Thornhold

ELEVEN

Dag Zoreth had been to Waterdeep only once before, and the proximity of so many enemies of the Zhentarim left him uncharacteristically edgy. He waited until the maidservant shut the door behind her, then he slid the stout oaken bolt firmly into place. Since one could never be too careful, he walked around the sumptuous chamber, checking for magical spying devices and chanting softly as he sought out any invasive magic.

There was none to find. The Gentle Mermaid, a festhall and tavern in the heart of the staid North Ward, was renowned for its discretion. Private rooms were precisely that, and in this magic-rich city, that was rare enough. The other rare things that crowded the chamber were merely pleasant extras.

There was a fine writing table and chair of polished Chultan teak, a large bed heaped with silken pillows in bright rare shades of yellow and blue, velvet draperies and fine tapestries to keep out the chill, a washbasin and pitcher of delicate porcelain, a small table upon which was laid out silver goblets and a bottle of wine, as well as a tray of small savory bites and another of sweet pastries. Dag missed none of this, for he had a keen appreciation for luxury. As he sampled a small wedge of herb-scented cheese, he vowed to have such amenities brought to Thornhold, to soften and brighten the stark quarters of the former paladins.

But at the moment, Dag Zoreth had another, more immediate task to tend. He took a small dark globe from its hiding place in the folds of his cloak and settled down into the cushioned chair. Holding the globe before him on his palm, he stared intently into its depths.

At his command, purple flames burst into life within the globe. Dag knew from experience what this would do to the man who received the message. The magical summons would bring cold, searing pain that would last until the man found a private place and took the corresponding globe into his own hand.

It did not surprise Dag that he did not have long to wait. Sir Gareth Cormaeril, for all his courtly airs and sanctimonious pronouncements, had a keen instinct for self-preservation. In mere moments the paladin's lean, dignified face appeared in the globe, looking rather incongruous against the background of sinister purple fire.

"You wished to speak with me, Lord Zoreth? Is there some problem that requires my attention?"

"No, I was merely overwhelmed with desire for the pleasure of your company," Dag said coldly. "What is occurring in Tyr's temple? The place is teaming with paladins!"

"They prepare to march on Thornhold," Sir Gareth responded, forthrightly enough. "Surely you did not think that your victory would long remain unchallenged."

"Let them try. They will not find it as easy to get into the fortress as we did. Unless of course," Dag added, "you gave them the same information you gave me."

The knight's blue eyes widened with a sharp, sudden flash of fear. "I did not, but there might be others among the order to whom Hronulf entrusted this knowledge."

Dag didn't really care-he brought up the matter just to tweak the older man. If the gathering paladin army had this knowledge, it would do them little good. The tunnels beneath the fortress had been so altered that men could wander about for tendays without finding the old passages.

"There is another matter of which we much speak," Dag continued. "I have a daughter. Though her existence has been kept secret for more than nine years, she is now widely sought. What do you know of her?"

"Sir?" inquired the knight, puzzlement on his reflected face. "Why should I know anything?"

It was not a lie-Dag had yet to catch the fallen paladin utter a direct untruth-but it was a blatant evasion. This irritated the priest.

"I run short of time and patience," Dag said through gritted teeth. "Hear me well. The girl was abducted from her foster home by a single man, even though her foster father was an elf of considerable skill at arms. The Zhentarim are not known for such acts of foolish bravery That leaves who?"

Sir Gareth bowed his head. "I have earned your suspicions, Lord Zoreth. My part in the raid on your childhood village-"

"Is past history," Dag cut in coldly. "I have no intention of making you suffer for past misdeeds, but I assure you, your continued existence depends upon your ability to serve me quickly and well. Is that quite clear?"

"Pellucid, my lord," the knight agreed.

"A straight answer, then. Did you or did you not have a part in abducting my daughter?"

"Alas, the answer to that is not so simple as your question suggests," the knight said, his face deeply troubled. "My order was indeed responsible, so some of this lies at my door."

Dag sniffed at the self-serving "confession," but found in these words welcome news. "My men tracked Cara's abductor. He was headed to Waterdeep. I want his name, and soon thereafter, I want his heart on a skewer."

"There are many paladins in Waterdeep," Sir Gareth hedged. "Tell me more of your daughter, so that I might make discrete inquiries. I myself never saw the girl."

That seemed a reasonable request. "She is nine years of age, but small and slight, so that she looks to be no more than six or seven. Her hair is brown, as are her eyes. There is a touch of elf blood in her. Her ears are slightly pointed, her eyes are large and tilt up at the corners, and her fingers are very tiny and thin." As soon as the last words were out, Dag rued them. He did not want to draw any attention to the girl's hands-and the extremely valuable ring she wore.

"And my sister," Dag added hastily. "What word on her?"

"I sent her to Thornhold, as you directed. Did she never arrive?"

Dag decided that was a question best left unanswered. "I want the woman and the child found and turned over to me. Find a way to circumvent the other knights. Is that quite clear?"

The knight lifted two fingers to his brow in an archaic salute. "I am pledged to honor the children of Samular's bloodline. All will be done as you say."

Dag shook his head in disgust and released the enchantment. Sir Gareth's face faded abruptly from the globe-but not before Dag caught a satisfying glimpse of the anguish inflicted by the spell's release.

