“And the rosy glow of Lathander also, that Holy Tempus be most richly pleased,” Semoor added glibly, turning away before the two Dragons could see him rolling his eyes.
Dodging rumbling carts, they returned to the alley, where Islif greeted them grimly, “Swagger not too proudly, you two. Remember that Dragon we saw hurrying off? He went to report to someone-probably his duty commander. And who stands beside every duty commander?”
“A war wizard to mind him,” Florin said. “So we’re being watched-unless we can ‘disappear’ very quickly.”
“So let’s move!” Agannor growled.
“Wait!” Florin snapped. “Where’s Pennae?”
“Here,” came her voice, from the shadows down the alley. “I like to see where alleys lead to-in case I have to hurry that way. This one takes us past a very well guarded warehouse, into the heart of this block and then out its far side, onto a street that in that direction leads to the local temple of Tymora. Oh, yes: this is Arabel.”
“We know,” Semoor said grandly. “Yon Purple Dragons told us.”
“Well,” Pennae observed in dry tones, “they do have orders to assist simpletons.”
“The Lady’s House,” Florin said. “Let’s get to it! I don’t want to be standing here a few breaths from now trying to bluff my way past a few sternly disapproving war wizards. They may well take the view that we’ve disobeyed the king’s commands just by coming here.”
“Well said,” Bey growled, shoving Semoor forward. “Hasten, hrast it!”
In a few breaths they were all trotting along the alley, heading away from the busy street and the two watching Purple Dragons. The warehouse was a gigantic, very new stone building bristling with hard-eyed armored men with loaded crossbows in their hands-Agannor shuddered involuntarily-and the Swords hurried past it, out onto a street of rich-looking shops. Under ornate awnings, all faced Arabel through fine glass windows, through which could be seen ornate lanterns, glittering wares, and smartly uniformed nightguards standing watchfully within.
Pennae led the Swords north, past shops selling fine silk gowns, masks, and gem-adorned boots, and several dazzling shops that contained only several guards each, standing amid all manner of gemstones that flashed and glimmered back reflections from the rain-soaked streets. The street soon ended in a moot with a wider, busier way, down which could be seen three grand, towering buildings.
The most distant, central one matched the Dragon’s description of the temple to Tymora-and reeling out of its tall, ornate double doors, as the Swords strode purposefully toward it, came a large man in robes and a weathercloak of rich blue: a priest of the luck goddess.
They could tell what he was by what bounced on his ample chest and belly at the end of a heavy neckchain: the largest silver coin they’d ever seen, as wide across as both of Florin’s hands, bearing the face of a smiling yet dignified Tymora, rendered in the old fashion.
The priest wearing it was somewhat younger. He looked to be an energetic forty summers old or so. Beneath unruly brown hair, his nose, jaws, and ears were all as overlarge as the coin; it looked as if the head of a giant rode human-sized shoulders. He also looked (flushed scarlet and drooling slightly), sounded (by his incoherently slurred bellows), and smelled (Jhessail winced at the reek of strong spiced wine, laced around the edges with spew) very drunk.
As tall as Florin, and long-limbed, he covered much of the cobbles as he came staggering, growling half-audible oaths and complaints through his scraggly mustache.
“Wors’ novice ever? Worst novice ever? I doan’ think so! Rabra-Rabbraha-Radrabryn was a killer an’ a thief, an’ I… I never killed anyone yet, a-purpose, at leas’…”
He caught sight of Doust’s homemade Ladycoin and drew himself up to fix the Swords with piercing brown eyes. “Pilgrims, be ye? Hey?”
“Well,” Doust began, “not exactly…”
“ Doan’ go in there! Fellow Ladysworn, stay away from the House this night! They’ve all gone crazed-crazed, I tell thee!”
“Crazed?”
“Crazed, or my name’s not R-Rathan Thentraver.” He hiccuped. “Which ’tis. So, they are. Y’see?”
“Ahh,” Semoor ventured, “you’re saying this isn’t the best time for us to visit the temple?”
“S’right. Not.” Rathan waggled a finger. “Go ’way. Come back ’morrow. Better then. Trus’ me.” Drawing his cloak around him, he lurched away.
Semoor smirked at Doust. “Well, if they all drink like that, you chose the right faith, of us two.”
Doust reddened. “I did not ‘choose’ the Lady,” he said. “She chose me. Appearing to me in my dreams, so strongly that… well…”
He waved his hand, as if to hurl away Semoor’s suggestion, and stared after the reeling priest. Beyond Rathan, he saw a Purple Dragon patrol approaching briskly out of the night, a robed and hooded man marching grimly in their midst. “ Look you,” he said warningly.
“Another patrol yonder,” Pennae added, nodding down a different street. She peered in all directions, then pointed. “An inn! Hurry! ”
“ ‘The Weary Knight’?” Agannor read aloud. “Lass, ’tis right across the street from the citadel-which is also the city jail! Are you trying to save the Dragons trouble?”
“In the back door, fast,” she snapped, “and straight through, out the front. The moment I open that door and start talking to guards, no one act anxious or in a hurry. I’ll be haughty, and will likely tell some very large lies, hear you?”
Semoor rolled his eyes. “Now why does that not surprise me?”
“Purple Dragons everywhere,” Jhessail murmured as they ran. “Doesn’t this city have a watch?”
Bey laughed. “Lass, Arabel’s rebelled so often that the Dragons are the watch, these days! Just as the Blue Dragons serve in Marsember, the other city that’s none too happy to be ruled by the Dragon Throne!”
Then they were at the inn’s back door. Pennae whirled, snatched Florin’s sword out of its sheath, and held it up solemnly before her, blade vertical. Assuming a stern look, she opened the door.
Two startled nightguards shoved themselves away from where they’d been lounging against the walls, grabbing for their weapons.
Pennae ignored them, both hands holding the sword out before her as she strode between them with slow, stately tread.
“Hoy!” one guard told her, skipping sideways to get in front of her so he could bar her way with his arm. “Hold!”
“Hold what?” Semoor inquired innocently.
“Sirrah, make way,” Pennae told the man. “We are pilgrims of Tempus, the Drawn Sword.”
“You’re what? ” the other guard asked. “Well, you can’t all just come charging in here, after dark! This is-”
“One of Arabel’s best inns, I’ve heard,” Pennae said, “which is why we chose it. Make way, lest holy displeasure fall upon the Weary Knight! Make way! ”
Uncertainly, the two guards did so. “Uh, the steward of the house can be found straight down this hall, in the front-”
“Thank you,” Pennae called back in firm dismissal, pacing on in a stately manner, her sword held high.
Florin matched her gait, and so did Islif; the other Swords saw and did likewise.
Behind them all, the two nightguards traded looks, shrugged, and rolled their eyes. Truly, the strange-in-the-head guests came thick and fast, this time of year…
At the sound of the chime, Narantha Crownsilver put down her goblet of warmed zzar, rose, retied the sash of her gown, and went to the door.
It opened onto a smiling face.
“Uncle Lorneth,” she said in genuine pleasure, stepping back to let him in. “Zzar?”
“My thanks for your thoughtfulness, Ladylass, but I fear not. I’ve much clear-headed work still ahead of me this night.”
“Work I can help with?” Narantha asked wistfully.
Her uncle hugged her. “Ahh, would that Cormyr had a dozen like you! You’re doing the Crown great service!”
Narantha grinned at him. “If I go on doing it well enough, will there come a time when I’ll truly be told what I’m doing? How it fits in with greater plans to confound the foes of Cormyr? Learn some deep secrets?”