The Sword Never Sleeps

Chapter 11

Princess Alusair was rather proud of herself. For months now she'd been trading dark, well-made, but plain gowns-of the sort one of her maids could just get away with wearing on special occasions outside the Royal Palace-for specific garments from among their "everydays." She'd built up quite a bundle of patched and worn smocks, aprons, breeches, jerkins, and hooded half-cloaks. These gains, bundled up together, were all hidden, stuffed undet a loose tread-board on the private stairs down to the Princes' Stable. Though she and Tana, princesses both, now shared that little enclave in the sprawling Palace srables, it was still "the Princes' Stable" and probably always would be. Her sister rode only at regular times these days, so for the rest of the time the narrow, dark stair was Alusair's own.

Wherefore she now had suitable garments in which to depart the Palace by way of those same stables, without immediately being recognized as a princess. Which meant she was spared the racket of alarm gongs and horns and the humiliation of being pounced upon by well-meaning Highknights and Purple Dragons and war wizards and dragged before her royal father-or mother or both-for discipline.

Hmm. Discipline. Her shapely behind was still burning, but the spanking hadn't chastened her one whit. Gods above, but her mother could whack hard!

Alusair's rump burned a little more painfully at the mere recollection. Not to mention the homespun rasping over rawness wherever where her silken clout didn't cover her.

She was, she'd discovered, actually a little proud of her burning behind. Though it was hardly something she could show casually to passersby, she felt it gave her something in common with the scarred old retired Purple Dragons she'd been seeing for as long as she could remember-the veterans who showed off their war marks proudly on feast days.

She, too, had been wounded standing up for Cormyr.

The step, tugged a little sideways to free it from its pegs, came up readily enough. Out came the bundle, and she stripped on the stairs in excited haste, shoving her glossy nightgown in with the clothes she wasn't going to use. Tugging on breeches, a worn and stained jerkin, and a hooded half-cloak, Alusair replaced the step and scampered on down the stairs.

Not to the bottom, where she was sure to be seen by stablehands or one of the guards. No, she'd long ago noticed that her stair passed an open end of the hayloft. It took but a moment to reach up, swinging and kicking in midair to bring her legs up over the edge then around a riser. With that post securely wedged into the backs of her knees, she could twist and claw the rest of herself up to join them.

The loft was low, long, and straight, like an attic. Mice squeaked and scampered through the hay as she crawled swiftly along through it, but they didn't bother her. The length of the hayloft could take her right out of the royal stalls into the next part of the stables, above the horses of equerries, envoys, and senior courtiers, to a third area reserved for the mounts of visiting royalty and dignitaries. She knew none were visiting Suzail just now, which meant there'd be neither stablehands nor guards, and all would be in darkness. Right next to the sprawling Royal Gardens, which she knew like her own morning face in rhe mirror, leaving her with an easy way to slip out of the Palace and back in again later.

Guards patrolled the Royal Gardens, but Alusair knew where they'd be. Moreover, they were watching for undesirables trying to sneak in, not get out. So long as her mother forbade the lopping of boughs off the mrimmon trees to quell any wisp of a chance that there'd ever be a paucity of mrimmon jelly on the royal cheese platters, there'd be several easy ways over the garden walls for a fairly light and agile princess who didn't mind undignified acrobatics.

Two strides away from the still-bouncing bough in her wake, Alusair was the very image of a weary, head-down underservant, trudging home late and in much need of a crust and a tankard of warm soup.

"Not a bad actor, our little spitfire princess," Wizard of War Baerent Orninspur said to his fellow mage.

Nodding, Wizard of War Mrask Tallowthond replied, "Almost as if she's done this a time or two before."

They indulged in a shared chuckle and fell into step behind the princess, keeping to the shadows on the harbor side of the Promenade-the side they were almost certain Alusair would soon be seeking.

Both wizards were tall, thin, young men who would not have looked out of place in armor, but Baerent was the one with the flashy good looks that caught feminine eyes wherever he went. Less handsome Mrask, lacking such easy charm, took refuge behind a moustache and a sharp tongue.

"Least she entertains us on these little jaunts," Baerenr said. "Where d'you think she's bound for, this time? Another night of drinking and flirting?"

Mrask shook his head. "Too purposeful, and too much restless haste in her chambers, earlier. She's bound on some secret little mission or other and excited about it." He jerked his head. "There she goes now."

The weary little servant had crossed the broad Promenade, dodging lamplit coaches and the ever-numerous rhrongs of citizenry walking with handcarts and sling-satchels and lit pipes, to reach the mouth of a side street.