He despised the old knight. He hated all paladins, and particularly those who, like his own father, took vows as Knights of Samular, but this man simply galled him. Sir Gareth Cormaeril had once been a mighty knight, his father's friend and comrade. He had saved Hronulf's life once and had received the wound that shrunk his sword arm and ended his career in battle. But there was a weakness in the man, a weakness of will and heart that Dag particularly despised. He himself had triumphed over physical weakness-why should another man see in it an excuse to give up all he once was?

That was precisely what Sir Gareth had done. He had fallen prey to Malchior's cunning snares, abusing his new role as exchequer of the order when his younger brother, a rogue and a gambler, ran afoul of Zhentarim-owned pleasure houses. Malchior had assumed the young lord's debts, and Gareth had quietly "borrowed" money to repay the Zhentish priest rather than risk personal or family scandal. That was the beginning. From there, it had become increasingly easy to purchase the man's soul, a few words at a time.

It amazed Dag that Sir Gareth did not yet seem to realize this.

What Dag was, he had chosen to be. He had great power, granted him by a mad god and wielded in ways that a man like Sir Gareth could never conceive. And he intended to get more of the same, by much the same methods-or worse, if such path came to him. What he did, he chose. What he was, he acknowledged. There was a basic honesty in this that Sir Gareth could not begin to comprehend or duplicate.

As Dag tucked the globe away, an ironic smile touched his lips as he noted that, in this matter at least, he possessed more virtue than a man lauded as one of Tyr's great knights.

To Bronwyn, the three days of the return voyage went all too quickly. She spent many hours with little Cara, answering her seemingly endless supply of questions. The little girl had a deep curiosity about the world, and her yearning to see far places was written on her small face as she listened to Bronwyn's tales.

True, Cara had other things to occupy her time. She played with the five dwarf children, holding her own surprisingly well in tussles and arguments with the much stronger and stockier dwarves. Ebenezer also took a special interest in the girl, and he spent hours telling her stories of his adventures, answering her questions. He even carved a toy for her, a small wooden doll with slightly pointed ears. The limbs were jointed and connected with strings so that the doll could be moved about. Bronwyn, who caught him at work stitching together bits of sailcloth for clothes, commented on the delicate work-and immediately wished she hadn't. The dwarf gave her a bit of advice on the merits of minding her own affairs, in the form of a tongue-lashing that almost, but not quite, covered his embarrassment at being caught red-handed and soft-hearted.

To her surprise, Bronwyn found that she enjoyed being with Cara. She'd never had any experience with children, not even when she herself had been a child, but she enjoyed the girl's curiosity, approved of her stubbornness, and admired her resilience. By the time the outer islands that protected Waterdeep's harbor came into sight, Bronwyn decided that if she were ever to have a daughter, she would be more than happy if the girl took after Cara.

But Cara had a family-a father, who was almost certainly kin to Bronwyn. The need to find him, for both of them, was growing in Bronwyn like a fever.

Cara, unfortunately, was little help. She remembered her father only as "Doon," and the description she gave of him was what might be expected of any eight-year-old half-elf. He was a grownup. He had dark hair. He was big.

It was not much to go on.

She did have a great deal to say about the man who had stolen her away from the only home she had ever known. He had a sword, which he had used to kill both of her foster parents. He was a tall man, with light blond hair cut short. He rode a white horse and wore a white tunic with a blue design on it. At Bronwyn's bidding, Cara tried to sketch it, but the childish scrawl was far from enlightening. They rode for a long time and stopped at a beautiful house. After that, Cara remembered nothing. She had fallen asleep and awakened in the hold of the ship with an aching head and a fiercely empty stomach. Bronwyn, who listened to this with silent rage, realized that the child had been drugged. She vowed to fmd who had done this and make certain that they would send no more children to the life that she herself had endured.

Finally Narwhal sailed in through the southernmost entrance to the harbor, past the lighthouse known as East Torch Tower: a tall, slender cone of white granite that flamed like its namesake. Bronwyn would have preferred to sail to the northern entrance, for the harbor fees were somewhat less and she would be much closer to her shop, but Captain Orwig absolutely refused to come within a long-bow's shot of a place called Smugglers' Bane Tower.

A pair of small skiffs met them at the chained entrance, and a woman clad in the gold and black uniform of the Watch asked to come aboard. At this, the ogre captain bared his fangs in a sneer and started to go for his cutlass. Before he could speak, Bronwyn caught his arm and nodded to the water beyond the skiffs. Orwig tracked her gaze and defeat registered in his small, red eyes. Several heads broke the surface of the water here and there, and shadowy vaguely human forms swirled around the ship. Mermen, ready to aid the officials if need be. Orwig valued his ship too highly to risk having it scuttled from below.

"Permission to come aboard," he snarled. He shot Bronwyn a glare that left the matter in her hands, then stalked off.

Bronwyn produced the logs stating their cargo, and, on Orwig's behalf, paid out the cargo tax in some of the coins taken from the slave ship. She wrote a note for the docking fee, promising to deliver payment to the Harbormaster within three days. The chain was lowered, and Narwhal allowed to sail into the harbor. For Captain Orwig's sake- the ogre was clearly uncomfortable with this port-Bronwyn requested that the ship be allowed to dock at the nearest available slip.

