was saying, the Lady Alustriel still having a mouth permits her to make her own announcement as to the identity of her envoy, as is customary, and I see no reason at all for me to-”
“Ah, I quite see. Just as I see no reason not to inform her Lady Lovehips as to yer little meeting with Jesper of Luskan, a night back, regarding-”
“ Ahem, Raurig, if we could just refrain from mentioning matters so personal, I was about to say that I saw no reason not to inform someone so discreet as yourself as to the identity of the envoy. Yes? Good, I’m glad we so plainly understand each other.”
“I, too, am overwhelmed with gladness. Out with it, Brightears!”
“Raurig, please! Leave me some small shards of dignity! Very well, though I dislike speaking of such delicate matters out here in this very public passage, let it be known to you-and only to you-that Silverymoon’s new envoy to Cormyr will be the Lady Aerilee Hastorna Summerwood.”
“Huh! That loose-skirts! Serve Azoun the Lusty well, won’t she?”
“I believe that opinion was just privately imparted, yes, though not by myself.”
“That fails utterly to surprise me, Laroncel. Same bloodlines as ye, every bit as tall-ye’ll miss her, won’t ye?”
Laroncel Duirwood smiled as if remembering something very pleasant, and murmured, “Yes, but my aim has improved steadily.”
As he strode off down the passage, he decided that the dwarven chuckles from behind him could best be described as “dirty.”
Florin ducked and thrust and sidestepped, fighting furiously just to stay alive. Rather than trying to wound, he used his reach and strength to tumble foe after foe off the roof, and was succeeding-which was a very good thing, because ever-more men were rushing at him from all sides.
One of the largest swordsmen, who’d come stumping cautiously across the slimy roof rather than rushing Florin, reached the ranger at last. He wore a belt bristling with sheathed daggers, but wielded only a huge sword, using both hands to raise his fearsome weapon back and to the side. In a moment, he’d come at Florin and swing it around in a great body-slicing slash, with all of his weight behind it.
Florin feigned a slip, “falling” forward onto the fingertips of his free hand-and as the man chuckled and started his great hacking swing, Florin sprang froglike to his right and rolled over, leading with his blade, scything the man’s ankles out from under him and sending the swordsman toppling with a shriek of startled pain.
Right behind him, another swordsman charged at Florin with his blade drawn back. Florin rolled frantically and came up with his sword lifted. One swift dodge and the man impaled himself on Florin’s blade, solid and heavy and almost hilt-deep.
Then light blossomed in the night, and the swordsmen running across the roofs at Florin faltered, stopped, and turned to stare.
The wizard Florin had pursued up onto the stable roof swayed, startlement clear on his face-a face that all could see clearly in the rainy night because the Zhentarim’s body was starting to glow, hitherto-invisible runes all over his robes burning into scarlet life. The wizard stared down at the runes; a cold voice arose from them, speaking what sounded like an incantation. Except for the one now collapsing over Florin’s blade, the swordsmen were all watching and listening now, like so many dark statues in the night.
The wizard stared past them all at Florin, horror in his eyes, and screamed, “No! Nooooo! ” as the incantation rose to a triumphant end. The runes exploded, the wizard vanishing in a shattering burst of flames that hurled blazing swordsmen in all directions. Florin flung himself toward the edge of the roof.
“Follow me not,” the princess had grandly commanded everyone in the Black Hound, sweeping out into the night with the cloak some fool of a merchant had given her swirling around her. Not wanting to be noticed doing just that by a tavern-full of awed Arabellans, Ravelo Tarltarth had slipped boldly into the servery and out the back door, to become one more alley shadow in the wet night.
It had not been difficult to spot the princess, still waving her sword and dagger around as she turned along a street and headed for grander lanes, where beyond a few stables and warehouses, balconied mansions rose many-windowed into the rain.
