Swords of Eveningstar

As full night fell over Filfaeril’s private garden, the servants lit the last of the lamps to keep its darkness softly at bay and fled in soft-skirted haste, unspeaking. All in the palace knew how much the queen loved her privacy.

In twilight and the early night, when affairs of state permitted such leisure, the Dragon Queen liked to walk alone, or sit quietly in a bower seat and think. Save for the rare occasions when she shared this time with her husband the king or the even rarer occasions when she was accompanied by someone else, she preferred tranquility and solitude, free from all prying. She had famously insisted on this in discussions with the royal magician, disputations that culminated in an argument Filfaeril had ended with a punch to Vangerdahast’s jaw.

Whereupon (once the reeling wizard had fallen, regained his feet, and collected his stammering wits) she had won matters her way, and now walked her gardens very much alone. Powerful wards prevented anyone from stealing up on her through the thick forests and rolling lawns of the royal park, and trios of war wizards and highknights guarded all access between the palace and her small, exquisite garden, their attention carefully turned away from the queen, toward the palace itself.

This still and surprisingly cool evening, Filfaeril lingered not as long among the opening, faintly glowing night-blossoms as she usually did. Instead she strode soft-slippered, in plain skirts and with a half-cloak about her shoulders against the chill, to the darkest back corner of her nine linked bowers, under the tree-shade where the moonlight would take some time yet to reach.

Hooking her fingers through the wide belt she wore around her slender hips, Filfaeril on a whim broke into a few dance steps and kicks, then spun around to stare back at the palace.

Only one balcony overlooked her here, and it was empty. The battlements high above it bore no trace of staring Purple Dragon heads. The garrison was up there, she knew, but had their orders not to look down into the garden and, she knew from covertly testing them in the past, were diligently obedient in this regard.

Stretching as luxuriously as any idly purring cat, the Queen of Cormyr went to her favorite bower seat, settled herself gracefully, and idly sang a snatch of a well-known ballad: “Are you there listening, pretty nightbird? Pretty nightbird?”

“Yes,” came the soft whisper beside her ear, “but so is a highknight spy, behind yonder statue. Send him away.”

Filfaeril did not have to feign her anger. Springing to her feet, she marched across the velvety sward to the whitestone statue of Azoun Triumphant-the only statue in her garden-and snapped, “Come out, man!”

The only reply was silence. Mouth tightening, the Dragon Queen sprang up two artfully placed stones among the plantings and embraced the statue, swinging around it to confront-a black-garbed man crouching behind it.

“Highknight,” she snarled, “who ordered you to this duty? Tell me!”

“I-Your Highness, I-”

“I’ve given you a royal command,” Filfaeril said, striding forward until her great belt buckle was almost touching the man’s nose.

He could feel what she could hear: the crackle of the spell-shield emanating from it. If he bore any steel about his person, he must also be feeling the pain of its ironguard warding.

The highknight rose and stepped back from Filfaeril in one smooth motion, to kneel to her then rise, saying, “The wizard Vangerdahast, my queen. I am to report any speech you may have with other persons whom you meet with here, and identify such persons.”

He hesitated, eyes meeting the queen’s simmering gaze, and added, “I should tell you that it is my belief that Wizards of War assigned by him indirectly scry you, even now, by scrying me. I submit myself to any punishment you may decree.”

Filfaeril threw back her head, drew in a deep breath as she looked at the stars, and then told the man tightly, “Loyal Highknight, go you and tell the Royal Magician Vangerdahast I would speak with him. Immediately. Seek not to compel him, but deliver this my message and depart from him, saying other orders of mine ride you. Answer not any queries as to those orders, but absent yourself from duty until the coming highsun. Go to a tavern, a festhall, or a club, and take your ease this night through-but go now. ”

The highknight bowed. “I hear and will obey. Your Highness is merciful.”

“With some,” Filfaeril hissed at him. “With some.”

He descended onto the sward so she could clearly see his departure. The Dragon Queen swung down from her statue to stand and watch him go, the length of all her bowers, ere returning to her seat.

