Jhessail wrinkled her nose and blinked into many wet reflections of lamplight. “It stinks, ” she murmured, looking around her at her fellow Swords, who were crowded together in an alleyway, peering in all directions and looking just as lost as she was. “Where are we?”
The alley reeked of rotting refuse and chamberpots. The lamplight was coming from a cobbled street the alley opened out into, a street walled in by tall, narrow stone buildings on all sides, where wagons were rumbling through the night.
Folk were trudging purposefully everywhere, close-cloaked against the light rain, and Pennae was flattened against the alley wall, beside its mouth, gesturing frantically to her fellow Swords to get over to the wall beside her and quiet down.
Looking right down the alley and across the street beyond, Jhessail found herself gazing into the hard stares of a trio of Purple Dragons, who were nodding together as they watched the Swords, suspicion written large on their tight lips, narrowed eyes, and set jaws.
As she watched, they seemed to reach some sort of agreement. One hurried off, his boots splashing through puddles. The other two stayed right where they were, glaring at the Swords.
Doust stepped away from the wall, Semoor inevitably trailing by his elbow, and strode right out of the alley, ignoring Pennae’s hissed warnings.
The Swords all watched, Agannor starting to grin openly, as the two priestlings marched right across the street to the two Purple Dragons.
Giving those still in the alley a stern ‘stay here’ hand signal, Islif started after Doust and Semoor, sheathing her blade. Then she changed her mind and spun around to stop her fellow Swords from spilling across the street. Pennae ducked past her, but the rest crowded forward, leaning over Islif’s outstretched arms to best hear what befell, but making no move to win past her.
They found the street busy in both directions with stopped wagons involved in the busy loading and unloading of crates, coffers, and kegs to and from various shops.
Across that cobbled way, the holiest of the Swords reached the unsmiling soldiers.
“Well met, this fair even,” Doust said with a bright smile. “We’ve just been brought here by the favor of the goddess Tymora-”
“Ahem,” Semoor interrupted, “and the magical might of the bright Morninglord Lathander.”
“-and though we know full well by your very presence, stalwarts, that we stand yet in Cormyr, we are sadly unaware of what city this is. Ah, around us. Here.”
The flat stares of the Purple Dragons had been burning holes in the smiling priestlings during their approach, and went right on doing so in the silence Doust gave them, in which to reply. Neither Dragon said a word.
Smile wavering, Doust tried again. “We all of us find our surroundings unfamiliar, and would very much like to know where we are. So, could you tell us? Please?”
“You’re drunk, that’s what you are,” the tall Purple Dragon growled.
“Or playing us for fools,” the other said. “Get gone with you!”
“I… could you at least tell me where the local temple of Tymora is?”
“If you’re truly favored of Tymora, just start walking,” the first Dragon sneered, “an’ you’ll be sure to find it, hey?”
“This,” Semoor said, “is less than good.” He put a hand on Doust’s arm. “Fellow priest, we should tarry no more talking with these impostors. We can tell Azoun of them, and he’ll see that they’re rooted out. Or rather, Vangey’s pet war wizards will.”
The Dragons blinked at him. Then their eyes narrowed.
“Impostors?” the tall one snarled.
“Speaking slightingly of the king?” the shorter, stouter one growled. Their hands went to their sword hilts in unison, and they seemed to loom forward over the two Swords.
“Just why,” the tall Dragon asked Semoor, jaw jutting angrily, “d’you call us ‘impostors’? Hey?”
Semoor spread his hands, looking earnest and eagerly helpful. “Look you, sir, no true Purple Dragon would answer a citizen of Cormyr so-and even less, a priest of Lathander. Still less, two priests, both of whom personally stand in the high regard of the king.”
He shrugged, almost mournfully. “Wherefore I can only conclude that you’re impostors. Or, just perhaps, high-ranking, veteran Dragons, playing a game of words to flush out enemies of the state, who have merely mistaken us for such.”
The two Dragons looked at each other, their faces sagging a bit.
“Oh, great, ” the stout Dragon said sourly.
The tall Dragon looked at Doust, then at Semoor, before he asked the priest of Lathander reluctantly, “So you’re friends of the king? Is that it?”
“The king himself poured me wine-at his table-less than a tenday ago,” Semoor replied truthfully.
“Naed,” The tall Dragon muttered. “Pray accept our apologies, holy lords. When we saw you come through yon way, we were sure you must be Zhents, an’ were treating you accordingly.”
“Zhents? The dark wizards of Zhentil Keep?” Doust managed to look shocked. “They use, uh, ‘yon way’ often enough that you keep watch over it?”
“Lord, they do. That’s why we’re standing here, in the rain an’ alclass="underline" to keep watch down that alley. Where all your friends are.” The tall Dragon squinted. “Any wizards among ’em, anyhail?”
“Yes,” Doust said reluctantly-at the same moment as Semoor said, “No.”
The Dragons frowned in unison, patting their sword hilts, before the stout Dragon said with heavy sarcasm, “So, now, which is it? Have you mages among you-or not?”
Doust put his foot down hard on Semoor’s instep, and said firmly, “We have two young lasses among us who have just learned to cast their first spells. To me, that makes them mages. Obviously, to my fellow servant of the divine here, it does not. Look you at the one with flame-orange hair? And the dark-haired one standing beside her? Those are the two we’re speaking of. Look they like sinister Zhent wizards to you?”
The stout Dragon’s smile, as he shook his head, was almost a leer.
The tall Dragon, however, was frowning. “I’m more concerned with the one in black,” he said-then blinked. “Hoy! Where’d she go?”
Semoor leaned close. “Shush! She’s a highknight, and doesn’t take it kindly if any of us so much as looks at her sidewise. If you go hollering after her, there’s no telling what she’ll do!”
“And if you lay a hand on her,” Doust added, “there’s no telling what the king will do. Seeing as how he likes to be the only one who-ahem-lays hands on her.”
“Arntarmar!” The tall Dragon hissed feelingly.
Wincing, the stout Dragon nodded, growling, “Talandor!”
Oaths of Tempus. As might be expected of Purple Dragons.
“So, men of the Wargod and of the Great Dragon who rules this land so gloriously,” Semoor asked, his face and voice perfectly serious, “what city is this?”
Both men blinked at him. “Arabel,” Tall Dragon said. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Semoor could not resist saying, pique clear in his voice.
The stout Dragon’s face started to darken, and Doust hastily spoke up. “You’ve been most helpful to us, stalwarts of the king, and we shall remember you in our prayers this night, to Tymora-”
“And Lathander!” Semoor put in.
“-after we report to the Lady Lord of Arabel, as Az-as the king asked us to,” Doust concluded grandly. He turned back to face the alley and pointed at what was just visible over the roofs of the buildings there, flickering in the rain-filled night as sodden banners flapped half-heartedly: storm lanterns atop the battlements of tall, frowning fortress towers. “Yonder is the citadel, yes?”
The Dragons both nodded, and the tall Dragon pointed and spoke: “An’ the palace where you’ll find her stands just in front of it. The temple you seek, the Lady’s House, is the second building north of the citadel, going along the west wall. Looks like a grand house, all cone-shingled turrets, five balconies high.”
“Well met and better parted,” Doust said, bowing his head to them with folded hands. “The Luck of the Lady be upon you, and shine back from you to please the Lord of Battles himself.”