Easy enough to enjoy a bit…
He slashed at Alusair’s face, expecting her to shrink back, but she clenched her teeth and brought her sword arm up sharply, swirling cloak and all-so Ravelo showed her what a slaying-sharp knife could do, slicing through thick wool and sasheen lining as if they were but mist, slicing a neat, shallow cut in the royal sword arm.
Alusair shrieked soundlessly, her face going pale. She staggered back, hand falling open. Her cloak came off her shoulders and dragged her sword from her fingers-and she spun around and fled, cloak and sword falling together in her wake, dagger flashing in her other hand.
Ravelo sprang after her. It would be the work of a moment to pounce on the princess, a knee in her back to bear her down hard onto the cobbles, and slit her throat while she was still bouncing and wallowing to try to get her breath.
Yet she was, yes, running to a tall, ornate iron gate in the alley wall, a gate Ravelo knew. He slowed, his grin widening.
It was the back way into the mansion of the Delzuld noble family. Better and better. If her murder were blamed on the Delzulds-and how could it not be, if she were found sprawled in her blood in the Delzuld grounds? — given their nigh-certain reaction, and those of their allies, it would mean civil war.
Panting soundlessly in the spell-silence, Alusair shook the gate. It was locked, and she clawed her way up it in a frenzy, slipping twice or thrice on the wet iron.
At the top she slipped again, risking impalement on the row of spikes that crowned the gate.
Ravelo strolled to just below her kicking feet and waited. If she did die on the gate, he’d climb up and leave his knife hilt-deep in her, but ’twould be better if Alusair sobbed in fear, staring blindly into the dark wet night, and when a hand reached down out of nowhere to take firm hold of hers, it seemed to her as if the Watching Gods themselves had reached down to deliver her from doom.
Chapter 6
In the end, all waywards return.
The trick is doing so alive.
The blast plucked up Florin Falconhand in mid-dive and hurled him over the stableyard and the grand wall beyond. He tumbled helplessly through an endless instant of whistling wind-to a bouncing, bruisingly hard landing on the roof of the Delzuld gatehouse.
Skidding to a halt, he rolled over, fighting for breath. It was not a place he recognized, but seemed much safer than the stable roof and its plentiful supply of murderous swordsmen. He came weaving to his feet, still a little dazed and winded-only to stare down into the terrified, wide-eyed face of a young girl clawing her way up the gate with an alley skulker just below her.
She took his proffered hand, and Florin hauled her bodily up onto the roof, out of the way, and drew his dagger. His sword was deep in a Zhent’s gut, back on the stable roof-if there was a roof anymore.
As Florin brought his dagger up, her would-be slayer was already up the gate and-smashing the ranger off his feet, driving Florin down hard on his backside. As they skidded back along the roof, a needle-sharp dagger stabbed like an icicle into Florin’s shoulder.
He grunted in startled pain. The slayer clawed his way over Florin reaching his dagger for the girl’s throat, but she struck his blade aside with a knife of her own. Florin’s stabbed arm was useless, but he twisted under the man and slammed his other hand into the man’s throat. The slayer stiffened. Florin closed his fingers around that throat and squeezed, as hard as he could.
The deadly dagger came at him again, and Florin rolled desperately away, taking them both across the roof as the slayer’s knife waved wildly, the strangling man fighting for balance.
The knife swept down, and Florin shoved hard, flinging the man into a last roll over and then half-under him. The slayer ran out of rooftop, ending up scrabbling right on the edge, still clutching Florin.
Florin pulled his feet up to his chest and kicked out, thrusting the slayer upright, arms windmilling, and away.
The man’s foot came down awkwardly on the roof-edge, and he fell over backward, toppling right onto the gate-spikes, where he slumped, hanging helpless and dying, spikes thrusting up through his chest like red fangs.
Florin could see the man’s fate, illuminated in the light of lanterns bobbing nearer, below. Wincing, he rolled over, breathing hard, and made for the back of the roof, as far as he could get from the Purple Dragon patrol now stalking along the alley. His shoulder felt like his arm was dangling by shreds, about to fall off.
The lass shrank back a little as he crawled up to her, and no wonder; he must look fearsome, drenched in blood and dragging one arm, his face twisted in pain.
“Are you all right?” the ranger gasped, shifting so the shadow of his body shielded her face from the lanternlight. Behind and below, the gate rattled and Purple Dragons snapped terse words back and forth.
“I am, goodsir,” she murmured, frowning, “but you’re hurt.”
“Sorely, as they say,” Florin hissed, managing a crooked grin, “but I mustn’t be found here. I must get away somehow.”
The lass plucked a long pendant from around her neck, put it into his good hand, and whispered, “Break it with your fingers! Now!”
Florin looked at her wonderingly, and did so. A pale, tingling radiance washed over his fingers and ran up his arm, and he found himself gasping and shuddering in a rapture that washed all his pain away. He could feel his wound closing, the sliced muscles knitting together again…
When he could see again, Florin blinked, swallowed, and said, “Lady, you have my deepest thanks.” He was completely unhurt, healed as if he’d never been wounded. “Who are you?”
The lass gave him a rather superior smile-gods, she could not be more than thirteen or so! — drew herself up, and announced, “I am Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, Princess of Cormyr.”
From behind them both came curses of amazement, and then a more startled oath as the Purple Dragon at the top of the gate lost his footing in his astonishment and fell back among, or onto, his fellows.
“Princess-Highness-I am honored,” Florin stammered, “but I must go.”
He knelt to her, on the roof, and Alusair put her hand on his, so light and swift a caress that it seemed almost as if a breeze had touched him, and said quickly, “Of course. Pray begone, and may the gods guard you.”
He gave her a smile, nodded, and thankfully raced away along the broad top of the ornate mansion wall.
Behind him, he heard a Purple Dragon gasp, “It is her, hrast all the gods! Princess, how came you to be here? ”
Florin caught hold of the top of some sort of carved stone ornament adorning the wall and turned to swing himself around and down-but paused for a moment to watch what befell the princess.
“I am unaccustomed to giving any account of myself to passing Purple Dragons,” she snapped, her voice rising in anger as she saw the soldiers hastening to encircle her.
Various Purple Dragons converged on her on the gatehouse roof, holding up their lanterns. Florin was in time to see the Princess Alusair smile triumphantly and vanish, winking out of their clutches.
The Purple Dragons swore in hearty and collective earnest.
Ghoruld Applethorn, Master of Alarphons of the Wizards of War, chuckled in glee at what was unfolding in his scrying crystal. This particular wet night in Arabel offered superb entertainment.
The crystal winked as lightning split the sky somewhere between Arabel and Suzail, and the unicorn ring on
