Scowling, Ravelo whirled around and ducked out—just as the palm-sized crystal ball in front of Hardtower flickered into sudden glowing life, and a cold voice asked, without bothering with any greeting, “Well? What idiocy are you up to now?”
“N-none, Lord Sarhthor!” Andaero gasped excitedly. “All but a handful of my forces are busy carrying out Lathalance’s orders right now!”
There was a sigh. “And just what orders did Lathalance give?”
“He bade us see this night to the elimination of the Knights of Myth Drannor. They have a pendant we are to seize. Lathalance says slaying them and getting that bauble will shatter and once and for all end the schemes of the Royal Magician and the Blackstaff of Waterdeep and their confounded Harpers, and hand Shadowdale to us.”
The glowing crystal was showing no image in its depths—and that suddenly seemed like a good thing to Andaero, as it erupted in a stream of snarled curses that ended in an exasperated, “Stop them, fool!”
“T-too late,” Hardtower stammered. “They’re fighting the Knights right now!”
“Do you command a drunken rabble,” Sarhthor inquired icily, “or Zhentilar warriors?”
“A-a drunken rabble, Lord. All the men you trained have been killed fighting the Knights and all the roused Dragons in Arabel, with Baron Thomdor leading them! These we have now are our spies and lazynecks, plus all I could induce with coin to fight for us—or coerce by threat of exposing them to the Dragons—in a day. Neldrar leads them.”
“Then let them die, and Neldrar with them, and get yourself well away from it all,” Sarhthor ordered coldly. “Now.”
As the crystal started to dim, Hardtower heard the fading beginnings of an incantation, and shivered as he recognized it.
The tall, slender double doors of flame-hued, glossy copper parted, and a cloaked half-elf who was also tall and slender stepped through them and drew them firmly closed behind him. Even before they closed in velvet silence, the dwarf who’d been leaning against a curved wall, waiting, stepped forward to block the half-elf’s path, and squinted up to ask gruffly, “And what was all that about, aye?”
“Well met, Raurig,” the half-elf said with a smile that hinted otherwise, but added smoothly, “The High Lady desires closer ties of trade and friendship with the Forest Kingdom, Cormyr.”
“And so?”
“And so will shortly announce the investiture of a new envoy to the Royal Court of King Azoun, in Suzail.”
“Who will be—? Gods above, Laroncel, getting specifics out of ye is like prodding a sullen orc prisoner!”
“Oh? Well, that seems fitting, Raurig. Entertaining your questions always seems much akin to answering an angry orc trying to browbeat replies out of a captive! I have good reason to believe Lady Alustriel still possesses a mouth—”
“Heh! I’ll bet ye do!”
“I see no need at all for low coarseness, Raurig, nor for allusions to matters not now under discussion. As I was saying, the Lady Alustriel still having a mouth permits her to make her own announcement as to the identity of her envoy, as is customary, and I see no reason at all for me to—”
“Ah, I quite see. Just as I see no reason not to inform her Lady Lovehips as to yer little meeting with Jesper of Luskan, a night back, regarding—”
“Ahem, Raurig, if we could just refrain from mentioning matters so personal, I was about to say that I saw no reason not to inform someone so discreet as yourself as to the identity of the envoy. Yes? Good, I’m glad we so plainly understand each other.”
“I, too, am overwhelmed with gladness. Out with it, Brightears!”
“Raurig, please! Leave me some small shards of dignity! Very well, though I dislike speaking of such delicate matters out here in this very public passage, let it be known to you—and only to you—that Silverymoon’s new envoy to Cormyr will be the Lady Aerilee Hastorna Summerwood.”
“Huh! That loose-skirts! Serve Azoun the Lusty well, won’t she?”
“I believe that opinion was just privately imparted, yes, though not by myself.”
“That fails utterly to surprise me, Laroncel. Same bloodlines as ye, every bit as tall—ye’ll miss her, won’t ye?”
Laroncel Duirwood smiled as if remembering something very pleasant, and murmured, “Yes, but my aim has improved steadily.”
As he strode off down the passage, he decided that the dwarven chuckles from behind him could best be described as “dirty.”
