Scott Ciencin - The Harpers 04 - The Night Parade

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The Harpers
Book 4
The Night Parade
Scott Ciencin
One
She hated the storms.
Staring out at the walled city of Arabel through the grand window of her private chambers,
Myrmeen Lhal closed her eyes and listened as the rain beat a staccato rhythm against the thick glass. The
sound should have been comforting; it reminded her of a nervous habit her father had possessed,
drumming his fingers on the side of the lute he had played for passersby on the streets of Calimport. She
could still picture him as he sat on the pavement, entertaining the rich from sunrise to sunset, their gold
dropping into the plumed hat at his feet. Turning her thoughts from that image, Myrmeen forced herself to
smile. Tonight she did not want to think about her early life. At thirty-four she was the ruler of the second
largest city in Cormyr and there was no reason for her to give in to the sadness that awaited her in the
past. It had been the storm, of course. The haunting sounds of the rain had brought back moments that
were better left forgotten. Better to concentrate on more pleasant memories, such as the young sculptor's
touch as he had expertly worked her tender flesh for the past ten evenings, as if he were attempting to
make her into one of his highly regarded works of art. Across the room lay a present that he had left for
her: a bust of the ruler wearing her most wicked expression and little else. Behind her was the huge,
round bed they had shared, topped with teal and black silk sheets that had been wrestled into unnatural
formations by their efforts. On the floor lay a pile of black and gold pillows that had been tossed from the
bed in a frenzy that continued to delight Myrmeen when she thought of it. The chamber was lined with
several sculptures and paintings; many were abstract works of expression and all were joyous
celebrations of life and love.
She clutched at the thin black sheath she wore as she hugged herself and sighed. Her life had
turned out better than she had ever believed it would. She would not allow herself the ridiculous
indulgence of self-pity. For as long as she was able, she would push away the growing realization that for
all her wealth, for all the dreams she had made real, her life was hollow and empty.
"Myrmeen?"
The tall, beautiful, dark-haired woman turned from the window in surprise. A decade ago, when
she had been a ranger operating under the Harpers' direct supervision, Myrmeen instantly would have
been aware of the lean, pale-skinned man who stood next to her. The storm had distracted her, she told
herself. "Is something wrong?" he asked.
"Foolish thoughts," she said in a failed effort to banish them. "It's late, Evon. What do you need?"
Evon Stralana, Arabel's minister of defense, shifted uncomfortably. Myrmeen suddenly realized
her state of near-undress. Out of respect for his more delicate and refined sensibilities, Myrmeen turned
from the man as she retrieved a robe from beside her heated, ivory bath and slipped it on, tying the sash
tightly around her small waist. Her generous figure was accentuated even more by the clinging silk robe.
Stralana glanced at her long, beautiful legs, exposed by the slit at the side of the robe, then trained his
gaze on her eyes and did not allow it to wander, though he would not have offended her if he had.
Myrmeen restrained a smile.
"We have a prisoner who claims he must speak to you on an urgent matter. He murdered a man
at the Black Mask Tavern. My guess is that he wants to plead for his life."
"That's not unusual, Evon. But you generally don't come to me with such requests. Why is this
man so special?"
Stralana's head tilted slightly to the side. "He's something of a sight. A filthy man dressed in rags,
with wild eyes and hair everywhere you look." The immaculately groomed minister of defense wrinkled
his nose in disgust. "From the stench I rather doubt that he's bathed in months. But he had a message that
I thought you should hear."
"What did the vagrant say?"
"He said to tell you that the Night Parade is real."
Myrmeen recoiled as if she had been struck.
"He said his name is—"
"Dak," she interrupted.
"Yes. He said that you know him."
"I knew him," she said, correcting the thin man. "Once. From the way you've described him, he
doesn't sound much like the man I remember."
Behind her, she could hear the whisper of the storm.
Crossing her arms over her breasts, Myrmeen set her face in a grim expression and narrowed her
eyes. "Have him cleaned up and brought to me."
Why had it suddenly become so cold? she wondered.
