Thornhold h-16 Page 4

  A few moments passed as he read and translated the coded message. His visage hardened. "Malchior is a strife-leader, commander of the war-priests in the Zhentish keep known as Darkhold," he para~ihrased grimly. "Damn! Bronwyn has done business with suspect characters before, but this is beyond the pale."

  "Malchior cannot have that necklace," Khelben said firmly. "You must stop the sale and bring the stones to me."

  The bard's eyebrows rose, and his gaze slid over the severely-clad archmage. Khelben's only ornaments were the silver threads in his black hair, and the distinctive streak of white in the middle of his neatly trimmed beard. "Since when did you develop a passion for fine antique jewelry?" Danilo asked in a dry tone.

  "Think, boy! Even in its humblest form, amber is more than a pretty stone-it is a natural conduit for the Weave. This amber came from Anauroch, from trees that died suddenly and violently. Imagine the power required to transform the ancient Myconid Forest into desert wasteland. If even a trace of that magic lingers in the amber, in any form that can be tapped and focused, that necklace has enormous magical potential. It can also gather and transfer magical energy-" Khelben broke off, looking faintly startled, as if, Dan noted, he was suddenly considering that thought in a new light. The archmage rose and resumed his pacing. "Apparently we shall have to keep a closer watch on Malchior and his ambitions."

  "In our copious spare time," Danilo murmured. He lifted one brow. "Here's a happy thought. When you say 'we,' perhaps you are employing the royal 'we,' and excluding your humble nephew and henchman?"

  Khelben almost smiled. "Keep thinking in that manner," he said. "They say that dreams are healthy."

  "Uncle, may I be frank?"

  This time, the archmage looked genuinely amused. "Why stop on my account?"

  "I am concerned about Bronwyn. Stop frowning so- nothing is out of the ordinary. All has been done as you requested. I have arranged to have her watched and protected. I have quietly fostered her shop as the right place to acquire gems and oddities, ensured that her acquisitions are seen on those who mold the whims of fashion, made certain that she receives social invitations likely to build her reputation and her client list. In short, I have kept her busy, happy, and here in Waterdeep.

  "But may I be damned as a lich if I know why, and damned thrice over if I am proud of my part in the manipulation of a friend and a fellow Harper!"

  "Consider it 'management,' then," Khelben answered, "if the other word displeases you."

  Danilo shrugged. "A goblin by any other name is just as green."

  "What a charming bromide. Is that the sort of thing you're teaching in the bard school?"

  "Uncle, I will not be distracted."

  The archmage threw up his hands. "Fine. Then I, too, will be blunt. Your words display far more naivete than I would have expected from you. Of course the Harpers must be managed. The decisions an agent must make are often too important, too far-reaching, to leave entirely in one person's hands."

  "Unless, of course, that person is yourself."

  Khelben stopped his pacing and turned slowly, exuding in condensed form the wrath and power of a dragon rampant. "Have a care how you speak." he said in a low, thrumming voice. "There are limits to what I will endure, even from you."

  Danilo held his ground, though he better understood the true scope of Khelben's power than did most who stood in awe of the great archmage. "If I offended, I beg pardon, but I only speak the truth as I see it."

  "A dangerous habit," Khelben grumbled, but he subsided and turned away. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out a window-a window that shifted position randomly, and that was never visible from the outside of the tower. The current vista, Dan noted, was especially impressive: the luxury of Castle Ward, crowned by the majestic sweep of Mount Waterdeep. A trio of griffons from the aerie at the mountain's summit rose into the sky, their tiny forms silhouetted against sunset clouds of brilliant rose and amethyst. Danilo watched them circle and take off on their appointed patrol as he waited for the archmage to speak.

  "You have no doubt wondered why we keep such close watch on Bronwyn, a young Harper whose missions mostly entail carrying messages."

  "No doubt," Danilo said dryly. He folded his arms and stretched his long legs out before him. "What was your first portent of this? The many times I demanded to know why I was made a mastiff to herd this particular sheep?"

  "Sarcasm ill becomes you," Khelben pointed out. "You would not be so flippant if you understood Malchior's possible interest in Bronwyn."

