Thornhold (7 page)

The silence stretched out for a long, tense moment. “The necklace has great magical value and must be properly safeguarded,” Khelben said.

Bronwyn struggled to hold her temper. Hadn’t the archmage heard a word? Or did such minor things matter nothing? After all, what regard does a dragon have for a mouse?

“I’ll keep it in my safe,” she said in a stiff tone. “Danilo can tell you what magical wards have been placed upon it.”

Her friend rose and placed one hand on her shoulder. “What price did the necklace command? I will see that Malchior is amply compensated. Although that will not fully satisfy him, it may serve to restore your honor in his eyes and your own. We owe you that.”

“And more.” She tipped back her head to glare at her friend. It was a relief, not having to hide her irritation. “You’ll have to forgive me if I prefer to collect at some later time.”

A faint smirk lifted one corner of the bard’s lips. “Lord Arunsun, I do believe we are being thrown out.”

Bronwyn glanced at the archmage. “I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you did,” Dan broke in smoothly. “And not without justification. Get some rest. The day’s … bargaining has taken a toll.” Before she could respond, the two men turned and left her chamber by the back stairs. Bronwyn sat staring after them, all thoughts of sleep vanished.

As the Harpers walked down the stairs, Khelben began to transform. His broad form compacted and lengthened into that of a lithe young man, and his clothing changed from somber black to shades of forest brown and green. The silver streaks disappeared from his hair and beard, and his face took on a faintly elven appearance.

Danilo had seen this so many times that he did not remark on it. The archmage seldom went about the city wearing his own face. In fact, neither man spoke at all until they had reached the alley behind Curious Past.

“What were you thinking, bringing the necklace to Bronwyn’s shop? Now she is aware that Harpers are watching her.”

“We took on that risk when we sent men to the festhall,” Danilo said bluntly. An alley cat streaked out from behind a crate, yowling as if in protest. No doubt their appearance had spoiled a long and patient stalking of some prey, likely a rat. Danilo was not fond of such, and he quickened his pace. “Bronwyn is no fool. Surely she realizes that she got away too easily and suspects that someone detained Malchior’s thugs.”

Khelben lengthened his stride and fell into pace. “And now, thanks to your misguided gesture, she knows without question. Given Malchior’s involvement, this has become a delicate situation.”

“Enlighten me.”

They emerged onto Selduth Street, which at this hour was bustling with tavern traffic, as well as the paid escorts and would-be suitors who gathered on nearby Jester’s Court. The lighting was dimmer here, in deference to ale-sodden heads and a desire for discrete dalliance. Khelben shot a quick look around to see if anyone was paying too close heed to their conversation, then started walking back west toward the Street of Silks. Even an archmage, Dan noted, instinctively sought the safety of a well-lit street.

“You have known Bronwyn for perhaps seven years. I have been searching for her for more than twenty. She is the daughter of a famed paladin—Hronulf of Tyr, who is of the bloodline of Samular Caradoon, the paladin who founded the order known as the knights of Samular. From your expression, I surmise that you recognize those names.”

“I have been schooled in history,” Danilo said, nimbly avoiding a drunken and weaving passerby. “Pray continue.”

“Then you also know that Hronulf’s family was thought to have been destroyed in a raid on his village more than twenty years ago. Hronulf believes that all his children were killed, but I had doubt on the matter and kept searching until my suspicions were confirmed. One child, now a man grown, is beyond my reach. But Bronwyn I can and must influence. She has no knowledge of her heritage, and there is ample reason to hope that she is never enlightened.”

Danilo stopped abruptly and caught the archmage’s arm.

“Am I to understand,” he said in a low and angry voice, “that for nearly seven years, you have known that two of Hronulf’s children live, and he does not?”

“Do not pass judgment on that which you do not understand,” Khelben cautioned. “You would do better to attend to the task at hand. We must learn who, if anyone, knows of Bronwyn’s secret—including Bronwyn herself. And that is where you come in.”

Khelben started walking, leaving Danilo standing with his jaw dropped and his mind churning with suspicion. Determined to find the truth of the matter, he trotted up to Khelben’s side and fell into step.

“Seven years ago, you sent me to Amn to recruit a likely agent, a woman not yet twenty years old. Bronwyn and I became friends.”

