R. L. Byers - The Rogues 02 - The Black Bouquet

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The Black Bouquet
Book 2 of The Rogues series
A Forgotten Realms novel
By Richard Lee Byers
Proofed by BW-SciFi
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: August, 10th, 2004
CHAPTER 1
Aeron sar Randal grinned as the caravan came through the gate. He'd spent tendays preparing for that
moment, and he could hardly wait to watch the trick unfold.
The travelers' cloaks were brown with dust, and their boots, caked with mud. They looked weary from
tendays on the road. Or was it months? Aeron, who'd never in his life ventured more than two days' walk
from Oeble, was vague on matters of geography.
No matter. The important thing was that the wayfarers had spent the journey watching for ban-dits,
orcs, and all the other perils infesting the Border Kingdoms, finally swinging wide around Oeble itself, a
notorious nest of robbers and slavers in its own right. Having finally reached the Paerad-dyn, a walled
compound on the southern edge of town that was supposedly the city's only "safe" inn and marketplace,
they were starting to relax. It was natural, inevitable, and he could see it in their faces.
Clad in a beggar's rags, vile-looking sores made of tallow and paint mottling his legs, Aeron sat on the
ground near one of the horse troughs. From there, he could survey the entire bustling courtyard, and every
member of his crew could see him. He turned toward the inn and nodded.
Slouching and scratching, Kerridi came through the door a moment later. She was a big, brawny woman,
but pleasant of face, and possessed of a merry, generous nature. Aeron thoroughly enjoyed the occasional
nights he spent in her bed.
Beholding her there, though, few would have envied him the experience. The brown stain on her teeth
and layers of padding around her middle made her uglier than nature intended, but it was primarily her
ferocious scowl that transformed her into the very image of a shrewish wife.
She cast about until she seemingly spotted Gavath sit-ting at one of the outdoor tables. The scrawny little
man had mastered the art of looking like an ass, the better to cheat, swindle, and lift the purses of the
unwary, and he'd exercised that peculiar knack to the utmost for the job at hand. His garish, straw-stuffed
doublet proclaimed him a would-be fop devoid of any vestige of taste. Pomade plas-tered strands of black
hair across his crown in a ridicu-lously inadequate attempt to hide his bald patch. Gems of paste and glass
twinkled on his fingers. Smirking, he was chatting up a pretty, flaxen-haired serving maid young enough to
be his daughter. She was no doubt enduring the clumsy flirtation only for the sake of a generous tip. Gavath
had paid the lass a great deal of attention over the course of the past few days, much to his supposed
spouse's dis-pleasure, the two of them making sure that everyone stay-ing or working at the Paer noticed.
Thus, few but the newly arrived travelers were particu-larly startled when Kerridi started screaming
invective and abuse. Most of the folk in the courtyard merely grinned and settled back to watch the next
scene in the ongoing domestic farce. Kerridi advanced on Gavath, who quailed and goggled in dread. The
serving maid scur-ried for safety.
Gavath attempted to stammer out some sort of excuse, or perhaps simply a plea for mercy. Kerridi
lashed him with the back of her hand, a meaty smack that knocked him off his bench. She kicked him until
he rolled away and scrambled to his feet. Then, still shrieking, swinging wildly, she chased him about.
Everyone began to laugh, and though the scene truly was comical, that wasn't the entire reason. Dal,
who was loitering near the well munching on a pear, deserved some of the credit. Clad in a simple brown
laborer's smock and breeches, his nose and cheeks ruddy with broken veins, the old tosspot didn't look like
most people's notion of a wizard, but when sober, he was a halfway decent one, able enough to use his
magic to influence the emotions of a crowd.
Kerridi connected with another solid buffet, or so it appeared. Gavath hurtled backward and crashed
through the side of the pen containing the inn's population of goats, whose flesh and milk served to feed the
patrons. At that same instant, Dal, his timing impeccable, surreptitiously cast a spell to alarm the animals.
Bleating, they bolted from the enclosure and raced madly about, bump-ing into people and tables, frightening
the horses and ponies, reducing the entire courtyard to chaos and confu-sion. Except for those unfortunates
who were knocked off their feet, drenched in spilled beer, struggling to control fractious mounts, or
scrambling to catch the escapees, everyone laughed even harder.
