He rose from the chair in deference to the higher ranking priest. “This is a surprise,” Dag said mildly. “I did not expect to find you in Waterdeep.”
“No doubt!” the priest retorted. “What is this I hear about you?”
Dag strolled over to the table and helped himself to a piece of the spiced shrimp that the maid had brought along with the midday meal. A fine place, this inn. This meal was enough for two, and to spare. He took the entire tray and handed it to Malchior. The older priest hardly seemed to notice. He popped one shrimp into his mouth, chewed briefly, and kept talking.
“You have not yet found your sister, but one of our informers has,” Malchior said, punctuating this statement by snatching another shrimp. “She was asking about a child. Said it was yours.”
Dag shrugged. “She would not be the first woman to make such a false claim of me. Since I did not know I had a sister, you cannot hold me to account for violation of consanguinity laws.”
The priest stuffed his mouth again and chewed angrily. “You are sidestepping the question.”
“It has become a habit,” Dag said lightly. “You have taught me well.”
The priest’s eyes narrowed, and he studied the younger man as if he was suddenly considering whether his lessons might have been learned too well. Then the look of speculation was gone, and with it Malchior’s ire.
“These are excellent,” he said easily, nodding at the nearly empty tray. “Perhaps we could start on that savory pie while we speak of other matters? You have heard of the gathering of the paladins. I have some advice on the administration and safeguarding of your new command. That is, if you are willing to listen.”
Malchior’s jovial expression was back in place, but Dag was not fooled for a moment. This man was a dangerous enemy, and he wanted Cara. If Dag had to, he would kill him. Until then, he would learn from him.
“My dear Malchior,” Dag said with a smile, “I am interested in every word you have to say.” And even more interested, Dag thought, in what you choose to keep shrouded in silence.
The glint in the priest’s eyes suggested that he sensed Dag’s unspoken addition and marked it well. Smiling at each other like a pair of circling sharks, they sat down to play out the game.
* * * * *
“I tell you, Bronwyn, your friend will be a resident at the castle for the rest of’ the day,” Danilo swore. “Several of the messengers who attend the prisoners are Harpers. They will take care to leave young Algorind’s request until last.”
Bronwyn nodded and shot a glance toward Cara. The child was kneeling on the floor of the shop, playing some elaborate game of make believe with some chess pieces, and singing softly to herself. “That’s something,” Bronwyn admitted. She bit her lip, considering.
“What?”
“This might sound frivolous,” she warned him.
That amused her friend. “Remember to whom you’re speaking.”
She chuckled and got to the point. “Cara has spent her life on a small, remote farm. Other than her trip to Water-deep as a prisoner and a brief voyage on a slave ship, she hasn’t had a chance to see the world. What better place to begin than Waterdeep?”
He nodded. “Your reasoning is sound. And you should be safe enough. With your permission, I’ll make certain that you are discretely followed and ainpiy protected.”
The years of unseen Harper eyes still rankled. “And if I did not give my permission?”
“Then I would respect your wishes,” he said. “Regretfully, but I would respect them.”
He spoke firmly, with not a hint of his usual lazy drawl. Bronwyn believed him. She smiled and turned to Cara. “Cara, what is your favorite color?”
The little girl looked up, startled by this question. “I don’t think I have one.”
“Well, if you could pick out any dress you liked, what color would it be?”
Feminine longing lit her eyes. “My foster mother wore purple but said I was not to,” she said. “She would not say why.”
Bronwyn had a suspicion concerning this, but she did not want to put words to it, not even in the silence of her own mind. “How about blue? Or yellow?”
Cara nodded, clearly willing to play the game. “Pink, like a sunset cloud.”
That struck a memory. Ellimir Oakstafi a seamstress whose shop was also on the Street of Silks, had a bolt of soft pink silk, a rare color that would be quickly seized by ladies looking for spring gowns. “Come on,” she said, extending a hand. “I know a lady who can make you a dress the color of clouds and just as soft. Let’s go and let her take your measure.”
Cara was on her feet in an instant. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Bronwyn answered. “And then we’ll go for tea and see all there is to see in the City of Splendors.”
Cara looked suddenly suspicious. “This is not just a game?”
Bronwyn laughed, but her eyes stung. At Cara’s age, she had had none of these experiences, either. She thought she knew what this would mean to the girl.
Bidding farewell to the Harper bard, Bronwyn kept her promise and bought Cara the pink gown and two more along with it. They had tea and sugared wine at Gounar’s Tavern, a glittering eatery in the heart of the Sea Ward. The taproom was brightly lit by dozens of magical globes, and mirrored glass tossed back the light to every corner, there to be captured by the cunningly faceted crystals and imitation gems that studded everything from plate to chairs.
As Bronwyn expected, Cara was enchanted by the display. Too excited to eat, she clutched her goblet of sugared wine and water—much more sugar than wine, and more water than either—and looked around with boundless curiosity. Her silence lasted until they left the tavern, then she exploded into questions, wanting to know about everything they passed.
Bronwyn shook her head as she followed Cara down the street, amazed at her own feelings. Every moment she spent with the child only made the prospect of giving her up more difficult. But this gift, this single day of adventure and lighthearted pleasure, this she could give.
Wanting to show Cara as much as possible, she hailed a carriage and bid the driver to show them the sights. They rode down along the sea wall, marveling at the vast and ornamental mansions, and the ninety-foot statue of a warrior that looked out impassively to sea. They drove past Aighairon’s Tower, and Cara shivered at the story of the long-ago wizard and the skeleton of the man who had tried to steal this power. She oohed over Piergeiron’s Palace, craned her neck to watch the griffin patrols pass. At the Plinth—the obelisk that served as a house of prayer for people of all faiths—she looked faintly puzzled.
“My foster parents prayed—so did my father—but they would not teach me or name a god I should pray to.”
Bronwyn’s suspicions regarding this mysterious faith deepened, as did her puzzlement as to why this Dag Zoreth seemed so determined to keep his daughter ignorant of his faith. “You’ll find the god or goddess who speaks to your heart,” she said softly.
“Who speaks to yours?”
Bronwyn considered this. She was not a religious person, but it occurred to her that there was only one answer. “Tymora,” she said. “The lady of luck. She bids you take a chance and make your own way.”
Cara pursed her lips. “That sounds good, but not quite right for me.”
“And that’s fine,” Bronwyn said, feeling slightly out of her element with this conversation. She had never given religion much consideratioii, but the longing in the child’s eyes for a god or goddess of her own convinced Bronwyn that it might be a matter worth pondering.
“Now let’s go to the South Ward,” she suggested. “The sun will be setting soon, and I believe there’s a full moon tonight.”
At such times, the Moon Sphere hung above a large courtyard. People could enter the huge, magic-rich globe and float or soar as they wished. Bronwyn could think of no wonder more likely to capture the child's fancy, or no better ending to the day.