Waterdeep Page 8

  Three serving wenches bustled in and out of the shadows at the room’s edge, keeping everyone’s mug filled and making sure no plate was ever empty.

  “You and your friends are safe enough here,” Deverell continued, still addressing Adon.

  The cleric smiled and nodded, but did not relax.

  Midnight grimaced inwardly, embarrassed by Adon’s rudeness. After losing her spellbook, she could sympathize with his caution. But he was acting as though the company were camped along the road. There was no reason for his insulting behavior in a Cormyrian stronghold.

  Inside High Horn, the tablet was safe—if any safe place existed in the Realms. Protecting the only road across the Dragonjaw Mountains, the fortress had been built for defense. It stood upon the summit of a cragged peak, and its curving walls overlooked thousand-foot cliffs. Only three paths, each heavily fortified and guarded, led to the mighty castle. Even then, each road ended in a drawbridge and a triple-doored gatehouse as secure as any in Cormyr.

  Due to the chaos in the Realms, seventy-five men-at-arms and twenty-five archers manned the outer curtain’s frowning towers at all times. A similar force guarded the inner curtain, and eight more soldiers stood constant watch at the entrance to the keep tower. The guest enclave had been converted into barracks for the fortress’s expanded complement. Travelers now had the choice of camping in the mountains or staying outside the walls at a cold, hastily erected guesthouse.

  The four companions had been spared this discomfort because Kae Deverell was a Harper, and he wished to atone for the poor treatment Midnight and Adon had suffered at Harper hands during their trial in Shadowdale. Unknown to the four companions, the Cormyrian commander had also received a message from Elminster requesting that he aid Midnight and her company if they passed his way.

  Deverell grabbed a mug of ale from a serving wench’s hand, then sat it in front of Adon. “Don’t ridicule my hospitality by drinking less than your fill,” he said. “Not a rat enters High Horn without my permission.”

  “It is not rats that concern me,” Adon replied, thinking of Cyric’s visit to the inn. The thief had said that Bhaal was pursuing them. Adon doubted that even High Horn’s defenses could keep the Lord of Murder at bay.

  A surprised murmur rippled down the long banquet table and a dark cloud settled on Deverell’s face.

  Before the lord commander voiced his indignation, Midnight spoke, “Please forgive Adon, Lord Deverell. I fear his weariness has crushed his sense of courtesy.”

  “But not mine!” Kelemvor said, grabbing the cleric’s mug. The warrior had spent many evenings with men like Deverell and knew what they expected of guests. “To please Your Lordship,” he said, draining the mug in one long swallow.

  Deverell smiled and turned his attention to the fighter. “My thanks, Kelemvor Mugbane!” The lord commander grabbed a full mug and gulped it down as fast as Kelemvor had. “Of course, host duty dictates we match you cup for cup!” He called the serving wench and motioned to the officers seated to Kelemvor’s right. “Until he can lift it no longer, see that no man’s mug goes empty!”

  The Cormyrians gave a perfunctory cheer, though more than one man grimaced at the command. Adon also groaned inwardly; when Kelemvor drank too much, he could be difficult. The cleric thought they might have been safer camping in the guesthouse.

  As the officers finished their cheer, a page rushed into the room and approached Deverell. The lord commander nodded for the page to approach. Though the young man whispered into Deverell’s ear, his words were not lost to Sneakabout’s keen hearing.

  “Milord, Captain Beresford bids me inform you that two guards are absent from the outer curtain.”

  Deverell frowned, then asked, “Is it still raining?”

  The page nodded. “Aye. The drops are as red as blood and as cold as ice.” The boy could not keep his fear from showing itself in his voice.

  Deverell stopped whispering. “Then tell Beresford to worry no more, and we’ll discipline the derelicts come morning. I’ve no doubt the guards are hiding from the strange weather.”

  The page bowed and left. Deverell returned his attention to the banquet table. “What a night we shall have!” he cried, addressing Sneakabout. “Shall we not, short friend?”

  Sneakabout smiled and lifted his mug to his lips. “I will long remember it.”

