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But Algorind was ready for him. The young paladin’s masters had trained him in many styles of fighting. This one marked the man as from the Dales, a rough but gener­ally peaceable area far to the east and inhabited for the most part by goodly farmers, rangers, and foresters. What had happened to his man, Algorind wondered, to bring him so far from where he once stood?

Some of the pity he felt must have crept into his eyes for the former dalesman to see. A convulsive twitch darted up from his clenched jaw to his anger-filled eyes, and the man drew the knife. But emotion overpowered strategy and he drew too soon and swung too high.

Algorind easily caught the knife on the hilt of his own and sent the man’s wild blow out wide. He reversed the direction of the swing and brought the hilt of his knife in hard against the man’s nose. Bone shattered, and bright blood spilled down over his worn leather jerkin.

The man came on again, swinging wildly now, all disci­pline gone. Algorind easily stopped and sidestepped the blows. With a sense of something like regret, he swiftly ended the battle with a stroke across the man’s oft-exposed throat.

He stood for a moment over the body of the man, to mur­mur a prayer for a soul gone astray, a worthy opponent fallen to his own weakness.

Algorind cleaned his sword on a handful of straw that covered a bin of last summer’s carrots and slid the weapon back into his sheath. His knife he kept in hand, and he took the torch from the wall holder into which it had been thrust. He had been caught unaware by treachery once this day, and that was all he intended to yield.

At the top of the stairs, he snubbed out the torch, tossed it into the alley, and retraced his steps to the street. To his great relief, his horse was where he left it. He untied Icewind’s reins and pondered what next to do.

It seemed likely to him that the woman Bronwyn and her dwarf comrade were somehow behind this. He would imme­diately report this information to Sir Gareth and leave the matter in his hands.

The knight was in his office, going over a ledger and wearing an expression of martyred resolve. He looked up when Algormd announced himself, and his gray brows rose in question.

Algorind told him what had occurred. The knight consid­ered this for several moments, then reached for parchment and quill. “Go to the barracks and clean yourself up. We will bring this matter to the First Lord himself.”

In moments they left the Halls of Justice, bound for the First Lord’s palace. It was an easy matter for Sir Gareth to gain an audience with Lord Piergeiron. When he and Algo­rind rode to the gates of the lavish palace, they were met by uniformed guards and taken at once into the First Lord’s presence.

Once again, Algorind found himself discomfited by the unseemly splendor around him. The palace was an elabo­rate structure built entirely of rare white marble, crowned with a score or more of turreted towers and much elabo­rately carved stonework. The inside was even more lavish. A fountain played in the center of the great hall, and mar­ble statues of heroes, gods, and goddesses encircled the room. Tapestries of incredibly fine detail and brilliant color hung in lavish profusion. The courtiers were richly dressed in silks and jewels—even the servants wore finery appro­priate to a young knight’s investiture.

They were led up a broad, sweeping stairway, down a suc­cession of halls to the tower that Piergeiron claimed as his own. Here, at least, Algorind found himself in familiar sur­roundings. The First Lord’s study was simple, almost aus­tere. The walls were bare but for a single tapestry. The only luxury was a profusion of books, and the only comfort a small fire on the grate.

Piergeiron rose to greet them both, with bluff good nature and a comrade’s firm handclasp. “Welcome, brothers! You have been much in my thoughts. How goes the preparation for battle?”

“Well, my lord,” Sir Gareth said. He nodded his thanks when Piergeiron indicated a seat, and waited until all were seated before speaking again.

“Paladins from all over the northland are gathering for the assault on Thornhold. In another tenday, perhaps two, our numbers will be sufficient for the march north.”

“That is good news,” the paladin lord agreed. “The sooner the fortress is back in the hands of your good order, the safer will be the High Road for all who travel it.”

Sir Gareth inclined his head to acknowledge this praise. “There is other news, my lord, that is not so pleasant to hear. This woman we spoke of. She had been up to mischief since last we met.”

Briefly, the knight told the story of Algorind’s arrest and the ruse played on him by assassins who lured him into ambush. He also mentioned, much to Algorind’s chagrin, the theft of the young paladin’s horse by a dwarf known as Bronwyn’s companion. He told of her visit to Thornhold at the time of the assault, and her suspicious escape—doubly suspicious in light of the fact that the Zhentarim comman­der who took the stronghold was Bronwyn’s brother. Sir Gareth ended his litany by repeating that Bronwyn stole a valuable artifact belonging to the order.

Piergeiron absorbed this in troubled silence. “I have had information gathered on her, but none so dire as this. The young woman has an excellent reputation in her chosen business, and she appears to live a quiet life.”

“Yet she has interesting associates. A brother among the Zhentarim, a dwarf horse thief a rogue gnome. Did you know that Alice Tinker, the shopkeeper employed by Bron­wyn, was once known as Gilanda Quickblade? She was a thief and ‘adventurer,’ later recruited to the Harpers.”

“I did not know this,” Piergeiron admitted.

“There is more,” Gareth continued. “A frequent visitor to her shop is a young nobleman, one Danilo Thann. Is he not the Harper involved with the new harding college?”

The First Lord nodded grimly.

“I must wonder what he wants with this Bronwyn. She is no bard. Either she is a lightskirt or a Harper.” Sir Gareth’s tone suggested that there was little difference between these two evils.

“I have met young Lord Thann on several occasions. He is exceedingly fond of gems and other fine things. Perhaps he merely purchases items from Bronwyn’s shop.”

Sir Gareth lifted his eyebrows. “Do you believe that?”

“No,” the First Lord sighed. “I will look into this matter and send word to you as soon as I can. Will that content you?”

“It does indeed. The word of Athar’s son is a bond that no steel can break,” Sir Gareth said heartily. He rose to leave, but hesitated. “There is one thing more. I have no wish to forestall any efforts your officials of law and order might wish to take, but may we also search for this woman our­selves and bring her to Tyr’s Hall of Justice to answer for herself? Will you trust me in this matter?”

It seemed to Algorind that Lord Piergeiron looked relieved to hear a question that could be answered simply. He rose and extended his hand in a pact. ‘Who could deny a brother paladin? And who could better dispense justice than Tyr?” he said heartily.

The two men, paladin and knight, clasped wrists in an adventurer’s salute. “Who indeed,” echoed Sir Gareth.

* * * * *

Bronwyn packed up Cara’s few belongings and prepared to deliver her to Blackstaff Tower. Cara appeared to take it in stride. It made Bronwyn proud to note how adaptable and resilient the child was.

What made this more remarkable was that the child had no true anchor other than her own inner strength. Cara would be fine, Bronwyn assured herself as she packed for the trip ahead, and that indeed seemed to be the case until they got to the base of the smooth, black wall that sur­rounded the archmage’s tower.