Thornhold

TWO

There were other fortresses in the city of Waterdeep that were larger and more impressive, but Blackstaff Tower was without doubt the most secure and unusual fastness in the city.

Danilo Thann was a frequent visitor to the tower, and had been since Khelben Arunsun took him under his stern tutelage some twenty years earlier. Of late, it seemed to Danilo that the archmage's summons were increasing in frequency, and that the demands he made upon his "nephew" and former student were growing by the day.

Today he walked openly through the invisible doors that allowed passage through the black stone of the courtyard wall, and again into the tower. This much was expected; he then sauntered in through the wooden door of the archmage's study, not bothering to open the portal and in casual defiance of any wards that might have been placed upon it.

This was a typically arrogant gesture, one that no one else in the city would dare to attempt. Danilo hoped that Khelben perceived these acts as statements of his intention to remain independent of the archmage's plans for him, but he suspected that this very insouciance was in no small measure the reason for his frequent presence in Blackstaff Tower.

He was late, of course, and he found the archmage in an unusually foul state of mind. Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun, the archmage of Waterdeep, did not often pace. Such was his power and his influence that matters usually went as he willed them to go. But at the moment, he roamed the floor of his study like one caged and extremely frustrated panther. Under different circumstances this might have afforded Danilo a bit of wry amusement, but the report he had sent to his mentor was disturbing enough to ruffle his own composure.

Khelben stopped pacing to glower at the man who was his nephew in name only. There was little similarity between them, other than the fact that they were both tall men, and that either of them would kill without hesitation to protect the other. The archmage was solid, dark, and of serious mien. He was clad in somber black garments, whereas Dan was dressed in rich shades of green and gold, bejeweled as if for a midwinter revel, and carrying a small elven harp. He was, much to the archmage's dismay, committed to a bard's life. It was a constant source of conflict between them-a conflict that supported Danilo's suspicion that the archmage still hoped his nephew might be his successor as keeper of Blackstaff Tower. Danilo supposed that Khelben's reasoning was sound enough. If he were forced to tell the whole truth-an event that, fortunately, did not often occur-Danilo would have to admit that he was more skilled with a spell than with harp or lute.

He set the harp on a small table and made a quick, complex gesture with his hands. Immediately the harp began to play of its own accord, a lilting elven air of which Danilo was particularly fond.

This brought a scowl to the archmage's face. "How many musical toys does one man need?" he grumbled. "You've been spending too much time at that thrice-bedamned bard school, neglecting your duties!"

The young bard shrugged, unconcerned by the familiar reprimand. Never mind, he thought wryly, that evidence of the archmage's particular artistic outlet stood in every corner of the room. Khelben painted; frequently, passionately, and with no discernible talent. Oddly skewed landscapes, portraits, and seascapes hung on the walls or stood on easels. Half-finished canvases leaned in rows against the far wall. The scent of paint and linseed oil mingled with the more pungent odor of spell components, which wafted in from the adjoining storage chamber.

Danilo walked over to the sideboard that held his favorite painting-an almost-skilled rendition of a beautiful, raven-haired half-elf-and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter of elven wine he'd given Khelben as a gift.

"New Olamn is my duty," he reminded the archmage. "We have had this conversation before. The training and support of Harper bards is an important task. Especially in these days, when the Harpers so badly lack focus and direction. And by the way, you have some paint on your left hand."

"Hmmph." The archmage glanced down at his hand and glowered at the green smear, which promptly disappeared. He snatched up the small scroll that lay near the magical harp and tossed it to his nephew.

Danilo deftly caught it, then draped himself over Khelben's favorite chair. The archmage also sat, in a chair with carved legs that ended in griffin's claws gripping balls of amber. In direct reflection of Khelben's mood, the wooden claws drummed like impatient fingers.

"How many magical toys does one man need?" Danilo echoed wryly, and then turned his attention to the information on the scroll.

A few moments passed as he read and translated the coded message. His visage hardened. "Malchior is a strife-leader, commander of the war-priests in the Zhentish keep known as Darkhold," he para~ihrased grimly. "Damn! Bronwyn has done business with suspect characters before, but this is beyond the pale."

"Malchior cannot have that necklace," Khelben said firmly. "You must stop the sale and bring the stones to me."

The bard's eyebrows rose, and his gaze slid over the severely-clad archmage. Khelben's only ornaments were the silver threads in his black hair, and the distinctive streak of white in the middle of his neatly trimmed beard. "Since when did you develop a passion for fine antique jewelry?" Danilo asked in a dry tone.

"Think, boy! Even in its humblest form, amber is more than a pretty stone-it is a natural conduit for the Weave. This amber came from Anauroch, from trees that died suddenly and violently. Imagine the power required to transform the ancient Myconid Forest into desert wasteland. If even a trace of that magic lingers in the amber, in any form that can be tapped and focused, that necklace has enormous magical potential. It can also gather and transfer magical energy-" Khelben broke off, looking faintly startled, as if, Dan noted, he was suddenly considering that thought in a new light. The archmage rose and resumed his pacing. "Apparently we shall have to keep a closer watch on Malchior and his ambitions."

"In our copious spare time," Danilo murmured. He lifted one brow. "Here's a happy thought. When you say 'we,' perhaps you are employing the royal 'we,' and excluding your humble nephew and henchman?"

Khelben almost smiled. "Keep thinking in that manner," he said. "They say that dreams are healthy."

"Uncle, may I be frank?"

This time, the archmage looked genuinely amused. "Why stop on my account?"

"I am concerned about Bronwyn. Stop frowning so- nothing is out of the ordinary. All has been done as you requested. I have arranged to have her watched and protected. I have quietly fostered her shop as the right place to acquire gems and oddities, ensured that her acquisitions are seen on those who mold the whims of fashion, made certain that she receives social invitations likely to build her reputation and her client list. In short, I have kept her busy, happy, and here in Waterdeep.

"But may I be damned as a lich if I know why, and damned thrice over if I am proud of my part in the manipulation of a friend and a fellow Harper!"

"Consider it 'management,' then," Khelben answered, "if the other word displeases you."

