Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [126]
Deeply troubled, the young man settled back into his saddle and pondered the fog-shrouded path ahead.
* * * * *
Once Malchior had polished off the last bite of raspberry tarts and drained the decanter of wine, he went on his way. Left alone in his rented room, Dag Zoreth prepared to summon the image of his paladin spy. Sir Gareth had once reported to Malchior. Perhaps he still did.
It took much longer for Gareth to respond this time. Despite his impatience with the delay, Dag was not entirely displeased. A prolonged summons could be immensely painful, and he was not averse to giving the fallen paladin some of the pain he had earned.
The face that finally appeared in the globe was pale as parchment and tightly drawn. “So good of you to come,” Dag said with heavy sarcasm. “I had an interesting visit from our mutual friend Malchior. Perhaps you have also spoken with him of late?”
“I have not, Lord Zoreth,” the knight said flatly.
Dag believed him. By now, he understood that Gareth cloaked his lies in elaborate self-deceiving half truths. Any statement put that baldly was likely simple truth.
‘What word on my sister and my daughter?”
“I have just met with a young paladin, the man who stole the girl from the farmer folk. His name is Algorind. The child got away from him. He was pursuing her through the city and was so mindful of the task before him that be did not notice he had drawn the attention of the city watch.” He paused. “You know how single-minded the followers of Tyr can be.”
“Indeed,” Dag agreed dryly.
“The young paladin is very earnest. He reminds me of your father, when he was of like age,” Sir Gareth mused.
Dag wondered, briefly, if the knight was deliberately trying to stir up his hatred of this Algorind. “And where is the girl now?”
“I do not know, She was seen near the Street of Silks, coming from the shop known as the Curious Past. This shop is owned by your sister. The paths of our quarry converge, which makes matters somewhat neater. I have sent this Algorind to redeem himself, with the instruction that he is to come only to me. When the child and the woman are in my hands, they are as good as yours. This I will do, without fail.”
“See that you do,” Dag said absently, then dismissed the enchantment.
The Street of Silks was not very far from the festhall where he rented a discrete room. Perhaps it was time to meet this long-lost sister of his.
Dag hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should discard his black and purple clothing for less distinctive garb. He decided against it. He had worn no other color nearly ten years. His lord Cyric might take umbrage with any change now.
The priest left the festhall and walked to the shop. He did not go directly, but took his time, moving from one shop to the next as if he had no thought but to consider the wares offered. He tried on a pair of boots in one small shop and in another spoke briefly with a comely half-elf girl who was busily stitching a small, pink gown.
He was impressed with the Curious Past. A fine building, two stories tall and stoutly constructed of timber frame filled with wattle-and-daub. The plaster was in good repair and freshly whitewashed. Small panes of good, nearly translucent glass graced the large window, and a tempting display of her unique merchandise-but not too tempting-was arranged on a table before the window. There were interesting touches everywhere. The banding on the wide-planked door was cunningly worked in a spiral, the symbol of time passing, but on several panes of glass was etched the pattern of an hourglass, tilted so that the flow of sand was arrested.
He lifted the door latch and walked in. A gnome woman came to greet him and to shoo away the raven that studied him with an intensity that bordered on recognition. Dag was not the least discomfited by this. He felt a certain affinity for the raven and the wolf, for these carrion-feeders benefited