Within an hour, the passengers had disembarked onto a small, barnacle-encrusted pier just off Cedar Street. Narwhal took off with such haste that the last dwarf to disembark was still on the gangplank. He fell into the harbor with an enormous splash and sank like an axe. Four mermen managed to drag him the surface, though all of them were visibly worse for wear before the task was done. A grinning dockhand threw down a rope. Glad for something they could do, a dozen of so of the Stonesbaft clan seized the rope and hauled it up with a gusto that brought the unfortunate dwarf vaulting out of the water and skidding along the dock on his belly.

Once that bit of excitement was over, the dwarves gathered into a cluster on the dock, their eyes wide as they gazed around the bustling scene and the narrow, crowded streets beyond. For once, all fifty-some-odd dwarves were struck silent, their contentious voices stilled by their awe of the city.

"Gotta excuse them," Ebenezer murmured to Bronwyn. "I'm the only one been out of the clanhold much. The rest of them, well, you might say they're ducks in a desert."

"The sooner we get them settled, the better," Bronwyn agreed. She hailed a tall, bald man who wore the insignia of the wagoner's guild on his jacket. After a brisk, brief haggle, she hired three wagons to haul the dwarves through town to her shop.

"We could-a walked," Ebenezer complained once they were settled inside a closed wooden wagon that smelled strongly of fish and old cheese.

"Fifty dwarves marching through the Dock Ward?" she scoffed. "It would look too much like an invasion. That much attention, we don't need."

The dwarf considered this, then nodded grudgingly. "What's your plan, then?"

"For now, we'll go to my shop. I'll send out some messengers, call in a few favors. We'll get everyone settled."

Ebenezer looked over to the fistfight that had erupted between two of the dwarf lads. "Not an easy thing," he observed.

The wagon driver, as directed, let the dwarves off in the alley behind Curious Past. Despite Bronwyn's pleas for discretion, they roiled down the narrow path, clearly feeling more at home in the close, tunnel-like corridor than they had for many days.

They descended on the Curious Past like a plague of blackbirds. Alice's response astonished Bronwyn. The gnome produced a sword from under the counter, as well as a smoke-power pistol. These she brandished at the first pair of dwarves in the door.

"You'll not get past me," she said with such conviction that Bronwyn believed her. "Take your looting elsewhere."

"Alice, it's me!" Bronwyn shouted over the heads of the dwarves. "It's all right. They are with me."

The gnome's eyes bulged. "All of them?"

Bronwyn raised her hands in a helpless shrug, knowing she was asking a great deal of the gnome. Alice's tiny shoulders lifted and fell in a sigh, but she stepped aside.

In roiled the dwarves, their eyes rounded with awe at the sights around them. "Quite a trove," Tarlamera said with grudging admiration. She picked up a bangle bracelet studded with large gems. Instead of slipping it onto her wrist, she fisted it in her hand so that the raised stones augmented her knuckles. She lifted her fist and admired the effect. "Nice. Yours, gnome?"

"I should say not! That piece was commissioned by Lady Galinda Raventree."

Tarlarmera's eyes glinted. "Might could be she'd like to go a round or two, you think? Sitting on that ship has left us all a mite restless and ready for fun."

The image of the iron-willed society queen facing off in battle against the dwarf woman brought a wry smile to Bronwyn's face. That fight, she'd happily pay to observe. "Alice, why don't you go to the market and get something for our guests? Some bread and meat, a keg of ale. Have it delivered."

"Well, I'm certainly not going to carry it back," the gnome grumbled. She seized her shawl off its hook and took off- gratefully, it seemed to Bronwyn.

One of the dwarf lads started to climb a shelf after an axe that had caught his eye. A sleek, black form glided from the rafters and landed on his shoulder.

"Think about it," Shopscat advised.

With a yelp, the young dwarf let go and tumbled to the floor. The raven winged off and settled down on a tall urn.

"It talks!" exclaimed a dwarf woman with delight, her stubby finger pointing at the raven. Her eyes took on a battle gleam, and she came over to Shopscat and leaned in close, nose to beak. "Been a while since I had me a roast bird," she said, a challenge in her voice.

The raven stared her down. "Think about it."

The dwarves laughed uproariously. "Might be you could keep that up for a while, Morgalla, if you asked the right questions," Ebenezer said.

She shrugged and grinned, then wandered off to finger a long string of pink pearls displayed on a wooden bust.

They spent a pleasant hour poking through the shop and exchanging insults with the raven. Just as some were starting to get restless, Alice returned with a half dozen strong porters and the requested refreshments.

The instant the first keg hit the floor, the dwarves converged from all three floors of the shop. They snatched up whatever came to hand-silver mugs, gem-encrusted goblets-and clustered about. The gnome cringed as she took in this casual use of the treasures she guarded.

"We can hire someone in to help clean up," Bronwyn told her.

"If you have the coin left to do the hiring," Alice shot back. She nodded toward their visitors, who were making short work of the piles of food. Two of the dwarves were already tapping the third keg.

It seemed that Ebenezer was thinking along similar lines. "Don't you doubt, I'm gonna pay you back every copper," he vowed softly. "Tell me what I can do to help get them earning their keep."

