Emerald Sceptre (3 page)

himself before the enchantment could dissipate and rose to his feet, still orating.

Cautiously, Pilos walked around the table, observing Junce. He approached the assassin, ready to spring away at the slightest hint of aggression, trying to determine if it was a trick. But Junce’s rapture seemed genuine.

Breaking into a slight smile in his relief, the priest skirted past his adversary, toward Emriana’s last location, continuing to proselytize. He spied her clothing tumbled into a pile but did not approach it.

He angled in from the side, peering into the shadows, looking for signs of danger. He saw a mirror, large and square, propped against the wall of the cell where Junce had been hiding. From his vantage point, the priest could not see himself in the glass. It was angled to face Emriana’s last position.

With mental alarms ringing, Pilos backed away, careful not to look at the glass. He turned back to Junce, who had spun to watch him, though the assassin still stood rooted to the same spot since Pilos had begun his spell. Feeling his mouth going dry, Pilos wished for a cool drink of water, but he ignored his craving and continued orating, lecturing in detail about the meaning behind each of the enormous and elaborate stained-glass windows in the great hall of the Temple of Waukeen. He hoped his voice would hold out long enough.

I need something large and heavy, the Abreeant decided. Something to shatter that mirror.

He scanned the room for something—anythingthat would suit his purposes, but everything was either firmly anchored to the floor or walls or was much too large. Somewhere in the middle of his description of the third of twenty windows, he remembered the dagger.

Feeling his tongue growing thick and dry, Pilos hurried to where the dagger lay, intending to scoop it up and hurl it at the mirror, hoping that it would be enough to free Emriana. He considered plunging the weapon into Junce’s chest, but he feared that he would not deliver a killing blow before the act ruined the spell, and he didn’t want to risk such a chance.

No, he insisted. You’ve got your plan. Go with it.

He bent down to pick up the dagger and at that instant noticed the figures standing in the doorway,

not three paces from him. In his shock, he nearly yelped in surprise, barely managing to continue his discourse. None of the three men were Generon guards, unalike in every way.

The first was a short, sinewy fellow with long, stringy hair, while the second was large and burly and wore a full beard. Both were filthy. The third was much cleaner, with brown curly hair, and skin weathered as though he had spent many days in the sun. While the first two glared at the priest, the third appeared more pensive than angry.

For a moment, Pilos trembled, expecting the trio to jump at him as soon as they realized he was aware of their presence. None of the three advanced into the chamber, though, instead content to stand in the doorway and listen to the priest’s rambling. It took the young Abreeant a moment to remember that his divine magic would affect newcomers as easily as his initial victim. Shaking with relief, he gathered his wits, refocusing his concentration on his spell and trying to steady his breathing. He reached down for the dagger once more.

“That’s not going to do you much good,” a feminine voice said from the corridor.

As Pilos jerked upright once more, he saw a flash of movement, then three glowing points of light swarmed through a gap between the three men, darting directly toward him. He recognized the dangerous magic, but no lucky evasion could save him a second time. The three glowing points smacked into his chest in rapid succession, sending jolts of fiery pain through his entire body.

Gasping in anguish, Pilos tumbled to the floor, doubled over in abject agony. As he writhed about, trying to soothe the molten wounds he sported across

his torso, a shadow darkened above him. When the priest looked up, Junce Roundface was glaring. Pilos’s spell was broken and the assassin looked furious. Pilos flinched and tried to roll away, but one quick punch to his midsection took his breath away.

It was all too easy for the newcomers to subdue the Waukeenar. In moments, Pilos sat against a wall, sullen, with his arms and legs locked tightly in shackles taken from the supplies within the prison. The two grubby men had done the heavy work, the big one sitting on him while the other snapped the restraints in place. The female arrival, with short blond hair and a scantily-cut magenta and purple outfit, shoved a wad of sour cloth into his mouth and tied it in place with a strip of fabric that kept him from speaking. He reckoned her for the wizard from Emriana’s story earlier that day, which meant the others—or at least two of them—were the thugs aiding her.

I guess she didn’t like my speech so much, the priest lamented.

As the trio finished their work binding the prisoner, the other man, the pensive one with the brown curly hair, argued with Junce.