“Well, that was fun,” she remarked, her breathing still faster than normal. “How goes your harping?”

“I can still break strings,” came the low-pitched reply, “and have eyes that yet work well enough to notice your signal. How d’you keep your maids from tidying that coverlet right back off the balcony rail?”

“Promise to flay them alive,” Filfaeril said sweetly. “I had to start in on one of them once, but from the moment I cracked the whip and ordered her to bare herself, and they all stared at me and got a good look at my face, they… found obedience.”

The woman lying at ease under the bushes chuckled. “You should try the same tactic on Azoun.”

“Dove,” Filfaeril said, “ don’t tempt me. He’d probably enjoy it, which is about all I want to say on the matter-given that Vangey just might decide that teleporting himself into my lap and storming at me, any moment now, is his best tactic. ’Tis more likely he’ll make sure he can’t be found by anyone this night, and in fact has been at some remote border locale of the realm all along, but…”

Dove chuckled again. “Wise words. So, what would you learn from the Harpers, and what will you trade in return? Bearing in mind that if Vangey is still eavesdropping, you may be handing him the chance to rant to the king that high treason flourishes in the bosom of Cormyr’s queen.”

“Let him try,” Filfaeril snapped. “Just let him try.”

Her fists were clenched, Dove saw-and so leaned out under the foliage to gently knead Filfaeril’s tense shoulders.

The queen stiffened at first, but slowly relaxed under the Harper’s skilled fingers, going so far as to groan briefly, three or four breaths later.

Then, without preamble, she said, “Bhereu’s pryings are aimed at uncovering what he believes to be men under his command making covert investments in Sembia via Sembian factors who’ve come to court several times, now, with trade proposals. The investments are probably nothing sinister in themselves, but he’s concerned that the Sembians are buying influence over his officers. The two most energetic factors go by the names Rrastran Ravalandro and Atuemor Ghallowgard. I believe that was one matter you Harpers were curious about.”

“You believe correctly,” Dove replied, her massaging fingers digging deeply into Filfaeril’s hitherto rigid neck and shoulders. “Anything else?”

“No. Court is quiet at the moment, so those who scheme and intrigue most vigorously-Vangerdahast and those my husband directs in their whisperings included-confine their hissings and soft threats to private moots well away from here. When they see the queen approaching, they recall an urgent need to be elsewhere.”

Dove chuckled again. “So, you’ve given me no state secrets but mere gossip; what would you know?”

“To match my paltry offering, a minor matter, to whit: this new band of adventurers my Azoun took such glee in anointing. He came back from Espar bubbling like a young lad at play, Dove! These Swords of Eveningstar: who are they, and what are they up to?”

“A handsome young forester of Espar who saved your Azoun’s life when he was attacked in Hunter’s Hollow by Sembian hireswords in the employ of certain nobles of this fair realm-just who, we Harpers know not, but we do know Vangerdahast has personally mind-reamed the lone hiresword Florin spared, when Azoun ordered him to do so-and the forester’s friends, and a few seekers-of-adventure they picked up in Waymoot. Ah, sorry: that ‘Florin’ is the young forester; Florin Falconhand.”

“That name I have heard,” Filfaeril murmured. “Are they young, eyes shining with thoughts of treasure, or-?”

Dove nodded. “Young and filled with hope, indeed. Your Azoun sent them to scour out the Haunted Halls-”

“As he does all adventurers who lack noble parents to protest them being sent to their deaths,” Filfaeril murmured. “They are, then, not deemed sinister, but merely untested in their loyalty and heroism?”

“Indeed. They may yet fall, of course, but already their naive explorations are doing more to discomfit the Zhentarim in northern Cormyr than anything you-or we-have managed thus far. Zhentil Keep still has its spies, drug-sellers, and smugglers everywhere, but stolen goods and Cormyreans drugged to be sent into slavery are no longer casually added to every third caravan passing through Arabel or Eveningstar. The Zhents are being forced into the longer and more dangerous Stonelands routes-and I’ve even heard tell of their trying again to run large caravans through Anauroch.”