“So you said.”

“The report and recommendation of a potential Harper includes many things, including, I might add, whether or not a person has any identifying marks.” Danilo’s tone was tight, kindling with growing wrath. “And I reported Bronwyn’s birthmark. That was the identifying mark, was it not? The mark that confirmed that she was Hronulf’s daughter?”

“Yes. What of it?”

Danilo inhaled, his breath whistling through clenched teeth. “You sent me to Amn, intending for me to see and report this.”

“You were both young and unattached. It was reasonable to assume that nature would take its predicted course,” Khelben said. “And you are, I might add, predictable in this matter.”

The bard let out a low, furious oath. “I cannot believe this, not even from you. Is there no part of my life beyond the Harpers’ reach? And you! To thus manipulate those who put trust in you… this is beyond belief.”

“Calm yourself. That was long ago. No harm came of it. You even remained friends.”

“Friends, indeed!” he sputtered. “What kind of friend will Bronwyn think me when she learns that I used and betrayed her thus? Will she believe it was without intent or knowledge? Will she believe that I had no part in keeping her past, her family, secret from her?”

“Lower your voice.” Khelben glanced at a pair of interested passersby, and drew Danilo into a side street. “It is long past and a small matter. Let it go. This was not the first time you used charm and persuasion to learn a woman’s secrets. I doubt it will be the last.”

“Not the last?” Dan folded his arms and glared into Khelben’s borrowed face. “I have made certain personal commitments. Does that mean nothing?”

“You have a prior commitment to the Harpers,” Khelben pointed out, just as angry now as his nephew. But his anger was cold—to Danilo’s eyes, almost inhuman. “If your Arilyn cannot accept this, then she proves herself unworthy of her Harper pin, as well as your continued regard.”

Danilo considered himself an easygoing man, but this was treading where he allowed no man to walk. “I may have to hop back to my house as a frog,” he gritted out, “but by Mystra, it will be worth it.”

He fisted his hand and swung hard, connecting squarely with Khelben’s jaw.

The archmage stumbled back a few steps, startled by the first physical attack he had received in what was no doubt centuries. For just a moment, his magical disguise slipped. Danilo confronted not a strong young man with elven blood, but an aging wizard. So old did Khelben look, in fact, that Danilo’s heart thudded with mingled guilt and grief. It was one thing to deck a man wearing a magical disguise of his own apparent age, another entirely to look upon the dumbfounded face of the man who was in fact his own grandfather.

Then the moment passed and the powerful archmage of Waterdeep stood with his hand on his jaw, looking exactly as he always did: stern, powerful, and determined to have his way in this matter and all others.

Danilo turned and strode off, too full of fury and turmoil to care if retributive lightning was forthcoming.

All thoughts of sleep forgotten, Bronwyn quickly dressed herself in dark breeches and shirt, then slipped down her back stairs. She hailed a three-copper carriage on the street and gave the driver an address in the Dock Ward, the rough and dangerous part of town where sea met city. There was a warehouse just off Keel Alley that boasted a cavernous cellar. This was a favorite gathering place for denizens of the underground realms. When her duergar “friends” were in town, they invariably stayed there.

Bronwyn got to the warehouse without incident and crept into the building. The warehouse was vast, resembling a miniature city with narrow, wood-planked streets between structures formed by stacks of wooden crates and piles of sacks. It was fully as dangerous as the larger city beyond its walls. When Bronwyn saw a pair of luminous eyes, narrowed in challenge and hunkered low to the floor, she instinctively reached for her knife. A low, angry growl curled through the dusty air toward her. Bronwyn recognized the sound and relaxed. It was only a scrawny cat, such as many warehouse owners kept to limit the number of rats. The unearthly glow of the cat’s eyes was merely reflected light from a crack high on the wall and the street lamp beyond.

She made her way through the maze of barrels and crates to the back corner of the warehouse. There stood a large, squat keg. She flipped open the knothole and squinted inside.

There was no floor beneath the barrel, just a ladder that led down into the cellar. A small, smoky fire burned in a stone hearth, and the haunch of rothe spitted over it sizzled and spat. The light of the fire fell upon several gray faces. Bronwyn counted five duergar, including the two she had dealt with earlier that day. The young duergar was not with them, but his elders did not seem to mourn his loss overmuch. The silent duergar sat contentedly munching a hunk of half-cooked rothe, while the leader played dice with the others and argued in a low, angry voice. The huge, empty ale mug at his elbow suggested Bronwyn’s next course of action.

