Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [17]
Her first impulse was to laugh at this notion. Silvanus, the Oak Father, was a god revered by many druids, and she was most assuredly not of that faith. But it occurred to her that Cyric, Malchior’s god, was exceedingly jealous of any sign of fealty to another power.
“I was once rather… fond of a certain young woodsman,” she said lightly. “And he, in turn, was fond of oak leaves. So…“ She let the word trail off and shrugged. Let him assume from that what he would. The birthmark on her backside was no one’s business but her own.
“Is that so?” Malchior leaned forward. “I have great sympathy for a man’s desire to leave his mark on you. In time, perhaps you could be persuaded to wear mine. Take her!” he called out.
Bronwyn’s eyes widened, then darted to the door. The first hard kick resounded through the room, straining the bolt she’d carefully put in place.
She was out of the tub with a single leap and then dashed for the window. The splashing behind her-barely audible over the continued pounding at the door-announced Malchior’s pursuit.
He moved fast, especially for a fat man. The priest seized her from behind, one fleshy arm around her waist and another flung around her throat. He was strong, too. Bronwyn wriggled like a hooked trout, but could not break free.
“Hurry; you fools!” he shouted out. “I can’t hold her forever!”
Bronwyn thrust a hand into her hair and yanked out the stiletto she had hidden in the thick coils. The weapon was designed for precise, careful attack, but there was no time. She stabbed back over her shoulder and met yielding flesh. But the narrow knife did not strike hard or deep. Malchior yelped and tightened his grip. Again she struck, this time punching into the bones of his hands. She tore at the blade, then lashed out a third time.
Finally he released her-just as the door burst open in an explosion of wood. Bronwyn darted a quick look over her shoulder. Three men charged into the steamy room. There was little time for escape, but fury prompted her to turn back to the priest, and slash the point of the tiny blade across his sagging jowls.
Then she was gone, racing for the window. She flung aside the drapes and kicked open the wooden shutters. The latch gave, and she plunged out the window to the street below.
Time stood still as Bronwyn fell. An instant, no more, before she struck the quilted awning that her assistant had stretched between this building and the next, two floors down from the room that housed the private bath. She bounced slightly, then felt about for the tunic that was supposed to have been left there. She found it, quickly pulled it over her head, then rolled to the edge of the awning. She lowered herself down and dropped to the street, then took off at a run for the safety of her shop.
To her immense relief-and her surprise-she was not pursued. Perhaps Malchior decided not to take the risk. After all, Zhentish priests could hardly afford to advertise their presence, even in a city as tolerant as Waterdeep. He had the necklace, and at a ridiculously low price. No doubt he considered the bargain well made.
But why then had he called his men? The attack made no sense. She had already received payment, soit was no attempt to defraud her. Perhaps he had learned that she was a Harper. That would be reason enough for him to kill her. But his words indicated that he planned to keep her, not kill her. Did he have ambitions of turning her, making her into a hidden agent of the Zhentarim?
Bronwyn pondered this as she wove back through the city, following a complex path that took her through alleys and into the back room of a pipeweed shop whose owner was friendly to Harpers and their small intrigues. She emerged from the shop shod in the slippers she’d left there, her tunic decently covered by a linen kirtle and her wet hair hanging in a single braid. Thus attired, she could walk without notice through the elegant market area, just another tradeswoman on some errand for her household, or a servant indulging the whim of a mistress.
Finally she turned onto the Street