hireswords, and the women are Martess Ilmra, commonly known as ‘Lowspell,’ and Alura Durshavin, commonly known as ‘Pennae.’ You’ll not have heard of them-”
Vangerdahast sighed. “Ah, such a dolt is our royal magician, waddling through life oblivious to the business of the realm and all the folk who throng it. As it happens, I have heard of the two lasses-and some time ago assigned Delavaundar and Marlegast, quite separately, to learning all about them.”
Laspeera gave him a sidelong, challenging look. “And?”
“They’re still learning, but as I recall, have told me thus far that this Pennae is a Mask-worshipper and an accomplished thief: acrobatic upper-balcony work, for the most part. Born in Arabel to a pastry cook, now passed on. Father unknown, probably a codloose Purple Dragon of the garrison. Martess is one of those lasses who came to Suzail with a feel and a hunger for the Art but no spells or tutor, and tried to make a living on her looks while seeking both. ‘Lowspell’ for her lack of spells, of course, though I hear she gained a handful from lonely old mages who wanted their limbs warmed; she probably fell in with Pennae in a tavern somewhere in the city. So, clever lass, what can you tell me? ”
Laspeera smiled. “As to the women, you’re far ahead of Braelrur and Daunatha. They did ask a few folk in Waymoot about the men, this morn. Hearsay, nothing more, suggesting Wildsilver and Freemantle are just swordswingers. Easygoing, a trifle brutal but not ‘mad slayers,’ and apt to be lazy and prefer the flask over vigilant patrolling. Came out of upcountry Sembia and bounced around here and there doing short-coin work, never for long with one patron: caravan-escorting, valuable-package-protection, and bodyguarding.”
Vangerdahast grunted. “Inform me when they truly learn something. I’m for the Unicorn Chamber.” The door banged, and his voice came back through it: “Oh, lass?”
“Yes, Lord Vangerdahast?”
“Thank you.”
Teasing fingers slid along his thigh again. “Lord Florin?”
Florin blinked, unsettled again. “I’m-I’m no lord, nor ever likely to be. I’m a forester.”
And favored of Mielikki, which sounded wonderful. If only he knew what it really meant.
Had-had Mielikki been the Lady in Green?
He stared again into those dark blue eyes, flaring silver just that once. He’d be seeing that gaze until his dying day. There’d been no sign of her this morn, and no one at The Old Man or The Moon and Stars knew where she’d gone, though they all said this wasn’t unusual for her… none even knew where she dwelt and what she did.
“Flor-in,” an impish voice, close by his ear. “Strike me down, but you’re half asleep this morning! Anything on your mind you want to share? Anything at all?”
Florin blinked again. Firmly thrusting aside-for now-memories of dark blue eyes he could fall into forever, he turned to look down at Pennae with his full attention-and found himself gazing down the unlaced front of her smoky black leathers. Again.
Blushing, he dragged his gaze back up to where it should be, and found himself gazing into eyes that were very dark brown-and laughing at him. Above a smile that could only be described as catlike. She was actually purring, reminding Florin amusingly of the tressym that betimes rode Lady Lord Winter’s shoulder. “You seem… quite flirtatious, Alura,” he said carefully.
She pouted. “Oh, now, call me Pennae. Please.”
Florin glanced into the forest, put his free hand back on his sword hilt where it should be, checked that he had a firm grip on the reins with the other, lifted his chin, and told the ears of his mount, “You still seem quite flirtatious, Pennae.”
He waited for a reply, and when all that he got was a low, husky chuckle, he added, “Why?”
“Oh, Florin, don’t you know how you look? What they’re saying about you: the man who singlehandedly fought off dozens of outlaws to save the life of the king?”
Florin wondered whether to roll his eyes or just give this elf-faced little temptress a cold look and tell her to leave off the verbal dung. He was still wondering when someone made a loud retching sound nigh his elbow-the elbow closest to Pennae.