The two war wizards walked faster, trying to get closer to see where she went ere the corner between them hid het going through a door, ducking down an alley, or sprinting up a stair to some upstair abode.

Tiny locks of her hair rode in their belt pouches, so they could use tracing magic if they had to, but Obarskyrs tended to go strolling weighed down with magical gewgaws. If Alusair felt their trace, her revealing behavior would change-even before things started getting unpleasant for Mrask Tallowthond and Baerent Orninspur.

As it happened, Mrask got to the corner a stride ahead of Baerent. He was in time to fling out a hand to keep his colleague back out of sight. "The spitfire gets adventurous! She's headed into the Touch!"

"The Moontouch?" Baerent stood thunderstruck and could not resist the temptation to step around Mrask's hand and reach a spot where he could see for himself.

He had training enough to step back before dropping his jaw and staring disbelievingly at the side of Mrask's head. Mrask hadn't looked away from the princess since reaching the corner and wasn't about to do so now.

There was no way either mage could be mistaken. One of Suzail's finer pleasure-houses, Daransa's Moontouch was situated above several haughty shops that sold gowns, gloves, hats, and lace adornments to women who could afford ruinous overcharging. There were two public ways into the Touch, both outside stairs that led nowhere else. The princess was on a landing at the top of the more public stair right now, speaking with a mountainous door guard-and no doubt having a hard time convincing him that she should be allowed past.

Just what a Princess of Cormyr could be seeking in luxuriously furnished rooms where highcoin lasses lived and worked was something neither war wizard wanted to speculate about. Not when it was their task to ascertain for certain what she was up to and report back same to the Royal Magician of Cormyr.

"She's going in," Mrask said. "Do we-?"

"No," Baerent said. "She's not a dullard, and she knows my face. She won't think two war wizards just happened to want to slake theit lusts at the very time she's visiting the Touch. We won't just learn nothing; we mighr well get our faces scratched half off and that door guard set upon us."

"Just for a start," Mrask agreed. "More importantly, she'll know we were set to watch over her, our usefulness in doing so would be ended-and Old Vangey will not be pleased."

"Tluin," Baerent agreed thoughtfully as he stepped behind Mrask to cast a scrying spell so as to watch and listen to the princess.

"Done," he said a moment later. "Your rum."

They traded places, Baerent now watching the closed door of the Moontouch and the impassive door guard standing against it with arms folded, staring down at all the folk of Suzail hurrying past.

Mrask worked the same scrying spell Baerent had, nodded to show his readiness, and the two war wizards found a little stretch of building wall to lean against and start their spying.

Only to stiffen in astonishment. Their spells had been cast perfectly and were working well-but something was stopping them, right at the closed door of the Moontouch.

Not one but two war wizard scryings, utterly blocked.

Doust Sulwood liked to be calm and quiet, so these surges of lich-fear were unsettling him more than a little. Yet he was neither stupid nor distracted, and he wasted no time in staring sternly into the eyes of the nearest Jhessail, who was moving her fingers in the swift gestures of a spell. Doust unleashed a command with all the holy power of Tymora he could muster: "Fall!"

Pennae's dagger was already in her hand. She thrust it under the curve of the same Jhessail's bodice, so the wizard's fall would plunge her right onto it. Fingers still spellweaving and eyes wild, Jhessail crumpled, crying, "No! "

Pennae whipped her blade away as swiftly as any racing lightning bolt. The helpless mage crashed to the floor unbloodied. In the same motion, Pennae whirled to menace the other Jhessail in the same way. Semoor was already shouting the same command.

The second Jhessail swept the dagger aside with her forearm, giving Pennae a crooked smile, then sagged at Tier knees, as if starting to fall.

"Not fooled," Islif said from right behind her, clamping iron-hard fingers on borh of the mage's elbows and yanking them back to touch each other-as she brought one knee firmly up into the wizard's back. "Jhess couldn't withstand that holy magic, so you're not Jhess!"

Lifting the false Jhessail by the elbows and using her knee to pivot her captive, Islif swung the now-struggling wizard in front of her like a shield.

"Behind me, everyone!" she said, her eyes hard as she watched the lich grandly babble the last words of an incantation.

The impostor in her grasp tried to hiss out an incantation, but Florin was ready. His belt flask was in his hand, and whenever her lips opened, he squirted water into her mouth, hard, drowning her words in helpless choking coughs.

Then, in a flood of crawling emerald fire, the lich's spell washed over them all.

Alusair found herself in a warm, richly paneled parlor lined with scarlet draperies, over which hung tapestries depicting vivid scenes of lovemaking-scenes so well limned that they seemed almost lifelike.

