Naera made a face at him, but rose to follow. She wore the chain proudly around her neck as they swept down the stairs.
In his chambers, Torm had torn off his fine clothing and jewelry like so many rags and pebbles and hurled them onto the bed, leaped around finding his gray leathers and blades, and burst back out the door like a lunatic, almost colliding with Rathan. The cleric stood waiting, arms crossed patiently, leaning on the wall across from Torm’s door.
“Remembered, did ye?” the cleric said jovially. “I warrant ye had help. It’s your short stature, I tell ye… with that small head ye carry upon thy shoulders, there’s no room for a brain that can think, once ye’ve filled it with mischief until it runs out thy ears and mouth-”
His words were cut short by a shrewd elbow in the belly as they hurried down the stairs. Puffing for breath, the cleric leaned on a pillar by the door, thought a prayer to Tymora, and then bustled out the door into the night.
“Remembered, did you?” a mocking voice asked out of the darkness beside him.
“Tymora forgive me,” Rathan Thentraver said aloud as he swept a pike out of the startled hands of a doorguard and rammed its butt end hard into the shadows. He was rewarded by a grunt. Satisfied, he returned the pike with a nod of thanks, and said kindly, “If ye’re quite finished playing the bobbing fool this night, perhaps we can get going. It might interest ye to know, by the way, that the guard ye gave the chain to is the uncle of the maid ye were dallying with. Adroit, lad. Adroit.”
“Oh, gods,” came the softly despairing cry, out of shocked silence. “Why me?”
“I’ve often wondered that. Truly, the gods must have grander senses of humor than we do,” Rathan replied, as they clapped hands on each other’s shoulders in the darkness, and drew their weapons. “Now, let’s get on with this, shall we?”
They had much wine and talked until late. At the last, Illistyl (she who had rescued Narm from devils not so very long ago) and Sharantyr were left in the bower, standing together, the ranger a head and more taller than Illistyl.
“We should say good-night, if we are to be fit for the testing on the morrow,” Illistyl said wearily, putting down an empty goblet. “You have seen them both in battle, have you not? What manner of dweomercraefters will I be training?”
Sharantyr shook her head. “I never saw them fight. I cannot help you, I fear.” She shrugged. “I think it better you should come to the task, if it falls to you, knowing nothing of them, and alert for all. What say you?”
Illistyl nodded and sighed. “You have the right of it.” She turned for the door. “Good evening, sister-at-arms. I must seek my bed before I fall upon any bare stretch of floor.”
“Good evening,” Sharantyr replied, and they kissed cheeks and parted. The ranger wandered down the stairs, a little dizzy, and nodded to the guards. Setting her goblet upon a table in the hall, she sought cool air to clear her head, and went out by the great front doors. One of the guards asked her, “Would you have an escort, lady?” He eyed her gown. “It is cold,” he warned briefly.
“Aye? Oh, no, thank you,” Sharantyr told him. “And it is the cold I seek,” she added, putting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock-faintness. Both guards chuckled and saluted her.
“The Lady of the Forest and Tymora both watch over thee, Lady,” they wished her, and she nodded. She went on past other guards and flaring torches and the last fading sounds of revelry, into the cool, dark night.
Overhead, Selune rode high in the starlit night sky, trailing her Tears. Sharantyr stood for a long breath looking up at the bright moon, and then set off toward the river at a brisk walk. It would not do to catch a chill by remaining still too long-and, besides, no doubt her bladder would want to be free of much wine now she was out in the cold. The tall ranger looked about her without fear at the dark trees ahead. This was her true home, for all that she had come to it late. The dizziness was leaving her as she came out into the road with the dew of the tower meadow on her boots. She let fall the hem of her gown again and approached the bridge.
“Most will be drunk by now,” the one called the Hammer of Bane grunted. “These Dalefolk are all alike. Too much to eat and too much to drink all at once, and they’ll be as sluggish as worms in the winter until tomorrow eve, when they can do it all over again. The ones we want will be inside, you can be sure, and may be well guarded. But if we are quick enough that they cannot wake any mages, there should be few others they can call to their aid.”
Laelar, the High Imperceptor’s henchman priest, rose, in the darkness, and continued, “You two cast a spell of silence on that stone, and bear it with us as we swim across. Remain below, by the bank, until the rest of us have the rope up, and then stay at the bottom and deal with anyone who happens by. We’ll up and do the grab. If we pull on the rope thrice, come up to us. Otherwise, stay where you are.” There were nods, all around, and the curly-haired priest of Bane nodded. “Right… let’s go. Cast your spell.”
The guards on the bridge greeted Sharantyr with polite curiosity, but let her pass unchallenged. As she passed into the trees, she glanced back and saw them shrug to each other and smiled ruefully. Oh, well, no doubt they already considered all of the knights crazy. She walked on swiftly and quietly, past the temple of Tymora and into the deep woods, until she found a stump where she could sit and relax.
After a time, she heard unmistakable noises, and looked up with a frown. There were large creatures off to her right; men, most probably. Best to be quiet until she knew who they were, and why they were here. Then utter silence fell, very suddenly. Puzzled, Sharantyr rose and peered through the moon-dappled trees. Eight men were moving soundlessly down to the river Ashaba.
“Time to stop shivering here and make another round of the tower,” Torm said. “Even anyone foolish enough to attack the dale in the first place knows that everything and everyone of value is in the tower. If they aren’t creeping through these trees, they’ll be over there on the other side of the river, in those trees.”
“Think ye so?” Rathan grunted. “If they’re as foolish as ye say, why don’t they ride right up to the gates pretending friendship and then do their fighting? It’d save a lot of time and creeping around, would it not?” Torm chuckled. “Of that,” Rathan noted, “ye can be sure. I may be reckless enough to please Tymora, but I’m not reckless enough to creep around as ye do.” He peered ahead. “Look ye, down by the old dock… was that not a man, moving?”
Torm peered. “I see nothing,” he muttered. “Get down, will you? They’ll be well warned if some great giant with a mace and the sanctity of Tymora heavy upon him sails into their midst. Down!” Rathan grunted his way reluctantly to his knees and then to his breast in the dew-wet grass. “Now,” Torm continued, “look along the ground and see if Selune above us lights them from behind as they stand above you.” His tone changed. “There! Was that the place you saw before?”
“Aye, and there’s another.” The cleric rolled over and rose to his knees. Holding the disc of Tymora out before him by its chain, he chanted softly.
The silver disc seemed to sparkle for a moment, and then Rathan turned his head and said shortly, “Evil. Aye.”
Torm nodded. “The prudent thing to do now would be to summon guards, create a big fray and much upset… Look, they have one of those magical ropes that climbs by itself. By the time we could rouse all, they could well have done much damage.”