Only the Zhentarim would describe war as a "little thing."
"The Dekanter goblins are fierce; the males are, anyway. Maybe it's their Beast Lord cult,
maybe it's the water. Get 'em fired up, point them at your enemy, and they won't quit until
they're all dead. In a real fight, goblins last about an hour; demand for goblin war-slaves, as
you can imagine, is steady. In Dekanter, Ghistpok's tribe got greedy. They wiped out the
other clans, at least the males. The females, the children—they took to the mountains."
Amarandaris took another sip of wine and topped off his goblet. "Look around you. Parnast's
always had a few goblins. Only a few because, well—" He made a helpless gesture. "This is a free
village, Dru. Oh, some of the merchants who come through here peddle flesh on the side and not every
scut-driver is on wages, but there's no slave market here. No buying or selling, not of men, or elves, or
dwarves—not even goblins. That, my friend, was Dekanter's function; we do other trade here."
Dru thought of the Weathercote dots, but now was not the time for curiosity or
interruptions.
"Suddenly, we've got refugees—goblin females with their children. The farmers made room at
first, but a few became many became the plague you see around us now. Three years ago I went down
to Dekanter myself to have a word with Ghistpok. I'd have had a word with the Beast Lord, too, if I
could have found him. End the raiding, stop the warfare or else. Ghistpok groveled good, and a month
later, our garrison got slaughtered as it slept and two cart trains under our protection never got to
Yarthrain. You may imagine I suffered the loss personally. I went down to Dekanter with forty men
and a taste for vengeance.
"Ghistpok swore it wasn't him, that demons came out of the ground. They hauled away
half his men and all the garrison. He said he prayed to the Beast Lord but by the time the
Beast Lord showed up, it was too late. Then he hauled out the last of my men to back him up.
The poor fellow was half-dead, but he said the attack was undead and magic. Zombies and
ghouls came out of a black fog and left the same way. I put him to the test, to see if his story
held up, because zombies aren't demons and my man didn't know why there were no
corpses or graves. The test killed him, but the story held. You recognize parts of the tale,
don't you, Druhallen?"
Reluctantly, Dru nodded. "Red Wizards. They used a black fog on Vilhon Reach. There
were corpses, though—parts of them."
"I thought so, too. I rebuilt the garrison, even armed the goblins and paid tribute to the
Beast Lord. The next year they caught a passel of Red Wizards red-handed. My man in
Dekanter sent a messenger up the trail with the good news. I went down to do the
interrogation myself. This time there were corpses—parts of them. Ghistpok swore my men had
turned on one another until not one was whole or standing. The goblins had looted the garrison, of
course, but they'd left my dead alone.
"They're a strange breed. Ghistpok's goblins. They said my men had become demons
before they died. Goblins are always starving; they'll eat anything, including their own dead,
but not anything they call 'demon.' They won't touch a demon, not even to bury it. It's a cult
thing, something to do with transformation and deformity. The Beast Lord doesn't tolerate
imperfection."
"What about the Wizards?" Dru asked.
"We found bits of them mixed in with the rest. Tattoos, you know. If I believed Ghistpok,
whatever possessed my men to kill each other possessed the Wizards, too."
"And did you believe Ghistpok?"
Amarandaris stared into his goblet. "Not until I'd lost another garrison and two more cart
trains. I cut my losses and moved the trail. Didn't help with the goblins. They're still
descending on us. I interrogate them—or have my men do it for me. Interrogating a goblin is like
asking a four-year-old who stole the cream. They're still talking about demons and how Ghistpok's
tribe raids everyone else. They're taking males and females now. The gods know what they're doing
with them, because there's no slave trade at Dekanter any more."
"Sounds like you've had some difficult explaining to do down in Darkhold," Dru said after a
sip of wine.
"Not yet." Amarandaris's smile was thin and anxious. "As I said, it's been a bad year,
especially at Zhentil Keep. You're not hearing me say this, but Manshoon and the Council
have upped stakes and moved to the Citadel of the Raven, northwest of Zhentil Keep. The
dust hasn't settled, but it will and in the same patterns as before."