Bronwyn glanced at Cara, who was petting Shopscat and chattering happily. Her heart melted at the sight of the little girl and the obviously charmed raven.

"There are dwarves in the city, but the sort of labor your clan can do is always in demand. I know people who can line up what we need."

"You got a lot of friends, if they can set up this bunch," Ebenezer commented.

"In a manner of speaking." This brought up a matter that Bronwyn had been puzzling over for several days. She had realized aboard ship that she would have to rely upon the resources of the Harpers to get the dwarves settled. Disclosing membership in this secret organization was forbidden, except in extreme situations or to trusted friends. Though she had known Ebenezer for a relatively short time, she counted him as among the best she'd found. She decided to confide in the dwarf

Taking him by the arm, she led him to a relatively quiet corner. "What do you know of the Harpers?"

Ebenezer scowled and spat-hitting the bronze spittoon by the door with dead-on accuracy and ringing force. "Nothing good. As I hear it, they're not big on minding their own affairs."

"That's true enough," she said hesitantly. "But they are good at gathering information and passing it along. If I contact the right Harpers here in the city, by highsun tomorrow I should have every member of your clan set up in business. Sword smiths, gem workers, bakers. Whatever skills they have, I can match."

"How do you know who to-" The dwarf broke off, his eyes suspicious. "You're one of them."

Bronwyn sighed. "Guilty. Is that such a bad thing?"

"Maybe," he grumbled. He slanted a look up at her. "What you did for my clan-was that Harper business?"

"No," she said stoutly, even though she suspected that claiming otherwise might sway the dwarf's opinion on the matter. "That was personal."

"Good." He nodded in satisfaction. "Well, then, you tell me where to go, and I'll be getting the process started."

Bronwyn hurried up the stairs to her chamber-evicting the pair of dwarf children who were jumping on her bed-and sat down at her writing table. Under the false bottom of her drawer were sheets of parchment bearing the sigil of Khelben Arunsun. This rune, his personal symbol, gave force to whatever was written on the parchment. The Harpers under his direction were to use them only in dire circumstances. Bronwyn had but two. She dipped a quill in her inkwell and began to write a letter to Brian Swordmaster.

Even as she wrote, Bronwyn's mind skipped ahead to the consequences of this measure. Khelben would know when one of his special edicts was used, and by whom. Brian Swordmaster, though a common tradesman and a quiet, modest man, was a great friend of the archmage. The story would get to her Harper master all too soon.

And then, she wondered, what would she be required to do?

This thought didn't set well with her. All her life, she had been told what to do. As a slave, she had been given little choice about anything. As an antiquities dealer, she had taken commissions and fulfilled them. Her methods were her own, and she prided herself in being resourceful, but the task itself was given her. The same could be said for her involvement with the Harpers. The first act that she could call truly her own was her decision to rescue the Stoneshaft clan from slavery She regarded that with pride and was not reconciled to tamely accepting that all her decisions would henceforth be made for her by others.

And yet, had that ever been truly the case? Even as a slave, she had directed her path. She worked hard at the gem trade, and before she was a woman grown, she was crafting better counterfeit pieces than any of her master's servants-or her master himself, for that matter. He'd taken an interest in her, and taught her about the rare pieces that they copied in the shop and sold as originals. Bronwyn had developed a genuine love of the old, beautiful things that came into her hands. Unlike her, they had a history, a past. These stories had more importance to her than the pieces themselves. And so she wheedled her master into letting her learn about the background of the pieces-so that they could make better, less detectable reproductions, she'd argued. This idea had pleased him, and Bronwyn had begun the path she now trod. When the master died, his son sold off the shop, including the slaves. She had bought her freedom by apprenticing herself out to a treasure hunter who'd done business with her master. Soon she went her own way. And, she realized with deep surprise, she had been doing so ever since.

Bronwyn sat for a long moment as she absorbed this. Then she nodded slowly and rolled the parchment into a scroll. She went down the back stairs and through the alley. There was always a messenger or two available for hire at the cobbler's shop two doors down.

The messenger was a youth she knew well. She gave him the scroll with instructions and an extra silver coin, then returned to her shop with a light step.

Whatever came of this venture, she would handle it as she always had: her own way.

It took Ebenezer the better part of two hours to round up his kin and get them headed out of the shop. "Like herding cats, it is," he grumbled as he shoved the last of them out of the door. The look of pure, desperate gratitude that Alice sent him brought a wry grin to his face. The Stoneshafts were a handful, and no mistake. He only hoped that Bronwyn's mysterious "friends" had pickaxes big enough to chop through this particular problem.

Once the dwarves were out on the street, the problems compounded. Bronwyn's shop was on the Street of Silks, a nose-in-the-air piece of town where folks thought their shoes too good to sully with walking. Fancy carriages rattled past, drawn by teams of horses.

"Lookit the size of them mules," marveled Benton, a cousin who'd never been out of the tunnels before his capture.

"How'd they get four of 'em to go in the same direction?" demanded Tarlamera, whose only experience with mules involved small, dusty pack animals nearly as stubborn as herself. The clan had kept a few for hauling back the gems and ore from the outermost mines.

That image suggested a solution to Ebenezer. "Miners, ho!" he hollered. "Tunnel size, seven. Fall in by clan rank."

