Murmurs of consternation rippled through the hall. “And did you seek this woman?” demanded Laharin.
“Sir, I believe I caught sight of her. She was in the company of a dwarf and riding south for Waterdeep. If it is your wish, I will seek her out.”
Sir Gareth rose slowly, and his expression was that of a man determined to meet a fate of his own making. “Brothers, I may be able to shed some light on this matter. Some days ago, a young woman came to me earnestly seeking word of Hronulf of Tyr. She gave me the name Bronwyn. A slight woman, with large brown eyes and very determined bones about the cheeks and chin, and a very long braid of brown hair. Is this the woman you saw?”
“By your description of her size and hair, it seems likely,” Algorind agreed. “I was too far away to stop her, much less look carefully at her face.”
Sir Gareth sighed and sank down to his chair. “I have gravely erred,” he admitted. “I spoke of Hronulf to this woman, and perhaps my words sent her to Thornhold.”
“Do not reproach yourself, brother,” Master Laharin told him. “You had no reason to doubt the motive for the young woman’s questions.”
“No, none, but I did not pray to Tyr to test her heart and her chosen path. That was a terrible oversight.” Sir Gareth’s brow furrowed suddenly, and he looked to Algorind. “How is it that you are come so late with this news?”
This was the moment Algorind had been dreading. “My horse was stolen from me by the dwarf who accompanied the woman. I had to walk back to the city.”
“In that case, your progress is most noteworthy,” Laharin said dryly. “Tell me, did you fare any better in retrieving the child of Samular’s blood?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Algorind said earnestly. He looked to Sir Gareth for confirmation.
The old knight swept the room with a steady gaze. “Upon hearing of the fall of Thornhold, I feared for the child’s safety. She was taken to a place of secret fosterage, outside of Waterdeep. It seemed a wise precaution.”
“But—”
Sir Gareth shot Algorind a glare that stopped his protest as surely as an arrow to the heart. How was it, Algorind marveled, that the knight could make this claim? He himself had delivered the child to Sir Gareth well before the fall of the stronghold and had been told at that time that the girl was to be taken to secret fosterage. Perhaps she had been moved to a safer place, Algorind concluded, finding consolation in this reasoning.
“How, then, are we to proceed?” asked a knight whose name Algorind did not know, a man of middle years and exceedingly ruddy visage.
“This young paladin has a quest to complete,” Laharin suggested, nodding to Algorind. “He is able. The loss of his horse is the first fault I have seen in him in nearly ten years of training and service. Let him find the woman and the ring she carries.”
“I agree,” Sir Gareth said quickly. “With your permission, brothers, I would like to lend Algorind a horse from my own stables. This matter is too important to await his earning of another steed.”
“That might not be needed,” put in another knight. “A tall white horse was delivered to our gates just yesterday. Is it possible that this horse thief had a change of heart?”
“I will stop by the stables and see if the horse is mine, sir,” Algorind said gratefully, “but I cannot speak for the dwarf.”
Greatly relieved to have discharged his duties, and eager to see if the white horse was in fact his lost Icewind, Algorind requested permission to leave so that he might attend his new task.
Laharin’s stern face softened as he studied his former student. “No, you are sorely tired and no doubt in need of food and rest. Clean the dust of the road from you, then return and break bread with your brothers. Lord Piergeiron has consented to dine with us. The pages will show you to the barracks, where you may wash and find fresh clothing. Return in all haste.”
Algorind did not need prompting. One of the pages led the way to the barracks. He made short work of washing off the road dust and exchanging his worn garments for new. There was nothing to be done about the holes in the sole of his boots, but after the page attacked them with goose grease and rags, they were at least clean and well shone.
He hurried back to the hall, arriving just as the echoing call of horns announced Lord Piergeiron. He found his seat beside Master Laharin and rose with the others to greet the Lord of Waterdeep.
Piergeiron was a most impressive man, tall and well made. His brown hair was thick and only lightly touched with gray, though by all accounts he had lived more than threescore years. He nodded graciously to the assembled paladins, bidding them to take their seats. He carried himself with becoming modesty, Algorind noted, and wore none of the trappings that might be expected of a ruler of such a decadent city. But then the lord was a paladin, and the son of a paladin—the great Athar, the Arm of Tyr who in his time was as famed as Hronulf and Sir Gareth were in theirs.
Algorind felt himself humbled in the presence of such men, and he was grateful when no call was made on him to recount his recent misadventures. Indeed, there was little serious discussion over the meal. Men shared news they had picked up on the road and reminisced with comrades they had not seen for many years. It was a most congenial meal, ably attended by the pages who served it.
Algorind watched the boys at their work, approving of their skill and diligence. Service was the goal and the delight of a paladin, and all young men who aspired to Tyr’s service began their chosen path in similar fashion. Boys were given menial chores and taught to do them cheerfully and well. It had been so with Algorind and with every man he knew. Better training than this he could not conceive. Tales of glory and heroism attracted many young men and a few young women to seek a paladin’s path, but it was service, long and hard and inglorious, that tested out those whose dedication was true.