She blushed, despite her firm resolve to the contrary earlier, and took refuge in the warm brown eyes of the ivory-hued woman who rose to greet her. As finely gowned as any noblewoman at a formal Court dinner, the tall apparition of striking beauty smiled in genuine welcome, reaching forward to take Alusair's hands-with fingers as soft as warm silk-as if she were a long-lost friend. The gesture made the unlaced front of her gown fall open right down to the girdle that encircled her hips, but she seemed unaware that this had occurred.

"Lady," she said warmly, "your arrival brings much pleasure! Pray, take your ease! I am Daransa, and this is my house. What is your will?"

It was obvious that Daransa hadn't recognized her as the Princess Alusair but merely thought her to be some young wisp of a commoner. It was just as obvious that she was genuinely pleased to see her unexpected and unfamiliar guest.

"I, uh, I-" Alusair began, stumbling under that friendly gaze.

Daransa had kept hold of her hands, and she gently drew Alusair to her breast, urging her to a handy couch and murmuring, "Yet I am overbold. Tea, perhaps? Warm broth? Speak at your leisure, dear. I don't mean to press you."

Alusair halted that gentle steering once her knee was against the edge of the couch and her nose almost touching Daransa's bosom. She lifted her chin and blurted out what she'd come to say.

"Your kindness is much appreciated, Lady Daransa, but I am here only to deliver a message for you to pass on with all urgency: 'Three pearls have been lost, but one is now found.' "

The eyes staring into hers flickered, and Daransa gravely repeated the message in a low whisper. Accustomed to the subtle signals of Court converse, the princess could tell by Daransa's eyes that she now knew who Alusair was.

Breathing in the delicately spicy scent that clung to Daransa's curves, Alusair added, "So that you know I mean no deception, hear me: Harper Dalonder Ree gave me those words and told me that if ever I wanted to call on him, they could be said to you here. He'll know where to find me. So far as I know, I shall be found in the usual places. As much as possible, I'll keep to my chambers until I hear from him."

Daransa knelt, keeping hold of Alusair's fingertips only long enough to kiss them, and rose to whisper, "Highness, rhis shall be done-and know that you are always welcome in my house."

Alusair gave her a real smile. "You have certainly made me feel so. My thanks."

Bowing her head and assuming once more the bent-over posture of a weary servant, she turned to the door. It opened in front of her, seemingly by itself, to reveal the guard beyond. He neither bowed nor made any flourish of ushering her out but bent near to mutter, "Please know that inwardly I am on my knees to you, Highness."

Alusair gave him a sidelong grin, ducked her head, and went back down the stairs into the bustle of the city.

She headed straight back the way she'd come, placing speed before stealth, and spotted Baerent Orninspur's handsome features right away-despite his swift movement to turn his back on her and converse with his friend, whom she now recognized as another war wizard.

"Fair evening, you filthy spies," she greeted them cheerfully as she swept past, giving the dumbfounded pair a sweet smile.

Green flames seared and tore like a thundering waterfall of heavy, battering fire that burned as it smashed into Knights and swept them away.

Florin was hurled away in that raging flood, and Islif after him, her grip on the false Jhessail lost.

Slammed hard into the paneled walls, winded and heaped atop each other, the Knights gasped amid sudden relief, as rainbow-hued protective magics surged up out of the wood to drive back the emerald flames a foot or so from their noses.

The flames slowly died away, leaving the lich with the staff standing in triumph as ft surveyed the twisted bodies heaped along the back wall of the dead end.

It didn't seem to notice the man standing right in front of it, alone in the open space its spell had cleated-the seemingly unharmed man the false Jhessail had tutned into.

Tall, slender, and darkly handsome, wearing stylish black boots, breeches, tunic, and half-cloak, the man regarded the Knights of Myth Drannor with a half smile.

Semoor gaped up at him. "And who in the Nine Hells ate you?"

"Ah, adventurers," the man sneered. "Always so eloquent."

"Get after her," Baerent said. "Be her shadow; stick to her like tight new hose, no matter how much she spits and snarls. See where she goes and who she speaks to."

Barely waiting for Mrask's nod, Baerent trotted across the street and bounded up the Moontouch stairs.

The guard was waiting for him, sword already drawn.

"I'm a war wizard," Baerent said. "Stand aside!"

"No," the guard replied. "Vangey and I have an agreement on this, and I'll not-"

Baerent cast the spell he had ready, shrugged, and strode past the now-motionless guard, who would not be a statue for long. But long enough.

