she’s from Cormyr, there’s bound to be at least one of us who’ll know her.”
“If you’re so overstretched as all that,” the cleric asked mildly, “why is it that there are six of you crowded into the doorway to question one wounded lass?”
“Holy man,” responded a voice that was both higher and colder with authority, “you are duty priest on this shift, no more. Do not presume to tell the Purple Dragons of Cormyr how to do their work-just as we refrain from seeking to direct your devotions to the Earthmother.”
“Of course,” the priest agreed. By the sound of his voice, he was rising from beside the cot and turning away. “I am no expert in matters of war. Yet all holy folk are skilled in talking to and counseling the injured, and I do know much about that. I am also a loyal, lifelong citizen of Cormyr, and as such a taxpaying citizen, I am curious: why do you not merely call the nearest war wizard-there’s one the other end of yon passage, as I recall-and have him do the questioning with his spells? Faster, and he’ll know when he’s hearing truth, and-”
“Something happened to many of our war wizards earlier today, which I’m not at liberty to discuss.” The cold voice was now positively icy. “Wherefore they’re… busy, and we’ve received orders that they’re not sparing anyone away from scrying duty to deal with someone who’s helpless and alone. The worst she might be is a madwits or a sneak-thief, not part of some plot or other, so she’ll keep. Or so they tell us.”
“So if she’ll keep, why not lock her in here, let her sleep, and bring all your Dragons by to try to identify her after the revel’s over?”
“Priest, stick to your herbs and greens-growing, and leave this to us, hey? She could be a sorceress just waiting for us to lock her in here, so she can cast spells at ease, in private, to bring this whole Palace down around our ears, and every last Obarskyr, war wizard, noble lord, and courtier with it! Now, out with you!”
“You’re very welcome for the healing,” came the mild rebuke, as the cleric of Chauntea departed.
“May the gods save me from such well-meaning dolts! ” the deep-voiced Purple Dragon said with a sigh of relief whose volume meant that he was approaching Pennae; a moment later, a chair creaked right next to her. “Anyone know how to wake a just-healed lass?”
“Slap her,” someone suggested.
“Climb on the cot with her,” another voice said slyly, “and show her-”
“Telsword Grathus, that’ll do, ” the deep-voiced officer said sternly.
“Pour water down her nose,” Grathus said quickly. “That always wakes Teln, here, when we’re camped-”
The gown was plucked away from her, and silence fell.
“Nice,” Grathus muttered appreciatively. “Should we remove the breeches too? She could have all sorts of weapons hidden-”
“ I’m sure she doesn’t, ” the officer growled. “No, I had her boots off earlier, and took out all the little knives she had strapped and sheathed so cunningly down there. They’re on the table, yonder, thrust into all the extra loops and sheaths and the like on that belt of hers. An impressive arsenal. So numerous, in fact, that I doubt she carries yet more. She didn’t look like a manacled prisoner shuffling along, remember, and with that much weight-”
“So, are you leaving the gown off to cow her into blurting out answers,” the cold voice snapped, “or just to give us all a good look? I’d hate for this to be, say, a maid of Silverymoon, who’ll swiftly tell her envoy what Cormyr’s so highly regarded Purple Dragons did to her.”
The gown was hastily returned-and gingerly smoothed over her too.
“She’s gotten blood all over it,” Grathus commented, “so she might as well keep it. She might need it, to keep warm in the cell.”
“Har har har,” another Dragon muttered. “I’m not easy about this. She doesn’t look like a sneak-thief to me.”
“Oh? And how many sneak-thieves have you seen, First Sword Norlen, to suddenly become so expert, hey?”
“Well,” came the prompt reply, “there was ‘Longfingers’ Draeran, and the two sisters-Vaelra and whatever- the-gods-called-her-and Lethran Armantle, and Dharkfox, and Balantros of Westgate, and that young lad with the mask who called himself the Hand of Justice, and-”
“ All right, Norlen!”
“-Zarmos of Essembra, and that Sembian with the missing fingers; Glathos? Klathos? Mrathos?”
“It was Drethlen Dlathos,” Telsword Grathus said helpfully.
“Ah, thank you; it just wouldn’t come to mind. Then there was Amglur the Amnian, Duke Hawkler who was no duke at all, and-”
“ Enough, Norlen!”
“I-uh, sorry, sir. I… sorry.”
“Forget it. We’ve got this one here, remember?”
“Forgive me, lionar,” Grathus said quickly, “but we don’t know she’s a thief yet, do we?”
“Grathus,” the lionar growled, “when I want your cracked copper’s worth, I’ll ask for it, and I haven’t asked for it now!”
“He is, however, correct,” the cold voice snapped. “Now put the gown on her, and get up out of that chair; I’ll handle this.”
“But-”
“Of the two of us, which is the lionar, and which the ornrion?”
“Yes, Ornrion Synond,” the deep-voiced lionar said wearily, and the chair creaked again.
Rough hands lifted Pennae up to a half-sitting position. She played dead as best she could, head lolling and arms trailing limply, as the thin cloth was dragged over her face, bunching up around her shoulders, and then tugged down her body.
“Oh,” First Sword Norlen said suddenly, in the midst of this process, “how could I have forgotten the one you chased down, lionar? Transtra Longtresses, remember? She was a looker, now-”
“Norlen,” the lionar snarled, “shut up.”
“Save the rest, thank you. Well done, First Sword. If I should need someone to talk this prisoner to death, I’ll know who to call upon.”
Telsword Grathus snickered, and the ornrion let that brief mirth die into silence before adding icily, “And if I should need someone to amuse her by playing the fool, I can lay hands on just the man for that, too.”
Wisely, Grathus kept silent.
“ Now, lass,” the ornrion’s voice said, close by her ear, “I’m sure you’re awake after all that. Probably smiling inwardly at the thought of what prize idiots we all are too. I am Ornrion Delk Synond of the Purple Dragons, and I have the full authority to set you free, jail you for the rest of your life, butcher you here and now, or just cut little pieces off you and feed them, one by one, to the nearest hungry hogs-as you lie chained in their mud-wallow. Which I choose will depend upon your cooperation. Now, you can begin by opening your eyes, giving me a polite smile, and telling me your full name. Then spell it, please, so the lionar here can write it down.”
Pennae opened her eyes, thrust out a hand to stab Ornrion Synond in the throat with her rigid fingers-and then sprang up, vaulting over his choking, gagging body by planting a firm hand on his shoulder.
The door was open, all the Dragons were shouting, Grathus was backing away from her in fear and Norlen in frankly smiling admiration-and a pedestal table stood just ahead to her right, with the belt she’d taken from Yassandra displayed atop it.
She landed, ducked her hips aside to elude the lionar’s halfhearted grab, snatched the belt, and whirled to menace them with the wand.
“Want to die, Dragons?” she hissed.
Ornrion Synond was struggling to try to breathe and shout something.
“See to him, Lionar,” she ordered. “I think he may need his teeth knocked down his throat.”
That earned Pennae startled blinks giving way to the beginnings of grins, around the room, and she added, “First Sword Norlen, we didn’t hear all of the sneak-thieves you remember. Oblige us, please.”
“Sorry, las-er, Lady! I-uh-well-uh-”
The lionar suddenly charged at her, so Pennae shoved the pedestal table under his shins and sidestepped to let him greet the wall face-first.
Then she plucked one of her little sand-bombs from her own belt pouches and hurled it in the telsword’s face, its leaf-wrapping bursting satisfyingly. Grathus staggered blindly back from the door-and with Yassandra’s belt
