Dawnbringer: A Forgotten Realms Novel (23 page)

He gathered his courage and looked directly at Kestrel. “I assist in the record keeping as well.”

A corner of her mouth quirked up. “Do you also decide what to do with the bad plums?” she said.

“I’ve given orders that they be made into plum butter,” he replied.

Kestrel placed a tentative hand on his sleeve. “Shall I give you my source for brandy?”

“I would be grateful.”

At a gesture from Diamar, two of the Beguine guards manhandled the surviving rogue, her arms bound tightly at her back. She was cocooned in yards of rope. Kaarl vor Beguine stood nearby with his pike.

“Sanwar Beguine has a quick temper at the best of times,” he confided to Lusk and Lakini. “And Nimor, Captain of the Guard, was his picked man.” He nodded at the shrouded body that lay apart from the brigands. “He has no love for anything Jadaren at this moment.”

Sanwar pushed past Diamar to confront the half-orc, who still wore the tattered tunic that mimicked the Jadaren livery.

“Out with it,” he growled. “Who sent you? Which of the Jadarens? Bron?” He indicated Arna with a jerk of his head. “Or was it this upstart?”

“Look,” breathed Lusk into Lakini’s ear.

“I saw,” she mouthed back.

During his tirade, Sanwar had made a gesture with his left hand—a closed fist with the thumb outside along the knuckles, and then a shift to a fist with the thumb enclosed. It was at an angle where only the half-orc—and the two of them—could see it.

Lakini didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but she knew what it was. She and Lusk were very familiar with the various kinds of hand signals used to communicate in secret. She’d never seen this one, but she could guess—
Keep it inside. Don’t reveal the truth
.

The brigand grinned at Sanwar, her lower tusks protruding over her upper lip. “Who and what you are don’t mean a thing to us, worm,” she said in the guttural accent of her kind. “We were just looking for the easy pickings.”

“Liar,” thundered Sanwar.

Lakini and Lusk saw his left hand move again. This time the fingers curved half-open, with the thumb tapping the palm.

More coin for you, Lakini guessed.

“Sir,” said Diamar, touching Sanwar gently on the shoulder. “Her kind’s not susceptible to angry words and threats. Let me try.”

Sanwar’s mouth twisted, but he stepped aside, not without a quick, meaningful look at the brigand. Lakini thought she saw the brute nod briefly in response. No matter. Diamar would have the truth out of her.

The Vashtun’s Second pulled his homespun cowl back from his head and stood before the half-orc, his face completely blank. The brigand threw him a look of utter contempt and tried to pull away from her guards. They both hung on, and Kaarl prodded her meaningfully over the kidneys.

Diamar closed his eyes a long moment and suddenly opened them. They had the particularly blank look that Lakini had noticed in the Vashtun.

The half-orc stopped struggling and, ignoring the pike at her back, seemed to relax, returning the Second’s blank look. When Diamar spoke, his voice seemed to come from a long way away.

“What did you mean to do?” Diamar asked, almost offhandedly.

The half-orc opened her mouth, then shut it with a snap, pulling her left-hand guard almost off his feet. Diamar raised his hand, palm out, and closed his eyes again, his forehead creased in concentration. The half-orc relaxed again.

The Second repeated the question.

“We meant to kill the guards and take the girls,” she replied, with a voice as detached and unemotional as Diamar’s had been. “Kill the others if it was convenient, and if we cared to. We could take the goods. But the girls … not them. They were worth more alive than dead. Let the older one go if she struggled and take the little one.
Especially make sure the older guard in blue, the fat man, make sure he was dead.”

“Were you working for the Jadarens?” Diamar asked.

The half-orc furrowed her brow, as if puzzled. “I shouldn’t tell you,” she said, a little indignantly. “You know it’s a secret.”

“I told you it was the Jadarens,” snarled Sanwar, glaring at Arna, who looked at Kestrel beside him and shrugged, shaking his head in denial.

“Let the man do his work, Uncle,” said Kestrel, with some asperity.