"Here?" Stralana said, aghast. The pale, dark-haired man surveyed her opulent bedchambers.
"Hardly," she said, her voice as cold and hard as her eyes had become. Bright yellow slivers
floated in her deep blue eyes, ships of gold adrift on a sea with no stars. "I want him brought to my
private court. I'll meet you there in an hour."
"Of course, Myrmeen," he said sheepishly. "My apologies."
Stralana exited her chambers without another word. Myrmeen looked back to the window and
gazed at the rooftops of Arabel as the rain streaked downward, then studied her own reflection in the
glass. With the exception of the barest hint of lines around her eyes and mouth, her flesh had lost little of
its soft, youthful appearance. Her strongly defined cheekbones, piercing eyes, full, blood-red lips, and
flowing brunette hair served to better define her beauty. Her figure was generously proportioned, and she
trained daily to stay in peak condition.
Myrmeen spun away from the window and sat down hard upon her bed. "It's been ten years,
Dak," she whispered hoarsely. "Why didn't you stay away?"
From somewhere far off, as if in reply, she heard a rumble. But it was only the storm.
Or so it seemed.
An hour later, Myrmeen waited in her private court, dressed in her ceremonial armor. A
jewel-encrusted sword hung at her side. Her hair was tucked neatly within a shining silver headdress
modeled after the legendary phoenix, and a host of red gems were embedded in the steel mesh that
encased her trim body. The only flesh that was exposed was that of her face.
Stralana brought Dak into the room. The prisoner's ankles and wrists were secured by chains,
and he moved in a halting fashion. Even hunched over, the man was imposing, standing close to six and a
half feet. He was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot. His damp hair had been cut as if someone had placed a bowl
over his head, then shaved. A series of nicks lined his face, causing Myrmeen to wonder if he fought
whoever had been assigned the task of making him presentable. Still, the man was handsome, with jade
green eyes, soft black hair, and strong, chiseled features, dressed in a simple white frock.
Dak laughed when he saw Myrmeen sitting upon her throne. Grinning, he raised his hand slightly,
indicating her full battle regalia. "A little extreme, don't you think, Flower?"
Myrmeen's expression revealed nothing as she ordered Stralana to leave them alone. In moments
he was gone.
"Dak," she said stiffly. "It has been a long time."
"The years have been kinder to you, Myrmeen."
She advanced on him. "You knew that Arabel was mine. You must have."
"I knew. I've been here before. I've seen you at the ceremonies. You did not see me."
"You bastard," she said finally. "How dare you mention the Night Parade?"
"I had to get your attention," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. "Besides, it's true. The monsters
are real."
Memories exploded unbidden in her mind. She thought of the first time she had heard the name of
the Night Parade. She had only been six years old and her mother had tried to comfort her by explaining
where the soul of Myrmeen's stillborn sister had gone. Myrmeen had been told that the Night Parade had
come that evening with singers, dancers, clowns, acrobats—and they called out to her sister with voices
that were too tempting and too sweet to resist. Her mother's voice returned to her:
"Now your sister is a part of that wonderful procession, happy for all time with others like her
who were not meant to be a part of our world."
The story was meant to comfort Myrmeen. Instead it had terrified her. She saw the Night Parade
as a demon horde come to steal the souls of the innocent. Dak was trying to unnerve her by bringing up
her childhood nightmares, which she had shared with him in better times, and she could not allow him to
succeed.
"They tell me you killed a man," Myrmeen said.
"Yes. I was drunk. I admit it. It was a mistake."
"%u struck him down from behind after he humiliated you. I always told you that your temper
was going to get you in trouble one day."
"You'll never stop judging me, will you, Flower?"
"Don't call me that again," Myrmeen said, unsheathing her sword, aiming the point at his exposed
throat. The cold steel pricked his flesh and he did not back away.
Dak grinned. "I've never stopped loving you, you know."
"I stopped loving you," she said, her voice trembling, the sword's fatal edge lowering almost an
inch, her hand wavering. She could tell he was lying. He had never been able to deceive her. Myrmeen
wondered if he could tell she had lied, too. As much as she hated herself for it, she still loved him.
