“On the contrary, I am sure I would find them most entertaining.”
There was a soft tap on the door. “Another time, perhaps,” Bronwyn murmured as she rose to answer it. She accepted a pile of fresh linen towels from the maid, closed and locked the door firmly behind her. From the center of the pile she took a small box roughly fashioned from unpolished wood.
Bronwyn set the box down on a small table and lifted the lid carefully, so as not to get splinters in her fingers. The priest eyed the homely box with distaste. His eyes rounded, however, when she spilled out the contents—several exotic smoking pipes already filled and tamped with a fragrant and highly illegal form of pipeweed. She did not miss the sudden light in his eyes as he regarded them. She did not come blind into this encounter and knew more about this man and his habits than she liked to contemplate.
“Forgive me if this offends you, my lord,” she said, careful to keep any hint of irony from her face and voice. “This was a feint, just in case the lad who smuggled this box into the festhall was set upen by thieves, who would expect to find either valuables or some type of contraband. A thief would likely take the pipes and discard so rude a box, not suspecting that the box has a false bottom.”
She deftly pried it loose and lifted the necklace from its hiding place. She stooped and held it out to the priest, who took it with eager hands. He closed his eyes and smoothed the amber beads over his forehead. An expression of near-ecstasy suffused his plump face. As his eyes opened and settled on her, Bronwyn suppressed a shiver. Despite the man’s high rank and considerable personal wealth, his eyes held a degree of greed and cunning that marked him as kin to the worst duergar scum. Bronwyn suspected that his reasons for purchasing the amber had little to do with furthering the good of humankind.
“You have done well,” he murmured at length. “These are
more than I had expected. It is said that amber holds the memory of magic. Perhaps your touch, your beauty, has added to their value.”
His words sent a crawling sensation skittering over her skin, but Bronwyn forced herself to smile graciously. “You are too kind.”
“Not at all. Now, let us proceed to the matter of payment. You wished information in addition to gold. Why don’t you join me? It would be more congenial to talk together in comfort.”
Bronwyn deftly unclasped her belt, then stepped out of her shoes. With a quick, fluid motion, she pulled the dress over her head, and turned to drape it over the chair.
She turned back to the bath, catching the priest in an unguarded moment. His eyes were fixed on the curves of her hip, and narrowed in lewd speculation. Bronwyn set her jaw and stepped into the water. Public bathing was a part of life in Waterdeep, as in most civilized cities. She did not see it as a prelude to further intimacy, but there were those who did.
“This is much more pleasant,” Malchior said. “Perhaps when our business is concluded, we might enjoy the other amenities this fine festhall has to offer.”
Such as the adjoining bedchamber, Bronwyn supposed. “Perhaps,” she said pleasantly, though now that she had met the man, she would rather kiss a water snake—at fifty fathoms.
“What can you tell me of the Sea Ghost?” she asked, naming the ship that had forever changed her life.
Malchior’s plump shoulders rose in a shrug. “Little. The ship was indeed a Zhentish vessel, but it disappeared some twenty years ago. Given the pirate activity in the area, it was assumed that the ship was attacked, looted, and scuttled.”
Bronwyn knew that already, and all too well. ‘Was there any attempt to trace the cargo?”
“Of course. A few weapons were recovered, and a few bits of jewelry, but most of the cargo disappeared into the markets of Amn.”
He continued to talk, but his words melted into the remembered haze of sound and smells and sensations: terror, captivity humiliation, pain. Oh yes, Bronw~n remembered the markets of Amn. The cacophony of voices that she could not yet understand, the prodding hands, the sudden knell of the falling gavel that announced a slave sold, a fate sealed.
“I’m afraid I can tell you little more. Perhaps if you told me more about the precise piece you are seeking?”
Malchior’s words seeped into her nightmare, drawing her back into the present. Her eyes focused on his greedy face, the cunning knowledge that whatever she sought was worth more to her than the priceless amber necklace. She managed a wry smile. “Surely you don’t expect me to answer that. Can you tell me about the origin of the cargo? The ship’s owner, her captain? Even the name of a crewman? Anything you know, even details that may seem insignificant, might prove helpful.”
The priest leaned forward. “My voice begins to fail, with all this shouting back and forth across this lake. Come closer, and we will talk more.”
The bath was big, but not that big. Bronwyn rose and moved closer to the priest, taking care to stay beyond reach of those pudgy hands.
But he made no attempt to reach for her. “I must admit, your interest in this old matter intrigues me,” Malchior said. “Tell me what you know about Sea Ghost and her cargo, and perhaps I can be of more help.”
“I don’t know much more than I told you,” Bronwyn said honestly. “It was a long time ago, and the trail has long since gone cold.”
“And I would doubt that your own memory extends back so far,” he commented. “The ship was sunk more than twenty years ago. You were perhaps four years old?”
“About that,” she answered. In truth, she wasn’t sure of her exact age. She remembered very little: most of her early memories were swallowed up in terror. Before she could capture it, a bleak sigh escaped her.
Malchior nodded, his eyes shrewd in his round face. “Forgive me if this seems over-bold, but I could not help but notice your interesting tattoo. It looks a bit like a crimson oak leaf Perhaps you are a follower of Silvanus?”
Her first impulse was to laugh at this notion. Silvanus, the Oak Father, was a god revered by many druids, and she was most assuredly not of that faith. But it occurred to her that Cyric, Malchior’s god, was exceedingly jealous of any sign of fealty to another power.
“I was once rather... fond of a certain young woodsman,” she said lightly. “And he, in turn, was fond of oak leaves. So...“ She let the word trail off and shrugged. Let him assume from that what he would. The birthmark on her backside was no one’s business but her own.
“Is that so?” Malchior leaned forward. “I have great sympathy for a man’s desire to leave his mark on you. In time, perhaps you could be persuaded to wear mine. Take her!” he called out.
Bronwyn’s eyes widened, then darted to the door. The first hard kick resounded through the room, straining the bolt she’d carefully put in place.
She was out of the tub with a single leap and then dashed for the window. The splashing behind her—barely audible over the continued pounding at the door—announced Malchior’s pursuit.
He moved fast, especially for a fat man. The priest seized her from behind, one fleshy arm around her waist and another flung around her throat. He was strong, too. Bronwyn wriggled like a hooked trout, but could not break free.
“Hurry; you fools!” he shouted out. “I can’t hold her forever!”
Bronwyn thrust a hand into her hair and yanked out the stiletto she had hidden in the thick coils. The weapon was designed for precise, careful attack, but there was no time. She stabbed back over her shoulder and met yielding flesh. But the narrow knife did not strike hard or deep. Malchior yelped and tightened his grip. Again she struck, this time punching into the bones of his hands. She tore at the blade, then lashed out a third time.
Finally he released her—just as the door burst open in an explosion of wood. Bronwyn darted a quick look over her shoulder. Three men charged into the steamy room. There was little time for escape, but fury prompted her to turn back to the priest, and slash the point of the tiny blade across his sagging jowls.