prove as our own.'
The grizzled thief frowned. 'But at least we knew where we stood. He was a strong king, sure, but that also meant prosperity for the nobles-and good pickings for scamps smart enough to follow guild rules and keep away from his patrols.'
From his position in the center of the throng, the Shadow-hawk cleared his throat. The room quieted noticeably and all eyes turned to him. 'Azoun don't want to be king, right? So maybe 'e'll spend 'is time daydreaming about fighting giants and leave us be.' He put his boots up on the table right in front of Artus and paused smugly. 'Yeah, I think 'e'll just leave us be. After all, the bloke owes 'is life to a scamp, right?'
'But what about Vangerdahast, that tutor of his?' another thief asked. 'He's a scary one, real sly and real smart. That wizard'll be running things himself if Azoun isn't going to do it proper, and he has no love of the guild.'
A pickpocket with three fingers missing on one hand nodded sagely. 'Wizards ain't to be trusted,' he said, wiggling his remaining digits meaningfully. 'It may not matter, though. I hear said that when Azoun's son died last year he changed, started to think of things more like a prince. It took the wildness out of him. Not surprising, when a babe two winters old dies so sudden. Makes you wonder what he did to offend the gods, eh?'
Someone across the room raised a mug in mock reverence. 'To Azoun,' he said. 'May he be half the king his father was-half as good at catching thieves!'
Silent the entire morning, Artus shook his head. 'Azoun will be a great king. All the assassins and thieves in Cormyr will be sorry for it, too.'
'You'd better 'ope not, Art,' the Shadowhawk said, surprised by the comment. 'After all, you'll be the scamp to end all scamps yourself one day.'
The boy turned cold brown eyes to his father, and the Shadowhawk caught a glimpse of that strange expression he'd seen on Artus's face the night of the battle, just before he'd killed the last of the assassins. 'But, Father,' he announced in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, 'you said I don't have to be a scamp.'
'What?' the Shadowhawk bellowed. 'I never-'
'Right after the fight-right after
Everyone's attention was on Artus and the Shadowhawk, and those thieves prone to jealously and envy- which was, in fact, all of them-found their spirits buoyed by a sudden hope that Scoril Cimber's yarns might now be proved untrue. The room stood frozen for a moment as the highwayman searched in vain for some way out of his son's well-laid trap. The boy had let him tell his version of the rescue, let him take all the glory and reap the guild's rewards for such notoriety. Now, it seemed, he wanted his payment.
But when Scoril looked closely at Artus, he realized there was no escape. The predatory look in his son's eyes was a familiar one, a glint as hard as the stiletto hidden in his boot and as cold as the winter chill creeping through the guildhall's cheap floorboards.
'Yeah. You be a bard,' the Shadowhawk murmured at last.
He turned away from Artus's triumphant smile and gulped his ale. Even if he ain't going to be my apprentice, the highwayman thought ruefully, the boy's learned more than I ever intended to teach him.
The druid stood before the weathered oak door of the tower. His wheat-colored hair lay plastered against his neck, and his dark green tunic clung slickly, like a second skin, to his muscular frame. His embroidered cloak stretched to the grass behind him and tugged annoyingly at his neck as he tipped his head back and glanced upward through the soft, steady rain.
The tower's slate-gray stones merged with the dreary early evening sky, making it difficult for the druid to see the crenelated battlements. Squinting, he peered into the gloom and glimpsed a flicker of light from a window on the highest floor.
The druid dropped his gaze until his chin rested on his chest 'I haven't seen him in years,' he said softly.
A rushed sequence of chitters and squeaks issued from his tunic in reply.
'Yes. It has been too long.'
The druid gently tugged the lacings of his tunic, loosening the material about his neck. A moment later a weasel's shiny black nose poked out from the V-neck of the sodden garment. The creature chittered again.
'All right. I'll hurry,' the druid answered, stepping forward and rapping on the tower door.
An interminable time later the door groaned inward, revealing a figure draped in a hooded cloak.
'Galvin, my friend!' The speaker brushed aside the cowl, revealing rheumy blue eyes and skin that was as pale and wrinkled as crumpled parchment. White stubble edged the man's jaw. 'You must help me! She's gone missing in my tower, and I can't find her. I'm very worried.'
'Can't find who?'
A weak smile played at the old man's ashen lips. 'My granddaughter.' The old man paused. 'Please, come in. You'll catch your death in this weather.' Reaching out a shaky, age-speckled hand, the man grasped the druid's sleeve and drew him into the tower. 'Oh, Galvin, I was afraid Elias wouldn't find you. I wasn't sure where you were living. And this storm…'
'Is not so bad, Drollo,' the druid offered, extracting the weasel from his tunic. 'Elias here doesn't seem to like the rain much, though.'
The old man gingerly took the dripping weasel from the druid and scratched the top of its head. Elias squeaked loudly and stretched so its ear could be rubbed. The weasel shot an angry glance at the druid and squealed shrilly.
Galvin nodded to the animal and closed the tower door, muffling the patter of the rain and shutting out the sweet scent of the wet earth. After the long trek in the open air, the tower smelled musty. The druid wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Little of the thick, chiseled stone that made up the structure was visible on the inside. Paintings of fancifully dressed men and women competed with meticulously embroidered tapestries depicting life along the banks of the nearby Dragon Reach. In some places the tapestries and paintings overlapped. Galvin found himself staring at a partially covered tapestry showing several men putting a large boat out into the Reach. A satyr stood at the boat's prow, one hoofed leg up on the stern, an overlarge jacket wrapped about his human torso. The druid couldn't see the entire boat. A tapestry filled with prancing unicorns draped over it.
Beneath the paintings and tapestries, piles of labeled and unlabeled crates stretched across the length of the wall and reached as high as Calvin's chest. Bundles of folded clothes, stacks of colorful clay dishes, mismatched boots, smoke-tinted jars filled with glass beads, mounds of books, carefully balanced pyramids of scroll cases, and many objects the druid couldn't identify peeked out between the crates.
Galvin continued to gape at the dust-covered collection until a hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the old man.
'My granddaughter,' Drollo began. 'She's only five. I was categorizing a new shipment when she wandered off. I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention to her.'
'Your grandchildren are older than I am,' the druid noted. When Drollo didn't reply, Galvin found himself staring at the old man.
At one time Drollo had been tall, with square shoulders and a long stride, but the seasons had taken their toll on his frame. Now he stood stooped over, his upper back a hump and his shoulders rounded and turned toward his chest. The skin hung on his bones as if it belonged to someone larger, falling in folds like the worn, oversized robes he wore. His wispy gray hair matched the color of the spiderwebs that clung to nearly everything in the tower. Only his eyes showed a spark.
With considerable effort Drollo bent and carefully placed the weasel on one of the few sections of slate floor that was free of clutter. The creature wriggled furiously to shake the rain from its fur, then darted around the pool of water forming from Calvin's dripping clothes and slid behind a crate marked 'Alguduire feathers.' The old man