The meal was unusually grand for a paladins’ hall, with three removes and wine with each course. Fine, boat-shaped salt cellars were placed every six men, and there was such an abundance of fine plate that only the youngest paladins and knights’ squires were given bread trenchers to hold their meat. Algorind was dazzled by the variety. There was roasted venison, eel pie, pigeons stuffed with finches that were in turn stuffed with herbs, a fat rump of pork and another of rothй, fish, and small, savory pasties. There was even a sweet, a flummery rich with cream and dried apples. Algorind ate sparingly, not wishing to fall into gluttony and trying mightily not to harshly judge those who seemed less devoted to the keeping of that rule.
At last the final remove was carried away and sweet wine poured to end the meal.
“Lord Piergeiron, we have a grave matter to bring before you,” Sir Gareth began. “We seek your assistance in finding a certain young woman, whom we believe might have stolen an artifact sacred to the Knights of Samular. Her name is Bronwyn. She is comely and brown as a wren, of small stature. We wish to learn more about her and her associates.”
The paladin politely wiped his lips on the edge of the tablecloth, as was proper in good company, then turned to his brother knight. “I do not know of this woman, but I will have inquiries made. You have my word as the son of Athar, what I learn, you will know.”
* * * * *
Solitude was a rare pleasure, and Danilo had intended to make the most of it. He had set aside the afternoon for private study and informed Monroe, his able halfling steward, to admit no one. He was more than a little annoyed, therefore, to have his fierce concentration broken by a tapping at his study door.
“Yes? What is it?” lie said, not bothering to look up from the arcane runes.
“Lord Arunsun to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?”
This time he did look up from the spellbook, startled by these most unexpected words. He met the haifling’s gaze with a rueful smile. “Only if you can’t think of a better plan,” he said dryly.
“None comes to mind, sir,” Monroe said with an admirable lack of inflection. He bowed and then hastened out to fetch his master’s guest.
Danilo sighed. Khelben did not often visit him in his home, most likely because he was discomfited by the extravagance of the house’s furnishings, the many musical instruments that lay readily at hand, and the bards and revelers who always seemed to be gathered at table or making merry in the parlor. Today Danilo was alone but for the discrete ministrations of the steward and the half dozen or so servants under his command. Dan had planned to learn a new spell. Hastily he opened a drawer in his table and thrust the book out of sight. Although he still kept to the study of magic that his uncle had started twenty years before, he was careful to downplay his interest in the art. It would not do to raise the archmage’s hopes overmuch.
“Uncle!” he said heartily, rising to meet his visitor. He beckoned the archmage in and reached for the decanter of elven feywine that stood on his writing table. “Had you sent word you were coming, I would have had cook stir up something thick and bland in your honor.”
“I’ve eaten.” Khelben waved away the offer of wine and took the seat across from his nephew’s writing table. He glanced at the new Calishite carpet that covered most of the polished wood floor with a tapestry in rich shades of red and cream, but for once did not comment on this latest extravagance. “You have heard of the recent influx of paladins to the city?”
So that was it, Danilo mused. No doubt Khelben was concerned about the possible connection with Bronwyn and had come to hear a report and deliver advice—advice that Danilo almost certainly would not wish to follow.
“Rumors travel,” Danilo agreed lightly. Suddenly he dropped his faзade of determined cheerfulness and sank back into his chair. There were times that Danilo sorely regretted his increased role in Harper activities. His etstence had been much more congenial when the only life he was required to endanger or to answer for had been his own. Making decisions that could have grave consequences for friends such as Bronwyn, and for the other young Harper agents and messengers under his direction, was a heavy responsibility.
“The presence of so many paladins in the city worries me,” he admitted, “and has given me cause to reconsider my belief that there cannot be too much of a good thing.”
“For once, we are in accord,” Khelben said. He looked as if he wished to say more, yet there was a most unfamiliar hesitancy in his manner that greatly increased Danilo’s sense of unease.
Danilo bit back the flippant comment that came to mind. This was a time for straight and honest words.
“A paladin,” he said thoughtfully, “may well be the finest, purest example of what a man can be—the epitome of all that is noble. And a paladin mounted for battle on his war charger, filled with holy zeal and absolute courage, might well be the most inspiring sight that many mortals could hope to see. He can, and does, accomplish much good. But a hundred paladins, a thousand? United in purpose, single-minded and driven by their sense of duty? I tell you truly, Uncle, I can think of no better definition of terror.”
‘These are not words you should repeat to most men,” Khelben cautioned him, “and only to you will I say that, once again, we are in complete agreement. For this reason, I have long been wary of the paladin orders. These good men have a disturbing tendency to ride their war horses over whatever perceived obstacle they find in their path.”
“You are either with a paladin, or you are against him,” Danilo agreed. “There are no half measures, and few shades on their moral pallets other than black and white. I regretfully parted company with my old friend Rhys Brossfeather shortly after he entered Torm’s service. My ways are not his, and that was too much of a stumbling stone for him. In fact, in the eyes of many paladins, I would dare say that a Harper is nearly as much an enemy as a priest of Myrkul.”
The archmage nodded slowly. “That is well said, and therein lies our problem. It is impossible for Harpers to come out against one of the Holy Orders without incurring not only the wrath of the paladins but the suspicion of many of the common folk. In this matter, I am of divided mind. What would you suggest that we do?”
This question was the first of its kind, and Danilo quickly hid his surprise. “What we do best. Watch, report, and shape events in small ways. In the old days, the Harper who was most effective was usually unseen. I have already taken steps to measure the knights’ interest in Bronwyn and their intentions.”
“Oh?”