His clan scuttled into place with an alacrity born of long practice. A size seven tunnel meant that three dwarves could march abreast, and clan rank was easy enough: oldest first. Every dwarf knew where he ranked in comparison with any other dwarf so they found their places readily enough. The only break with tradition was when Ebenezer took his place at the head. Not a dwarf argued with him for that honor, though, seeing as he was the only one who'd ever been to the city before.

He marched them down the Street of Silks, past shops brimming with the fashionable doodads that humans seemed so all-fired fond of. These the dwarves passed without missing a step, but as they neared the Jester's Court, the scents drifting from the Mighty Manticore inspired wistful sighs from some of his kin. Ebenezer had some knowledge of the tavern owner, a half-dwarf but a good sort for all that. Coopercan, his name was, in honor of a backside as big as a barrel. When Coop settled down to keeping tavern, he'd kept some of his dwarven ways. There was no mistaking the smell of rothй roasting on a spit, stuffed with mushrooms and the tasty black rice that grew wild in the marshy hollows hidden among dwarven mountains. Coopercan always seemed to have a rothe roast going, and there were few scents that could get a dwarf to drooling betterthan that.

"Hoy, brother!" shouted a gruff female voice. "I'm-a coming up."

Ebenezer lifted his hand to his lips to hide his smirk. He'd been too long among humans, if he found humor in the usual dwarven method of "asking permission."

Tarlamera huffed up to his side. For several moments they marched in silence as he waited for her to speak her mind. "We gotta go back to the clanhold," she decreed.

He'd been afraid of that. Knew it was coming. Even so, he tried to scoff away the notion. "And how might you be planning to do that? There's not enough of us left to take back the tunnels, much less hold them secure. The men that stole you away in the first place would be back, and the second harvest would be all the easier."

The dwarf woman scowled and folded her arms. "What are we to do, then?"

"There's dwarves in the city," he told her. "Bronwyn has friends what can find us work. We'll fit in, make our way. Make a life."

Tarlamera glowered. "Seems to me like you're putting too much weight in that human's say-so. Mountain dwarves in a city? What kind of life is that?"

"Better'n the one 'that human' stole you from, I'll tell you that for free," he shot back.

She shrugged. "There's that. But all I got to say is- Almighty Clangeddin by the short hairs!"

Ebenezer pulled up short, startled by his sister's oath and the force with which it was delivered. "How's that again?"

She seized his arm and pointed. The road had widened up into a broad, cobblestone courtyard. At the far end was the enormous, elaborate palace built for the first lord of the city, and behind that swept the majestic summit of Mount Waterdeep. But somewhat closer was the sight peculiar enough to stop Tarlamera in mid-complaint, a tall, slender tower before which stood a skeleton, arms raised high and feet not quite touching the ground.

"Don't be going too close to that tower," Ebenezer said casually. "Alghairon's Tower, it's called. Been empty for a long time. Seems it used to belong to some big-axe wizard, long since gone to his ancestors. It's a monument now. The folks hereabouts let it alone mostly, except for the fellow you see there."

"Good warding sign," one of the dwarves behind them offered. That sent a weak chuckle rippling through the group.

The company got some strange looks as they marched in formation through the courtyard. Ebenezer didn't suppose they looked like much of a threat, as scrawny as they were, and not more than three weapons among the lot of them, but still he raised his hand in a conciliatory salute whenever a curious member of the guard looked their way.

They veered east onto Waterdeep Way, toward the massive castle that was the heart and strength of the city. Ebenezer had always admired that castle. "Lookit that," he said grandly, pointing up at the far towers. "Four hundred feet high, that is."

Tarlamera sniffed. Dwarves, as a rule, weren't terribly impressed with up. They were more interested in through.

"Got walls some sixty feet thick," he added.

"That's a wall," she admitted, impressed at last.

Ebenezer pointed ahead. "See that sign what's a-hanging from that lantern pole? Marks the Way of the Dragon. Big street. Goes down to the Trade Ward and the man we gotta see."

"I seen a man already," the dwarf maid grumbled. "Seen hundreds of 'em so far today."

"This one's a smith. They say his pieces are as good as any human can make. Better than some dwarves."

She scoffed. "I'm not buying that at the asking price. How can you get a good forge going without the tunnels to pull a powerful updraft?"

Ebenezer pointed up toward the blue dome of the sky. "Got lots a wind."

"Yeah." She scowled and plucked at her ruined clothes. "And I'm feeling every breath of it in these rags. Back at the clanhold, I got me a new linen kirtle and a leather apron."

A bleak, wistful note crept into her voice. Though her eyes kept steadily fixed ahead, Ebenezer could read the pain in them. The kirtle and apron were part of every dwarf maid's wedding chest. By all that was right, she should be home scrapping happily with her new-made husband. But Frodwinner was dead, as were their four brothers and their sister, their mother, their da. They hadn't spoken of their slain kin, not once since the day Ebenezer had chopped her loose from the slave ship.

"Frodwinner fought well," Tarlamera said. A struggling smile rippled across her face, as if she were trying to accept that this was enough. "I saw that much before they dropped me. How many did he take?"

"Fifteen," Ebenezer said promptly, upping the number without a qualm.