The queen turned her head, eyes widening. “You tell me true? One band of adventurers has managed all this? Unwittingly?”

Dove nodded. “And if unwitting adventurers can do this much damage, just think of what a handful of your worst idiot courtiers can wreak. Unwittingly.”

“Pennae! Pennae! ” Florin rushed forward, his drawn sword flashing.

“Agannor!” Florin snapped, standing where Pennae had been, moments before. “Your lantern! Here! Now! ”

Blinking in astonishment, Agannor obeyed, thrusting his lantern forward, low, where Florin was waving frantically at the floor.

There was nothing. No scorch mark, no ashes, no tiny, thumb-tall Pennae squeaking up at them and waving insect-sized arms. She was simply-gone.

Florin pointed furiously up at the niche Pennae had been probing, and Agannor brought the light up to show everyone… a carving at the back of the niche that looked like a castle wall, crenelated and with a tiny hinged door that looked like it actually swung back and forth, if touched.

Eyes hard and breathing heavily, Florin looked around wildly at the rest of the Swords-then thrust the point of his sword into the niche.

There came the briefest of blue flashes-again-and the passage was suddenly empty of all trace of Florin Falconhand.

“Oh, ye gods most marvelous,” Jhessail cursed. “ Now what?”

Islif shrugged. “None of us live forever,” she said, striding forward with her sword ready. “Adventure, remember?” She slid her sword deftly into the niche, and vanished in an instant.

Doust shrugged, fumbled forth his belt knife, and followed suit. Then Martess and Bey, who laconically handed his lantern to Jhessail.

With various shrugs, in their own manners, every one of the Swords followed, leaving the passage in the Haunted Halls dark and empty again.

Jhessail wrinkled her nose and blinked into many wet reflections of lamplight. “It stinks, ” she murmured, looking around her at her fellow Swords, who were crowded together in an alleyway, peering in all directions and looking just as lost as she was. “Where are we?”

The alley reeked of rotting refuse and chamberpots. The lamplight was coming from a cobbled street the alley opened out into, a street walled in by tall, narrow stone buildings on all sides, where wagons were rumbling through the night.

Folk were trudging purposefully everywhere, close-cloaked against the light rain, and Pennae was flattened against the alley wall, beside its mouth, gesturing frantically to her fellow Swords to get over to the wall beside her and quiet down.

Looking right down the alley and across the street beyond, Jhessail found herself gazing into the hard stares of a trio of Purple Dragons, who were nodding together as they watched the Swords, suspicion written large on their tight lips, narrowed eyes, and set jaws.

As she watched, they seemed to reach some sort of agreement. One hurried off, his boots splashing through puddles. The other two stayed right where they were, glaring at the Swords.

Doust stepped away from the wall, Semoor inevitably trailing by his elbow, and strode right out of the alley, ignoring Pennae’s hissed warnings.

The Swords all watched, Agannor starting to grin openly, as the two priestlings marched right across the street to the two Purple Dragons.

Giving those still in the alley a stern ‘stay here’ hand signal, Islif started after Doust and Semoor, sheathing her blade. Then she changed her mind and spun around to stop her fellow Swords from spilling across the street. Pennae ducked past her, but the rest crowded forward, leaning over Islif’s outstretched arms to best hear what befell, but making no move to win past her.

They found the street busy in both directions with stopped wagons involved in the busy loading and unloading of crates, coffers, and kegs to and from various shops.

Across that cobbled way, the holiest of the Swords reached the unsmiling soldiers.

“Well met, this fair even,” Doust said with a bright smile. “We’ve just been brought here by the favor of the goddess Tymora-”

“Ahem,” Semoor interrupted, “and the magical might of the bright Morninglord Lathander.”

“-and though we know full well by your very presence, stalwarts, that we stand yet in Cormyr, we are sadly unaware of what city this is. Ah, around us. Here.”