  "Then tell me." Dan traced a rune over his heart, in the manner of one schoolboy making a pledge to another. "I shall be the very soul of discretion."

  The archmage's smile was bleak and fleeting. "I have never found you to be anything less, but you must accept that this is a tale best untold. I would like to keep it so. Go now, and get that necklace before it falls into Malchior's hands."

  "Bronwyn values her reputation for making and keeping deals. She will not thank me for interfering."

  "She need not know of your involvement. It would be better so. But if that is not possible, use whatever means needed to separate her from the necklace."

  "Easily said," Dan remarked as he headed for the door.

  Khelben lifted a skeptical brow. "Timid words, from a man whose first contribution to the Harper cause was his ability to separate women from their secrets."

  The young Harper stiffened, then turned. "I will do as you say, Uncle, but not in the manner you imply. I resent this assignment, and I deeply resent your assault on my character."

  "Can you deny the truth in my words?"

  Dan's smile was tight and rueful. "Of course not. Why do you think I resent them?"

  Steam filled the room and Bronwyn, who had had time after returning to the city to clean up, dress up, and take certain precautions, squinted into the mist. As her eyes adjusted, she noted the gray-bearded man lounging in the vast bath, his fleshy pink arms spread along the rim. His black eyes swept appreciatively over her. "You are prompt, as well as beautiful," he said in courteous tones. "I trust you have the necklace?"

  Bronwyn closed the door behind her and settled down in a cushioned chair. "I would not risk carrying it with me, for fear of being waylaid. My assistant expects to send it by courier."

  "Just as he anticipates your imminent return, no doubt," the man said dryly.

  She responded with a demure smile. "Such precautions are needed, my lord Malchior, as my experience has proved many times over." Especially when dealing with the Zhentarim in general, and priests of Cyric in particular, she noted silently. Noting his scrutiny, she spread her hands in a self-deprecating gesture. "But I will not bore you with my little stories."

  "On the contrary, I am sure I would find them most entertaining."

  There was a soft tap on the door. "Another time, perhaps," Bronwyn murmured as she rose to answer it. She accepted a pile of fresh linen towels from the maid, closed and locked the door firmly behind her. From the center of the pile she took a small box roughly fashioned from unpolished wood.

  Bronwyn set the box down on a small table and lifted the lid carefully, so as not to get splinters in her fingers. The priest eyed the homely box with distaste. His eyes rounded, however, when she spilled out the contents-several exotic smoking pipes already filled and tamped with a fragrant and highly illegal form of pipeweed. She did not miss the sudden light in his eyes as he regarded them. She did not come blind into this encounter and knew more about this man and his habits than she liked to contemplate.

  "Forgive me if this offends you, my lord," she said, careful to keep any hint of irony from her face and voice. "This was a feint, just in case the lad who smuggled this box into the festhall was set upen by thieves, who would expect to find either valuables or some type of contraband. A thief would likely take the pipes and discard so rude a box, not suspecting that the box has a false bottom."

  She deftly pried it loose and lifted the necklace from its hiding place
. She stooped and held it out to the priest, who took it with eager hands. He closed his eyes and smoothed the amber beads over his forehead. An expression of near-ecstasy suffused his plump face. As his eyes opened and settled on her, Bronwyn suppressed a shiver. Despite the man's high rank and considerable personal wealth, his eyes held a degree of greed and cunning that marked him as kin to the worst duergar scum. Bronwyn suspected that his reasons for purchasing the amber had little to do with furthering the good of humankind.

  "You have done well," he murmured at length. "These are more than I had expected. It is said that amber holds the memory of magic. Perhaps your touch, your beauty, has added to their value."

  His words sent a crawling sensation skittering over her skin, but Bronwyn forced herself to smile graciously. "You are too kind."

  "Not at all. Now, let us proceed to the matter of payment. You wished information in addition to gold. Why don't you join me? It would be more congenial to talk together in comfort."

  Bronwyn deftly unclasped her belt, then stepped out of her shoes. With a quick, fluid motion, she pulled the dress over her head, and turned to drape it over the chair.

