Thornhold (36 page)

He nodded. “Your reasoning is sound. And you should be safe enough. With your permission, I’ll make certain that you are discretely followed and ainpiy protected.”

The years of unseen Harper eyes still rankled. “And if I did not give my permission?”

“Then I would respect your wishes,” he said. “Regretfully, but I would respect them.”

He spoke firmly, with not a hint of his usual lazy drawl. Bronwyn believed him. She smiled and turned to Cara. “Cara, what is your favorite color?”

The little girl looked up, startled by this question. “I don’t think I have one.”

“Well, if you could pick out any dress you liked, what color would it be?”

Feminine longing lit her eyes. “My foster mother wore purple but said I was not to,” she said. “She would not say why.”

Bronwyn had a suspicion concerning this, but she did not want to put words to it, not even in the silence of her own mind. “How about blue? Or yellow?”

Cara nodded, clearly willing to play the game. “Pink, like a sunset cloud.”

That struck a memory. Ellimir Oakstafi a seamstress whose shop was also on the Street of Silks, had a bolt of soft pink silk, a rare color that would be quickly seized by ladies looking for spring gowns. “Come on,” she said, extending a hand. “I know a lady who can make you a dress the color of clouds and just as soft. Let’s go and let her take your measure.”

Cara was on her feet in an instant. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Bronwyn answered. “And then we’ll go for tea and see all there is to see in the City of Splendors.”

Cara looked suddenly suspicious. “This is not just a game?”

Bronwyn laughed, but her eyes stung. At Cara’s age, she had had none of these experiences, either. She thought she knew what this would mean to the girl.

Bidding farewell to the Harper bard, Bronwyn kept her promise and bought Cara the pink gown and two more along with it. They had tea and sugared wine at Gounar’s Tavern, a glittering eatery in the heart of the Sea Ward. The taproom was brightly lit by dozens of magical globes, and mirrored glass tossed back the light to every corner, there to be captured by the cunningly faceted crystals and imitation gems that studded everything from plate to chairs.

As Bronwyn expected, Cara was enchanted by the display. Too excited to eat, she clutched her goblet of sugared wine and water—much more sugar than wine, and more water than either—and looked around with boundless curiosity. Her silence lasted until they left the tavern, then she exploded into questions, wanting to know about everything they passed.

Bronwyn shook her head as she followed Cara down the street, amazed at her own feelings. Every moment she spent with the child only made the prospect of giving her up more difficult. But this gift, this single day of adventure and lighthearted pleasure, this she could give.

Wanting to show Cara as much as possible, she hailed a carriage and bid the driver to show them the sights. They rode down along the sea wall, marveling at the vast and ornamental mansions, and the ninety-foot statue of a warrior that looked out impassively to sea. They drove past Aighairon’s Tower, and Cara shivered at the story of the long-ago wizard and the skeleton of the man who had tried to steal this power. She oohed over Piergeiron’s Palace, craned her neck to watch the griffin patrols pass. At the Plinth—the obelisk that served as a house of prayer for people of all faiths—she looked faintly puzzled.

“My foster parents prayed—so did my father—but they would not teach me or name a god I should pray to.”

Bronwyn’s suspicions regarding this mysterious faith deepened, as did her puzzlement as to why this Dag Zoreth seemed so determined to keep his daughter ignorant of his faith. “You’ll find the god or goddess who speaks to your heart,” she said softly.

“Who speaks to yours?”

Bronwyn considered this. She was not a religious person, but it occurred to her that there was only one answer. “Tymora,” she said. “The lady of luck. She bids you take a chance and make your own way.”

Cara pursed her lips. “That sounds good, but not quite right for me.”

“And that’s fine,” Bronwyn said, feeling slightly out of her element with this conversation. She had never given religion much consideratioii, but the longing in the child’s eyes for a god or goddess of her own convinced Bronwyn that it might be a matter worth pondering.

“Now let’s go to the South Ward,” she suggested. “The sun will be setting soon, and I believe there’s a full moon tonight.”

At such times, the Moon Sphere hung above a large courtyard. People could enter the huge, magic-rich globe and float or soar as they wished. Bronwyn could think of no wonder more likely to capture the child’s fancy, or no better ending to the day.

