by Ed Greenwood
"A gate or portal, of course," Hlael agreed, "but of those that she might possibly send them through, we've only used three-and I know there are that many again in Suzail and Marsember, probably one in the King's Forest, and two or even as many as six in Westgate or thereabouts. If she didn't go through with them, we can't trace them even if they dance back and forth through one of our three."
"So we look at the three we can, and hope she did. If we find nothing, it's back to spies and farscrying-for a month or two, if it takes that long. It's not as if we dare turn to anything else, uut-there! Hah^First blood, first try! Tombgate!"
Hlael shook his head in delighted disbelief. It had been long odds, indeed, with them able to trace so little-only gates he and Korthauvar had passed through, and only Tessaril Winter because they had some of her blood from clothing cut off her by a Zhentilar warrior who'd tried to slay her while she was riding the roads, and failed. And yet-and yet, by Bane and Mystra both!
The most recent passage through Tombgate had been by three living creatures, one of them Tessaril.
"Narm Tamaraith and Shandril Shessair," Korthauvar said slowly. "It must be!"
"So we-?"
"So we make sure, if we want to keep our heads. Scornubel is the place to look, if they are the two we seek-but first to make sure of that. The same blood will serve us, if we use that spell you traded to me last year…"
"To eavesdrop on Lady Lord Tessaril Winter," Hlael said smugly. "Let me cast this one; your weavings so far this day must've impressed Divine Mystra herself!"
He opened his spellbook, plucked up the stained scrap of undertunic that was their link to the distant Cormyrean officer, and cast his spell. Almost immediately he reeled back, wincing, as the scrying smoke that had begun to rotate around him roared up in a sudden flash of light and vanished.
"She's with the King," he said grimly, "and has strong shielding spells up around them both."
Korthauvar's grin was not quite a leer. "Exchanging state secrets, no doubt."
"So do we wait for them to finish? He might tarry for the morrow or even longer!"
The taller Zhentarim shook his head, stroking the dagger-like edges of beard that ran sleekly along the edge of his chin to end in two tufts. "We gamble," he said slowly. "Yonder I've a tallchest full of unwashed tankards, bloodstained dressings, and scraps of clothing, hacked-off scraps of leather war-harness. Kindly avert your eyes."
He strode to one of several looming tallchests of dark wood on the far wall, touched it in certain places while mumbling certain things, and stepped back as its door swung open. A row of shallow drawers was revealed; he slid open the fourth, selected three scraps of cloth, and said, "These belong to Highknights who almost gave their lives for their King but escaped us. I only hope one of them is with Azoun now-and that if he is, he knows something useful. Surely Lady Winter couldn't just slip off to take two people through a gate without a Highknight noticing-prying is what they do."
Hlael worked his spell again, and the whirling smoke promptly rolled up the wall that he was facing, scattered wild twinklings and swirlings of all hues of light, and twisted into a dark, — moonlit sight of booted feet lit at ankle height by shuttered lanterns. The lanterns were set in a ring on weed-choked, now trampled ground, and the unmistakable sound of picks and shovels striking buried stones rang out repeatedly.
"Quietly, blades, quietly! You want an admiring audience?"
"The sentinels will signal if anyone draws close enough to hear," someone replied disgustedly. "If your shovelwork is so much quieter, you're welcome to wield this shovel."
"We'll need those stones piled, after, to keep the wolves from digging him up. Pluck them aside," a low voice growled.
"Wolves? What's to keep curious villagers from having a look? Lads at play, and suchlike?"
"Old Meg's ghost, and fear of the wild things of the Stonelands-Zhent wizards, and the like."
Korthauvar and Hlael exchanged unlovely grins.
"Old Meg?"
"A local witch, or so folk hereabouts think. Her hut was about four strides that way, and in Eveningstar they'll swear to you that the whole gorge is haunted, this spot right here worst of all!"
"Don't start," another of the Highknights said disgustedly, dumping another shovel-load of dirt beside his lantern. Next to that light sat a small brazier, also hooded, where a fitful fire licked up from charcoal. "You can tell us all what horrible things she'll do to us when we're done and emptying flasks back at the Lady's Tower."
