Cold Steel and Secrets Part 2 (neverwinter)

  Cold Steel and Secrets Part 2

  ( Neverwinter )

  Rosemary Jones

  Rosemary Jones

  Cold Steel and Secrets Part 2

  Every attack has its defense: it needs only a quick eye and good judgment to confound the thrust.

  — Elyne, a lady of Neverwinter

  1478 DR

  The young Nashers Yelled at each other as Rucas Sarfael rolled across the floor of the armory, grappling with the hellhound left to guard its treasures. Dhafiyand, the spymaster of Neverwinter, had assured him that there was no great protection for the weapons, and the armory had seemed like the perfect place to let Elyne’s students practice some burglary for the good of their cause and ingratiate himself with their rebel teacher. At the moment, Sarfael strove to keep his ruse from turning him into a roasted corpse.

  Two of Elyne’s students came to his aid. Parnadiz ran forward to stab the hound with his outdrawn sword as Charinyn whipped off her cloak, flapping it in one hand, seeking to distract the creature by flourishing it. The others closed in, swords out, thrusting eagerly to kill the fiendish dog.

  “The eyes,” Sarfael called out as he thrashed on the floor. “Blind it!”

  They stabbed as he commanded, and Charinyn managed to nick the corner of the hound’s eye with her sharp rapier.

  With a horrendous howl, the hound rolled off Sarfael. Snarling, it backed away from the group.

  Its eyes glowed like hot coals and its huge mouth opened. Deep in its gullet, flames began to burn.

  The young wizard Montimort gave a shout and a wave of ice flew off his hands, engulfing the creature and knocking it into the weapons chamber. The hound’s giant paws scrabbled for purchase on the icy floor. It slid into a pile of breastplates that fell with a clatter on its head.

  Sarfael whipped out Mavreen’s sword. With a great leap, he cleared the hound, landing behind it. He slashed down and across, neatly cutting its throat.

  With a gurgling bark that erupted in a small flame, the hound collapsed. The guard dog died at Sarfael’s feet.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then Parnadiz ran forward. “Well struck,” he said.

  Sarfael looked up from the dead hound at the stunned Montimort.

  “Well done, indeed,” he said to the young wizard. “Quick thinking to use ice against it.”

  Charinyn and the others began to pluck weapons from the walls, quickly bundling their loot into the blankets and bags they had brought.

  “We need to hurry,” she said. “Before the patrols return.”

  Sarfael nodded.

  The weapons secured, they moved briskly through the streets. As previously arranged, a hooded-and-cloaked Elyne met them near the foot of the ruined Dolphin Bridge. With her was another group, also well muffled against the night fog and prying eyes. With whispered instructions, the weapons were transferred and the recipients melted away into the dark streets.

  “Where are they going?” Sarfael asked as casually as he could.

  “To caches throughout the city,” she replied.

  Another man joined them. “So this is your newest recruit?” he said to Elyne. “Your students say he saved them tonight.”

  “Montimort’s wizardry accounted for our victory,” said Sarfael.

  “Ah, yes, Elyne’s Luskar pet,” he said.

  “The boy has proved his loyalty more than once, Arlon Bladeshaper,” she snapped back at him.

  “But he is not and never will be a child of Neverwinter,” rejoined the other to Sarfael’s intense interest. Dhafiyand loved hearing about arguments and divisions among the rebel factions. The belligerent Arlon looked like he could be useful for starting a small schism among the Sons.

  The man turned to Sarfael. “We welcome the return of exiles like yourself. Elyne, bring him to our next meeting.”

  “And Montimort?” she asked.

  “Leave the boy behind,” Arlon said.

  “This prejudice of yours serves no one,” Elyne argued. “Least of all the city we both love.”

  Sarfael silently applauded the lady’s forthright criticism of the Nasher before her, but he held his tongue. After all, Dhafiyand had sent him to make friends, not enemies. And the man had said he would welcome Sarfael to the Nashers’ next meeting.