"Myrmeen," he said, his tone suddenly somber, his eyes revealing his true desperation. "I made a
mistake. I need your help."
"There's nothing I can do for you, Dak. You broke the law. You must be treated like anyone
else. The man you killed had a family and friends."
"I have information that's worth—my life," he said haltingly.
"What information?"
"Not so quickly, Myrmeen. I want your guarantee that I'll be taken out of this city. I wish to be
secreted away tonight. They plan to kill me tomorrow."
"What could you possibly tell me, Dak? Do you mean to frighten me with stories that the
nightmares of my childhood have flesh and form?"
"They do," he said gravely. "Myrmeen, think back, fourteen years ago, the night of the great
storm, in Calimport."
I don't want to be reminded of that, she thought, but she refused to give in to his manipulations.
From outside, the sounds of the storm increased. The window flashed searing white as lightning struck a
tree in the courtyard.
"Do you remember?" he asked.
" Yes." Her knees almost buckled as she spoke that single, damning word. Thunder rolled,
causing the windows to shake in their housings.
"You were pregnant with our child. The child was delivered that night during the great storm."
I don't want to hear this, she thought, but I will not give in to him. I will never give in to him again.
The rain beat at the window like a thousand tiny hands begging for her to let them in, for her to
stop denying the truth. Lightning flashed again, from farther off.
"The baby died," he said.
Stop it, she thought. Stop it, damn you.
"Or that's what you were led to believe."
Suddenly the sounds of the storm fell away and became distant once more. "What are
you—what are you saying?"
"Myrmeen, our daughter did not die that night. She was not stillborn. She was healthy and strong.
I sold her."
"No."
"I sold her to the Night Parade. To a man named Kracauer. He is still in Calimport."
"You're lying. You bastard, you are lying." Deep down, however, she knew that he was telling
the truth. A baby's scream returned to her, a cry that had been dismissed as part of her fever dream. The
delivery had been difficult and she had been delirious with pain. That night, he had never said that the
baby had died. All he had said was, "She's gone, Myrmeen. Our daughter is gone," and that was true.
They had rarely spoken of their child from that night on. She could no longer stand to be touched
by him, to speak to him, to be reminded of what they had lost. Within a year their marriage had been
dissolved.
"What did you do with the money?" she asked. She could not yet focus on the unbelievable truth.
"There was no money. I was in debt. Kracauer took our child as payment." Dak lowered his
head in practiced shame. "Myrmeen, I'm sorry. I thought that we would be able to have more children. I
didn't know that the doctor would turn out to be a butcher, I didn't know what he would do to you—"
"No more!" she screamed. Dak fell silent. Myrmeen fought back the tears that welled up in her
eyes and the racking sobs that threatened to erupt from within her soul. "Is she alive?"
"I don't know," he said, "but you could find out. With your skills and your resources, you could
go back to Calimport and follow the trail. You could do what I have never had the courage to do. You
could find her."
There was silence in the court. Only the persistent drumming of the rain intruded. The storm was
moving on, heading south, Myrmeen guessed, south to Calimport.
Dak raised his head and gazed at Myrmeen with an expression of humility and sadness that she
was certain he had carefully rehearsed. "Now, tell me how you plan to smuggle me out of the city."
"In the undertaker's wagon," she said as she turned her back to him, her head hung low.
"A smelly and unpleasant journey, Flower," he said with a laugh, "but I'll take it."
"Yes, you will," she said, and suddenly whirled on her heels, her sword flashing as lightning struck
once again. The bright burst of light reflected off the razor-sharp edge of her sword as it swept through
the air and separated Dak's head from his shoulders. Blood spurted from the headless corpse, spraying
the walls and Myrmeen's shining armor. His body collapsed a few seconds after his head struck the floor
and rolled to the corner, an expression of surprise permanently etched upon his features.
"You asked if the information was worth your life, you smug bastard," she said as she watched
the pool of blood from his corpse slowly ease toward her. "I'd say that it was."