Diamar’s tone was that of a kindly teacher to a promising but recalcitrant student. “It’s better if you tell me, you know that.” His eyes narrowed, as if he were shuffling through the brigand’s mind as he would through loose papers on an untidy desk.
“Garush
. That’s your name. It’s easier if you tell me. Whom are you working for, Garush, yourself, or the Jadarens?”

While both the Vashtun and his Second’s ability to shake the truth from someone was always a matter of fascination for Lakini, she always had the unpleasant sensation that her mind was being probed as well when she was in their presence, as if some remote, utterly alien entity were examining the inside of her skull like a curiosity. The Vashtun had almost entirely disappeared from any public appearance, and she must admit it was a relief, for she fancied she could see some other consciousness, infinitely aware yet infinitely distant, looking out of his eyes. She preferred dealing with Diamar, but lately she had the same feeling when he spoke to her or to Lusk.

“The girl was wearing a red dress,” remarked the now-docile Garush. She glanced at Kestrel and she flinched back. “He was right about that. Don’t hurt her much, he said.”

“Who, Garush?”

The half-orc’s eyes bulged, and her entire body convulsed so violently that she pulled free of her startled guard, sprawling to the ground.

“Can’t … breathe—” she managed, and struggled to her knees.

Diamar’s palm was still raised, and his expression was bemused. With a single smooth movement, Kaarl cut the ropes binding Garush’s arms down the middle with the point of his pike. Her hands free, the half-orc grasped at her throat. Her face was purple now, and a trickle of blackish blood trailed from her nostril.

The movement was small, but Lakini saw it. The fingers of Sanwar’s left hand were flickering rapidly. A leather cord, studded with intricate knots, was looped around his wrist. As Garush’s mouth stretched open in a silent scream, Sanwar slipped his hand underneath his tunic, but the movement of his fingers continued.

Lakini tensed, ready to stop Sanwar, but paused when she felt Lusk’s strong hand circle her upper arm.

“It’s not our quarrel,
Cserhelm
,” he whispered. “Let the merchants find their own way.”

“He’s killing the witness,” Lakini hissed back. “Are you seriously suggesting we let that happen?”

“Perhaps he is. Perhaps he’s trying to signal to her again. Perhaps it’s your imagination. It doesn’t concern us.”

With a final shudder, Garush fell over. Her hands remained locked about her throat, and a bluish tongue
protruded from between the swollen, purple lips. Kestrel turned away, and Lakini noticed that Arna had his hand on her shoulder.

Diamar looked down at the half-orc’s body, sprawled between the nonplussed guards, who looked back at Kaarl as if asking him what they should do now. Kaarl laid his pike on the ground and kneeled by the body, gently loosing the huge, battle-scarred hand from the half-orc’s throat and forcing the jaw open. He took his short, practical knife and pressed the back of the protruding tongue down, peering as best he could down Garush’s maw.

“There’s nothing down her throat that I can see, sir,” Kaarl told the Vashtun’s Second, closing the mouth and wiping his knife on his leggings. “Nothing that’s not supposed to be there already. If she was killed by magic, it was an invisible sort.”

“Interesting,” remarked Diamar, in his dispassionate way. If he was angry that some sorcerer had killed on the very steps of the Shadrun sanctuary, he didn’t show it. “It does appear very clear that House Jadaren, in its official capacity, had nothing to do with this unfortunate attack.”

“I will swear under any penalty we did not,” declared Arna.

“A pity we couldn’t find out more,” said Diamar, pulling the cowl back over his shaved head and turning to the Shadrun’s entrance. “But to many who plague our guests, crime is its own reward, just as our gift of sanctuary is ours.”

Lakini was tempted to call out to him, to accuse Sanwar of killing the witness, but she forbore. It was a relief to have the oppressive feeling of something watching and
waiting gone from her mind. And Lusk was right. It was none of their concern.

Kill the big guard, the one in charge, Garush had said, referring to Sanwar’s picked man. This was the one who had told the younger guards to relax, that they were within the realm of safety now, that there was no need to be alert. This was the one who had placed his more experienced guards at the rear, knowing an attack would come from the front.

