Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [91]
“Stops the heart, if you get a good clean shot,” Ebenezer commented. He tucked his hammer back into his belt and turned to Bronwyn. “You was saying?”
She shut her gaping mouth and turned back down the alley.
“The captain is an ogre,” she said, picking up where they left off. “But he was knowledgeable, well dressed, well spoken. Not a desperate second-rate thug by any means.”
“Your better class of smugglers,” Ebenezer said dryly.
“There’s truth to that,” she rejoined. “Think about it. There’s a city below and a city above. There is traffic between the two, and you can bet that hammer of yours that many of Waterdeep’s merchants know someone who knows someone who can pay someone to do a favor Are you following?”
“Easily enough, but the question is, do you know someone who’s in a position to do all that other knowing?”
Bronwyn hesitated, not certain but wanting to believe. “You remember that man who came into the shop? Tall, fair-haired, good-looking?”
“No beard. Too much jewelry,” Ebenezer remembered. “You were mad enough at him to chew trade bars and spit nails. What about him?”
“He’s a friend, and he’s also a member of a rich merchant family. It’s possible he made some arrangements, helped pave the way. Here we are,” she said as they emerged from the alley onto a broad, rotting boardwalk. “And over there’s our ship.”
Ebenezer’s gaze followed the line indicated by her pointing finger His dubious expression darkened into a scowl as he took in the maze of docks and the ships bobbing alongside them in an expanse of undulating black water A flock of sea bats whirled and shrieked over the ship Bronwyn had indicated, which was being rapidly prepared to sail. Burly dockhands hauled barrels of supplies aboard, and a huge ogre captain clung to the rail and bellowed down orders in a voice that held all the music of a bee-stung mule’s bellow.
“That Mend of yours,” Ebenezer said darkly as he eyed the ship with trepidation, “might not have done you as big a favor as you seem to think.”
* * * * *
Dag Zoreth stood on the wail of Thornhold and watched the caravan pass. Three wagons, plus a mercenary guard. Nothing of interest. He would not even suggest that his men attack and demand toll from the traders. He looked past them, seeking for another, smaller caravan, one with a much more precious cargo.
Several days had passed since Dag’s victory. With each day he found himself spending more and more time walking the walls, searching the High Road for signs of his daughter’s caravan. The escort of Zhentilar soldiers should have retrieved her by now from her place of secret fosterage. She was late, and Dag was growing ever more concerned.
He was therefore greatly relieved to see a group of riders turn off the road onto the path that led up to the fortress, and gladder still when they lifted the standard of Darkhold by means of introduction. Dag gave a few terse orders to one of the guards to carry word to the castellan and then hurried down to meet his daughter
To his great consternation, the gate opened to reveal a group of men familiar to him but not under his command. At their head rode Malchior. Dag quickly arranged his features into a expression of honor and welcome and strode forward to help his former mentor and superior down from his horse.
Malchior landed heavily and swept an appraising look over the fortress bailey. “Very impressive, my son. I never thought the day would come when I saw the interior of this particular Caradoon stronghold-except, perhaps, for the dungeons.”
Dag smiled faintly to acknowledge the jest. Malchior seemed in a rare mood, so jovial that he looked likely to break into dance at any moment. “You’ve had a long ride from the villa. Come, I will show you to your room and have the servants bring refreshment.”
“Later, later” Malchior flapped his hands, brushing aside this notion as if he were shooing flies. “You’ve gone through