Chapter 23
Oh, so ’tis time for the old swords-out and shouting, hey? How many do I get to kill this time?
The character Veldin the Valiant, the third act of Old King Dragon
A play by Thelva “the Maid” Dunstel published in the Year of the Sword and Stars
H oraundoon scowled into his scrying orb. A tight-lipped, crestfallen Florin striding through the streets with the two loudest Sword wenches at his shoulders, heading back to the Lion. There-and there-and there, too-behind them, the watch spies, following. Last, the Martess lass, following the watch agents.
Enough to make this Zhentarim smirk, yon little parade. If he hadn’t been so hrasted annoyed, that is. The lad had seemed to throw off much of the influence of the mindworm, even before Myrmeen Lhal had spurned him! But how?
Florin peered around the busy taproom, fire rising in his eyes. There was the table, right enough, with the tavernmaster’s apron spread across it to “Tavernmaster!” he called, letting some of his anger show. “Where are my friends, who were here with us? Did the watch-?”
“Nay, lord,” Aviathus assured him, bustling up to them. “The way of it is: they conferred, heads together-your friends, I mean-then the hard-faced woman-ah, forgive me…”
“Forgiven,” Pennae said. “Out with it, man!”
“I, uh, yes, well, she led them out, all but the two war-swords, who sat right here for a time-long enough to empty a talljack of firewine between them, and eat a skewer of roast bustard each, too-ere they went behind yon curtains, and out, with Kestra and Taeriana.”
“Who,” Jhessail asked flatly, “are Kestra and Taeriana? As if I can’t guess.”
The tavernmaster’s head bobbed eagerly. “Coinlasses, right enough, and the best and cleanest in the business, let me tell you! Six seasons a-working here, and never a-”
“Out where? ” Pennae snapped.
“Ah. Well, ’tis my way of speech more than truly ‘outside,’ really,” Aviathus said hastily, pointing at the ceiling. “Faster than saying ‘up the back stairs.’ ”
Jhessail rolled her eyes, Florin growled, and Martess and Pennae both gave Florin “See? Someone else besides you” looks.
Pennae told Florin firmly, “ We’ll go and look for them. A woman looking gives less offense, but can deliver more scorn to shame them back down here, when they’re found.”
Horaundoon gasped, reeled, and shuddered, sweat streaming down his face and dripping off his chin. Four minds, now, two of them strong-willed and wayward…
Riches, he promised Agannor and Bey, showing them chests of gleaming coins and coffers a-glitter with gems. Women, splashing through their minds ivory curves, dark and mysterious eyes, alluring smiles, and languid beckonings. Power, and each of the two Swords saw himself striding, a great-cloak streaming from his shoulders, through palatial rooms, hurling open doors by which servants hastily knelt, and emerging into courtyards where white stallions in gold-plate-bedecked harness awaited, and riding forth through portcullis after arch after tunnel, out of a soaring castle, as folk thundered acclaim from balconies…
All theirs, the sweating Zhentarim mind-promised, if they but willingly served him.
More splendors he conjured, and thrust upon their minds, burying them in banners and glittering courts, impossibly beautiful courtesans writhing in welcome on beds made of thousands of coins… and he saw their mistrust, reluctance, and wary fears crumbling and fading, loose black earth swept away before his cleansing flood, an onslaught that laid bare eagerness, leaping up bright with desire, daring hope Agannor, he mind-spoke. Bey. Are you with me?
Their roars of assent were like raging flame in his mind, searing him even as his delight grew, sending the hargaunt into wild, clashing chimings of alarm and excitement.
Horaundoon shuddered in pain, slumped over a table with his fingers trying to pierce its edge as if they were claws, and smiled.
Then show me your loyalty. Step onto the great way to glory I’ve shown you. Slay these two wenches-who are in truth foul witches seeking to enslave you!
He spun an illusion of leering fanged fiend-faces, revealed dark and gloating behind the slipping masks of Kestra’s and Taeriana’s ardent smiles-and was still strengthening and improving that imagining when Agannor snarled, snatched his dagger out of its sheath, and drove it hilt-deep up under Taeriana’s chin.
Pennae frowned. The bedchambers in the Lion stood dark and empty, doors ajar, awaiting brief use by coinlasses and their clients.
From the landing where she stood, the stair went on up to the roof, and a narrow, gloomy hall stretched away from her a surprisingly long way. Martess was already going from door to door on the left.
Pennae sighed, shrugged, and started down the doors on the right.
In the other bed, Bey backhanded Kestra so viciously across her face that her head boomed against the wall. Dazed, she had time neither to draw breath nor scream before she was choking on her own blood, slumped over the edge of the bed, dripping and dying…
The partition walls between the Lion’s bedchambers were but a single panel thick, and Agannor’s snarl had been unmistakable.
Pressed against the wall in one corner of the dark and vacant next room, Martess listened, shuddering.
Plink. Plosh. Plink. Life-blood, dripping. They’d just killed the two coinlasses.
Mother Mystra, preserve us all…
Agannor blinked at Bey. “The master-he’s gone from my mind!”
“Mine too,” Bey muttered, “but I can still feel his regard. He’s watching us. Seeing if we stand strong, I think.”
He rose from the bed, looking down at what he’d done. “Naed,” he added, turning to the washstand and plunging his bloody dagger and hand into the full ewer of water. “We can’t let the watch see this. ”
Agannor nodded and tugged forth his own fang, looking away as Taeriana’s jaw fell open in its wake, sliced tongue dangling.
Wincing, he went to wash up, too, glancing at the closed but boltless door. “What’ll we-?”
“The roof,” Bey said. “That stair went on up. Bundle them into the bed-linens, get them up there for the carrion crows, and use the wash-water to get rid of the blood. We’ll be long gone from Arabel before rats start gnawing off fingers and dropping them around for folks to find.”
Agannor nodded. “The master should be pleased. Gods, such power he has! None of this fighting orcs for a few coppers, winter after winter, while Purple Dragons give us suspicious glares. We’re going to be lords! ” He grinned at Bey. “Any regrets?”
“Having to break from the Swords this swift and sharp. I’d sort of hoped to bed our own Flamehair, sooner or later.”
“Gods, yes, little Jhessail-though in truth I’d want Pennae. Now, there’s a wench!”
“Aye, if she was safely tied down so you’d live through it,” Bey said wryly. “Perhaps the master…”
Agannor grinned. “If we plead prettily enough?”
Pressed against the cold, hard panel, Martess shuddered. Dared she stay still and silent, to keep safe? Or run like nightwind out of here, to warn Pennae before they came for her?
If they caught her, ’twould be her blood dripping onto the floor-and all her friends would be doomed. These two would blame the Swords for any killings they did, falsely reporting to the watch or arranging matters so folk would think the Swords of Eveningstar were guilty…
My head full of spells, yet I’m so helpless.
“There’s another mind very close to them,” Horaundoon muttered, frowning. Surely a mere coinlass can’t be under magic to bring her back from a slaying?
Unless she’s not a mere coinlass…
