Cold Steel and Secrets Part 2 (neverwinter) Page 2

  “Because?”

  “Besides myself, you are the only one who treats Montimort as an equal. Who I can trust to protect him as I would. And where we are going, he may need that.”

  “So there is talk of a crown?” Dhafiyand wiped the tip of the pen upon a flannel and set it deliberately upon his enameled brass penholder. It was nearly midnight, but the old man seemed as alert and awake as ever.

  “There was talk of a man who claims to know of a crown,” Sarfael reported. His own head ached from all of Arlon’s shouting, and he looked forward to snatching a few hours of sleep before traipsing across the Blacklake District. “All rather vague. But we are being sent to investigate tomorrow.”

  “But this Arlon Bladeshaper is definitely seeking a crown?”

  “He needs supporters. They love to hear themselves talk, these Nashers, but I think they are reluctant to do more than chatter. Arlon says this crown will help turn the mob against Neverember. I think he believes it will move the Nashers to greater feats.” He wondered if Dhafiyand would notice how he kept Elyne’s name out of the conversation. Probably, but with luck, all the talk of a crown would distract him.

  The spymaster leaned forward and steepled his ink-stained fingers beneath his chin. The man might run the largest network of spies in Neverwinter, but he kept his books himself like any clerk. “He may well be right. A crown can be a potent symbol and these are a people desperate for signs and portents.”

  “Oh, I heard plenty of talk of that during the night.” To shake the fog from his head, Sarfael circled the room, stopping at the display of trinkets upon Dhafiyand’s mantel. The charming miniature of the moon elf caught his attention again. In the flickering light of the candles, the lady looked older than she had before and seemed to stare at him with displeasure.

  Behind him, Dhafiyand went on, “Watch, listen, bring back any news that you hear about the crown or its location. If such a thing exists, we must make certain that it falls into Lord Neverember’s hands first.”

  “So he can crown himself king of Neverwinter?”

  Dhafiyand shook his head. “It might not be so simple. He might be well served by its disappearance.”

  “Then perhaps it would be best if I simply make sure that it is not found,” Sarfael suggested.

  Dhafiyand considered for a long moment. “No,” he said finally, “better to gain the crown and silence the tongues of any who have seen it.”

  “I am no murderer,” Sarfael reminded him, as he had more than once in the past.

  And, as he had in the past, Dhafiyand gave him cold comfort in his reply. “It does not matter. There are others without your scruples.”

  “It was you who said that Lord Neverember had some ties to certain of these young nobles, however rebellious their nature, and he would not necessarily want them punished.” Sarfael edged around the topic, still playing the game with a spy’s caution and not mentioning Elyne by name.

  “True,” admitted Dhafiyand. “Especially the pretty redhead.”

  Sarfael kept his face blank. Better not to let the wily old man know that remark hit home.

  “Still,” Dhafiyand continued, “of all the remnants of nobility left in Neverwinter, one could say that she has even more right to a crown than any other, even Lord Neverember.”

  “But I do not know any in this room who would say or even think such a thing,” Sarfael said bluntly. “For we are both loyal servants of Lord Neverember.”

  “Quite so,” Dhafiyand said, returning to his papers. “Send me word as soon as you learn more.”

  As he left the room, Sarfael began to consider ways that he could deliver the crown to Dhafiyand and smuggle Elyne out of Neverwinter. For it seemed the pretty rebel’s connections to Lord Neverember might not be enough to protect her.

  They went to the Blacklake District at noon. The northwest part of the city held a quiet air of menace even in broad daylight. Sarfael noticed that Elyne looked carefully from side to side as they wove through the streets. She also shrugged back her cloak, despite the cold spring wind, clearly showing that she was armed with sword and dagger.

  Montimort’s gaze darted to every dark doorway and shadowed alley. His arms were wrapped around a large covered basket.

  “We’re being followed,” Sarfael quietly observed to his companions. Three ruffians, all hooded-two lean men armed with swords and one orc-looking brute with a cudgel-made the same turns and twists they did.