The flat stares of the Purple Dragons had been burning holes in the smiling priestlings during their approach, and went right on doing so in the silence Doust gave them, in which to reply. Neither Dragon said a word.

Smile wavering, Doust tried again. “We all of us find our surroundings unfamiliar, and would very much like to know where we are. So, could you tell us? Please?”

“You’re drunk, that’s what you are,” the tall Purple Dragon growled.

“Or playing us for fools,” the other said. “Get gone with you!”

“I… could you at least tell me where the local temple of Tymora is?”

“If you’re truly favored of Tymora, just start walking,” the first Dragon sneered, “an’ you’ll be sure to find it, hey?”

“This,” Semoor said, “is less than good.” He put a hand on Doust’s arm. “Fellow priest, we should tarry no more talking with these impostors. We can tell Azoun of them, and he’ll see that they’re rooted out. Or rather, Vangey’s pet war wizards will.”

The Dragons blinked at him. Then their eyes narrowed.

“Impostors?” the tall one snarled.

“Speaking slightingly of the king?” the shorter, stouter one growled. Their hands went to their sword hilts in unison, and they seemed to loom forward over the two Swords.

“Just why,” the tall Dragon asked Semoor, jaw jutting angrily, “d’you call us ‘impostors’? Hey?”

Semoor spread his hands, looking earnest and eagerly helpful. “Look you, sir, no true Purple Dragon would answer a citizen of Cormyr so-and even less, a priest of Lathander. Still less, two priests, both of whom personally stand in the high regard of the king.”

He shrugged, almost mournfully. “Wherefore I can only conclude that you’re impostors. Or, just perhaps, high-ranking, veteran Dragons, playing a game of words to flush out enemies of the state, who have merely mistaken us for such.”

The two Dragons looked at each other, their faces sagging a bit.

“Oh, great, ” the stout Dragon said sourly.

The tall Dragon looked at Doust, then at Semoor, before he asked the priest of Lathander reluctantly, “So you’re friends of the king? Is that it?”

“The king himself poured me wine-at his table-less than a tenday ago,” Semoor replied truthfully.

“Naed,” The tall Dragon muttered. “Pray accept our apologies, holy lords. When we saw you come through yon way, we were sure you must be Zhents, an’ were treating you accordingly.”

“Zhents? The dark wizards of Zhentil Keep?” Doust managed to look shocked. “They use, uh, ‘yon way’ often enough that you keep watch over it?”

“Lord, they do. That’s why we’re standing here, in the rain an’ all: to keep watch down that alley. Where all your friends are.” The tall Dragon squinted. “Any wizards among ’em, anyhail?”

“Yes,” Doust said reluctantly-at the same moment as Semoor said, “No.”

The Dragons frowned in unison, patting their sword hilts, before the stout Dragon said with heavy sarcasm, “So, now, which is it? Have you mages among you-or not?”

Doust put his foot down hard on Semoor’s instep, and said firmly, “We have two young lasses among us who have just learned to cast their first spells. To me, that makes them mages. Obviously, to my fellow servant of the divine here, it does not. Look you at the one with flame-orange hair? And the dark-haired one standing beside her? Those are the two we’re speaking of. Look they like sinister Zhent wizards to you?”

The stout Dragon’s smile, as he shook his head, was almost a leer.

The tall Dragon, however, was frowning. “I’m more concerned with the one in black,” he said-then blinked. “Hoy! Where’d she go?”

Semoor leaned close. “Shush! She’s a highknight, and doesn’t take it kindly if any of us so much as looks at her sidewise. If you go hollering after her, there’s no telling what she’ll do!”

“And if you lay a hand on her,” Doust added, “there’s no telling what the king will do. Seeing as how he likes to be the only one who-ahem-lays hands on her.”

“Arntarmar!” The tall Dragon hissed feelingly.

Wincing, the stout Dragon nodded, growling, “Talandor!”

Oaths of Tempus. As might be expected of Purple Dragons.

