of the hedgerow. Scoril Cimber could see there was something different about the boy now, but he couldn't quite figure out what. When he finished with Azoun, Artus turned back to the Shadowhawk, who still sat amidst the piles of earth and gaping holes covering the trade road. “Father,” he said flatly, “there's a rider coming.” If the highwayman was surprised his son had heard the faraway rumble of hooves before him, he never let on. The rider turned out to be the vanguard of a large patrol, scouring the countryside for the lost prince. When the soldiers paused to search the destruction, Artus threw a few stones to draw their attention to the hedgerow and the unconscious royal. Even with his sprained knee it proved simple for the boy and his father to elude the mounted and heavily armored patrol on the wooded hill. The Shadow-hawk was a wanted man, after all, and capture by the king's Purple Dragons was something he had avoided many times before. In the days that followed, Scoril Cimber cemented his place at the cynosure of the weblike Cormyrian underworld with wild tales of his role in the rescue of Prince Azoun. Artus did nothing to counter these yarns. In fact, the boy often lent quiet support to the Shadowhawk's claim that he'd killed all three Zhentarim thugs and single-handedly protected the heir to the throne of House Obarskyr. And since the palace never commented on assassination rumors, for such things tended to upset the commoners, the Shadowhawk rose unopposed to the height of scamp notoriety. Such fame always proved fleeting in the back alleys of Suzail, though, and other topics soon supplanted the daring rescue and the molelike killers-foremost among them the oft-repeated rumor that the withering sickness would surely claim King Rhigaerd before the year was out Young Prince Azoun would soon be King Azoun IV. No one seemed pleased to hear this. “Look,” a grizzled thief said, just loudly enough to overwhelm the ten or so voices vying for dominance in the Thieves Guild common room. “Rhigaerd was a bully. No one's arguing with that. All I'm saying is we knew what to expect from him.” “Yeah,” someone chimed in, “a quick hanging if we got caught on the road with five silver falcons we couldn't prove as our own.” The grizzled thief frowned. “But at least we knew where we stood. He was a strong king, sure, but that also meant prosperity for the nobles-and good pickings for scamps smart enough to follow guild rules and keep away from his patrols.” From his position in the center of the throng, the Shadow-hawk cleared his throat. The room quieted noticeably and all eyes turned to him. “Azoun don't want to be king, right? So maybe 'e'll spend 'is time daydreaming about fighting giants and leave us be.” He put his boots up on the table right in front of Artus and paused smugly. “Yeah, I think 'e'll just leave us be. After all, the bloke owes 'is life to a scamp, right?” “But what about Vangerdahast, that tutor of his?” another thief asked. "He's
a scary one, real sly and real smart. That wizard'll be running things himself if Azoun isn't going to do it proper, and he has no love of the guild.“ A pickpocket with three fingers missing on one hand nodded sagely. ”Wizards ain't to be trusted,“ he said, wiggling his remaining digits meaningfully. ”It may not matter, though. I hear said that when Azoun's son died last year he changed, started to think of things more like a prince. It took the wildness out of him. Not surprising, when a babe two winters old dies so sudden. Makes you wonder what he did to offend the gods, eh?“ Someone across the room raised a mug in mock reverence. ”To Azoun,“ he said. ”May he be half the king his father was-half as good at catching thieves!“ Silent the entire morning, Artus shook his head. ”Azoun will be a great king. All the assassins and thieves in Cormyr will be sorry for it, too.“ ”You'd better 'ope not, Art,“ the Shadowhawk said, surprised by the comment. ”After all, you'll be the scamp to end all scamps yourself one day.“ The boy turned cold brown eyes to his father, and the Shadowhawk caught