thinking? Does divine Lathander know? He might just change his mind about having a dangerous thinker among his ordained priesth-”
“Sabruin, gallant Falconhand, and answer my impertinent question.”
Florin wrapped his arms around the back of a vacant chair, leaned his chin on them, and told his friends, “Nothing romantic or lustful happened between us. Nothing. And you can cast spells on me to be sure of that, if you’d like. Beauteous she may be, but she was a raging spitfire most of the time we spent trudging through the trees-and I’m not so addled by raging lusts that I want to have my pisspipe sliced off and my neck stretched in a hangman’s noose, for all to watch. I can’t think noble lords and ladies are too pleased with anyone who ruins one of their daughters.”
“Unless they happen to be King Azoun,” Semoor murmured.
“Silence!” Islif snapped. “All the realm may know about that, but ’tis surely the act of a death-welcoming fool to talk about it!”
“Yes, Semoor,” Jhessail said reprovingly. “ Try to behave yourself for the next day or two until we have the charter. Then, being an anointed adventurer, you can revert to your usual charmingly discreet self.”
“ After we get over the border into Sembia,” Islif growled. “Where we can all walk away from you if your overclever mouth gets us into real trouble.”
Semoor gave her a quizzical look. “You’re worried about ‘real trouble’? When we’re going to be chartered adventurers? Just what do you think chartered adventurers do, anyhail?”
Then he looked pained. “Behave myself for an entire day or two? Whatever will I do? ”
“Hear ye! Hear ye all! Good people of Espar, His Valiant Majesty Azoun, King of all this fair land of Cormyr, is pleased to grant a right royal charter this day, upon this spot and before all your eyes! Attend, all!”
The herald of Espar was in fine form, his voice rich and loud without seeming harsh. Effortlessly it rolled out across the crowd-a close-packed throng that filled the village green shoulder to shoulder, and extended right back to the inn and smithy walls, entirely blocking the Way of the Dragon.
The Watchful Eye had gained a splendid new porch for the occasion, hurled up by High Horn’s best carpenters in a day-and standing on it beside the herald, sweating a little uncomfortably in the sun, stood four young Esparran, the friends Doust Sulwood, Semoor Wolftooth, Jhessail Silvertree, and Islif Lurelake. Idle younglings of scant regard a few days ago, but objects of intense curiosity and bright if fleeting fame, now. Semoor gave many winks and grins, and Islif glowered out at the crowd as if she’d happily hew the lot of them to the ground, while Doust and Jhessail kept their hands firmly behind their backs, so they could fidget largely unnoticed.
On the other side of the four friends stood Lord Hezom, the King’s Lord of Espar, resplendent in a new greatsleeves doublet, half-cloak, and bright bold hose. He smiled out across the crowd in genuine pleasure, and many goodfolk of Espar shared his feelings, for the king was paying for the feast they’d soon share and the mead and ale they’d soon down, and royal coins had already given many of them-whose homes fronted on the green-bright new roofs and balconies, where Purple Dragon bowmen were stationed watchfully. Others had rented out their every last room and slept in their own stables, and were thanking the gods-and Florin Falconhand-fervently for the windfall of much-needed coins.
More Purple Dragons, out of uniform and trying not to look uncomfortable about it, stood among the sea of faces, striving to look like merchants or drovers. They shared space in the throng with war wizards trying their best not to look like war wizards, some with the aid of shapechanging spells. Undercloak or just what they seemed to be, the onlookers were many: curious wagon-merchants halting on their travels, peddlers, outlying crofters, the scores of bright-cloaked courtiers who followed the king whenever possible-and every last person in Espar who could walk, totter, or be propped up on sticks or in a chair to see the wonder of the season.
“You have all heard,” the herald began, “how your own Florin Falconhand, a young forester of this place, came upon a lost noblewoman of the realm in the forest not far from here, and gallantly guided her in safety, days and nights through, to be restored to us. And how, when at last they reached the royal road not far north of here, in the place called Hunter’s Hollow, they came upon a large force of murderous men who’d shot down Horsemaster Delbossan’s honor guard-sent forth from here by your own gallant Lord, Hezom-”
The herald knew his job, and indicated Lord Hezom with a flourish, allowing time for cheers. The Purple Dragons and war wizards in the crowd knew their tasks, too, and provided those cheers lustily-but were pleasantly surprised to hear themselves drowned out by the very real acclaim of the folk standing around them. The local lord stood high in the regard of the folk of this backwater, it seemed; he must be more than just a haughty nose and a hand that smote with the king’s authority.
