met.”
A man who also sounded like a native of Cormyr, but slightly younger, echoed that dry greeting even more sarcastically, and then asked, “Is the time to strike come at last?”
“Not yet. Soon.”
“When?”
“When all the alarphons are dead-that is, they believe you to be dead-and Laspeera’s dust, and Vangerdahast is weakened or preoccupied, or both. I’ll write ‘Leak here’ on the wall at the bend in the Long Passage, to let you know when the time is right. If anyone sees it, they’ll dismiss it as a steward’s message to the Palace masons.”
Pennae frowned. The alarphons were the internal investigators among the war wizards, the watchers who kept all war wizards honest. Or supposedly upheld honesty, by the sounds of this.
In the bedchamber below, the first man lowered his orb. “And then?”
“Set the traps on the crystals. When ready, you write the same phrase on the opposite wall of the passage, facing mine, and I’ll know to send word to Vangey that the princesses are imperiled.”
“And he’ll come running, and-blam! What then?”
“The same lure should work just as well on Azoun. Mind you rig something physical-stone, falling from above, perhaps-to disable him in case his shields are strong enough to defeat your spells.”
“Yes. I’d not want to end up facing him blade to blade.”
“Indeed. Kill him, but keep the head. We may need it.”
“We must all get a head in this world.”
“Ha. Ha. We’ll arrest Filfaeril for treason, accusing her of Azoun’s murder-we can say we found the head wedged down the shaft of her private garderobe. Tana we marry off to our puppet, Alusair we keep in hiding as our backblade, in spell-thrall-and then, regrettably, the traitor Filfaeril is killed by our spells while trying to escape.”
“Not smooth, but-”
“It doesn’t have to be. Many grumble about us, day in and day out, but how many dare to denounce or even challenge their war wizards? Remember: ‘Leak here.’ ”
“ ‘Leak here.’ And if someone tries to check on the princesses before we’re ready?”
“Leave that to me.”
The two men exchanged deep, dry chuckles, and then parted. As one-the one who sounded a little younger- turned away, Pennae caught sight of his face in the light of his orb.
It was not one she’d seen before, but she’d know it again. White hair at the temples, framing a handsome, commanding face. Imperious nose, hard eyes.
Pennae remained absolutely still until the other man, his hood still hiding his face, was quite gone. And then she crawled back the way she’d come, not even daring to whisper a curse.
“You’d think all this rain would’ve washed enough of the smell of blood off us,” Semoor complained, tugging on the reins that his snorting, head-tossing horse was threatening to drag right out of his hands.
The other three Knights of Myth Drannor were all too busy to reply. The rest of the horses were just as agitated. It had been some time since the four had seen a living Zhent, but Florin had been missing just as long, though Pennae-who kept vanishing and reappearing, a flitting shadow in the night-insisted his body was nowhere to be found in or near the stables.
She was gone right now, leaving just four Knights struggling in the deepening, still-raining night with horses enough for everyone, plus two remounts Pennae had insisted in taking from the stables “because the queen would want to see us properly equipped.”
The four were bruised, soaked, and cold. They were too tired to be scared any longer, but they were very nervous, and growing ever more so-expecting more misfortune at any moment. Either another Zhent attack, or the arrival of Dauntless and dozens of grim, armed-to-the-teeth Purple Dragons, to arrest them.
It was Doust who sighed and said, “I remember a day rather less damp than this one, and a herald proclaiming our names and the thanks of King Azoun, as the crowds cheered and-”
“Sounds nice. Wish I’d been there,” Pennae said laconically, from just behind him. She grinned as a startled “Eeep!” burst out of the priest of Tymora, as he jumped a little, hands shaking, and then whirled around.
“Pennae, if you ever do that again-”
“You’ll make that same charming sound? I await it with fond anticipation,” the thief said smoothly, patting his arm. She set down a sack almost as large as she was, with the clangor of many things made of metal shifting inside it. “Daggers,” she explained. “I’ve been plundering Zhents too dead to resist me.”
“A habit learned in festhalls?” Semoor asked; the darkness hid the rude gesture she made in reply, but he saw enough of the shift of her shoulders to know she was making it. “You wound me,” he said.
“Not yet, Light of Lathander,” she murmured, her voice heavy with promise. “Not yet.”
Then she spun around, hand streaking to a sheathed dagger. A sword glimmered suddenly, its flat coming down on that hand in a gentle slap.
“Please don’t,” Florin said wearily, from the other end of that sword. “I’m growing a little tired of facing sharp war-steel this night.”
Pennae nodded. “ That’s not your sword. What befell you, and where have you been?”
“Aye, I wish I still had my own blade. This one’s old, good steel-and so it should be; I had it from a princess! — but badly balanced, too small for me, and heavier than it should be.”
“Oho! A princess, hey?” Semoor asked. “What else ‘had you’ from this fair royal flower? Or are we speaking of a festhall ‘princess’?”
“We are not,” Florin said. “We are speaking of the Princess Alusair Nacacia, whom I met with on the roof of yon temple, by merest chance. A Zhent almost slew her, but I was able to defend her-until too many Purple Dragons appeared for me to dare tarry. Unfortunately, neither did the princess, who used some sort of magic to vanish rather abruptly. I doubt those Dragons are all that pleased with me, just now.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jhessail said. “This being Arabel, they probably have their hands full of truculent madmen already. An Obarskyr princess, standing around on a rooftop, in this? ”
“Belike you met someone who told you she was Alusair the princess,” Doust said, wrestling with two less than happy horses, “to avoid getting in trouble for being on that rooftop. She was probably a temple-thief, or hoping to be, until the gods sent you into her lap.”
“Friends,” Florin said, “I’ve seen both princesses a time or three while we were at the Palace, and this was the Princess Alusair.”
“Ah,” Semoor said, “you had time to examine her properly, checking all the birthmarks, did you? My, but the Obarskyrs will be glad to see us go! Right into fresh-dug graves, if you start dallying with royal daughters!” He tossed the reins of the largest horse to Florin, and added sharply, “Nice to know you keep your brains in your codpiece. Pity it isn’t larger, so you’d have a hope of carting a little more of them around with you!”
“Semoor,” Florin said heavily, “our meeting was not like that, and was none of my doing-”
“So,” an all too familiar voice came out of the night behind them, “do I add molestation of a personage royal to horse-theft, in my reasons for having all of you flogged to death? Or have you some crimes more inventive yet to add to your confessions? Take your time, and leave nothing out of your reply. We Purple Dragons tend to be all too starved for entertainment.”
Half a dozen lanterns were unhooded in unison, and the Knights of Myth Drannor found themselves staring into the mirthless smile of Ornrion Dauntless-at the head of dozens of grim, armed-to-the-teeth Purple Dragons. Most of whom held loaded hand-bows, aimed at the faces of the Knights.
“Falconhand speaks truth,” said someone grimly, from just behind the ornrion’s shoulder. It was Laspeera of the war wizards. “I very much hope he continues to do so, as I ask this of him: what’s become of my fellow war wizard, Melandar Raentree, who was assisting you at the stables?”
Florin shrugged. “He bade us farewell there, departed-and we were promptly attacked. By many Zhentarim. Swordsmen, led by a wizard. Who was torn apart in a spell-blast… or so I believe.”
“So he’s gone, all his Zhent blades lie dead, and the Princess Alusair is gone too!” His tone of voice made it abundantly clear that Dauntless believed not a word. “Well, now, isn’t that all just so convenient?”
“Dauntless!” Laspeera’s rebuke betrayed the fury she was swallowing. She gave the Knights a long, level look and snapped, “Let’s get you out of Arabel before anything else happens.”