The loud groans of mock vomiting were followed by a familiar feminine voice inquiring brightly, “Do thieves in Arabel specialize in clumsy seductions? Or comedic minstrelry? That is the most unsubtle, hilarious to hear ‘come hither, large lad’ blandishment I’ve heard in months! ”
The Lady Narantha Crownsilver had deftly slipped her horse between Florin’s and Pennae’s. She left off ridiculing the Arabellan just long enough to give Florin a wink, then clapped hands to hips, rounded on Pennae-who was white with anger, but open-mouthed in indecision-and continued, “As you’ve heard so much about Florin Falconhand here, are you not aware that he’s the beloved of a goddess? Do you truly think you can outshine the Lady of the Forest? Because if you do, I think your sanity is much too far gone for you to be a Sword of Eveningstar! If, on the other hand, your little performance has been mere teasing to amuse the rest of us, I apologize unreservedly, for it’s been brilliant! Florin may personally find it a trifle tasteless, but the rest of us have been nigh wetting ourselves with mirth!”
Whatever reply Pennae might have been considering was lost in the wild, whooping applause of both Agannar and Bey, enthusiastically supporting Narantha’s contention from the front of the Swords-and of Semoor, standing up in the stirrups of his snorting mount at the rear of their procession, to guffaw and drum his shoulder as Purple Dragons do when clanging blades against their shoulder armor.
By the time the clangor died away, Pennae had mastered her ire enough to give Narantha an apparently genuine smile, and ask lightly, “So you liked it?”
The Lady Crownsilver answered her kindly, and offered up some silly noble jokes that soon had the two women laughing easily together. Florin, however, noticed Pennae flicking some thoughtful glances his way in the converse that followed, and when there came a lull in the chatter, she quickly peered across Narantha to ask Florin directly, “Are you truly the beloved of Mielikki? That is, what does that mean, exactly?”
Florin looked at her, wondering what to say. If he told truth, that stripped away the defense against her that Narantha had just given. Yet if he lied, he risked Mielikki’s wrath, and who knew what darkness that might bring. Oh, hrast. He would have to choose his words very carefully, to lead astray and thus deceive without actually uttering falsehood.
And he’d better begin with a prayer to the goddess, just in case. “Oh, Lady of the Forest,” he murmured, “forgive me…”
The Dragon Queen of Cormyr shut the garderobe door behind her and drew its bolt. That bolt-old, ornate, and heavy enough to stop a dozen Purple Dragons for a snarling breath or two-was one of the reasons this cold, gloomy, marble-lined garderobe was the queen’s favorite, of all such facilities in this wing of the palace. Not that she discussed her preferences with anyone.
In truth, she hated the garderobe’s tall, spider-haunted ceiling and hard seat. However, she really liked the other reason this room was her favored place of relief: the secret door in the wall right beside the seat, that opened right through the thick stone outer wall of the palace, into the rear of a tiny litter-yard hidden in the high-hedged depths of the Royal Gardens. A place where the cracked and leaning statues and urns of yesteryear stood crowded together, leaning against the palace walls for the birds to bespatter and the dead leaves of a hundred seasons to blow through. A labyrinth of discarded stone seats and bird-baths, all hidden away behind the oldest, most ruinous growhouse. In all the years Filfaeril had been visiting it, she’d never seen so much as an undergardener. She’d heard their voices from several growhouses away or on the far side of tall, impenetrable hedges, but none of them disturbed their queen here, or even knew of her presence.
And if she could trust the Blackstaff about the powers of the necklace she’d slid from an inner pocket and donned before slipping out the secret door, neither did Vangerdahast, or any other war wizard. She was temporarily invisible to all their spells and scryings.
She strode a few soft paces to a particular cracked stone seat, settled herself on it in a graceful shifting of skirts, and laid her hand on the head of a reclining stone lion that flanked the seat, half-lost to view in weeds.
Almost immediately Filfaeril felt a familiar stirring tingling under her hand, and from half Faerun away Khelben Arunsun’s voice spoke in her mind.
Yes, Lady of Cormyr?
“Word has come to me of two wizards in the north of the realm I’d fain know more about. Who is Amanthan of Arabel?”
