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By Root 589 0

relying on brute force, the Harpers used more subtle means to accomplish their aims. Often single agents were given the task of slipping stealthily into areas that had fallen under shadow's sway, from the halls of kings to the dens of thieves. There they did all that one being alone could do to loosen evil's grip, and not a few had given their lives in the course of their missions. But the sacrifices were not in vain. These days more Realms shone in the light beneath the banner of freedom than festered beneath the dark cloak of evil.

Caledan had once been a bard of great ability, but he hadn't played a note of music since the day he left the Harpers, and he didn't suppose he ever would again. He'd begun his wanderings long ago, and he considered the Harpers a good riddance.

A narrow wooden bridge of five separate spans crossed the great serpent of the River Chionthar, and Mista's hooves thumped hollowly on the stout wooden planks. A dozen ships drifted on the dull water, looking like ghosts in the dusky air. Iriaebor was the farthest point that trade ships sailing from the Sword Coast in the far west could travel up the Chionthar. Here merchants were forced to unload their goods and transfer them to overland caravans traveling to the great kingdoms of Cormyr and Sembia to the east, and in this lay Iriaebor's fortune.

Mista stepped off the last planks of the bridge. The south wall of the city loomed in the dimness above Caledan. The great iron-bound gates stood open, as they always had, for commerce kept no set hours in a trade city this large. A torch burned brightly to either side of the gates, and thick coils of smoke rose up against the soot-blackened stones. Caledan guided his gray mount toward the great, arched portal.

'Too important to stop for the guards, are we, lordship?" a coarse voice taunted. Caledan reined Mista to an abrupt halt as a man clad in a leather jerkin stepped from a dim alcove to stand before him. He was an unsavory fellow, missing the better number of his teeth. He reeked of sour sweat mixed with the unmistakable odor of strong drink.

"I beg your pardon," Caledan replied, assuming a cheerful, almost simpleminded manner. "I don't recall that the gates of Iriaebor were ever guarded in the past."

"Well, they are now. Leastwise since Cutter's been in the High Tower, that is. Now you'd best be telling me who you are and what you're about. Tis a cold night to be a corpse."

"Indeed," Caledan replied dryly. He noticed the glitter of torchlight reflecting off a pair of eyes in the shadows by the gate. It seemed the guard had a friend there. He would have to keep that in mind if things went awry.

"I'm Symek of Berdusk," Caledan lied smoothly, "a merchant of jewels by trade."

"A jool trader, eh?" the guard said dubiously. "You don't look like a jool trader, friend." He squinted suspiciously at Caledan.

"These are hard times for all, aren't they?" Caledan lamented with a dramatic sigh.

The guard seemed to consider this, rubbing his unshaven jowls with a grubby hand, and then he nodded. "All right, Symek of Berdusk. I suppose yours is the sort of business Cutter wants in the city, though watch you mind the rules, unless you want to meet Cutter face-to-face in the dungeons. And I'm telling you that's not something you want to do."

"I can pass then?"

"Aye," the guard answered, and then a sly smile crept across his scurvy features. "But first you've got to grease the gates, if you know what I mean, jool trader."

Caledan cast a distasteful look at the guard, who held out a grimy paw. This was getting tiresome.

"You really should wash that hand, my friend," Caledan said in a conspiratorial tone, leaning down toward the guard. "It's much healthier that way, you know."

The guard's expression darkened. "I've had just about enough of you, Symek," the guard said, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Caledan replied pleasantly. The guard's eyes widened, and he looked down to see the sharp, glimmering point of a knife just pricking into the chest of his worn leather jerkin.