She tied a bit of thin, sturdy cord to the handle of a crate stacked overhead, then wriggled the crate forward a bit so that its position was less than secure. Then she took a place behind a nearby stack of crates and waited for the duergar to emerge. The way she figured it, the rental on his ale would expire shortly, and not even the filthy deep dwarves would permit him to end his lease in the cellar dining hall.
Sure enough, before long she heard the creak of heavy iron boots on the rickety ladder. When the duergar passed her, intent upon reaching the alley door, Bronwyn sprang. She reached over his shoulder, seized his beard, and jerked it up and back, then laid her knife to his bared throat. With her free hand, she began to loop the end of the cord onto his belt.
"That necklace you sold me," she whispered. "Where did you get it?"
The duergar started to wriggle, then thought the better of it. "Not telling," he mumbled. "Not part of the deal."
"I'm adding it on, as payment for damages. Who sold it to you? "She gave the knife an encouraging little twitch to speed his answer.
"A human," the duergar said grudgingly. "Short beard, big grin. Runs to fat. Wears purple."
The picture was forming clearly enough in Bronwyn's mind, but she wanted to be sure. "Does this human have a name?"
"Calls himself Malchior. Now turn me loose, and go bother him. I got things to do," the duergar complained.
Bronwyn lowered her knife. She gave the duergar a kick that sent him sprawling-and that brought the crate and several below it tumbling down on him. She turned and fled. Before the other duergar could so much as investigate, she had put two alleys and a shop between them.
As she made her way back to Curious Past, two conclusions tumbled through Bronwyn's mind. First was the irrefutable fact that Malchior had set her up for no reason that she could fathom. And second was her growing conviction that the duergar had given her this information far too easily.
Early morning sunshine poured in through windows of fine leaded glass. An impeccably dressed servant unobtrusively placed a breakfast tray on a nearby table. Dag inhaled, enjoying the complex scent of sausage pasties, fresh-baked bread, and even a pot of the Maztican coffee that was becoming so popular in the decadent southern lands.
"Will that be all, my lord?"
Dag Zoreth paused in the act of surveying his new domain and glanced at the elegant, dark-clad man who'd addressed him. Emerson was a gentleman's gentleman: a polished, accomplished, and supremely capable servant who could probably run a small kingdom with great success and aplomb. The manservant was precisely the sort of amenity to which Dag intended to become accustomed.
"One thing more, Emerson. Sir Gareth Cormaeril will be calling this morning. He expects to meet with Malchior. Do not disabuse him of this notion. In fact, should he pose any questions at all, evade them."
The manservant did not so much as blink at this odd litany. "Shall I announce him, sir, or send him in directly?"
Dag's lips thinned in a semblance of a smile. "By all means, send him in at once. This meeting is more than twenty years overdue."
Emerson responded with an admirable lack of curiosity and a quick, perfect bow. After the manservant had shut the elaborately carved door behind him, Dag settled down in a deeply cushioned chair and took a moment to let the sheer luxury of the room flow over him.
Intricately patterned carpets from Calimport, many-paned windows accented with colored glass and framed with draperies of Shou silk, furniture carved from rare woods and softened with tapestry-covered pillows, shelf after shelf of beautifully bound books. The fireplace was tiled with lapis, and the chandelier that lit the room with scores of extravagant beeswax candles had the sheen of elven silver. Not a single item in the room was less than superlative, and nearly all were in shades of rich blue and deep crimson-the most difficult colors to achieve, and the most expensive.
This was the library of the Osterim guest villa, a small but lavish manor that was part of the Rassalanter Hamlet in the countryside east of Waterdeep. A complex of manors, cottages, and stables, it was maintained by a wealthy merchant for his use and that of his guests. This was widely known. It was less known that Yamid Osterim was a captain of the Zhentarim. His impeccable credentials as a merchant gave him access to secrets and trade routes; his cunning allowed him to pass along much of this information in such manner that never once had a hint of suspicion touched him.
Malchior, Dag's mentor and immediate superior, had enjoyed access to Osterim's hospitality for many years. That privilege he had passed on to Dag, along with the services of the inestimable Emerson-and the control of Malchior's paladin.
In preparation for Sir Gareth's visit, Dag had added his own unique touch to the room's decor. The hearth blazed with magical fire-strange, unholy black and purple flames that cast an eerie purple light and sent macabre shadows dancing across the carpeted floor. It amused Dag to flaunt the colors and the power of Cyric, in unspoken mockery of Sir Gareth's ability to bear such proximity to evil.
The door opened and a tall, well-made man in vigorous late life stepped into the room, helmet tucked respectfully under his left arm and snowy hair smoothed into precise waves. His bright blue eyes widened in surprise when they fell upon a slight, dark young man instead of the substantial and falsely jovial priest he clearly anticipated.
"Welcome, Sir Gareth. It was good of you to come," Dag Zoreth said, inflecting the words with irony.
The knight's look of puzzlement deepened. "I had little choice in the matter, young sir. I was summoned."
Dag sighed and shook his head. "Paladins," he said with mild derision. "Always this need to state the obvious. Sit, please."
"I have no wish to intrude upon your leisure. My duty is with another. Only accept my apologies for this intrusion and I will leave you and seek him-"
"Malchior will not be attending," Dag broke in smoothly.
"He sends his regards and his desire that you see in me his replacement."
Sir Gareth hesitated. "I do not know you, young sir."
"Do you not? I have chosen the name Dag Zoreth, though you may well have heard me called by another. You knew my father extremely well, if the stories tell truth." Dag nodded at the older man's right arm, which hung withered and useless at his side. "You took that wound saving his life. Or so they say."
The color drained from the paladin's face, but still he stood as straight as a sentry.
"Oh, sit down before you fall," the priest said irritably.
Sir Gareth moved stiffly to the nearest chair and sank into it, his eyes riveted on Dag's face. "How is it possible?" he whispered. "Hronulf's son. This cannot be true."
"If you are looking for my father's likeness in me, do not bother," Dag said with a touch of asperity. "As I recall, we were never much alike. But perhaps this little trinket will convince you of my claim."
He lifted a silver chain from around his neck and handed it to Sir Gareth. The old knight hesitated when he glimpsed the medallion bearing the symbol of Cyric. He forgot his scruples, however, when he caught sight of the ring behind it. He took the chain and studied the ring carefully.
After a few moments Sir Gareth lifted his gaze to Dag's face. "You do not wear this ring," the paladin said. "I suspect that you cannot."