  Arlon shrugged at Elyne’s protests. “I will expect you there,” he said. “There are new rumors that the treasure we seek might have been found by that mad cousin of yours.”

  Sarfael pricked up his ears at the talk of “treasure.” Dhafiyand would want to hear that.

  “Karion is far more dangerous than Montimort,” Elyne said to Arlon, but the big man just shook his head at her and walked away. She stood staring after him, one slim foot tapping angrily against the pavement.

  “We would not have escaped serious harm without Montimort’s aid,” Sarfael said to the still simmering redhead as they walked back to the warehouse. Her students ran a little ahead of them, full of whispering laughter about the success of the night’s raid.

  “I know,” Elyne said. “We have far too few with any magical skills. The boy is a gift, and one that they should treasure. But they see only that he comes from Luskan.” “You disagree?”

  She nodded. “He is as committed to the rebellion as any born here.”

  “And you are as loyal to him?” Sarfael hazarded a personal question a little sooner than Dhafiyand would consider wise, but he wanted to know. She intrigued him, this rebel daughter of Neverwinter.

  “He reminds me of family I have lost,” she admitted.

  Sarfael told the truth without intending to. “I know what you mean.” The quick, light step of Elyne beside him reminded him of

  Mavreen and all he had lost to the Red Wizards.

  As always, Dhafiyand’s room was very warm, with a good fire crackling in the grate. Sarfael watched the flames flicker with a sour expression.

  “You did not tell me that General Sabine guards her weapons with hell hounds.”

  The spymaster glanced up from his correspondence at that. “Does she really? I wonder if that is the gift from Mordai Vell she mentioned at dinner the other night.”

  “Vell?”

  “An admirer of our general, apparently. At least to judge by the number of invitations that he issues to her and her staff, as well as the small presents of esteem that he sends her. All for the good of the new Neverwinter, at least according to him.”

  “But?”

  “He is a tiefling, and worse, a subtle, rich tiefling who uses gold to stifle the whiff of brimstone that hangs around him.” Dhafiyand leaned back in his chair and folded his long, lean hands upon his chest. “But he is not your concern. I gather that you meet with others tonight.”

  “A meeting of some of the younger leaders, including one quarrelsome soul named Arlon.”

  Dhafiyand nodded in satisfaction. “We’ve heard stories about that one.”

  “Well, he’s calling this meeting, and let’s hope I hear something more than his spouting on true bloodlines and the best of Neverwinter.” Sarfael remembered the rebel leader’s quick dismissal of Montimort’s skills, simply because the boy was Luskan bred, and the distress that caused Elyne. Truly, bullheaded Arlon was an annoying soul.

  “One would hope so,” said the spymaster. “Or I have wasted your considerable talents upon this group.”

  “There are greater dangers to Neverwinter,” Sarfael began.

  “Not Red Wizards again.” Dhafiyand sighed. “There is no threat there. No, bring me the plans and plots of these Nashers. And continue to listen for talk of a crown.”

  “Again, a crown?” Dhafiyand had harped upon that earlier
. But it was myth. There was no king and no royal heir in Neverwinter. “Why is a crown so important with no one to wear it?”

  “A crown can lead to a throne, an empty throne. If such a thing exists, Lord Neverember must take it for himself. There’s something of a story in the city, that a crown can call forth a true ruler of Neverwinter.”

  “If such a thing exists.” Sarfael rather doubted it, but there was no denying Dhafiyand’s sudden gleam of interest, which had been quickly masked by the man’s attention to the paperwork spread across his worktable, when he had told him earlier about Arlon’s comments of a treasure found.

  “Still, better we have it than some group of children playing at rebellion,” concluded Sarfael.

  “Precisely,” said the spymaster.

  Rucas Sarfael followed the directions he was given to the Kraken Society building near the graveyard. From the outside, it appeared to be another of Neverwinter’s dilapidated structures. Inside, the meeting had already begun. Voices were raised. Arlon Bladeshaper pounded on the table to quiet the others.

  “Let Virchez finish reading his letter,” the young leader shouted over the din.

