“Oh?” Pennae asked, casually flipping up her dethma to reveal a rope of coins bound around her ribs. She tapped a tricrown, amid a long row of golden lions. Florin, who was trying to look away and failing, leaned forward to peer at it in spite of himself.
“Aye,” Pennae said dryly, “a tricrown. Never seen one before?”
Florin flushed and quickly looked away. “No,” he said shortly. “Never. But those coins right there are enough to get us back to Eve-”
“No,” the thief told him. “Unless,” she added slyly, “you think you can seize them from me.”
Florin looked back at her, scarlet to the tips of his ears, and mumbled, “You know I’ll not try any such thing. I-”
Pennae put her thumbs under the coin-rope, and thrust it toward him. “Take a good look, lad, before you start flapping your jaws abou-”
The door opened, to reveal Doust and Semoor. Their faces lit up.
“Well, now, valiant hero of the Battle of Hunter’s Hollow,” Semoor said, “it seems we arrived just in time to share in whatever Ladylass Durshavin’s offering! Share now, there’s a good lad!”
Still proffering her treasures in her cupped hands, Pennae smiled at Florin. “And then, of course, there’s the pleasant prospect of traveling all the way back to Eveningstar with Master Cleverjaws, Bright Servant of Lathander, here.”
She put her dethma back in place, took up her sewing again, and left Florin staring at her… then at the two priestlings… then back at her.
Doust took pity on him. “We’re here,” he explained, “to tell Pennae we loaned Vaerivval the gold, just as you suggested. He tried to offer us a coach as surety, rather th-”
“You didn’t take it?” Pennae asked.
“Nay, nay, sit easy, lass,” Semoor told her. “We have the deed to his share of the Touch, right here, to be surrendered only upon payment of our gold and another gold piece every tenday, or, ahem, ‘remaining part thereof.’ See? I can follow directions surprisingly well for a holy man.”
“Good dog,” Pennae said. “Be sure to give the deed to Islif, to put in her codpiece, the moment she’s back.”
“Her-? Give it to Islif why, exactly? ’Twas my gold, for the greatest part, and-”
“Oh, stop blustering, Semoor. Vaerivval saw you take the deed into your hand and put it into your pouch, did he not?”
“Uh, yes…”
“So he knows where to have the young snatchfingers he’ll undoubtedly hire retrieve it from. Wherefore ’tis time for you to carry this in your pouch instead. Only this, mind; give your coins to Doust to carry.”
“This” proved to be a folded scrap of rather dirty parchment with a snatch of someone’s woodcutting accounts on one side, and a sentence in Pennae’s hand on the other: “Don’t expect to keep our gold this way, Vaerivval.”
Slowly, Semoor started to chuckle. Doust nodded and smiled-and so did Florin, when the note was shown to him.
“You’re a witch,” he said to Pennae almost fondly, watching her finish sewing and bite off the thread. “You have us all dancing to your tune.”
She gave him a wink. “You mean to say I’m a minstrel, lad. Drinks are my treat at the Barrel tonight. Oh, and expect this minstrel’s thefts to grow bolder. Mere shady investments with lone shopkeepers won’t bring us enough coin-and we dare not deal with larger schemers.”
“The Black Barrel, then, at dusk?” Semoor asked.
Pennae nodded. “Don’t be sneaking out to the cheese shop, Master Wolftooth. You’ve got just time to get our forester here out the south gate and back in again before they close it.”
“What? Why would we rush to do that? ”
“To show him a tree, of course.”
Chapter 20
Guard yourselves well, all, for the vipers are out, and their fangs want blood.
The Lady Jalassa Crownsilver,” the aging steward announced with precise dignity, ushering the last of the three noble guests into the Turret Room.
Lady Amdranna Greenmantle inclined her head to him imperiously. “My thanks, Thaerond. You may now withdraw from the North Tower and wait in the entryhall until we ring for your presence. No one is to enter the tower-or the hall itself, for that matter, until I say otherwise.”
“ Very good, my lady,” the steward replied, bowing low and backing out of the room. They heard him close the doors, and the doors of the passage in the distance beyond.
“Is he reliable?” Lady Muscalian asked.
“Completely.” Lady Greenmantle handed her a decanter and a tallglass. “I let him pleasure me once, and he hungers to do so again. Fulfillments of special orders I reward with special favors.”
“He looks about sevent-” Lady Yellander started to say, then blushed and went silent as Lady Muscalian gave her a glare as chill as the winter winds.
Imruae Muscalian had seen somewhat more than eighty winters, and had no hair left to call her own. Her long lustrous black mane outshone Rharaundra Yellander’s own, but was said to owe more to the manes of certain palfreys than the scalps of servants. Most noble matrons of Waterdeep had a wig or two, if only to thrill their husbands on rare nights with memories of long ago moonlit adventures with other women, but “Old Shrew” Muscalian was the only person Jalassa Crownsilver knew who owned-and always wore-a wig-mask.
It was a thing crafted in Sembia by locksmiths and wizards, a metal band that screwed tightly to Imruae Muscalian’s skull. That was unusual enough, but it did more than bore into the head of its wearer: its fore-edge was adorned with a row of little claws that pulled the wrinkled skin of her face tight before all the powder was dusted on by her three hard-working maids. Some said Imruae Muscalian’s shrewishness was due to years of the barbed cut-and-thrust of Suzailan high society; others said it was rooted in the everpresent headache her wig-mask gave her. Whatever the cause, stooped, birdlike, sharp-boned Lady Muscalian seldom engaged in converse without making dry, nasty comments.
By contrast, Lady Rharaundra Yellander had seen perhaps forty winters, and was tall, jet-haired, statuesque, and briskly cutting-tongued when she wasn’t being loftily urbane.
Their hostess, Lady Amdranna Greenmantle, seemed altogether more approachable. She was a shorter, plumper honey-blonde of lush charms, sleek wit, and warm, welcoming beauty.
All three women were looking to Jalassa for guidance.
She gave it to them, as briskly as was her wont.
“Your house wizard?”
Lady Greenmantle smiled. “Safely on the way to Marsember, riding alongside my husband. To ensure that House Greenmantle does nothing too stupid-or treasonous-in our dealings with fleet owners.”
“You should have bought your own boats, long ago-” Lady Yellander began.
“Ships, dear. They’re called ships. ” Lady Muscalian was as peevish as ever. “And we can talk about them another time. Jalassa’s here and by the look in her eye, ’tis time to thrust hard into the vitals of the Crown of Cormyr at last! ”
“ Hush, Imruae,” Jalassa hissed. “Until you all put on these necklaces, my warding protects only me from war wizard spying!”
“Oh, but Jalassa, we’re all wearing ward-baubles-the best that coins can buy! Really, I-”
“Mine, I’m certain of. Yours could be anything, sold to you by any trickster-even Vangerdahast himself, in a spell-spun disguise! And even good wards can clash with each other, leaving gaps a war wizard can find from afar. Take yours off, throw them on yonder couch, and put these on!”
Three hands reached eagerly for the plain silvery chains she held forth. Jalassa watched a ring on her hand. When its changing glow showed her all of the wards were linked and working, she smiled, took up the decanter and tallglass Amdranna had put in front of her, and leaned forward.