She tied a bit of thin, sturdy cord to the handle of a crate stacked overhead, then wriggled the crate forward a bit so that its position was less than secure. Then she took a place behind a nearby stack of crates and waited for the duergar to emerge. The way she figured it, the rental on his ale would expire shortly, and not even the filthy deep dwarves would permit him to end his lease in the cellar dining hall.

Sure enough, before long she heard the creak of heavy iron boots on the rickety ladder. When the duergar passed her, intent upon reaching the alley door, Bronwyn sprang. She reached over his shoulder, seized his beard, and jerked it up and back, then laid her knife to his bared throat. With her free hand, she began to loop the end of the cord onto his belt.

“That necklace you sold me,” she whispered. “Where did you get it?”

The duergar started to wriggle, then thought the better of it. “Not telling,” he mumbled. “Not part of the deal.”

“I’m adding it on, as payment for damages. Who sold it to you? “She gave the knife an encouraging little twitch to speed his answer.

“A human,” the duergar said grudgingly. “Short beard, big grin. Runs to fat. Wears purple.”

The picture was forming clearly enough in Bronwyn’s mind, but she wanted to be sure. “Does this human have a name?”

“Calls himself Malchior. Now turn me loose, and go bother him. I got things to do,” the duergar complained.

Bronwyn lowered her knife. She gave the duergar a kick that sent him sprawling—and that brought the crate and several below it tumbling down on him. She turned and fled. Before the other duergar could so much as investigate, she had put two alleys and a shop between them.

As she made her way back to Curious Past, two conclusions tumbled through Bronwyn’s mind. First was the irrefutable fact that Malchior had set her up for no reason that she could fathom. And second was her growing conviction that the duergar had given her this information far too easily.

Early morning sunshine poured in through windows of fine leaded glass. An impeccably dressed servant unobtrusively placed a breakfast tray on a nearby table. Dag inhaled, enjoying the complex scent of sausage pasties, fresh-baked bread, and even a pot of the Maztican coffee that was becoming so popular in the decadent southern lands.

“Will that be all, my lord?”

Dag Zoreth paused in the act of surveying his new domain and glanced at the elegant, dark-clad man who’d addressed him. Emerson was a gentleman’s gentleman: a polished, accomplished, and supremely capable servant who could probably run a small kingdom with great success and aplomb. The manservant was precisely the sort of amenity to which Dag intended to become accustomed.

“One thing more, Emerson. Sir Gareth Cormaeril will be calling this morning. He expects to meet with Malchior. Do not disabuse him of this notion. In fact, should he pose any questions at all, evade them.”

The manservant did not so much as blink at this odd litany. “Shall I announce him, sir, or send him in directly?”

Dag’s lips thinned in a semblance of a smile. “By all means, send him in at once. This meeting is more than twenty years overdue.”

Emerson responded with an admirable lack of curiosity and a quick, perfect bow. After the manservant had shut the elaborately carved door behind him, Dag settled down in a deeply cushioned chair and took a moment to let the sheer luxury of the room flow over him.

Intricately patterned carpets from Calimport, many-paned windows accented with colored glass and framed with draperies of Shou silk, furniture carved from rare woods and softened with tapestry-covered pillows, shelf after shelf of beautifully bound books. The fireplace was tiled with lapis, and the chandelier that lit the room with scores of extravagant beeswax candles had the sheen of elven silver. Not a single item in the room was less than superlative, and nearly all were in shades of rich blue and deep crimson—the most difficult colors to achieve, and the most expensive.

This was the library of the Osterim guest villa, a small but lavish manor that was part of the Rassalanter Hamlet in the countryside east of Waterdeep. A complex of manors, cottages, and stables, it was maintained by a wealthy merchant for his use and that of his guests. This was widely known. It was less known that Yamid Osterim was a captain of the Zhentarim. His impeccable credentials as a merchant gave him access to secrets and trade routes; his cunning allowed him to pass along much of this information in such manner that never once had a hint of suspicion touched him.