"Good for the Black Network, bad for you."
Another anxious smile flitted across Amarandaris's face. "That caravan outside is the first
of two that will arrive today."
When Dru raised his eyebrows, Amarandaris pointed toward a window where a polished
spyglass was mounted in a splendid brass-and-wood frame.
"Another the day after tomorrow, and two the day after that. I don't mind mules and I don't
mind oxen, but I tell you, two camels is one too many and several score of them is insanity. I'll
be busy, but in, say, a week everything will be sorted out. The camels will be gone, mules will
be headed west, and carts will be rolling south. You'll be with the carts, and so will I. We'll
travel together—you and your partners, I and all the men I can spare. When we come to the turn-off,
the carts will go down the new trail while the rest of us will take the old one to Dekanter. There's no
other way to get there, Druhallen, not for you when I have to guarantee your safety to my superiors."
Dru uttered an oath he'd learned from his eldest brother.
"Perhaps that fate awaits us all," Amarandaris replied without blinking. "But not by my will.
Not by the will of my lord at Darkhold. I only want the results, Dru." Amarandaris spread
empty hands on the table. "Keep the spell. Just let me share what you learn when you cast it.
Give me something useful to take to Darkhold."
"Can't help you, Amarandaris. My advice is, Get a necromancer if you want to know what's
been killing your muscle." Dru stood the goblet on Amarandaris's desk. He headed for the
door. "Thanks for the warnings though. I'll tell Galimer Longfingers what you've said and that I
think we should leave Parnast the way we came."
Amarandaris looked as if he'd just found half a worm in his apple. "I've made you good
offers, Druhallen. Think hard. We'll talk again before you leave."
Druhallen marched down the stairs with his heart pounding in his throat. Although Dru's
conversation with Amarandaris had touched many sensitive subjects and proved that the
Zhentarim had been watching over their shoulders for a good many years, Druhallen was
convinced they'd gotten their best information from someone who should have known better.
Dru poked his head into the commons, hoping to see Galimer alone at a table, but his friend
was elsewhere. From the porch, he scanned the courtyard, looking for Tiep. Lady Luck was
watching out for her orphans; despite a thorough search of the yard, Tiep's dark curls were
nowhere to be found.
Druhallen was behind the stables by then and rather than wade through the throng a
second time, he took the long way home, following the timber palisade and rehearsing the
words he'd use to recount his conversation with Amarandaris and his suspicions regarding
Tiep.
The palisade path was shadowed and empty. Dru walked quickly, his mind on other
things, until a squeal of dire pain halted him. The sound was repeated, louder and more des-
perate. A pig meeting the butcher, he thought. Parnast had absorbed one caravan since
sunrise and another was on the way. The kitchen kettles would be hungry.
He continued a few steps, but the shrieking continued. A butcher wouldn't let an animal
suffer; it soured the meat. Druhallen detoured into a maze of sheds and alleys. There was
laughter, now, with the squealing. He'd loosened his knife and composed his mind for
spellcasting before he came to a wide spot where a handful of men—most of them yellowed
with the dust of Anauroch—had gathered at the open door of a chicken coop. The squeals came from
within the coop, but no bird made them.
"What's happening here?" Dru asked the nearest man.
"Caught the bastard red-handed."
Never mind that he'd been planning to pound some sense into his foster-son, Dru's
immediate concern was that Tiep had gotten caught and, whatever he'd done—even if it were
a hanging offense—no one deserved the pain and terror radiating from the chicken coop. Dru
shouldered his way to the open door and looked inside.
Not Tiep. Not Tiep.
With the dust and feathers and shadows, Druhallen couldn't be sure what the men were
doing but their prey was smaller than Tiep. And, if it wasn't Tiep then, strictly speaking, it
wasn't Dru's problem. Some of the men around the coop—perhaps all of them—were Zhentarim
of one stripe of the other. With Amarandaris making veiled threats, Dru didn't want or need to get
involved with Zhentarim justice. A man couldn't fight every battle or right every wrong—
The victim broke free. About the size of a goat, it charged toward the doorway's freedom
and collided with Druhallen, who was blocking it. He looked down: a battered and bleeding
half-grown goblin clung to his leg.
