“Yes, ladies, the time has come at last!”
She let them cheer and wave their glasses, then added, “As you know, I have schemed against the Crown of Cormyr for years, seeking to free our fair realm from the decadent, lust-brained Obarskyrs and the sinister war wizards who have made the foolish Obarskyrs their toadies-mages who truly rule the land without having the slightest right to do so. Since I recruited you, those I’ve been working with have covertly tested all of you, several times-”
There were stiffenings of alarm and looks of dismay, which Jalassa smilingly waved away.
“Fear not, ladies; none of you have been found wanting. My superiors have gone so far as to promise me that I and all of you shall be given positions of importance in the governance of Cormyr after the Obarskyrs and the wizards who own them are gone. Provided, that is, that we carry out certain tasks.”
“Tasks?”
Three faces were thrust forward, eyes blazing into hers.
Jalassa smiled thinly. “It is work of a certain… delicacy, that I know-for your tongues have told me so, repeatedly, in our gossip together-we are all suited for. And in doing it, we will do much to free Cormyr!”
“Yes?” Lady Greenmantle blurted out, unable to wait longer.
Jalassa examined her freshly painted nails, then addressed her remarks to them. “Most war wizards are men-and all men can be seduced, one way or another.”
“Yes?” It was Lady Yellander’s turn, this time, and the delight in her voice made it clear she’d guessed just what was coming.
Jalassa’s smile broadened. “We shall each contrive to be alone with a certain senior war wizard. These men have been chosen because they are suitable, and because they are known to favor older women of sophistication and power. We shall bring about ‘accidents’ that befall them in private. Harming their heads is best. Topples down stairs or over battlements, being underneath falling statues… that sort of thing. To maim or preferably slay-but ’tis vital that no magic nor any overtly hostile acts on our part be involved, so if our unfortunate old war wizards happen to survive, they won’t suspect we meant them any ill.”
Jalassa knew her fellow conspirators. Bored, jaded, and spiteful, they erupted not with scandalized fury or misgivings, but with savagely eager glee.
Even Lady Muscalian had nothing sneering or belittling to say. What she did was lick her wrinkled lips and hiss, “Who and when?”
Even Jalassa knew not that the ward-necklaces were shields against all but one watching wizard.
To that smiling watcher, they were eyes and ears.
It was why he was smiling, despite the annoying singings clashing and ringing around him: the collective din of the strongest ward-spells he knew how to craft, which were now cloaking the meeting in the Turret Room of Greenmantle Hall far better than the necklaces alone could.
The noblewomen could not help but be caught, of course, and removed. That had become desirable. It was past time to be rid of them and their meddlings. He’d been careful that no link even the brightest mage might follow stretched from him to Jalassa Crownsilver. So he was safe.
The four would probably fail, in the main. Yet any harm they managed was helpful. Their targets were the very war wizards who by inclination or active investigation stood closest to uncovering this watching wizard, whether they knew it or not.
Ah, such spite, ladies. You are the perfect dupes.
As he toyed with his favorite ring, tracing the smooth curves of its unicorn head, the watching wizard’s smile grew.
It shone even brighter a breath or two later, when Jalassa so precisely relayed the task he’d given her to her fellow lady traitors.
Precisely, that is, save for one small omission. Somehow Jalassa Crownsilver neglected to tell her eager audience that her mysterious superiors based in Westgate-for so Jalassa believed “them” to be, never knowing who she was truly dealing with-had promised her two thousand rubies, all of them larger than her thumb, if she successfully carried out all of the killings.
But then, perhaps Lady Crownsilver was smarter than he’d judged her to be. Perhaps she knew the rubies did not exist, or that neither she nor her three conspirators would live long enough to collect them.
Perhaps she even thought the paltry magic items she’d so carefully collected down the years would safely whisk her away to a far country, to dwell out her days under another name, safe from any vengeful spell that could reach out to her from Cormyr.
Now, that would be amusing.
There was nowhere in Rhalseer’s to hide coins. Every second floorboard could be easily pulled up-they were riddled with dry rot-and every lodger knew it. The ceilings were hardly better, and trying to make holes in the walls was more likely to bring the place down on an energetic thief’s head than craft a hiding place.
Now that it was full dark and Dragons on the battlements of the citadel and along the city wall couldn’t notice her at a casual glance, Pennae was up on the crumbling slate-shingled roofs of Palaceside Arabel, seeking to lash her precious bundle in the right sort of angle between chimneys, and cover it with the bird dropping-infested remnants of old birds’ nests she carried in the small sack at her belt.
She found just what she wanted on the roof of Hundar’s Fine Carpets, Perfumes, and Lanterns, and was able to secure and disguise her riches in a few hard-breathing moments. The rumblings of four passing slate-carts even raised enough echoing racket to cloak any small noises she made.
Then she stretched, catlike-it had been a long day-and crept to the edge of the roof to peer down. Her friends should be strolling out of the Barrel about now… yes, there they were, Florin turning to say something to Islif as they spilled out into the street… probably something about having a thief among the Swords who left early to do dark-work…
Then Pennae saw something more.
Something that had her tense and alert in an instant.
A gently sloping half-roof ran along the front of Hundar’s, a floor below her perch, and a man in smoky gray hostler’s leathers was lying full-length on it, cradling something in his hand that few hostlers would have carried casually at their belts: a handbow. Four more of the little hand crossbows-all cocked and loaded-were laid ready on the roof, arranged in an arc in front of the man’s hands. The man looked vaguely familiar… Ah: because he’d come into the Barrel earlier, for a lone drink at the bar, and had looked across the taproom at the Swords.
An assassin. Who was even now raising his bow, steadying the arm that held it with his other hand, taking aim Pennae had the knife that lived in her sleeve in her hand and was dropping heels-first over the edge of her roof, body angling back so she’d slump against Hundar’s uppermost windows and shove the hired slayer out toward a fall over the edge, rather than taking that tumble herself.
He’d have a backup-must look-find Indar Crauldreth heard something, twisted his head to look up, holding fire-and Florin Falconhand lived a little longer without a crossbow bolt buried fletchings-deep in his face. Indar’s neck was twisted when both of Pennae’s boots, with all her weight behind them, came crashing down on it.
The assassin bounced, writhing spasmodically and sending a crossbow bolt cracking away into the night, in the general direction of the rear of Ongluth’s Ropeworks. As Indar, his neck and throat crushed, made a sort of wet spewing sound, Pennae landed hard on her behind, grunting at the pain. The last despairing, unthinking thing Indar did was to try to get away, to spring…
Into oblivion. Over the edge, plummeting to the cobbles below. With Pennae’s left boot caught somewhere in his clothing, dragging her Pennae made a desperate, twisting lunge, and managed to pluck one of the handbows into her grasp as she went over the edge.