Aeron glanced around. Nobody was looking at him, so he pulled a small pewter vial from inside his shirt
and quaffed the bitter, lukewarm contents. It was the last swallow of the potion, and he rather regretted the
final expenditure of a resource that had extricated him from several tight spots. But Kesk Turnskull was
paying him enough to make using the draught worthwhile.
Sorcerous power tingled through his veins. He could still see his lower body as clearly as before, but
from past experience he trusted that he truly had become invisible to the eyes of others. Dodging the
scurrying goats, he rose and stalked toward the caravan.
Kesk had told him who to look for, and he spotted her easily enough. She was a female scout or guide,
slender, long legged, sun bronzed, clad in leather armor dyed forest green. A broadsword hung at her hip,
and she had a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to her saddle. Even with her curly chestnut hair cropped
short, she was comely in a stern sort of way. She was smiling at the com-motion in the yard but not
laughing outright, and didn't look as if she'd entirely relaxed her vigilance.
Well, that was all right. Aeron was confident she wasn't as able a guard as he was a thief. He'd been
surprised when Kesk hired him for that particular job. He'd thought the tanarukk still disliked him for his
refusal to join the Red Axes. But really, it made perfect sense. The outlaw chieftain knew that no one in his
own crude gang of cut-throats possessed the finesse to snatch a prize from within the confines of the
Paeraddyn.
Suppressing an idiot impulse to kiss her or tweak her nose, Aeron crept by the ranger. Her head didn't
turn, reassuring proof that she didn't hear or otherwise sense him. He examined the baggage lashed to her
sorrel mare.
She had a couple scuffed old saddlebags, but only one that, from the distended shape of it, looked to
contain a box like the one he was seeking. He started to unbuckle the flap, and everything went wrong.
The saddlebag shrieked like a thousand teakettles sounding at once. Green light pulsed around Aeron's
limbs, outlining them. He was sure the radiance was plainly visible to others as well, that he was a phantom
no longer. The guide spun around and started to draw her sword.
One disadvantage of such a long blade was that it took a moment to clear the scabbard. Like many folk
in Oeble, Aeron was a knife fighter, and could have used that second to throw one of his hidden daggers of
fine Arthyn steel.
But he didn't. Though adept with a knife, he had little taste for bloodshed. It was one reason he'd always
com-mitted his thefts by dint of trickery, and perhaps it was why he tore the screeching saddlebag free and
risked a desperate lunge forward.
He reached the woman in green a bare instant before she would have readied the broadsword. He
punched at her jaw. The impact stabbed pain through his knuckles, but she fell backward. He kicked her in
the head in hopes of keeping her down.
Aeron whirled and sprinted for the open gate. Spears leveled, two of the Paeraddyn's own guards
scrambled to block his path. Another, stationed atop the wall-walk with its merlons, cocked a crossbow.
Dal's enchantment had disposed the warriors to mirth, but only within limits. The deafening scream of the
saddlebag sufficed to recall them to their duty.
Aeron cast frantically about for another way out, even though he knew none existed within easy reach.
He wasn't supposed to need one. If the theft had gone as planned, he, in his guise as a humble beggar,
would have limped out the front entrance before anyone realized aught was amiss.
The crossbowman pulled the trigger. Aeron twisted aside, and the quarrel just missed him. Half a dozen
of the ranger's fellow wayfarers glided toward him, fanning out to flank him as they came.
Then two of them swayed and crumpled to the ground. Aeron surmised that Dal had surreptitiously
thrown a spell of slumber. But why had the magic only affected a pair of them? Apparently they were
seasoned warriors, strong in spirit, or else they carried talismans of protec-tion. Either way, it was
discouraging.
Aeron still had nowhere to run. He gave ground, trying to keep skittish goats, horses, and pack mules, all
thor-oughly spooked by the keening saddlebag, between him-self and his pursuers. Meanwhile, he prayed
for more magical assistance, a brilliant plan, or something that could extricate him from his fix, and he
snatched a long, heavy, single-edged "Arthyn fang" from its sheath.
His prize finally stopped screaming, though his ears still rang from the clamor it had raised. The green
light died, too, but it didn't matter. Fighting, even if it was just a punch and a kick, had ended his invisibility.
That was the way the cursed potion worked. Why, only mages knew.