"Good," she said. "That's good."

They walked in silence for a while. "I made them a cairn," he said softly. "Just one, for all of them."

"That's the way things are done in time of battle," she agreed. "You accounted for all?"

"Not all," he said grimly. "Didn't see old Hoshal, but I'm pretty sure they got to him ahead of time. Found one of his chisels in an osquip trove."

"They got him," Tarlamera agreed. "Hoshal's particular about his tools. Da always said Hoshal could put a hand to any one of his tools quicker than he could grab his own-"

She broke off, her jaw dropping in astonishment. Ebenezer tracked her gaze into a side alley, and his own eyes widened in astonishment. "Now, that's something you don't see every day," he admitted.

An enormous, disembodied hand, each finger longer than a dwarf was tall, floated aimlessly down the alley. In the center of the palm was a huge mouth that worked its way through some silly tavern tune. Ebenezer shook his head in utter bemusement.

"What does it want?" one of the dwarves behind him hissed.

"A better song?" snapped Ebenezer. "Do I know everything there is to know about this city? Step lively, now!"

They stepped, with a liveliness that had the lot of them huffing like a gnome-built tea kettle.

"Gotta get back to the clanhold," Tarlamera moaned.

Ebenezer shook his head and pointed to the road ahead. The streets were getting narrower, and the tall, timber-framed buildings crowded so close that dwellers in the top floors could lean out and kiss their neighbors, providing they were on good enough terms. They were coming up on the Street of Smiths, and black smoke from a dozen forges rose into the sky.

Many of the houses-the foundations at least and sometimes up to the second floor-were masoned over with stone as a deterrent to fire. If a body squinted just so, he could pretend they were cavern walls.

"Kinda cozy, isn't it?" he said hopefully.

Tarlamera snorted again.

As they rounded the corner to Brian's Street, a huge, utterly bald man came striding to meet them. He came to Ebenezer and stuck out his hand. "You'd be the Stoneshaft clan," he said. "Brian here. Been expecting you."

Ebenezer gave the ham-sized hand a good squeeze, which was returned with a force that made his eyes cross. "He's a smith, all right," he told Tarlamera.

His sister was doing her own evaluation. Her eyes scanned the man from his bald head to his massive, graystreaked black beard, measuring the width of his shoulders and arms heavily corded with muscle and blackened with soot. "He's a likely-looking lad," she admitted, and then sighed. "All right, boy, let's see this forge of yours."

During the voyage back to Waterdeep, Bronwyn had managed to decipher some of the code in the slave ship's log. Enough, at least, to assure her that Grunion was owned by the Zhentarim. No large surprise, that, considering the destruction of Thornhold and the capture of the dwarves by Zhentish soldiers.

But what of Cara? What was there about the ring she wore that attracted the ire of the Zhentarim, that they would steal children away from their homes? Cara's father, whoever and wherever he was, might also be in danger.

That thought spurred Bronwyn as she made her way into Dock Ward. This unknown man was her kin. Perhaps he had answers for her that Hronulf had not lived to give. That possibility made the chance she was about to take worthwhile.

She hurried to the Sleeping Snake, a rough and noisy tavern where thieves of many races gathered to trade stories, blows, and stolen goods. The Zhentarim contact she had used a few times before frequented the tavern.

Raucous laughter burst out into the street when Bronwyn shouldered open the door and pushed her way into the crowded room. The smell of stale ale and staler bodies assaulted her. Most of the dockhands who came to drink here didn't bother to bathe after a hard day's work. She spotted the informer-a dockhand and occasional assassin-slumped over a table near the hearth.

He glanced up when she kicked at his chair. "Well," he asked drunkenly, "what are you looking for this time?"

She bent down low so that she could speak the words in a normal voice rather than shouting. "A man who recently lost a child."

He leaned back and eyed her with speculation. "Don't have much use for brats, myself"

"No one's asking you to have anything to do with this one. Have you heard anything?"

"Can't say I have. Who's this man that got shed of his brat?"

"His name is Doon. He's a dark man, probably not exceptionally tall."

There was a flicker in the man's eyes, but he shook his head. "Sorry. Can't help you," he said as he reached for his mug.

Bronwyn caught his wrist. "Can't, or won't?"

He shook her off and turned aside in obvious dismissal. "One way or another, it's much the same to you."

A trickle of fear ran down Bronwyn's spine. Always before, this man had tried to sell her something, spinning out any scrap of information into something she might wish to buy. His outright refusal and the gleam of avarice in his eyes alerted her to danger.

Bronwyn nodded and worked her way back to the bar. The fighting had spread into the main floor, and it would be a while before she could get to the door. She ordered an ale and took a stool to wait out the storm.

A hand seized her arm. Bronwyn spun, gripping the hilt of her knife. She measured the man with a glance and decided that this would be an easy battle. Though still south of mid-life, he was the thinnest, frailest person she had ever encountered. The spark of life had apparently drained from his body to center its last flame in his small black eyes.

"Move your hand, or I'll slice it off," she said in an even voice.

The man halted her with an impatient gesture, an upraised palm. Her eyes bulged. Tattooed, or perhaps branded, into his palm was the emblem of the evil god Bane-a small, black hand.