Danilo shrugged. "A goblin by any other name is just as green."

"What a charming bromide. Is that the sort of thing you're teaching in the bard school?"

"Uncle, I will not be distracted."

The archmage threw up his hands. "Fine. Then I, too, will be blunt. Your words display far more naivete than I would have expected from you. Of course the Harpers must be managed. The decisions an agent must make are often too important, too far-reaching, to leave entirely in one person's hands."

"Unless, of course, that person is yourself."

Khelben stopped his pacing and turned slowly, exuding in condensed form the wrath and power of a dragon rampant. "Have a care how you speak." he said in a low, thrumming voice. "There are limits to what I will endure, even from you."

Danilo held his ground, though he better understood the true scope of Khelben's power than did most who stood in awe of the great archmage. "If I offended, I beg pardon, but I only speak the truth as I see it."

"A dangerous habit," Khelben grumbled, but he subsided and turned away. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out a window-a window that shifted position randomly, and that was never visible from the outside of the tower. The current vista, Dan noted, was especially impressive: the luxury of Castle Ward, crowned by the majestic sweep of Mount Waterdeep. A trio of griffons from the aerie at the mountain's summit rose into the sky, their tiny forms silhouetted against sunset clouds of brilliant rose and amethyst. Danilo watched them circle and take off on their appointed patrol as he waited for the archmage to speak.

"You have no doubt wondered why we keep such close watch on Bronwyn, a young Harper whose missions mostly entail carrying messages."

"No doubt," Danilo said dryly. He folded his arms and stretched his long legs out before him. "What was your first portent of this? The many times I demanded to know why I was made a mastiff to herd this particular sheep?"

"Sarcasm ill becomes you," Khelben pointed out. "You would not be so flippant if you understood Malchior's possible interest in Bronwyn."

"Then tell me." Dan traced a rune over his heart, in the manner of one schoolboy making a pledge to another. "I shall be the very soul of discretion."

The archmage's smile was bleak and fleeting. "I have never found you to be anything less, but you must accept that this is a tale best untold. I would like to keep it so. Go now, and get that necklace before it falls into Malchior's hands."

"Bronwyn values her reputation for making and keeping deals. She will not thank me for interfering."

"She need not know of your involvement. It would be better so. But if that is not possible, use whatever means needed to separate her from the necklace."

"Easily said," Dan remarked as he headed for the door.

Khelben lifted a skeptical brow. "Timid words, from a man whose first contribution to the Harper cause was his ability to separate women from their secrets."

The young Harper stiffened, then turned. "I will do as you say, Uncle, but not in the manner you imply. I resent this assignment, and I deeply resent your assault on my character."

"Can you deny the truth in my words?"

Dan's smile was tight and rueful. "Of course not. Why do you think I resent them?"

Steam filled the room and Bronwyn, who had had time after returning to the city to clean up, dress up, and take certain precautions, squinted into the mist. As her eyes adjusted, she noted the gray-bearded man lounging in the vast bath, his fleshy pink arms spread along the rim. His black eyes swept appreciatively over her. "You are prompt, as well as beautiful," he said in courteous tones. "I trust you have the necklace?"

Bronwyn closed the door behind her and settled down in a cushioned chair. "I would not risk carrying it with me, for fear of being waylaid. My assistant expects to send it by courier."

"Just as he anticipates your imminent return, no doubt," the man said dryly.

She responded with a demure smile. "Such precautions are needed, my lord Malchior, as my experience has proved many times over." Especially when dealing with the Zhentarim in general, and priests of Cyric in particular, she noted silently. Noting his scrutiny, she spread her hands in a self-deprecating gesture. "But I will not bore you with my little stories."

"On the contrary, I am sure I would find them most entertaining."

There was a soft tap on the door. "Another time, perhaps," Bronwyn murmured as she rose to answer it. She accepted a pile of fresh linen towels from the maid, closed and locked the door firmly behind her. From the center of the pile she took a small box roughly fashioned from unpolished wood.

Bronwyn set the box down on a small table and lifted the lid carefully, so as not to get splinters in her fingers. The priest eyed the homely box with distaste. His eyes rounded, however, when she spilled out the contents-several exotic smoking pipes already filled and tamped with a fragrant and highly illegal form of pipeweed. She did not miss the sudden light in his eyes as he regarded them. She did not come blind into this encounter and knew more about this man and his habits than she liked to contemplate.

"Forgive me if this offends you, my lord," she said, careful to keep any hint of irony from her face and voice. "This was a feint, just in case the lad who smuggled this box into the festhall was set upen by thieves, who would expect to find either valuables or some type of contraband. A thief would likely take the pipes and discard so rude a box, not suspecting that the box has a false bottom."

She deftly pried it loose and lifted the necklace from its hiding place. She stooped and held it out to the priest, who took it with eager hands. He closed his eyes and smoothed the amber beads over his forehead. An expression of near-ecstasy suffused his plump face. As his eyes opened and settled on her, Bronwyn suppressed a shiver. Despite the man's high rank and considerable personal wealth, his eyes held a degree of greed and cunning that marked him as kin to the worst duergar scum. Bronwyn suspected that his reasons for purchasing the amber had little to do with furthering the good of humankind.

"You have done well," he murmured at length. "These are more than I had expected. It is said that amber holds the memory of magic. Perhaps your touch, your beauty, has added to their value."

His words sent a crawling sensation skittering over her skin, but Bronwyn forced herself to smile graciously. "You are too kind."

"Not at all. Now, let us proceed to the matter of payment. You wished information in addition to gold. Why don't you join me? It would be more congenial to talk together in comfort."

Bronwyn deftly unclasped her belt, then stepped out of her shoes. With a quick, fluid motion, she pulled the dress over her head, and turned to drape it over the chair.

She turned back to the bath, catching the priest in an unguarded moment. His eyes were fixed on the curves of her hip, and narrowed in lewd speculation. Bronwyn set her jaw and stepped into the water. Public bathing was a part of life in Waterdeep, as in most civilized cities. She did not see it as a prelude to further intimacy, but there were those who did.