She went to the door and summoned Evon Stralana. When the thin, pale man arrived, she said,
"Have this removed. I want it secreted from the city tonight. Burn the remains in Beggar's Field."
The bloody sword was still in her gloved hand. Stralana did not look down at the weapon. "Is
there anything else?"
"Yes," she said softly. "I want you to arrange a meeting for me. I'll give you a list of names. Some
of them might be difficult to find, but do your best."
"Of course," he said. She was about to leave when he stopped her and gestured toward her
gore-drenched sword. "Would you like me to have that cleaned for you?"
"No," she said stiffly. "His blood is the one thing I would prefer to keep, as a reminder."
With that she left him alone in the bloody court.
* * * * *
Three nights later, Myrmeen sat by herself in a private booth at the rear of the Hungry Man Inn.
Myrmeen often appeared in public without benefit of her royal bodyguards; the people knew they were
far better off with her in command of the trading city, and thoughts of assassination were a minor
concern.
"You're not touching your food," Zehla said.
Myrmeen looked up from her plate and stared at the old woman's heavily lined face. She had
questioned Zehla extensively about her connection to Kelemvor Lyonsbane in the days when the gods
walked the Realms, and the two women had surprisingly become friends.
"I'm meeting someone," she said, embarrassed. "A few people, actually."
"I know. That's why you need your strength."
Myrmeen shook her head and pushed the plate away. "I can't. I haven't seen these people in a
long time. My stomach is in knots as it is."
"Then you better untie it quickly. I've already seated the Harpers at my best table. They're
wondering when you're going to join them."
Glancing over in shock, Myrmeen saw the party of five for whom she had been waiting seated at
a table near the door. A bearded man with pale blue eyes and a red cape lifted a tankard to her.
"Burke," she said in a whisper. Suddenly her nervous feelings vanished, replaced with a girlish
enthusiasm she had almost forgotten that she once had possessed.
Zehla smiled and collected the untouched plate as Myrmeen rose and crossed the inn, stopping
before the table where her old friends were seated. Her heart sank as she realized that she only
recognized four members of the party. Sitting close to Burke was his wife, Varina, a lithe, blond-haired
woman who wore black armor with red trim, the same as her husband. Across from the couple was a
man in his early forties. He had tightly curled salt-and-pepper hair, dark eyes, and skin that was deeply
scarred by a childhood disease he had survived.
Despite his shortcomings, he was an attractive man, though not as dazzlingly handsome or
thoroughly at ease with himself as Burke. His name was Reisz Roudabush, and he once had been in love
with Myrmeen. Although she had cared for him deeply, she had not returned his affections. Reisz nodded
and looked away, as if the mere sight of her was painful to him, even after a decade of separation. Sitting
next to a chair that had been left open for Myrmeen was a tall, attractive woman who could have passed
for her sister. Of all those who had come in answer to her summons, it was this woman, Elyn, who
mattered the most to Myrmeen's plans. In the corner was a thin, young brown-haired man whom
Myrmeen had never seen before.
"There were ten of us," Myrmeen said as she sat in the vacant chair.
"We are all that remains," Elyn said. "I'm sure you know everyone but young Ord, here."
The dark-haired man nodded. He did not seem pleased to be at the inn.
"What happened to the others?" Myrmeen asked.
"Everyone but Morlan is alive and well, retired from the life, and prosperous," Burke said in his
jovial voice.
Morlan had been a magic-user, a mage who had possessed a trove of available spells that had
saved the group on many occasions. He also had possessed a collection of filthy jokes that Myrmeen
continued to draw upon to this day.
"How did he die?"
"Fighting another wizard," Varina said. "His death has been avenged."
"You should have contacted me," Myrmeen said. "I should have been a part of it."
"We shouldn't have needed to contact you," Reisz said bitterly. "You should have been with us. If
you had been—"
"It would have made no difference," Burke said strongly.
Reisz returned his gaze to the drink he had yet to touch. "Probably not," he agreed. "Of course,
we'll never know."