An instant later, he discerned that he'd run out of ani-mals to interpose between his pursuers and
himself, which meant it no longer mattered that he didn't like slicing and stabbing people. There was nothing
to do but crouch and await the assault. He took a deep, slow breath to steady himself. Some of the Paer's
servants and patrons shouted encouragement to his foes.
The outlander in the lead swung his sword in a vicious head cut. Aeron twisted aside and sprang
forward in a single motion, bringing himself so far inside his oppo-nent's reach that the long blade ceased to
be a threat. The range, however, was exactly right for a knife, and he sent the traveler reeling backward
with a slashed belly.
That was one man out of the fight, but Aeron had to keep moving, spinning, dodging, for if he faltered
for even a heartbeat, one of the other three would kill him for certain. Most likely they would anyway, but
at least he'd make them work for it. Glimpsing movement at the corner of his vision, he pivoted and snapped
the knife across his torso in a lateral parry. Fortunately, the Arthyn fang was heavy enough to brush aside
even the thrust of a spear.
But for all its virtues, it couldn't block out two attacks at the same time, and when he saw a
bushy-bearded guard in scale armor hacking at him, he felt a surge of terror. Remarkably, though, the
stroke wobbled and flew wide, and the warrior collapsed. Kerridi had buried a falchion in his back. Gavath
came running up behind her with his own fighting knife in hand.
Aeron was pleasantly surprised at their recklessness, and Dal's, too, come to that, though the latter was
still doing his level best to make sure no one noticed he was the one casting spells, relying on magic that
didn't burn any sort of trail on the air. Up until that point, no one had known they were Aeron's
accomplices. They could have allowed him to fight and die alone, and had a good chance of stealing away
unhindered, but evidently they were too fond of him to abandon him. Or else they were hungry enough for
the payment Kesk had promised that they were willing to take a considerable risk to get it. Either way,
Aeron was grateful for their aid.
The spearman started to pull his lance back for another jab. Aeron cut him across the face, then kicked
him in the knee. Bone crunched, and the guard fell.
Aeron whirled to fight alongside his partners. Armed men rushed in at them, too many, but then three of
them staggered and tripped as though sick or blind, victims of Dal's wizardry.
Aeron, Kerridi, and Gavath stood fast against the foes who did reach them. Steel flashed and rang, the
thieves hurled the next wave of guards back, and for an instant, Aeron dared to hope that somehow they
might all escape. Then, across the courtyard, the willowy scout dragged herself to her feet.
She lifted her fingers to her lips and gave a piercing whistle, and even though it was wide eyed with
terror, the sorrel mare heeded the call. The steed trotted to her, and she snatched her yew bow from the
saddle.
Aeron was sure that meant trouble, but another guard lunged at him, and that kept him from even trying
to do anything about it. As he and his opponent shifted and feinted, he saw the ranger whip an arrow from
her quiver, then stumble. Dal, bless him, had evidently assailed her with a spell.
Unfortunately, she didn't fall down. Shaking off the effect of the magic, she caught her balance and
pivoted in the wizard's direction. Despite his efforts at stealth, she'd discerned he was the source of the
unseen attacks that kept hindering her allies.
Dal babbled and slashed his hands through a mystic pattern, not caring who saw anymore, just trying to
throw the next spell quickly. Even so, he was too slow. The woman in green nocked her arrow, pulled the
gray goose-feather fletching to her ear, and let fly. The shaft slammed into Dal's chest. He blinked as if
puzzled, and his knees buckled, dumping him down in the dirt.
Aeron felt shocked. Astonished. He'd seen plenty of men die violent deaths. Indeed, Oeble yielded such
a steady crop of slaughtered corpses that the Faceless Master, ruler of the city, employed the freakish
"gnarlbones" Hulm Draeridge to drive the Dead Cart through the streets every morning and collect them.
But that was Dal!
Perhaps sensing Aeron's horror, his current opponent cut viciously at his flank. Fortunately, the thief's
reflexes sufficed to twitch back out of range. Then, before the swordsman could swing his weapon back
into position for another chop, Aeron sprang in and stabbed him. The warrior fell.
Aeron peered around. More guards were charging toward the outlaws, or rushing out of the
Paeraddyn's market to see what the fuss was about. The ranger strode through the milling horses and
goats, plainly seeking a clear shot at the remaining thieves. A gash bisected Gavath's bald spot, and blood
stained his face and ridicu-lous puffed doublet.