"I know why the King comes up here," a new voice said, from the other side of the deepening grave, and waited for the various grunts and chuckles to rise and then die away again, "but why now? He was ah, entertaining those four sisters from Tantras not two nights ago and seemed quite taken with them, too-and they with him. Why this sudden run right the way up the kingdom into the cold shadow of the Stonelands, to Tessaril's arms? Is she that good?"
There were just a few chuckles this time and one firm whisper: "Yes."
"No, Regrar, this can't be just the King in rut! He was frowning and tossing back his head the way he does when there's something troublesome on his mind, all the way up here. If I'm ever to do a decent job of guarding the Dragon, I have to know a lot more than I do now. Is this usual? Does he drop everything and come riding up here often?"
"Often enough, lad, often enough-and Daervin here isn't the first of us to be buried in this gorge, either-though there's never been any hint of shapeshifters before! Yet you've seen things clear enough. Azoun comes to Tessaril often, not just for her arms and her bed but as we do when we seek out old friends, men we trust, to rest easy and talk over our cares and the ongoing ruin of Faerun, and put our feet up. This ride, now, was a little different; something was eating at him. Forold?"
The low voice spoke again. "I spoke with Delmar, one of our eyes here. Vangerdahast came to Eveningstar and met with Tessaril. All manner of striding monsters and strange apparitions were seen around Eveningstar in the hours following his arrival-and they were hunted down by the Royal Magician when he came out of the Lady's Tower again, and blasted to dust and smoke."
"Old Vangey didn't look any too happy, if y'ask me," another Highknight muttered.
Forold growled a wordless agreement and asked, "Isn't it deep enough yet? We're not digging a well, you know-and Daervin's a little past complaining!"
"Patience, old blade," Regrar grunted, as a shovel rang off a rock. "Slow going, this end: Mother Chauntea left all the rocks from yon fields right here, it seems,"
"Well, lad," Forold continued, "No sooner had Vangey taken himself off back to Suzail in a cloud of spellsmoke, with a face like old sour iron, then Tessaril was seen leading two fat priestesses of Chauntea-strangers, not seen in Eveningstar before, nor arriving, either-a little way up Eveningstar Gorge. She returned alone."
"And?"
"And promptly went to her chambers, where she cast a strong magic that involved murmuring a message over something very small that vanished when the spell was done."
"Sending a token afar, with a message on it." They could all hear the frown in Regrar's voice. "A report to the King?"
"Nay, we were already a-horse and on the way," another Highknight said grimly. "She was reporting to someone else."
"The Zhentarim?" Regrar asked. "Renegade nobles of the realm?"
"She'll bear watching, will our Tessaril," Forold said calmly. "Anyone bedding the King must know far more than she should. I've been suspicious of her for some time. All these Harpers who come tramping through here-she certainly doesn't report their visits officially."
"How do you know that?" Regrar protested, grounding his shovel and leaning on it. "There's nothing more official than telling the King directly, and if all they were doing was cuddling and cooing, what did he need the map for? Even our Dragon must do something besides rutting and hoisting goblets-he likes women who can talk and have wits to match his own, or better!"
"Bah, she doesn't talk policy and make
reports!" said. another voice. "The woman's a snake!"
Another Highknight who'd been silent until now spoke up. "Whether she is or she isn't, I know what the spell was about, and the priestesses. She took them to the Tombgate and sent someone else a skull-token that will take them to its far end."
"She's setting up some sort of meeting there," Forold said thoughtfully, "but why?"
The flames of the brazier suddenly blazed up green, then white and purple, growing brighter. "Blood of the Dragon! Someone's scrying us!" Regrar snarled. "Where's that War Wizard? Get him, quickly!"
Korthauvar looked sharply at Hlael, who hastily hissed a word and slashed his hand through the smoke in front of him. In a matter of moments the scrying-spell collapsed, the smoke fading to half-seen curls… then nothing.
The two wizards exchanged glances. "The Tombgate," Hlael murmured. "Old Hesperdan will know where it leads, if anyone outside Candlekeep does."
"If Hesperdan doesn't," Korthauvar said grimly, "Tessaril Winter does."
