Mantasso folded massive arms and stared the knight down. “The message says that the little girl is kept in safe fosterage, happy with the family who has raised her from birth, and innocent of the evil her father has chosen. Have we any right to disturb this?”
“Not only right, but duty,” Laharin said sternly. “Of course she must be brought under the care and instruction of the order. And the possibility, however slight, that she may have in her possession one of the Rings of Sa.mular adds urgency to the matter. But how to proceed?”
“With your indulgence, Master Laharin, I propose that the answer is right before us,” Sir Gareth said in his courtly manner. “What of this lad? I hear tell that he is the best and brightest of the crop, and more than ready for his paladin’s quest. Charge him with finding the girl and the ring.”
A heartbeat passed, and then another, before Algorind realized they were speaking of him. They were thinking of granting him a paladin’s quest! He had not expected such honor for another year at least!
“I take it you are willing,” Laharin said dryly, studying Algorind’s shining face.
“More than willing! Grateful, my lords, to serve Tyr and his holy Order, in this manner or any other.”
“He is eager, that is without question,” grumbled Mantasso. The big priest stirred impatiently, drawing an ominous creak from his wooden chair. “Before you continue, I must speak my mind on this matter!”
“Of course,” Laharin said in a tightly controlled voice. “Why should this matter be different from any other?”
Algorind blinked, astonished by this sign of disharmony among the Masters. Mantasso, who was watching him keenly, noted this and shook his head in exasperation.
“I mean no disrespect to any present,” the big priest said, “but this youth belongs in the clergy, not the military order. Is it not our mandate as servants of Tyr to use all our gifts in his service? All? Algorind possesses learning and languages, a quick mind, and a potential for both scholarship and leadership. His knowledge of map lore is remarkable, and he is well spoken and comely. In the priesthood, he could go far and accomplish much, influencing many to the cause of Tyr. But how many paladins live to see their thirtieth winter? Even their twenty-fifth? Perhaps two or three in a hundred! You venerable gentlemen in this chamber are not the rule, but the rare exception!”
“And Algorind is not exceptional?” retorted Laharin. “We are well aware of the young paladin’s gifts and potential. The Order needs men of his talent and dedication. The matter is settled.” He turned to Algorind. “You have your duty, brother. See that you fulfill it well.”
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.