Aeron realized he and his comrades had no hope of escape, not without Dal's magic to aid them or a
clever idea presenting itself in the next couple of heartbeats. He cast about once more, and finally, it came
to him.
The sandstone walls enclosing the compound were high, but not impregnable-citadel high, only about
twenty feet. Assuming a man could make it to the top, he might have a chance of surviving a jump.
"Come on!" he shouted.
He and his partners fell back, defending themselves as they retreated. They reached the patch of cool
shadow at the foot of the wall, flung their current assailants back, and Aeron led them scrambling up a flight
of stairs. Gavath was in the middle, and Kerridi brought up the rear.
Unfortunately, their frantic ascent gave all the bowmen clear shots at them.
"Surrender!" the guide shouted.
Had she been talking to some other scoundrel, Aeron might have laughed. Perhaps, since she was an
outlander, she truly believed that a man in his situation might improve his circumstances by giving up, but he
knew the sort of unpleasantness awaiting any prisoner who'd tried to commit a robbery in the Paer,
particularly if he'd carved up a guard or two in the process. A quick demise was much to be preferred.
Crossbows clacked almost before she finished speak-ing. It was hard to dodge on the narrow steps, but
Aeron flung himself down, and luck was with him. No shaft touched him, though they smashed into the
stonework all around.
"Oh, sheltering shadows of Mask," Gavath whimpered.
Aeron looked back. The small man had a quarrel and one of the scout's gray-fletched arrows protruding
from his torso. His throat rattled, and he slumped motionless.
"Keep moving!" Kerridi snapped.
She reared up as if she didn't realize she had a cross-bow bolt sticking in her too, then swayed, fell over
back-ward, and tumbled down the stairs, knocking into the pursuers who'd started up after her.
Aeron sprinted on. There was nothing else to do. For the next few seconds, he had little to fear from the
cross-bowmen who'd just discharged their weapons. It took them some time to cock and load. The scout,
however, was a different matter. She was already pulling back her bow.
He wondered how many arrows she could loose before he made it up to the wall-walk. Too many, he
suspected, for him to dodge them all. Given her manifest competence, he wondered if he could even evade
the next one.
Her bow jumped, straightening itself, but the arrow didn't streak at him. It simply dropped at her feet.
For an instant, he didn't understand, then he realized the string had broken.
He dashed on, fast as he'd ever moved in his life. A swordsman met him at the top of the steps. He
dodged the fellow's blade, then slashed him across the wrist. The guard dropped his weapon, his eyes and
mouth gaped open wide, and Aeron bulled him out of the way.
He glanced back. The ranger already had her bow restrung and another arrow drawn back.
He dived over the crenellations, and the ground rushed up at him. He told himself to roll, but he smashed
down so hard that afterward he wasn't sure if he'd actu-ally done it or not. Time skipped, and he was
sprawled on his back.
He heaved himself to his feet. Evidently the desperate leap hadn't broken any bones. He hurt all over,
but that didn't matter any more than the fatigue implicit in his pounding heart and gasping lungs. He had to
run before someone took another shot at him from the ramparts, or other foes came streaming out of the
gate.
He dashed north, toward the heart of the city with its leaning ramshackle towers, seeking to lose himself
in the maze of twisting alleyways. Eventually he found a thin, unmarked flight of stairs at the end of a
narrow cul-de-sac, and after descending into the earth, permitted himself to hunker down, utterly spent, and
rest. His eyes stung, and he knuckled them angrily.
Bow in hand, guiding the sorrel mare with her knees, Miri Buckman forced her way down the congested
lane until it became clear that the thief had outdistanced her.
Could she track him, then? Through a forest or across a moor, almost certainly. But in the city, creaking
carts, drawn by oxen and mules, rolled up and down the avenues to erase whatever sign her quarry might
have left. Pedes-trians milled pointlessly about to complete the oblitera-tion, and moreover, some of the
wider thoroughfares were cobbled.
She cursed under her breath. She wasn't fond of cities in general with their crowds, dirt, and stink, and
crumbling Oeble seemed a particularly obnoxious one.
By the Hornblade, she thought, the spires look as if they might collapse at any second.
Every other person on the street seemed either to slink furtively or to affect a bravo's strut and sneer.
