riders in gleaming armor who rode with great spiked long-axes gripped in their gauntlets- were eyeing Noumea narrowly, at least two of them always crossing to opposing sides of the noble party so as to keep full watch on her.
And no wonder. Through the wonders of magic Noumea may have looked like a lone, bespectacled male merchant from Lantan, afoot and bearing only a leather carrysack slung over one shoulder-but she'd arrived out of nowhere, just suddenly there, in mid-step. And Tethyrian house guards who hadn't seen teleport spells in use before had certainly heard of them-and knew well enough to be wary in the presence of what must be an accomplished wizard or sorcerer.
Or something worse.
Wherefore they turned to present Noumea with a leveled row of glittering spike-points when the party reached Candlekeep proper and stopped to parley with the monks of the gate.
Noumea came to a halt, nodded to them politely, and waited calmly enough. When it was her turn at the tall gates-spell-shrouded vertical bars as thick as her forearm, bearing the castle-and-flames device of Candlekeep and a guard of five purple-robed priests-she gave the expressionless monk who approached her a book from her sack and waited while he carefully stripped away its wrappings.
'The Life of the Sembian Woodworm,' he read aloud, his voice devoid of judgment. With gentle fingers he opened the tome, glanced at a few pages, stopped to peer at what were unmistakably the glyphs of spells-minor wardings effective also against paper-worms, he noted with an audible sigh of excitement-then looked up and said, 'A notable, valuable gift. You are most welcome within our walls, seeker of wisdom. What's your name, your land, and your intent within?'
'I am Roablar of Lantan, come from trading up and down the Sword Coast and most recently Sembia to examine certain texts. I'm most interested in Thelgul's Do Metals Live? and Bracetar's Notes On Preservation of Foodstuffs and Oils!'
The monk smiled for the first time. It transformed his face, leaving Noumea with the impression that it was not an expression he assumed often. 'Be welcome here, Roablar, so long as you treat books with the reverence they deserve, eschewing fire, damp, the torn page, and the removal of lore from the eyes of others. Cross the yard ahead of you to the green-hued door, and give your name to the Keeper of the Emerald Door. You'll be provided with food, a bath, quarters in which to sleep, and a moot with the monk who will escort you on your first visit to the rooms of the tomes.'
'I thank you, sir,' Roablar replied, bowing slightly and favoring all the monks with a beaming smile. He was waved in through the gap in the partly open gates and set off across the courtyard shifting his sack on his shoulder, as all travelers do.
'Well, Amanther?' the monk who'd dealt with him asked, glancing at the next supplicants-a large party of horsemen, still some way off down the Way of the Lion.
The oldest, tallest monk of the five smiled faintly. 'A mage-human female, not old-wearing a very good spell- spun disguise. I daresay the books she mentioned are already familiar to her; I doubt she needs to peruse them again. Slyly learning spells is of course the aim of most who enter covertly, but she feels different to me, somehow. She'll bear close watching.'
The other monks nodded. 'Thaerabho already answers your signal,' one of them said, pointing at a monk strolling across the courtyard to casually follow Roablar of Lantan up to the Emerald Door.
'Good,' another grinned, rubbing his hands. 'A new mystery to dissect at table this night. One can never have enough delving and prying. It keeps the soul young.'
'A tongue more deft, Larth,' Amanther admonished. 'Say rather: Inquiry into all things keeps a mind bright.'
'That too,' Larth agreed with a chuckle, which was echoed by the other monks.
'Well, then, clever dissembler,' Amanther said, waving at the approaching cloud of dust and sun-flashing armor. 'Deal you with these next seekers!'
'With as much pleasure as humility,' Larth replied cheerfully. 'I'll wager they'll proffer a family history or perhaps a text on the genealogy or heraldry of their immediate region.'
'Nay,' said another monk, squinting at the banners. 'I expect another copy of Navril's History of the Parsnip, with some obscure local collection of plays or minstrels' sayings to serve as their entrance-gift when we reject old Navril one more time.'
The chorus of chuckles was hearty but brief, for it was not proper for monks of Candlekeep to be anything less than politely grave when first greeting supplicants.
Across the Court of Air, the monk Thaerabho gazed at the shoulders of the Lantanna talking to the doorkeeper and had to suppress an urge to stop, cross his arms, and rub his chin in eager anticipation.
This was going to be one of the interesting deceivers. He could feel it.
* * * * *
Lady Joysil Ambrur stood sipping wine and watching her servants reluctantly depart. Before ringing for them, she'd downed an entire bottle of potent vintage without any apparent effects at all and begun a second by the rather daintier means of filling (and refilling) her tallglass. Though she still stood by her high-backed seat behind the table, a new piece of furniture had made its appearance, in accordance with her orders, in the hall nearby: a broad, simple bed covered with luxurious linens, cozy-blankets, and pillows. Though it lacked a high headboard carved with her coat-of-arms, it was a bed for her.
Silence deepened in Haelithtorntowers around Lady Joysil as she sipped, regarding the rubies on the table- which lay undisturbed in their own little oval of light dust in the only part of the table that (again at her orders) had not been cleared and dusted.
The Lady of Haelithtorntowers was wearing a slight smile. She'd also ordered all the servants to take a day off from their duties, and the night to follow, in the luxurious guest apartments in the farthest tower of her mansion, Firewyrm Tower. They were not to disturb her or return until the next dawn for any reason.
Their obedience had been doubtful-wherefore, after their going, the Lady Ambrur had taken a scepter from the hollow leg of a particular piece of furniture and magically sealed the door that walled off the lone passage linking Firewyrm Tower to Great Tower.
At the heart of Great Tower was the hall in which she stood, and as the torches failed it was rapidly growing dark despite the brightening day outside. Appropriate for a weary noble lady taking to her bed alone-and Lady Ambrur did that now.
She took her glass and bottle with her, still showing no signs of being tipsy, and retained all her garments, from her jeweled slippers and glittering tiara to her rows of sparkling dangledrop earrings. In the deepening gloom she kept her eyes on the table and sat on the edge of her bed in calm silence, waiting.
Quite soon and suddenly ruby fire flashed from the gems-and four black-clad men appeared on the table above those stones, crouching with weapons ready as it groaned ominously under their weight.
Joysil daintily climbed up to stand in the center of her bed, spilling not a drop of wine-and as she did so, soft white-and-green radiance blossomed in the air around her, illuminating her bed, the table, and all points between.
'Greetings, unknown guests,' she said calmly. 'I didn't think your master would wait until nightfall. Red Wizards are so impatient.'
The four hooded men in battle-leathers stiffened, beholding the calm noblewoman. She was tall, large-boned, and lush of figure in her magnificent gown, and a spectacular flood of slightly wavy, honey-hued hair descended her back, to that point where a back begins to swell out and become a behind. The nether tips of her tresses deepened to a coppery flame-hue. The calm eyes surveying her visitors were steel-gray, the slightest of age-wrinkles lurking at their corners. She held her goblet-sized tallglass in one hand-and a wand had now somehow appeared in the other.
The four snarled silently and hurled the daggers they held. The flashing steel spinning through the air bore vivid crazings of purple that cried 'Poison!' to any astute observer.
They did not have to throw far, and their target showed no signs of movement, but the whirling knives vanished a handspan from the Lady Ambrur.
A bare breath later, two of the men in black grunted, gasped, and pitched forward from the table, to crash
