Elminster's Daughter - Ed Greenwood [57]
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Glarasteer Rhauligan was no longer in anything remotely resembling a good mood. He'd lost a lot of blood, was in great pain, and thanks to the needs of the Mage Royal and this little fool of a thief now lacked any swift means of quelling that. The hasty violence he'd just been forced to do to a small but enthusiastic band of launderers had done nothing to help matters, but at least he was now largely dry-thanks to a lot of formerly clean clothing that was now, unfortunately, smeared and stained with his blood-and was now sporting a bandage of sorts: a very large someone's freshly laundered bloomers tied around the wound in his shoulder.
It had all taken far too long, and if that little bitch had managed to give him the slip whilst…
Rhauligan reached the street, where a man lay groaning and twisting outside the laundry door, ignored him as being in no condition to have seen where Narnra Shalace had gone, and glared around in all directions. Twas bad enough having to hunt anyone in wet, hostile-to-the-Crown Marsember, bu- there!
Gods, give the girl a wall to run along, and she's happy! The taller the better, it seemed… and she'd obviously managed to leap from another building onto a corner turret of the wall, because she was hurrying away from that turret now as fast as she could. Rhauligan sprinted across the street to get out of view before she looked back to see if he'd seen her.
Well, now. That was quite a wall she'd chosen. If Narnra ran all the way around it, she'd trot for nigh on a mile. Rhauligan happened to know that it kept the prying world out of an estate known as Haelithtorntowers, the abode of one Lady Joysil Ambrur.
That same wider, prying world knew the Lady Ambrur to be a wealthy Sembian merchant noble, a tall, demure, sophisticated patron of bards and singers, who was-correctly-said to pay handsomely for dancers to be enspelled to fly, so they could engage in her particular pleasure: elaborate aerial ballet dances performed as they sang for her, in her parlor.
"We Harpers, however, know rather more about Lady Joysil," Rhauligan murmured aloud, recalling Laspeera's crisp words at a certain private meeting in a tiny, little-used upper room of the palace.
"She's not from Sembia at all. Unearthing her true origins will be another of your little idle-time tasks, gentlesirs."
"That'd be task four thousand and seven, Lady," Harl had murmured, like a bored steward announcing the date and time.
"Indeed, Harl? Then you've missed three," Laspeera had replied with a smile, "or neglected to tell me of their accomplishment, more likely. Now, Lady Ambrur secretly employs her favorite visiting bards as information-gatherers. She then discreetly resells the lore they bring to traitorous nobles, local merchants, and anyone else willing to pay for it."
This practice was what had led local Harpers-including, from time to time, one Glarasteer Rhauligan-to keep watch over who visited Joysil Ambrur and to try to discover just what learning their coins to her bought them.
It was doubtful this Narnra of Waterdeep knew about Lady Ambrur. She'd probably just gone looking for a place aloft to hide and sleep and spotted the tallest wall around that wasn't bristling with vigilant Purple Dragon posts.
Rhauligan knew yon wall was quite wide enough to comfortably walk along, between its street-edge spikes and its inner plant-trough, which housed flourishing clumps of sarthe. Unless it'd been trimmed recently, the edible trailing plant spilled down clear to the grounds far below.
Narnra was running along inside the spikes, merrily trampling sarthe-stalks with each step, and Rhauligan knew he had no choice but to follow or lose track of her.
With a sigh, he chose a building he'd scaled to reach that same corner turret once or twice before and started to climb.
Caladnei and Narnra, know this: You both owe me!
Nine
A WIZARD'S PLOTTING IS NEVER
DONE
Heed me, Lord Prince: After nobles with too much time and coin