Behind her, she heard another shout followed by a grunt and a thud. That would be Rhauligan paying his respects to old Many-brands. It seemed she'd been right: the world of laundry was an exciting place.
Narnra plunged past a room full of all the noisy, sweating activity she'd envisaged and landed gently in a large, brightly lit room below that, toppling and scattering hot, fluffy cloaks in all directions. No one was near, and Narnra rolled enthusiastically, trying to get herself mostly dry ere she waded out to find footing and run on.
Along the way, she snatched up a cloak, shook it open in her hands-and when Rhauligan crashed down into view, she flung it over his head, managed to tug him over into a cascading fall of piled laundry to where she could get a hard knee into his blinded and muffled head, then sprang away, not daring to stay and try to smother him because enraged launderers were approaching at a run from various directions now, all shouting furious curses she couldn't tarry to hear properly. She left them closing in on the thoroughly entangled Rhauligan, sprang over some sort of sorting table where women cowered away from her behind wicker baskets . . . and found another handy, waiting door. This one was even open.
Still, she was losing count of doors she was having to blindly rush through and had long since lost her patience with being hunted all over this strange city. It was waking up now, and soon she'd be dodging frequent Watch patrols and carters in the streets and watching eyes, watching eyes everywhere. She doubted there even was such a thing as a dry rooftop to try to sleep on in Marsember, even if she knew this grim, tireless Harper was safely taken away from his hunt. Narnra was beginning to think the only way to do that was to make sure he was dead.
Well, she certainly wasn't wading back into the land of enraged launderers to see to that. Perhaps they'd take care of it for her, though she was beginning to doubt an army could stop Glarasteer Rhauligan, let alone a few angry Marsembans.
She fled down a short stair, through another door-smashing flat an unsuspecting man passing by as she crashed it open-and out into the streets, wondering when it would be prudent to slow down and walk as if she belonged here-in black leathers, aye-rather than running like a thief and catching every interested eye.
When Rhauligan was . . . yes, yes, yes! With a growl of anger Narnra saw two Watch patrols coming together at a street-moot ahead and dodged aside. She had to get aloft again before he saw where she went and-
Then she saw it. A street over, behind a wall of old buildings that sprouted balconies and rickety outer stairs above their shopfronts, beyond their lines of dripping clothing-imagine hanging clothes out to dry, in night-mists like this!-and water-cisterns . . . water-cisterns? Well, rainwater would almost have to be cleaner than canal-water, and a little less salty. . . .
There was a high stone wall in superb condition with trees rising behind it. Some sort of noble's walled garden, if Marsember was anything like Waterdeep. Yes, there was the row of spikes most nobles seemed to think a wall needed, atop a stretch of buttressed stone that must overtop a two-story building and run longer than six or seven of the shops nearer to her.
Narnra stopped looking at the wall and hurried to get closer to it, looking now for some way to get up onto it.
* * * * *
Durexter Dagohnlar drew himself upright with as much dignity as a naked, bound, and overly fat man can muster whilst sitting on his own bedchamber floor and fixed the Watchcaptain with a coldly disapproving gaze.
'There was no need to push past my wife and invade our home, sir,' he said stiffly, as his steward hastened to cut his bonds, 'no matter how many overexcited servants came running to summon you. No need at all. I-that is to say we ' he amended hastily, catching sight of the dagger-laden look his wife was favoring him with, from behind the Watchmen, 'Starmara and myself, ahem, vanquished a very old foe here this night-a foe who came to slay us with magic but was forced to flee. I'll not reveal his name even to War Wizards, because uttering it will awaken some very dangerous spells he left behind. So let's just forget th-'
'You can write it down for me, then, Lord Master Dagohnlar,' the Watchcaptain said calmly, the mouth under his grizzled mustache carefully expressionless but his eyes every bit as wintry as the merchant's. 'To save the strongest War Wizards in the city the time 'twill take to come and empty your mind of everything of interest to the security of the city . . . and adherence to all of our laws.'
Durexter opened and closed his mouth in trapped bafflement for a few moments then said triumphantly, 'I'm sorry, Watchman, but I can't write. I never learned how.'
The Watchcaptain didn't bother to order his men to step forward and forcibly take Durexter Dagohnlar into custody. He was too busy rolling his eyes. His men moved forward anyway, their snorts of derision almost as loud as those from various gawking servants.
Starmara Dagohnlar, whose sidle toward the door had already ended in the firm grip of a Watchman, sighed and said loudly, 'My apologies, Watchcaptain. Our enemy's spells must have affected my husband's wits.'
'Indeed, Lady Dagohnlar,' the officer agreed politely as Durex-ter was gagged with his wife's discarded nightrobe and hustled to the door. 'How many decades ago did they take effect?'
* * * * *
Glarasteer Rhauligan was no longer in anything remotely resembling a good mood. He'd lost a lot of blood, was in great pain, and thanks to the needs of the Mage Royal and this little fool of a thief now lacked any swift means of quelling that. The hasty violence he'd just been forced to do to a small but enthusiastic band of launderers had done nothing to help matters, but at least he was now largely dry-thanks to a lot of formerly clean clothing that was now, unfortunately, smeared and stained with his blood-and was now sporting a bandage of sorts: a very large someone's freshly laundered bloomers tied around the wound in his shoulder.
It had all taken far too long, and if that little bitch had managed to give him the slip whilst. . .
Rhauligan reached the street, where a man lay groaning and twisting outside the laundry door, ignored him as being in no condition to have seen where Narnra Shalace had gone, and glared around in all directions. Twas bad enough having to hunt anyone in wet, hostile-to-the-Crown Marsember, bu-there!
Gods, give the girl a wall to run along, and she's happy! The taller the better, it seemed . . . and she'd obviously managed to leap from another building onto a corner turret of the wall, because she was hurrying away from that turret now as fast as she could. Rhauligan sprinted across the street to get out of view before she looked back to see if he'd seen her.
Well, now. That was quite a wall she'd chosen. If Narnra ran all the way around it, she'd trot for nigh on a mile. Rhauligan happened to know that it kept the prying world out of an estate known as Haelithtorntowers, the abode of one Lady Joysil Ambrur.
That same wider, prying world knew the Lady Ambrur to be a wealthy Sembian merchant noble, a tall, demure, sophisticated patron of bards and singers, who was-correctly-said to pay handsomely for dancers to be enspelled to fly, so they could engage in her particular pleasure: elaborate aerial ballet dances performed as they sang for her, in her parlor.
'We Harpers, however, know rather more about Lady Joysil,' Rhauligan murmured aloud, recalling Laspeera's crisp words at a certain private meeting in a tiny, little-used upper room of the palace.
'She's not from Sembia at all. Unearthing her true origins will be another of your little idle-time tasks, gentlesirs.'
'That'd be task four thousand and seven, Lady,' Harl had murmured, like a bored steward announcing the date and time.
'Indeed, Harl? Then you've missed three,' Laspeera had replied with a smile, 'or neglected to tell me of their accomplishment, more likely. Now, Lady Ambrur secretly employs her favorite visiting bards as information- gatherers. She then discreetly resells the lore they bring to traitorous nobles, local merchants, and anyone else willing to pay for it.'
This practice was what had led local Harpers-including, from time to time, one Glarasteer Rhauligan-to keep watch over who visited Joysil Ambrur and to try to discover just what learning their coins to her bought them.
It was doubtful this Narnra of Waterdeep knew about Lady Ambrur. She'd probably just gone looking for a place aloft to hide and sleep and spotted the tallest wall around that wasn't bristling with vigilant Purple Dragon posts.