"This is much more pleasant," Malchior said. "Perhaps when our business is concluded, we might enjoy the other amenities this fine festhall has to offer."

Such as the adjoining bedchamber, Bronwyn supposed. "Perhaps," she said pleasantly, though now that she had met the man, she would rather kiss a water snake-at fifty fathoms.

"What can you tell me of the Sea Ghost?" she asked, naming the ship that had forever changed her life.

Malchior's plump shoulders rose in a shrug. "Little. The ship was indeed a Zhentish vessel, but it disappeared some twenty years ago. Given the pirate activity in the area, it was assumed that the ship was attacked, looted, and scuttled."

Bronwyn knew that already, and all too well. 'Was there any attempt to trace the cargo?"

"Of course. A few weapons were recovered, and a few bits of jewelry, but most of the cargo disappeared into the markets of Amn."

He continued to talk, but his words melted into the remembered haze of sound and smells and sensations: terror, captivity humiliation, pain. Oh yes, Bronw~n remembered the markets of Amn. The cacophony of voices that she could not yet understand, the prodding hands, the sudden knell of the falling gavel that announced a slave sold, a fate sealed.

"I'm afraid I can tell you little more. Perhaps if you told me more about the precise piece you are seeking?"

Malchior's words seeped into her nightmare, drawing her back into the present. Her eyes focused on his greedy face, the cunning knowledge that whatever she sought was worth more to her than the priceless amber necklace. She managed a wry smile. "Surely you don't expect me to answer that. Can you tell me about the origin of the cargo? The ship's owner, her captain? Even the name of a crewman? Anything you know, even details that may seem insignificant, might prove helpful."

The priest leaned forward. "My voice begins to fail, with all this shouting back and forth across this lake. Come closer, and we will talk more."

The bath was big, but not that big. Bronwyn rose and moved closer to the priest, taking care to stay beyond reach of those pudgy hands.

But he made no attempt to reach for her. "I must admit, your interest in this old matter intrigues me," Malchior said. "Tell me what you know about Sea Ghost and her cargo, and perhaps I can be of more help."

"I don't know much more than I told you," Bronwyn said honestly. "It was a long time ago, and the trail has long since gone cold."

"And I would doubt that your own memory extends back so far," he commented. "The ship was sunk more than twenty years ago. You were perhaps four years old?"

"About that," she answered. In truth, she wasn't sure of her exact age. She remembered very little: most of her early memories were swallowed up in terror. Before she could capture it, a bleak sigh escaped her.

Malchior nodded, his eyes shrewd in his round face. "Forgive me if this seems over-bold, but I could not help but notice your interesting tattoo. It looks a bit like a crimson oak leaf Perhaps you are a follower of Silvanus?"

Her first impulse was to laugh at this notion. Silvanus, the Oak Father, was a god revered by many druids, and she was most assuredly not of that faith. But it occurred to her that Cyric, Malchior's god, was exceedingly jealous of any sign of fealty to another power.

"I was once rather… fond of a certain young woodsman," she said lightly. "And he, in turn, was fond of oak leaves. So…" She let the word trail off and shrugged. Let him assume from that what he would. The birthmark on her backside was no one's business but her own.

"Is that so?" Malchior leaned forward. "I have great sympathy for a man's desire to leave his mark on you. In time, perhaps you could be persuaded to wear mine. Take her!" he called out.

Bronwyn's eyes widened, then darted to the door. The first hard kick resounded through the room, straining the bolt she'd carefully put in place.

She was out of the tub with a single leap and then dashed for the window. The splashing behind her-barely audible over the continued pounding at the door-announced Malchior's pursuit.

He moved fast, especially for a fat man. The priest seized her from behind, one fleshy arm around her waist and another flung around her throat. He was strong, too. Bronwyn wriggled like a hooked trout, but could not break free.

"Hurry; you fools!" he shouted out. "I can't hold her forever!"

Bronwyn thrust a hand into her hair and yanked out the stiletto she had hidden in the thick coils. The weapon was designed for precise, careful attack, but there was no time. She stabbed back over her shoulder and met yielding flesh. But the narrow knife did not strike hard or deep. Malchior yelped and tightened his grip. Again she struck, this time punching into the bones of his hands. She tore at the blade, then lashed out a third time.

Finally he released her-just as the door burst open in an explosion of wood. Bronwyn darted a quick look over her shoulder. Three men charged into the steamy room. There was little time for escape, but fury prompted her to turn back to the priest, and slash the point of the tiny blade across his sagging jowls.

Then she was gone, racing for the window. She flung aside the drapes and kicked open the wooden shutters. The latch gave, and she plunged out the window to the street below.

Time stood still as Bronwyn fell. An instant, no more, before she struck the quilted awning that her assistant had stretched between this building and the next, two floors down from the room that housed the private bath. She bounced slightly, then felt about for the tunic that was supposed to have been left there. She found it, quickly pulled it over her head, then rolled to the edge of the awning. She lowered herself down and dropped to the street, then took off at a run for the safety of her shop.

To her immense relief-and her surprise-she was not pursued. Perhaps Malchior decided not to take the risk. After all, Zhentish priests could hardly afford to advertise their presence, even in a city as tolerant as Waterdeep. He had the necklace, and at a ridiculously low price. No doubt he considered the bargain well made.

But why then had he called his men? The attack made no sense. She had already received payment, soit was no attempt to defraud her. Perhaps he had learned that she was a Harper. That would be reason enough for him to kill her. But his words indicated that he planned to keep her, not kill her. Did he have ambitions of turning her, making her into a hidden agent of the Zhentarim?

Bronwyn pondered this as she wove back through the city, following a complex path that took her through alleys and into the back room of a pipeweed shop whose owner was friendly to Harpers and their small intrigues. She emerged from the shop shod in the slippers she'd left there, her tunic decently covered by a linen kirtle and her wet hair hanging in a single braid. Thus attired, she could walk without notice through the elegant market area, just another tradeswoman on some errand for her household, or a servant indulging the whim of a mistress.

