“And yet we kneel not to King Prester the First.” As if by magic, Eldroon’s tallglass was empty again.
“Not yet. Certain matters stand unfinished.”
“ ‘Certain matters’?”
“Yes. Regarding the ‘obeys me’ part. I may finish them in a tenday. Or never.”
“Ah. Like the rest of us.”
“ ‘The rest of us’?”
“The rest of us, Yellander. All the other nobles besides yourself who’ve glanced at the Dragon Throne and thought: That could be mine, and I’d ride it better than Azoun Obarskyr. Some of us set aside such thoughts and learn contentment. Others achieve little, and chafe and snarl the seasons away. A few dare ventures not shrewd enough, and lose their heads or the right to set boot in Cormyr. And more than a handful nurse schemes, working slowly toward a savage moment that may never come. In short: you’re not the only one.”
“Are you such a one, Lord Eldroon?”
“Once I was. Now I think the prize not worth the hazard. Let Azoun worry and work, while we watch and sip wine and cavil at the quality of entertainment he provides us. Speaking of which, more glowfire, Wintersun?”
“I believe I will. Lords, you’ve both given me much to think about.”
“Think silently. The war wizards do one thing very welclass="underline" listen to folk who think their talk is private. Get yourself one of these magecloak things. More wine, Yellander?”
“Forget not yon stone goblin,” Pennae snapped, “and watch that door. If it moves, even a little, shout and then get out!”
“Shout and then get out,” Jhessail echoed. “Not much of a war cry…”
“No,” Florin agreed. “Pennae, what have you found?”
Pennae had been swarming all over the ransacked room, peering under things and over things, and running her hands over the walls. She’d frozen at a spot on the wall by the head of one of the lower bunks, and was now frowning at it, and drawing her dagger.
“What is it?” Agannor asked.
She furiously waved for silence then probed with her dagger at a spot on the wall. Nothing happened. She probed again, a fingerwidth above-and a hand-sized panel in the wall appeared, pivoting open. As she pushed her dagger deeper, it swung open more. She stepped well back, keeping behind the door, until she could pluck up her lantern again and shine it into-a niche hollowed out of the rock about as deep as her forearm, which was empty except for a small, mildewed piece of folded parchment. Pennae drew it out balanced on the blade of her dagger, set it on the table, and opened it, reading its simple message aloud: “The rest are hidden in the door.”
“The rest of what?” Jhessail asked.
Pennae shrugged. “Who knows? Yon door looks like solid stone to me. Anyhail, there’s nothing else here. Do we go on through it, given that?” She nodded her head at the petrified goblin.
Florin shrugged. “There’s mold on it-see? — so it’s been here some time. If a wizard or cleric turned it to stone, I can’t believe they’re still standing guard somewhere beyond the door. If ’twas a curse magic left waiting here-on the doorway, say-then did it exhaust itself doing that to the goblin… or does it lie in wait still?”
“One way to find out,” Agannor drawled, stepping over the goblin, shoving the door wide, and striding through it. Pennae’s snarl of helpless anger followed him, as she started around the table like a storm wind-then stopped, shaking her fists in futility.
Agannor stuck his head back in the door and grinned at her. “ ’S’all quiet here, little battlemaster. No beasties, just a jakes.”
Pennae shook her head, still seething. “One day your luck will run out, Agannor! Tymora will shake her head and let Beshaba have you!”
“One day soon,” Islif echoed, also shaking her head.
Agannor shrugged and waved his hand airily behind him. “Call of nature, anyone?”
Pennae strode to the door and examined it and its frame very closely, ignoring Agannor.
Then she stepped into the passage beyond, Islif right behind her. They pushed past a grinning Agannor, and peered along the passage. It ran a few paces and then turned sharp west, to end at a wooden-seat-over-pit privy, that smelled very faintly of “Wait,” Pennae said flatly. “It doesn’t end there. Look, off to the left: there’s been a roof-fall, or they stopped digging. ’Tis all tumbled stones.”
Florin, Agannor, and Islif walked with her, Jhessail staying behind in the doorway of the bunkroom.
In the beam of Pennae’s lantern, the place where tool-marks ended in the solid stone overhead could clearly be seen. No collapse, then, but an end to delving through solid stone.
Pennae turned back to the privy, aiming her lantern upward. “A shaft-up as well as down. Islif, I need your blade here.” She pointed. “Thrust it up, hard, as I duck in here under you and look down. I’d prefer not to have some biting beastie pounce on my head.”
Islif nodded, and as soon as Pennae had slid in front of her, hunched low, the warrior woman brought her blade up, from knees to straight out over her head, in a hard, fast upward lunge.
The steel struck something solid, and Islif cried a warning as she felt her sword bite deep into it-as it moved.
She hadn’t even formed the first word when a flood of iridescent gold and purple liquid showered down on Pennae’s head.
The thief ducked blindly back, spitting, as something that squalled and scrabbled against the shaft walls in a frenzy descended, black fangs-if that’s what they were-chattering in agony. Florin hurled himself over a rolling, snarling Pennae to add his steel to Islif’s, driving his sword hilt deep into A spider the size of a Purple Dragon’s shield, sagging into view with faltering legs, purple gold shimmering fluids streaming out of it as it died.
The thing was surprisingly heavy, and slammed into the privy-seat with force enough to break that lone board. Dying spider and splintered wood fell together into the privy-pit with a wet, solid crash.
Pennae had plucked her waterskin from her belt, and was sluicing spider juices out of her hair and off her face. “It stings,” she gasped. “Make sure there’re no little spiders higher up the shaft.”
She thrust her lantern in Florin’s direction. Agannor slid past the forester, hip to hip, to put his own blade up the shaft beside Islif’s sticky, empurpled steel, and grunted, “Florin, shine the light along my arm-this shaft might be a way up to somewhere…”
It proved not to be, rough natural stone drawing together a tall man’s height overhead, and the Swords retreated to the bunkroom to get a good look at Pennae. Her skin was bright red in two places, but the fluids seemed not to have harmed her otherwise. She pronounced herself, “Just fine.”
“Back the other way,” Florin said, relief bright in his voice, “to rejoin our rearguard, and go on north together. I’m thinking now that splitting up was more foolish than guarding our way out. If either group meets a strong foe, ’tis darker days than if we’d stood together.”
They hastened, shining their lanterns on themselves and waving. The four Swords at the passage-moot waved back.
“What happened to you?” Semoor asked as the Swords drew together. He was peering curiously at Pennae’s gold and purple hair.
“A tale for later,” she said tersely, just as fresh lightnings hummed and crackled between the two bronzen statues. Pennae gave the crawling, stabbing bolts a disbelieving look. “Still?”
“Oh, yes,” Doust told her. “They’ve been doing that, betimes, ever since you left us.”
“Myself,” Martess put in, “I wonder why they never veer to the doors. Everywhere else, yes, but all that metal standing there so broad and high, and the lightnings never go that way.”
“I know,” Pennae said sarcastically, holding up a finger in a mockery of delighted discovery. “ ’Tis magic!”
“Gods,” Jhessail muttered under her breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “another Semoor Wolftooth! Truly, the gods weave in mysterious ways!”
Islif chuckled, tapping Florin’s arm to warn him to say nothing, and waved them on. Rolling her eyes, Pennae led the way.