and she was most assuredly not of that faith. But it occurred to her that Cyric, Malchior's god, was exceedingly jealous of any sign of fealty to another power.
'I was once rather… fond of a certain young woodsman,' she said lightly. 'And he, in turn, was fond of oak leaves. So…' She let the word trail off and shrugged. Let him assume from that what he would. The birthmark on her backside was no one's business but her own.
'Is that so?' Malchior leaned forward. 'I have great sympathy for a man's desire to leave his mark on you. In time, perhaps you could be persuaded to wear mine. Take her!' he called out.
Bronwyn's eyes widened, then darted to the door. The first hard kick resounded through the room, straining the bolt she'd carefully put in place.
She was out of the tub with a single leap and then dashed for the window. The splashing behind her-barely audible over the continued pounding at the door-announced Malchior's pursuit.
He moved fast, especially for a fat man. The priest seized her from behind, one fleshy arm around her waist and another flung around her throat. He was strong, too. Bronwyn wriggled like a hooked trout, but could not break free.
'Hurry; you fools!' he shouted out. 'I can't hold her forever!'
Bronwyn thrust a hand into her hair and yanked out the stiletto she had hidden in the thick coils. The weapon was designed for precise, careful attack, but there was no time. She stabbed back over her shoulder and met yielding flesh. But the narrow knife did not strike hard or deep. Malchior yelped and tightened his grip. Again she struck, this time punching into the bones of his hands. She tore at the blade, then lashed out a third time.
Finally he released her-just as the door burst open in an explosion of wood. Bronwyn darted a quick look over her shoulder. Three men charged into the steamy room. There was little time for escape, but fury prompted her to turn back to the priest, and slash the point of the tiny blade across his sagging jowls.
Then she was gone, racing for the window. She flung aside the drapes and kicked open the wooden shutters. The latch gave, and she plunged out the window to the street below.
Time stood still as Bronwyn fell. An instant, no more, before she struck the quilted awning that her assistant had stretched between this building and the next, two floors down from the room that housed the private bath. She bounced slightly, then felt about for the tunic that was supposed to have been left there. She found it, quickly pulled it over her head, then rolled to the edge of the awning. She lowered herself down and dropped to the street, then took off at a run for the safety of her shop.
To her immense relief-and her surprise-she was not pursued. Perhaps Malchior decided not to take the risk. After all, Zhentish priests could hardly afford to advertise their presence, even in a city as tolerant as Waterdeep. He had the necklace, and at a ridiculously low price. No doubt he considered the bargain well made.
But why then had he called his men? The attack made no sense. She had already received payment, soit was no attempt to defraud her. Perhaps he had learned that she was a Harper. That would be reason enough for him to kill her. But his words indicated that he planned to keep her, not kill her. Did he have ambitions of turning her, making her into a hidden agent of the Zhentarim?
Bronwyn pondered this as she wove back through the city, following a complex path that took her through alleys and into the back room of a pipeweed shop whose owner was friendly to Harpers and their small intrigues. She emerged from the shop shod in the slippers she'd left there, her tunic decently covered by a linen kirtle and her wet hair hanging in a single braid. Thus attired, she could walk without notice through the elegant market area, just another tradeswoman on some errand for her household, or a servant indulging the whim of a mistress.
Finally she turned onto the Street of Silks, marveling again at her good fortune to have secured a lease on a shop in this posh district. Convenient to the Market and the wealthy Sea Ward, the street was a long, broad avenue of shops and taverns that catered to Waterdeep's wealthy. Only the finest merchandise and the most skilled craftsmen found a place on this street. The shops reflected this status. Tall buildings, constructed of good timber and wattle-and-daub, or even fine stone masonry; were decked with carved and painted wooden signs, bright banners, and even small beds of flowers. The street lamps glowed brightly, casting a golden light upon the elegantly dressed people who strolled the cobbled paths. Minstrels were plentiful, and as Bronwyn walked down the street, the music shifted around her in a pleasant kaleidoscope of sound. The dinner hour was long past, and most of the shops had closed, but in Waterdeep there were diversions to be had at all hours. Taverns and festhalls stayed open until breakfast. Lavish private parties and smaller, clandestine celebrations kept many of the more privileged citizens happily occupied until daylight. Those who earned their living with hard labor and skilled crafts were more likely to sleep and rise with the sun. Bronwyn heartily wished that she were one of them.
She was not surprised to see that the lights in her shop were still burning. She unlocked the door and stepped into the warm, appealing jumble of curiosities and treasures. Her assistant, a white-haired, rosy-cheeked gnome woman who went by the name Alice Tinker was studying an emerald ring through a jeweler's glass. She looked up when Bronwyn entered, not bothering to lower the glass. The result-one normal gnomish eye, one magnified to a size more fitting to a blue-eyed beholder-set Bronwyn back on her heels.
Alice laughed merrily and set down the glass. 'Busy day we had, eh?'
'Aye,' Bronwyn agreed on a sigh. 'Did you have time to sketch the piece I sent through?' So tired was she that the words sounded muzzy even to her own ears.
'That I did. I've matched the color with some bits of amber we had hereabouts, and I'll use that as a guide to add the proper tints on the morrow.'
Bronwyn nodded. She kept a portfolio of such sketches, a record of the rare pieces that passed through her hands, under lock and spell-guard in her safe. Some of the drawings she did herself, but most of the work fell to Alice's small, capable hands. The gnome was a positive treasure. She kept the shop and wrote up sales while Bronwyn was out adventuring and making deals. The two of them were a true team, and the success of Curious Past belonged to them both. To be sure, Alice tended to treat her employer like her own oversized child, but Bronwyn was willing to overlook that single lapse.
'Tomorrow will be soon enough,' she agreed and turned to the stairs that led to the chamber she kept over the shop.
'Oh! One thing more,' Alice called after her. 'That young bard was in earlier, looking for you. Says it's important he talks to you at your earliest convenience. Something about a necklace.'
That would be Danilo, of course. Again, tomorrow would be soon enough. 'Fine. Good.' Bronwyn said, and staggered up the stairs.
Alice followed her to the base of the stairs, her fists planted on her hips and her brown, apple-cheeked face filled with motherly reproach. 'Look at you, child! Dead on your feet! I keep telling you to take some time off, laze around the shop a bit.'
Ignoring the gnome's continuing harangue, Bronwyn climbed up to her chamber, intending to fall face first onto the bed and hoping she could stay awake that long.
But when she reached the chamber, all thoughts of sleep fled. In the center of the room, leaning on his staff and regarding her with a somber, measuring gaze, stood the most feared and powerful wizard in Waterdeep.
Bronwyn gaped at Khelben Arunsun, the Master Harper who ultimately directed her activities, but whom she had never met. She considered herself well versed in the custom and protocol of a dozen races and threescore lands, but for the life of her she could not decide which of three equally compelling responses she should chose:
Should she bow, flee, or faint?
Two men, both clad in the purple and black of Cyric's clergy, strolled through the villa's garden. A bright moon lit the white-pebbled path. Though it was still early spring, the air was scented with the fragrance of a few timid flowers. Three fountains played merrily into tiled pools.
'I have been hearing interesting things about you,' Malchior said, slanting a glance at the man who had been his most talented and promising acolyte.
Dag Zoreth inclined his head in acknowledgment-and evasion. His mentor knew too much about him, had made a study of the family from which Dag had been torn. Some of this information he had recently shared: the location of the village from which Dag had been stolen, the rumors of power inherent in the family bloodline, the current post held by his illustrious father. He often wondered what else Malchior knew. He also wondered how the priest got that livid cut down his left cheek-and he envied the man who had put it there.