Indeed, every third passerby was a pig-faced, olive-skinned orc or some sort of goblin-kin. She would have
had no trouble believing the town was as foul a nest of villains as rumor maintained even if she hadn't
suffered an overt demon-stration of its lawlessness.
She wheeled the mare and cantered back to the Paer-addyn, where someone had already found a
couple heal-ers to tend the injured warriors. It didn't look as if the outlaws had actually killed more than a
couple of her war-riors. She supposed that was good, though in her present humor, she was half inclined to
cut down a few of them herself. Stupid, incompetent—
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, controlling the anger, or at least redirecting it toward the
proper target. She had no business scorning the mercenaries for failing to protect the treasure. Ultimately, it
had been her responsibility and, maddeningly, her failure, just a few scant minutes before she might have
divested herself of her charge.
Hostegym Longstride hobbled up to her with a falter-ing gait that belied his surname. Not seeing any
blood on the burly, azure-cloaked mercenary, Miri surmised that one of the thieves had scored on him with
a shrewd kick to the knee, a stamp to the foot, or some such.
"Most of our lads should survive," he rumbled. "Most of the inn's guards, too, if you care."
"How about the three thieves who didn't get away?" she replied, swinging herself down off her horse.
The motion made the top of her head throb where the fraudulent beggar had kicked her.
"All dead," the mercenary captain said. "The arrows and crossbow bolts killed the men outright, and it
looks like the big wench broke her neck bouncing down the steps."
"Piss and dung," Miri swore. She'd hoped to question one of them.
A hostler, a pimply, gangling youth, scurried up to her.
"Madame ... m-madame ranger?" he stammered, as if uncertain of the proper way to address her, or
else simply afraid she might take out her frustrations on him. "A gen-tleman inside the inn wants to talk to
you."
"I'm sure he does. Take care of my mount." She handed the boy the reins, then glanced at Hostegym
and added, "You might as well come along, too."
They headed into the common room of the inn. Judg-ing by the babble, the dozen or so voices shouting
for the taverner's or a serving maid's attention, the excitement of the robbery and brawl had engendered
quite a thirst in those who'd simply stood and watched the show. A white, soft-looking hand beckoned
through a curtain of yellow glass beads. The scout and mercenary passed through the glittering strands and
down a little passage lined with private chambers. The door to the last one on the left was ajar. They
stepped through and seated themselves on the opposite side of a scarred, rectangular table from the man
they'd come to meet. The small window was closed and shuttered, and the dim, confined space was stuffy
with the trapped heat of a warm autumn afternoon.
Catching a first glimpse of that clean, well-tended hand, Miri had immediately guessed it had never
performed any task more strenuous than guiding a quill across a piece of parchment. Seeing its owner up
close reinforced the impression. Plump, clad in an unpretentious yet well-tailored tunic and breeches, dove
gray with brown accents, he had the look of a chief clerk or steward, a highly placed functionary who spent
his days assigning work to other people. Yet the set of his fleshy jaw bespoke a certain res-olution, and his
brown eyes, a wry intelligence, that per-suaded her to defer the contempt she generally felt for such citified
parasites.
"So," he said.
"You are ... ?" Miri prompted.
"The man you were supposed to meet," he said. "The fellow who would have examined the item, then
gone and fetched the coin and letters of credit if everything was in order. We don't need to throw names
around. Certainly not now."
"I thought this Paeraddyn place was supposed to be safe," Hostegym grumbled.
"My master's house is safe," the Oeble man replied, a thin edge of anger in his mild, reasonable baritone
voice, "but your employer insisted we make the exchange on neutral ground, no doubt so I'd have difficulty
simply seiz-ing the item and refusing to pay the balance due."
"The folk of Oeble," Miri said, "even the more rep-utable ones, enjoy a certain notoriety."
"And sometimes," the pudgy man said, "a man spends so much effort looking over his shoulder for
dragons that he walks right up on a bear. But I suppose it will do no good to debate what we ought to have
done."
"I assume," Miri said, "that even Oeble has some sort of watch, or constables."
The man across the table nodded and said, "The Gray Blades, and I daresay they'll make a genuine
effort to find a robber who committed an outrage in the Paer. Indeed, my patron can take measures to
encourage them to do their utmost. But let's not tell them what the rogue stole."