The dungeon of Waterdeep Castle was not the dank and fearful place that Algorind had expected. Granted, his prison was well underground—the watch had brought him down two flights of stairs—but the stone walls were smooth and dry, and torches sputtered in wall brackets placed every few paces. The cells were small, but clean and provided with the basic comforts: a straw mattress on a plank frame, a chamber pot, a washbasin, and a pitcher of water. He had been offered food the night before, and again this morning. In all, he could not complain, and he trusted in Tyr’s justice to see that his confinement would not be long.

Keeping his mind fixed on this thought, Algorind raised his voice in the traditional morning hymn. It was not, he supposed, the sort of thing one usually heard emanating from these particular halls of justice.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the halls, growing louder. Algorind’s face brightened when he caught sight of Sir Gareth, but he finished the last two lines of the hymn before speaking. “Thank you for coming, sir.”

“You sound surprised to see me,” the knight said curtly. “You are wiser than you appear if you suspect that I considered leaving you here. How did this thing come about?”

Algorind glanced at the prison guard. The older knight followed his thinking and affirmed it with a curt nod. Once the young paladin had been released, they walked in silence from the prison and did not speak until they were riding side by side back to the Halls of Justice.

“I saw the child,” Algorind finally said. “The child of Samular’s bloodline.”

The knight’s face turned so white that Algorind feared he would fall from his horse. “Here? In Waterdeep?”

“Yes, sir. I pursued her, thinking to bring her back to the temple. She eluded me, and the watch detained me.”

Sir Gareth sat in silence for several moments as he mulled this over. Finally he turned a stern face to Algorind. “Your failure to apprehend a small child is serious. It speaks of lack of skill or lack of will. Perhaps you allowed the girl to escape.”

Algorind was deeply shocked. “Sir!”

“Incompetence is a grave offense. You are certainly guilty of that,” the knight said coldly. “By all reports, you are well trained and able. Any future failure will be regarded as deliberate and as treason against the order. Do you understand?”

“No, sir,” Algorind said with complete honesty. In truth, the knight’s words baffled him.

“What part was unclear?”

“Well,” he began, “I am not certain how the girl came to be in the city at all.”

“You would do better to concern yourself with finding her,” the knight said in a severe tone. “And when you do, bring her to me at once. Not at the temple, though,” he added in a milder voice. “The other brothers need not hear of this single lapse. We will keep the matter between us. Obey me in this.”

“Yes, sir,” Algorind responded, but never had he found obedience so heavy a burden. If he had done wrong, then he should have the censure of his brothers. To seek to avoid it was impious. He had no wish to shrug off his burdens or cover his lacks, but he was sworn to obedience, and he must do as Sir Gareth bid him. Once his duty was clear and his choices simple. That was no longer the case.

Deeply troubled, the young man settled back into his saddle and pondered the fog-shrouded path ahead.

Once Malchior had polished off the last bite of raspberry tarts and drained the decanter of wine, he went on his way. Left alone in his rented room, Dag Zoreth prepared to summon the image of his paladin spy. Sir Gareth had once reported to Malchior. Perhaps he still did.

It took much longer for Gareth to respond this time. Despite his impatience with the delay, Dag was not entirely displeased. A prolonged summons could be immensely painful, and he was not averse to giving the fallen paladin some of the pain he had earned.

The face that finally appeared in the globe was pale as parchment and tightly drawn. “So good of you to come,” Dag said with heavy sarcasm. “I had an interesting visit from our mutual friend Malchior. Perhaps you have also spoken with him of late?”

“I have not, Lord Zoreth,” the knight said flatly.

Dag believed him. By now, he understood that Gareth cloaked his lies in elaborate self-deceiving half truths. Any statement put that baldly was likely simple truth.

‘What word on my sister and my daughter?”

“I have just met with a young paladin, the man who stole the girl from the farmer folk. His name is Algorind. The child got away from him. He was pursuing her through the city and was so mindful of the task before him that be did not notice he had drawn the attention of the city watch.” He paused. “You know how single-minded the followers of Tyr can be.”

