But what of Cara? What was there about the ring she wore that attracted the ire of the Zhentarim, that they would steal children away from their homes? Cara’s father, whoever and wherever he was, might also be in danger.
That thought spurred Bronwyn as she made her way into Dock Ward. This unknown man was her kin. Perhaps he had answers for her that Hronulf had not lived to give. That possibility made the chance she was about to take worthwhile.
She hurried to the Sleeping Snake, a rough and noisy tavern where thieves of many races gathered to trade stories, blows, and stolen goods. The Zhentarim contact she had used a few times before frequented the tavern.
Raucous laughter burst out into the street when Bronwyn shouldered open the door and pushed her way into the crowded room. The smell of stale ale and staler bodies assaulted her. Most of the dockhands who came to drink here didn’t bother to bathe after a hard day’s work. She spotted the informer—a dockhand and occasional assassin—slumped over a table near the hearth.
He glanced up when she kicked at his chair. “Well,” he asked drunkenly, “what are you looking for this time?”
She bent down low so that she could speak the words in a normal voice rather than shouting. “A man who recently lost a child.”
He leaned back and eyed her with speculation. “Don’t have much use for brats, myself”
“No one’s asking you to have anything to do with this one. Have you heard anything?”
“Can’t say I have. Who’s this man that got shed of his brat?”
“His name is Doon. He’s a dark man, probably not exceptionally tall.”
There was a flicker in the man’s eyes, but he shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t help you,” he said as he reached for his mug.
Bronwyn caught his wrist. “Can’t, or won’t?”
He shook her off and turned aside in obvious dismissal. “One way or another, it’s much the same to you.”
A trickle of fear ran down Bronwyn’s spine. Always before, this man had tried to sell her something, spinning out any scrap of information into something she might wish to buy. His outright refusal and the gleam of avarice in his eyes alerted her to danger.
Bronwyn nodded and worked her way back to the bar. The fighting had spread into the main floor, and it would be a while before she could get to the door. She ordered an ale and took a stool to wait out the storm.
A hand seized her arm. Bronwyn spun, gripping the hilt of her knife. She measured the man with a glance and decided that this would be an easy battle. Though still south of mid-life, he was the thinnest, frailest person she had ever encountered. The spark of life had apparently drained from his body to center its last flame in his small black eyes.
“Move your hand, or I’ll slice it off,” she said in an even voice.
The man halted her with an impatient gesture, an upraised palm. Her eyes bulged. Tattooed, or perhaps branded, into his palm was the emblem of the evil god Bane—a small, black hand.
Instinctively she eased away, raised both of her hands in conciliation. Though the god himself was considered dead and gone, and no longer a power to be feared, Bronwyn had no desire to tangle with someone who purported to be an acolyte of such evil.
“I heard you. You want a man who is seeking a child. Where is this man?” he insisted in a voice that recalled a viper’s hiss.
Bronwyn licked her lips nervously. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. If you know anything of him, I’d be willing to trade for the information.”
A terrible chuckle wheezed from the former priest’s lips. “If the item you have to barter is his yellow hide, then you have a deal, wench. I want him. I want him dead,” he specified, as if there could be any doubt concerning his intentions.
Bronwyn quickly weighed the risk against the possible gain. If this priest had knowledge of Cara’s father, she really had no choice but to endure conversation with a Banite and accept the danger inherent in such company. She reached for her mug and signaled the barkeep to bring another drink for her “friend.”
“I don’t know where he is, but I’d be happy to turn him over to you once I locate him. Because of the child,” she said quickly, when he turned a suspicious stare upon her.
“Alt” He smirked, then tossed back the contents of the mug the barkeep set before him. “Your tale rings true. He always was one to walk away from what he started.”
A horrible suspicion took root in Bronwyn’s eyes. “He was once a follower of Bane?” she asked, striving mightily to keep her voice neutral.
“That he was. Defected, the damn traitor,” he sneered, raising and clenching his fists.
Bronwyn let out her breath in a long sigh. The possibility that Cara’s father might be a follower of an evil god was chilling, but, perhaps, in seeing the error of his ways he had made enemies. It was better so than that he should earn the fate of the man beside her, with his skeletal face and wild eyes. Bereft of spells, cut off from the source of evil power, the former priest of Bane was little more than an insane shell.
“When I find Doon, I will send word here,” she said, her mind racing as she planned how she could kept this promise without endangering Cara’s father. “I will write the name of the place where he might be found on a sketch of a black dragon and post it on the cloakroom door. Watch for it.”
“Doon? What are you talking about, wench? The man’s name is Dag Zoreth.”
She quickly covered her surprise. “Of course,” she said with feigned bitterness. “He would not want to be known by the name he gave to a woman he’d betrayed and abandoned. He was always cautious. Most likely, he is also frank and earnest—Frank in Luskan, and Ernest in Neverwinter!”
To her surprise, the hoary old jest earned a wheezing chuckle from the Banite. She supposed that, in the company he was accustomed to keeping, humor was not a common commodity.
Bronwyn rose and tossed several silver coins onto the counter and nodded her intent to the barkeep. “Drink what you will, with my thanks, until the coins run out.”
She left quickly, while the former priest was still contemplating this unexpected bounty, and all the way to the door she felt the eyes of her Zhentilar informer following her.
* * * * *
Algorind rode swiftly through the crowded street on his tall white horse. He still did not understand how Icewind had returned to the Halls of Justice. The horse had been well treated and seemed none the worse for having been stolen by a treacherous dwarf.
He scanned the wooden signs that hung from the many shops, looking for the Curious Past. What he found was a bit of a surprise. Unlike most of the signs, it did not rely on an image of shoe or cloak or mug to convey what goods could be had within. The name was carved with runes in Common, as well as in several other languages. A learned woman. That did not fit the picture he carried of Bronwyn, who would steal from Hronulf and consort with a dwarven horse thief.
He pushed open the door. A bell tinkled merrily, and a white-haired gnome woman appeared from behind a counter. “How can I help you?” she said cheerily.
Algorind heard a door bang in the back room. “I am looking for Bronwyn.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the gnome said with evident regret. “She is out of town on business.”
The young paladin nodded. “You expect her?”
“That I do. No more than two, three days. Would you like to stop back or leave a name?”
“I will return,” he said simply. “Thank you, good gnome, for your time and help.”
He left the shop, walking briskly toward the narrow alley he’d seen by the cobbler’s shop a few doors down. That banging door interested him.
A small figure darted toward him in hot pursuit of a young alley cat, her hands outstretched for the grab. She hauled up short when she caught sight of him, and her large brown eyes rounded in terror. She shrieked and whirled away, dashing back down the alley.