and shoulders. “Anything else?”
“No. Court is quiet at the moment, so those who scheme and intrigue most vigorously-Vangerdahast and those my husband directs in their whisperings included-confine their hissings and soft threats to private moots well away from here. When they see the queen approaching, they recall an urgent need to be elsewhere.”
Dove chuckled again. “So, you’ve given me no state secrets but mere gossip; what would you know?”
“To match my paltry offering, a minor matter, to whit: this new band of adventurers my Azoun took such glee in anointing. He came back from Espar bubbling like a young lad at play, Dove! These Swords of Eveningstar: who are they, and what are they up to?”
“A handsome young forester of Espar who saved your Azoun’s life when he was attacked in Hunter’s Hollow by Sembian hireswords in the employ of certain nobles of this fair realm-just who, we Harpers know not, but we do know Vangerdahast has personally mind-reamed the lone hiresword Florin spared, when Azoun ordered him to do so-and the forester’s friends, and a few seekers-of-adventure they picked up in Waymoot. Ah, sorry: that ‘Florin’ is the young forester; Florin Falconhand.”
“That name I have heard,” Filfaeril murmured. “Are they young, eyes shining with thoughts of treasure, or-?”
Dove nodded. “Young and filled with hope, indeed. Your Azoun sent them to scour out the Haunted Halls-”
“As he does all adventurers who lack noble parents to protest them being sent to their deaths,” Filfaeril murmured. “They are, then, not deemed sinister, but merely untested in their loyalty and heroism?”
“Indeed. They may yet fall, of course, but already their naive explorations are doing more to discomfit the Zhentarim in northern Cormyr than anything you-or we-have managed thus far. Zhentil Keep still has its spies, drug-sellers, and smugglers everywhere, but stolen goods and Cormyreans drugged to be sent into slavery are no longer casually added to every third caravan passing through Arabel or Eveningstar. The Zhents are being forced into the longer and more dangerous Stonelands routes-and I’ve even heard tell of their trying again to run large caravans through Anauroch.”
The queen turned her head, eyes widening. “You tell me true? One band of adventurers has managed all this? Unwittingly?”
Dove nodded. “And if unwitting adventurers can do this much damage, just think of what a handful of your worst idiot courtiers can wreak. Unwittingly.”
“Pennae! Pennae! ” Florin rushed forward, his drawn sword flashing.
“Agannor!” Florin snapped, standing where Pennae had been, moments before. “Your lantern! Here! Now! ”
Blinking in astonishment, Agannor obeyed, thrusting his lantern forward, low, where Florin was waving frantically at the floor.
There was nothing. No scorch mark, no ashes, no tiny, thumb-tall Pennae squeaking up at them and waving insect-sized arms. She was simply-gone.
Florin pointed furiously up at the niche Pennae had been probing, and Agannor brought the light up to show everyone… a carving at the back of the niche that looked like a castle wall, crenelated and with a tiny hinged door that looked like it actually swung back and forth, if touched.
Eyes hard and breathing heavily, Florin looked around wildly at the rest of the Swords-then thrust the point of his sword into the niche.
There came the briefest of blue flashes-again-and the passage was suddenly empty of all trace of Florin Falconhand.
“Oh, ye gods most marvelous,” Jhessail cursed. “ Now what?”
Islif shrugged. “None of us live forever,” she said, striding forward with her sword ready. “Adventure, remember?” She slid her sword deftly into the niche, and vanished in an instant.
Doust shrugged, fumbled forth his belt knife, and followed suit. Then Martess and Bey, who laconically handed his lantern to Jhessail.
With various shrugs, in their own manners, every one of the Swords followed, leaving the passage in the Haunted Halls dark and empty again.
Jhessail wrinkled her nose and blinked into many wet reflections of lamplight. “It stinks, ” she murmured, looking around her at her fellow Swords, who were crowded together in an alleyway, peering in all directions and looking just as lost as she was. “Where are we?”
The alley reeked of rotting refuse and chamberpots. The lamplight was coming from a cobbled street the alley opened out into, a street walled in by tall, narrow stone buildings on all sides, where wagons were rumbling through the night.
Folk were trudging purposefully everywhere, close-cloaked against the light rain, and Pennae was flattened against the alley wall, beside its mouth, gesturing frantically to her fellow Swords to get over to the wall beside her and quiet down.
Looking right down the alley and across the street beyond, Jhessail found herself gazing into the hard stares of a trio of Purple Dragons, who were nodding together as they watched the Swords, suspicion written large on their tight lips, narrowed eyes, and set jaws.
As she watched, they seemed to reach some sort of agreement. One hurried off, his boots splashing through puddles. The other two stayed right where they were, glaring at the Swords.
Doust stepped away from the wall, Semoor inevitably trailing by his elbow, and strode right out of the alley, ignoring Pennae’s hissed warnings.
The Swords all watched, Agannor starting to grin openly, as the two priestlings marched right across the street to the two Purple Dragons.
Giving those still in the alley a stern ‘stay here’ hand signal, Islif started after Doust and Semoor, sheathing her blade. Then she changed her mind and spun around to stop her fellow Swords from spilling across the street. Pennae ducked past her, but the rest crowded forward, leaning over Islif’s outstretched arms to best hear what befell, but making no move to win past her.
They found the street busy in both directions with stopped wagons involved in the busy loading and unloading of crates, coffers, and kegs to and from various shops.
Across that cobbled way, the holiest of the Swords reached the unsmiling soldiers.
“Well met, this fair even,” Doust said with a bright smile. “We’ve just been brought here by the favor of the goddess Tymora-”
“Ahem,” Semoor interrupted, “and the magical might of the bright Morninglord Lathander.”
“-and though we know full well by your very presence, stalwarts, that we stand yet in Cormyr, we are sadly unaware of what city this is. Ah, around us. Here.”
The flat stares of the Purple Dragons had been burning holes in the smiling priestlings during their approach, and went right on doing so in the silence Doust gave them, in which to reply. Neither Dragon said a word.
Smile wavering, Doust tried again. “We all of us find our surroundings unfamiliar, and would very much like to know where we are. So, could you tell us? Please?”
“You’re drunk, that’s what you are,” the tall Purple Dragon growled.
“Or playing us for fools,” the other said. “Get gone with you!”
“I… could you at least tell me where the local temple of Tymora is?”
“If you’re truly favored of Tymora, just start walking,” the first Dragon sneered, “an’ you’ll be sure to find it, hey?”
“This,” Semoor said, “is less than good.” He put a hand on Doust’s arm. “Fellow priest, we should tarry no more talking with these impostors. We can tell Azoun of them, and he’ll see that they’re rooted out. Or rather, Vangey’s pet war wizards will.”
The Dragons blinked at him. Then their eyes narrowed.
“Impostors?” the tall one snarled.
“Speaking slightingly of the king?” the shorter, stouter one growled. Their hands went to their sword hilts in unison, and they seemed to loom forward over the two Swords.
“Just why,” the tall Dragon asked Semoor, jaw jutting angrily, “d’you call us ‘impostors’? Hey?”
Semoor spread his hands, looking earnest and eagerly helpful. “Look you, sir, no true Purple Dragon would answer a citizen of Cormyr so-and even less, a priest of Lathander. Still less, two priests, both of whom personally