  “I know,” Elyne said. “I was hoping they wouldn’t spot us. Or that they would be reluctant to attack with so few.”

  “Do you know who they are?” Sarfael asked. “I always prefer to know the names of the men trying to cut my throat.”

  “Dead Rats,” mumbled Montimort.

  “Ah,” said Sarfael. Luskan’s infamous gang was growing in Neverwinter. He had heard the spymaster Dhafiyand complain more than once about the number of newly dead found floating in the river after one of the Dead Rats’ territory expansions.

  Elyne looked right and left, then led them in a succession of quick turns into a long, narrow street overshadowed by boarded-up buildings. No one else was out on the pavement.

  The three Dead Rats hung back.

  Sarfael glanced over his shoulder at them. “They don’t seem too eager for a fight,” he said.

  “They know me,” said Elyne quietly. She was obviously not boasting but making a simple statement of fact when she added, “It is not wise to challenge me. But there are a great many Dead Rats in this district, and they probably hope to encounter others soon.”

  Montimort bit his lip and threw many glances over his shoulder, but he kept pace with them and said nothing, although Sarfael could see that the boy was practically bursting with the effort of holding his tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” Elyne finally said to Montimort. “I shouldn’t have exposed you here. But I wanted to show Arlon how much I trust you.”

  “No, it is all my fault,” the boy started in a rush. “You should go on. I can hold them off.”

  “Nonsense,” began Elyne.

  Sarfael cut off what was obviously about to become an argument between the pair. The boy’s eagerness to sacrifice himself for Elyne was indeed noble, as was Elyne’s refusal to accept such a sacrifice. However, nobility lacked practicality in such situations.

  “Where can we turn and fight?” he asked Elyne.

  “Next alley,” she said with admirable quickness. He did admire a woman who understood the practical at such times, another reminder of what he had lost when Mavreen was killed. “It’s broad enough for two abreast, but difficult for three. Montimort, move behind us when the blades come out.”

  “I can defend myself,” the young wizard retorted.

  “I expect you to do so,” she answered calmly. “But from a distance. They want you. If it’s a grab-and-run they have in mind, let us make it as difficult as possible.”

  “Might I ask why they want him?” Sarfael inquired. “Not that you aren’t lovable, my friend, but still…”

  “They have as few wizards as the Nashers,” Elyne answered. “They could use him.”

  “I won’t go back, they know I won’t,” Montimort said as they entered the narrow alley. Elyne and Sarfael whirled as one to face the entrance, and Montimort slid with obvious reluctance behind them.

  “No heroics,” Elyne said.

  “I’m rarely heroic,” Sarfael said.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.” She glanced over her shoulder at Montimort. “Stay back, let us handle them. Don’t lose that basket!”

  The three Dead Rats rounded the corner slowly, chatting to each other, but when they saw the drawn blades facing them, they gave up all pretense of other business. With a shout, the half-orc charged them, swinging his cudgel in a sweeping blow meant to bowl them over.

  Elyne waited until the last possible second then drove her sword precisely under his flailing arm and down into his knee. She wrenched the point free as the brute swayed back with a howl of pai
n.

  At the same time, Sarfael struck a calculated blow at the second man, so his opponent overbalanced in his attempt to block the thrust. Sarfael flowed back and then forward, using the edge and the point of his sword to deliver a flurry of rapid jabs that left his opponent bloodied and bewildered.

  With another quick strike, Elyne killed the half-orc and drew back slightly, forcing the third and final Dead Rat to lunge over the body of his comrade to reach her.

  Sarfael finished off his man, meaning to come to her aid, but Elyne’s sword darted out, parrying the thrust of her attacker and driving straight through his padded vest to his heart. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

  “Very neat,” he said with one raised eyebrow. “You must teach me that trick.”

  Elyne stepped back from the corpses. “They were fools and died fools’ deaths.” She wiped her sword clean and sheathed it.

  “Should we do something about the bodies?” he asked her.

