Beyond the door, he heard footsteps.
Tam leaped to his feet and hurried up to the next landing just in time to see one of the potjacks come through the door laden with chamberpots. The boy trundled down the stairs, and did not notice Tam catch the door just as it started to close and duck inside. He bent and rubbed his knee.
After this, he thought, catching his breath, I need to do a healing on that stlarning knee. It wouldn’t last long-it never did-but it would take the edge away, keep him flexible.
He peered down the hallway of the inn, remembering that night twenty-seven years ago, when he-an overeager silverstar-had stumbled on a representative of Netheril, rooming in an inn in Athkatla, and killed him. He was damned lucky-he knew it now and he knew it then. He was doubly lucky that when Viridi’s assassins had broken in and found him there-unsure of how to escape while covered in another man’s blood-they’d nabbed him and returned him to Viridi instead of leaving him to take the blame.
He’d come to in a lavish study, bound with bent knees and lying on a plush Amnian rug, a roaring fire behind him, and an enormous wooden desk in front of him. The dark-skinned woman behind the desk, her crinkled hair the color of tarnished silver, marked the balance of a pair of brass scales, made a note in her ledger, and said nothing as Tam pulled himself onto his knees.
“I find it interesting,” she said, “that what took two months of planning on my people’s part apparently took you an afternoon and a bottle’s worth of courage.”
Tam didn’t reply. “You bound my wounds,” he said.
“What did you think?” Viridi said. “That I’d leave you bleeding on my silk rug? Come now, priest.” A trickle of gold coins fell from her fist into the scale’s tray, bringing it nearer to level. “My people say you’re a mercenary as well. That’s an odd combination, Brother Nightingale.” She clucked her tongue and turned to face him. “A bit melodramatic for a cryptonym, don’t you think?”
“What do you want?” he asked. “Vengeance for your man?”
“Not my man. It so happens,” Viridi said, “that we’re on the same side.” She peered at the scales and wrote something. “More or less. I’ll take coin from a lot of people, but I don’t want Shade owing me any favors. But you,” she said thoughtfully, “we could owe each other quite a few favors, I think.”
For more than a decade, Tam had been her Shepherd, her cleric in the house-healing and resurrecting her spies-and her field agent among the faithful. And here and there, she put him on teams set against Shade. She kept his secrets and he kept hers, more loyal than he would have ever imagined, as a headstrong lad. For more than a decade, the Shepherd had been his purpose and his focus.
And then Viridi had died, and it all came unraveled.
He knew a handful of her agents who’d been killed for the mistake of seeking employment with Viridi’s prior clients. He knew half a dozen more who’d died because they ran afoul of her prior targets. And one who died to save Viridi, the agent known to her only as the Shepherd, and his dearest secret. And he hadn’t been able to stop any of it.
The Harpers needed a Viridi. Several Viridis, he thought, coming to the merchant’s chambers. People who could keep things together and running smoothly, who could gather the sort of patrons that made field work possible and the sort of agents that made it sensible. He listened for a moment, then slipped the lockpicks into the keyhole.
But the Fisher was right-it was a different world. Even if there had been spymasters on every corner, there were a thousand other, smaller organizations ready to claim them. He picked the lock more smoothly this time and eased the door open without leaving any of the pick behind.
The room wasn’t empty. The locked chest that held the page and stone sat on a table pushed against one wall, and a woman-a guard, by her look-leaned against the table. Dressed in leather armor with her dark hair bound loosely off her neck, she seemed far more interested in the book she held open in one hand than the fact that she was being robbed.
She looked up, her dark eyes momentarily surprised, and Tam felt as if the world had shifted to one side and left him behind as the one secret he kept above all others lay bare to the world.
“Good evening,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Da.”
“Mira?” He stepped into the room and closed the door. It was still his daughter standing there in front of the chest. Still his little girl, armed and armored and bristling. “What … Why aren’t you in Baldur’s Gate?” he asked dumbly.
“My employer wouldn’t appreciate that,” she said. “And it’s lovely to see you, too.”
He shook his head. “I … Apologies, Mira. I just didn’t expect … Well, you understand. How could I expect?” His only daughter regarded him coolly.
Selune and her tears, why was he always startled to see she wasn’t eight years old anymore? He crossed the room and pulled his daughter into a stiff embrace. “It’s lovely to see you. What are you doing in Waterdeep?”
“Guarding Master Chansom’s treasures,” she said, stepping back. “From you, apparently.”
He chuckled. “Yes. Well. It’s rather complicated.”
“Try me,” she said.
“I need what’s in that chest.”
She smiled. “You and half of Waterdeep.”
“Half of Waterdeep isn’t your father,” he said, and her smile faltered. She folded her arms across her chest like a barrier.
“What?” she said. “Are you planning to have Mother restrict my sweets if I don’t stand aside?”
“Mira, that’s not what I meant,” he chided. “Listen to me. If you knew what you were guarding-”
“I know what I’m guarding.”
“No. That writing isn’t Draconic,” he said. “It’s-”
“It’s Loross,” she interrupted. “It’s Silver Age, well older than Chansom thinks it is. Chansom bought both from a farmer in the Silver Marches who found the page wrapped up in the bottom of a trunk his great-grandfather carted home after adventuring-he retired after his comrades didn’t make it back. Judging by the stone type, I’d say he found it somewhere in the Nether Mountains, and I’d wager well it wasn’t all he found. I know it’s speaking. Chansom doesn’t, and none of the wizards who want to buy the thing have mentioned it to him, but I’m pretty sure they’ve heard it. too. I know both pieces claim to be the property of ‘Tarchamus,’ the same name as an arcanist of Netheril who disappeared two thousand years ago, so far as anyone knows. It’s not a map to a hoard. In fact I’m willing to bet no dragon has come within leagues of these things.” She looked away, as if the outburst of knowledge embarrassed her. “So, yes,” she added. “I do know what I’m guarding.”
Ah, Lady, he thought, what a terrible time to have this argument. She’d always had a head for history, an eye for details, and he ought to have remembered that. She’d gone off to Baldur’s Gate when she was seventeen to apprentice to antiquarians hunting in the Werewoods for ruins. By now, she likely knew far better than he did what was a Netherese artifact and what was a forgery.
“My apologies,” Tam said after a moment. “I suppose, I’d forgotten-”
“How long have you been in Waterdeep?” she interrupted.
“A few days,” he said. The window rattled against its latch-Tam’s attention jumped to it. Just a breeze, he thought. Pay attention to her.
“I didn’t know to look for you,” he said. “Or that you were working as a guard. What happened to your studies?”
Mira’s mouth quirked in a sad, little smile. “There’s little enough coin in ancient history,” she said. “At least this way I can eat while I examine other people’s artifacts.”
Tam wanted to speak, to tell her this was not the life she wanted-trust him, he knew. “What does your mother think of all this?” he asked, rubbing his aching eyes. The window latch clattered with the breeze, tapping out an alarm he forced himself to ignore.
Mira shrugged. “She doesn’t much mind. Sends letters regularly. I’m to visit for …” Mira narrowed her eyes at the door. The soft click of a lockpick against a loose tumbler.