“-and did battle with them, seeking to rescue the wounded horsemaster. The gods saw fit to send His Majesty the king thither at that moment, while riding out to a royal staghunt, and boldly did the Purple Dragon charge into the forest to slay the miscreants-whom, it now appears, had come creeping into Cormyr for the sole and most base purpose of slaying him. Florin Falconhand was already harrying these dastards, armed with but a sword and a dagger, and he and the king and the wounded Master Delbossan did great battle upon them, slaying all but one of the foe, whom the king graciously spared. In that affray, saith His Majesty, did Florin Falconhand personally save the royal life!”
Espar’s voice had risen into an impassioned shout, and it was answered with a mighty roar. Purple Dragons on the rooftops rapped dagger-hilts on their breastplates in ringing chorus, to keep the applause from falling into vigorous chatter, and the herald rushed in to recapture the attention of all.
“So now, in recognition of this valiant and loyal bravery, His Majesty has seen fit to grant-free of charge-a charter founding a new adventuring company this day! For this was the one reward your modest Florin desired, to lawfully pursue a dream he hath nurtured to his bosom lifelong: to adventure with these his fast friends who stand here with me now!”
There was brief applause, which the herald overrode by calling out on high: “Some of you are wondering why these fine, upstanding young men and women of Espar have chosen to take the name of another place than this the fair cradle that reared them. Some of you have demanded to know why they have turned their backs on Espar!”
The herald fell silent just long enough for talk to begin and swell, then cried, “Yet, know ye all, they have not turned their backs on Espar! It is royal law and long tradition that no band of adventurers, no matter how noble, can take the name of another, earlier-founded adventuring company-and Espar, cradle of lions, hath already spawned the brave Swords of Espar who so memorably defeated and slew the rogue dragon Azazarrundoth, whereof minstrels sing the ‘Dragondown Slaying’! Aye, there are still Swords of Espar alive in the realm today, so there cannot be a second company of that name. The king himself suggested Eveningstar be a part of their calling, and they have gladly accepted that wise royal advice!”
“Because to do otherwise would be muttonheaded self-slaying,” muttered one Purple Dragon on a rooftop, unheard amid the roar of applause.
When it started to fade, the herald continued, “By tradition, every charter must have a sponsor. A royal charter is, of course, sponsored by the Crown, but as a mark of royal favor, the monarch always personally appoints a ceremonial sponsor. His Majesty smiles upon Espar, upon those who have served the realm loyally, and upon those who have fought at his side, and for all of those reasons hath n
amed Irlgar Delbossan, your own well-beloved horsemaster, sponsor of this charter!”
More applause greeted this, and rose into shouts as Delbossan, white-faced but smiling, and apparently healed of his wounds, came striding out the front door of the Eye onto the porch, and took his place at Lord Hezom’s shoulder.
He and the herald exchanged smiles and nods, whereupon Espar told the crowd, “Master Delbossan, mindful of the young man who saved his life as well as that of the king, desires to share his sponsoring duties, and has named-”
The man who strode out onto the porch then wore black armor, as smooth and as supple as velvet, that made no sound-and one of his hands was held out before him, palm up, with a faint glow flickering and skirling around it. Wary mutterings arose from the Purple Dragons and from the war wizards among the crowd, who’d known of the man but not expected the obvious magic, awake in his hand.
“-Hawkstone, ranger and swordmaker of some fame, who from his wanderings in the wild forests of Faerun has come hither to mark the importance of this charter!”
Astonished applause, that sank away in eager anticipation when Hawkstone flung out his empty hand to halt the herald, and in a voice deeper and yet louder than Espar’s, that echoed off the fronts of houses across the green, said, “Witness all, that I bear the favor of Holy Mielikki here this day, to confer upon him who has pleased her well: Florin Falconhand!” He held up his glowing hand, and the applause this time was a storm of excited and awed talk.
Then Hawkstone cradled his hand to his breast, and nodded to the herald. The herald gave the famous ranger a look of wonder, but resumed his speech undaunted: “A noble lady of the realm in whose veins runs royal blood, a maiden Florin Falconhand also rescued from beasts in the forest, hath requested the right to bear witness to the granting of the charter. Folk of Cormyr, I present to you the Lady Narantha Crownsilver, flower of her house!”