“Well, then,” he said quickly. “Shandril and I think we should leave you, to have our own lives and adventures. We do not want to insult or upset anyone. You have been good friends and protectors to us, and my lady and I will be ever grateful. But as long as we stay, it seems Shadowdale will be an armed camp, as one evil group after another comes seeking us. We must go-but where, how, we do not know.
“We would talk it over with you, if you will, and then decide alone together after. We alone must live with what we decide, and with each other.” He sat down suddenly, feeling foolish.
“Good speech,” Illistyl said. “Well then, what would you know?”
Shandril spoke. “What are the Harpers? Not who, but what? What do they work toward?”
Florin answered her. “My wife is a Harper, lady, yet even to me, they remain mysterious. They are secretive about their membership and their precise aims, but they do work for causes that we deem ‘good.’ The air of mystery they deliberately foster seems to be their defense against foes who are stronger at arms or art.
“When you see the device of a silver moon and a silver harp, you face a Harper. Storm Silverhand is one, you know, as is the High Lady of Silverymoon. Storm can tell you others, where it is not my place to do so. Many bards, rangers, and half-elven mages are Harpers. The Harpers oppose the Zhentarim, and those who cut trade routes into wilderness to mine and fell timber with no thought for those who live there-the merchants of Amn, for instance. We respect the Harpers, and aid them.”
“Well enough, then,” Narm said, sitting back. “Where should we wander, Harpers or no?”
“Somewhere where you can get filthy rich,” Torm said with a grin. “And hide among the masses of people, and find any work you fancy-Waterdeep, for instance.” Mourngrym, whose family was of noble Waterdhavian stock, shook his head ruefully.
“Have you no honor?” Jhessail inquired wearily of Torm.
“Aye, indeed. 1 keep it at the bottom of my pack and take it out to shine it up and look at it on windy nights in the wilderness, by the fire. It looks grand, I tell you. But it is poor company, and doesn’t keep one warm.”
“Ignore him,” Rathan said. “His ratlike city instincts lead his lips astray. Waterdeep is a good place to hide, aye, but it would probably prove more dangerous to thee than Shadowdale. It is full of prying eyes from half the lands in 1 Faerun, and not a few who will take from thee what they can and leave the rest in a gutter.”
“Aye” Lanseril agreed. “It is better to travel the wilds of the Sword Coast North, the high forests and the fair city of Silverymoon. The Unicorn Run is a place breathtaking in its beauty, with great trees that have stood there clad in moss since the world was young and man a fledgling southern race. It is worth the trip, I tell you.”
“Aye, go where few tread, and where ye can see what few have seen and ye will always remember;’ Rathan agreed. “I shall envy thee thy journey, bring what perils it may-”
“Is every lord and lady among you going to philosophize pompously the whole tenday through?” Elminster asked in exasperation.
“Why not? It is our turn, indeed, after years of listening to your fulminations,” Torm returned wickedly. A hush fell as all waited to see if he would forthwith become a frog.
Elminster merely chuckled and said, “True enough. My turn to listen and be entertained, then.”
Florin and Lanseril were visibly disappointed that Torm was going to escape a transformation, at least this time, and rose and turned away to stroll about the chamber.
“Is this discussion not the way to do it, then?” Shandril asked.
“Well,” Lanseril’s voice floated back to her. “Let us say that few have sense enough to do it beforehand. Most rush into battle without thinking enough, and talk about it only to themselves.”
“Do not think, though, that jaw-wagging is not good or necessary,” Rathan said. “It is one of the most important things a priest does for lay worshippers who come to him.”
“Aye, well said,” Torm agreed. “Such talk is as necessary as the sword in an ordered life, and in the doings of kings and statesmen across the Realms. It was the sage Mroon who defined-almost a thousand winters ago, mind you-the famous ‘circle of diplomacy’: ‘Why talk but to end the fighting? Why fight but to end the talking?’ It is as true today as then… Well, old mage? Did I remember, or did I not?”
“Ye did… perhaps the first thing I’ve told thee that ye have recalled, that I can tell,” Elminster said severely. “But enough banter-it does not help these good people to make their decision, only hastens them to bed with weariness and lost time.”
“Aye,” Florin agreed. “Perhaps we should tell you of the Realms about so you can better decide your route. Would that help?”
“Indeed,” Shandril and Narm answered together.
“Danger, you will find, lies on every hand. You want to wander freely, and hide yourselves, so places where few dwell that are near to us here are out, as are warlike and inhospitable lands. That bars you from anything north of the Moonsea, and from the Stonelands, Daggerdale, and Myth Drannor, all presently lawless places where much strife rages.
“Mulmaster, too, is an unfriendly place,” Florin noted. “So, of course, are Zhentil Keep and the cities under its sway. Cormyr is friendly, but still too close to the cult’s strength and spies for your comfort.”
“Westgate is where Torm was reared-and look at him!” Torm grinned at Lanseril’s comment. “It is a den of thieves and warring merchant houses, a city built on intrigue. Keep clear of it.”
The druid paused to wet his throat from his flagon of spring water, and Merith spoke.
“You then have little choice as to what direction to travel. West you must go, overland to the Sword Coast cities. Silverymoon would be good, although you must be wary of the fell forces of Hellgate Keep and the ores of the mountains. You must be alert for the long reach of the Zhentarim and of the cult-for if you do join the Harpers, and the cult hears of it, they will expect you to show up in Silverymoon sooner or later.
“The Moonshaes and Neverwinter are good, if you can remain unknown as the hurler of spellfire and her spellcasting companion. Everlund also, but Loudwater and Nesme and other places too favored by overland trade bring too great a risk of discovery. Loudwater lies between the Zhentarim, in Llorkh, and Hellgate Keep, and is isolated by wilderness and deep forest. Such places you must avoid, for they become traps all too easily. Have I left aught unsaid?”
“No,” Illistyl said simply, and Jhessail laughed.
“If your heads are not spinning with that whirlwind tour of near Faerun,” she added, “they should be!”
“Better they spin now than later, lost off the road somewhere in the wilderness of Faerun,” Elminster said darkly. “We’ll make thee a map on soft hide-Florin, ye and Lanseril can do it this night, if ye will. Remember the three Merith has told thee of, for I would avoid Everlund also. Seek ye Silverymoon, or Neverwinter, or the Moonshae Isles.
“Ye must, I think, leave the Inner Sea lands, at least for a while, and the South is no hiding place for thee. Go west, and find fortune.”
Jhessail nodded. “Whatever you choose,” she added, face serious, “do it quickly and quietly. Those who can slay you will be looking for you.”
“Lord Marsh.” The voice was cold. Its red-haired owner turned from a many-paned window inset with rubies. Fzoul Chembryl, high priest of Bane, master of The Black Altar and its priests and underpriests, laid cold eyes upon him and extended a hand that bore a black, burning banestone.
Lord Marsh Behvintle knelt and kissed it and rose with haste, carefully keeping his face impassive. The slave trade was too profitable to jeopardize it or his own standing with a quarrel. Marsh did not love the high priest, and one day there would a reckoning. Fzoul would then serve Bane far more directly than he did now, if Tymora smiled.