  Adon made a mental note to be sure all the pewterware remained on the table at the evening’s end. He had seen for himself that the halfling’s fellows were incorrigible thieves, and Sneakabout had already provided reason to doubt that he had the sense to leave their host’s property alone.

  After escaping The Lonesome Tankard in Eveningstar, Sneakabout had tried to convince the company to ambush the Zhentilar. He was convinced that Cyric’s band was the one that had destroyed his home. The halfling had been so determined to take vengeance that Kelemvor had been forced to restrain him. Afterward, Sneakabout had been furious. The halfling had claimed then that the only reason he didn’t leave the companions immediately was because Cyric would soon catch them again.

  It was a reasonable assumption. The company’s head start from the Lonesome Tankard had earned them only a fifteen-minute advantage. Twenty-five riders had appeared on their trail as soon as they’d left town. Six exhausting hours later, when the company rode into Tyrluk, Cyric and his fastest riders were barely two hundred yards behind. Adon had led the way straight through the village, hoping the local militia would assail Cyric’s company of Zhentilar. But the hour had been early, and if any watchmen had seen Cyric’s band, they had elected not to sound the alarm.

  From Tyrluk, the companions had fled in the only possible direction: into the mountains. An hour later, they had caught a troop of Cormyrian mountain soldiers on the way to High Horn. It had taken little effort to persuade the captain that Cyric’s company was Zhentilar, especially after the band fled at the first sign of the Cormyrians. The captain had pursued, but Cyric’s men had escaped easily. On the open road, the Cormyrians’ mountain ponies were no match for horses—even when the horses were exhausted from hours of hard riding.

  The Cormyrian captain had assigned a few scouts to trail the Zhentilar band, then resumed his journey, saying that High Horn would dispatch a charger-mounted patrol to deal with the intruders. This plan had not thrilled Midnight, who still had no wish to see Cyric hurt, but she could hardly have objected.

  After chasing Cyric away, the captain had invited the company to ride with him to High Horn. The rest of the journey had been uneventful. When they had reached the fortress and the captain had made his report, Kae Deverell had offered the companions the safety and comfort of the keep. After thirty-six hours in the saddle, there had been no thought of refusing. Kelemvor and Midnight were glad to let down their guards and relax—though certainly not around each other. In fact, they had barely spoken since Eveningstar.

  Thinking about his friends’ relationship, Adon could only shake his head. He did not understand what attracted Midnight and Kelemvor to each other; the closer they grew, the more they fought. This time, Kelemvor was angry because Midnight had not sounded the alarm upon discovering Cyric outside their rooms. Midnight was angry because Kelemvor had pulled his sword on their old friend.

  The cleric had to take the warrior’s side in this particular dispute. Cyric wouldn’t have crept into the inn if he had not intended them harm. Adon rubbed the ugly scar beneath his eye thoughtfully, for finding himself in agreement with Kelemvor always gave him pause.

  “Does it hurt, milord?”

  Snapping out of his reverie, Adon looked at the serving girl who had asked the question. “Does what hurt?”

  “The scar, milord. You were rubbing it awfully hard.”

  “Was I?” Adon asked, dropping the offending hand to his lap. He also turned his head so the red mark would be less visible.

  “I have a small jar of soothing ointment. Could I bring it to your chamber this night?” she asked hopefully.

  Adon cou
ld not help but smile. It had been a long time since a woman had presented herself so boldly. And the serving girl was pretty enough and had a generous figure that had been toned by plenty of hard work. Her yellow hair spilled onto her shoulders like a silk shawl, and her blue eyes sparkled with an innocence that in no way implied lack of experience. She seemed much too beautiful to spend her life serving ale in the halls of this bleak outpost.

  “I fear the ointment wouldn’t do any good,” Adon noted softly. “But I’d welcome your company.”

  The chatter at the head of the table died, and Kelemvor glanced at the cleric with a raised eyebrow.

  Realizing he had made a social gaff, Adon quickly added, “Perhaps we could discuss your—er, your—”

  “Milord?” the girl asked, impatient with his floundering.

  “Are you happy as a serving wench? Surely, you have other ambitions. We could talk—”

  “I like what I do,” she answered in a huff. “And it wasn’t talking I had in mind.”