This was the one who must have realized, the moment before the crossbow bolt had killed him, that he’d been betrayed—betrayed by an old friend.

She let her gaze trail over Sanwar Beguine, now in intent conversation with Diamar and Ciari, probably making his demands about the conditions of the negotiations Shadrun-of-the-Snows had condescended to host. The knotted leather cord had vanished, but a light sheen of sweat remained on his brow. As if he knew someone had noticed, he mopped his forehead with his sleeve.

Lusk was right. It would complicate matters to make an accusation, and their sworn duty was the protection of the sanctuary and its visitors from the dangers that were all too common in Faerûn.

Diamar had turned to lead the others into the sanctuary. As he looked back, casually looking at the folk ranged behind him, his gaze brushed across hers. She felt something, gentle but insistent, touch her mind.

Get out of my head
, she growled internally, with an annoyance she had not allowed herself to feel before. Like a sea anemone touched roughly, the invisible tendril withdrew.

“Your friend—the Clan Druit boy with the cantrips—did he come with you?”

Startled, Arna glanced up at Ciari. “No. He’s on family business.”

“A shame. I liked him. Tell him to see me about investing in the venture once the knife-sharpening cantrip’s improved.”

“I think he’s planning to,” said Arna, masking his surprise. On impulse he went on. “He hasn’t seen me in some tendays. I think he’s been jealous. And he’s been writing poetry of late. I think he’ll be very glad to hear of this … unexpected development.”

Ciari grinned and patted his cheek. “That’s my boy,” she said.

In the quarters assigned him by the sanctuary’s steward, Sanwar Beguine raged internally. The plan, which had seemed so foolproof before, was a disaster. When he had shared his dismay at his brother’s insane determination to ally the House to their longtime enemy, Harilpina Andula had been sympathetic and referred him to a company of mercenaries that had proved useful to her in several situations requiring both force and secrecy. He had met with Garush and her crew, supplied the cast-off uniforms, and instructed them to kill whomever they wished as long as they spared Kestrel and Ciari and eliminated Nimor.

He regretted the necessity of removing the captain of the guard, who had always been loyal to the House and,
since he had a sister who was ruined because of a debt the accountants of House Jadaren had held over her head, understood together with Sanwar who House Beguine’s enemies were. But he had assured Nimor the mercenaries’ mission was to scare, not to kill, and, once blood was shed, he could not be sure the man wouldn’t betray him.

The beauty of the plan was that whatever the outcome, his goal should be accomplished. If men in the livery of House Jadaren savaged a Beguine caravan and kidnapped the daughter of its head, or if the same men were killed but had evidence of being from the enemy House, the result was the same: a rending of the tentative truce between the Houses and an end to this mad plot of marrying Kestrel to the Jadaren whelp.

He had not factored in the interference of those two fighters, those tall, preternaturally still, bizarrely marked creatures who’d attached themselves to the sanctuary. He’d not factored in Garush’s allowing herself to be captured.

And he’d not factored in Arna Jadaren’s already being here, ready to defend his House, to confirm Kestrel’s suspicions about the uniforms. Damn the boy, making moon eyes at Kestrel! It was bound to affect her judgment.

He must assume the worst would happen and make his contingency plan. He drew a deep breath, sat on the simple pallet, and mastered his temper.

There were strange figures painted on the white plaster wall before him. Despite his agitation, he studied them with interest. They were lines drawn in a flat black pigment, and shadowed with another color that looked either blue or purple, but it was hard to determine. It was a color rather difficult to look at. The lines looked
as if they had been drawn randomly within a square roughly the length and breadth of Sanwar’s forearm, but, when he looked at them for a minute, they seemed to shift and form a mathematical figure, unknown to him but certainly drawn with some sort of intent.

As he looked at it, the last of his anger dissipated. He didn’t know how long he’d sat there before he realized the lines were vibrating, quivering in time to a hum that had built up, almost unnoticeably, in his head.