Finally she turned onto the Street of Silks, marveling again at her good fortune to have secured a lease on a shop in this posh district. Convenient to the Market and the wealthy Sea Ward, the street was a long, broad avenue of shops and taverns that catered to Waterdeep's wealthy. Only the finest merchandise and the most skilled craftsmen found a place on this street. The shops reflected this status. Tall buildings, constructed of good timber and wattle-and-daub, or even fine stone masonry; were decked with carved and painted wooden signs, bright banners, and even small beds of flowers. The street lamps glowed brightly, casting a golden light upon the elegantly dressed people who strolled the cobbled paths. Minstrels were plentiful, and as Bronwyn walked down the street, the music shifted around her in a pleasant kaleidoscope of sound. The dinner hour was long past, and most of the shops had closed, but in Waterdeep there were diversions to be had at all hours. Taverns and festhalls stayed open until breakfast. Lavish private parties and smaller, clandestine celebrations kept many of the more privileged citizens happily occupied until daylight. Those who earned their living with hard labor and skilled crafts were more likely to sleep and rise with the sun. Bronwyn heartily wished that she were one of them.

She was not surprised to see that the lights in her shop were still burning. She unlocked the door and stepped into the warm, appealing jumble of curiosities and treasures. Her assistant, a white-haired, rosy-cheeked gnome woman who went by the name Alice Tinker was studying an emerald ring through a jeweler's glass. She looked up when Bronwyn entered, not bothering to lower the glass. The result-one normal gnomish eye, one magnified to a size more fitting to a blue-eyed beholder-set Bronwyn back on her heels.

Alice laughed merrily and set down the glass. "Busy day we had, eh?"

"Aye," Bronwyn agreed on a sigh. "Did you have time to sketch the piece I sent through?" So tired was she that the words sounded muzzy even to her own ears.

"That I did. I've matched the color with some bits of amber we had hereabouts, and I'll use that as a guide to add the proper tints on the morrow."

Bronwyn nodded. She kept a portfolio of such sketches, a record of the rare pieces that passed through her hands, under lock and spell-guard in her safe. Some of the drawings she did herself, but most of the work fell to Alice's small, capable hands. The gnome was a positive treasure. She kept the shop and wrote up sales while Bronwyn was out adventuring and making deals. The two of them were a true team, and the success of Curious Past belonged to them both. To be sure, Alice tended to treat her employer like her own oversized child, but Bronwyn was willing to overlook that single lapse.

"Tomorrow will be soon enough," she agreed and turned to the stairs that led to the chamber she kept over the shop.

"Oh! One thing more," Alice called after her. "That young bard was in earlier, looking for you. Says it's important he talks to you at your earliest convenience. Something about a necklace."

That would be Danilo, of course. Again, tomorrow would be soon enough. "Fine. Good." Bronwyn said, and staggered up the stairs.

Alice followed her to the base of the stairs, her fists planted on her hips and her brown, apple-cheeked face filled with motherly reproach. "Look at you, child! Dead on your feet! I keep telling you to take some time off, laze around the shop a bit."

Ignoring the gnome's continuing harangue, Bronwyn climbed up to her chamber, intending to fall face first onto the bed and hoping she could stay awake that long.

But when she reached the chamber, all thoughts of sleep fled. In the center of the room, leaning on his staff and regarding her with a somber, measuring gaze, stood the most feared and powerful wizard in Waterdeep.

Bronwyn gaped at Khelben Arunsun, the Master Harper who ultimately directed her activities, but whom she had never met. She considered herself well versed in the custom and protocol of a dozen races and threescore lands, but for the life of her she could not decide which of three equally compelling responses she should chose:

Should she bow, flee, or faint?

Two men, both clad in the purple and black of Cyric's clergy, strolled through the villa's garden. A bright moon lit the white-pebbled path. Though it was still early spring, the air was scented with the fragrance of a few timid flowers. Three fountains played merrily into tiled pools.

"I have been hearing interesting things about you," Malchior said, slanting a glance at the man who had been his most talented and promising acolyte.

Dag Zoreth inclined his head in acknowledgment-and evasion. His mentor knew too much about him, had made a study of the family from which Dag had been torn. Some of this information he had recently shared: the location of the village from which Dag had been stolen, the rumors of power inherent in the family bloodline, the current post held by his illustrious father. He often wondered what else Malchior knew. He also wondered how the priest got that livid cut down his left cheek-and he envied the man who had put it there.

"It would appear that you have a more intriguing tale to tell," Dag commented, raising a finger and tracing a line down his own cheek.

The older priest merely shrugged. "You recently traveled to Jundar's Hill and rode alone into the foothills along the Dessarin. I am curious, my son, what prompted you to take such chances just to visit the site of your home village?"

So that was it. Word had reached Malchior faster than Dag had expected. "I, too, am curious," he said. "What you told me of my past intrigued me, but there are still many holes in my story. I sought to fill some of them."

"And did you?"

"One or two." Dag turned a stony gaze upon the older priest. "You told me that the raid was the work of an ambitious rival paladin. But the men who attacked were Zhentarim soldiers. Looking back from where I stand, I can see that plainly."

This clearly took Malchior aback. "How is this possible? You were a child."

"I know," Dag said simply. "The matter is between me and my god."

There was little Malchior would say to counter this pronouncement. For several moments they walked together in silence. "This villa, your new responsibilities," he began, "these things you have earned. I have something more for you. A gift." He paused to add weight to the coming words. "You are not the last of Samular's bloodline. Your sister also survived that raid and is alive and well."

Dag froze, stunned by this revelation. It did not occur to him to challenge Malchior's words; indeed, as the realization sank home, he wondered why he should be so surprised. He remembered the Cyric-given vision, the bold and curious little girl diving headlong from the small window to investigate the coming raid. His sister Bronwyn, dimly remembered as the bane of his young existence. Of course. He had been spared-why not the girl?

A sister. He had a sister. Dag was not certain how he felt about this. Vaguely he remembered his father's deep, disapproving voice lamenting the little girl's bold ways-and wondering why her older brother was not half so intrepid.

"How is she? Where is she?"

"In Waterdeep," Malchior answered. He grimaced and touched the livid cut on his face. "And trust me, she does well enough. I met and spoke with her earlier this very night."

