Algorind rose, too full of joy for words, and bowed deeply to the Master. He left the study to attend to his quest, certain that nothing could exceed the glory of this moment.
Sir Gareth followed him and hailed him to a stop. The famed paladin offered Algorind his hand, clasped wrists with him as if Algorind was already a fellow knight. Nor did he leave the matter there. They walked together, and Sir Gareth offered him guidance and advice, instructing him on what steps must be taken once the child was rescued.
Such fellowship was more honor than Algorind had ever dreamed of. He listened carefully, storing each detail in his carefully trained memory. By the time Algorind's gear was packed and his white horse readied, Sir Gareth pronounced him ready.
"You will bring honor to the order, my son," the great man assured him with a kind smile. "Remember the knightly virtues: courage, honor, justice. To these, I add another: discretion. This is a subtle matter. It is important that you tell no man what you do. Will you so swear?"
Nearly giddy with excitement and hero worship and holy fervor, Algorind dropped to one knee before the paladin. "In this matter and all others, Sir Gareth, I will do as you command."
It took Bronwyn nearly two days to track down Malehior. First, she had to find and question the Harper agents who had carried out Danilo's bidding and kept Malchior's men from following her. That was no small task, for secrecy was a habit deeply ingrained among the Harpers, and many were reticent to share secrets even among their own. Fortunately, one of Danilo's henchmen, Nimble, was a halfling with bardic pretensions. The ditty he composed of the event-his own role dramatically enhanced, naturally- made the rounds of the taverns and meeting places frequented by the short folk. Alice Tinker had heard the song on her evening out, and had brought the tale-along with the loudly protesting haifling-back to Bronwyn.
Nimble's tale, when shorn of ornamentation, was of little real help. The priest had disappeared, leaving only a puff of acrid purple smoke. Bronwyn searched the city, calling in every marker she had for information, as well as indebting herself so deeply that the favors she owed, if placed end to end, would keep her busily employed until snowfall. But finally, her efforts bore fruit and led her to an elf who possessed deep resources and an exceedingly dark reputation.
"You owe me," the elf said unnecessarily as he handed her a roll of parchment.
Bronwyn grimaced as she took the parchment, imagining the sort of payment that this particular contact was likely to call in. She unrolled the scroll and whistled in appreciation. It was plans for a medium-sized villa. In tiny script, the elf had noted magical safeguards, hidden doors, concealed alcoves for guards, and other closely guarded secrets. She raised suspicious eyes to her benefactor.
"How do you know all this?"
He gave her a supercilious smile. "My dear, I own that building. Since the man you seek has paid his rent in advance, you can do as you like with him-but mind the furniture and do try not to get blood on the carpets."
"I'll do my best," she said dryly. After exchanging a few more dark pleasantries with the elf; she took her leave and headed for the North Ward.
At night, this district was quiet, with most of the wealthy residents either behind the walls that surrounded the villas or off pursuing pleasures in a more boisterous part of town. As she walked along the broad, cobbled streets, she wondered how the residents of Waterdeep's most traditional neighborhood would react if they knew that a priest of Cyric was in their midst. Probably, their response would be much like the elf's. As long as the priest paid his bills and kept to himself, he was no real threat.
Bronwyn had ample reason to think otherwise. Malchior had gone through a great deal of trouble to meet her. Tonight, she was determined to discovery why.
She circled around the Gentle Mermaid festhall, a massive and excessively tasteless stone structure that sprouted more turrets than a hydra had beads, as well as numerous balconies decked with elaborate wrought iron. The building took up the interior of an entire block; she quickly skirted it and cut down Manycats Alley. She glanced up at the lifelike stone beads that lined the eaves of several buildings up ahead, remembering the tavern tales claiming that they sometimes spoke to passersby. But the only voices she heard were those of the stray cats that scrapped over the leavings of butcher shops that plied their trade by day. The scent of these shops hung heavy in the still, mist-laden air. Bronwyn lifted a fold of her cloak over her nose and picked up her pace, careful to avoid the pair of tabbies battling over a length of seafood sausage.
Not far from the shops, she found the back wall of the villa's enclosed garden. She ran her fingers over the stone. The latch was exactly where the elf had claimed it would be. Vowing to be generous in her repayment of this particular debt, Bronwyn pressed the latch and waited until the stone door swung open. She slipped through the opening and into the shadows of the grape arbor that cut down the middle of the garden.
At the end of the arbor, hidden from casual view by lustt vines, stood the first guard. Bronwyn remembered him as one of the Zhentish soldiers who had stormed the bathhouse in response to Malchior's summons. For a moment she hesitated. It was no small thing to kill a man, but he had been very willing to kill her-er to take her captive on Malchior's behalf; which would surely have proved to be worse.
She slipped up behind the guard, a length of thin, strong rope held between her hands. With a quick, sudden movement, she plunged her hands through the vines and wrapped the garrote tightly about his throat. A small, strangled noise gurgled from him, growing in volume as he worked his fingers under the rope. He was far stronger than she. With a flash of panic, Bronwyn realized he would soon be able to sing out an alarm.
She leaped up, planting both feet against the arbor trellis, and leaned back, hauling at the rope. After a moment, the man went silent. Bronwyn tied the garrotte firmly to the trellis, then edged around to the other side. The man's bulging eyes bore witness to the effectiveness of her attack. She took a long, steadying breath and slipped into the icehouse.
The villa was well appointed, even to the small, thick-walled building that stored blocks of ice cut from the nearby river, a luxury in the coming months of summer. The house was nearly full now, and as cold as midwinter. Bronwyn drew her cloak closer about her as she edged through the narrow aisle between the blocks.
At the end of the aisle she found another hidden door. Bronwyn slid it aside and stepped into a dark, small tunnel. She felt about for the promised shelf and the candles kept there. She lit one and proceeded down a narrow passage to a flight of steep stairs.
According to the elf landlord, this passage led through the back wall, up into the most lavish bedchamber. Surely she would find Malchior there. She only hoped that she would find him alone.
Bronwyn crept along the passage, then up a flight of steep wooden stairs. She moved slowly, easing her way along so that no creak would betray her presence. With each step, she felt increasingly uneasy. There were no cobwebs in the tunnel, no sign of mice. How could a passage so well-used be secret?
Just as she considered turning around, the passage ended at another door, this one a sliding door of thin wood, hidden by a tapestry Malchior was apparently alone, and at prayer. Bronwyn clamped her eyes shut and tried not to listen as the dreadful cadence of the chant rose and fell. Knowing that Malchior worshiped Cyric was one thing; it was quite another to stand by while the dark and evil god was invoked.
Finally Malchior finished his devotions. Bronwyn could hear his grunt of exertion as he hauled his bulky frame up off his knees, and then the creaking protest of the wooden floor as he walked past.