  She turned back to the bath, catching the priest in an unguarded moment. His eyes were fixed on the curves of her hip, and narrowed in lewd speculation. Bronwyn set her jaw and stepped into the water. Public bathing was a part of life in Waterdeep, as in most civilized cities. She did not see it as a prelude to further intimacy, but there were those who did.

  "This is much more pleasant," Malchior said. "Perhaps when our business is concluded, we might enjoy the other amenities this fine festhall has to offer."

  Such as the adjoining bedchamber, Bronwyn supposed. "Perhaps," she said pleasantly, though now that she had met the man, she would rather kiss a water snake-at fifty fathoms.

  "What can you tell me of the Sea Ghost?" she asked, naming the ship that had forever changed her life.

  Malchior's plump shoulders rose in a shrug. "Little. The ship was indeed a Zhentish vessel, but it disappeared some twenty years ago. Given the pirate activity in the area, it was assumed that the ship was attacked, looted, and scuttled."

  Bronwyn knew that already, and all too well. 'Was there any attempt to trace the cargo?"

  "Of course. A few weapons were recovered, and a few bits of jewelry, but most of the cargo disappeared into the markets of Amn."

  He continued to talk, but his words melted into the remembered haze of sound and smells and sensations: terror, captivity humiliation, pain. Oh yes, Bronw~n remembered the markets of Amn. The cacophony of voices that she could not yet understand, the prodding hands, the sudden knell of the falling gavel that announced a slave sold, a fate sealed.

  "I'm afraid I can tell you little more. Perhaps if you told me more about the precise piece you are seeking?"

  Malchior's words seeped into her nightmare, drawing her back into the present. Her eyes focused on his greedy face, the cunning knowledge that whatever she sought was worth more to her than the priceless amber necklace. She managed a wry smile. "Surely you don't expect me to answer that. Can you tell me about the origin of the cargo? The ship's owner, her captain? Even the name of a crewman? Anything you know, even details that may seem insignificant, might prove helpful."

  The priest leaned forward. "My voice begins to fail, with all this shouting back and forth across this lake. Come closer, and we will talk more."

  The bath was big, but not that big. Bronwyn rose and moved closer to the priest, taking care to stay beyond reach of those pudgy hands.

  But he made no attempt to reach for her. "I must admit, your interest in this old matter intrigues me," Malchior said. "Tell me what you know about Sea Ghost and her cargo, and perhaps I can be of more help."

  "I don't know much more than I told you," Bronwyn said honestly. "It was a long time ago, and the trail has long since gone cold."

  "And I would doubt that your own memory extends back so far," he commented. "The ship was sunk more than twenty years ago. You were perhaps four years old?"

  "About that," she answered. In truth, she wasn't sure of her exact age. She remembered very little: most of her early memories were swallowed up in terror. Before she could capture it, a bleak sigh escaped her.

  Malchior nodded, his eyes shrewd in his round face. "Forgive me if this seems over-bold, but I could not help but notice your interesting tattoo. It looks a bit like a crimson oak leaf Perhaps you are a follower of Silvanus?"

  Her first impulse was to laugh at this notion. Silvanus, the Oak Father, was a god revered by many druids, and she was most assuredly not of that faith. But it occurred to her that Cyric, Malchior's god, was exceedingly jealous of any sign of fealty to another power.

  "I was once rather… fond of a certain young woodsman," she said lightly. "And he, in turn, was fond of oak leaves. So…" She let the word trail off and shrugged. Let him assume from that what he would. The birthmark on her backside was no one's business but her own.

  "Is that so?" Malchior leaned forward. "I have great sympathy for a man's desire to leave his mark on you. In time, perhaps you could be persuaded to wear mine. Take her!" he called out.

  Bronwyn's eyes widened, then darted to the door. The first hard kick resounded through the room, straining the bolt she'd carefully put in place.

  She was out of the tub with a single leap and then dashed for the window. The splashing behind her-barely audible over the continued pounding at the door-announced Malchior's pursuit.

