Thornhold

word?'

'A Zhentish priest. The one who commissioned the amber necklace,' Bronwyn answered. Anger at Malchior's treachery crept into her voice. 'He's up to something, and I intend to know what.'

'Yes, I suppose that's for the best,' Alice murmured absently. 'You'll be back this morning?'

'Not before highaun. I've got to stop by the Ilzimmer gem shop on Diamond Street. They're repairing and cleaning the gold setting on that emerald piece.'

'Fine. I'll pick up something from the market for a midday meal,' the gnome said.

Bronwyn nodded her thanks and walked out into the dark streets. The sky overhead was beginning to fade to silver, and many of the street lamps were guttering as the night's supply of oil ran low. Despite the early hour, the city was not sleeping. Though the Street of Silks was considered by the wealthy to be a place to shop, dine, or seek entertaiament, many hardworking merchants lived above their shops and taverns. Smoke rose from chimneys as servants and goodwives started the breakfast fires. A cart rumbled past, drawn by a pair of stolid oxen and guided by a sleepyeyed driver. Wheels of cheese and casks of new milk filled the cart, and the somnolent cat lying atop a cask opened one eye to regard Bronwyn.

She quickly reclaimed her horse from the nearby public stable and set off toward the temple of Tyr. The Halls of Justice was a complex of three large buildings, somber, square edifices of gray stone that formed a triangle around a grassy field. It was not a grim scene, however. Banners hung in a bright row from the balcony of the main building, standards, no doubt, from the various paladins' orders. Though the sunrise colors still streaked the sky, a dozen or more men and three women were already busy with weapons training.

Bronwyn stated her business to the young knight at the door. His courteous manner warmed and brightened at the mention of Hronulf.

'You are in good fortune, lady,' he said in animated tones. 'Sir Gareth Cormaeril is in residence today. He was a great friend of Hronulf's and a partner in arms in their youth. You will surely fmd him in the exchequer's study, attending to the business of his order. Shall I escort you there?'

'Please.' Bronwyn listened carefully as the young man continued to extol Sir Gareth, Hronulf, and the former great deeds of the mighty warriors. He told the story of the Zhentarim attack and the terrible wound that Gareth received defending his friend's life.

'Sir Gareth serves the Order of the Knights of Samular still as exchequer in charge of funds. Hronulf, of course, is still on active duty.'

Bronwyn's heart thudded at this news. Her father was still alive? For some reason, that possibility had never occurred to her. She had hoped only to hear stories of him. Never had she dreamed that she might see him again with her own eyes.

The chatty young knight kept talking, but Bronwyn did not hear another word until she stood at the door of Sir Gareth's study. The knight made the introductions and left her there.

Sir Gareth was a handsome man in late middle life, robust still despite the wound that rendered his right arm virtually useless. He graciously received her and sent a servant for tea.

'You wish to know of Hronulf Caradoon,' he said. 'May I inquire what the source of your interest might be?'

Bronwyn saw no reason to prevaricate, yet instinct and habit prompted her to tell less than the whole truth. 'I have been looking for my family for many years. It is possible that Hronulf might have information that will help me in my search.'

Sir Gareth leaned back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully. 'That is most interesting. Hronulf, too, has suffered a loss of family. I am certain he will be most sympathetic to your plight and will do all that is in his power to aid you. Of course,' he said with a faint, proud smile, 'he would do so regardless.'

The wann regard in the knight's blue eyes touched her. 'I am told that he is your friend.'

'The best I ever had, and a better man that this world deserves,' Sir Gareth responded. 'But meet him, and judge for yourself'

The knight reached for ink and parchment and wrote a few words. He sprinkled the ink with drying powder, then shook the excess away. He rolled the letter into a scroll and handed it to an attentive scribe. 'My seal,' he instructed absently, and then turned back to Bronwyn.

'Bear this letter to Hronulf, as my introduction. He is captain of the fortress known as Thornhold. Do you know it?'

'I have heard of it. Off the High Road, perhaps two days' ride north of Waterdeep?'

'That is correct. Ah, thank you,' he said, taking the sealed missive from his assistant. He handed the scroll to Bronwyn. 'Do you desire an escort? I am not at leisure to accompany you myself, but I would gladly send trusted men to guide and protect you.'

Bronwyn smiled her thanks and shoved aside the hint of resentment that his paternalistic tone inspired. It was a gracious offer, and should be graciously received. 'You are very kind, Sir Gareth, but I will be fine on my own.'

'Then may Tyr speed your path. You leave soon?'

'Today,' she agreed.

He rose. 'Then I will not keep you. If you would be so kind, bear my regards to my old friend.'

She agreed and took his offered hand, then swiftly left the Halls of Justice. She passed the Ilzimmer shop without stopping to inquire about the progress of the commissioned repairs. After all, her client's family had been missing the emerald brooch for over a century. A few days more wouldn't alter matters much.

The Street of Silks was lively with mid-morning commerce by the time Bronwyn arrived at her shop. But to her surprise, the door to the Curious Past was closed, and a sign proclaimed that the shop would open after highsun.

Bronwyn frowned as she fumbled in her pocket for her extra key. This was unlike Alice. The gnome was the most faithful shopkeeper in all of Waterdeep, which was saying a great deal. What could have happened to inspire her to close the shop during the busy morning hours?

Memory edged into Bronwyn's mind, bringing with it questions she had not had time to consider, and a suspicion that made her heart hang like lead in her chest. The Harpers had known where to find her the night she'd met with Malchior. Either they had followed her footsteps during the entire tumultuous day-which was unlikely-or they had been informed of her intended meeting place. Malchior and his henchmen had received word of the meeting place shortly before the appointed time. Only one other person knew her plans.

Alice.

Bronwyn thrust the key back into her pocket and turned her steps south, toward the tall, smooth black tower where all Harper business seemed to converge. As she worked her way through the crowded street, Bronwyn reminded herself that she was accustomed to treachery and betrayal, that she faced it every day and made deft provisions to survive it. It was nothing new, and usually it was nothing personal.

Why, then, did her eyes burn so painfully with unshed tears?

Ebenezer stared glumly at his cage. The wooden slats were hard and thick enough to keep a whole den of beavers busy until sundown. Without knife or axe, he had little hope of getting free.

Yet that was precisely what he had to do. Humans and half-orcs in the tunnels, catching dwarves and sticking them in cages. That was trouble. Spelicasting priests were even worse, and who knew how many more of them were roaming around? He had to get free and bring warning to his clan.

The dwarf rose up on his knees and took another look around. The men had returned a while back and had crated up the osquips' trove. Zhents, they were, and intent on plunder. The cave was full of stout boxes, locked and wrapped with chains. There was nothing lying about handy that he could use as tool or weapon, even if he could find a way to reach it. Nothing at all but a few paces of stone ledge and a long drop to the river.

Inspiration struck. Ebenezer scuttled to the far side of his cage, crouched, and launched himself at the opposite wall. The cage tilted, then crashed onto its side. He shook his head to clear it, then repeated the maneuver. He moved the cage over to the ledge, one painful crash at a time, and prayed to every dwarven god who'd ever wielded a hammer that be could finish the job before the racket brought back the dwarf-stealing Zhents.

Ebenezer paused at the very brink of the ledge. One more time, and he'd crash to the stone path below. The cage simply could not survive the impact, and he would be free.