Flinging wide the door of the Touch, he stepped into the parlor where Daransa stood by the tea table. "Goodwoman," said Baerent, "I speak with the full authority of the Crown, and I musr ask you-"

"Ah, Wizard of War Baerent Orninspur!" a new voice interrupted. A door behind Daransa's little desk opened, and a tall, shapely, silver-haired woman strode into the room.

Baerent blinked. How could someone recognize him before they even saw him? His amulet would prevent scrying or warn him of more powerful magOh. Spyholes. Of course.

"Tea?" Daransa offered, nothing but pleasant welcome on her face.

Baerent looked from one woman to the other and decided bluster was no longer his best option. "I regret the abruptness of my intrusion," he said, "and I intend no harm to any in this place. I merely-"

"Burst in here," Dove interrupted, "after your scrying spell failed-and that of your companion Mrask. Then you thought to bully Daransa into revealing why Princess Alusair was here. What she said, and what she did, too. My, but Vangey is suspicious these days!"

"But I-" Baerent sputtered, then took a deep breath, waved his hand in a calming gesture directed more at himself than anyone else, and asked, "Lady, forgive me, but who are you? I have my suspicions, but-"

"All war wizards do, which is the root of our trouble here," the silver-haired woman replied with a pleasant smile, coming closer. "As I see it, you are here on duty, bound to uncover the private and personal business of a princess, and to that you have now added the little task of trying to learn how a few elegant professional playpretties can block your magics-and to do a little bullying to drench them in fear, so you can forbid them from ever trying to do so again, and hope to be obeyed. Have I stated truth?"

Baerent blinked again. "Lady, you can hardly expect me to discuss such matters with… with-"

"Someone whose name you don't even know? Yet I do expect you to confirm truth and to speak openly and fully when dealing with someone who just might be one of those you are supposed to serve. You serve the citizens of Cormyr, remember? Lording it over them is your own embellishment. Or Vangerdahast's. Speaking of which, you are not to say one wordabout any of this to him. Beginning with my name, which is Dove."

Baerent blinked once more. "Ah, the Dove?" Without awaiting a reply, he rushed on into more dangerous words. "I could hardly fail to notice that you just gave me an order-or tried to. Lady Dove, you must appreciate that I cannot accept orders from anyone but-"

Dove waved away the rest of his words. "Call it a suggestion, then," she said with a gentle smile, strolling still closer. "I am suggesting that if you forget about all that has happened since you saw the princess cross the Promenade, and depart this house right now without trying to seek any answers or give any commands in the Moontouch now or ever again, I will probably see my way clear to letting you keep your life."

"My life?"

"Yes. If you just go back to yon Royal Palace right now and refrain from ever bothering Daransa or any of her ladies again. And refrain from saying anything about this to Vangerdahast."

Baerent stared at her. He suddenly believed that this strikingly beautiful woman was one of the fabled Chosen of Mystra and the "highly dangerous," active-in-Cormyr Harper all war wizards were often warned about. But more than that, he believed she could-and would-do just what she was promising. To him.

"B-but, Lady," he managed to protest, "the Royal Magician! He looks into our minds and sees our memories! Even if I say nothing, he'll know of your, ah, demands."

Dove's gentle smile widened. "Yes, he will, won't he? Perhaps he'll even recognize them for the clear warning they are and take heed. For once."

Eyes steady on his, she then gave a gentle toss of her head that was. clearly a directive to him to seek the door behind him and depart.

Baerent hastened to obey, discovering something else as he passed the still-motionless guard and stumbled back down the stair. He was shivering in fear.

Wizard of War Lorbryn Deltalon stood on the familiar high ledge, looking out over rhe forest. He shook his head.

"Well, well," he told the wind. "It seems I make a livelier Laspeera than I'd ever thought to be-certainly more flirtatious than she's ever likely to be. I think."

Well, well, indeed. Yet it had worked, and that was the main thing.

He shook his head again, smiling ruefully. "Whew."

He hadn't had occasion to teleporr here often in recent seasons, but this crag in the forest often served the war wizards as a lookout. He wasn't all that far from the bullyblade he'd just left. He should really be getting back to Suzail, but… he'd always liked this spot.

It was probably his favorite place in all Faerun for just standing alone, thinking.

Lotbryn used it that way now, as his true form slowly melted back.

He was doing the right thing.

At long last, he was working for the best outcome for Cormyr.

Borh the Knights of Myth Drannor and the band of Purple Dragons led by the ornrion Dauntless were Vangerdahast's agents, he felt certain-and Vangey had sent them out here, along the Ride, to accomplish something.

