Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [29]
"Patience, old blade," Regrar grunted, as a shovel rang off a rock. "Slow going, this end: Mother Chauntea left all the rocks from yon fields right here, it seems,"
"Well, lad," Forold continued, "No sooner had Vangey taken himself off back to Suzail in a cloud of spellsmoke, with a face like old sour iron, then Tessaril was seen leading two fat priestesses of Chauntea – strangers, not seen in Eveningstar before, nor arriving, either – a little way up Eveningstar Gorge. She returned alone."
"And?"
"And promptly went to her chambers, where she cast a strong magic that involved murmuring a message over something very small that vanished when the spell was done."
"Sending a token afar, with a message on it." They could all hear the frown in Regrar's voice. "A report to the King?"
"Nay, we were already a-horse and on the way," another Highknight said grimly. "She was reporting to someone else."
"The Zhentarim?" Regrar asked. "Renegade nobles of the realm?"
"She'll bear watching, will our Tessaril," Forold said calmly. "Anyone bedding the King must know far more than she should. I've been suspicious of her for some time. All these Harpers who come tramping through here – she certainly doesn't report their visits officially."
"How do you know that?" Regrar protested, grounding his shovel and leaning on it. "There's nothing more official than telling the King directly, and if all they were doing was cuddling and cooing, what did he need the map for? Even our Dragon must do something besides rutting and hoisting goblets – he likes women who can talk and have wits to match his own, or better!"
"Bah, she doesn't talk policy and make reports!" said . another voice. "The woman's a snake!"
Another Highknight who'd been silent until now spoke up. "Whether she is or she isn't, I know what the spell was about, and the priestesses. She took them to the Tombgate and sent someone else a skulltoken that will take them to its far end."
"She's setting up some sort of meeting there," Forold said thoughtfully, "but why?"
The flames of the brazier suddenly blazed up green, then white and purple, growing brighter. "Blood of the Dragon! Someone's scrying us!" Regrar snarled.
"Where's that War Wizard? Get him, quickly!"
Korthauvar looked sharply at Hlael, who hastily hissed a word and slashed his hand through the smoke in front of him. In a matter of moments the scrying-spell collapsed, the smoke fading to halfseen curls… then nothing.
The two wizards exchanged glances. "The Tombgate," Hlael murmured. "Old Hesperdan will know where it leads, if anyone outside Candlekeep does."
"If Hesperdan doesn't," Korthauvar said grimly,
"Tessaril Winter does."
*******
Stiff and uncomfortable in ill-fitting, much-mended leather armor and trying hard to look like the seasoned guards they weren't, Narm and Shandril exchanged brief glances through the slits in their cavernous helms and shifted their crossbows to more comfortable positions on their shoulders.
"More comfortable" was a laughable term, given the bone-jarring bouncing and pitching of the laden wagons crashing up, over, and through ruts. They both stood on high platforms that jutted out around the drovers' heads-platforms they shared with lumpy sacks and bundles that had been lashed down with enough ropes and straps to make them resemble the web-bundled prey of some very energetic spider.
Around them, half-hidden by the thick dust Voldovan's real guards raced about on their leaping, plunging mounts, holding their saddles easily amid the tumult and glaring hard-eyed at everything and everyone. Orthil's caravan was just leaving Scornubel – and the guards wanted very much to leave the city's grasping hands and swift swindles behind. Twice Narm saw blades half-drawn warningly as local lads raced in to snatch at things or men pushing carts tried to get in the way of the caravan – whether to steal, stage an accident, or try to trade, he could only guess.
They'd both been posted on "ready wagons,"
Voldovan's oldest and most leaky conveyances.
Below and behind