So that was Bronwyn's work. The years had passed, but still she had the courage to act when Dag held back. This did not please him, but the discomfited expression on Malchior's wounded face most assuredly did.

"For a paladin's daughter, she is quick with a knife," Dag commented with dark amusement. "You are not usually so incautious as to overlook a hidden weapon."

"A naked woman," Malchior grumbled, "with a stiletto hidden in her halt Men must be cautious in these treacherous times."

This time Dag laughed aloud. "Oh, that is priceless! Wouldn't the great Hronulf be proud?"

The older priest shrugged. "She is an interesting woman, a finder of lost antiquities who has made it her life's work to collect pieces of the past. Ironically, she has not been able to recover her own history. Yet she is clearly desperate to do so. She was willing to trade a gemstone artifact for information. You could exploit this. And you should." Again he grimaced. "I ran into some… interference. Had I not prepared for that possibility and importuned Cyric aforetime for spells to take me to this place, the night would have ended more disastrously than it did. Clearly, we are not the only ones in possession of this knowledge. Your sister is watched, protected. If you do not stake claim to this woman and whatever power she wields, someone else will."

"Yes," Dag murmured. "What do you suggest?"

Malchior's eyebrows rose. It had been some years since his former student had asked for advice. "I have given into your hands the man who betrayed your father, and you. Use him. Let him lure your sister to a place where you can, shall we say, exert a degree of brotherly influence."

The young priest nodded. "Well said. And what, if I may be so bold, do you hope to gain from any of this?"

"Gain? We have known each other for many years. You have been like a son," Malchior began. When Dag began to chuckle, the priest gave up the attempt and shrugged. "There is power in your family. I don't understand its precise nature. That is for you to discover. But I trust that you will do so and share your discovery with me."

"Really?" Dag imbued the single word with a great deal of skepticism. Malchior was not a man to be trusted, and he assumed that all other men dealt as he did.

"Let us say that there is power enough for both. I desire your success with all my heart, for it is a stepping-stone to my own."

That, Dag could believe and understand. "Very well. When Bronwyn is under my influence, when I understand the scope of my heritage, then you and I will speak again."

"I am satisfied to wait." Suddenly the priest's jovial expression disappeared, and his eyes were as flat and hungry as a troll's. "You understand, of course, the price of failure."

"Of course," Dag said smoothly. "Have I not inflicted it often enough? Ask any failed man under my command the price of his failure-but first, prepare to summon his spirit."

Malchior blinked, then began to laugh. "Well enough. A drink then, to seal our agreement." He linked his arm with Dag's, and together they strolled back toward the darkness of the villa.

"Forgive the intrusion," Khelben Arunsun said in a deep, faintly accented voice, "but circumstances demanded that we meet and speak. Please, sit down."

Still too dazed for thought, Bronwyn sank down on the nearest available seat-the old sea chest that held her linens. The archmage took the chamber's only chair. Staff in hand, he looked uncomfortably like a magistrate about to pass judgment on some unknown crime.

"It has come to my attention that you have accepted a commission from a priest of Cyric, a man known as Malchior."

How had he learned of this so soon? Bronwyn shook off this second surprise and marshaled her wits. "That is so, Lord Arunsun."

"What precisely was your thinking in this matter? Need I remind you that conspiring with the Zhentarim is hardly an approved Harper activity?"

"True enough, my lord. But it is part of my job. I was recruited by the Harpers for my contacts. A wide range of customers seek my services."

"And simple prudence dictates that you set limits. Correct me if I err, but was it not your intention to deliver gemstones containing significant magical power to Malchior of Cyric?"

"Yes, but-"

"What do you know of the man? What is the nature of your dealings with him?"

Before Bronwyn could form a defense, a tap at her open lintel distracted both her and her visitor. A familiar, fair-haired man lounged against the door post. He held up one hand to display a length of golden beads and silver filigree.

Bronwyn's eyes widened at the sight of the amber necklace. For a moment, she forgot the daunting presence of the archmage. "Damn it, Dan, what are you doing with that?"

"I should like to know that, myself," Khelben intoned in a grim voice. He rose and faced down the younger man. "Why did you bring the necklace here?"

"Why wouldn't I? It belongs to Bronwyn," Danilo said.

"No, it doesn't," she gritted out. "I received payment. The bargain was made."

"Was it?" Her friend's usually merry face showed deep concern. He walked into the room and sat beside her on the sea chest. "From what I hear, there was a slight downturn in the course of bartering. Something about an attempted kidnapping and a leap from a fourth floor window? Why are you so angry about a little assistance, Bronwyn? They might have killed you."

This argument did nothing to lessen Bronwyn's ire. "Obviously, they did not succeed. I was away before your… friends made an appearance." She gave him an impatient little shove. "Don't you realize what you have done?"

His eyebrows rose. "I thought I did. Obviously you are of a different opinion, and the archmage quite clearly holds a distinct third. Since I am sure he will share his thoughts with me at a later time, no doubt in four-part harmony, why don't we discuss your views?"

Bronwyn leaped to her feet and strode to the little window that overlooked the city. "Promise made, promise kept. That's my reputation and the most valuable thing I possess. This is the first time I have not delivered. You have undermined more than a single deal. Now do you understand?"

The silence stretched out for a long, tense moment. "The necklace has great magical value and must be properly safeguarded," Khelben said.

Bronwyn struggled to hold her temper. Hadn't the archmage heard a word? Or did such minor things matter nothing? After all, what regard does a dragon have for a mouse?

"I'll keep it in my safe," she said in a stiff tone. "Danilo can tell you what magical wards have been placed upon it."

Her friend rose and placed one hand on her shoulder. "What price did the necklace command? I will see that Malchior is amply compensated. Although that will not fully satisfy him, it may serve to restore your honor in his eyes and your own. We owe you that."

"And more." She tipped back her head to glare at her friend. It was a relief, not having to hide her irritation. "You'll have to forgive me if I prefer to collect at some later time."

A faint smirk lifted one corner of the bard's lips. "Lord Arunsun, I do believe we are being thrown out."

