The next part was the riskiest. Bronwyn eased the door aside, edged past the tapestry, and peeked into the room. Malchior was not alone, after all, but the young woman with whom he'd shared the evening was already thoroughly, messily dead. So much for the elf's carpets, Bronwyn noted grimly. The tawdry much-patched feminine garments cast over a chair suggested that the woman had been from the Dock Ward, perhaps a tavern wench who'd been lured to the villa by one of Malchior's men with the promise of easy coin, earned by enduring an old man's brief embrace. How could she know that the jovial, rotund priest took his pleasure in death and the power that came with the dealing of death?
Bronwyn's heart thundered as she drew her knife and waited. She watched as the priest poured himself a glass of deep red wine from a silver decanter and raised it to the dead woman in salute. He sipped, closing his eyes as if savoring a pleasant memory Then, humming lightly, he sauntered toward the bath-and past the tapestry
She leaped out of her hiding place and kicked out hard.
Her booted foot all but disappeared into the vast, fleshy belly, but the shot had the desired effect. Malchior wheezed like a bellows and went down.
Bronwyn seized a handful of his hair and dragged his head back. Stepping behind him, she placed her knife hard against his throat. "Shout out and you're dead," she informed him in a low, furious tone.
It took Malchior a few minutes to marshal his facility for speech, but when he did reply it was with admirable aplomb. "I am quite capable of discerning the obvious," he wheezed out. "Speak your mind. My bath is cooling. Or better yet, you may disrobe and join me."
She almost had to admire the man's gall. "The obvious question, then, is this: why did you try to take me the other night? Was it another of your games?"
"A pleasant thought, but no," the priest replied. His voice was stronger now, but there was fear in his eyes as he noted the fury on Bronwyn's face. "Not a game. I wouldn't dishonor you with trivial matters. You are not some tavern wench, to be lightly used and easily discarded."
"I'm flattered. What, then?"
He lifted his hands, palms up. "It was nothing personal. I am of the Zhentarim. You are the daughter of a sworn enemy of the Zhentarim. A man who wishes to live long does not leave dangerous whelps to grow fangs and to scent the trail of vendetta."
Bronwyn froze. Nothing, nothing that she had ever seen or experienced, nothing that could have come out of this terrible man's warped and evil imagination, could have stunned her as did those few simple words: You are the daughter of… someone.
"Who?" she demanded urgently. "Who is your enemy?"
The priest laughed, sending ripples undulating through his rolls of flesh. "My dear, I am a priest of Cyric. I have more enemies than this whore had fathers."
The sly emphasis he gave to the last word was nearly Bronwyn's undoing. Malchior had toyed with her. He was doing it still. She looked at the knife she held at his throat and longed to pull it back hard and deep. Yet if she struck, she would never find the answer she had spent twenty long years seeking. She took a steadying breath and tamped down her anger.
"Tell me my father's name. Tell me, and I'll let you live."
"Promise made, promise kept?" he mocked her. "Where is my neckiace?"
"That was none of my doing," she hissed. "As you yourself say, a priest of Cyric has many enemies." A new threat occurred to her. "You handled the amber. I wonder what interesting secrets a skilled mage could discern from the echoes your magic left behind."
That thought stole the smugness from Malchior's eyes, if just for a moment. "And this necklace. Is it now in the possession of such a mage?"
"It could be. It was given back to me, but I'd be happy to part with it for a good cause."
Malchior considered this. "I will give you your father's name, if you keep the amber in your possession for, say, three moon cycles."
"Done."
"You may find this information amusing, given your, shall we say, resourceful methods of doing business," the priest began slyly.
"Out with it!"
"Oh, very well," he said, pouting. "I'm getting a crick in my neck anyway, the way you're holding my head back. Not that you are unpleasant to look at, but perhaps you might release your grip on my hair? And this knife is most uncomfortable-"
"Speak!"
The priest tsked at her impatience. "You are the oldest and only surviving daughter of Hronulf Caradoon, a paladin of Tyr. A knight of some sort or other, I believe."
Through the daze that enveloped her, Bronwyn felt herself ned slowly. That name stirred long-forgotten memories, and images that she could not quite conjure-like dreams, forgotten past retrieval. The enormity of it dazzled her. Her father had a name. She had a name!
She eased her knife away from the priest's throat. Then she flipped her hand, palm up, and drove the hilt of the knife hard into Malchior's temple.
His eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and his body sagged forward. Bronwyn released her grip on his hair, and he fell facedown onto the carpet he'd ruined with the tavern wench's blood.
Bronwyn cautiously stooped and placed her fingers just below the man's ear. Life still beat in him. He would awaken far too soon, to do more evil, but that was the deal she had made. His life, and the promise that whatever secrets he had inadvertently confided to the amber necklace would be kept from prying eyes.
Promise made, promise kept.
She rose and slipped back behind the tapestry. She would leave by a different path from the one she had taken in, but this first step was the same. As she made her way through the escape route her elf associate had carefully marked out, Bronwyn tried not to regret what she had done. She kept her promises, whether made to man or monster. It made good sense. Even if a person was totally lacking in honor, that did not render him incapable of recognizing and appreciating honor in others. She did well-for herself, her clients, and the Harpers-because people knew her reputation and were willing to deal with het But there was another reason for this stern policy, one even more important and deeply personal. If once, just once, she allowed herself to break the primary rule that guided her path, would she be any different from the people with whom she dealt?
A new voice in her mind-new, yet disturbingly familiar- added a quiet addendum. And if she broke the rules, could she truly be a paladin's daughter?
FOUR
Ebenezer stalked down the river path, as stealthy as one of Tarlamera's cats. Most humans he knew thought dwarves were about as subtle as an avalanche, but the truth was, any dwarf worth navel lint could travel his tunnels as silently as an elf walked the forest.
For that reason and a host of others, what happened next was downright embarrassing. One moment Ebenezer was walking along behind the three humans, well out of range of their torchlight and their limited vision. The next, he was netted like a fish.
The heavy ropes thumped down on him, hard enough to knock him on his backside. With a craftsman's instinctive appreciation for made things, Ebenezer noted that the net was strong and heavily weighted along the edge, then threaded through with another rope like a drawstring on a leather coin bag. Ebenezer was hard pressed, though, to imagine humans strong enough to draw it shut. He looked up through the web of rope and saw the pair of grinning half-orcs on the ledge above. One of them raised his hand to his nose in a tauntingly obscene gesture, and then the two of them began to haul him up.
The first jerk swept the rope drawstring underneath him and toppled him over. Angry now, the dwarf reached for his hunting knife and began to saw at the net. One strand pinged open, then another. He was almost within reach of the half-orcs when the net gave way. Ebenezer wriggled through the opening and fell heavily to the stone path below.