“On me, lad,” he said as the young noble turned his head back to the table. Dauneth hadn’t even managed to open his mouth to protest that it was his turn, even past his turn, to pay for things, when the merchant asked, “Did anyone see you? Should I expect Purple Dragons to come in here hunting young Marliirs?”
Dauneth shook his head.
“Did you have to show your scroll to anyone?”
Dauneth shook his head again, then frowned, set down his glass, and reached into the open front of his shirt, and fumbled with the wooden toggle that held his safe pouch closed. When he drew it forth, the scroll was only a little crumpled at one end. He stared at it curiously, turning it a little in his fingers. “I wonder what it says,” he said slowly under his breath.
“So open it,” the merchant urged, sipping warm wine.
“Oh, but Emthrara-” he started to protest.
“Gave it to you to let every hairy-nosed guard who might ask your business have a read,” the merchant put in. “So…?”
Dauneth looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then, as if of their own accord, his fingers went to the ribbon that bound it, slid it along without untying Emthrara’s knot, and let the parchment loosen of itself. Then, in sudden impatience at himself, the young noble spread the scroll out on a dry area of tabletop and read it.
There were only a few lines, in a fine, flowing hand:
“The bearer of this note is Dauneth Marliir, of noble blood and on a mission of the greatest importance to the crown. If he would see Cormyr’s future as bright as winter stars above the Stonelands, he will meet the azure-masked one in the Snout Room of the Roving Dragon at the lighting of the evening candles. Let him pass, in the name of Alusair.” Underneath that was a little mark, or personal rune, that looked like a three-petaled red flower, or perhaps a stylized crown.
Dauneth looked up at Rhauligan. “Here! Read!” He thrust the parchment across the table. The merchant read it, let his brows rise for a moment and then fall again, rolled it up carefully, replaced its ribbon, then handed it back. “Well, now, that’s handy, lad… ‘twon’t be all that long now till they light ‘em.”
The young noble sputtered. “Yes, but-but Emthrara gave me this! How did she know I’d be here? And now?” His eyes narrowed. “You told her!”
“By the gods, lad,” the merchant protested, “you’re beginning to see conspiracies behind every pillar in Suzail! Drink up and think awhile, things always go better when your thoughts go ahead of your tongue… if you take my meaning.”
Dauneth frowned. “But who does she work for? Is this truly from Princess Alusair?”
The merchant poured himself more wine. “Lad, living high is the art of finding out answers to questions like that without ever asking anyone else… d’you see?”
Dauneth sighed. “That’s right,” he said, picking up his own glass, “go all wise and graybearded on me.”
The merchant shrugged. “You had to have a woman show you how to get into the palace. I know of more than a dozen secret ways into that place, and I’m no war wizard nor courtier, O young wet-nosed conspiracy sniffer!”
Dauneth glared at Rhauligan for a moment, then slowly grinned. “All right, sir merchant. Your sword finds the gap.” He sipped firedrake wine and then frowned again. “More than a dozen?”
Whatever answer the merchant might have made was lost forever in the sudden appearance of the waitress, who leaned over their table-making Dauneth swallow, and try not to stare-to light the candles that were descending on fine chain from the ceiling. She shook her taper to extinguish it and turned to smile at the young nobleman.
Just for an instant, an azure mask seemed to cover her apple-cheeked features, and she said, in a voice not her own, “The corner back booth at Urgan’s Best Boots, as soon as you can get there.” Then her face seemed to waver and was bare again, and she gave Dauneth a wink and glided away.
Dauneth blinked. “Did you hear?”
“Spellcraft for sure,” the merchant said, draining his glass and pointing at Dauneth’s own. “You’ll be needing a guide there. Come on!”
Evening was when most shops in Suzail rolled down their shutters, set their door bars, and blew out their lamps, but down this short and apparently nameless side street, Urgan’s Best Boots still showed a light over its door. Rhauligan clapped Dauneth on the shoulder and said, “I’m off, lad. Try not to get into too much trouble.”
Dauneth nodded, replied, “You, too!” and, taking a deep breath, put one hand on his sword hilt and the other on the door handle.
He cast a last look around before entering. Rhauligan had already vanished, as if swallowed up by magic. The street was deserted. The young noble frowned, shrugged, and went in.
Urgan seemed to have vanished, too. The shop was lit but deserted. Dauneth looked around suspiciously, spotted the curtained changing booths, and headed for them, almost trembling with excitement.
He parted the curtain of the corner booth cautiously, using the hilt of his scabbarded sword. Inside stood a woman in a blue gown, her back to him. One of her legs was planted on a stool, and she seemed to be in the process of disrobing.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” Dauneth muttered. The woman turned her head as swiftly as a striking snake. Emerald eyes gleamed out at him, her other features obscured by an azure mask.
“What for? Your swiftness is commendable,” was the calm reply as the woman turned to face him and let fall her gown, to reveal breeches and a tunic of the same sea-blue hue. “If you are Dauneth Marliir, I am very interested in working with you.”
“I-have the good fortune to be Dauneth Marliir, good lady,” Dauneth said, bowing low. He cast a look behind him as he rose, but the shop was still bare of Purple Dragons or anyone else. “And you are-?”
“A friend of the crown,” the masked woman replied smoothly. Her voice was not Emthrara’s, but it had a similar husky tone. The masked woman plucked up her gown from the floor and hung it on a wall hook. “I know you went to the palace earlier today. Will you accompany me there again?”
“Lady, I will,” Dauneth said without hesitation. This didn’t look like Princess Alusair, either, but then he had never seen her all that closely.
The woman seemed to know his thoughts. “I am not of royal blood,” she said, “but I am loyal to the crown. Are you?”
Dauneth met those green eyes steadily and replied, “Lady, I am. I am prepared to swear by whatever you choose, if you will it so.”
“I want nothing so dramatic. A man’s word is enough if it is the right man.”
Her words made the scion of House Marliir feel good indeed. He grasped the hilt of his sword hard, smiling in pride that lasted only for an instant. The masked woman moved a table aside as if it were made of paper, rolled back the edge of a rug with her foot, and put two fingers into a hole in the floor. She pulled, and a square of wooden flooring rose. A trapdoor common to such shops, usually used for storage.
“Follow me,” she directed simply and slid into the dark opening. Dauneth did so, finding stone steps leading down into a small room that smelled of old leather. He had a brief glimpse of shelves and shelves of boots in the radiance that suddenly bloomed into life in the palm of the woman’s hand. She was a mage!
Emerald eyes met his, and then, without a word, the woman strode away into the darkness. Dauneth followed hastily along a narrow, stone-floored tunnel. Such a tunnel was not usually common for such shops, and this one smelled of earth and nearby cesspits. The tunnel went on for a long, long time before it met with a second passage. Dauneth and the masked woman turned left, took a few paces, and then turned right again and went on. The walk was even longer this time, ending in a few worn steps that led up before they emerged in a room full of dusty cobwebs and boxes.
The masked mage turned to Dauneth, her radiance dimmed by the simple method of pressing her palm against the base of her neck. “Keep close to me and be very quiet,” she murmured. “We’re in the under-court cellars, beneath the Noble Court.”