Florin ducked and thrust and sidestepped, fighting furiously just to stay alive. Rather than trying to wound, he used his reach and strength to tumble foe after foe off the roof, and was succeeding—which was a very good thing, because ever-more men were rushing at him from all sides.
One of the largest swordsmen, who’d come stumping cautiously across the slimy roof rather than rushing Florin, reached the ranger at last. He wore a belt bristling with sheathed daggers, but wielded only a huge sword, using both hands to raise his fearsome weapon back and to the side. In a moment, he’d come at Florin and swing it around in a great body-slicing slash, with all of his weight behind it.
Florin feigned a slip, “falling” forward onto the fingertips of his free hand—and as the man chuckled and started his great hacking swing, Florin sprang froglike to his right and rolled over, leading with his blade, scything the man’s ankles out from under him and sending the swordsman toppling with a shriek of startled pain.
Right behind him, another swordsman charged at Florin with his blade drawn back. Florin rolled frantically and came up with his sword lifted. One swift dodge and the man impaled himself on Florin’s blade, solid and heavy and almost hilt-deep.
Then light blossomed in the night, and the swordsmen running across the roofs at Florin faltered, stopped, and turned to stare.
The wizard Florin had pursued up onto the stable roof swayed, startlement clear on his face—a face that all could see clearly in the rainy night because the Zhentarim’s body was starting to glow, hitherto-invisible runes all over his robes burning into scarlet life. The wizard stared down at the runes; a cold voice arose from them, speaking what sounded like an incantation. Except for the one now collapsing over Florin’s blade, the swordsmen were all watching and listening now, like so many dark statues in the night.
The wizard stared past them all at Florin, horror in his eyes, and screamed, “No! Nooooo!” as the incantation rose to a triumphant end. The runes exploded, the wizard vanishing in a shattering burst of flames that hurled blazing swordsmen in all directions. Florin flung himself toward the edge of the roof.
“Follow me not,” the princess had grandly commanded everyone in the Black Hound, sweeping out into the night with the cloak some fool of a merchant had given her swirling around her. Not wanting to be noticed doing just that by a tavern-full of awed Arabellans, Ravelo Tarltarth had slipped boldly into the servery and out the back door, to become one more alley shadow in the wet night.
It had not been difficult to spot the princess, still waving her sword and dagger around as she turned along a street and headed for grander lanes, where beyond a few stables and warehouses, balconied mansions rose many-windowed into the rain.
Ravelo didn’t have to skulk. He could stroll openly, this royal lass was so careless—and so predictable. Not that he was known to the local Watch, yet. Short, silent, and balding, he looked more like a weary shopkeeper than a Zhent spy. One of the better “eyes” for the Zhentarim in the Forest Kingdom, he judged himself; one who remained unnoticed by the Crown, despite war wizards poking their noses into everything—including everyone’s minds—in Cormyr every second breath or so.
Ravelo took a side-alley, trotting swiftly in the wet darkness, and then turned along a cross-alley, back to the street where the Princess Alusair was walking, once he was sure he’d gotten ahead of her. He crouched in the mouth of the alley, weathercloak drawn close around him. Yes, here she was now, looking like some sort of bad actor in a fancy-play, sneaking along having an adventure.
&nbs
p; Ravelo’s lip barely had time to curl before he and the princess both became aware that something of interest was happening on the roof of a stables not far ahead of Alusair. Men were rushing around in the rain there, fighting with swords, and many of them, one after another, fell or were hurled off the roof, to crash down out of sight behind a warehouse that still had lanterns lit and men sorting and shifting coffers and crates around. Those, that is, that hadn’t stopped to gape up at the fighting.
There were occasional yells, and even a shriek or two. The princess slowed, but her sword and dagger came up as if to deal death, and her eyes shone with excitement. Ravelo’s sneer slipped into a grin.
