Thornhold

avoid the pair of tabbies battling over a length of seafood sausage.

Not far from the shops, she found the back wall of the villa's enclosed garden. She ran her fingers over the stone. The latch was exactly where the elf had claimed it would be. Vowing to be generous in her repayment of this particular debt, Bronwyn pressed the latch and waited until the stone door swung open. She slipped through the opening and into the shadows of the grape arbor that cut down the middle of the garden.

At the end of the arbor, hidden from casual view by lustt vines, stood the first guard. Bronwyn remembered him as one of the Zhentish soldiers who had stormed the bathhouse in response to Malchior's summons. For a moment she hesitated. It was no small thing to kill a man, but he had been very willing to kill her-er to take her captive on Malchior's behalf; which would surely have proved to be worse.

She slipped up behind the guard, a length of thin, strong rope held between her hands. With a quick, sudden movement, she plunged her hands through the vines and wrapped the garrote tightly about his throat. A small, strangled noise gurgled from him, growing in volume as he worked his fingers under the rope. He was far stronger than she. With a flash of panic, Bronwyn realized he would soon be able to sing out an alarm.

She leaped up, planting both feet against the arbor trellis, and leaned back, hauling at the rope. After a moment, the man went silent. Bronwyn tied the garrotte firmly to the trellis, then edged around to the other side. The man's bulging eyes bore witness to the effectiveness of her attack. She took a long, steadying breath and slipped into the icehouse.

The villa was well appointed, even to the small, thick-walled building that stored blocks of ice cut from the nearby river, a luxury in the coming months of summer. The house was nearly full now, and as cold as midwinter. Bronwyn drew her cloak closer about her as she edged through the narrow aisle between the blocks.

At the end of the aisle she found another hidden door. Bronwyn slid it aside and stepped into a dark, small tunnel. She felt about for the promised shelf and the candles kept there. She lit one and proceeded down a narrow passage to a flight of steep stairs.

According to the elf landlord, this passage led through the back wall, up into the most lavish bedchamber. Surely she would find Malchior there. She only hoped that she would find him alone.

Bronwyn crept along the passage, then up a flight of steep wooden stairs. She moved slowly, easing her way along so that no creak would betray her presence. With each step, she felt increasingly uneasy. There were no cobwebs in the tunnel, no sign of mice. How could a passage so well-used be secret?

Just as she considered turning around, the passage ended at another door, this one a sliding door of thin wood, hidden by a tapestry Malchior was apparently alone, and at prayer. Bronwyn clamped her eyes shut and tried not to listen as the dreadful cadence of the chant rose and fell. Knowing that Malchior worshiped Cyric was one thing; it was quite another to stand by while the dark and evil god was invoked.

Finally Malchior finished his devotions. Bronwyn could hear his grunt of exertion as he hauled his bulky frame up off his knees, and then the creaking protest of the wooden floor as he walked past.

The next part was the riskiest. Bronwyn eased the door aside, edged past the tapestry, and peeked into the room. Malchior was not alone, after all, but the young woman with whom he'd shared the evening was already thoroughly, messily dead. So much for the elf's carpets, Bronwyn noted grimly. The tawdry much-patched feminine garments cast over a chair suggested that the woman had been from the Dock Ward, perhaps a tavern wench who'd been lured to the villa by one of Malchior's men with the promise of easy coin, earned by enduring an old man's brief embrace. How could she know that the jovial, rotund priest took his pleasure in death and the power that came with the dealing of death?

Bronwyn's heart thundered as she drew her knife and waited. She watched as the priest poured himself a glass of deep red wine from a silver decanter and raised it to the dead woman in salute. He sipped, closing his eyes as if savoring a pleasant memory Then, humming lightly, he sauntered toward the bath-and past the tapestry

She leaped out of her hiding place and kicked out hard.

Her booted foot all but disappeared into the vast, fleshy belly, but the shot had the desired effect. Malchior wheezed like a bellows and went down.

Bronwyn seized a handful of his hair and dragged his head back. Stepping behind him, she placed her knife hard against his throat. 'Shout out and you're dead,' she informed him in a low, furious tone.

It took Malchior a few minutes to marshal his facility for speech, but when he did reply it was with admirable aplomb. 'I am quite capable of discerning the obvious,' he wheezed out. 'Speak your mind. My bath is cooling. Or better yet, you may disrobe and join me.'

She almost had to admire the man's gall. 'The obvious question, then, is this: why did you try to take me the other night? Was it another of your games?'

'A pleasant thought, but no,' the priest replied. His voice was stronger now, but there was fear in his eyes as he noted the fury on Bronwyn's face. 'Not a game. I wouldn't dishonor you with trivial matters. You are not some tavern wench, to be lightly used and easily discarded.'

'I'm flattered. What, then?'

He lifted his hands, palms up. 'It was nothing personal. I am of the Zhentarim. You are the daughter of a sworn enemy of the Zhentarim. A man who wishes to live long does not leave dangerous whelps to grow fangs and to scent the trail of vendetta.'

Bronwyn froze. Nothing, nothing that she had ever seen or experienced, nothing that could have come out of this terrible man's warped and evil imagination, could have stunned her as did those few simple words: You are the daughter of… someone.

'Who?' she demanded urgently. 'Who is your enemy?'

The priest laughed, sending ripples undulating through his rolls of flesh. 'My dear, I am a priest of Cyric. I have more enemies than this whore had fathers.'

The sly emphasis he gave to the last word was nearly Bronwyn's undoing. Malchior had toyed with her. He was doing it still. She looked at the knife she held at his throat and longed to pull it back hard and deep. Yet if she struck, she would never find the answer she had spent twenty long years seeking. She took a steadying breath and tamped down her anger.

'Tell me my father's name. Tell me, and I'll let you live.'

'Promise made, promise kept?' he mocked her. 'Where is my neckiace?'

'That was none of my doing,' she hissed. 'As you yourself say, a priest of Cyric has many enemies.' A new threat occurred to her. 'You handled the amber. I wonder what interesting secrets a skilled mage could discern from the echoes your magic left behind.'

That thought stole the smugness from Malchior's eyes, if just for a moment. 'And this necklace. Is it now in the possession of such a mage?'

'It could be. It was given back to me, but I'd be happy to part with it for a good cause.'

Malchior considered this. 'I will give you your father's name, if you keep the amber in your possession for, say, three moon cycles.'

'Done.'

'You may find this information amusing, given your, shall we say, resourceful methods of doing business,' the priest began slyly.

'Out with it!'

'Oh, very well,' he said, pouting. 'I'm getting a crick in my neck anyway, the way you're holding my head back. Not that you are unpleasant to look at, but perhaps you might release your grip on my hair? And this knife is most uncomfortable-'

'Speak!'

The priest tsked at her impatience. 'You are the oldest and only surviving daughter of Hronulf Caradoon, a paladin of Tyr. A knight of some sort or other, I believe.'

Through the daze that enveloped her, Bronwyn felt herself ned slowly. That name stirred long-forgotten memories, and images that she could not quite conjure-like dreams, forgotten past retrieval. The enormity of it dazzled her. Her father had a name. She had a name!

She eased her knife away from the priest's throat. Then she flipped her hand, palm up, and drove the hilt of the knife hard into Malchior's temple.

His eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and his body sagged forward. Bronwyn released her grip on his hair, and he fell facedown onto the carpet he'd ruined with the tavern wench's blood.