stand in the high regard of the king.”
He shrugged, almost mournfully. “Wherefore I can only conclude that you’re impostors. Or, just perhaps, high-ranking, veteran Dragons, playing a game of words to flush out enemies of the state, who have merely mistaken us for such.”
The two Dragons looked at each other, their faces sagging a bit.
“Oh, great, ” the stout Dragon said sourly.
The tall Dragon looked at Doust, then at Semoor, before he asked the priest of Lathander reluctantly, “So you’re friends of the king? Is that it?”
“The king himself poured me wine-at his table-less than a tenday ago,” Semoor replied truthfully.
“Naed,” The tall Dragon muttered. “Pray accept our apologies, holy lords. When we saw you come through yon way, we were sure you must be Zhents, an’ were treating you accordingly.”
“Zhents? The dark wizards of Zhentil Keep?” Doust managed to look shocked. “They use, uh, ‘yon way’ often enough that you keep watch over it?”
“Lord, they do. That’s why we’re standing here, in the rain an’ all: to keep watch down that alley. Where all your friends are.” The tall Dragon squinted. “Any wizards among ’em, anyhail?”
“Yes,” Doust said reluctantly-at the same moment as Semoor said, “No.”
The Dragons frowned in unison, patting their sword hilts, before the stout Dragon said with heavy sarcasm, “So, now, which is it? Have you mages among you-or not?”
Doust put his foot down hard on Semoor’s instep, and said firmly, “We have two young lasses among us who have just learned to cast their first spells. To me, that makes them mages. Obviously, to my fellow servant of the divine here, it does not. Look you at the one with flame-orange hair? And the dark-haired one standing beside her? Those are the two we’re speaking of. Look they like sinister Zhent wizards to you?”
The stout Dragon’s smile, as he shook his head, was almost a leer.
The tall Dragon, however, was frowning. “I’m more concerned with the one in black,” he said-then blinked. “Hoy! Where’d she go?”
Semoor leaned close. “Shush! She’s a highknight, and doesn’t take it kindly if any of us so much as looks at her sidewise. If you go hollering after her, there’s no telling what she’ll do!”
“And if you lay a hand on her,” Doust added, “there’s no telling what the king will do. Seeing as how he likes to be the only one who-ahem-lays hands on her.”
“Arntarmar!” The tall Dragon hissed feelingly.
Wincing, the stout Dragon nodded, growling, “Talandor!”
Oaths of Tempus. As might be expected of Purple Dragons.
“So, men of the Wargod and of the Great Dragon who rules this land so gloriously,” Semoor asked, his face and voice perfectly serious, “what city is this?”
Both men blinked at him. “Arabel,” Tall Dragon said. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Semoor could not resist saying, pique clear in his voice.
The stout Dragon’s face started to darken, and Doust hastily spoke up. “You’ve been most helpful to us, stalwarts of the king, and we shall remember you in our prayers this night, to Tymora-”
“And Lathander!” Semoor put in.
“-after we report to the Lady Lord of Arabel, as Az-as the king asked us to,” Doust concluded grandly. He turned back to face the alley and pointed at what was just visible over the roofs of the buildings there, flickering in the rain-filled night as sodden banners flapped half-heartedly: storm lanterns atop the battlements of tall, frowning fortress towers. “Yonder is the citadel, yes?”
The Dragons both nodded, and the tall Dragon pointed and spoke: “An’ the palace where you’ll find her stands just in front of it. The temple you seek, the Lady’s House, is the second building north of the citadel, going along the west wall. Looks like a grand house, all cone-shingled turrets, five balconies high.”
“Well met and better parted,” Doust said, bowing his head to them with folded hands. “The Luck of the Lady be upon you, and shine back from you to please the Lord of Battles himself.”
“And the rosy glow of Lathander also, that Holy Tempus be most richly pleased,” Semoor added glibly, turning away before the two Dragons could see him rolling his eyes.
