“It’s not for me to decide,” Elyne said with a glance at Arlon, who lay looking somewhat stunned by all the revelations. “It will be put to a vote, you know that.”
Montimort turned pale. He had always been the outsider in the group, only tolerated because of Elyne’s constant championship.
Sarfael pitied the boy, but he could not let him remain silent. Too much was at stake. They had to recover the crown. Far better the Nashers held it than a Red Wizard. “What else can you tell us of this Red Wizard? We need to find him.”
“I met him in his house,” said Montimort. “At least, I assume that it was his. A small house near the docks. Very plain on the outside but the rooms were full of little treasures. Very warm too. But I suppose that was because he was an old man. He always had a fire going when I went there.”
Even as he spoke, Rucas Sarfael knew the name of their thief. He knew why the Red Wizard’s ink-stained hand had seemed so familiar when he snatched the box away from Montimort. But it made no sense: Dhafiyand a Red Wizard? Lord Neverember’s spymaster stealing the crown of Neverwinter for himself?
“There has indeed been treachery,” Sarfael said aloud and the rest turned toward him with startled looks. Perhaps they had never heard him sound so cold, so furious. “But I know this man and where he lives. I can take you to his house.”
Sarfael’s hand curled around the twisted black horn that formed the hilt of Mavreen’s sword. The Red Wizards turned her body into a monster. He still remembered the hideous night he was forced to cut her head from her shoulders to lay her back into her grave. He remembered too telling that story to Dhafiyand. How the old man’s ready sympathy made him willing to listen to Dhafiyand’s plots and plans. How Dhafiyand assured him that the Red Wizards were no longer a threat in Neverwinter because of his work.
So the spymaster had lied to his spy? Well, that was a dangerous game for him to play, thought Sarfael, for one betrayal must lead to another.
“Come,” he said out loud. “I will lead you to the Red Wizard. But bring your weapons. He is a cunning old dog and I expect him to bite when cornered.”
The house was empty except for one aged maidservant who fled when confronted at the door by a crowd of armed Nashers.
Elyne led Montimort, Parnadiz, Charinyn, and half a dozen others. The wounded, including Arlon, stayed behind, despite vehement protests by Arlon. But Sarfael insisted. He dared not confront Dhafiyand with anyone less than able. The man’s powers were obviously formidable, as demonstrated during the attack on Upland Rise.
“How do you know this house?” Elyne asked as they searched through the rooms for some trace of the box or Dhafiyand.
“I had some dealings with the man,” Sarfael answered. How many of his secrets had he given away to Dhafiyand while the man, that master spy, had watched and listened and betrayed none of his own?
“What dealings?” Elyne pressed him.
“Actions to be regretted,” Sarfael admitted.
She looked unsatisfied with his curt reply. “Who are you really?” she said. “You are no agent of the Graycloaks. I know the Sons well, and they might summon Arlon to them to lecture him about his tactics. But they would not place a spy in our midst.”
“Call me an adopted son of Neverwinter,” Sarfael said. “For that is what I am now. I find I have grown very fond of this city, and its citizens.”
“But how do you know this Dhafiyand?” Elyne said.
I never knew him, he thought to himself. For I all counted him an interesting employer, and preened myself when I tricked him out of an extra fee, and told him of Mavreen’s death when I was sentimental and deep in the cups at the end of an adventure.
Out loud, he said, “I thought he was a friend.”
Sarfael began to search the papers on Dhafiyand’s table. The piles slid in all directions. There were charts, maps, notes, and memorandum. But nothing of any use.
For once, the room seemed a little cool. Sarfael glanced at the fireplace. The fire was out, and gray, cold ash lay scattered across the hearth.
He walked across the room. The pearl-encrusted miniature lay facedown on the mantel. He turned the picture over. The painting was hideous. The moon elf lady stared back at him with mad eyes burning in an undead face.
“What did Karion say?” he asked Elyne. “When he was having that fit of prophecy? Something about a moon elf grasping for the treasures of Neverwinter with her undead hands?”
“Valindra,” Elyne said. “That was the name. But he also talked about Greeth, and Luskan, and things that were long ago. His powers of prediction were never great. He was a seer who always mixed up the past with the future.”
“She speaks with a painted mouth,” Sarfael recalled Karion’s words. He flipped the miniature over. The words to a Thayan spell circled across the deep, square back. The style looked familiar.
“Montimort,” Sarfael said to the boy, “is this another summoning box? Like the one that hid the crown?”
The young wizard took it from him and nodded. He pushed with his thumb the line between the back and the painting that formed the lid to the little Luskar puzzle box.
Unlike the larger box that they found in Karion’s house, it swung easily open, revealing a folded parchment inside. From the way that it was crumpled inside the box, Sarfael knew that somebody had already read it and hastily replaced it. He plucked it out of Montimort’s hand.
“What is it?” asked Elyne.
“A way to send messages in and out of the city with no one knowing,” he said. “Montimort told us, didn’t you, that a pair of boxes would be used by pirate captains to pass treasures between ship and city. Or messages?”
“Yes,” said Montimort. The boy was still pale and kept sending worried glances at Elyne. “They might use them to send a message.”
Sarfael plucked the wrinkled parchment out of the box. He unrolled it to reveal a single order, much like the one he’d seen only days ago on Dhafiyand’s table.
“Kill Neverember and bring the crown to me. You will have the reward promised.” It was unsigned, but Sarfael could not mistake it for a message from Waterdeep’s Open Lord. Neverember would not be ordering his own murder.
A shout from Charinyn startled them. The girl reached into the stack of kindling next to the fireplace and pulled out the box inscribed with the Thayan summoning spell. It had been hidden beneath the sticks.
“Open it,” Sarfael said, but he knew what he would see. The girl pried the lid open. The box was empty. The crown, if it had been there, was gone. With a cry of disappointment, Charinyn dropped the box on the table.
“So where is it?” Elyne said.
“With Dhafiyand. Now the true question: where is he?” Sarfael tapped a restless finger against the hilt of Mavreen’s sword. Then he swore. “The docks! Lord Neverember is coming by sea. He must be there. We have to stop Dhafiyand.”
“You want us to save Lord Neverember?” Elyne asked. For the first time in that long day, Sarfael saw her smile. “You do know that we are the rebels sworn to overthrow his rule?”
“Didn’t you tell me you were a terrible Nasher?” Sarfael said as they headed to the door. “Didn’t you say you wanted to keep your friends safe? If Lord Neverember is murdered on the docks, do you think General Sabine will just pack herself on her horse and go? She’ll loose the Tarnians through the city. And, if Dhafiyand follows who I think he follows, what will come after will be even worse. Do you truly want the undead roaming freely in the streets?”
Elyne matched him stride for long stride as they made for the docks.
“Well, we will do what we can,” she said. “But if one of my students cuts off Lord Neverember’s head by mistake, don’t blame me. We often use his picture as a target in the school!”
Lord Neverember’s ship was easy to spot. It boasted the most fluttering flags and pennants hanging from its three masts. It also had a crowd of Neverwinter dignitaries gathered at the base of the gangplank. And one old man, very plainly dressed, surrounded by more than a dozen servants in equally dark and dreary garb.
“There he is,” whispered Sarfael, pointing at Dhafiyand. Montimort gave a squeal of pure rage and dashed forward. The other Nashers pelted down the dock toward the startled crowd.