“Indeed,” Dag agreed dryly.

“The young paladin is very earnest. He reminds me of your father, when he was of like age,” Sir Gareth mused.

Dag wondered, briefly, if the knight was deliberately trying to stir up his hatred of this Algorind. “And where is the girl now?”

“I do not know, She was seen near the Street of Silks, coming from the shop known as the Curious Past. This shop is owned by your sister. The paths of our quarry converge, which makes matters somewhat neater. I have sent this Algorind to redeem himself, with the instruction that he is to come only to me. When the child and the woman are in my hands, they are as good as yours. This I will do, without fail.”

“See that you do,” Dag said absently, then dismissed the enchantment.

The Street of Silks was not very far from the festhall where he rented a discrete room. Perhaps it was time to meet this long-lost sister of his.

Dag hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should discard his black and purple clothing for less distinctive garb. He decided against it. He had worn no other color nearly ten years. His lord Cyric might take umbrage with any change now.

The priest left the festhall and walked to the shop. He did not go directly, but took his time, moving from one shop to the next as if he had no thought but to consider the wares offered. He tried on a pair of boots in one small shop and in another spoke briefly with a comely half-elf girl who was busily stitching a small, pink gown.

He was impressed with the Curious Past. A fine building, two stories tall and stoutly constructed of timber frame filled with wattle-and-daub. The plaster was in good repair and freshly whitewashed. Small panes of good, nearly translucent glass graced the large window, and a tempting display of her unique merchandise—but not too tempting—was arranged on a table before the window. There were interesting touches everywhere. The banding on the wide-planked door was cunningly worked in a spiral, the symbol of time passing, but on several panes of glass was etched the pattern of an hourglass, tilted so that the flow of sand was arrested.

He lifted the door latch and walked in. A gnome woman came to greet him and to shoo away the raven that studied him with an intensity that bordered on recognition. Dag was not the least discomfited by this. He felt a certain affinity for the raven and the wolf, for these carrion-feeders benefited from strife. Indeed, some of the ancients believed that the ravens carried the souls of the dead into the afterlife. Dag’s god had once been the lord of the dead, and Dag had sent many souls to Cyric’s kingdom. In all, he had much in common with the shrew-eyed bird.

“How can I help you, sir?” the gnome asked, sliding an expert eye over him. Obviously marking his lack of interest in personal ornamentation, she ran through a likely litany; a set of goblets, a small statue, this carved chest, a scrying bowl?

“Nothing, please. I would like to speak with Bronwyn. I might have a commission for her.”

The gnome’s eyes cooled just a little. “She isn’t available, I’m afraid. Would you like to leave a name and word of where she can contact you?”

“I will return. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“After highsun,” the gnome said quickly. “That is the best time.”

He thanked her and left, not believing a word of it. Remembering the friendly half-elf seamstress—and reconsidering the possible importance of that small pink gown— he retraced his steps to the dress shop and struck up a conversation.

The woman was quickly charmed and soon was chatting easily. “Yes, spring is late to come this year. The markets are just starting to open, and folk from here and beyond coming into the city….”

“Quite an influx of paladins, I notice,” he said casually. “I rode past the Halls of Justice this morning. Such a racket they made, with their endless bashing away at each other.”

She made a face. “Let them keep at it, and leave the rest of us alone. One was around the other day.” She glanced down at the pink silk, which she had fisted in both hands. She smoothed out the wrinkles and seemed to reconsider saying more.

But Dag had already learned quite a bit. He leaned closer to the woman. “Perhaps you can help me. If I were to need a special gift for a lady, something different and rare, where should I go?”

“Oh, to Bronwyn’s shop, of course. The Curious Past.” Her face fell slightly. “You have a lady who requires a special gift?”

“My mother,” he lied smoothiy. The woman brightened again. So predictable, he noted with a touch of scorn. No wonder he found so little time to waste on women.

But this one had been useful. The half-elf knew his sister well. She was working on the little gown with quick, neat stitches, not even putting aside her work for their flirtation. She expected to deliver the dress soon. It would seem that the child would soon return, and Bronwyn as well.