The wann regard in the knight’s blue eyes touched her. “I am told that he is your friend.”
“The best I ever had, and a better man that this world deserves,” Sir Gareth responded. “But meet him, and judge for yourself”
The knight reached for ink and parchment and wrote a few words. He sprinkled the ink with drying powder, then shook the excess away. He rolled the letter into a scroll and handed it to an attentive scribe. “My seal,” he instructed absently, and then turned back to Bronwyn.
“Bear this letter to Hronulf, as my introduction. He is captain of the fortress known as Thornhold. Do you know it?”
“I have heard of it. Off the High Road, perhaps two days’ ride north of Waterdeep?”
“That is correct. Ah, thank you,” he said, taking the sealed missive from his assistant. He handed the scroll to Bronwyn. “Do you desire an escort? I am not at leisure to accompany you myself, but I would gladly send trusted men to guide and protect you.”
Bronwyn smiled her thanks and shoved aside the hint of resentment that his paternalistic tone inspired. It was a gracious offer, and should be graciously received. “You are very kind, Sir Gareth, but I will be fine on my own.”
“Then may Tyr speed your path. You leave soon?”
“Today,” she agreed.
He rose. “Then I will not keep you. If you would be so kind, bear my regards to my old friend.”
She agreed and took his offered hand, then swiftly left the Halls of Justice. She passed the Ilzimmer shop without stopping to inquire about the progress of the commissioned repairs. After all, her client’s family had been missing the emerald brooch for over a century. A few days more wouldn’t alter matters much.
The Street of Silks was lively with mid-morning commerce by the time Bronwyn arrived at her shop. But to her surprise, the door to the Curious Past was closed, and a sign proclaimed that the shop would open after highsun.
Bronwyn frowned as she fumbled in her pocket for her extra key. This was unlike Alice. The gnome was the most faithful shopkeeper in all of Waterdeep, which was saying a great deal. What could have happened to inspire her to close the shop during the busy morning hours?
Memory edged into Bronwyn’s mind, bringing with it questions she had not had time to consider, and a suspicion that made her heart hang like lead in her chest. The Harpers had known where to find her the night she’d met with Malchior. Either they had followed her footsteps during the entire tumultuous day—which was unlikely—or they had been informed of her intended meeting place. Malchior and his henchmen had received word of the meeting place shortly before the appointed time. Only one other person knew her plans.
Alice.
Bronwyn thrust the key back into her pocket and turned her steps south, toward the tall, smooth black tower where all Harper business seemed to converge. As she worked her way through the crowded street, Bronwyn reminded herself that she was accustomed to treachery and betrayal, that she faced it every day and made deft provisions to survive it. It was nothing new, and usually it was nothing personal.
Why, then, did her eyes burn so painfully with unshed tears?
* * * * *
Ebenezer stared glumly at his cage. The wooden slats were hard and thick enough to keep a whole den of beavers busy until sundown. Without knife or axe, he had little hope of getting free.
Yet that was precisely what he had to do. Humans and half-orcs in the tunnels, catching dwarves and sticking them in cages. That was trouble. Spelicasting priests were even worse, and who knew how many more of them were roaming around? He had to get free and bring warning to his clan.
The dwarf rose up on his knees and took another look around. The men had returned a while back and had crated up the osquips’ trove. Zhents, they were, and intent on plunder. The cave was full of stout boxes, locked and wrapped with chains. There was nothing lying about handy that he could use as tool or weapon, even if he could find a way to reach it. Nothing at all but a few paces of stone ledge and a long drop to the river.
Inspiration struck. Ebenezer scuttled to the far side of his cage, crouched, and launched himself at the opposite wall. The cage tilted, then crashed onto its side. He shook his head to clear it, then repeated the maneuver. He moved the cage over to the ledge, one painful crash at a time, and prayed to every dwarven god who’d ever wielded a hammer that be could finish the job before the racket brought back the dwarf-stealing Zhents.
Ebenezer paused at the very brink of the ledge. One more time, and he’d crash to the stone path below. The cage simply could not survive the impact, and he would be free.
“This is gonna hurt some,” he admitted, then hurled himself against the cage one last time.
* * * * *
To Algorind’s dismay, the child did not take kindly to her rescue. She fought him until they reached Rassalanter Hamlet, where he gratefully turned her over to the nurse Sir Gareth had employed. After downing a a cup of strong tea, the child fell asleep, and stayed asleep in the privacy of a covered carriage, until they reached Waterdeep.
With great relief he entered the grounds of Tyr’s temple, and sent word ahead to Sir Gareth as he had been instructed to do. In moments, the old knight met him at the gate, on horseback and ready to travel. To Algorind’s surprise, Sir Gareth led him not into the complex, but down the street toward the sea.
“This matter required great secrecy,” Gareth reminded him. “If the child is to find safe, appropriate fosterage, few can know of her arrival in Waterdeep.”
“But surely she would be safe in the Halls of Justice,” Algorind ventured.
The knight looked at him kindly. “Many visitors come to the Halls of Justice, seeking aid or information. We cannot risk that the child’s presence be discovered. Some might come to us with questions. Why place the brothers in a position where they must either betray us or lie? What they do not know, they can deny in good faith.”
“I’m sure that is wise,” Algorind agreed, though for some reason he still felt somewhat troubled.
“It is necessary,” Sir Gareth said firmly. “You may leave the child in my hands now, your duty complete.”
Algorind hesitated. “What would you have me do now? Return to Summit Hall with word that the child is safely in your hands?”
“No, better that you ride first to Thornhold with a message to Hronulf. He should have word of his granddaughter.”
The knight reached out and placed a hand on the young paladin’s shoulder. His face was grave. “I have a new charge for you. Stay with Hronulf for as long as needs be. I fear that perilous times are coming, and I would feel more content for my old friend’s safety if I knew that a young knight of your skill and valor guarded his back.”
“I will happily do as you ask, but I am not yet a knight,” Algorind felt compelled to add.
Sir Gareth smiled, but his eyes had the faraway expression of a man who regarded distant glories. “Do this, and I swear to you that you will die as a paladin should, fighting alongside fellow knights.”
* * * * *
As he entered Khelben’s study, Danilo recoiled in suprise. There was a slight swelling to one side of the archmage’s jaw, where Dan had struck. His lingering ire vanished, replaced by guilt and puzzlement. Khelben could easily heal himself—why would he choose not to?
“Our last discussion seems to have made more of an impression upon you than I intended,” Danilo ventured.
The sharp, sidelong look Khelben sent him showed a hint of self-deprecating humor that most men would think entirely foreign to the archmage’s character.