Марк Энтони - Crypt of the Shadowking

Of course—there could be only one answer. This man was a decoy. Caldorien must still be within the city’s walls.

This was troublesome. The stranger dared not enter the city. No, the stinking streets were too much. Their scents were too overpowering. They would cause torment, resulting in sure madness. There was nothing to do now but wait. Yes, wait. Eventually Caldorien would set foot beyond those walls, and when he did, the stranger would be there to greet him.

Silently the black-robed figure drifted back into the veils of mist from which it had emerged just as the first rays of sunlight set fire to the tops of the city’s towers.

The crimson fire of sunset was fading to ash-gray behind the dark silhouette of the Tor when Mari heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of wagon wheels. She waited in the shadows to the side of one of the New City’s broad, tree-lined avenues, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She could only hope that Caldorien was ready. He had done little enough to inspire her trust these last days.

Mari had been elated when Belhuar Thantarth, the Master of Twilight Hall, had given her the task of finding Caldorien in Iriaebor. It was her first important mission as a true Harper, and she had been anxious to prove herself. Now she was having second thoughts. This cynical, ill-mannered, scruffy-looking scoundrel was not the legendary Harper she had been led to expect.

Old Master Andros, the Harper who had been her mentor, used to tell her stories of Caldorien’s adventures: how he had destroyed the Cult of Bane’s plan to seize the throne of the Empire of Amn; how he had freed an army enslaved by a bloodthirsty Calimshite sorcerer; how he had rescued hundreds of children who had been kidnapped from Waterdeep and forced to work in a goblin prince’s mines. As a child, such tales had enthralled Mari. But she was no longer a child, and Caldorien obviously was not the hero he once was.

A wagon appeared on the dusky avenue, drawn by a pair of dark horses. On it sat two men. One held the reins, the other rested a hand comfortably on the hilt of his short sword. Zhentarim soldiers. The wagon itself was a box-shaped rig, like a gypsy wagon, and Mari knew that within it was a valuable cargo. Mari and Caledan had met with one of Cormik’s countless spies that morning. The woman had told them that a wagon entered the city’s east gate every evening bearing stiff tariffs that Cutter’s men had extracted from caravans that tried to bypass the city on their journey toward Cormyr.

Unfortunately, the information about Cutter’s tax collectors wasn’t the only news Mari and Caledan had learned at the Prince and Pauper. The body of Cormik’s apprentice, Dario, had been discovered that morning on the north highway outside the city.

“I suppose it was brigands,” Cormik had said, his round face haggard. “Gods know the roads are crawling with ruffians these days, what with no guards riding out on patrol. It’s Ravendas’s fault the highways aren’t safe anymore.”

Caledan felt responsible and tried to say something, but Cormik had waved his words away. “No, Caledan,” he said wearily. “It was I who devised the little charade, not you. Besides, the culprit couldn’t be Ravendas. You and I both know that Ravendas would prefer you alive, not dead. No, Dario has always been lucky—until now.”

Despite his grief, Cormik had been ready to help plot this night’s adventure. He was eager to help organize a resistance movement against Lord Ravendas. And for that they needed gold.

As the wagon drew close, Mari lifted the hood of her tattered gray cloak and gripped her stout walking stick tightly in one hand. Back bent, she hobbled out onto the avenue, directly in the wagon’s path. The driver swore loudly, pulling back on the reins. The wagon clattered to a stop just short of Mari’s shambling form.

“Hey there, old woman!” the driver shouted. “Make way, unless you want to spend the night in Cutter’s dungeon.” Mari just stood there, muttering under her breath as if she were some simpleminded old crone.

“Gods, Brim, get the old witch off the road, will you?” the driver snapped. “Cutter’ll have our heads if we’re late to the countinghouse.”

“All right, all right,” the other Zhentarim said in annoyance, climbing off the wagon. He swaggered toward Mari. “You’re in our way, hag. Be off with you, before we do something to you that you wouldn’t like.” He flashed a lurid grin at his partner, but in the moment his head was turned Mari hefted the gnarled walking stick and swung it in a whistling arc. It struck the Zhent’s jaw with a resounding crack, and the guard sprawled to the ground.

“I guess that will teach you to respect your elders,” Mari said with a grim laugh.

“By all the bloody gods!” the driver shouted in shock. “You’ll pay for that, you crazy old witch!” He stood up, drawing his short sword, but he never had the chance to swing it. A dark form leaped from the overhanging branch of an oak tree, landing nimbly on the roof of the wagon. The driver turned around in surprise—just as Caledan’s boot caught him square in the face, shattering his nose. The Zhent tumbled out of the wagon and rolled into the foul muck of the gutter.

“Care for a ride, old woman?” Caledan asked with a smirk. Mari smiled back. The two took a moment to strip the dead Zhents of their dark leather uniforms.

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you, scoundrel?” Mari hopped up into the wagon as Caledan flicked the reins.

“It never hurts to take pride in your work,” Caledan remarked as the wagon bounced along into the night.

Before guiding the horses onto the steep road that led up the face of the Tor, Caledan halted the wagon. Quickly he and Mari donned the uniforms of the dead Zhents. Then they continued up the Tor, winding through the dim streets of the Old City. Both tensed when a trio of city guards rode by on horseback, but the guards simply saluted and continued on their way.

Caledan brought the wagon to a halt at the base of a tall spire in the shadow of the city lord’s tower. Cormik’s multifarious eyes and ears had learned that this was Cutter’s primary countinghouse. The lion’s share of the money that her guards extorted from Iriaebor’s ships and caravans passed through here on its way to her coffers.

“Are you ready?” Caledan asked Mari as he brought the wagon to a stop in the courtyard.

“Worry about yourself, Caldorien, not me,” she said crisply as she stepped down from the wagon. Caledan merely shrugged, following suit. Mari opened the wagon’s rear door. Inside was a jumble of swords, shields, bolts of cloth, and pieces of ivory, but after a moment Caledan found what he was looking for—a small iron-banded casket filled with coins. He lifted, grunting with effort.

Mari’s heart was beating swiftly in her chest, but she forced herself to walk boldly alongside Caldorien to the tower’s stout wooden door. She rapped on the portal with a black-gloved hand. After a moment the door swung open. A meaty-looking guard glared out unpleasantly at them.

“We’ve got a delivery,” Caledan said.

Mari was surprised at his suddenly brisk military demeanor. It was a convincing act. She nodded, doing her best to imitate Caldorien. “It’s the caravan gold,” she added harshly. “We had a good haul today.”

“Avdis has been waiting for you,” the massive man said gruffly. Then suspicion glittered in his eyes. “Say, I don’t know you, do I?”

Caledan shrugged. “Your loss, friend. Brim got sick tonight, and his partner, too.”

“Sick?”

Caledan nodded grimly. “Plague. But it’s all right. I don’t think he coughed on me. How about you?” he asked, turning to Mari.