“My name is Pennae,” she added, “and this is Martess.” She shifted a lithe shoulder aside to let the Swords see another slender, dark-clad and dark-haired lass standing behind her. “She casts spells out of books. I procure specifics when needs arise.”
Florin stared at them, then around the table, not missing Narantha’s look of encouragement.
Take command, it said, as clearly as if she’d shouted.
Clearing his throat, the man who’d rescued the king remembered one of Azoun’s last bits of royal advice.
“Well, now,” he began. “Well, now…”
“Lord Vangerdahast!” The war wizard’s swift hail was high and shrill in excitement. “Someone has just approached them, and-”
The royal magician held up a quelling hand. “So I hear and see for myself.”
He shrugged, the glow of his scrying crystal dancing across his face. “Let every jack and lass at loose ends in the upcountry join them, and ride hearty. It’ll take most-mayhap all-of their lives, just to poke their noses into the Haunted Halls.”
The Swords were still staring at the two women when two men wearing empty scabbards, easy grins, and the looks of muscled warriors came to the other end of their table.
“We’d also like to ride with you, if you’ll have us,” said the taller and more handsome of the two: a blond charmer who outshone Florin in looks. “Agannor am I, and this is my friend Bey. We swing swords… fairly well.”
The Swords found themselves staring at the two newcomers, then back at the two women, then at the grinning men again.
The Lady Narantha raised her eyes to the rafters and asked disbelievingly, “What is this place? A branch of the Society of Stalwart Adventurers?”
“Nay, Lady,” the tavernmaster told her proudly, arriving with a platter crowded with goblets and flasks on his shoulder. “Better than that: this is The Moon and Stars, finest tavern between Teflamm and splendrous Waterdeep!”
The tall trader nursing a tankard not far from the Swords’ table glanced their way with casual indifference at the tavernmaster’s merry boast-then stiffened in anger and surprise as his gaze fell upon a tall woman in forest green, who’d risen from where she’d been sitting alone, at a table against the wall, and was striding toward the Esparran adventurers.
Thinking silent curses, Horaundoon turned back to his tankard, taking care not to do so too swiftly. Dove Silverhand might be the most feeble in Art of the Seven-but just how feeble that might be, he did not care to learn.
No sane wizard challenges the goddess of magic, and expects to win.
Someone else was coming to their table. Florin glanced up.
And froze, heart pounding, as he met her dark blue eyes-and fell into them, plunging into endless wise depths…
He swallowed and shook himself like a wet dog, tearing himself out of whatever reverie-had he been caught in some sort of spell?
Was this a fell sorceress?
She had long brown hair, that swirled unbound about her shoulders-shoulders as broad as his own, and outstripping Islif in bulging build. She was as tall as him, too, and clad in the vest, tunic, breeches, and high boots of a man. A stylish man able to afford the best weaves and leathers, and have even his boots dyed forest green.
She was all in green, this woman, and strode up to them with casual grace, as one deft and strong who knows her power but assumes no airs of rank or mincing affectation. Narantha might have a title, but this lady was truly noble.
The very sight of her stirred and unsettled him; Florin looked down, certain he was blushing. Her image remained bright before his eyes even as he stared into his tankard. He had to know her, to speak with her-yet he felt none of the swift, strong lust that lush feminine beauty or flirtation was wont to stir in him. She was… she was… gods, was this what minstrels sang of, “love at first glance”?
He was lost…
“Well met, adventurers,” she said, voice low-pitched and husky. “I happen to be an officer of the Crown, and perceive a possible need. If you desire to amend your charter-to add to your ranks, say-I can ply the pen properly, so the nearest Purple Dragon, Wizard of War, royal magician, or even the king himself will pronounce it proper.”
“Uh-ah-t-that’s very kind of you, Lady… ah?” Florin flushed crimson. Gods, he was gabbling like an awestruck village idiot! He was deathly afraid Semoor would erupt in a acidic comment about “lovestruck Florin” or some such, and yet… and yet he cared not.
“I am known here as the Lady in Green,” she said warmly, and her eyes seemed to flare silver, just for a moment. None of the Swords saw war wizards and Purple Dragons all over the room stiffen and stare vacantly at nothing for a moment, silver flames dancing in their eyes-then return to their tankards and mutterings, all notice of a lone woman in green gone. “You can trust me.”
Leaning close to Florin-who fought furiously with himself to keep his gaze from plunging into her bodice, and just barely won-she murmured, “As Azoun told you: ‘Tathen.’ ”
Hearing her, and looking again at the four other visitors to their table, the Swords traded arrow-swift, excited glances, looking at last to Narantha. Who smiled at them in wry amazement, shook her head, and said, “Truly the gods do smile upon you, friends!”
Take command, Florin reminded himself. “Are we all agreed to accept four new companions? I know ’tis swift, and they’re strangers, but the king…”
“The gods!” Semoor said firmly. “The hands of the gods have provided them!”
Islif spread her hands. “We need the strength. I’m for them all.”
“I, too,” Jhessail put in. Semoor, Narantha, and Florin found themselves nodding at each other.
“Done, then,” Florin said, shuddering in relief, and clawed at the buckles of the breastplate he wore. Azoun had given it to him, and he hadn’t wanted to leave it in his room, in case…
“Pray excuse this disrobing,” he muttered, swinging the breastplate open and plucking the precious charter from between the inside of the plate and its inner lining. He held it out to the Lady in Green.
Who smiled at him and shook her head. “You’d best find another place for it. Your sweat will rot it away in a month or so if you keep it there; believe me, for betimes I wear steel in battle; I know.”
Out of the inside of her vest she produced a plumeless, tapering quill and a vial of ink that sparkled through its confining glass. “I’m going to need four names,” she said calmly, “with their proper spellings…”
Horaundoon brooded, the hargaunt shifting restlessly as it felt his fury. Not six places from him, she was, and the Weave fairly crackling around her. Sark her!
She was more than a creature of Mystra-though by all the eye tyrants Manshoon could name, wasn’t that enough? She was a Harper, and this room could well be crawling with them…
Nay, almost certainly was crawling with them. Which in turn meant sarking Vangerdahast was probably scrying this place, right now, with half a dozen of his most senior Wizards of War.
Which meant Horaundoon of the Zhentarim dared do nothing. Nothing at all.
If any of the war wizards and out-of-uniform Purple Dragons in the taproom had happened to notice the tall trader, all they would have seen then was his eyes narrow, and his expression grow thoughtful.
And what trader doesn’t get that look, a time or six each day?
The mindworm would have a new target. One of the four new Swords: Pennae, Martess, Agannor, or Bey. Which one, though? Who would be best to subvert?
Well, the answer to that would take more watching and waiting.
Praise Bane, watching and waiting were tasks Horaundoon excelled at, and was even beginning to enjoy.
“Agannor Wildsilver. Alura ‘Pennae’ Durshavin. Bey Freemantle. Martess Ilmra,” Florin read aloud. “Welcome to the Swords of Eveningstar!”
The cheer that went up then rocked the taproom of The Moon and Stars, echoed as it was from many tables.