"Ignore him," Elyn said, placing her hand on Myrmeen's wrist. "I wouldn't be surprised if he left
the womb with his dour attitude."
Myrmeen became cold at the reference.
"What's wrong?" Elyn asked, instantly alarmed at the change in her friend.
Myrmeen told them everything. In moments she was surrounded by a din of sympathy and
outrage, oaths of vengeance and curses at fate itself. Reisz slammed his tankard on the table and the
discussion abruptly ceased.
"She didn't come to us for our pity," Reisz said. "She needs something from us. Hear her out."
Nodding slowly, Myrmeen said, "He's right. I'll need your help if I'm going to find my daughter
after all these years."
"Tell us what you want us to do," Elyn said softly.
"I'm going to have to leave Arabel for a time, and that's not as simple a task as it sounds. This
place was ruled by anarchy before I took control. If I were to leave tomorrow, it wouldn't be long before
it returned to that state. I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I do know that I don't intend to allow
what I've accomplished over the last eight years to be lost to me. I need someone to safeguard the city
while I'm gone." Myrmeen turned to the dark-haired woman beside her. "Elyn, I need you to pretend to
be me for a time."
Elyn shuddered. "Myrmeen, I'm a warrior. I'm not meant to sit on a throne and pass judgments.
Besides, no one would believe that I was you without—"
"Magic," Myrmeen said as she withdrew an amulet from her pouch and laid it on the table. "An
old acquaintance of mine forged this trinket and cast a spell upon it that still works. Whoever wears this
amulet will assume my image. We had needed some time alone and so one of my serving maids assisted
me in the deception."
"Let me see that," the young Harper said as he reached across the table, snatched the amulet, and
pulled it tight around his neck. There was a tiny snap as he fixed the clasp behind his neck and suddenly
there were two Myrmeen Lhals sitting at the table. Only their style of dress distinguished them from one
another. The boy looked down at his hands, then clawed at the amulet until he was able to release the
clasp, the illusion suddenly dispelled. Hands shaking, he dropped the amulet in front of Myrmeen as the
others laughed.
"Myrmeen, why me?" Elyn said.
"Because I need someone who would rule as I would; someone who would appreciate the
responsibility and maintain Arabel in the manner in which I will instruct them."
"What about the rest of us?" Burke said.
"I need only Elyn. I don't need anyone else."
"Of course you do," Varina countered. "Why else would you have summoned all of us?"
Myrmeen hesitated. She did not have an answer.
"I'll do it," Elyn said, "on one condition: that the others go with you to Calimport. If the Night
Parade is real, then it is the Harpers' duty, as lord protectors of the Realms, to destroy it."
"I don't know," Myrmeen said.
"You'd better decide soon," Elyn said, smiling. "The offer is only good for a short time."
"She's right," Reisz said. "You are too valuable to Cormyr to risk in the foul pit of Calimport. You
must let us accompany you."
Ord sat back, crossing his arms. "She doesn't want our help. That much is clear. Why should we
risk our lives—"
"Because she's one of us," Elyn said sharply. "When you join the Harpers, you become one for
life." "But I never officially joined you," Myrmeen said.
"A technicality," Burke said as he offered his hand to Myrmeen. She took it and nodded in
agreement.
"An error that perhaps we will see righted before this business is done," Reisz said as he finally
raised his tankard and drained the contents.
From somewhere close, Myrmeen thought she heard the low rumble of thunder. She dismissed
the thought and settled back to spend the evening with her only true friends.
Two
The group arrived in Calimport a few weeks later, before sunrise. At Myrmeen's insistence they
spent their time stashing caches of gold, false papers, and weapons throughout the city. They made a full
circle of the port city and saw opulent mansions sitting side-by-side with shantytowns. Traveling down a
street at random sometimes led them to fantastic outdoor markets where the finest jewelry and clothing
could be found, along with the most succulent of foods. That same journey just as often led them to
scenes of abject horror, such as children with bellies bloated from starvation fighting their parents for the
disease-ridden rats they had captured in the gutters, or street people openly relieving themselves before
the disguised Harpers.