Bronwyn glanced at the archmage. "I didn't mean-"

"Of course you did," Dan broke in smoothly. "And not without justification. Get some rest. The day's… bargaining has taken a toll." Before she could respond, the two men turned and left her chamber by the back stairs. Bronwyn sat staring after them, all thoughts of sleep vanished.

As the Harpers walked down the stairs, Khelben began to transform. His broad form compacted and lengthened into that of a lithe young man, and his clothing changed from somber black to shades of forest brown and green. The silver streaks disappeared from his hair and beard, and his face took on a faintly elven appearance.

Danilo had seen this so many times that he did not remark on it. The archmage seldom went about the city wearing his own face. In fact, neither man spoke at all until they had reached the alley behind Curious Past.

"What were you thinking, bringing the necklace to Bronwyn's shop? Now she is aware that Harpers are watching her."

"We took on that risk when we sent men to the festhall," Danilo said bluntly. An alley cat streaked out from behind a crate, yowling as if in protest. No doubt their appearance had spoiled a long and patient stalking of some prey, likely a rat. Danilo was not fond of such, and he quickened his pace. "Bronwyn is no fool. Surely she realizes that she got away too easily and suspects that someone detained Malchior's thugs."

Khelben lengthened his stride and fell into pace. "And now, thanks to your misguided gesture, she knows without question. Given Malchior's involvement, this has become a delicate situation."

"Enlighten me."

They emerged onto Selduth Street, which at this hour was bustling with tavern traffic, as well as the paid escorts and would-be suitors who gathered on nearby Jester's Court. The lighting was dimmer here, in deference to ale-sodden heads and a desire for discrete dalliance. Khelben shot a quick look around to see if anyone was paying too close heed to their conversation, then started walking back west toward the Street of Silks. Even an archmage, Dan noted, instinctively sought the safety of a well-lit street.

"You have known Bronwyn for perhaps seven years. I have been searching for her for more than twenty. She is the daughter of a famed paladin-Hronulf of Tyr, who is of the bloodline of Samular Caradoon, the paladin who founded the order known as the knights of Samular. From your expression, I surmise that you recognize those names."

"I have been schooled in history," Danilo said, nimbly avoiding a drunken and weaving passerby. "Pray continue."

"Then you also know that Hronulf's family was thought to have been destroyed in a raid on his village more than twenty years ago. Hronulf believes that all his children were killed, but I had doubt on the matter and kept searching until my suspicions were confirmed. One child, now a man grown, is beyond my reach. But Bronwyn I can and must influence. She has no knowledge of her heritage, and there is ample reason to hope that she is never enlightened."

Danilo stopped abruptly and caught the archmage's arm.

"Am I to understand," he said in a low and angry voice, "that for nearly seven years, you have known that two of Hronulf's children live, and he does not?"

"Do not pass judgment on that which you do not understand," Khelben cautioned. "You would do better to attend to the task at hand. We must learn who, if anyone, knows of Bronwyn's secret-including Bronwyn herself. And that is where you come in."

Khelben started walking, leaving Danilo standing with his jaw dropped and his mind churning with suspicion. Determined to find the truth of the matter, he trotted up to Khelben's side and fell into step.

"Seven years ago, you sent me to Amn to recruit a likely agent, a woman not yet twenty years old. Bronwyn and I became friends."

"So you said."

"The report and recommendation of a potential Harper includes many things, including, I might add, whether or not a person has any identifying marks." Danilo's tone was tight, kindling with growing wrath. "And I reported Bronwyn's birthmark. That was the identifying mark, was it not? The mark that confirmed that she was Hronulf's daughter?"

"Yes. What of it?"

Danilo inhaled, his breath whistling through clenched teeth. "You sent me to Amn, intending for me to see and report this."

"You were both young and unattached. It was reasonable to assume that nature would take its predicted course," Khelben said. "And you are, I might add, predictable in this matter."

The bard let out a low, furious oath. "I cannot believe this, not even from you. Is there no part of my life beyond the Harpers' reach? And you! To thus manipulate those who put trust in you… this is beyond belief."

"Calm yourself. That was long ago. No harm came of it. You even remained friends."

"Friends, indeed!" he sputtered. "What kind of friend will Bronwyn think me when she learns that I used and betrayed her thus? Will she believe it was without intent or knowledge? Will she believe that I had no part in keeping her past, her family, secret from her?"

"Lower your voice." Khelben glanced at a pair of interested passersby, and drew Danilo into a side street. "It is long past and a small matter. Let it go. This was not the first time you used charm and persuasion to learn a woman's secrets. I doubt it will be the last."

"Not the last?" Dan folded his arms and glared into Khelben's borrowed face. "I have made certain personal commitments. Does that mean nothing?"

"You have a prior commitment to the Harpers," Khelben pointed out, just as angry now as his nephew. But his anger was cold-to Danilo's eyes, almost inhuman. "If your Arilyn cannot accept this, then she proves herself unworthy of her Harper pin, as well as your continued regard."

Danilo considered himself an easygoing man, but this was treading where he allowed no man to walk. "I may have to hop back to my house as a frog," he gritted out, "but by Mystra, it will be worth it."

He fisted his hand and swung hard, connecting squarely with Khelben's jaw.

The archmage stumbled back a few steps, startled by the first physical attack he had received in what was no doubt centuries. For just a moment, his magical disguise slipped. Danilo confronted not a strong young man with elven blood, but an aging wizard. So old did Khelben look, in fact, that Danilo's heart thudded with mingled guilt and grief. It was one thing to deck a man wearing a magical disguise of his own apparent age, another entirely to look upon the dumbfounded face of the man who was in fact his own grandfather.

Then the moment passed and the powerful archmage of Waterdeep stood with his hand on his jaw, looking exactly as he always did: stern, powerful, and determined to have his way in this matter and all others.

Danilo turned and strode off, too full of fury and turmoil to care if retributive lightning was forthcoming.