Stiff and uncomfortable in ill-fitting, much-mended leather armor and trying hard to look like the seasoned guards they weren't, Narm and Shandril exchanged brief glances through the slits in their cavernous helms and shifted their crossbows to more comfortable positions on their shoulders.
"More comfortable" was a laughable term, given the bone-jarring bouncing and pitching of the laden wagons crashing up, over, and through ruts. They both stood on high platforms that jutted out around the drovers' heads-platforms they shared with lumpy sacks and bundles that had been lashed down with enough ropes and straps to make them resemble the web-bundled prey of some very energetic spider.
Around them, half-hidden by the thick dust. Voldovan's real guards raced about on their leaping, plunging mounts, holding their saddles easily amid the tumult and glaring hard-eyed at everything and everyone. Orthil's caravan was just leaving Scornubel-and the guards wanted very much to leave the city's grasping hands and swift swindles behind. Twice Narm saw blades half-drawn warningly as local lads raced in to snatch at things or men pushing carts tried to get in the way of the caravan-whether to steal, stage an accident, or try to trade, he could only guess.
They'd both been posted on "ready wagons," Voldovan's oldest and most leaky conveyances. Below and behind them, the steep-sided wagon beds were crammed with spare wheels and axles, boards and buckets and mallets, all wedged in with spare carrychests and barrels of water, with haybales thrust atop everything. Spare weather-sheets of old, patched ship sails were lashed down several layers deep over the arched tops of both wagons, and everything stank of fish oil, sheepfat grease, and old sweat.
Their request to go disguised in armor had vastly amused Voldovan-and pleased him, for their presence on the ready wagons freed up two of his real guards for outrider duty, rather than-as he put it-"a-wasting them to stand as targets when they could be doing something useful!"
Shandril had even drawn comfort from the leering pair of grizzled guards who'd hung extra plates of armor to clang and clatter down Shandril's front, and smeared greasy fingers around her jaw to make her look unshaven and "more've a man, har har!" One of them had taken care to lean close and momentarily pluck out the tiniest silver harp on a chain that she'd ever seen, and introduced himself baldly as "Arauntar."
The other had sent her staggering with an adjusting slap at the shoulder-plates her breastplates were hanging from and announced grandly, "Beldimarr, at yer service-hands an'jaws an' I've one o' them little trinkets, too!"
Beldimarr sported a long, snakelike white scar that ran from his right temple right down his neck, to disappear somewhere in the unwashed hairiness below. Narm stared at it in fascination until the grizzled caravan guard thrust his face into the young mage's, bestowing on Narm the fruits of breath enriched by rotting scraps of meat amid rotten teeth, and snarled, "Starin' at me, pretty boy? Well, begone with yer hungry eyes-'tis women I fancy, almost as much as-hah-they fancy me, now!"
Shandril ducked her head away to hide her mirth at Narm's incredulously gagging expression, but she needn't have bothered-Arauntar roared with laughter enough for them both. When he could speak again-still hooting with occasional glee-he slapped a crossbow into her midriff with enough force to drive her breathless, and announced gruffly, "This way up, see? An' you can crank it tight an' ready, but mind you loosen it at every stop, after you wind another tight an' ready-so as to switch back an' forth, so they're slower to break, see? An' no loading of it until you've a foe to fire at, for I do perceive that y'art violently carried away from sanity-an' I'd just as rather I didn't get violently carried away by a stray bolt from you!"
Orthil Voldovan had come up to inspect his two new standing targets at that moment, with a wolflike smile and the cheerful words, "Behold: Here be a pair of strange beasts, which folk of experience call 'fools.' "
Now, with her teeth clacking together every few breaths from the crashings of the journey-she'd already nipped her own tongue painfully, and they weren't even out of Scornubel yet! — Shandril was heartily glad her crossbow wasn't loaded… and in full agreement with old Orthil about she and Narm being fools, too. The drover down beside her knees was a thin, sour man by the name of Storstil, and Narm had a stouter one, Narbuth, who never stopped talking and telling jokes, even to himself.