“So, men of the Wargod and of the Great Dragon who rules this land so gloriously,” Semoor asked, his face and voice perfectly serious, “what city is this?”

Both men blinked at him. “Arabel,” Tall Dragon said. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Semoor could not resist saying, pique clear in his voice.

The stout Dragon’s face started to darken, and Doust hastily spoke up. “You’ve been most helpful to us, stalwarts of the king, and we shall remember you in our prayers this night, to Tymora-”

“And Lathander!” Semoor put in.

“-after we report to the Lady Lord of Arabel, as Az-as the king asked us to,” Doust concluded grandly. He turned back to face the alley and pointed at what was just visible over the roofs of the buildings there, flickering in the rain-filled night as sodden banners flapped half-heartedly: storm lanterns atop the battlements of tall, frowning fortress towers. “Yonder is the citadel, yes?”

The Dragons both nodded, and the tall Dragon pointed and spoke: “An’ the palace where you’ll find her stands just in front of it. The temple you seek, the Lady’s House, is the second building north of the citadel, going along the west wall. Looks like a grand house, all cone-shingled turrets, five balconies high.”

“Well met and better parted,” Doust said, bowing his head to them with folded hands. “The Luck of the Lady be upon you, and shine back from you to please the Lord of Battles himself.”

“And the rosy glow of Lathander also, that Holy Tempus be most richly pleased,” Semoor added glibly, turning away before the two Dragons could see him rolling his eyes.

Dodging rumbling carts, they returned to the alley, where Islif greeted them grimly, “Swagger not too proudly, you two. Remember that Dragon we saw hurrying off? He went to report to someone-probably his duty commander. And who stands beside every duty commander?”

“A war wizard to mind him,” Florin said. “So we’re being watched-unless we can ‘disappear’ very quickly.”

“So let’s move!” Agannor growled.

“Wait!” Florin snapped. “Where’s Pennae?”

“Here,” came her voice, from the shadows down the alley. “I like to see where alleys lead to-in case I have to hurry that way. This one takes us past a very well guarded warehouse, into the heart of this block and then out its far side, onto a street that in that direction leads to the local temple of Tymora. Oh, yes: this is Arabel.”

“We know,” Semoor said grandly. “Yon Purple Dragons told us.”

“Well,” Pennae observed in dry tones, “they do have orders to assist simpletons.”

“The Lady’s House,” Florin said. “Let’s get to it! I don’t want to be standing here a few breaths from now trying to bluff my way past a few sternly disapproving war wizards. They may well take the view that we’ve disobeyed the king’s commands just by coming here.”

“Well said,” Bey growled, shoving Semoor forward. “Hasten, hrast it!”

In a few breaths they were all trotting along the alley, heading away from the busy street and the two watching Purple Dragons. The warehouse was a gigantic, very new stone building bristling with hard-eyed armored men with loaded crossbows in their hands-Agannor shuddered involuntarily-and the Swords hurried past it, out onto a street of rich-looking shops. Under ornate awnings, all faced Arabel through fine glass windows, through which could be seen ornate lanterns, glittering wares, and smartly uniformed nightguards standing watchfully within.

Pennae led the Swords north, past shops selling fine silk gowns, masks, and gem-adorned boots, and several dazzling shops that contained only several guards each, standing amid all manner of gemstones that flashed and glimmered back reflections from the rain-soaked streets. The street soon ended in a moot with a wider, busier way, down which could be seen three grand, towering buildings.

The most distant, central one matched the Dragon’s description of the temple to Tymora-and reeling out of its tall, ornate double doors, as the Swords strode purposefully toward it, came a large man in robes and a weathercloak of rich blue: a priest of the luck goddess.

They could tell what he was by what bounced on his ample chest and belly at the end of a heavy neckchain: the largest silver coin they’d ever seen, as wide across as both of Florin’s hands, bearing the face of a smiling yet dignified Tymora, rendered in the old fashion.