Instinctively she eased away, raised both of her hands in conciliation. Though the god himself was considered dead and gone, and no longer a power to be feared, Bronwyn had no desire to tangle with someone who purported to be an acolyte of such evil.

"I heard you. You want a man who is seeking a child. Where is this man?" he insisted in a voice that recalled a viper's hiss.

Bronwyn licked her lips nervously. "That's what I'm trying to find out. If you know anything of him, I'd be willing to trade for the information."

A terrible chuckle wheezed from the former priest's lips. "If the item you have to barter is his yellow hide, then you have a deal, wench. I want him. I want him dead," he specified, as if there could be any doubt concerning his intentions.

Bronwyn quickly weighed the risk against the possible gain. If this priest had knowledge of Cara's father, she really had no choice but to endure conversation with a Banite and accept the danger inherent in such company. She reached for her mug and signaled the barkeep to bring another drink for her "friend."

"I don't know where he is, but I'd be happy to turn him over to you once I locate him. Because of the child," she said quickly, when he turned a suspicious stare upon her.

"Alt" He smirked, then tossed back the contents of the mug the barkeep set before him. "Your tale rings true. He always was one to walk away from what he started."

A horrible suspicion took root in Bronwyn's eyes. "He was once a follower of Bane?" she asked, striving mightily to keep her voice neutral.

"That he was. Defected, the damn traitor," he sneered, raising and clenching his fists.

Bronwyn let out her breath in a long sigh. The possibility that Cara's father might be a follower of an evil god was chilling, but, perhaps, in seeing the error of his ways he had made enemies. It was better so than that he should earn the fate of the man beside her, with his skeletal face and wild eyes. Bereft of spells, cut off from the source of evil power, the former priest of Bane was little more than an insane shell.

"When I find Doon, I will send word here," she said, her mind racing as she planned how she could kept this promise without endangering Cara's father. "I will write the name of the place where he might be found on a sketch of a black dragon and post it on the cloakroom door. Watch for it."

"Doon? What are you talking about, wench? The man's name is Dag Zoreth."

She quickly covered her surprise. "Of course," she said with feigned bitterness. "He would not want to be known by the name he gave to a woman he'd betrayed and abandoned. He was always cautious. Most likely, he is also frank and earnest-Frank in Luskan, and Ernest in Neverwinter!"

To her surprise, the hoary old jest earned a wheezing chuckle from the Banite. She supposed that, in the company he was accustomed to keeping, humor was not a common commodity.

Bronwyn rose and tossed several silver coins onto the counter and nodded her intent to the barkeep. "Drink what you will, with my thanks, until the coins run out."

She left quickly, while the former priest was still contemplating this unexpected bounty, and all the way to the door she felt the eyes of her Zhentilar informer following her.

Algorind rode swiftly through the crowded street on his tall white horse. He still did not understand how Icewind had returned to the Halls of Justice. The horse had been well treated and seemed none the worse for having been stolen by a treacherous dwarf.

He scanned the wooden signs that hung from the many shops, looking for the Curious Past. What he found was a bit of a surprise. Unlike most of the signs, it did not rely on an image of shoe or cloak or mug to convey what goods could be had within. The name was carved with runes in Common, as well as in several other languages. A learned woman. That did not fit the picture he carried of Bronwyn, who would steal from Hronulf and consort with a dwarven horse thief.

He pushed open the door. A bell tinkled merrily, and a white-haired gnome woman appeared from behind a counter. "How can I help you?" she said cheerily.

Algorind heard a door bang in the back room. "I am looking for Bronwyn."

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you," the gnome said with evident regret. "She is out of town on business."

The young paladin nodded. "You expect her?"

"That I do. No more than two, three days. Would you like to stop back or leave a name?"

"I will return," he said simply. "Thank you, good gnome, for your time and help."

He left the shop, walking briskly toward the narrow alley he'd seen by the cobbler's shop a few doors down. That banging door interested him.

A small figure darted toward him in hot pursuit of a young alley cat, her hands outstretched for the grab. She hauled up short when she caught sight of him, and her large brown eyes rounded in terror. She shrieked and whirled away, dashing back down the alley.

It was the child! The same girl he had taken from the farm and turned over to Sir Gareth's keeping. What she was doing in this city, and on her own, Algorind could not begin to fathom. He took off after her, ducking low to avoid a string of long wool stockings hung out to dry in the alley.

The girl could run like a rabbit. She darted down the alley and out into a small, open area. A wooden sign proclaimed the site to be Howling Cat Court. A few women strolled about, their faces garishly painted and their bodices laced indecently low. They mocked Algorind as he dashed past in pursuit of the child, bidding him leave off with his playmates and learn some adult games. His face heated when he realized what they meant.

His quarry swerved and dodged, evading his grasp nimbly. She turned and darted toward another alley. Algorind began to follow suit when a heavy thunk resounded painfully through his skull and stopped him where he stood. He turned, dazed, and looked incredulously at one of the over-ripe women. There was a small oak cudgel in her hand. She gave him a hard smile and kissed her fingertips to him in a mocking salute, then melted away into the shadows of an alley.

Algorind shook off the numbing pain and took off after the girl. He was almost to the alley when a loud, trembling horn call resounded through the court.

"You, there! Stop where you are."

