Thornhold

'And after paying the tax, you'll still have far more than you expected. I'll pay the fee. Agreed?'

Still he looked doubtful. 'One dwarf is trouble enough. Eats enough for two humans. How many did we turn loose? Fifty?'

'Close enough,' she responded. 'But the stores from the Grunion should serve to feed them until we get to Water-deep.'

The ogre scowled, but gave in with an ungracious shrug. 'Very well, but keep that red-bearded dung heap away from me, or I won't be responsible for his safe arrival.'

'Done,' she agreed, though she doubted she bad enough influence with Ebenezer to persuade him to leave his favorite new toy alone.

She strode to the hatch and listened. No sounds of battle emerged, but a rhythmic thudding indicated that Ebenezer was still busy with his axe.

Bronwyn clattered down into the hold. She blinked, startled by the destruction. Shards of wood were scattered about, looking like the blasted limbs of trees in the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. Ebenezer was doggedly chopping away at the far end of the wood pile.

'You got them all?' Bronwyn called.

'This one's the last of'em,' the dwarf said. 'The others all took to fighting but me, the selfish sods,' he grumbled. He nodded toward a small stack of crates. 'All but that one, that is.'

Bronwyn tracked his gesture. Her gaze fell upon the small girl-child who crouched upon the stack, the dwarfs table knife clutched in her hand.

Terrible memories flooded back into Bronwyn's mind, striking her like a sword to the heart. For a moment her ears rang with the cries of the doomed and drowning slaves, the shrill piping of the rats. She absently raised her hand and rubbed the long-healed place on her head where two of them had clawed her.

But that was long ago, Bronwyn reminded herself firmly. This was now, and another small girl required comfort. She could not slay her own demons, but perhaps she could keep them from laying claim to this tiny victim.

She swallowed hard and fixed what she hoped was a reassuring smile on her face. Slowly, as if she was approaching a spooked horse, she began to move toward the girl.

'I'm Bronwyn,' she said softly. 'You've already met my friend Ebenezer. We came to set free the dwarves. You are safe with us. We will take you home.'

She extended her hand, the offer of her pledge. The girl studied her with large, somber brown eyes, then placed her own small hand in Bronwyn's. The contact seemed to reassure the child, and her fingers slid up to Bronwyn's wrist and tightened into a desperate grip.

'But I don't know where my home is,' she said in a high, clear voice that retained just a hint of early childhood lisp.

'I'll help you find it. Don't you worry,' Bronwyn assured her in the same soothing voice. 'What's your name? How old are you?'

'Caradoon. I was nine last winter'.

The child looked younger than nine, perhaps because she was small and exceedingiy thin. When she raised one tiny hand to tuck a stray bit of brown hair behind her ear, Bronwyn saw another explanation for her size and seemingly delayed development. The child was a half-elf. Her ears were slightly pointed, and the fingers that gripped Bronwyn's wrist were long and delicate.

And on one of them, she wore a very familiar ring.

Bronwyn's eyes widened in shock. Her heart thudded painfully, then picked up the beat at a quickened pace. The child's ring was golden, and richly carved with distinctive, mystic designs. Bronwyn had one just like it in her safe back in Curious Past.

'That's a very pretty ring,' she said, pointing. 'May I see it?'

Cara snatched her hand back and hid it behind her. 'My father said no stranger was to look at it, and I was to give it to no one but family. And you can't take it from me, you know. The bad men tried,' she said, pointing to the deck. 'It won't come off unless I take it off myself.'

This was news to Bronwyn. She wondered if the ring her father had given her would display a similar magical loyalty. But that thought came and went, overwhelmed by one of much greater importance. Cara's ring was identical to her own. Hronulf had referred to the ring as a family heirloom, meant to be worn only by the blood descendants of the great paladin Samular Caradoon. Once more Bronwyn's eyes went wide.

'What did you say your name was?'

'Cara,' the girl said with a hint of impatience. 'Caradoon.'

ELEVEN

Dag Zoreth had been to Waterdeep only once before, and the proximity of so many enemies of the Zhentarim left him uncharacteristically edgy. He waited until the maidservant shut the door behind her, then he slid the stout oaken bolt firmly into place. Since one could never be too careful, he walked around the sumptuous chamber, checking for magical spying devices and chanting softly as he sought out any invasive magic.

There was none to find. The Gentle Mermaid, a festhall and tavern in the heart of the staid North Ward, was renowned for its discretion. Private rooms were precisely that, and in this magic-rich city, that was rare enough. The other rare things that crowded the chamber were merely pleasant extras.

There was a fine writing table and chair of polished Chultan teak, a large bed heaped with silken pillows in bright rare shades of yellow and blue, velvet draperies and fine tapestries to keep out the chill, a washbasin and pitcher of delicate porcelain, a small table upon which was laid out silver goblets and a bottle of wine, as well as a tray of small savory bites and another of sweet pastries. Dag missed none of this, for he had a keen appreciation for luxury. As he sampled a small wedge of herb-scented cheese, he vowed to have such amenities brought to Thornhold, to soften and brighten the stark quarters of the former paladins.

But at the moment, Dag Zoreth had another, more immediate task to tend. He took a small dark globe from its hiding place in the folds of his cloak and settled down into the cushioned chair. Holding the globe before him on his palm, he stared intently into its depths.

At his command, purple flames burst into life within the globe. Dag knew from experience what this would do to the man who received the message. The magical summons would bring cold, searing pain that would last until the man found a private place and took the corresponding globe into his own hand.

It did not surprise Dag that he did not have long to wait. Sir Gareth Cormaeril, for all his courtly airs and sanctimonious pronouncements, had a keen instinct for self-preservation. In mere moments the paladin's lean, dignified face appeared in the globe, looking rather incongruous against the background of sinister purple fire.

'You wished to speak with me, Lord Zoreth? Is there some problem that requires my attention?'

'No, I was merely overwhelmed with desire for the pleasure of your company,' Dag said coldly. 'What is occurring in Tyr's temple? The place is teaming with paladins!'

'They prepare to march on Thornhold,' Sir Gareth responded, forthrightly enough. 'Surely you did not think that your victory would long remain unchallenged.'

'Let them try. They will not find it as easy to get into the fortress as we did. Unless of course,' Dag added, 'you gave them the same information you gave me.'

The knight's blue eyes widened with a sharp, sudden flash of fear. 'I did not, but there might be others among the order to whom Hronulf entrusted this knowledge.'

Dag didn't really care-he brought up the matter just to tweak the older man. If the gathering paladin army had this knowledge, it would do them little good. The tunnels beneath the fortress had been so altered that men could wander about for tendays without finding the old passages.

'There is another matter of which we much speak,' Dag continued. 'I have a daughter. Though her existence has been kept secret for more than nine years, she is now widely sought. What do you know of her?'

'Sir?' inquired the knight, puzzlement on his reflected face. 'Why should I know anything?'