The priest wearing it was somewhat younger. He looked to be an energetic forty summers old or so. Beneath unruly brown hair, his nose, jaws, and ears were all as overlarge as the coin; it looked as if the head of a giant rode human-sized shoulders. He also looked (flushed scarlet and drooling slightly), sounded (by his incoherently slurred bellows), and smelled (Jhessail winced at the reek of strong spiced wine, laced around the edges with spew) very drunk.

As tall as Florin, and long-limbed, he covered much of the cobbles as he came staggering, growling half-audible oaths and complaints through his scraggly mustache.

“Wors’ novice ever? Worst novice ever? I doan’ think so! Rabra-Rabbraha-Radrabryn was a killer an’ a thief, an’ I… I never killed anyone yet, a-purpose, at leas’…”

He caught sight of Doust’s homemade Ladycoin and drew himself up to fix the Swords with piercing brown eyes. “Pilgrims, be ye? Hey?”

“Well,” Doust began, “not exactly…”

“ Doan’ go in there! Fellow Ladysworn, stay away from the House this night! They’ve all gone crazed-crazed, I tell thee!”

“Crazed?”

“Crazed, or my name’s not R-Rathan Thentraver.” He hiccuped. “Which ’tis. So, they are. Y’see?”

“Ahh,” Semoor ventured, “you’re saying this isn’t the best time for us to visit the temple?”

“S’right. Not.” Rathan waggled a finger. “Go ’way. Come back ’morrow. Better then. Trus’ me.” Drawing his cloak around him, he lurched away.

Semoor smirked at Doust. “Well, if they all drink like that, you chose the right faith, of us two.”

Doust reddened. “I did not ‘choose’ the Lady,” he said. “She chose me. Appearing to me in my dreams, so strongly that… well…”

He waved his hand, as if to hurl away Semoor’s suggestion, and stared after the reeling priest. Beyond Rathan, he saw a Purple Dragon patrol approaching briskly out of the night, a robed and hooded man marching grimly in their midst. “ Look you,” he said warningly.

“Another patrol yonder,” Pennae added, nodding down a different street. She peered in all directions, then pointed. “An inn! Hurry! ”

“ ‘The Weary Knight’?” Agannor read aloud. “Lass, ’tis right across the street from the citadel-which is also the city jail! Are you trying to save the Dragons trouble?”

“In the back door, fast,” she snapped, “and straight through, out the front. The moment I open that door and start talking to guards, no one act anxious or in a hurry. I’ll be haughty, and will likely tell some very large lies, hear you?”

Semoor rolled his eyes. “Now why does that not surprise me?”

“Purple Dragons everywhere,” Jhessail murmured as they ran. “Doesn’t this city have a watch?”

Bey laughed. “Lass, Arabel’s rebelled so often that the Dragons are the watch, these days! Just as the Blue Dragons serve in Marsember, the other city that’s none too happy to be ruled by the Dragon Throne!”

Then they were at the inn’s back door. Pennae whirled, snatched Florin’s sword out of its sheath, and held it up solemnly before her, blade vertical. Assuming a stern look, she opened the door.

Two startled nightguards shoved themselves away from where they’d been lounging against the walls, grabbing for their weapons.

Pennae ignored them, both hands holding the sword out before her as she strode between them with slow, stately tread.

“Hoy!” one guard told her, skipping sideways to get in front of her so he could bar her way with his arm. “Hold!”

“Hold what?” Semoor inquired innocently.

“Sirrah, make way,” Pennae told the man. “We are pilgrims of Tempus, the Drawn Sword.”

“You’re what? ” the other guard asked. “Well, you can’t all just come charging in here, after dark! This is-”

“One of Arabel’s best inns, I’ve heard,” Pennae said, “which is why we chose it. Make way, lest holy displeasure fall upon the Weary Knight! Make way! ”

Uncertainly, the two guards did so. “Uh, the steward of the house can be found straight down this hall, in the front-”

“Thank you,” Pennae called back in firm dismissal, pacing on in a stately manner, her sword held high.

Florin matched her gait, and so did Islif; the other Swords saw and did likewise.