The young paladin knew authority when he heard it. He stopped and slowly turned around. Four men and two women, all wearing leather armor dyed green and black and reinforced with gold-colored chain mail, strode toward him, small clubs in their hands. A band of mercenaries, no doubt. He decided to try to fight his way clear.

His resolve must have shown in his eyes. "Yield to the city watch," the speaker said. "You will not be harmed unless you resist."

This put Algorind in a quandary. The rule of his order stated that he was to obey all lawful authorities unless they constrained him to do evil. These city guards were standing between him and his duty, but that was not necessarily evil.

"Good sirs, ladies," he said earnestly. "You do not understand."

"We understand that you were chasing a little girl. She yours?"

"No, but-"

"You responsible for tending her?"

In a maimer of speaking, that was true, but not plain enough truth to give Algorind comfort in speaking it. "I wished to return her to her rightful place," he said, which was more precise.

"Uh-huh," the watch captain said, skepticism deeply etched on his bearded face. "What was her name?"

Algorind was utterly at a loss. "I do not know," he had to admit.

The captain sniffed. "Thought as much. Take him in. We'll let the magisters deal with this one."

This was utterly beyond Algorind's comprehension. "I cannot go with you."

"You don't have much of a choice. You can come easy, or we'll take you in trussed and hooded. You choose."

"I will come with you," Algorind said, bowing his head in defeat. "Will you grant me one kindness, though? Carry word to the Halls of Justice, and tell them of my fate?"

"There are messengers in the castle. They'll get around to your cell sooner or later, and you can send word to whomever you like. Now, move."

Bronwyn hurried back to her shop, cutting through the back ways. As she came through Howling Cat Court, it seemed to her that one of the low-rent courtesans who strutted along the far walk sent her a knowing smile. The woman looked vaguely familiar and harmless enough, so Bronwyn lifted a hand in friendly response as she strode past.

She found Alice in a fit, wringing her tiny hands and pacing the floors with enough fervor to raise a cloud of dust. Bronwyn's first thought was for Cara. She pounced on the gnome, seizing her shoulders and turning her so that they faced each other. "Where is she?"

"Gone!" mourned Alice, confirming Bronwyn's worse suspicions.

Bronwyn ran a hand over her forehead and back, smoothing her hair in a gesture of pure frustration. "Did you see anything?"

"A young man came looking for you. A paladin, I think. He wore a blue and white tabard and carried a broadsword. Fle was young-no more than twenty-but taller than most men. Pale yellow hair, curly. He left his horse at the door."

Bronwyn had a very bad feeling about this. "A big horse? White?"

"I believe so. I didn't get more than a glance. Why?"

"Long story," Bronwyn mumbled. Ebenezer had told her of his rescue by a man who could turn undead to dust. That would make the man a priest-or a paladin. The man who came looking for her, who might have taken Cara, was near Thornhold. What he knew, what he wanted, she could guess all too well.

At that moment the shop bell tinkled, startling them both. Woman and gnome jumped and whirled to face the door. In it stood Danilo Thann, a broad smile in his face and a small, half-elf girl in his arms.

"Cara!" Bronwyn cried. She rushed forward to reclaim the girl, gave her a quick hug, then she set her down and turned her attention to the man. "Danilo, what happened? Where did you find her?"

"Actually, I did not. Cara was brought to me by some Harpers who happened upon her."

Bronwyn's face clouded. "Still watching me?"

"Strictly speaking, no. We've been keeping an eye out for the paladins, and one of them happened by your shop."

"I should thank you, then," she said softly, looking at the child. Cara was happily chatting with Alice, telling her all about the ginger cat that she'd almost caught, and wouldn't it make a fine pet?

Bronwyn sighed. "I promised I would find her father, but I don't know if I can keep her safe until then."

She spoke softly, but the girl looked up. "I will be safe, Bronwyn. Look at this. Come to me, Shopscat!"

Before the raven could respond to the summons, the child disappeared. Bronwyn blinked rapidly, as if she could conjure the girl by clearing her vision. There was nothing, save for a childish giggle outside the front door. Before Bronwyn could move, Cara was back, just as abruptly as she left.

"Look!" she said proudly, showing Bronwyn the three bright gems in her hand. "A ruby, a blue topaz, and a… citrine?" she asked, looking up at Danilo for corroboration.

He nodded, his eyes bright with the child's reflected pleasure. "That's right. You remember well."

"Gemjump," Bronwyn murmured, remembering tales she'd heard of stones that enabled the holder to magically transport to the location of any of the gems. They were rare, and exceedingly expensive. Three of them was a princely gift.

"With these, Cara can get herself out of the occasional tight spot," Danilo said lightly. "Put them back in their bag, Cara, the way I showed you."

The child beamed and did as she was told. Danilo drew Bronwyn aside. "You've got a remarkable new friend," he said softly. "I think you will have your hands full, though."

Bronwyn nodded. "Cara is no trouble, but I think she's in trouble. I just don't know how much, or what kind."

"Let me help you," Danilo said earnestly. "Tell me what I can do."

She smiled at him, her anger nearly forgotten. "You already have. The gemstones give her a bit of control over her fate. She needs that. And a little control," she added somberly, "is usually the best any of us can expect."