Ravelo didn’t have to skulk. He could stroll openly, this royal lass was so careless-and so predictable. Not that he was known to the local Watch, yet. Short, silent, and balding, he looked more like a weary shopkeeper than a Zhent spy. One of the better “eyes” for the Zhentarim in the Forest Kingdom, he judged himself; one who remained unnoticed by the Crown, despite war wizards poking their noses into everything-including everyone’s minds-in Cormyr every second breath or so.
Ravelo took a side-alley, trotting swiftly in the wet darkness, and then turned along a cross-alley, back to the street where the Princess Alusair was walking, once he was sure he’d gotten ahead of her. He crouched in the mouth of the alley, weathercloak drawn close around him. Yes, here she was now, looking like some sort of bad actor in a fancy-play, sneaking along having an adventure.
Ravelo’s lip barely had time to curl before he and the princess both became aware that something of interest was happening on the roof of a stables not far ahead of Alusair. Men were rushing around in the rain there, fighting with swords, and many of them, one after another, fell or were hurled off the roof, to crash down out of sight behind a warehouse that still had lanterns lit and men sorting and shifting coffers and crates around. Those, that is, that hadn’t stopped to gape up at the fighting.
There were occasional yells, and even a shriek or two. The princess slowed, but her sword and dagger came up as if to deal death, and her eyes shone with excitement. Ravelo’s sneer slipped into a grin.
A sudden glow came into being up on the roof, coming from the front of someone-a wizard-in robes, and illuminating a dozen or more men with sword and daggers, who seemed to have been converging on a lone man, but who were now turning to look at the glowing wizard. Ravelo’s eyes narrowed. Was that Neldrar of the Brotherhood? Yes, he was almost certain it was Neldrar, whose cold commands Ravelo had heard and obeyed a time or two, and A blinding-bright burst of flame suddenly split the night, an ear-smiting blast that seemed to come from Neldrar.
It echoed off taller nearby buildings and hurled men with swords in all directions. Writhing men plunged through the air and smaller, unseen things came pattering down all around.
Ravelo watched the princess shrink back as what was left of a torn and boneless human arm bounced in the street in front of her boots and rolled bloodily past her. Half a dozen dead or senseless Zhent warriors crashed heavily into the street, swords and daggers clanging and skittering away across the cobbles. A pale-faced Alusair turned as if to go back the way she’d come.
Mouthing a silent curse, Ravelo stepped out of the alley to glide after her-but ducked back in as he saw her stop, and heard and saw why: a Watch patrol was pelting down the street, swords drawn, their boots raising a rising thunder of their own. A dozen Purple Dragons in full chain mail, with the Dragon of Cormyr on their surcoats- and one glimpse of that badge had the princess turning and running right for the mouth of Ravelo’s alley.
Grinning like a fox, Ravelo waited for her, his knife ready. If the Princess Alusair were found murdered here in so-often-rebel Arabel, Cormyr would rouse to arms.
And in the wake of a royal killing, the kingdom should be so beset by confusion that the Brotherhood could covertly enact all manner of killings and thefts. If they spread the right rumors, to manipulate the citizenry effectively, they could quite possibly start a civil war.
His Zhentarim superiors would take the credit and claim all the rewards, of course, but one Ravelo Tarltarth, opportunistic low-ranking Zhent spy, should be able to steal loot in plenty for himself in all the tumult.
And all because he undertook the moment’s work of slitting the throat of one pampered fool of a girl.
Princess Alusair Nacacia darted into the alley, right past the crouching Ravelo. As he turned, rising and shaking off his weathercloak, he thumbed forth the magic token that had ridden for so long clipped to the inner face of his belt buckle, and slapped it to the cobbles. It winked, and utter silence fell.
The princess was already turning, having seen something moving in the darkness nigh her elbow. Her eyes widened in alarm, her mouth opened-and Ravelo, hefting his knife, grinned broadly. Silent screams summoned no aid.
His murderous intent was unmistakable. The young royal parried wildly, her sword long enough to drive aside his first thrust.
Ravelo chuckled. It was splendid steel, but too large and heavy for her slender arm, and she’d just entangled her cloak on it, dragging it down. Ah, but this killing would be easy.