"Surely if they knew how valuable it—"
"Within a day, every scoundrel in town would know it, too, and that might be less than helpful. We can
still reclaim our property if and when the Gray Blades actually recover it."
Miri scowled and said, "You don't seem confident they will."
"They're competent, some are even halfway honest, but they only number about thirty. Oeble is a big
place and, I must concede, a rogue's haven, where every day dozens of new crimes compete for the law's
attention. We'll just have to hope for the best."
"That's not good enough," Miri said. The warm, stale air was oppressive, and made her head pound. She
irri-tably tugged at her green leather armor, pulling it away from her neck to help her breathe. "We'll find
the wretch ourselves."
Hostegym grunted and said, "I wonder if that's a prac-tical idea."
"I'm a scout," she said. "A tracker and hunter. It's what I do."
"It's what you do out in the woods," the mercenary leader replied. "What makes you think you'll have the
same kind of luck in a warren like this?"
"Your friend may have a point," the functionary said. "I don't mean to discourage you. As I understand
it, your employer has his own problems, and urgently needs the rest of his coin. To say the least, it's in
everyone's best interests that we recover the item and complete our trans-action. But it won't help anybody
if you, Mistress Buckman, merely wind up getting tossed on the Dead Cart."
Miri made a spitting sound and said, "You must be joking. It's only one man who got away."
"If you truly mean to do this," the functionary said, "you'd better get that notion right out of your head.
Oeble is full of knaves who'll resent strangers asking questions about one of their own, or about anything,
really."
"Fine, point taken. But surely they're no match for a band of trained warriors."
The Oeble man arched an eyebrow.
"All right," she said, "I admit, the four rogues made us look like idiots, but only because they had magic
and luck on their side. The wizard's dead now, and the whore-son who jumped off the wall has surely run
through all the good fortune the Lady Who Smiles was willing to grant him."
"That's as may be," Hostegym said, shifting uncom-fortably in his chair, "but I have to tell you, Miri, if
you go ahead with this, you won't have that 'band of trained war-riors' watching your back. The lads and
me, we're done."
"What?" she cried.
"Now, don't glare like that. We signed on to get your mysterious saddlebag to Oeble, and we did. We
fulfilled the letter of the contract."
She laughed and replied, "Do you honestly expect me to see it that way, and meekly hand over the rest
of your coin? I couldn't even if I were willing. I was supposed to pay you out of what our contact here was
going to give me."
The beefy warrior frowned.
"Ouch," he said. "That's bad news."
"So I take it we're still in this together?"
Hostegym sat pondering for a heartbeat or two, then finally shook his head and answered, "No, I don't
think so. You know what the boys and I are good at. That's why you hired us. We understand fighting on
horseback, watching for bandits and trolls in open country. We're not thief takers, and I don't think we'd
fare well playing at it in a place as tricky as Oeble. Fortunately, caravans leave from here all the time, and I
reckon the smart way for us to make more coin is to take another job as guards. Come with us if you like.
We'd be glad to have you."
She glared at him and said, "You miserable, treacher-ous coward..."
"Call me all the names you like. It won't change any-thing. The fact is, the 'item' is lost because you
made a mis-take. When the thieves were on the steps, you could have shot the fellow with the saddlebag
first, before your bow-string broke."
He was right, of course. It had been the only sensible thing to do. Yet she hadn't, and didn't quite know
why. Perhaps it was because she'd recognized that, a minute or two earlier, the bogus beggar could easily
have killed her, yet had contented himself with knocking her down and kicking her. Thus, she'd felt obliged
to give him one last chance to surrender.
Seeing she had no answer, Hostegym heaved himself to his feet, wincing as his bad leg took his weight.
"I guess we'll stay here at the inn until we land another job," he said. "If you see reason, come find us."
He nodded to the plump man, then limped out the door.
"Does this change your mind?" the functionary asked.
"No," Miri said. "In my guildhouse, they teach us to honor our commitments. I'll recover the item by
myself."
"Do you have any idea how?"
"Well, at least I got a look at the thief." The wretch had been lean and fit, with green eyes and keen,
intelli-gent features. Given his agility, she assumed the sores on his legs were fake. Perhaps his goatee was,
also. "But beyond that..."
She shrugged.
"Well, I know my master will want me to give you all the help I can," the functionary said.