"Kick it back over here," one of the batterers commanded.
An ugly, little face, made uglier by blood and bruises, peered up at him.
Point of fact: Druhallen didn't much like youngsters of any species. If he'd known that
Rozt'a wasn't going to produce any, he might have agreed to marry her. Children, though,
didn't sense his prejudice. They flocked to him like ants to honey. Smudge-faced, aromatic
offspring would run away from their mothers for a chance to tug on his sleeve or ask him
inarticulate questions. Every time it happened, he felt the urge to pick the little pest up by the
neck and toss it into next week ... and every time he resisted the urge.
He resisted it again.
"You've made your point," he said in his sternest voice.
"We ain't yet," a different man complained. "It's still alive."
Goblins weren't unnatural creatures. They were male and female, like humans, elves,
chickens or goats—though from what Dru could see, he didn't know if he was risking his life for a
boy-goblin or a girl.
"I said, it's over. I'll take this one back to the charterhouse. Lord Amarandaris can
investigate your charges."
Dru knew that Amarandaris would welcome that chore about as much as he'd welcome a
punch in the groin, but the name, he hoped, would have a chilling effect on the bullies. It did,
for about three heartbeats. Then the man who'd asked Dru to free himself with a kick, made a
grab for the goblin's long, twisted ears.
Druhallen had an instant to crush ash between his thumb and middle finger. Darkness like
a foggy night in winter filled the coop, but the spell he'd cast was more than illusion of
weather. Sadness and lethargy flowed with the fog. One of the men who'd been beating the
goblin began sobbing and none of the others tried to stop Druhallen as he backed away.
Gloom continued to grow and thicken. It ate all the light in the alleys. One man ran away
screaming. He was the lucky one; the rest were caught up in melancholy that might not
dissipate before sundown—close quarters enhanced the spell, making it stronger and more enduring
than it would be otherwise.
"Come along, little fellow," Dru said to the goblin still clinging to his leg. "Let's get out of
here."
He reached down to pry the goblin free and lift it higher. The goblin trembled and hid its
face in the crook of Dru's arm, more like a dog than a child. A naked, filthy, feral dog that
reeked of rotted food. Druhallen had just about conquered the need to gag when he felt bony
fingers fumbling with his belt.
"Behave!" he scolded, imprisoning its hands within his own.
It began to gnaw on his knuckles and he was tempted to let it go altogether. He should
have known better. Goblins were incorrigible. But, having begun the rescue, he held on until
they were out of his spells' influence.
"Run off with you," Dru suggested and gave the scrawny child a push toward the palisade.
Naturally, the goblin wouldn't let go of his hands. He didn't know what to do next when a
goblin female shot out of the natural shadows. She grabbed the youngster. It shrieked as
loudly as it had in the chicken coop then both it and—presumably—its mother were gone.
Dru was more than a little relieved, more than a little dirty, and in a fine mood to tell Rozt'a
and Galimer about the day's misadventures.
30 Eleasias, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)
Parnast
Druhallen found it harder to tell Rozt'a and Galimer that he suspected Tiep had betrayed
them than it had been to listen to Amarandaris create those suspicions. They didn't want to
believe the youth they loved as a son and brother would snuggle up to the Zhentarim.
Galimer had gotten an unexpected cold shoulder from every merchant in the morning's
caravan and couldn't guess why until Dru's tale offered an explanation.
"I warned that boy about making friends among the Zhentarim," Galimer muttered several
times before sinking into a dark silence.
Rozt'a's faith in their foundling was not so easily shaken. "It could just as easily be our
fault. We could have been overheard after we got here. How many times have I said—'Don't
say anything; the walls have ears' only to have you tell me not to worry, that you've set wards? You
depend too much on magic, Druhallen. Wards and locks only keep the honest people out and you're
not the greatest wizard who ever walked. Maybe you're the equal of this Amarandaris, but who calls
the tune for him? Sememmon in Darkhold? Gods spare us! The Network spies on itself—always
has, always will. Do you think there's nothing in Darkhold to break your wards?"