A sudden glow came into being up on the roof, coming from the front of someone—a wizard—in robes, and illuminating a dozen or more men with sword and daggers, who seemed to have been converging on a lone man, but who were now turning to look at the glowing wizard. Ravelo’s eyes narrowed. Was that Neldrar of the Brotherhood? Yes, he was almost certain it was Neldrar, whose cold commands Ravelo had heard and obeyed a time or two, and—
A blinding-bright burst of flame suddenly split the night, an ear-smiting blast that seemed to come from Neldrar.
It echoed off taller nearby buildings and hurled men with swords in all directions. Writhing men plunged through the air and smaller, unseen things came pattering down all around.
Ravelo watched the princess shrink back as what was left of a torn and boneless human arm bounced in the street in front of her boots and rolled bloodily past her. Half a dozen dead or senseless Zhent warriors crashed heavily into the street, swords and daggers clanging and skittering away across the cobbles. A pale-faced Alusair turned as if to go back the way she’d come.
Mouthing a silent curse, Ravelo stepped out of the alley to glide after her—but ducked back in as he saw her stop, and heard and saw why: a Watch patrol was pelting down the street, swords drawn, their boots raising a rising thunder of their own. A dozen Purple Dragons in full chain mail, with the Dragon of Cormyr on their surcoats—and one glimpse of that badge had the princess turning and running right for the mouth of Ravelo’s alley.
Grinning like a fox, Ravelo waited for her, his knife ready. If the Princess Alusair were found murdered here in so-often-rebel Arabel, Cormyr would rouse to arms.
And in the wake of a royal killing, the kingdom should be so beset by confusion that the Brotherhood could covertly enact all manner of killings and thefts. If they spread the right rumors, to manipulate the citizenry effectively, they could quite possibly start a civil war.
His Zhentarim superiors would take the credit and claim all the rewards, of course, but one Ravelo Tarltarth, opportunistic low-ranking Zhent spy, should be able to steal loot in plenty for himself in all the tumult.
And all because he undertook the moment’s work of slitting the throat of one pampered fool of a girl.
Princess Alusair Nacacia darted into the alley, right past the crouching Ravelo. As he turned, rising and shaking off his weathercloak, he thumbed forth the magic token that had ridden for so long clipped to the inner face of his belt buckle, and slapped it to the cobbles. It winked, and utter silence fell.
The princess was already turning, having seen something moving in the darkness nigh her elbow. Her eyes widened in alarm, her mouth opened—and Ravelo, hefting his knife, grinned broadly. Silent screams summoned no aid.
His murderous intent was unmistakable. The young royal parried wildly, her sword long enough to drive aside his first thrust.
Ravelo chuckled. It was splendid steel, but too large and heavy for her slender arm, and she’d just entangled her cloak on it, dragging it down. Ah, but this killing would be easy.
Easy enough to enjoy a bit.…
He slashed at Alusair’s face, expecting her to shrink back, but she clenched her teeth and brought her sword arm up sharply, swirling cloak and all—so Ravelo showed her what a slaying-sharp knife could do, slicing through thick wool and sasheen lining as if they were but mist, slicing a neat, shallow cut in the royal sword arm.
Alusair shrieked soundlessly, her face going pale. She staggered back, hand falling open. Her cloak came off her shoulders and dragged her sword from her fingers—and she spun around and fled, cloak and sword falling together in her wake, dagger flashing in her other hand.
Ravelo sprang after her. It would be the work of a moment to pounce on the princess, a knee in her back to bear her down hard onto the cobbles, and slit her throat while she was still bouncing and wallowing to try to get her breath.
Yet she was, yes, running to a tall, ornate iron gate in the alley wall, a gate Ravelo knew. He slowed, his grin widening.
It was the back way into the mansion of the Delzuld noble family. Better and better. If her murder were blamed on the Delzulds—and how could it not be, if she were found sprawled in her blood in the Delzuld grounds?—given their nigh-certain reaction, and those of their allies, it would mean civil war.
Panting soundlessly in the spell-silence, Alusair shook the gate. It was locked, and she clawed her way up it in a frenzy, slipping twice or thrice on the wet iron.
At the top she slipped again, risking impalement on the row of spikes that crowned the gate.