Just what, he didn't know yet, but Brorn just might help him find out.

The bullyblade wasn't stupid. He might want to bury those coins swiftly to avoid being found with something Lorbryn could claim had been stolen. Yet he'd need a few coins in his purse right now, just to live on.

Six coins on top of each sack had tracer spells cast on them that would enable Lorbryn to know their whereabouts at will.

He smiled into the breeze as he readied himself to teleport back to the Royal Palace.

So this was how Vangerdahast felt, sitting like a spider at the center of an ever-expanding web of plots and little schemes.

Lorbryn's smile widened.

Wincing, Florin struggled to his knees. His skin raged with fire blisters of the like he'd not felt since his days at the forge back in Espar, and his body ached as if he'd been punched hard, all over, for most of a day.

His sword was lost somewhere under Jhessail-the real Jhessail, he reminded himself dazedly-and a half-empty water flask didn't seem that formidable a weapon to use on either a lich or someone who could shrug off that humbling spell.

The lich stood smiling down at the Knights, as the darkly handsome man was doing now. Florin caught sight of a ring on the man's finger, and he tried to fix the device on it-an M with a flaring left leg and a right leg that curled right around to form a ring-in his memory for later.

If there was a later.

"So much for my little jaunts here to explore and plunder this place," the man drawled, still regarding the Knights with a sneer. "I believe I've found almost everything, as it happens. Enjoy your deaths."

He was suddenly not there.

The groaning, feebly crawling Knights faced the lich across a bare and empty expanse of floor.

The lich shuffled forward, grounding its staff from time to time in unhurried ease, to peer at the results of its spell. Faint rattling and rasping sounds arose as it hummed a merry tune-or tried to-and came forward, the rings on its bony fingers winking with bright and quickening glows.

Florin tried to rise, but he couldn't. He collapsed beside Islif. Wisps of smoke rose from her limbs. Jhessail lay sprawled and silent under Semoor's legs, but Pennae seemed to have been shielded from the green flames by the tumbling bodies of the two priests, and she was now rising unharmed from behind them, trying to tug them to their feet.

"Up, holynoses!" she said. "Our time to save everyone's behinds!"

Semoor laughed, a little wildly. "You want us to defeat that?"

"No, I want you to die trying!" Pennae snarled. "Look at it this way: Lord Manshoon has gone, so you've just got one mad, gone-beyond-dead archwizard to deal with, not two of them!"

"M-Manshoon?" Doust stammered. "As in Zhentil Keep?"

"Yes. Saw him once across a crowded street and remembered that voice and those looks. Now think of some spells!"

"Before you ask," Semoor told her, "no, we don't know how to teleport like Manshoon did."

"Well then," Pennae said, "we won't be able to get out of this place that way."

Florin and Islif were struggling to rise again, and behind them, Jhessail-reeling about unsteadily in a real daze-was on her feet.

Pennae gave them all a tight smile, whisked her dagger behind her back, and strolled forward to meet the lich.

"I don't suppose," she asked, "you could direcr us poor lost travelers out of this palace, Lord?"

In reply, the lich threw back its skull-head and cackled, then pointed with a finger that flared with ruby radiance as the ring on it unleashed its power. Florin shrank down into something brown and hairy and snorting.

Or rather, snoting. A fat, hairy boar, or boar piglet, or whatever young boars were called. Pennae knew she should have been trying to leap at the lich or at least get past it and try to flee, but she couldn't help staring.

Florin had a long snout and was lying contentedly on the floor, loudly asleep. He was about the size of a small hunting dog that had somehow swallowed a handkeg of ale whole.

As Pennae stared, Islif fought her way to her feet… only to shrink right down again, sprouting a snout and long, brown hair and snores of her own.

"Dung and tluining doom!" Pennae whispered, realizing her peril. She whirled to run just as the ruby glow flared again.

Then she was trying to run but was somehow heavy and wet and weak and collapsing into helpless sliding softness, too, and the world went dim. Her attempts to shriek came out as squalling, snorting squalling that… that… that sent all Faerun and its cackling liches away.

The lich tapped its staff on the floor in a way that seemed somehow satisfied, then shuffled forward again.

Straight for Jhessail. It reached out a long and skeletal arm toward her. "My lady," it said, "it has been so long. It seems years since I felt your warm and yielding eagerness, your ardent mouth upon mine. Come to me now! Come."

The red-haired mage backed away in horror.

Silent in their own terror, hardly daring to move, Doust and Semoor exchanged helpless glances.

Jhessail's shoulders met the wall. She had nowhere left to go.

The lich advanced.