Rosemary Jones: Cold Steel and Secrets Part 3

Sarfael shuddered at that thought. His last sight of the ambulatory hands was of them fleeing down the hallway of Karion’s house, dragging the hacked remnants of their fellows with them.

A discreet knock sounded at the door. Dhafiyand called a command to enter and one of his dark-clad servants slid through the room to hand him a written message.

With a sigh, Dhafiyand rose from his chair. “You must excuse me. Soman Galt’s messenger needs an immediate answer. The mayor is making arrangements for Lord Neverwinter’s arrival.”

“So he is coming?”

“His ship will be in the harbor any day now.” Dhafiyand followed his servant from the room.

As always, Sarfael found himself roaming the too warm chamber, fidgeting with the various trinkets that littered every surface. The pearl-encrusted miniature of a moon elf sat upon a pile of paper on Dhafiyand’s table. In previous visits, Sarfael had noticed it on the mantel.

Sarfael moved the miniature aside and glanced at the folded slip of paper beneath, a spy’s habit. A single bold line of writing read simply: “Find the crown and bring it to me.”

Quite obviously from Lord Neverember, never mind the discreet lack of a signature. He wondered when the message was sent and for how long the spymaster and his lord had been hunting the crown.

Dhafiyand entered the room with a sigh. “I have much more important business,” he said to Sarfael, “than reassuring our mayor that his arrangements for Lord Neverember’s welcome are both satisfactory and safe. Now, what of this Montimort, can we bribe him or entice him into betraying the Nashers?”

“The boy would never betray Elyne,” Sarfael stated flatly. And attempts to make him turn traitor might endanger both Montimort and Elyne, never mind that Sarfael himself had had the same thought when first they met. But suddenly, he just wanted to keep the pair of them as far away from Dhafiyand as possible. They lacked his experience of dealing with the old man, and his ability to keep one step ahead of his treacherous games. “If you want the box, why not let me steal it? I can have it here within the hour and do the trick so none would suspect.”

“And what good would that do me? The current situation suits me very well.”

That answer surprised him. “Why? I thought you were eager to get your hands on the crown.”

“But they don’t have the crown,” Dhafiyand pointed out. “They have a box, an empty box, and until the spell is evoked, a most useless box.”

“What game are you playing now?” Sarfael let the words slip out before he reflected that such indiscretion was unwise near Dhafiyand.

But the spymaster seemed amused. “A balancing of many interests,” he said to Sarfael. “A waiting game. Timing, it is timing we must consider. And why I need you there to snatch it for Lord Neverember when the moment is right.”

As he left Dhafiyand’s chambers, Rucas Sarfael wondered why he had ever considered the lady in the miniature attractive. Her face was scored with lines of anger and the mad gleam of her eyes reminded him most uncomfortably of Karion’s expression when they parted.

That night, Elyne struggled to keep her students focused on the lesson.

“Charinyn, again,” she called as the girl circled her opponent in the center of the floor. “Stop fluttering with every motion. I want to see a quicker parry, either with the sword or that cloak. Or discard the cape immediately.”

The blonde girl pouted and then wavered during her attack again. Rucas Sarfael, growing bored with watching and, wanting to talk to Elyne, stepped casually into the circle, flattened Charinyn by stepping on her swirling cape, and then tripped up her opponent by carefully placing his foot where the other student wasn’t expecting it.

Elyne started to scowl at him, but it gave way to laughter when he whispered, “If she eats sawdust often enough, she’ll stop flouncing around and pay attention.”

Shaking her head at him, Elyne called her students to gather around. “Now,” she said, “since none of you can stop whispering in corners, and you’re all fighting as if you’re uncertain how to tell one end of the blade from the other, would anyone care to tell me why?”

The students jostled each other.

“Montimort says he’s found it,” Parnadiz finally admitted. “Or rather, he knows where to find it.”

“What?” questioned Sarfael.

“The key to the box. He says that it is back at Karion’s house. Something he saw and just remembered tonight.”

“He went there by himself?” Elyne interjected. “You let him?”

“He went tearing out of here, almost knocked me over,” Charinyn admitted. “We didn’t think to stop him.”

“Or to tell me,” Elyne said.

“He told us not to say anything,” Parnadiz said.

“Which, of course, is why you’ve been buzzing about it all evening,” Sarfael guessed.

“Parnadiz, take the lesson,” Elyne snapped. “Drills, defensive drills, all of them, until everyone gets it right.”

Her orders were greeted with groans but, after a hard stare, all the students hastily arranged themselves in the center of the room.

“Engage,” Parnadiz cried. “Fall back, thrust, counter, thrust again, disengage. Again.”

Elyne dropped the practice sword that she had been carrying onto the rack and snatched her own sword from the table where it lay. She buckled her harness as she hurried out the door.

Rucas Sarfael matched her step for step.

“You are going to Karion’s house,” he said, more statement than question.

“It’s almost sunset,” Elyne answered. “The Dead Rats will spot him, either coming or going. I have to find him and get him back here.”

“What about Karion?” Sarfael asked, remembering the old man’s murderous attack on Montimort. “He’s as much a danger to the boy as the Dead Rats.”

“More,” Elyne said. “The Rats want Montimort alive. Karion does not. We need to hurry.”

The door to Karion’s house was not bolted. As soon as Elyne began to pound on the panels, it swung open. The hallway beyond was lit only by the late evening sunlight coming through the door. Elyne would have rushed in, but Sarfael held her back.

“Wait,” he said. “An ambush doesn’t help the boy.”

She nodded, but still slipped past him, heading toward Karion’s room. Her sword was drawn and she looked ready for battle.

Sarfael checked the hallway carefully, but heard and saw no evidence of the crawling claws. He followed Elyne.

The place was torn apart, the old man’s chair tipped over, and his piles of rubbish strewn across the floor. Papers were shredded and long strips of parchment curled around their feet.

“Karion was no careful housekeeper,” Sarfael observed, “but this looks deliberate.”

Elyne stirred the shreds of paper with her booted foot. “These were ripped apart by claws. Do you think those things that attacked us earlier turned against him?”

“Perhaps. Do you see any sign of Montimort? Or Karion?”

She shook her head. “Downstairs, if anywhere inside the house. Karion lived as much in his kitchen as this room.”

“Ah, yes, the cheese.” Sarfael remembered Karion’s greedy snatching of the supplies they brought earlier and his stashing of his favorites around the kitchen and pantry. All watched by the stuffed remains of a former pet, a large cat left on the kitchen table to scare off rats.

They proceeded carefully under the painted eyes of the disapproving portraits and went down the stairs past the cityscapes of a more pleasant and long gone Neverwinter.

The old man lay on the hearth, one out-flung hand almost resting in the kitchen fire. A kettle boiled above the flames.

Elyne gasped and rushed down the steps. She turned the body over and recoiled. Karion’s face, chest, arms, and hands were shredded as if mangled by some wild beast. To judge by the deep claw marks in his flesh, the old man had struggled mightily before he died. His face was contorted into a bloody mask of fear and anger.