"It doesn't take magic to break my wards," Druhallen shot back. "Anyone can break them.
But no wizard—not all the Network wizards working together—could reconstruct them afterward, at
least not in a way that would fool me for a heartbeat. You'd know if I tried to sharpen one of your
knives, wouldn't you? Well, it's the same with my wards." Dru stretched his arms toward the walls.
"They're mine, exactly as I set them. No one, not a mouse nor a mage, has put an ear to our walls."
"What about a priest," she persisted. "A priest and his god. You'd never know."
"A god wouldn't stop with the wards. If Amarandaris had been spying on us, he'd have
known what the Candlekeep spell could and couldn't do. He thinks it's more potent than it
is—that's Tiep. That's got to be Tiep."
"The boy's been through a lot," Galimer said from the corner. "And he's always had a taste
for dice. I thought we'd gotten those lessons pounded into his head, but this time it's different.
This time he's trying to impress that goose girl."
Before Dru thought through Galimer's implications, Rozt'a's eyes narrowed the way they
did when she held her sword.
"That goose girl," she whispered coldly. "Manya. The Pit take her. She's your spy,
Druhallen."
"She's still a child," Dru protested, but he wasn't that naive. More than one man had been
separated from his secrets by a woman, even by a goose girl. "She's Parnaster. I don't know
why or how, but I can't believe that a Parnaster would run to Amarandaris."
"Forget Parnast," Rozt'a advised. "I should have asked questions. I didn't like the look of
her from the start—all shy and helpless smiles. They're the worst. You never see a helpless girl who
isn't too pretty by half. Like as not, she caught Amarandaris's eye and now she's working for him,
will she or nil she."
Dru shook his head. "The first thing we told Tiep was: never confide in a stranger—"
"There are no strangers in the grass!" Rozt'a shouted, and Dru realized he'd rasped a raw
nerve. "Tiep's never had a girl his own age look him in the eye. He's got no defenses against
that. She's had him eating out of her hand."
Dru didn't know how far things might have progressed between Tiep and Manya, but both
he and Galimer knew for a fact that the goose girl wasn't the first girl to make cow-eyes at the
youth. He was growing into a handsome man, and he'd always been charming.
Tiep and Manya had spent the past three dusty afternoons together ... and yesterday he
hadn't shown up for supper in the commons. When they'd asked, he'd said that Manya's
mother had set out a plate for him.
I couldn't very well say, 'No, I won't break bread with you,' could I? I not supposed to be
rude, am I? And the food in that farmhouse was better than the swill we've been getting at the
charterhouse.
Dru hadn't said anything when Tiep had made the remark and didn't say anything now, as
it echoed in memory. When it came to weaving truth and lies into seamless cloth, Tiep was a
born master. The youth could charm strangers, but he was at his best with those who wanted
to believe him. If they were smart, he, Galimer and Rozt'a would cut Tiep loose before he
brought disaster down on their heads ...
The thought of abandoning Tiep to save themselves was so unpleasant that Dru turned
physically away from it and found himself staring into Galimer's similarly turbulent eyes. If he
turned around, he'd be staring at Rozt'a.
Well, a wizard could always study his spellbook. Who knew when meditation on an old,
simple spell would yield an insight into a more complex magic or the ability to cast it without
need of words, gestures, or reagents? Druhallen hadn't stumbled into any new insights when
the supper gong clanged from the charterhouse porch and Tiep hadn't returned.
"I'm going after him," Rozt'a announced.
Her fighting knives shone in the early evening light. Dru recalled, as if from a dream, that
he'd heard her sharpening them while he'd been meditating.
"I'll come with you," Galimer offered.
Rozt'a snarled, "No" as she slammed the knives into their sheaths, one on her right calf,
the other on her left forearm. "I'll handle this alone."
"Be careful," Dru warned.