Ravelo strolled to just below her kicking feet and waited. If she did die on the gate, he’d climb up and leave his knife hilt-deep in her, but ’twould be better if—
Alusair sobbed in fear, staring blindly into the dark wet night, and when a hand reached down out of nowhere to take firm hold of hers, it seemed to her as if the Watching Gods themselves had reached down to deliver her from doom.
Chapter 6
WAYWARDS RETURN
In the end, all waywards return.
The trick is doing so alive.
Horvarr Hardcastle
Never A Highknight:
The Life of a Dragon Guard
published in the Year of the Bow
The blast plucked up Florin Falconhand in mid-dive and hurled him over the stableyard and the grand wall beyond. He tumbled helplessly through an endless instant of whistling wind—to a bouncing, bruisingly hard landing on the roof of the Delzuld gatehouse.
Skidding to a halt, he rolled over, fighting for breath. It was not a place he recognized, but seemed much safer than the stable roof and its plentiful supply of murderous swordsmen. He came weaving to his feet, still a little dazed and winded—only to stare down into the terrified, wide-eyed face of a young girl clawing her way up the gate with an alley skulker just below her.
She took his proffered hand, and Florin hauled her bodily up onto the roof, out of the way, and drew his dagger. His sword was deep in a Zhent’s gut, back on the stable roof—if there was a roof anymore.
As Florin brought his dagger up, her would-be slayer was already up the gate and—smashing the ranger off his feet, driving Florin down hard on his backside. As they skidded back along the roof, a needle-sharp dagger stabbed like an icicle into Florin’s shoulder.
He grunted in startled pain. The slayer clawed his way over Florin reaching his dagger for the girl’s throat, but she struck his blade aside with a knife of her own. Florin’s stabbed arm was useless, but he twisted under the man and slammed his other hand into the man’s throat. The slayer stiffened. Florin closed his fingers around that throat and squeezed, as hard as he could.
The deadly dagger came at him again, and Florin rolled desperately away, taking them both across the roof as the slayer’s knife waved wildly, the strangling man fighting for balance.
The knife swept down, and Florin shoved hard, flinging the man into a last roll over and then half-under him. The slayer ran out of rooftop, ending up scrabbling right on the edge, still clutching Florin.
Florin pulled his feet up to his chest and kicked out, thrusting the slayer upright, arms windmilling, and away.
The man’s foot came down awkwardly on the roof-edge, and he fell over backward, toppling right onto the gate-spikes, where he slumped, hanging helpless and dying, spikes thrusting up thr
ough his chest like red fangs.
Florin could see the man’s fate, illuminated in the light of lanterns bobbing nearer, below. Wincing, he rolled over, breathing hard, and made for the back of the roof, as far as he could get from the Purple Dragon patrol now stalking along the alley. His shoulder felt like his arm was dangling by shreds, about to fall off.
The lass shrank back a little as he crawled up to her, and no wonder; he must look fearsome, drenched in blood and dragging one arm, his face twisted in pain.
“Are you all right?” the ranger gasped, shifting so the shadow of his body shielded her face from the lanternlight. Behind and below, the gate rattled and Purple Dragons snapped terse words back and forth.
“I am, goodsir,” she murmured, frowning, “but you’re hurt.”
“Sorely, as they say,” Florin hissed, managing a crooked grin, “but I mustn’t be found here. I must get away somehow.”
The lass plucked a long pendant from around her neck, put it into his good hand, and whispered, “Break it with your fingers! Now!”
Florin looked at her wonderingly, and did so. A pale, tingling radiance washed over his fingers and ran up his arm, and he found himself gasping and shuddering in a rapture that washed all his pain away. He could feel his wound closing, the sliced muscles knitting together again …
When he could see again, Florin blinked, swallowed, and said, “Lady, you have my deepest thanks.” He was completely unhurt, healed as if he’d never been wounded. “Who are you?”
The lass gave him a rather superior smile—gods, she could not be more than thirteen or so!—drew herself up, and announced, “I am Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, Princess of Cormyr.”
From behind them both came curses of amazement, and then a more startled oath as the Purple Dragon at the top of the gate lost his footing in his astonishment and fell back among, or onto, his fellows.
Swords of Dragonfire Page 6