The group's youngest member, Ord, was especially disgusted when a young man tried to sell
himself, his sister, his mother, or anyone the warrior might desire, for the night's comfort. The boy
preferred life in the wilderness to the casual degradations he and his companions frequently encountered
in the city.
Close to nightfall, they returned to the inn that first had caught their attention when they had
passed through the city's gates. They were in one of three rooms they had rented for the first leg of their
stay, and the cook sent one of his apprentices with a pair of baskets containing their dinner. The Harpers
devoured the meats, wines, and sweetbreads with barbaric speed, or so it appeared to Myrmeen. She
had been used to taking her time with a meal and preferred to conduct business that strongly affected her
city or her romantic life while sipping from crystal goblets filled with the most expensive wines in the land.
Those days would have to be put aside, she realized, if she wanted the acceptance of not only the
Harpers with whom she rode, but also the commoners whose assistance she would need if she was to
find her daughter. Snatching the wine bottle from Reisz's hand, Myrmeen threw her head back and took
a slug. The wine was of a crude vintage and burned going down her throat. She did not betray her
discomfort as she handed the bottle back to the older man.
"It's very good," she managed to say.
Reisz's smile was tight as he watched the sudden flush brought to her face by the liquor. As he
continued to stare at her, his smile deepened and the battlefield of scars on his face joined with the deeply
driven age lines surrounding his eyes and mouth; together they bunched up as if they were an army of
warriors raising clenched fists to the sky. He could not look away from her.
"You've had almost a day to think about it," Reisz said as he moved to Myrmeen's side in the
darkened chamber. "Have you come up with a suitable identity yet?"
Myrmeen looked away and sighed. She was almost too exhausted to think about it any further
after the busy day she had endured. Burke and Varina sat on the floor, cuddling like children who
believed they had invented the concept of love. The bearded man with pale blue eyes gave his wife a
quick kiss, then said, "Reisz is right. You're the one who insists on using another name. Let's hear it."
Myrmeen tried to appear brave as she said, "Magistra, the mage, teller of men's fortunes, diviner
of their souls."
She gestured with a weak flourish and tried to convince herself that it was the poor wine that had
inspired this lame attempt at creativity. Silently cursing herself for mentioning this one out loud, especially
in light of the blank stares she received from her friends and allies, Myrmeen thought of the half dozen
scribes and poets whom she could boast as lovers. She wished she had possessed the foresight to have
assigned one of them to this task before she had left Arabel. Merely rolling around in passionate
embraces with them had not, apparently, led to any of their inventiveness rubbing off—not with words,
anyway."And you're the one who's supposed to be leading us?" Ord said with a bitter laugh. "Your
name's not that uncommon. Just use it."
Burke placed his head in his wife's lap. "I'm afraid the boy's right. That was perfectly dreadful.
Better than most you've come up with today, but still dreadful."
"Tact, husband," Varina countered as she lightly slapped his forehead. "Tact."
"He was being tactful," Reisz said. "I mean, the phrase 'cow dung' didn't enter into his evaluation,
now did it?"
Ord raised an eyebrow. "From the way you smell, old man, I'm not surprised that's one of your
preoccupations."
Reisz sniffed himself under the arm and sadly agreed. Myrmeen joined the others in a healthy
round of laughter. Soon the moment passed and Myrmeen took advantage of the conversation's lull to
bring up their purpose for coming to the city in the first place: "If everyone's rested enough, I feel we
should think about making some inquiries about this baby merchant that my ex-husband mentioned."
"Yes, I certainly hope that all divorces aren't conducted as such in Arabel," Ord said, the wine
beginning to affect him. Burke said the boy's name in a tone of warning, and Ord looked away with a
casual shrug.
"There's no better time to start gathering information than at night, when the city's foulest scum
come out," Myrmeen said, trying to ignore the boy's words.
"That's a profound observation," Ord added as he rolled his eyes. "Tell me again, how long has it
been since you've performed this line of work?"