  He moved fast, especially for a fat man. The priest seized her from behind, one fleshy arm around her waist and another flung around her throat. He was strong, too. Bronwyn wriggled like a hooked trout, but could not break free.

  "Hurry; you fools!" he shouted out. "I can't hold her forever!"

  Bronwyn thrust a hand into her hair and yanked out the stiletto she had hidden in the thick coils. The weapon was designed for precise, careful attack, but there was no time. She stabbed back over her shoulder and met yielding flesh. But the narrow knife did not strike hard or deep. Malchior yelped and tightened his grip. Again she struck, this time punching into the bones of his hands. She tore at the blade, then lashed out a third time.

  Finally he released her-just as the door burst open in an explosion of wood. Bronwyn darted a quick look over her shoulder. Three men charged into the steamy room. There was little time for escape, but fury prompted her to turn back to the priest, and slash the point of the tiny blade across his sagging jowls.

  Then she was gone, racing for the window. She flung aside the drapes and kicked open the wooden shutters. The latch gave, and she plunged out the window to the street below.

  Time stood still as Bronwyn fell. An instant, no more, before she struck the quilted awning that her assistant had stretched between this building and the next, two floors down from the room that housed the private bath. She bounced slightly, then felt about for the tunic that was supposed to have been left there. She found it, quickly pulled it over her head, then rolled to the edge of the awning. She lowered herself down and dropped to the street, then took off at a run for the safety of her shop.

  To her immense relief-and her surprise-she was not pursued. Perhaps Malchior decided not to take the risk. After all, Zhentish priests could hardly afford to advertise their presence, even in a city as tolerant as Waterdeep. He had the necklace, and at a ridiculously low price. No doubt he considered the bargain well made.

  But why then had he called his men? The attack made no sense. She had already received payment, soit was no attempt to defraud her. Perhaps he had learned that she was a Harper. That would be reason enough for him to kill her. But his words indicated that he planned to keep her, not kill her. Did he have ambitions of turning her, making her into a hidden agent of the Zhentarim?

  Bronwyn pondered this as she wove back through the city, following a complex path that took her through alleys and into the back room of a pipeweed shop whose owner was friendly to Harpers and their small intrigues. She emerged from
the shop shod in the slippers she'd left there, her tunic decently covered by a linen kirtle and her wet hair hanging in a single braid. Thus attired, she could walk without notice through the elegant market area, just another tradeswoman on some errand for her household, or a servant indulging the whim of a mistress.

  Finally she turned onto the Street of Silks, marveling again at her good fortune to have secured a lease on a shop in this posh district. Convenient to the Market and the wealthy Sea Ward, the street was a long, broad avenue of shops and taverns that catered to Waterdeep's wealthy. Only the finest merchandise and the most skilled craftsmen found a place on this street. The shops reflected this status. Tall buildings, constructed of good timber and wattle-and-daub, or even fine stone masonry; were decked with carved and painted wooden signs, bright banners, and even small beds of flowers. The street lamps glowed brightly, casting a golden light upon the elegantly dressed people who strolled the cobbled paths. Minstrels were plentiful, and as Bronwyn walked down the street, the music shifted around her in a pleasant kaleidoscope of sound. The dinner hour was long past, and most of the shops had closed, but in Waterdeep there were diversions to be had at all hours. Taverns and festhalls stayed open until breakfast. Lavish private parties and smaller, clandestine celebrations kept many of the more privileged citizens happily occupied until daylight. Those who earned their living with hard labor and skilled crafts were more likely to sleep and rise with the sun. Bronwyn heartily wished that she were one of them.

  She was not surprised to see that the lights in her shop were still burning. She unlocked the door and stepped into the warm, appealing jumble of curiosities and treasures. Her assistant, a white-haired, rosy-cheeked gnome woman who went by the name Alice Tinker was studying an emerald ring through a jeweler's glass. She looked up when Bronwyn entered, not bothering to lower the glass. The result-one normal gnomish eye, one magnified to a size more fitting to a blue-eyed beholder-set Bronwyn back on her heels.

  Alice laughed merrily and set down the glass. "Busy day we had, eh?"