Dodging rumbling carts, they returned to the alley, where Islif greeted them grimly, “Swagger not too proudly, you two. Remember that Dragon we saw hurrying off? He went to report to someone-probably his duty commander. And who stands beside every duty commander?”
“A war wizard to mind him,” Florin said. “So we’re being watched-unless we can ‘disappear’ very quickly.”
“So let’s move!” Agannor growled.
“Wait!” Florin snapped. “Where’s Pennae?”
“Here,” came her voice, from the shadows down the alley. “I like to see where alleys lead to-in case I have to hurry that way. This one takes us past a very well guarded warehouse, into the heart of this block and then out its far side, onto a street that in that direction leads to the local temple of Tymora. Oh, yes: this is Arabel.”
“We know,” Semoor said grandly. “Yon Purple Dragons told us.”
“Well,” Pennae observed in dry tones, “they do have orders to assist simpletons.”
“The Lady’s House,” Florin said. “Let’s get to it! I don’t want to be standing here a few breaths from now trying to bluff my way past a few sternly disapproving war wizards. They may well take the view that we’ve disobeyed the king’s commands just by coming here.”
“Well said,” Bey growled, shoving Semoor forward. “Hasten, hrast it!”
In a few breaths they were all trotting along the alley, heading away from the busy street and the two watching Purple Dragons. The warehouse was a gigantic, very new stone building bristling with hard-eyed armored men with loaded crossbows in their hands-Agannor shuddered involuntarily-and the Swords hurried past it, out onto a street of rich-looking shops. Under ornate awnings, all faced Arabel through fine glass windows, through which could be seen ornate lanterns, glittering wares, and smartly uniformed nightguards standing watchfully within.
Pennae led the Swords north, past shops selling fine silk gowns, masks, and gem-adorned boots, and several dazzling shops that contained only several guards each, standing amid all manner of gemstones that flashed and glimmered back reflections from the rain-soaked streets. The street soon ended in a moot with a wider, busier way, down which could be seen three grand, towering buildings.
The most distant, central one matched the Dragon’s description of the temple to Tymora-and reeling out of its tall, ornate double doors, as the Swords strode purposefully toward it, came a large man in robes and a weathercloak of rich blue: a priest of the luck goddess.
They could tell what he was by what bounced on his ample chest and belly at the end of a heavy neckchain: the largest silver coin they’d ever seen, as wide across as both of Florin’s hands, bearing the face of a smiling yet dignified Tymora, rendered in the old fashion.
The priest wearing it was somewhat younger. He looked to be an energetic forty summers old or so. Beneath unruly brown hair, his nose, jaws, and ears were all as overlarge as the coin; it looked as if the head of a giant rode human-sized shoulders. He also looked (flushed scarlet and drooling slightly), sounded (by his incoherently slurred bellows), and smelled (Jhessail winced at the reek of strong spiced wine, laced around the edges with spew) very drunk.
As tall as Florin, and long-limbed, he covered much of the cobbles as he came staggering, growling half- audible oaths and complaints through his scraggly mustache.
“Wors’ novice ever? Worst novice ever? I doan’ think so! Rabra-Rabbraha-Radrabryn was a killer an’ a thief, an’ I… I never killed anyone yet, a-purpose, at leas’…”
He caught sight of Doust’s homemade Ladycoin and drew himself up to fix the Swords with piercing brown eyes. “Pilgrims, be ye? Hey?”
“Well,” Doust began, “not exactly…”
“ Doan’ go in there! Fellow Ladysworn, stay away from the House this night! They’ve all gone crazed-crazed, I tell thee!”
“Crazed?”
“Crazed, or my name’s not R-Rathan Thentraver.” He hiccuped. “Which ’tis. So, they are. Y’see?”
“Ahh,” Semoor ventured, “you’re saying this isn’t the best time for us to visit the temple?”
“S’right. Not.” Rathan waggled a finger. “Go ’way. Come back ’morrow. Better then. Trus’ me.” Drawing his