"Child, I'm warning you," Burke said gravely, "you could be back on your parents' farm, working
in the fields, if you would prefer."
"My parents are dead," Ord said coldly. "Or don't you remember how I came to you?"
"They might be gone, but their fields are still waiting," Burke said. "Now keep your impolite
thoughts in your head. If I want to hear your wit and wisdom, I'll come over there and shake them out of
you. Am I making myself understood?"
Ord lowered his head. "Indeed, sir." Without raising his gaze, Ord said, "My apologies, mistress
Lhal."
"No harm done," she said softly. "You have a right to your opinion."
"No, actually he doesn't," Burke said. "Just trust me on this, will you?"
Myrmeen shook her head, surprised at the unexpected turn in the relationship between the
Harpers. Burke obviously had assumed the role of Ord's surrogate father, and from the subdued manner
of the formerly nasty and boastful young man, it was a responsibility he took quite seriously.
"Besides," Burke said, "we can't go yet. We have to wait for Cardoc to make contact with us."
"Yes," Myrmeen said, anxious to move away from the tense exchanges between Burke and Ord.
"You mentioned him briefly. He's to be our mage for this mission." Frowning, she said, "Do you really
think it's wise to bring in another body? There are enough of us already that we're going to draw some
attention."
"This city is filthy with magic," Reisz said darkly. "Doing business in Calimport is one of the rare
times when I welcome any help we can get, even if it comes from a damned spook like him."
"What are you talking about?" Myrmeen asked. "What's wrong with Cardoc?"
"Oh, there's nothing wrong with him," Varina said as she stroked her husband's lustrous hair.
"He's just a very private person. And the last thing you have to worry about with him is his getting in the
way or drawing attention to himself. He's very good at what he does."
"And what is that exactly?" Myrmeen asked, suspicious.
Burke sighed heavily. "Some things about Cardoc have to be seen to be understood."
"That is true," a voice said from the darkened corner of the room. Myrmeen whirled in surprise as
a tall, dark man wearing a shining black vest, a white shirt, and black leggings and boots appeared,
several cloaks in his arms. With alarm she noticed that the coat rack had vanished the instant he had
made himself visible.
"That can't be done," Myrmeen said in astonishment, though what she really meant was that
Cardoc's spell could not have been achieved easily. During her reign, she had been showered with
magical items as gifts from admirers, and before that she had been witness to mystical sights that would
have driven a lesser woman insane. She simply could not accept that Cardoc had so easily deceived a
room full of the Realms' finest defenders.
Myrmeen rose from the bed and introduced herself. She quickly learned that such niceties were
totally wasted on the man, whose stoic expression made him appear part of the furniture even when he
was visible. Cardoc was a tall, dark man in his forties, with rich brown eyes, sharp features, and full
brown hair. He took her hand and bowed slightly.
"I vow that I will do all I can to help reunite you with your daughter," he said in a deep, sensuous
voice. Despite her initial disquiet, Myrmeen was thoroughly charmed.
"Is Cardoc your only name?" she asked.
"No," he said softly. "I am called Lucius."
"Humph," Burke muttered. "I didn't know that."
Cardoc looked over to the man. "You never asked."
Ord stared at his plate and mumbled, "So that's where that damned piece of sweetbread with
honeyed jam went."
Burke hugged his wife and rose from the floor. The blond woman took his hand for support and
sprang to her feet, too. "We should split off into teams if we want to make the most of our time here. We
need to learn all we can about this Kracauer gentleman. Varina will come with me. Ord, you go with
Reisz. Cardoc—Lucius—if you would accompany Myrmeen, I would appreciate it."
"Perhaps you should still call me Cardoc," the mage said to Burke, then he turned to Myrmeen.
"You may call me whatever you like, gentle lady."
Varina whispered, "I have never heard that many words come out of that man's mouth at one
time, ever."
"Maybe he's in love," Burke said jokingly.
His wife observed the manner in which the usually solemn mage regarded Myrmeen and said,
"Perhaps you're right at that."