“You said it wouldn’t be much longer,” the fellow pleaded. “Once their House was wiped out, you said I could see her, take her away. How much longer is this going to take?”

“As long as it takes,” Junce snapped, glaring at Pilos. “Now I’ve got this one to contend with, too,” he added, pointing at his prisoner. “There’s no telling what his family is likely to do. And Vambran is still out there, and he may come hunting for them. Until I know he’s dead, it’s not over.”

“Look,” the man continued, “I’ll take her far away.

North to Cormyr, or south, to the coast. Somewhere that she won’t be a problem for you. But let me take her now. Please.”

“I said no!” Junce spat. “Now stop asking.” He turned to paw through Emriana’s personal belongings, which he had gathered onto the table next to Xaphira’s, ignoring the man and signaling that the discussion was at an end.

But the man wouldn’t accept such an answer and crossed the distance between them, grabbing at Junce’s shoulder, spinning the assassin around. “That’s not what we agreed on,” he said, his voice insistent. Junce’s glare was ice, but the other man didn’t back down. “I willingly worked with you, remember? I came to you when I found out Xaphira was trying to sniff you out. I gave her to you, on the condition that I would get her back, unharmed, when you got what you wanted. I held up my end of the bargain, now you—”

The man, whom Pilos just then recognized from Emriana’s description to be Xaphira’s old companion Quill, crumpled in a heap as the larger of the two thugs smacked him hard in the back of the head with a sap. As Quill sagged into unconsciousness, Junce sighed.

“Thank you, Borth. His whining was detestable, wasn’t it?” the assassin said, clapping the large man on the shoulder. “I’ve really heard enough out of him,” Junce finished. He turned back to rummaging through Emriana’s belongings, but then he stopped again, turning back to the wizard and her two grimy companions.

“I almost forgot to ask,” he said, looking amused. “What are you three doing down here, anyway?” The woman laughed, her voice clear and rather

pleasant. “With all of this nonsense going on,” and she gestured casually toward Pilos, “I almost forgot, too. Lavant wants to see you,” she explained, rolling her eyes. ” ‘Immediately,’ ” she intoned, trying to sound like the fat priest.

Despite the gag shoved in his mouth, Pilos gasped, drawing a curious stare from everyone except Junce, who sighed in exasperation.

“You know,” the assassin said, clearly disgruntled, “if you keep talking about things where our enemies can hear us, they’ll know too much.”

The woman smirked. “Who, him?” she replied, gesturing toward Pilos. “What’s he going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Junce answered, turning to depart from the chamber. “Because you’re going to take care of him for me.” He paused and glanced down at the still form of Quill. “Both of them. And get it right this time,” he finished, jabbing a finger in the air toward the woman. “No more mistakes.”

“Whatever you say,” the woman replied. “Lak, Borth—I guess we’re making another trip down to the docks tonight.”

Isn’t that the ridiculous little House mage that Talricci employs?” Lobra Mestel asked, her mouth full of pastry. Falagh glanced in the direction his wife was pointing. The figure she indicated was scurrying through a doorway on the far side of the chamber, but even through the crowd of dancing guests, the spectacles, graying head of hair, and frumpy robes were unmistakable. It was Bartimus.

“What in the Nine Hells is he doing here?” the man wondered aloud.

“It’s Sammardach at the Generon,” Lobra said, her mouth filled with food, dismissing the wizard with a wave. “Everyone who is anyone in Arrabar is here. I’m sure he’s toadying with Talricci.”

“Yes, but Talricci is still a wanted man,” Falagh replied, frowning and absently stroking his black moustache. “I would have thought he was smarter than to show his face in this crowd.”

Lobra shrugged and reached out to snatch up another miniature custard pastry from the table before her, which stretched from one end of the great chamber to the other and was filled with all manner of sweet confections. The couple had covered perhaps a third of the table’s length, but already Lobra’s flimsy paper cone was filled to overflowing.

“I do hope you’re not planning to consume all of that yourself,” Falagh commented, eyeing the cone of sweets. “You’ll be pacing the bedroom for half the night clutching your bowels if you do.” At his sour tone, Lobra’s eyes grew wide with hurt, and Falagh knew a few tears were imminent.