  A plump man waved a paper at the others. “My cousin writes that we can no longer count on our friends in Waterdeep for funds.”

  “Cowards!” shouted one tall and heavyset blonde woman. She looked enough like Elyne’s student, Charinyn, for Sarfael to guess her a relative, a mother or aunt. “They bow to Lord Neverember and forget their families here.”

  Elyne saw him from across the room and waved for him to come closer to her. He began to weave through the crowd.

  “It’s worse than that, Torialaine. My cousin says that a man in Waterdeep, an agent of Neverember, wrecked his business,” went on the letter reader. “A notable rogue, who seduced my cousin’s maids into stealing important documents for him.”

  Sarfael stopped where he was. That all sounded unfortunately familiar.

  “What happened to the man?” asked Arlon.

  “He has disappeared, and my cousin warns us to watch for him in Neverwinter.”

  “Does he send a description?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the little man. “That’s what I was trying to read you. He says the fellow is no youth, but still very strong and nimble. He goes always armed with a black-hilted sword.”

  Sarfael shrugged his cloak so it covered the dark hilt of Mavreen’s sword and slid it half out of its sheath. He measured the distance to the door. There were nearly a dozen Nashers between him and the only exit. Across the room, Elyne arched an eyebrow at his delay. He half-turned away from her, hoping the quick-witted swordmistress hadn’t paid attention to Virchez’s last statement. After all, she’d handled Mavreen’s sword, borrowing it from him to examine it more closely.

  A thunderous knocking on the door caused Virchez to drop the letter from his Waterdeep cousin. Sarfael kept a look of friendly interest on his face as he slapped backs, shifted closer to Virchez, and counted the number of probable attackers between him and the door.

  As Virchez fished under the table for his letter, the Nashers nearest the door dragged a new man inside. Arlon Bladeshaper motioned to them to bring the latecomer forward. Some Nashers grumbled about the interruption, others yelled at Arlon to tell them what was going on, and Arlon shouted back at them to shut up and listen.

  These rebels, thought Sarfael, are not quiet folk.

  “I saw him tonight!” cried the tall pimply youth when he reached Arlon’s side. “Karion’s gone back to his old house in the Blacklake District.”

  Sarfael paused in his careful stalking of Virchez and his missive. That name sounded familiar. Arlon and Elyne had quarreled earlier about Karion and his tales of treasure. Keeping his ears occupied with Arlon’s questioning of the late arrival, and his eyes peeled for Virchez’s letter, Sarfael could only manage a slightly distracted nod at Elyne. Luckily, another man came up to her and began whispering in her ear. The redhead scowled at him and moved farther down the room.

  “Are you sure?” Arlon asked the youth before him.

  “I saw Karion very clearly.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No, no, I did as you said. I kept out of sight until he went into the house and then ran straight here.”

  “Good!” Arlon banged his fist upon the table again. “My friends, we have an opportunity here. Let the Nashers be bold where the other Sons of Alagondar have been timid. The Graycloaks-we should call them Graybeards for their constant refusal to act-have repeatedly ignored Karion’s claims, but we must not be so foolish.”

  The shouted talk turned to “What about Karion?” and “What is Arlon babbling about?”

  The news from Waterdeep, and the accusation of a spy nosing into Nasher business, seemed forgotten for the moment. Rucas Sarfael slid his half-drawn sword back into its sheath with a relieved sigh. He sidled next to Virchez and clapped the little man on the shoulder while setting his boot squarely on the dropped letter with the damning description of himself as the man who bankrupted his cousin and spoiled that source of funding for the rebellion.

  “So, Virchez,” he said with all the warmth of an old friend. “Who is this Karion they are all yelling about?”

  “Oh, he’s that batty old seer, the one constantly predicting some disaster or other,” said Virchez, obviously a bit miffed to have been interrupted and eager to impress the friendly chap at his side with his knowledge. “He’s been roaming around the city recently, claiming the crown will return to Neverwinter. That the heir will be found. That the dead will come out of the river to attack us. All the usual nonsense.”

