Кейт Новак - The Wyvern's Spur

“What! Then why did you tell us all—?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down. I had good reasons, but Dory would never understand. You must go down into the catacombs anyway to keep up the charade, and tell me everything that happens there.”

From the hallway upstairs they could hear Aunt Dorath bellow, “Drone!”

“Look, I’ll explain it to you tomorrow night when you return. In the meantime—”

The footman returned with Giogi’s cloak. Drone took the cloak and waved the servant away. As the old wizard wrapped Giogi up in the garment, he whispered, “In the meantime, watch your step. Your life could possibly, just possibly, be in danger.” He opened the front door, and cold air rushed into the hallway.

“Because of the spur, you mean?” Giogi asked.

“Not because of the spur—well, maybe because of it, but not the way you might think—”

“Drone!” Aunt Dorath called out a second time.

Uncle Drone pushed Giogi out the door, saying, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Remember—watch your step.” The wizard closed the door on Giogi before he could protest further.

My life could possibly, just possibly, be in danger, Giogi thought. He shuddered, not just from the cold. A wizard such as Drone said “just possibly” only in cases where anyone else in the Realms would say, “most definitely.”

A hearty spring wind, fresh off the Wyvernwater, danced around the side of the castle and tore through Giogi’s cloak. He shuddered again and wished that he’d stayed in Westgate, where all he’d had to worry about were dragons, earthquakes, and power struggles. They really were insignificant compared to these family crises.

The halfling hid in the shadows—even though there was no one presently on the streets for her to hide from. Hiding in shadows was an art, and the halfling’s mother had always warned her, “Never neglect your art, Olive-girl,” so Olive hid in the shadows. Besides, sooner or later someone would come along the street.

That’s what makes the natives of Cormyr a great people, Olive thought fondly. While citizens of other nations would cower indoors on a cold spring night like this, Cormytes will brave anything to visit the taverns of their choice. At this hour, there were usually just enough pedestrians to offer her a selection, but not so many that she need worry about any witnesses to her light-fingered larceny.

While she watched the street, Olive twiddled a platinum coin across the tips of her slender, dexterous fingers. A gust of wind from off the lake swirled around the corner and into the alley, blowing a strand of her long, russet hair into her green eyes. Olive pocketed the coin and pushed the strand up into her wool cap. She was bundled against the cold in a pair of breeches, a knee-length tunic, a bulky quilted vest, and the hat.

Besides keeping her warm, all the extra clothing hid her slim waist and curvaceous figure, so that she looked almost as plump as a typical town-living halfling. She was shorter than most adult halflings, though—well under three feet. She might have been mistaken for a human toddler, except for her fur-covered bare feet with their tough, leathery soles.

She would never even consider stuffing her feet into a pair of shoes and disguising her race, though. For one thing, there was always someone who made it his or her business to discover what a human child was doing wandering the streets alone, especially in Cormyr; or worse, there were people, even in Cormyr, who were ready to accost such children. For another thing, Olive found shoes just too uncomfortable, not to mention exceedingly awkward for running in, and she never knew when she might need to run. Most important of all, Olive felt that conducting business by passing as a human child was demeaning. Only a very untalented or very desperate halfling would resort to such a measure.

Down the street, a tavern door opened and sounds of laughter spilled out into the lane. Olive tensed for action. A fat youth in an apron came puffing along, carrying a jug of ale. A servant, Olive guessed, sent to fetch ale for a guest. Probably charged the ale to his master’s tab, so he won’t have any money on him. She stood motionless.

A minute later, two older men in heavy, dusty jackets shuffled by, arguing over whether or not it was too soon to plant peas. Farmers, Olive conjectured, no doubt carrying nothing but copper coins—and only enough copper at that to buy three rounds of ale. She remained motionless.

A skinny fop, attired in bright-colored raiment and wearing the most unusually large boots, strode down the center of the street. Dressed as he was, he might have been an adventurer or a merchant, but from the way he hadn’t bothered to conceal the bulging coin purse in his cloak pocket, Olive judged him to be a noble. He looked sober and pretty alert, which made him just the sort of challenge Olive had been waiting for. She took her hands out of her pockets, intent on following him. As he passed the alley, though, a feeling of recognition tickled at the back of Olive’s brain, and she held back.

“Are you watching a parade, Olive, or are you just screwing up your courage to make a grab?” someone behind her whispered.

Olive’s heart pounded in her chest, but no visible sign betrayed how startled she was. She did not turn to look at her taunter; she did not need to. She could picture the person in her mind: a human woman, nearly six feet tall, slender, with a mop of short hair the rust-red color of bugbear fur, bright green eyes twinkling with merriment, and a face identical to one of Olive’s previous companions—Alias of Westgate.

Olive kept her attention on the fop and whispered, “Jade, where in the Nine Hells have you been for the past ride? I’ve missed you, girl.”

“It hasn’t been ten days, only six,” Jade whispered back. “I’ve been visiting family,” she explained. Olive could hear the playful smile in her voice.

Olive furrowed her brow in puzzlement. For six months Jade had been her protégée, her partner, and her friend, and Olive knew things about Jade that not even Jade knew. Furthermore, as far as the halfling knew, Jade had no family. Jade herself had told the halfling she was an orphan. “What family?” Olive whispered, her eyes following the fop’s progress down the street.

“It’s a long story. Look, are you going to pluck this pigeon?” Jade asked, indicating, with a toss of her head, the dandyish noble now moving away from them. “If not, I’d like a crack at him. He looks ripe.”

“Wait your turn, girl,” Olive replied. “Age before beauty, and I win on both counts,” the halfling added with a smirk. She then slipped away from her partner and padded silently down the street after the fop. She swiveled her head nonchalantly to the right and left to make sure she and her target were alone on the street.

He’s not only a fat pigeon, Olive thought, once again focusing on the nobleman, but an easy pluck, too. You’d think someone would warn him about letting his purse strings dangle out of his pocket.

Ordinarily Olive would have offered such an easy job to Jade. The human woman was just getting started in business and really depended on it for her living. Olive, on the other hand, didn’t need the money; her adventures the previous year had left her almost as wealthy as her wildest dreams. She had to have a closer look at her mark, though. Where have I seen him before? she wondered.

As she closed the gap between herself and her target, her furry feet as silent as cat paws, Olive could hear the fop half singing, half humming softly to himself. Good sense of pitch, Olive critiqued silently, but no sense of rhythm.

“Oh, listen to the story, of the scandal of the wyrms, red Mistinarhm-hmm-hm-hmm, rumored mad and quite infirm—”