Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [15]
The archmage’s smile was bleak and fleeting. “I have never found you to be anything less, but you must accept that this is a tale best untold. I would like to keep it so. Go now, and get that necklace before it falls into Malchior’s hands.”
“Bronwyn values her reputation for making and keeping deals. She will not thank me for interfering.”
“She need not know of your involvement. It would be better so. But if that is not possible, use whatever means needed to separate her from the necklace.”
“Easily said,” Dan remarked as he headed for the door.
Khelben lifted a skeptical brow. “Timid words, from a man whose first contribution to the Harper cause was his ability to separate women from their secrets.”
The young Harper stiffened, then turned. “I will do as you say, Uncle, but not in the manner you imply. I resent this assignment, and I deeply resent your assault on my character.”
“Can you deny the truth in my words?”
Dan’s smile was tight and rueful. “Of course not. Why do you think I resent them?”
* * * * *
Steam filled the room and Bronwyn, who had had time after returning to the city to clean up, dress up, and take certain precautions, squinted into the mist. As her eyes adjusted, she noted the gray-bearded man lounging in the vast bath, his fleshy pink arms spread along the rim. His black eyes swept appreciatively over her. “You are prompt, as well as beautiful,” he said in courteous tones. “I trust you have the necklace?”
Bronwyn closed the door behind her and settled down in a cushioned chair. “I would not risk carrying it with me, for fear of being waylaid. My assistant expects to send it by courier.”
“Just as he anticipates your imminent return, no doubt,” the man said dryly.
She responded with a demure smile. “Such precautions are needed, my lord Malchior, as my experience has proved many times over.” Especially when dealing with the Zhentarim in general, and priests of Cyric in particular, she noted silently. Noting his scrutiny, she spread her hands in a self-deprecating gesture. “But I will not bore you with my little stories.”
“On the contrary, I am sure I would find them most entertaining.”
There was a soft tap on the door. “Another time, perhaps,” Bronwyn murmured as she rose to answer it. She accepted a pile of fresh linen towels from the maid, closed and locked the door firmly behind her. From the center of the pile she took a small box roughly fashioned from unpolished wood.
Bronwyn set the box down on a small table and lifted the lid carefully, so as not to get splinters in her fingers. The priest eyed the homely box with distaste. His eyes rounded, however, when she spilled out the contents-several exotic smoking pipes already filled and tamped with a fragrant and highly illegal form of pipeweed. She did not miss the sudden light in his eyes as he regarded them. She did not come blind into this encounter and knew more about this man and his habits than she liked to contemplate.
“Forgive me if this offends you, my lord,” she said, careful to keep any hint of irony from her face and voice. “This was a feint, just in case the lad who smuggled this box into the festhall was set upen by thieves, who would expect to find either valuables or some type of contraband. A thief would likely take the pipes and discard so rude a box, not suspecting that the box has a false bottom.”
She deftly pried it loose and lifted the necklace from its hiding place. She stooped and held it out to the priest, who took it with eager hands. He closed his eyes and smoothed the amber beads over his forehead. An expression of near-ecstasy suffused his plump face. As his eyes opened and settled on her, Bronwyn suppressed a shiver. Despite the man’s high rank and considerable personal wealth, his eyes held a degree of greed and cunning that marked him as kin to the worst duergar scum. Bronwyn suspected that his reasons for purchasing the amber had little to do with furthering the good of