"What if she doesn't want to be rescued?" The look of agony that washed over the old man's features brought her instant shame.
"Don't worry, Your Grace," she said quickly. "The first item on my agenda is breaking into the Palace of Misrule over there and cutting King Faneuil the First and Last's black heart right out of his chest."
She finished writing, signed the parchment with a flourish, and held it out to him. "After my friends get here."
A knock at the door roused her from a surprisingly deep sleep-surprising in that she had simply lain down to rest her eyes while waiting, and was not plagued by nightmares. Perhaps she was too tired to dream. Or perhaps the owner of that dry and loathly Voice had more pressing claims on its attention.
She woke with a fearful start: they've come to take me and break me! By the time she remembered that those festivities had been called on account of reign- the reign of evil, to be exact-the door had opened and into the city hall clerk's office, which she had commandeered after her release, came Nyadnar.
"It speaks well for your presence of mind that you can sleep under these circumstances," the sorceress said.
"What surprises me is that I could sleep last night at all," Zaranda said, rising from the makeshift cot. "What can I do for you?"
Day turned the pallor of Nyadnar's features marmoreal, giving her the weird, poignant beauty of an ancient statue brought to life. She wore her customary robe of midnight-blue velvet, and over it a gray cloak to shield her from the sporadic drizzle. From beneath the cloak she produced a bundle of books and age-yellowed papers, bound up by a purple ribbon. These she laid on the table.
"My early spellbooks," the enchantress said. "Any spells known to you, you will find therein."
Zaranda stared at the bundle as if it might at any moment transform itself into a raging dragon. "The world must be spinning seriously out of balance," she said, "for you to take such measures on my behalf."
"Don't leap to conclusions; that displays a lack of mental rigor," Nyadnar said. "It might be necessary that you fail spectacularly."
"Then I'll have to try my best to disappoint you," Zaranda said with a she-wolf grin. "In the meantime, though, I thank you."
The sun was setting when another knock roused Zaranda from her studies. "What is it?" she called, knuckling sand-blasted eyes.
A policeman opened the door. "His Grace the duke sends his regards, milady. He bids me tell you your friends approach."
"Well met, Zaranda Star!" called Farlorn the Hand-some, waving jauntily from the back of his dapple-gray mare. "Your beauty is most resplendent, all things considered."
Mounted on his dark bay, Stillhawk met her eye and nodded greeting.
It took all her strength to keep her knees from buckling right there on the city hall steps. The pressure of tears unshed stung her eyes.
The two men swung down from their horses and walked up to her. When Zaranda made no move to embrace them, the half-elf cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.
"Where are the others?" she asked quietly. "Where are Shield, and Chen? Where's Goldie?"
The sky was gray as a gull's back, save near the horizon where fire held sway. The air was thick with the smells of death and burning and decay. The darklings stank like dead things even when alive, if alive they were. Even if Zazesspur survived, it would take time to eradicate their stench.
"I thought you'd have heard," said Farlorn. "The beast betrayed you to the baron's men; we clapped him in irons and have kept him there ever since. The girl has been in a most powerful sulk since you vanished. She refused to accompany us today."
Have I done wrong? Stillhawk signed.
Zaranda touched his arm. "If so, not intentionally. I suspected Shield for a time myself. But I feel as if a Wrong has been done."
Farlorn tuttutted and shook his head. "Ah, Zaranda. Once again, you're letting the softness of your heart weaken that hard head of yours-"
"Hey! Zaranda! Randi!"
Zaranda turned. Trotting across the plaza from the south came Goldie, bearing Chenowyn on her back.
At their side loped Shield of Innocence.
27
"You're sure this is the way into the palace?" Zaranda asked.
Farlorn's beautiful features assumed a long-suffering look by torchlight. "I didn't spend our previous so-journ in the city cutting out paper dolls. Naturally the palace attracted my interest, as a monument to elephantine bad taste if for no other reason. I made inquiry, and explored some on my own. That's one nice thing about trying to infiltrate buildings built less than an eon ago; it's a lot easier to buy a workman a jack of good ale at a tavern than it is to summon up his shade,"
Zaranda's party was recapitulating Simonne's sewer-crawl of the night before, which had precipitated today's crisis. Zaranda's group, while smaller, was much more seasoned. Farlorn led the way with a bull's-eye lantern in one hand and his rapier in the other, es-chewing any armor but the leather jerkin he wore over a white blouse with lace at throat and cuffs. Beside him walked Stillhawk with an arrow nocked to his elvish longbow and long sword belted at his hip; as was his custom, he too wore no armor, though his heavy leather tonic gave some protection.
Next came Zaranda, armed with a splendid if non-magical long sword from Hembreon's armory and a long-bladed dagger with a knuckle bow for parrying. Unless mounted, she hated a shield's encumbrance; her left hand held a torch. Her only armor was a steel cuirass. Chen followed, unarmored in loose blouse and trousers, with a dagger thrust through her belt, primarily for effect. She refused to be left behind, and given her service in springing the great orog, Zaranda didn't argue.
Shield of Innocence brought up the rear. The orog was magnificent and fearful in armor which, like the scimitars in his taloned hands, he had crafted himself under the guidance of Term, whose gauntlet was inlaid in gold in the center of his breastplate. He wore a helmet close-molded to his head with cheekpiece flanges that left his pointed ears clear to facilitate hearing, and steel greaves and vambraces, all polished to a mirror shine. His expression was serene. If his imprisonment had engendered resentment in his mighty breast, it didn't show on his face.
The tunnel running under the palace was high enough that all save Shield could walk without stooping. The smell was no less appalling for the comparatively short time the sewer had been in use, but Zaranda had endured worse. None of the others wasted breath on it either. Chen, who was not normally slow to speak up if things were not to her liking, had always been indifferent to smells, most notably her own, in the days before Zaranda brought her around on the hygiene issue. Farlorn, most aesthetically sensitive of the lot, displayed the loftiness of his contempt by not deigning to complain.
The tunnel began to branch to serve the various parts of the vast structure. Zazesspur, with its wealth of innovative and assiduous artisans, had enjoyed running water and indoor plumbing longer even than most great cities of Faerun; it was a simple enough technic, involving no magic, unless one were Calishite and simply had to have one's needs served by a bowl of water summoning. The half-elf led them left, right, left again down passages that diminished at every fork, so that even Chen, shortest of the group, had to double over, and Shield had to waddle in a painful-looking squat. His placid look never wavered.
" 'Ware upward," Farlorn called back over his shoulder. "Anything falling from above is unlikely to be the manna of the gods!"
"Thanks so much for reminding us," Zaranda said in a low voice. Farlorn laughed musically. "And could you please be quiet? If Hardisty hears voices floating up out of his commode he's not going to think it's an angelic chorus come to sing his praises."