  Lord Deverell roared in laughter. “Your charms are wasted on him, Treen,” he said to the wench, breaking into a new fit of laughter.

  The officers slapped the table and guffawed. Kelemvor frowned, uncertain as to whether he had missed the joke or the situation simply wasn’t funny. Finally, Deverell brought his mirth under control and continued, “Perhaps, Treen, you’d have better luck with Kelemvor—a tower of virility if ever I saw one!”

  Treen obliged her liege by rounding the table to Kelemvor. She ran her hand over his arms. “What do you say, Sir Tower?”

  Midnight and Adon were the only ones who did not burst into laughter.

  Kelemvor took a long swig of ale, then sat his mug on the table. “Why not?” he asked, glancing at Midnight. “Someone must make amends for Adon’s rudeness!” The warrior was intentionally trying to provoke Midnight. He was confused and hurt by the bitterness of their disagreement concerning Cyric, and could not help but believe there was more to it than he understood. If his flirtation angered Midnight, then at least he would know she cared enough to become jealous.

  When Treen slipped her fingers beneath Kelemvor’s shirt, Midnight could hold her temper no longer. She sat her wine goblet down hard. “This is one thing Adon should do for himself,” she said coldly.

  A surprised mutter ran around the table. Kelemvor smiled at Midnight, who simply glowered back. Treen withdrew her fingers from beneath the warrior’s shirt. “If this man belongs to you, milady—,” Treen began.

  “He belongs to no one!” Midnight snapped, standing. She did not doubt Kelemvor had meant to hurt her, and he had succeeded. The raven-haired magic-user frowned and turned to Deverell. “I am weary, Lord, and wish to retire.” With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the gloom.

  The table remained silent for several moments, then Treen turned to Lord Deverell. “I’m sorry, Lord. I meant—”

  Deverell held up a hand. “A jest gone awry, girl. Think no more of it.”

  Treen bowed, then retreated into the kitchen. Kelemvor drained his mug, then lifted it to be filled again.

  Adon was glad to see the girl go. In the days ahead, it would be difficult enough for Midnight and Kelemvor to get along. The cleric knew the pair loved each other, though at the moment petty anger prevented them from realizing that fact themselves. But if they didn’t come to grips with their feelings soon, the journey ahead would be a long one. It would have been much simpler, it seemed to Adon, if Midnight had been a man, or, better yet, Kelemvor a woman.

  The page entered again and approached Lord Deverell. In the room’s silence, it was impossible not to hear his whisper. “Milord, Captain Beresford orders me report the absence of three sentries from the inner curtain.”

  “The inner curtain?” Deverell exclaimed. “There, too?” He considered this for a moment, mumbling to himself. Like most of the men in the hall, he was rather drunk—too drunk to be making command decisions. “Beresford’s discipline must be sorely lacking,” he said at last. “Tell the captain I will personally correct this problem—in the morning!”

  Sneakabout frowned at Adon. That five guards would abandon their posts in one night seemed strange. “Perhaps we should sleep lightly tonight,” the halfing whispered, glancing at Kelemvor. The warrior had just downed his third mug of ale since Midnight’s departure.

  Adon nodded, a sudden sense of doom and foreboding overcoming him. “I’ll see if I can slow him down.” Like Sneakabout, the cleric did not feel comfortable sleeping in a castle where the guard abandoned its post. He would feel even more uncomfortable if Kelemvor went to bed inebriated.

  Before Adon could speak to Kelemvor, though, Lord Deverell lifted his mug. “Let us drink a health to Sir Kelemvor and the Lady Midnight. May they both rest well—” He winked at Kelemvor. “—though it be in separate beds!”

  A wave of laughter ran around the table and the officers chorused, “Here, here!”

  “I don’t know about Lady Midnight,” Kelemvor said, raising his mug to his lips. “But Sir Tower will not sleep this night!”

  “If you have another mug of ale,” Adon noted as he stood up, “the choice will be out of your hands. Come along—we’ve had a hard ride and need some rest.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense!” Lord Deverell cried, glad to see his party resuming a festive air. “There will be time enough to rest tomorrow. Midnight said she wanted a day to replenish her spellbook, did she not?”