She snorted laughter. "A bit late for that. A bit late for all of us. Save me a seat—save two."
In the commons, Druhallen and Galimer did more than save seats. They collected extra
portions of bread and stew. The stew had congealed before Tiep came through the door with
a grim Rozt'a a half-step behind.
"Sorry we're late," the lad said brightly. "But two Anauroch caravans in one day! I got
distracted. You wouldn't believe what they pulled off those camels." He stirred, then ignored,
his stew. "You remember those sandalwood boxes Old Maddie sells in Scornubel? I saw
boxes like that, only twice as big and half the cost. I was talking to a trader—negotiating—
when Rozt'a said you were all waiting on me. The trader says I can have the lot for three blue-eyes
with Cormyr mint-marks. The boxes have got to be worth ten blue-eyes in Scornubel—at least ten. I
said I had to talk to my partners first."
Galimer scowled and Tiep spooned up a mouthful of stew. Dru waited for Rozt'a's version
of events. Her lips were set in thin, pale lines, but she said nothing, so the lad's tale might be
true. Trading three Cormyr coins in Parnast for ten in Scornubel was worth consideration, but
didn't mean their other suspicions were wrong.
If Tiep suspected he was marching toward a cliff, he hid it well throughout dinner and the
sunset walk between the charterhouse and their room. He was the first to speak after the
door was shut.
"So, what do you think? I've got one blue-eye set aside. Will you advance me the other
two? I'm telling you—Old Maddie will pay us at least eight, or we can peddle the boxes ourselves. I'll
give you four for two. It's a sure thing—"
Dru had heard enough. "I had an unpleasant conversation with Lord Amarandaris this
afternoon, Tiep."
The lad sobered instantly without taking on a guilty aura. "Problems? Anything I can do
to—?"
"I'm more interested in what you've already have done."
"What you might have done," Rozt'a corrected. "By accident—because you trusted someone
you shouldn't have."
Tiep's eyebrows pulled together. "It's just boxes—"
Galimer leapt into the growing confusion: "We may have been remiss in—er, aspects of your
education, Tiep. Flattery, at the wrong time—You might have been tempted to trade confidences with
someone—a woman—a girl—"
"Manya? What's Manya got to do with sandalwood boxes—or some stuffy Zhentarim?"
"That's what we were hoping you could tell us," Dru answered.
Tiep straightened. He'd grown this summer; there was no more looking down on him.
They'd come to a serious crossroads. If Dru couldn't trust Tiep the way he trusted Galimer
and Rozt'a, the young man was on his own. Worse—if he, Galimer, and Rozt'a couldn't agree on
the lad's trustworthiness, then Dru himself might be alone.
He continued, "Lord Amarandaris had a notion of why we were headed for Dekanter and
what I'd hoped to do when I got there. I think he could only have gotten that information from
talking to one of us—or talking to someone who had talked to one of us."
"He hasn't talked to me about Dekanter," Tiep replied quickly. "And I haven't spilled
anything to Manya, either—not that she'd tell Amandis even if I had. She says he's nothing
but slime with legs and hair."
"I trust that you and she were clever enough not to say that where you could be
overheard?"
Tiep nodded. "We were with the geese. Geese're almost as good as wards—" A thoughtful
expression formed on his face. "Our wards. Maybe someone busted your wards, Dru?"
"My wards are—" He stopped speaking. His wards were suddenly fire in his mind. "A stranger's
breaching them right now."
Rozt'a flattened beside the door. She drew her knives. "Amarandaris?"
"Can't tell," Dru admitted. In all his years of setting wards around their camps and rented
rooms, he'd had only a handful of opportunities to study what happened when they were
breached by uninvited guests. "I don't sense a threat."
"Manya!" Tiep lunged for the door.
Dru whispered the word that lifted the wards. He sagged against the wall when the wasted
magic rebounded inside his skull. Stone blind and half deaf, he faintly heard Galimer say—
"Mystra's mercy, who are you?"
Dru pulled himself together, pinched a cold ember from the placket of his shirt sleeve, and
thought of flames. When his vision cleared, he'd be ready to hurl fire.