All thoughts of sleep forgotten, Bronwyn quickly dressed herself in dark breeches and shirt, then slipped down her back stairs. She hailed a three-copper carriage on the street and gave the driver an address in the Dock Ward, the rough and dangerous part of town where sea met city. There was a warehouse just off Keel Alley that boasted a cavernous cellar. This was a favorite gathering place for denizens of the underground realms. When her duergar "friends" were in town, they invariably stayed there.

Bronwyn got to the warehouse without incident and crept into the building. The warehouse was vast, resembling a miniature city with narrow, wood-planked streets between structures formed by stacks of wooden crates and piles of sacks. It was fully as dangerous as the larger city beyond its walls. When Bronwyn saw a pair of luminous eyes, narrowed in challenge and hunkered low to the floor, she instinctively reached for her knife. A low, angry growl curled through the dusty air toward her. Bronwyn recognized the sound and relaxed. It was only a scrawny cat, such as many warehouse owners kept to limit the number of rats. The unearthly glow of the cat's eyes was merely reflected light from a crack high on the wall and the street lamp beyond.

She made her way through the maze of barrels and crates to the back corner of the warehouse. There stood a large, squat keg. She flipped open the knothole and squinted inside.

There was no floor beneath the barrel, just a ladder that led down into the cellar. A small, smoky fire burned in a stone hearth, and the haunch of rothe spitted over it sizzled and spat. The light of the fire fell upon several gray faces. Bronwyn counted five duergar, including the two she had dealt with earlier that day. The young duergar was not with them, but his elders did not seem to mourn his loss overmuch. The silent duergar sat contentedly munching a hunk of half-cooked rothe, while the leader played dice with the others and argued in a low, angry voice. The huge, empty ale mug at his elbow suggested Bronwyn's next course of action.

She tied a bit of thin, sturdy cord to the handle of a crate stacked overhead, then wriggled the crate forward a bit so that its position was less than secure. Then she took a place behind a nearby stack of crates and waited for the duergar to emerge. The way she figured it, the rental on his ale would expire shortly, and not even the filthy deep dwarves would permit him to end his lease in the cellar dining hall.

Sure enough, before long she heard the creak of heavy iron boots on the rickety ladder. When the duergar passed her, intent upon reaching the alley door, Bronwyn sprang. She reached over his shoulder, seized his beard, and jerked it up and back, then laid her knife to his bared throat. With her free hand, she began to loop the end of the cord onto his belt.

"That necklace you sold me," she whispered. "Where did you get it?"

The duergar started to wriggle, then thought the better of it. "Not telling," he mumbled. "Not part of the deal."

"I'm adding it on, as payment for damages. Who sold it to you? "She gave the knife an encouraging little twitch to speed his answer.

"A human," the duergar said grudgingly. "Short beard, big grin. Runs to fat. Wears purple."

The picture was forming clearly enough in Bronwyn's mind, but she wanted to be sure. "Does this human have a name?"

"Calls himself Malchior. Now turn me loose, and go bother him. I got things to do," the duergar complained.

Bronwyn lowered her knife. She gave the duergar a kick that sent him sprawling-and that brought the crate and several below it tumbling down on him. She turned and fled. Before the other duergar could so much as investigate, she had put two alleys and a shop between them.

As she made her way back to Curious Past, two conclusions tumbled through Bronwyn's mind. First was the irrefutable fact that Malchior had set her up for no reason that she could fathom. And second was her growing conviction that the duergar had given her this information far too easily.

Early morning sunshine poured in through windows of fine leaded glass. An impeccably dressed servant unobtrusively placed a breakfast tray on a nearby table. Dag inhaled, enjoying the complex scent of sausage pasties, fresh-baked bread, and even a pot of the Maztican coffee that was becoming so popular in the decadent southern lands.

"Will that be all, my lord?"

Dag Zoreth paused in the act of surveying his new domain and glanced at the elegant, dark-clad man who'd addressed him. Emerson was a gentleman's gentleman: a polished, accomplished, and supremely capable servant who could probably run a small kingdom with great success and aplomb. The manservant was precisely the sort of amenity to which Dag intended to become accustomed.

"One thing more, Emerson. Sir Gareth Cormaeril will be calling this morning. He expects to meet with Malchior. Do not disabuse him of this notion. In fact, should he pose any questions at all, evade them."

The manservant did not so much as blink at this odd litany. "Shall I announce him, sir, or send him in directly?"

Dag's lips thinned in a semblance of a smile. "By all means, send him in at once. This meeting is more than twenty years overdue."

Emerson responded with an admirable lack of curiosity and a quick, perfect bow. After the manservant had shut the elaborately carved door behind him, Dag settled down in a deeply cushioned chair and took a moment to let the sheer luxury of the room flow over him.

Intricately patterned carpets from Calimport, many-paned windows accented with colored glass and framed with draperies of Shou silk, furniture carved from rare woods and softened with tapestry-covered pillows, shelf after shelf of beautifully bound books. The fireplace was tiled with lapis, and the chandelier that lit the room with scores of extravagant beeswax candles had the sheen of elven silver. Not a single item in the room was less than superlative, and nearly all were in shades of rich blue and deep crimson-the most difficult colors to achieve, and the most expensive.

This was the library of the Osterim guest villa, a small but lavish manor that was part of the Rassalanter Hamlet in the countryside east of Waterdeep. A complex of manors, cottages, and stables, it was maintained by a wealthy merchant for his use and that of his guests. This was widely known. It was less known that Yamid Osterim was a captain of the Zhentarim. His impeccable credentials as a merchant gave him access to secrets and trade routes; his cunning allowed him to pass along much of this information in such manner that never once had a hint of suspicion touched him.

Malchior, Dag's mentor and immediate superior, had enjoyed access to Osterim's hospitality for many years. That privilege he had passed on to Dag, along with the services of the inestimable Emerson-and the control of Malchior's paladin.

In preparation for Sir Gareth's visit, Dag had added his own unique touch to the room's decor. The hearth blazed with magical fire-strange, unholy black and purple flames that cast an eerie purple light and sent macabre shadows dancing across the carpeted floor. It amused Dag to flaunt the colors and the power of Cyric, in unspoken mockery of Sir Gareth's ability to bear such proximity to evil.