Behind them all, the two nightguards traded looks, shrugged, and rolled their eyes. Truly, the strange-in-the-head guests came thick and fast, this time of year…

At the sound of the chime, Narantha Crownsilver put down her goblet of warmed zzar, rose, retied the sash of her gown, and went to the door.

It opened onto a smiling face.

“Uncle Lorneth,” she said in genuine pleasure, stepping back to let him in. “Zzar?”

“My thanks for your thoughtfulness, Ladylass, but I fear not. I’ve much clear-headed work still ahead of me this night.”

“Work I can help with?” Narantha asked wistfully.

Her uncle hugged her. “Ahh, would that Cormyr had a dozen like you! You’re doing the Crown great service!”

Narantha grinned at him. “If I go on doing it well enough, will there come a time when I’ll truly be told what I’m doing? How it fits in with greater plans to confound the foes of Cormyr? Learn some deep secrets?”

Uncle Lorneth’s face grew solemn, and he laid a warning finger across her lips. “Little one,” he murmured, “you already know several deep secrets. That I’m alive, for one thing.”

“Wha-do Mother and Father not know? ”

“No, and they must not, yet, for fear they’ll tell ‘just a few close friends,’ and so warn certain folk who should not yet be warned. As for secrets, your mother and father have never known what you already know: that I’m among the most secret and highly placed agents of the Purple Dragon himself.”

Narantha smiled. “In a handful of days I’ve learned my own worth, found something useful to do-and drunk deep of adventure! ” She raised her goblet in salute.

“Actually,” Lorneth Crownsilver said brightly, “I think you’ll find that’s zzar…”

Then he turned his back in a flash, in case her snort of laughter heralded the goblet being flung at him.

It did not. When he turned around again, the glass was empty and Narantha was poised over it, chin on hands, regarding him with bright and eager eyes. “So, my highly secret uncle, what’s my next task?”

“There are always guards at the citadel gates, and around the palace,” Pennae snapped. “Just match my pace, keep walking, and don’t look guilty. Ignore the Dragons; to you, they’re… furniture.”

“Really?” Semoor murmured. “Remind me not to sit down on anything in your home.”

“If I had a home, Holy Wolftooth, you’d be the sort of man I’d turn away from my door,” Pennae hissed. “Now stop playing the fool! There are Dragons and war wizards all around us!”

“Strangely enough, I’d noticed as much,” he muttered as the Swords passed between the palace and the gaudy windows of Dulbiir’s Finery and Finer Promises, still bright at this late hour. The rain was no more than a light, clinging mist now, but the Swords were growing more worried about the clinging tendencies of the lawkeepers of Cormyr, patiently closing in around them.

“Pennae,” Florin murmured, “I hope you know where you’re-”

“I’m looking for an inn I know only by name,” she muttered over her shoulder. “It should be right along here… and if we’ve coins enough, or give good weapons in lieu, they’ll both give us rooms and help hide us.”

They walked in slow, steady procession the length of a long block ere Pennae relaxed with a sigh, and turned in at the door of the nearest corner building of the next block.

“The Falcon’s Rest,” Islif and Agannor murmured in rough unison, looking up to read the sign.

Pennae tapped at a small sliding panel in the door. When it slid aside, revealing only darkness, she announced, “We must go to ground, for the Dragons hunt.”

The door clicked open and a dry, elderly male voice said, “Then hurry in, turn to the right, and walk far enough to let all your fellows in behind you. Be welcome in the Rest.”

The Swords hastened inside, the door was closed, bolted, and barred, and lamps were unhooded to reveal a common room with a huge oaken stair rising up to unseen levels above. As they blinked at the staff of the Rest, who nodded welcome to them over loaded and ready handbows, the owner of a rather sly smile stepped back from a lofty landing on the stair, nodded, and stole away into deeper darkness.

The Swords of Eveningstar were in Arabel, and in the Rest. Which meant a certain someone, whose orders had been explicit and forceful, must be informed without delay.

Green adventurers are so easily baited and blamed. This was going to be fun.