No family or clan names were given among Voldovan's men-this seemed to be an unwritten but firm caravan rule-and they were all men, too. Narm and Shandril had counted thirty-two wagons, not counting the cook wagon, Voldovan's own "strongwagon" where the smallest, most valuable cargoes were carried ("coffers o' gems," as Beldi-marr had described the strongwagon's load, "and maps 'n' treaties 'n' coins an' things-together wi' boxes of scorpions and deadly biting vipers, to give thieves somethin' final to think about, har har"), and the two ready wagons they rode on. Everyone riding with the caravan had been paraded before the guards so disappearances and uninvited guests among them could be noted, later, but Shandril couldn't say she remembered every face and name, or even all of those who'd looked suspicious… because that had been more than half of them.
Now, they could see few wagons and fewer faces of the riders, either-both because of the clouds of dust, and because of the improvised cloth masks almost everyone wore over their faces, against that dust. Shandril's eyes were already stinging as they finally left Scornubel behind, with its shouting traders and running, mud-clod-hurling boys, and gazed out on what would become a very familiar view, ahead of them: a wide vista of hills and mountains, distant and haze-shrouded off to the left, nigh the sea, and nearby and soaring to their right. Open wilderlands, of rolling hills and scrub forest, with a line of dust running ever ahead of them: the Trade Way, a-crawl with caravans.
The hills around them were alive with brigands and raiding bands of bugbears, ores, and goblins, the guards had delighted in telling every client riding with the caravan-and this was monster country, too. It was a long way to Triel, the next settlement of any size on the road- and as they passed the ashes and tumbled stones of a few burned and long-abandoned steadings, Shandril could guess why. Anything that wasn't well-armed and on the move in this lawless lower end of the Sword Coast was a sitting target waiting to be plucked. Suddenly she was grateful for the dust and the din around her and pleased to be rolling and bouncing along in the midst of thirty-odd groaning wagons. 'Twas comforting, though she knew it shouldn't be: unlike some of the small, fast caravans of a dozen wagons or even half that many, they could outrun nothing and hide nowhere. All they could do was fight whatever came at them. If it used bows, and there were a lot of them around her right now, some of them possibly in the hands of folk who knew who she was and what she bore within her, she might not even be able to use spellfire against that "whatever" or whoever…
Shandril sighed, thrust aside such gloomy thoughts, and peered all around, through the dust, like a guard with any wits at all should.
Orthil was shouting at someone and waving one of those massive, corded arms, indicating that desp
ite the heavy brush, his outriders should spread out to each side of the road and move ahead. Reluctantly two of the younger guards spurred their horses forward, and Voldovan promptly plucked a horn up from his belt-it remained fastened there, on long leather straps of its own, Shan noticed-and blew it, in a high, clear call.
Both of the outriders replied with horn-calls of their own-and when they were done, two more sounded from the rear.
Voldovan nodded and hooked his horn back into place. Shandril concluded that she'd be hearing those horns a lot during the days ahead. The caravan master's head was never still, she noticed. He seemed to spend most of his time peering at hilltops and gullies ahead and behind, but also from time to time he rode his huge horse through the caravan, glancing sharply here and there-almost as if he feared treachery as much among his clients as attacks from as-yet-unseen, lurking perils of the wilderland around them.
Excitement-nay, apprehension-was so strong in Shan as Scornubel disappeared in the rolling hills behind them that she could taste it and was almost sickened by it… but as the day wore on and the hot sun climbed the sky overhead, it faded into a wearying, lulling monotony of being, bruisingly jolted and nigh-deafened among the snorting, head-tossing beasts and ever-swirling dust. She could see, now, why everything-even the crossbows she and Narm held-were tethered to ring-bolts on the wagons, for 'twas all too easy to nod off and let something fall… and all too dangerous to leap down from a wagon and try to snatch something in the dust, with the wagons moving steadily and ponderously along like a purposeful herd of so many rothe.
Highsun-or rather, the next stream of goodly size they came to after the sun was at its beating height-meant a rest for the beasts and the folk riding in the wagons but not for the guards. This stopping place had been used by countless caravans before, and both outlaws and prowling beasts knew it. Even before the horn-calls were ringing out to slow and turn in, and Voldovan was turning himself into a whirlwind of shoutings and cursing pointings to avoid collisions between slowing and turning wagons, the guards were down from their saddles with their mounts swiftly and expertly hobbled and were fanning out into the surrounding brush to look for lurking dangers and to mark privy-hollows.