The door opened and a tall, well-made man in vigorous late life stepped into the room, helmet tucked respectfully under his left arm and snowy hair smoothed into precise waves. His bright blue eyes widened in surprise when they fell upon a slight, dark young man instead of the substantial and falsely jovial priest he clearly anticipated.

"Welcome, Sir Gareth. It was good of you to come," Dag Zoreth said, inflecting the words with irony.

The knight's look of puzzlement deepened. "I had little choice in the matter, young sir. I was summoned."

Dag sighed and shook his head. "Paladins," he said with mild derision. "Always this need to state the obvious. Sit, please."

"I have no wish to intrude upon your leisure. My duty is with another. Only accept my apologies for this intrusion and I will leave you and seek him-"

"Malchior will not be attending," Dag broke in smoothly.

"He sends his regards and his desire that you see in me his replacement."

Sir Gareth hesitated. "I do not know you, young sir."

"Do you not? I have chosen the name Dag Zoreth, though you may well have heard me called by another. You knew my father extremely well, if the stories tell truth." Dag nodded at the older man's right arm, which hung withered and useless at his side. "You took that wound saving his life. Or so they say."

The color drained from the paladin's face, but still he stood as straight as a sentry.

"Oh, sit down before you fall," the priest said irritably.

Sir Gareth moved stiffly to the nearest chair and sank into it, his eyes riveted on Dag's face. "How is it possible?" he whispered. "Hronulf's son. This cannot be true."

"If you are looking for my father's likeness in me, do not bother," Dag said with a touch of asperity. "As I recall, we were never much alike. But perhaps this little trinket will convince you of my claim."

He lifted a silver chain from around his neck and handed it to Sir Gareth. The old knight hesitated when he glimpsed the medallion bearing the symbol of Cyric. He forgot his scruples, however, when he caught sight of the ring behind it. He took the chain and studied the ring carefully.

After a few moments Sir Gareth lifted his gaze to Dag's face. "You do not wear this ring," the paladin said. "I suspect that you cannot."

That was true enough, but Dag shrugged it aside. "Someone can wield it for me. If the ring is in my control, it matters little whose hand it bedecks."

An expression of shrewd speculation flashed into the knight's eyes, coming and going so quickly that Dag wondered if he had only imagined it. But he remembered it, as he remembered all things Malchior had told him about this man Dag now owned.

"There are two other rings," Dag continued. "My father wears one. Where is the third?"

Sir Gareth reluctantly handed back the ring. "Alas, we do not know. The ring was lost to the Holy Order long years ago, during the time of the great Samular."

The priest studied the older man's face for signs of hesitation. Malchior had advised him that Sir Gareth never lied, yet often managed to speak truth in highly misleading fashion. It was difficult, Malchior had warned, to tell whole truth from artfully contrived prevarication. Dag suspected that Sir Gareth himself would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. According to Malchior, the knight was a master at the art of rationalization. Sir Gareth worked hard, desperately hard, to conceal from his brothers in the Order- and from himself, most likely-the fact that he was a fallen paladin. The grace of Tyr was no longer with him and hadn't been for a very long time. In light of this, Dag concluded with grim, private amusement, Sir Gareth could hardly object to carrying a bit of Cyric-granted magic.

The priest reached into the folds of his purple tabard and removed a small black globe. This he handed to Sir Gareth. "You will carry this with you, keeping it on your person at all times. When I wish to contact you, you will feel a sensation of cold fire. I will not try to explain this-you will know what it is when you feel it. When this occurs, hasten to a private spot and draw the globe out of its hiding place. The touch of your hand will open the portal-and dim the pain." Dag smiled thinly. "But I'm sure that warning is twice unnecessary, since alacrity and fortitude are both knightly virtues."

Sir Gareth took the globe with an unwilling hand. He drew back in horror at the image within: Dag's pale, narrow face, back lit by purple flames.

"Speak into it in a normal voice. I will hear you," Dag continued. His eyes mocked the knight, who hastily put aside the globe and wiped his fingers as if the touch not only burned, but sullied him. "With this device, you can continue to serve the Zhentarim, as you have for nearly thirty years."

Dag's words were a deliberate insult, and were received as such. Sir Gareth's jaw firmed and his chin lifted. "Think what you will, Lord Zoreth, but I serve the Order still. The Knights of Samular venerate the memory of Samular, our founder. In serving you, a child of the bloodline of Samular, I am fulfilling my vows."

"Twisted," Dag Zoreth said with mild admiration. "Perhaps you can enlighten me on another matter. I am curious have you any idea what kind of diversions a priest of Cyric finds amusing?"

The priest smiled at his visitor's reaction. "You blanched just now. I will take that as a yes. How, then, do you justify the use of your Order's funds to finance Malchior's leisure activities?"

Sir Gareth's face was ashen, but his gaze remained steady. "Whatever else he may be, Malchior is a scholar and most knowledgeable in the lore and history of my Order. It is right and fitting that some of the Order's monies support this work. I have no firsthand knowledge that these funds were used in any other manner."

"A fine distinction, and one that I'm sure you find soothing," the priest commented. His face hardened and the dark amusement in his eyes vanished. "Permit me one more question. By what possible light could you justify condemning children to death?"

The former paladin dropped his head into his hands, as if the weight of his unacknowledged guilt was too heavy to bear. "I had no hand in what happened to Hronulf's children."

"Did you not? Did you not sell some of your Order's most precious and closely guarded secrets? If that led raiders to my father's village and to me, I suppose none of the taint clings to your garments."

Sir Gareth sat up abruptly, his shoulders squared. The awareness of imminent death was in his eyes, but he was still paladin enough to meet his anticipated fate squarely.

"It is rather late for you to die a martyr," Dag said coldly. "Killing you slowly and painfully would be vastly amusing, but all things considered, it would be administering simple justice. That is the purview of your god, not mine."

"Then what do you want from me, priest of Cyric?"

"No more than Malchior wanted," Dag said. "Information is worth far more to me than the brief satisfaction I would derive from your demise."

The knight studied him, then nodded. "If the knowledge is mine, it shall be freely given."