  Elyne glanced up and down the empty alley. All the windows overlooking it had remained tightly shuttered throughout the fight. The clash of steel, Sarfael noted, had brought no one running, arguing that the citizens of Blacklake were remarkably uncurious or perhaps more cautious than most.

  “Safe enough to leave them here,” Elyne decided. “The Rats will find them this evening. That’s why I wanted to come so early. These streets become much more crowded after twilight. I want to get Montimort out of this district before nightfall.”

  Beside her, Montimort flushed. “You shouldn’t have to protect me,” he muttered. “I should be strong enough to keep them away.”

  “If your magic was greater,” said Elyne, “they would send even more after you. For now, be glad that they misjudged us.”

  The boy still looked sulky, so Sarfael gave him a friendly rap on the head as he passed him. “Keep those brains between your ears, and not decorating the pavement, and your powers will grow every year. A fighter’s strength is eaten away by time, but a wizard’s only increases.”

  Montimort sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I know. But it is not fast enough. I owe so much to Elyne. I would take this city for her, if I had the spells to do it.”

  Elyne smiled at him. “Stay safe, that is all I ask. I’m not sure what I’d do with Neverwinter if you gave it to me.”

  “An odd sentiment for a rebel,” said Sarfael.

  “I’m a terrible Nasher,” Elyne admitted. “But my father believed so passionately in the cause, and I cannot betray him.”

  “Is he dead then?” Sarfael remembered Virchez’s idle chatter at the meeting.

  “Lost, along with my mother. They left the city two winters ago and did not return. Like the others, they sought allies to aid us and were last seen entering the Neverwinter Wood.”

  “A dangerous place, if all the stories are to be believed.”

  “But one with a rich history. My father thought that a truce might be made with the powers there, or treasures bought with promises of future alliances with the new Neverwinter. But the eladrin who roam that forest guard their secrets and do not look kindly on outsiders. My mother, like myself, had considerable talent with the sword and went to protect him.”

  “And no word of their fate?”

  Elyne shook her head. “My sister started hunting for them last year.”

  “I heard she ran off.”

  “Virchez?” At Sarfael’s nod, she snorted. “That man can never get anything right. Much like that foolish cousin of his in Waterdeep. No, my sister is an adept in the magical arts. When a child, she trained with an eladrin friend and can walk safely in many places where I would be challenged.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, it is not as it was in my grandmother’s stories, when the fey folk and others were friendly in their dealings and travel was easy along the Sword Coast. Still, you cannot change the past. We decided that I would stay, for all our wealth is here and someone must manage our household and protect our servants, and she would go. So I remain, the last of our little family in Neverwinter.”

  “Did you form your school after your sister left?” His guess was rewarded with a nod from Elyne.

  “I teach our old playmates how to protect themselves,” she said.

  So the lady taught sword play to help her friends? Where was the dangerous rebel Dhafiyand feared? Perhaps Lord Neverember’s assessment of her had less to do with her looks and more with her character.

  “Arlon Bladeshaper grows more violent in his plans every day,” Elyne spoke in low tones and continued to scan the alleyways and walls with sharp eyes as they hurried away from the truly dead Rats and their ambush.

  “I noticed your argument with Arlon at the meeting last night,” Sarfael said. He walked as quickly but kept watch with less obvious turns of the head. She was good with the blade, but he could show her a few tricks of spycraft, such as how to saunter through dangerous streets.

  “We often disagree. He thinks too much of bloodlines, and those who trace their lineage back to Alagondar and the Neverwinter Nine. At the same time, Arlon makes alliances left and right with any who he thinks can bring us an advantage. He justifies it by saying that he can keep them at a distance and not give them a place at the table when we meet.”

  “A tricky path to power, and dangerous to follow.”

  Elyne nodded. “If he takes complete control, and there are many who see him as their leader already, I fear that the Nashers soon will be openly attacking Lord Neverember’s mercenaries. It would be bloody war in the streets.”

  “When that day comes,” Montimort injected, “we will prevail. I just need to find the right master, someone powerful who can teach me more quickly.”