  “True enough, milord,” Adon replied. “But we’ve been on the trail a long time and aren’t accustomed to such rich fare. Kelemvor may feel this night for days to come.”

  The green-eyed fighter frowned at Adon, resentful of the unexpected supervision. “Come morning, I’ll be as strong as my horse,” he bragged, standing and swaying slightly. “Besides, who named you captain?”

  “You did,” Adon answered quietly, speaking the truth as he knew it. Kelemvor had lost his sense of purpose. The detour to Black Oaks had been only one example of the warrior’s inability to focus on recovering the tablets. Someone needed to fill the void, and Midnight, intelligent as she was, seemed unwilling to take charge of the company. That had left only Adon to be the leader, and he was determined to fill the role as best he could.

  “I did not,” Kelemvor responded slowly, dropping back into his chair. “I wouldn’t follow a faithless cleric.”

  Adon winced, but made no retort. He knew the warrior had to be very upset—and very drunk—to lash out at a friend so fiercely.

  Sighing, the cleric said, “Have it as you will.” He picked up the saddlebags with the tablet.

  Kelemvor frowned, realizing that he had treated Adon cruelly. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for.”

  “I understand,” Adon replied. “Even if you don’t go to sleep, try not to drink too much.” He turned to Lord Deverell. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”

  Kae Deverell nodded and smiled, glad to be rid of the killjoy.

  After Adon had gone, Kelemvor’s mood grew even darker. He spoke little, and drank even less. It fell on Sneakabout’s shoulders to keep Lord Deverell’s party jolly and exuberant, which he did by reciting halfling stories and poems. Finally, two hours later, Lord Deverell drank one ale too many and slumped into his chair, unconscious.

  The six Cormyrian officers who had outlasted their commander breathed sighs of relief and stood. Grumbling about the lateness of the hour, they picked up the lord commander and went to put him to bed. From their impatient attitude, the halfling guessed that similar duties fell on their shoulders with too great a frequency for their liking.

  After seeing Kelemvor to his room on the tower’s third floor, Sneakabout went down to the second floor and peeked in on Midnight and Adon. Both were sleeping soundly, so he began an investigation of the keep tower.

  While the halfling explored, Adon drifted through the night in the mists of a sleep as deep and peaceful as he could remember. Though the cleric had not realized it until leaving Lord Deverell’s tab
le, the previous two days of riding had truly exhausted him. He had collapsed into bed without undressing.

  But Adon had not forgotten the five missing guards or the danger that pursued their company, and part of his mind remained alert. So when he suddenly found himself completely awake with the dim memory of hearing a scream, he did not doubt for an instant that something was wrong. His first thought was that Bhaal had come for the tablet. The cleric slipped his hand beneath the straw mattress and felt the reassuring texture of the leather saddlebag.

  Adon lay motionless, listening for another scream. The only sounds were his own panicked breath and the patter of rain on the shutters. For another thirty seconds, nothing stirred in the black room. Adon began to suspect he had dreamed the scream and silently chuckled to himself. It had been a long time since he’d been afraid of the dark.

  But Adon knew better than to feel silly for being frightened. Bhaal was on their trail, and from the Lord of Murder, there was only one protection: the blessing of another god. Adon could no longer provide that protection, and he worried for an instant that it had been wrong to turn away from Sune Firehair. The cleric caressed the ugly scar beneath his eye. Certainly, it had been wrong to turn away because she hadn’t removed the blemish. In a time of so much strife, it had been selfish to expect her to repair his marred visage. Adon could accept that fact now, just as he accepted the imperfection.

  What he could not accept, however, was the gods’ indifference to their worshipers. Since his youth, he had venerated Sune, believing the goddess would watch over him in return for his dedication. When she had allowed him to be scarred, Adon had fallen into a deep despair, realizing Sune cared little about her worshipers. Recovering from that disappointment had been a slow and tedious process. His confidence and will to live had returned only when he’d turned his devotion to his fellow man.

  But this newfound devotion had not renewed the cleric’s faith in Sune. In fact, the more dedicated to other men he became, the more Adon resented Sune—and all the gods—for abusing the faith of their mortal worshipers.