Rosemary Jones: Cold Steel and Secrets Part 2

“If such a thing exists.” Sarfael rather doubted it, but there was no denying Dhafiyand’s sudden gleam of interest, which had been quickly masked by the man’s attention to the paperwork spread across his worktable, when he had told him earlier about Arlon’s comments of a treasure found.

“Still, better we have it than some group of children playing at rebellion,” concluded Sarfael.

“Precisely,” said the spymaster.

Rucas Sarfael followed the directions he was given to the Kraken Society building near the graveyard. From the outside, it appeared to be another of Neverwinter’s dilapidated structures. Inside, the meeting had already begun. Voices were raised. Arlon Bladeshaper pounded on the table to quiet the others.

“Let Virchez finish reading his letter,” the young leader shouted over the din.

A plump man waved a paper at the others. “My cousin writes that we can no longer count on our friends in Waterdeep for funds.”

“Cowards!” shouted one tall and heavyset blonde woman. She looked enough like Elyne’s student, Charinyn, for Sarfael to guess her a relative, a mother or aunt. “They bow to Lord Neverember and forget their families here.”

Elyne saw him from across the room and waved for him to come closer to her. He began to weave through the crowd.

“It’s worse than that, Torialaine. My cousin says that a man in Waterdeep, an agent of Neverember, wrecked his business,” went on the letter reader. “A notable rogue, who seduced my cousin’s maids into stealing important documents for him.”

Sarfael stopped where he was. That all sounded unfortunately familiar.

“What happened to the man?” asked Arlon.

“He has disappeared, and my cousin warns us to watch for him in Neverwinter.”

“Does he send a description?”

“Yes, yes,” said the little man. “That’s what I was trying to read you. He says the fellow is no youth, but still very strong and nimble. He goes always armed with a black-hilted sword.”

Sarfael shrugged his cloak so it covered the dark hilt of Mavreen’s sword and slid it half out of its sheath. He measured the distance to the door. There were nearly a dozen Nashers between him and the only exit. Across the room, Elyne arched an eyebrow at his delay. He half-turned away from her, hoping the quick-witted swordmistress hadn’t paid attention to Virchez’s last statement. After all, she’d handled Mavreen’s sword, borrowing it from him to examine it more closely.

A thunderous knocking on the door caused Virchez to drop the letter from his Waterdeep cousin. Sarfael kept a look of friendly interest on his face as he slapped backs, shifted closer to Virchez, and counted the number of probable attackers between him and the door.

As Virchez fished under the table for his letter, the Nashers nearest the door dragged a new man inside. Arlon Bladeshaper motioned to them to bring the latecomer forward. Some Nashers grumbled about the interruption, others yelled at Arlon to tell them what was going on, and Arlon shouted back at them to shut up and listen.

These rebels, thought Sarfael, are not quiet folk.

“I saw him tonight!” cried the tall pimply youth when he reached Arlon’s side. “Karion’s gone back to his old house in the Blacklake District.”

Sarfael paused in his careful stalking of Virchez and his missive. That name sounded familiar. Arlon and Elyne had quarreled earlier about Karion and his tales of treasure. Keeping his ears occupied with Arlon’s questioning of the late arrival, and his eyes peeled for Virchez’s letter, Sarfael could only manage a slightly distracted nod at Elyne. Luckily, another man came up to her and began whispering in her ear. The redhead scowled at him and moved farther down the room.

“Are you sure?” Arlon asked the youth before him.

“I saw Karion very clearly.”

“Did he see you?”

“No, no, I did as you said. I kept out of sight until he went into the house and then ran straight here.”

“Good!” Arlon banged his fist upon the table again. “My friends, we have an opportunity here. Let the Nashers be bold where the other Sons of Alagondar have been timid. The Graycloaks-we should call them Graybeards for their constant refusal to act-have repeatedly ignored Karion’s claims, but we must not be so foolish.”

The shouted talk turned to “What about Karion?” and “What is Arlon babbling about?”

The news from Waterdeep, and the accusation of a spy nosing into Nasher business, seemed forgotten for the moment. Rucas Sarfael slid his half-drawn sword back into its sheath with a relieved sigh. He sidled next to Virchez and clapped the little man on the shoulder while setting his boot squarely on the dropped letter with the damning description of himself as the man who bankrupted his cousin and spoiled that source of funding for the rebellion.

“So, Virchez,” he said with all the warmth of an old friend. “Who is this Karion they are all yelling about?”

“Oh, he’s that batty old seer, the one constantly predicting some disaster or other,” said Virchez, obviously a bit miffed to have been interrupted and eager to impress the friendly chap at his side with his knowledge. “He’s been roaming around the city recently, claiming the crown will return to Neverwinter. That the heir will be found. That the dead will come out of the river to attack us. All the usual nonsense.”

Across the room, Elyne pitched her voice to be heard over the dozen excitedly talking about Karion’s predictions. “Karion has always said he knows secrets. He’s spent years tunneling into the castle and searching among the ruins. There’s nothing in his house but a remarkable pile of garbage.”

“You sound very certain of that,” Arlon said to her.

“He’s a cousin, thrice removed, of my mother,” she said. “I’ve listened to his tales all my life. Karion rarely knows the past from the present. He savages the city for treasures, but drags home every piece of trash that he finds. I very much doubt there is any truth to this story that he’s found the crown.”

“But we must learn more,” said Arlon. “It seems we can expect no aid from Waterdeep. We counted on that gold to rally the populace to our cause. Finding the crown may be our best hope for dislodging Lord Neverember’s grip on the city.”

So Dhafiyand was right, Sarfael thought. There would be crown hunting in Neverwinter this spring.

Arlon continued to harp upon Elyne’s connection with Karion. She continued to assert that the old man was a cracked pot well beyond repair, although the terms she used were more elegant than that.

“Do you know her?” Virchez asked Sarfael, who had been distracted momentarily by the argument between Elyne and Arlon.

“I have attended a few sessions in the lady’s school for elegant fighting,” said Sarfael. “She trains her students well.”

“They are lucky to have her as a teacher,” Virchez said with a sigh of admiration.

“Lucky?” Sarfael reached down as if he were scratching his ankle and snatched up the discarded letter lying on the floor. He stuffed it into the inner pocket of his cloak and turned his attention to Virchez.

“Everyone admires her. After her parents disappeared and that sister of hers ran away, she never wavered. Just formed the school for fighting, helping train our young recruits for the days of glory to come…”

Virchez nattered on about how the city would regain its place on the Sword Coast if only its own people could control it. Paying little heed to the rehash of the usual rebel rhetoric, Sarfael watched Elyne as she flung one hand up to acknowledge some point or other of Arlon’s persistent argument.

“Very well,” she said. “I will go. If only to end this rumor.”