  Sarfael looked at them and thought that Dhafiyand had been wrong when he named Elyne a pretty ruffian. She was indeed a noble lady, and Montimort, for all his pirate past, a chivalrous boy.

  Karion’s dark house was squeezed between two larger and heavily damaged buildings. Only wide enough to present a door and a single, boarded-up window on the ground floor, it rose four stories, each upper floor showing only two narrow windows, also shuttered against the sun.

  It reminded Sarfael in shape and color of certain types of fungus that grew up through cracks in stones.

  Elyne stared with distaste at the black door with its rusty iron knocker.

  “Are you sure there is anything living in there?” Sarfael asked.

  “A good question,” she replied. “I never liked coming here as a child. But it looks as it always did, and Bottleburn seemed certain he’d seen Karion enter.”

  She reached forward and, not touching the knocker, banged the flat of her hand against the door three times.

  “Karion, Karion,” she shouted, “it’s Elyne.”

  Silence responded. Elyne hammered on the door again, shouting her name.

  The third time, they heard a muffled cry from inside: “Wait, wait.”

  Bolts screeched and chains rattled. The door swung back with a squeak of rusty hinges.

  A tall old man peered blinking into the afternoon sunshine. Dressed in tattered velvets and silks of faded scarlet, cut in the style of forty years ago, he swayed in the doorway. “Iriardne?” he said.

  “I am Iriardne’s daughter, Elyne.” She stepped closer and, to Sarfael’s delight, neatly placed one booted foot across the threshold, keeping the skinny old man from slamming the door in their faces. Behind her back, she flapped her hand at them, motioning them forward.

  “We’ve brought you supplies,” she said. “Food for the month.”

  Montimort staggered forward with the wicker basket and Karion’s eyes gleamed.

  “Cheese?” Karion asked.

  Elyne nodded. “Bread, wine, meat, and fruit as well.”

  Karion stepped back from the door, motioning them inside. “Don’t dawdle, boy,” he said to Montimort. “They’ll sniff it out and come running. You can’t keep a good cheese in this district, not for minute, without the rats tryin
g to steal it.”

  Once inside, Karion slammed the door shut, bolting and chaining it. “Can’t keep a good cheese safe,” he muttered. A single, guttering candle stood in a sconce by the door. Karion lifted it up and led them down the dark and narrow hallway.

  Sarfael noted the portraits of men and women lining the wall from the floor to the shadowed ceiling. The painted eyes of the multitude seemed to track them as they passed.

  They went down a narrow staircase, also lined with pictures, although some of them seemed to be landscapes and paintings of the city before the cataclysm. Karion led them into a kitchen lit by a fire sputtering in a cavernous fireplace.

  Montimort fell back with a startled cry. An enormous striped cat crouched on the table facing the door, its lips drawn back in a snarl to reveal needle-sharp fangs.

  “Not afraid of kitty, are you?” Karion smacked the immobile cat with one hand and a cloud of dust rose into the air. “Kitty has been dead for twenty years or more. I keep him here to scare off intruders, especially certain rodents.”

  Karion circled the room, pulling down various crockery pots and lidded boxes, muttering as he went. “No, no, still got a bit of bacon in that,” he said as he peered into one. Another was hastily capped and replaced with “not sure what that is.” Finally he found an empty pot to his satisfaction and brought it back to the table, shoving the stuffed cat aside with one impatient hand.

  “Give me the basket,” he said to Montimort.

  Karion rooted through the basket that they had brought, unearthing a large slab of cheese with a delighted cry. He carefully packed the cheese away in the stoneware crock, fastening the lid tightly over it. Hugging the pot close to his chest, he left the kitchen.

  “Are you certain he is sane?” Sarfael asked Elyne.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “We were terrified of him as children. He would have fits and began to spout threats entangled with prophecies. But he does have some true talent. He once told me that I would stand alone in the city with only my sword for my companion.”

  A pair of dirty windows overlooked a tiny courtyard. Sarfael glanced outside. All types of rubbish, broken statues, old furniture, boxes, and crates filled the space. Another staircase, forged from iron, twisted up the far wall, apparently leading to the street above.