"Unfortunately, we don't have many contacts among the gangs and other outlaws. No matter what
outsiders may believe, Oeble does have some citizens who don't work hand-in-glove with the rob-bers and
smugglers. But at the very least, I can provide some general information."
Miri nodded and said, "Tell me."
CHAPTER 2
Aeron skulked up the twisting stairs with the saddlebag tucked under one arm, keeping an eye out for
anyone who might be lurking there. The risers, a number of which were soft with dry rot or broken outright,
would have creaked and groaned beneath most people's feet, but were silent under his. He knew where
and how to step.
As usual, he reached his own door without inci-dent. Considering that his father was a cripple, some
might think it ridiculous that after all those years they still lived on the uppermost floor of a dilapidated
tower. But it was marginally safer. The average housebreaker wouldn't climb so high just to break into such
humble lodgings. And in any case, Nicos sar Randal refused to move. He liked the view.
In fact, once Aeron stepped inside the small, sparsely furnished room, locking and barring the door
behind himself with reflexive caution, he saw that his father was enjoying the vista even then. The older
man sprawled in a chair on the sagging bal-cony with its broken railing, looking out over the River Scelptar.
The sunset stained the water red and bur-nished the three bridges arching over the flow. The floods carried
the spans away every spring, and Oeble rebuilt them every summer. At the moment, they were likely the
only spanking new structures in all the ancient city.
Nicos was gaunt, and no longer young, but younger than his frailty made him appear. His scars, the
creases on his face and skinny limbs and the noose-mark around his neck, looked as purple as plums in the
failing light
"Come watch the sun go down," he rasped.
Once upon a time, he'd possessed a voice as rich as a bard's, but the rope had taken it.
"In a minute," Aeron replied.
Glum as he felt, he would have preferred solitude, but didn't have the heart to say so. He peeled off his
beggar's rags, tossed them on the floor, poured water from the porcelain pitcher into the cracked bowl, and
scrubbed the bogus sores off his legs and the brown dye from his coppery hair, eyebrows, and beard. That
accomplished, he pulled on one of the slate-gray borato shirts he favored, found a bottle of white wine in the
little wrought iron rack, and carried it and the saddlebag out onto the balcony.
He opened the sour vintage with a corkscrew, and he and his father passed the green glass container
back and forth until the scarlet rim of the sun cut the hills to the west.
Nicos said, "What's wrong?"
"What makes you think anything's wrong?"
"I know you, don't I? I can read it in your face and the way you carry yourself."
Aeron sighed. He sometimes tried to avoid telling his father about his various jobs, because it made him
fret. But somehow he generally wound up confiding in him anyway.
"I stole something this afternoon."
"I assumed you didn't buy the pouch," Nicos replied, "or what's inside it."
"No. It was a complicated kind of job. I needed help, and things went awry."
Nicos nodded somberly. Probably he was remember-ing times when his own thefts didn't go as planned.
"I take it one of your helpers came to grief."
"Not one. All three. Kerridi, Gavath, and Dal."
"Damn. I'm sorry." Nicos took a slug of wine, then passed the bottle and asked, "Are they dead, or did
the Gray Blades take them alive?"
"I think they're all three dead."
"Well, that's sad, but likely best for you and them both."
"I know. It's just... I had to dry Dal out to make him fit to work. I had to buy him new powders, trinkets,
and whatnot to cast his spells. I felt smug—proud of myself for being a true friend and helping him out that
way. Now it turns out what I was really doing was digging his grave."
"You can't blame yourself. He knew the risks. They all did."
"I suppose."
Nicos hesitated, then said, "You needn't feel guilty, but you can learn from what happened. Rethink the
path you've—"
"Please," Aeron snapped, "let's not argue about that all over again. I relish stealing as much as you did in
your day, I'm just as good at it, and I can't think of any honest work I could do that would bring in enough to
pay for all your poultices and medicines."
Nicos spat, "Don't put it on me. I never asked you to risk your neck just to ease my aches and pains."
"You didn't have to."
"Anyway, if you're such a clever thief, why did your plan turn to dung?"
"Because I dared to steal something inside the walls of the Paeraddyn, I suppose."
Nicos blinked and said, "You're joking."
"No. Kesk Turnskull hired me to do it."
"The tanarukk? You're even madder than I dreamed. I'd better have the story quickly, before you take it
into your head to jump off the balcony, just to find out if you can fly."
