Rosemary Jones: Cold Steel and Secrets Part 4

Leaning against the same railing, Rucas Sarfael panted and waited for his heart to stop slamming against his chest. Trust Dagult Neverember to wade through the blood of his former spymaster to make a rousing political speech to the populace gathering on the pier.

Lord Neverember’s bodyguard stood up with something in his hands that glittered briefly in the sunlight. He grabbed a rag from a nearby bucket and wrapped it around his prize, hurrying over to Lord Neverember. The Tarnian whispered in the Open Lord of Waterdeep’s ear. Lord Neverember briefly lifted the rag and stared at whatever the man held in his hands. Then he took the bundle from his bodyguard and passed it to another servant.

“Secure it,” he said, loud enough for Sarfael to hear.

The man bowed and hurried back to the ship’s cabin.

Lord Neverember surveyed the crowd upon the deck. Upon seeing Sarfael, he motioned him closer.

“I owe you my life,” he said to Sarfael with a smile. And then, with a grimmer look: “Do not abuse my favor.”

Warned, and rather charmed by the man’s style, so like his own, Sarfael bowed deeply before Lord Neverember.

“My lord, it is forever my honor to have assisted you in your noble endeavor to build a new Neverwinter. And to give you this evidence of nefarious plots.” He handed Lord Neverember the paper that he’d taken earlier from Dhafiyand’s house, the one inscribed with the order to kill him.

Lord Neverember briefly glanced at it.

“I am sorry to lose Dhafiyand. He was a man of great subtlety and guile,” he said. “It is unfortunate that his loyalty did not match his intellect.”

“Who can know the hearts of Thayans?” Sarfael responded. “The man betrayed you and betrayed us all, but I count myself lucky to have stopped him before any harm befell your lordship. I could not have done it without the assistance of your noble cousin.”

He beckoned to Elyne. Like himself, she had moved to one side, letting Neverember’s bodyguards clear the remaining zombies and other bodies from the ship. Except for Montimort. When they reached for him, she stepped forward and claimed his body. He lay wrapped in her cloak, his thin face covered from view.

Parnadiz crouched on the deck. Blood dripped from the cut on his shoulder. Charinyn kneeled beside him, ripping off the tail of her shirt and binding his wound. The rest of the Nashers clustered close to them, their blades still drawn but down as they waited to see what would happen next.

Elyne approached Sarfael and Lord Neverember with her head held high. Like the others, her sword remained out of its scabbard, but she held the blade down and away.

“My lord,” said Sarfael, “without these loyal daughters and sons of Neverwinter, as you yourself just named them, we may have well lost the city to Dhafiyand’s dark designs. I hope that your gracious thanks will extend to them and their safe passage off this ship and back to their homes.”

Lord Neverember snorted, but quietly, and when Elyne reached them, he swept her into a hasty but warm one-armed embrace.

Sarfael chuckled to see her quickly exchange her sword to her left hand to avoid entangling it in Lord Neverember’s friendly hug.

“My dear,” said Neverember, “I regret that we meet again in such difficult circumstances.” Which Sarfael considered quite restrained, seeing the chaos all around them.

“My lord,” replied Elyne as she stepped neatly out of his embrace. “We rejoice to spare Neverwinter further attacks this day.” She did not look at Sarfael.

“A fine sentiment and we will welcome you at any time to our court,” Lord Neverember returned. “But you must wish to return home now. Shall you need an escort or any assistance?”

“No, my lord,” she said. “We will take our wounded and our dead.”

Lord Neverember signaled to his bodyguards and they fell back, letting the Nashers pass down the gangplank. Four carried Montimort’s body on a hastily improvised stretcher.

As Elyne brushed past him, Sarfael reached out a hand and touched her arm. She stopped abruptly.

“I am sorry for the boy’s death,” he said.

The look she gave him was bleak. “It was my fault. He died to protect me.”

“I told myself the same thing when Mavreen died. These days, I’m not sure if it’s true, but I don’t think knowing the truth would lessen the guilt in my heart.”

She turned away without reply, following the others down the gangplank.

“A pretty rebel,” said Lord Neverember, watching Elyne catch up with the ones carrying Montimort’s body. She leaned down to catch an edge of the stretcher and help them maneuver it off the pier and up to the street.

“My lord?”

“Oh, I am not a fool. But better the enemies that I know, rather than the ones hidden in shadows. Besides, being a wise woman, she has never voiced any great ambition to rule this city and she holds her friends very dear. Which makes her a minor threat compared to some.”

Sarfael bowed again and reminded Lord Neverember, “Today she saved your life.”

“A good point.”

“And you gained a crown.” Sarfael knew he pushed his luck with that statement, but Lord Neverember’s man had taken something from Dhafiyand’s body.

“A crown?” Lord Neverember said. “I do not remember seeing such a thing. Crowns would be a dangerous treasure to find in Neverwinter. It could even cost a man his head. As Dhafiyand found.”

Sarfael stepped back. “Well then, it is lucky that I saw no such thing aboard this ship or any other place.”

“Very lucky, indeed,” said Lord Neverember. Then, more surprisingly, “I could use a new spymaster in Neverwinter.”

Sarfael thought about that a moment, and about the body of the last spymaster being bundled efficiently away by Lord Neverember’s servants. In a few days, he doubted that any would speak Dhafiyand’s name and, in a year, he would wager that none would remember the old man-or, at least, none would admit to remembering him. No one ever carved epithets for spies.

“There are other threats in this city,” he said to Lord Neverember. “Give me a license to hunt the undead and those who create them. Let me do it openly, in your name and for the new Neverwinter.”

Lord Neverember considered the offer longer than Sarfael had contemplated his. “Very well, if that is what you wish. I will have Soman Galt draw up some grant or other. Our mayor can give you a wax-sealed charter to destroy the undead as you see fit and to let you command a small force to assist you. Name those you wish to fall under your protection.”

Sarfael smiled. Not all of the Nashers would want to join him, some were too deeply committed to their dreams of rebellion, but he also thought that the day’s fight had shaken others, let them see that there were far greater threats than Lord Neverember.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said and he truly meant his gratitude.

But Lord Neverember had already walked off, to greet the city officials crowding up the gangplank, clap shoulders, and shake his head with rueful goodwill over the day’s events.

Figuring himself fortunate to be forgotten, Sarfael rushed down the gangplank and hurried after the Nashers. He meant to catch up with Elyne and sound her out about the hunting of the undead.

But, as he reached the street, Sarfael remembered the box. They’d left it behind in Dhafiyand’s room. If any of the Nashers went back there, then there was every chance that the whole mess would start again.

With a curse, Sarfael whipped around and raced back to Dhafiyand’s house.

The house was dark and cold. Already it felt more like a mausoleum than a home. The servants had fled; word of their master’s death must have traveled swiftly up the streets. Or perhaps they had been illusions, like the others on the boat.