“They were mean,” Cara decreed.
“They did not set out to be,” she said, “but they didn’t give me much thought one way or another. That was almost worse.”
The child considered this, and nodded. “I’m glad you stole me back.”
Bronwyn hugged her. “I am, too. I would do anything to keep you from that life.—even leave you in Blackstaff Tower for a few days, if that is what I must do.”
“All right,” the child conceded. Her face turned stern, and she shook her finger. “But if you stay too long, Ebenezer and I will come looking for you and steal you back!”
* * * * *
Later that morning, Bronwyn rode down to the South Ward to say good-bye to Ebenezer. The courtyard surrounding Brian Swordmaster’s forge was alive with glowing fires, the ringing of hammer against anvil, and the voices of contentious dwarves.
As she tied her horse to the gate, Ebenezer caught sight of her. He immediately dropped his hammer and bounded over to her. “Where’s the lass?” he asked. “You found her da yet?”
She told him what she had learned so far and of the attempt by Ebenezer’s paladin friend to snatch her. His face clouded with concern as he listened.
“Smells funny to me,” he said. “Paladins are supposed to be a rare breed, aren’t they? They’ve been popping up far too frequent for my liking.”
“The paladins are the lesser of my two problems,” she assured him.
“Seems to me we don’t know that just yet. You can’t prove by me that paladins are all that different from any other breed of human. As I always say, think the worst, just in case,” he offered. “And I don’t like you walking into their den with nothing more than a how-d’you-do as shield and armor.”
“I don’t have time to argue, Ebenezer. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“And lots of times in between,” he said. “I’m going with you.”
“I’ll be riding.”
His eyes lit up. “You know I can ride. You still got that pony?”
“No,” she said regretfully. “I left him at the public stable, with instructions that he be sold.”
‘Well now, that’s too bad. I liked that horse better’n most men I’ve met. Got more sense. But I’ve got a few coins now, and the clan owes me. Might could buy my own pony.”
“You don’t want to be spending your earnings,” she cautioned.
“Oh, don’t I? One way or another, I’d-a go with you, if it means riding piggyback on a winged elf. You stood with me; I’m prepared to do the same.”
At that moment a female dwarf hollered his name. He cast a look over his shoulder then leaned in to whisper, “And they’ve put me to work at a forge. Nothing wrong with that, but my feet start to itching if I keep ‘em in one place too long. You’d be doing me a kindness,” he wheedled.
Bronwyn capitulated with a grin. “Well, let’s be off. We’re going to need to get you a horse.”
* * * * *
Algorind took his leave of Sir Gareth and returned to Curious Past, the scene of his previous failure. He puzzled over what he was to do when he found Bronwyn and the child. In this city, a man was not left alone to tend his duty. As he rode along, he noted many small watch patrols, busily tending the affairs of the city and minding the business of better men.
To compound this matter was the difficulty in tracking anyone through a city. He had learned to follow the sign of man, horse, or monster through the hills and moors, but a woman’s passage through Waterdeep? A child’s? How was such a thing measured?
He was still pondering this when he saw a small, furtive figure dash down a dark passage between two tall buildings. He caught a glimpse of a long, brown braid flashing around the corner.
Algorind swung down from his horse and quickly tied the reins around a lamp post. He no longer felt secure that his mount would be there when he returned, but he could not afford to worry about that now. He hurried down the narrow way in pursuit.
The woman ducked down two more alleys and then disappeared into the back door of a large frame building. Algorind could hear the clatter of looms as he approached, and above the noise, the sound of frantic footsteps dashing down wooden steps.
He followed her into the building and down the stairs. The smell of moisture, dirt, and root vegetables grew stronger, and a bit of light came in from a small, iron-grated portal placed high on the cellar wall.
When Algorind reached the dirt floor, he pulled his sword and squinted into the gloom. His eyes could not yet discern anyone else in the cellar, but he was certain he had heard her come this way.
A sharp, short, grating sound broke the stillness, and a torch flared high. Algorind found himself facing four men, all armed with swords and wearing enormous, evil-looking grins. The biggest smile was on the man he had followed— a scrawny runt of a man with a face much pocked by some forgotten sickness, and a long, braided tail of brown horsehair in his hands. This he brandished mockingly at Algorind, fluttering his eyelashes in a parody of feminine wiles.
His comrades laughed uproariously at this and then began to close in. From above them, the steady clack and clatter of the looms never once faltered.
Too late, Algorind realized the trap into which he had been lured. These men knew the ways of a city and had prepared a place where they might fight undisturbed. Well, by the grace of Tyr he would give them the fight they sought.
He held his sword out slightly to the side, his every muscle alert and ready. The first man dashed at him, sword held high and two of his fellows hard on his heels. Algorind lunged forward with a quick, precise motion and ran him though the heart. He ducked under the next attack and stabbed upward at the third man, felling him, too, in a single blow. A skitter of feet behind him dragged to a quick stop on the dirt floor. Algorind rose and spun toward the man who had run past him. It was the man who had tricked him, and he came in with a vicious, upward-sweeping backhand. Algorind caught the sword in a ringing parry. He pressed in close and with his left hand punched out over the joined blades. The man staggered back and again Algorind lunged. His sword sank between the man’s ribs and darted back out.
The paladin turned swiftly back to his fourth and final foe. This one was the wiliest of the group, and the worst— content to watch his comrades die as he took the measure of his opponent.
The man was nearly as tall as Algorind, and though not as broad, he had a lean, sinewy look and a way of holding the sword that bespoke long acquaintance with a blade. He lifted the sword to his forehead in a salute that seemed only partially mocking.
They began to circle each other, then exchanged the first ringing blow. His foe was quick, Algorind noted, and fought with a clean economy of motion. The man had been trained, and trained well.
The paladin feinted high. His blow was met and then matched by a quick, spinning cut downward. Algorind parried and answered with a lunge. In all, three fast strokes of steel on steel, coming quickly one after another and each delivered with strength.
Speed, then. The paladin began a stunning routine, raining a quick series of blows upon the man. His opponent stopped each, and got his own in beside. For several moments the two swords rang in rapid, steady dialogue.
The fighters fell apart by unspoken agreement, answering the unique rhythm of their deadly dance. Again they circled, tested, parried.
This time the assassin came in, his blade working Algorind’s low and his hand hovering over the knife strapped to his belt. The paladin understood. The man intended to come in over the swords with a knife, much as he himself had served the trickster with a barehanded punch.