"Sheemzher, good man."
Sheemzher's voice was reedy and foreign. Make that more than foreign as Tiep asked:
"What are you?"
"Sheemzher serve good lady. Good lady Wyndyfarh."
Dru didn't recognize the name. When he opened his eyes, he didn't recognize Rozt'a
either, though it seemed likely that she was the larger blur slamming a smaller blur against
the closed door.
"Who sent you?" she demanded.
In plain terror, the reedy voice shrieked, "Sheemzher alone. Come alone, not sent!"
Another thud shook dust down from the ceiling.
"No harm!" Sheemzher gasped. "No harm, good woman! Sheemzher give thanks.
Sheemzher give reward. Good sir save child."
"It's a goblin!" Tiep shouted. "It's a godsforsaken goblin dressed up like a little man."
Dru ground his knuckles into his eyes. "If it's a goblin," he said to Rozt'a, "let it go."
"You jest?" she replied, giving Sheemzher another slam for good measure.
"No." There was one last thud as the goblin fell to the floor. "I rescued a goblin on the way
back from my meeting with Amarandaris."
"Why?" Galimer asked, and after a pause, "From what?"
"From men—Zhentarim thugs. They were going to tear it apart. I don't know why."
Dru rubbed his eyes some more. They burned horribly, but he could see again—or thought
he could. Sheemzher was the strangest creature he'd seen in year. No doubt he was a goblin—nothing
else under the sun was quite as scrawny in the arms and legs, quite as jut-jawed ugly, or quite that red-
orange color—but he was indeed masquerading as a man in cut-down blue breeches and a fitted,
bright-green jacket. Sheemzher even wore boots; Dru couldn't remember ever seeing a goblin wearing
shoes, much less black boots with brass buckles. Or a broad-brimmed hat which the goblin scooped
from the floor and brandished before him as he bowed.
"Sheemzher reward good sir. Good sir keep generous heart," the goblin said. "Good lady
say: May your chosen god bless you with fair fortune." He tamped the hat tight over his nearly
bald head.
"Who did you say sent you?" Dru asked after a silent moment.
"Sheemzher serve good lady Wyndyfarh. Good lady in Wood. Good lady not send
Sheemzher, good sir. Sheemzher come alone. Sheemzher give reward. Few big men save
people."
The goblin dug into a leather shoulder-pouch and withdrew a smaller sack sewn from
patterned silk and knotted with silken cord. He offered the smaller sack to Dru who hesitated
before taking it. A civilized goblin—a goblin who could meet human eyes without flinching was as
extraordinary as his hat. Dru's first thought was that the creature was ensorcelled. He readied the same
magic ring he'd used on Amarandaris earlier in the day.
"I'm grateful for your thanks," he said, striving to match the goblin's simple formality. The
goblin-kin weren't known for their cleverness. "Your thanks are sufficient. I need no other
reward for saving a child."
He wove his fingers past the offering, which he didn't want under any circumstance, and
clasped the goblin's empty hand. Druhallen had never taken the magical measure of a goblin
before. It was difficult to interpret the sensations that raced up his arm, but they didn't have
the signatures he would have expected from a mage in disguise.
The goblin grasped Dru's hand in return and tilted his head up. "Not accept reward, good
sir? Not good? Not right? Sheemzher sorry." Ugly as he was, Sheemzher could have taught
Tiep a thing or two about pleading. Which was another odd thing as goblins weren't known for
their empathy. "Sheemzher give all for child."
Dumbfounded, Dru asked, "I saved your child?"
As hard as it was to accept the hat, boots, and bright-green jacket, it was harder to
imagine that Sheemzher was the father of the malodorous creature Dru had rescued from the
chicken coop.
"No, good sir. Sheemzher not father. Mother, daughter not belong Sheemzher. Mother,
daughter from Greypeaks. Mother, daughter hungry. Mother, daughter make mistake. Big
mistake. Sheemzher helpless. Sheemzher pray. Good sir come. Good sir save child.
Sheemzher give reward."