"You of all folk are the last who owe apology," she said. She was turning her toothed-wheel holy sign of Gond over and over in strong, capable fingers. It was finely milled of steel, which the god held the noblest of metals, preferring its utility to the showiness of silver, platinum, or gold. "You warned him time and again."
"And yet I might have helped precipitate his murder, by facing down those ravers in his shop last year."
"Just as likely you forestalled it. Such folk want victims, not confrontation; it's weakness that arouses their bloodlust. My father's confirmed passivity marked him as a target. Once we mustered opposition, ill-armed and untrained as it was, the rioters fell back smartly enough."
She let the medallion drop and buried her face in her bands. Tears leaked between the fingers. "Oh, Father, Father. If only I'd had the strength to disobey you before it was too late!"
Zaranda came to her and laid an arm around shaking shoulders. "Grieve, for you must. But don't burden your soul with regrets. You won't serve your father's memory by crippling yourself with might-have-beens."
The priestess clung to Zaranda, and her slight but sturdy frame was racked by great, silent sobs. Zaranda gently stroked her friend's head. Her blue-gray eyes leaked a few tears of their own, but silently; she would do her grieving for White Eyebrow later, if she were still alive.
At last the tremors dwindled, and Simonne pulled away. "You're right," she said. "Gond teaches us ever to took to the future."
"Well said, my friend." Zaranda sat down in her chair across the desk from her visitor. "What do you see the future as holding?"
"Extinction for the gnomes of Zazesspur," Simonne replied, "unless we fight back."
Zaranda smiled. "Fighting back is a commodity I specialize in."
Simonne nodded. "I know. I didn't come just to bear news of my father's death." She sat upright. "I wish to engage the services of Star Protectives to teach us how to defend ourselves. My father left some treasure hidden where the marauders couldn't get to it, and I have some small wealth of my own."
"You needn't concern yourself-" Zaranda began.
The priestess held up a hand. "Please. Followers of Gond give charity, but do not accept it. Nor is it wise for gnomes to come to you larger folk as supplicants; my father was right about that, as about so many things."
"Indeed, your father was a wise gnome. And you're a worthy daughter. But let us leave the matter of payment for later; I'll trust you to pay, and if you so choose, you will trust me not to gouge you."
"So let it be done," Simonne said with a businesslike nod.
"Now, my freedom of action's a bit curtailed right now, so when it comes to training, you're best advised to try to reach my people outside the city. In fact, since you insist on giving recompense, your so doing would be of great service to me, and go far toward repaying whatever help I render you."
"We can do that. We prefer to live within the laws as much as possible, but as you know, we're not slavish. When the law becomes intolerable, it is our way to slide around insofar as we can."
"I know."
"So rest assured that we shall quickly contact your friends outside; walls and patrols cannot contain us."
Zaranda gripped the table's edge for support; the flood of relief made her dizzy. Though her people could do nothing to help her, though the rumors of dissension and dissolution might well be true-still, what a relief to know how her friends fared.
"Thank you. Now, you managed to extemporize a self-defense force to rout the Hairheads. That's an excellent start. I can tell you-"
"A moment, please, gnome-friend." Simonne's large eyes were solemn. "The council-or at least Baron Hardisty-looks askance at attempts by the people to defend themselves. Can we safely discuss such matters, here in the heart of city hall?"
Zaranda laughed out loud. "Of all my visitors, you're the first to question that. The powerful and the putatively wise have been tramping through my humble abode by the hour, working their jaws with never a thought that anyone might be eavesdropping!" She shook her head. "There are tricks I've heard of, speaking tubes built directly into a building to convey conversations to secret listeners. I've found no sign of such in my cell, though I'm far from expert enough to guarantee we're safe. And I've sensed no dweomer play directed against me-but again, a sufficiently puissant wizard could cast a clairaudience spell and I'd never feel it."
She shrugged. "But among my ever-so-candid visitors have been almost all the council. They saw no reason to guard their speech. Perhaps neither their intellect nor wisdom are such as to astonish all Toril, but I trust them to be astute in the matter of keeping their own hides intact."
"Fair enough," the priestess said. "Now, what can you tell me?"
For an hour Zaranda sketched out a plan for whipping up a serviceable self-defense force. "Now," she con-eluded, "a show of force-more, of determination-will most likely deter would-be pogrom-makers like the ravers; as you said, they seek sport, not the chance to see their own blood spill. But if you face organized aggression-" she meant the bronze-and-blues, but saw no reason to tempt fate by being unnecessarily explicit "-it's' paramount not to confront them directly. Never meet strength with strength; instead give way like water, and like water flow around and in behind them. And, like water, you can erode them, given patience and resolve."
The priestess rose. Tour words are sound. I will remember them. Thank you. Now I must go. I'll get in touch with your people as soon as I can."
She turned to go. "One thing," Zaranda said. "I've been having… disquieting dreams…"
"As have we all."
"During one especially bad one I had a vision: a black galley, moored in some half-flooded cavern beneath the city, taking on a load of stolen children."
"I've heard the rumors," Simonne said.
"Fell things go on beneath any city; that's the way of Faerun. But my dreams… they seem to come from below."
"The darklings come from the sewers."
"So they do-but stay clear of them; you'll not have the strength to meet them on their own ground. The black galley, though-"
"We can deal with its crew and accomplices, if indeed they're down there. Such evil must be stopped." The priestess showed a distinctly nongnomish grin. "And who knows? We may bring some fascinating bits of knowledge to light."
Come to me, the Voice sang, dry and insistent as desert wind. Join me. Think what I have to offer: the power to make of things what they ought to be.
Lying on her back, Zaranda moaned and thrashed her head from side to side. There was no escaping the sibilant caress of that Voice.
Come to me, Zaranda. You are mine already. Come to me and know the power; come to me and spare yourself the pain.
The opening of her cell door was like the breaking of a spell. She sat up, clutching sweat-sodden sheets to herself, throwing up a palm to ward off lantern light that seemed to pierce her eyes like spears.
Shapes resolved from the glare as her eyes adjusted: Duke Hembreon, tall, cloaked, and grave, backed by city police. Others filed in until the small chamber was packed-Lord Hardisty, Armenides, Shaveli Sword-Master, the latter carrying a large leathern bag.
"To what do I owe the honor?" she asked.
The duke shook his magnificent white head. "Ah, Zaranda, to think that I believed you when you said you intended no treachery. Poorly have you served my faith."