And so, as the sky blackened, the stars twinkled into view, and the fishermen plying the river in their
skiffs lit the colored lanterns hanging fore and aft, Aeron told the tale. Nicos hunched forward, intent,
fascinated despite himself. He might worry about his only son's manner of living, but he enjoyed hearing
about his escapades. Aeron knew he remained a thief at heart, and would still be rob-bing folk himself if
only his broken body would allow.
Perhaps it was his father's grudging admiration, or simply the wine warming his belly, but as he related
the events of the afternoon, Aeron's sorrow receded some-what, making way for a swelling of pride.
Because, though he'd paid a heavy price for his boldness, he'd taken loot from within the Paeraddyn, and in
all Oeble, what other knave could say the same?
The story and the wine finished together. He set the empty bottle down carefully. Put one in the wrong
spot, and it would topple over and roll off the slanted plat-form, perhaps to brain some luckless soul passing
in the street below.
His scars and infirmity veiled in darkness, Nicos sat quietly for a few more seconds, evidently pondering,
then asked, "If you'd known, would you still have tried?"
"Known which?"
"That someone cast spells of warding on the saddlebag. That it had so many able warriors looking after
it." Aeron shrugged and said, "Probably. If we'd known about them, maybe Dal could have neutralized the
other mage's enchantments. Then, using the potion, I could have stolen the prize without anyone noticing,
and it wouldn't have mattered how many guards were hanging around. But of course, we didn't know. If
Kesk had any notion how well protected the prize would be, he didn't see fit to warn me."
"Maybe for fear you'd pass on the job."
"Maybe," said Aeron. "I certainly wouldn't put it past the ugly bastard to withhold vital information."
Aeron pulled open the mouth of the scuffed old saddle-bag, slipped out the steel lockbox inside, and
hefted it in his hands. It weighed several pounds, and didn't clink or rattle when shaken. Almost any sort of
treasure might rest inside.
He rose and fetched his pigskin pouch of picks and probes.
Nicos gave a disapproving grunt and asked, "Do you think Kesk would like you opening the box?"
"Since he specifically told me not to, I doubt it, but I want to see what my partners died for."
"Well, if you must do it, at least make sure you don't break the lock, or—"
"Or leave any telltale scratches around it I know."
Though he wasn't as adept at teasing open locks as some thieves, Aeron thought he could manage it.
As soon as he inserted a fine steel rod in the keyhole, however, a thunderclap boomed. The blast of
sound jolted pain through his bones, kicked the strongbox out of his lap, and sent him tumbling backward in
his rickety old chair. Worse, it set the whole balcony bouncing up and down. Aeron lay perfectly still,
terrified, certain that the platform was about to tear free of its moorings at last.
Gradually, though, the oscillation subsided, and he lifted his head. Nicos's seat had remained upright, but
scooted to the very brink of the balcony, where luckily the older man had fetched up against an intact
section of rail-ing, which sufficed to keep him from falling over. Aeron scrambled forward and hauled his
wide-eyed parent back from the edge.
Then he thought to look for the case. It had slid to the brink as well, and he felt a sudden impulse to kick
it off. Naturally, though, he picked it up instead.
Nicos spoke to him, but he couldn't make out the words through the ringing in his ears. The day had
been hard on his hearing. A few more such magical mishaps, and he'd likely be deaf.
"Say it again," he requested.
"I said, another ward," the scarred man repeated. "Wards on the bag and the coffer, too."
"Do you think that was the last of them?"
"I'm not a wizard. How would I know? I wouldn't count on it."
"You're right," said Aeron. "I'll leave off trying to open it. But damn it, the thing got Kerridi, Dal, and
Gavath killed, and now it almost did the same to us. To be so well defended, it must be incredibly valuable."
He smiled slowly. "Too valuable to hand over for a single bag of gold, even a big one."
"Don't talk crazy. Nobody crosses the Red Axes."
摘要：

TheBlackBouquetBook2ofTheRoguesseriesAForgottenRealmsnovelByRichardLeeByersProofedbyBW-SciFiEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:August,10th,2004CHAPTER1AeronsarRandalgrinnedasthecaravancamethroughthegate.He'dspenttendayspreparingforthatmoment,andhecouldhardlywaittowatchthetrickunfold.Thetravelers'cloakswereb...

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