Reisz, who was close enough to hear their hushed conversation, hissed, "Come on, boy. Let's
go!" Ord glanced at Burke, then nodded and dutifully followed the swarthy-skinned man from the
room. An hour later, Myrmeen had learned little more about Lucius Cardoc than she had known before
they had left her chamber. His silence did not bother her and she found his presence strangely appealing.
She had never felt comforted, particularly, by the proximity of a man. The men she had been with
normally had a single agenda that they were pursuing when they were in her company. Their attempts at
bravery or merely jovial entertainment led back to their painfully obvious desire to land her in bed.
Cardoc had not seemed the least bit interested in achieving any goal but the one he had promised to aid
her with, and she found his old-fashioned gallantry enormously appealing.
They had set off to find what he had described as the "rat traps," the establishments favored by
the city's criminals. Soon they discovered what they had been looking for in the darkened gambling
rooms of a pub known as the Two-Headed Mare. Myrmeen had asked Cardoc about the tavern's
unusual name, and he had told her that it related to the time of Arrival, when magic and nature had
produced many such oddities. The bar's owner had been a simple man with very little to his credit but his
mare, which had been transformed into a freak by the strange magic unleashed during the arrival of the
gods. A rich man in Calimport learned of the creature and paid an exorbitant amount for the horse. The
man who had sold it used his newfound fortune to open the tavern. His daughter had been quite fond of
the mare, and to appease her, he named the tavern after the horse.
"What a wonderful story," Myrmeen said, though she was taken more with Cardoc's graceful
delivery than with the story's content. Myrmeen sighed. She liked Cardoc, but she had a more important
agenda to keep her thoughts trained on. The time had come to start asking questions of the lowlifes who
populated the establishment. "Lucius, I'm going to—"
She stopped suddenly. The mage had vanished, leaving her alone. Covering her mouth as if she
were yawning, she said, "You are still here, aren't you?"
There was no reply.
Myrmeen was taken back by his abrupt disappearance and decided that he was a powerful man
who could certainly take care of himself. For that matter, she was capable of the same. Sauntering up to
a group of men in the midst of an intense game of chance, Myrmeen set her hand on the back of a chair
occupied by an enormous, red-haired man dressed in a single boot and a strapped-on codpiece. His
body was perfectly sculpted, without a trace of fat. The pile of clothing that rested at the next table
obviously belonged to him and to three others seated at the table. The man who was still dressed in full
mails and leathers was the evening's winner. Myrmeen had no interest in him.
"Dragon's teeth!" the nearly naked man howled as he threw down the strangely marked cards in
his hand. He shoved his chair back with little regard for Myrmeen, who darted out of the way. Unlacing
his last boot, he threw it on the pile, then looked down at his final remaining item of clothing.
"I'm out," he said sullenly.
Myrmeen cleared her throat. The attention of all six men was suddenly directed to the luminous,
dark-haired woman who stood before them. The man who had been winning, a younger man with
straggly blond hair and hazel eyes—which burned with sudden desire—reached to the next table and
dragged a chair over.
"Would you like to join us?" he asked lasciviously. "The game is not difficult. The stakes, well," he
said as he examined her from top to bottom with an eager gaze, "I'd say you have much that interests us."
Myrmeen smiled and patted the shoulder of the red-haired, nearly nude man whose chair she
stood beside. She leaned down and said, "I'll buy back all you've lost if you're willing to answer a few
questions."
The red-haired man raised an eyebrow. He was intrigued. "Depends on what kind of questions
you have, now doesn't it?"
"I'm trying to find a man," she said.
An instant too late, she realized that her phrasing had been a bit too general. The other players
rolled with laughter. Nearly every man at the table volunteered his services. Their comments became
摘要：

TheHarpersBook4TheNightParadeScottCiencinOneShehatedthestorms.StaringoutatthewalledcityofArabelthroughthegrandwindowofherprivatechambers,MyrmeenLhalclosedhereyesandlistenedastherainbeatastaccatorhythmagainstthethickglass.Thesoundshouldhavebeencomforting;itremindedherofanervoushabitherfatherhadposses...

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