“A fool? Aye, I’ve never denied that,” Florin replied, rushing forward and waving his sword rapidly back and forth right in front of him. It struck that unseen blade with a glancing clang, and then he was past, and turning in the darkness to face whoever it was, but backing away as he did so.
He was backing into the unknown, and facing a foe with a drawn sword-a woman, unless he was mistaken about that cold, arrogant voice-whom he couldn’t see, but he’d managed to get her between him and the Doorwarden.
He became aware of a faint glow in front of him, a thin line that he was sure hadn’t been there before, a line that was moving, sweeping around-’twas her sword!
Its glow was growing slowly but steadily stronger, now, as it swung at him, Florin steadily backing out of her reach. He had to win time for that glow to grow until he could see it better, and to move away from the Dread Doorwarden, hopefully to and through a place too narrow for him to follow.
He could see a face-female and human, and bone white in hue-behind that blade now, as their swords met again, hard, ringing off each other and striking sparks. It was not a kind face, and it did not wear an expression even a fool would have termed “friendly.”
Not even this fool.
“Who are you?” he asked, giving ground again-as heavy breathing and a ponderous footfall told him that the Doorwarden was striding up behind the woman with the sword.
“One evidently doomed to chase cowards who won’t cross blades with me,” came her terse reply. “Who are you?”
“One who doesn’t want to fight any stranger for a reason he understands not,” Florin replied, “and would much prefer to be allowed to continue the king’s business without being attacked in his very Palace!”
“Do you dare to accuse me of disloyalty to Cormyr?” Her voice sharpened into real anger. “Know, man, that I am a Highknight, personally sworn to King Azoun himself, and am accounted one of the deadliest blades in all the realm.”
She lunged, and Florin sidestepped and backed away again, without replying. With a hiss of exasperation she pursued him, adding, “The king creates very few female Highknights. I am one of them.”
Florin bowed his head. “Well met.”
“Do you mock me?” she snarled, gliding forward to launch a flurry of thrusts and slashes. He fell back again, parrying energetically, and as she pressed him, worked his steel faster and faster, until sparks were raining down.
He was stronger, and the weight he was putting behind his sword swings must be numbing her arms. Yes, her attack was lessening. He gave ground more slowly now, and there came a time when her arm grew tired and her attack openly faltered.
He listened to her swift breathing, stepping back again. Her pursuit this time was plodding, no longer a furious whirlwind.
“No,” Florin replied, his voice low and respectful. “I do not desire to mock you or give offense. I, too, have been honored by the Purple Dragon. King Azoun himself sponsored our adventuring charter, after I saved his life in the forest.”
“Ah. Then you would be… Florin Falconhand. Ranger of Espar. So why this treason, Florin?”
“No traitor am I,” Florin told her, “nor are any of us Knights. We’re here to protect the king and queen-and the Royal Magician, too-from a plot to slay them all, this day!”
“Ah, no, that’s our task and duty,” she replied, the sneer loud and clear in her voice. “Anyone running around down here with weapons, who I don’t know about, is a traitor.”
She lunged at him again and, when he parried, mounted another furious whirlwind of cuts and thrusts, pressing him back once more, the glow of her blade mounting to a white brightness. Their blades rang numbingly as the Highknight threw all of her strength behind her blade, starting to trust in his defensive bladework that never thrust back at her, nor offered her the slightest menace of steel.
Florin stood his ground, this time, and after a while the fury of her attack faded again, and he found himself listening once more to her swift breathing. The Doorwarden loomed right behind her, now, like a patient mountain.
When she spoke this time, her words came in rushes, between gasps. “However, just for purposes of entertainment, why don’t you tell me a little more about this plot?”
“No, Lady Highknight, I fear not,” Florin told her. “Treason among war wizards is involved, and I know not how far it spreads. I will speak with Vangerdahast and no other-or if I reach the king or queen, I will defend them with my body.”
The Highknight sighed then, and murmured, “I weary of this.”
As Florin backed away from her again, she undid a pouch at her belt, plucked out a large chestnut, and threw it at him.
The previously cracked-open nutshell fell apart in flight, to let a delicate glass vial tumble out. Florin sprang at it desperately, caught it a fist-width above the stone passage floor that would have shattered it, and hurled it back in her face.
She closed her eyes as it shattered across her nose, and then chuckled as its tiny shards fell away. “It doesn’t affect we Highknights, fool, but it will affect you, if I-”
She struck his blade aside with a deft strike of her own and leaned close to him, grinning mirthlessly.
Trying not to breathe, Florin punched her as hard as he dared, spinning her head around and hurling her limply back into the armored shins of the Doorwarden. Then he turned and ran.
He didn’t risk a look back until his outstretched blade found a doorframe too narrow for the Doorwarden to pass through. Her blade was still bright, but Lady Highknight was sprawled senseless on the passage floor, with the man-mountain of a guardian frowningly poking her with his fingers and growling at her to “Wake! The man flees! Wake, stlarn ye!”
Florin shook his head, stepped through the doorframe-there seemed to be no door, any more, just the marks of abandoned hinges-and cautiously went on into ever-deeper darkness, feeling along the stone passage wall to his left with his fingertips, and keeping his sword raised and thrust out before him in his other hand.
His fingers found a door, and it proved to be unlocked. He opened it and felt cautiously into the utter darkness it opened into. Nothing met his timidly reaching fingertips, but when he used his sword more boldly, it immediately struck smooth metal. Florin tapped and probed cautiously forward and then up and down, and discovered that the door seemed to open into a laundry shaft. There was no floor and no ceiling, but merely smooth metal walls with holes in them that seemed to be grab-holds. They had metal a little way within them, and more than one had what felt and smelled like sweat-reeking underthings-dethmas and clouts-caught on its lip.
Eventually he dared to sheathe his sword and reach out a hand to one of these unseen openings. He took hold of it-a rolled lip, seemingly meant for human hands to grasp-felt for another, and then bent down and felt for lower openings to thrust his boots into.
He found them, and a breath later was climbing the chute, going up in the darkness and feeling warm air coming down into his face from above. After only a little climbing the chute started to bend, becoming a nigh- horizontal slope that ended suddenly in a room where three descending chutes met, and there was an access door with handholds beside it-and a spyhole in it!
The door had no lock that he could see. It was held shut by a small metal drop-bar latch, on his side. The bar dropped into an angled metal iron against the wall. He must be a floor higher in the Palace.
Florin peered through the spyhole, and found himself looking into a little room crammed with a table piled with linens, and two men. One held a glowstone and wore the barrel-chested jacket and livery of a Palace courtier, an anxious expression, and copious sweat. The other wore the grand robes and sashes of a Turmish envoy, and looked furious.
“You weren’t supposed to get anywhere near me!” the Turmishman was snarling. “What’re you doing, fool?”
“Well, you weren’t supposed to follow Blacksilver around like a dog, always six paces right behind him. If all of the courtiers in my passage noticed-and they did! — the war wizards certainly noticed.”
“ Listen, ” the Turmishman hissed, and then uttered words that made cold black rage blossom in Florin, so suddenly and strongly that he almost whimpered. “The mindworm has eaten a lot of his brain. There’s not much left to control him with. I have to stay close, or he becomes little better than a striding zombie. They’ll notice that, to
