whisk her away to a far country, to dwell out her days under another name, safe from any vengeful spell that could reach out to her from Cormyr.
Now, that would be amusing.
There was nowhere in Rhalseer’s to hide coins. Every second floorboard could be easily pulled up-they were riddled with dry rot-and every lodger knew it. The ceilings were hardly better, and trying to make holes in the walls was more likely to bring the place down on an energetic thief’s head than craft a hiding place.
Now that it was full dark and Dragons on the battlements of the citadel and along the city wall couldn’t notice her at a casual glance, Pennae was up on the crumbling slate-shingled roofs of Palaceside Arabel, seeking to lash her precious bundle in the right sort of angle between chimneys, and cover it with the bird dropping-infested remnants of old birds’ nests she carried in the small sack at her belt.
She found just what she wanted on the roof of Hundar’s Fine Carpets, Perfumes, and Lanterns, and was able to secure and disguise her riches in a few hard-breathing moments. The rumblings of four passing slate-carts even raised enough echoing racket to cloak any small noises she made.
Then she stretched, catlike-it had been a long day-and crept to the edge of the roof to peer down. Her friends should be strolling out of the Barrel about now… yes, there they were, Florin turning to say something to Islif as they spilled out into the street… probably something about having a thief among the Swords who left early to do dark-work…
Then Pennae saw something more.
Something that had her tense and alert in an instant.
A gently sloping half-roof ran along the front of Hundar’s, a floor below her perch, and a man in smoky gray hostler’s leathers was lying full-length on it, cradling something in his hand that few hostlers would have carried casually at their belts: a handbow. Four more of the little hand crossbows-all cocked and loaded-were laid ready on the roof, arranged in an arc in front of the man’s hands. The man looked vaguely familiar… Ah: because he’d come into the Barrel earlier, for a lone drink at the bar, and had looked across the taproom at the Swords.
An assassin. Who was even now raising his bow, steadying the arm that held it with his other hand, taking aim Pennae had the knife that lived in her sleeve in her hand and was dropping heels-first over the edge of her roof, body angling back so she’d slump against Hundar’s uppermost windows and shove the hired slayer out toward a fall over the edge, rather than taking that tumble herself.
He’d have a backup-must look-find Indar Crauldreth heard something, twisted his head to look up, holding fire-and Florin Falconhand lived a little longer without a crossbow bolt buried fletchings-deep in his face. Indar’s neck was twisted when both of Pennae’s boots, with all her weight behind them, came crashing down on it.
The assassin bounced, writhing spasmodically and sending a crossbow bolt cracking away into the night, in the general direction of the rear of Ongluth’s Ropeworks. As Indar, his neck and throat crushed, made a sort of wet spewing sound, Pennae landed hard on her behind, grunting at the pain. The last despairing, unthinking thing Indar did was to try to get away, to spring…
Into oblivion. Over the edge, plummeting to the cobbles below. With Pennae’s left boot caught somewhere in his clothing, dragging her Pennae made a desperate, twisting lunge, and managed to pluck one of the handbows into her grasp as she went over the edge.
They crashed to the cobbles together, right in front of the astonished Swords, and Pennae, feeling bones break under her, slit the man’s throat out of sheer habit ere she rolled to her feet, looking wildly around at the rooftops.
“Scatter!” she spat at her fellow adventurers. “There’s sure to be-”
Even as the words left her lips, she caught sight of what she was seeking: a small man in the shadows behind the Barrel, balancing a full-sized crossbow on some crates, aiming Pennae shouted wordless alarm as she raised her handbow and fired.
Fired nothing. The string hummed and writhed uselessly; the bolt had fallen out during her tumble.
The second slayer’s crossbow cracked, deep and loud, and a war-quarrel capable of tearing a hole through a man came humming hungrily at the Swords.
Pennae was already sprinting at the man, knowing she was too late, and hoping There was only one Sword anywhere near the path of the quarrel, and he was a tired forester who’d recently downed two large drinks. A forester who seldom hesitated in battle, and thought nothing of hurling himself face-first at hard, dirty cobbles.
Florin dived and rolled. The quarrel passed harmlessly through where he’d been, streaking across the street to smack deep into one of the ornate window frames adorning the turreted mansion of the wealthy local landlord and sundries merchant Kraliqh.
Whose servants heard nothing-or affected not to-as Swords shouted, weapons singing out of their sheaths and scabbards and into their hands, and a hard-running Pennae saw the hired slayer let the bow fall as he turned to flee.
Bey’s hurled dagger flashed past her to bite deep into the back of the man’s neck. He fell, as heavily as a full, wet grainsack, groaned once, and lay still.
When they turned him over, his eyes were staring at nothing, and the dagger was protruding bloodily from his throat.
“Let’s get gone,” Bey snarled, jerking his blade free. “I don’t want to spend all night explaining to suspicious Dragons why we butchered two fine upstanding citizens of Arabel in the street.”
Pennae whirled and called, “ Move! To our rooms, like the very wind!”
The Swords moved.
The war wizard came up the trail stealthily, wand ready in one hand and dagger in the other-and at his every move tiny motes of light winked, sparkled, and faded.
Maglor’s lip curled. A shielding spell of some sort, to keep the mage oh-so-safe against spells, arrows-and swords, too, no doubt.
Brave men, wizards were, these days.
The cleft between the two rocks gave the apothecary a limited view, but he could see his trap well enough. Three of his mixing bowls, the cups that had held the two powders and the third he’d combined them in… and the glowing symbol he’d made, once the mixed powders had begun their glow.
Wizards can never resist magical-looking symbols.
This one came cautiously to the edge of the old campsite and peered warily around into the deepening night-gloom. The symbol-a thing of circles, arcs, squiggles that looked like writing, and similar nonsense, a mere fancy Maglor had gone on drawing until the powder had run out-glowed at the mage’s feet, bright and impressive.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Maglor crouched, watching.
The wizard looked around, long and hard-and his eyes fixed on the trap itself: a rock, six or so paces from the symbol, lying on the ground. It was covered in glowing fingerprints, where Maglor had picked it up with the glow- powder still thick on his hands, and set it down again. Atop a piece of parchment.
Wizards can never resist pieces of parchment.
The war wizard stalked forward, carefully keeping to the edge of the trees, looking around often for signs of movement, and peering the rest of the time at the ground in front of his boots.
The night was almost still, and Maglor kept his breathing as shallow and quiet as possible, the six large, sharp stones arrayed in front of him for throwing. He hoped he’d not have to face this hound’s spells.
The war wizard had been snooping around Eveningstar for days now, obviously under orders to seek out lawbreakers and conspirators. Zhentarim, for instance. And suspicious local apothecaries, who might well concoct poisons. Malbrand-that was his name-had spent the better part of a day poking into simmering concoctions and peering at the fading labels on Maglor’s vials, asking oh-so-casual questions about the uses of this and who’d ordered that.
He’d hinted heavily that Vangerdahast and every mage who worked with him knew all about Maglor’s Zhent loyalties, and were just waiting for some Brotherhood mage of importance to visit before swooping down to capture, torture, maim, and slay the apothecary of Eveningstar and his guest. For why butcher one, when two could be had by using the one as bait?
Why, indeed? But let us see, now, what bait tastes best…
Maglor held his breath. The wizard was much nearer, only a few paces from the rocks where Maglor was hiding. And he was stopping just above the rock pinning down the parchment.