  Across the room, Elyne pitched her voice to be heard over the dozen excitedly talking about Karion’s predictions. “Karion has always said he knows secrets. He’s spent years tunneling into the castle and searching among the ruins. There’s nothing in his house but a remarkable pile of garbage.”

  “You sound very certain of that,” Arlon said to her.

  “He’s a cousin, thrice removed, of my mother,” she said. “I’ve listened to his tales all my life. Karion rarely knows the past from the present. He savages the city for treasures, but drags home every piece of trash that he finds. I very much doubt there is any truth to this story that he’s found the crown.”

  “But we must learn more,” said Arlon. “It seems we can expect no aid from Waterdeep. We counted on that gold to rally the populace to our cause. Finding the crown may be our best hope for dislodging Lord Neverember’s grip on the city.”

  So Dhafiyand was right, Sarfael thought. There would be crown hunting in Neverwinter this spring.

  Arlon continued to harp upon Elyne’s connection with Karion. She continued to assert that the old man was a cracked pot well beyond repair, although the terms she used were more elegant than that.

  “Do you know her?” Virchez asked Sarfael, who had been distracted momentarily by the argument between Elyne and Arlon.

  “I have attended a few sessions in the lady’s school for elegant fighting,” said Sarfael. “She trains her students well.”

  “They are lucky to have her as a teacher,” Virchez said with a sigh of admiration.

  “Lucky?” Sarfael reached down as if he were scratching his ankle and snatched up the discarded letter lying on the floor. He stuffed it into the inner pocket of his cloak and turned his attention to Virchez.

  “Everyone admires her. After her parents disappeared and that sister of hers ran away, she never wavered. Just formed the school for fighting, helping train our young recruits for the days of glory to come…”

  Virchez nattered on about how the city would regain its place on the Sword Coast if only its own people could control it. Paying little heed to the rehash of the usual rebel rhetoric, Sarfael watched Elyne as she flung one hand up to acknowledge some point or other of Arlon’s persistent argument.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will go. If only to end this rumor.”

  “Take some others with you. I’ve heard Kar
ion can play vicious tricks on those he dislikes. That’s why I told the boy to stay away from him and come to us here.”

  Elyne glanced around the room. “I’ll take him,” she said with a nod at Sarfael. “He keeps a cool head in a fight. And, also, Montimort.”

  “Your Luskar prodigy?” Arlon scowled.

  “Montimort is a good lad,” Elyne said.

  “But he is not and never will be a child of Neverwinter,” rejoined Arlon. “And a Luskar ally is no ally at all.”

  “Stop quoting dead men. It is you who counsel making new alliances with the Dead Rats,” she said, “a dangerous idea, I think.”

  “We must use what tools we can for victory,” he said. “But our safety lies with those of the true bloodlines, the children of the city who know and understand its glorious past. Let us look to the sons and daughters of Alagondar to lead us!”

  The Nashers nearest Arlon banged their fists upon the table in agreement.

  “To go off with the beautiful Elyne,” said the plump Virchez with a sigh.

  Sarfael watched the tall redhead deftly weave her way through the crowd. He would have to tell Dhafiyand there had been talk of a crown, but already a series of lies began weaving through his head-he didn’t want the old man moving too quickly. He needed time to investigate the rumors properly.

  In the back of his head, Mavreen snorted as she always did when he tried deceiving her or himself. “You simply want more time with the pretty Elyne,” she whispered in his mind.

  “Jealous, my darling?” he asked.

  Mavreen’s rippling laugh came back to him, that joyous beginning to so many of their adventures. “Go on,” she whispered. “Forget about your ghosts and look to the living.”

  At least, that is what he believed that she would have said to him.

  Sarfael slipped away from Virchez and intercepted Elyne by the door.

  “Why did you want me with you?” he asked her as they stepped into the night.

  “I want Montimort. His skills might be useful with Karion, and, more importantly, it gives him a chance to win Arlon’s approval,” she confessed. “And that means taking you.”