Exasperated, the man attempted to smooth his features and give the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, patting her arm and trying to sound more pleasant. “I did not mean to snap at you. Sammardach only comes once a year. You should enjoy yourself,” he added. He was relieved to see Lobra sniff once and regain her composure. “I’m going to go see what he’s up to,” Falagh said once he was certain his wife would not make a scene. He turned and strode across the large room before she could protest. He was only mildly surprised when she fell into step beside him.

Falagh dared not hurry, for if he appeared distraught or on edge, tongues would begin to wag. In a matter of minutes, everyone at the Generon would presume something of interest had upset the man, and it would affect business for tendays to come. Rivals would attempt to learn what had so disturbed

the Mestels, hoping to use the information against him in negotiations. Even if they learned nothing, they would bluff that they had inside knowledge, and transactions would inevitably take a downward turn, all based on the hint of a rumor. No, it would not do at all to seem anything other than at ease, enjoying the celebration of Sammardach.

It did not take long to spot Bartimus, who wandered through the various public halls of the Generon, his head swiveling back and forth, looking for someone. The wizard was perhaps forty paces ahead, passing through the crowds, unaware of his own social disgraces. More than a few scowls turned his way after he jostled elbows and caused drinks to slosh, but he never noticed.

Falagh groaned as the wizard spotted his quarry and made a direct line for the man. Grand Syndar Lavant was standing near a wall, engaged in polite conversation with the Lord of Arrabar himself, Eles Wianar. A small crowd had gathered, perhaps to congratulate Lavant on his appointment as Grand Syndar of the entire Temple of Waukeen, or just to bask in the presence of either the Grand Syndar g the Lord of Arrabar. Grozier Talricci stood next to the high priest, making a point of showing his close association with Lavant, while his sister, Marga Matrell, stood off to one side, looking disinterested in the maneuverings. Bartimus headed for the tall, graying man.

Why is he here? Falagh wondered in dismay, pulling up short and pretending to retrieve a pair of delicate crystal goblets of spiced wine. With House Talricci in disfavor, why would he risk arrest tonight of all nights? He casually watched the group as he handed one of the goblets to Lobra, who sipped

at it while continuing to nibble at her snacks.

Heedless of the others gathered around the pair of luminaries, Bartimus shoved his way to the front of the crowd and approached closely enough to whisper something in Grozier’s ear. When the patriarch of House Talricci heard the wizard’s words, he jerked his head around to stare at the diminutive fellow, then turned to Lavant and said something in his ear.

Whatever was said, it was serious enough to force Lavant to excuse himself. Eles Wianar nodded and clapped Lavant on the shoulder before he allowed the newly ordained high priest to move off, then the Shining Lord of Arrabar turned his attention to the rest of the group. Lavant and Grozier left the chamber in a hurry, the high priest stalking in obvious ire, followed by Marga and Bartimus. The high priest’s waddling gait caused the innumerable gems adorning his cream-colored robes to scintillate in the light of dozens of lanterns. At one point, he paused and made a deliberate gesture to someone on the opposite side of the room, and when Falagh glanced that way, he spotted a blur of magenta and purple vanishing through a distant doorway.

What the blazes is going on? he wondered again.

“Come on,” Falagh said, grabbing Lobra’s arm once more and heading off after the high priest. “Keep up,” he added when his wife nearly stumbled in her rush to turn and accompany him. Falagh felt the woman stiffen in displeasure at his gruff tone, but he did not care. Something was transpiring, and he did not wish to miss any of the conversation.

Falagh and Lobra caught up to Lavant, Grozier, and the other two partway down a wide, alcoved hallway filled with planted greenery. The foursome was just passing through a doorway near a copse of trees

potted in large half-barrels. Lavant was frowning as Grozier seemed to lecture him, one finger waggling under the priest’s nose as they stepped through the doorway and into a private parlor.

4C … looks very suspicious from where I stand,” Grozier was saying as Falagh arrived. “Highly suspicious. And you won’t give me a straight answer!”

Lavant spotted Falagh and his wife and sighed, then motioned for them to enter the parlor before he shut the door behind them all. Then the high priest raised his hands and gestured for calm. “I assure you that there is nothing to be concerned about. Whatever Emriana Matrell is doing here, there’s no reason to be alarmed. She knows nothing important.”