Rosemary Jones: Cold Steel and Secrets Part 1

“A crown?” Sarfael frowned. “Not at all. Why do you ask?”

“Rumors, most likely nothing more than hot air, but I would know where they started.”

“If I hear of such a thing, I will add it to my report.”

“Do so. But they mean to overthrow Lord Neverember?”

“Oh, in the vaguest possible way. Press them about it, and none have any plans.”

“Still, you admit that you have not met the true leaders yet.”

“No, the purpose of this expedition is to prove our loyalty and thus promote us in the ranks of rebellion.”

“Then go forth and rise high,” said Dhafiyand. “And remember, if you hear talk of a crown, bring the news to me at once.”

Sarfael nodded. “But first, find me a nice little armory that my young friends can raid without risking my skin.”

“Consider it done,” Dhafiyand said. “I will send word to you in a day or so.”

The patrol passed the doorway where they lurked, a resounding clatter of boots on pavement and the rattle of armor on burly men and women. It might be well past midnight, but they made no attempt at silence, nor did they seem worried about waking anyone sleeping nearby. Or perhaps the neighbors counted it a blessing to hear the heavy tread of Tarnian mercenaries beneath their windows every night. Far worse things could come shuffling out of the shadows in Neverwinter.

Sarfael counted beneath his breaths. A slow count to twenty, according to Dhafiyand, and then the patrol would turn and be lost behind the next street’s ramshackle buildings. If Sarfael and his crew could clear out the weapons from the armory before dawn, the second patrol would miss them completely.

Behind his back, he could feel Montimort Ratlyn shiver, but, to give the boy his due, he thought it was excitement and not fear that made the thin young Luskar whisper in his ear, “Are they past?”

He motioned for silence. “Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two,” he finished, going a little longer just for safety’s sake. The sound of the Tarnian patrol faded into the distance. “Wait here, I’ll check the door. Better one man be spotted than a gang of ten young ruffians, so obviously up to no good.”

Fog filled the street, the cold night air rising off Neverwinter’s perpetually warm river providing its usual shroud over the night’s activities. Even so, Sarfael ventured with many glances up and down the street to check the armory’s door.

As Dhafiyand promised, the door was unlocked. Sarfael bent over the knob, hiding his hands with his body from the Nashers watching across the street. Let them think him an accomplished lockpick; it could only enhance his reputation.

He opened the door and slipped inside, then poked his head out again to motion the others to follow.

They hurried across the street, Parnadiz and Charinyn in the lead, as usual, with the rest following hard on their heels.

Once they were all inside, he pulled the door closed. They were immediately plunged into darkness.

“Light,” he muttered.

“Sorry,” Montimort whispered back. A glowing light appeared cupped in his long fingers, flowing outward until the room was clearly lit.

“Lanterns too,” Sarfael ordered the Nashers. They carried three dark lanterns in the group.

“What do we need them for?” Parnadiz said. “We have Montimort.”

“Think of him as a candle,” Sarfael said. “If he snuffs out, how do you see to rescue him or yourselves?”

Montimort squeaked at the description and Sarfael dropped a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Magic is a useful talent,” he said. “But never assume that it can keep you from being killed.”

In the back of his head, Mavreen laughed to hear him quote her so earnestly. But it was good advice. Her spells and other tricks did nothing to protect her from Thayan treachery.

“Now what?” said Charinyn. The tiny room in which they stood was remarkably bare of weapons. In fact, it was completely empty. Further, the only door in evidence was the one that they had used to enter.

“You don’t think they’d leave a stack of swords and armor stacked inside the door for you to snatch?” Sarfael said. Except, as he looked with dismay around the room, that was exactly what Dhafiyand had promised him. It seemed the old man’s intelligence was not perfect. With more confidence than he felt, Sarfael told the others: “Look for a false wall. The weapons will be behind that.”

Montimort’s nose quivered as he turned in a half circle, surveying the antechamber.

“There’s a draft,” he said, pointing to his left. “I smell old leather and metal. And something else…”

Sarfael tapped his fingers along the area that Montimort indicated and found the second door, neatly hidden behind a simple illusion. As soon as he put his hand upon the latch, the door appeared. Like the other, it was unlocked.

“Ah, that’s better,” said Sarfael as he swung the door open. Raising high his lantern, he saw the twinkle of shields, swords, mauls, short-bows, halberds, battle-axes, and other weapons.

“Well, let’s clear this out,” he said over his shoulder.

Then Montimort’s “something else” leaped upon him with an outraged scream.

Sarfael rolled back into the room.

A hound with short, rust red fur tumbled into the antechamber with him. Its sooty black teeth snapped in his face. Sarfael grappled the hellish dog by the throat as its powerful hind legs raked against the floor. Sarfael twisted underneath to avoid being disemboweled by the creature’s nasty kick.

Above him the young Nashers screamed and yelled at each other as Sarfael strove to keep the hound’s sharp black teeth out of his face. The monster at his throat growled. Wisps of sulfurous smoke emerged from its nostrils. Sarfael gritted his own teeth and heaved at the weight bearing him down. Most obviously, it was no ordinary guard dog.

As he wrestled with the creature, he cursed Dhafiyand silently for not inquiring more closely as to why that armory seemed so open and unprotected. The lack of information might well spell his doom, and the spy considered himself poorly served by the spymaster as he fought to save himself.