The groundling clutched its swelling gut and fell face-first into the dirt. Artus limped another step closer to the creature. "I warned you," he said.

In reply, the a.s.sa.s.sin belched as defiantly as possible, then burst like an overripe melon dropped onto a cobblestone street.

The silence that followed was quickly filled by the mundane sounds of an Uktar night-hooting owls, the distant barking of dogs, and the chill wind rustling through the trees. Artus stood still for a time, reveling in that normalcy, then set to work untying his father. The Shadowhawk said nothing-no exclamations of pride, no cries of relief, no words of grat.i.tude. He merely rubbed his sore limbs and watched his son without comment as he pulled the prince out of the burrow, bandaged his head again, and moved him out of the road to the safety of the hedgerow. Scoril Cimber could see there was something different about the boy now, but he couldn't quite figure out what.

When he finished with Azoun, Artus turned back to the Shadowhawk, who still sat amidst the piles of earth and gaping holes covering the trade road. "Father," he said flatly, "there's a rider coming."

If the highwayman was surprised his son had heard the faraway rumble of hooves before him, he never let on.

The rider turned out to be the vanguard of a large patrol, scouring the countryside for the lost prince. When the soldiers paused to search the destruction, Artus threw a few stones to draw their attention to the hedgerow and the unconscious royal. Even with his sprained knee it proved simple for the boy and his father to elude the mounted and heavily armored patrol on the wooded hill. The Shadow-hawk was a wanted man, after all, and capture by the king's Purple Dragons was something he had avoided many times before.

In the days that followed, Scoril Cimber cemented his place at the cynosure of the weblike Cormyrian underworld with wild tales of his role in the rescue of Prince Azoun. Artus did nothing to counter these yarns. In fact, the boy often lent quiet support to the Shadowhawk's claim that he'd killed all three Zhentarim thugs and single-handedly protected the heir to the throne of House Obarskyr. And since the palace never commented on a.s.sa.s.sination rumors, for such things tended to upset the commoners, the Shadowhawk rose unopposed to the height of scamp notoriety.

Such fame always proved fleeting in the back alleys of Suzail, though, and other topics soon supplanted the daring rescue and the molelike killers-foremost among them the oft-repeated rumor that the withering sickness would surely claim King Rhigaerd before the year was out Young Prince Azoun would soon be King Azoun IV. No one seemed pleased to hear this.

"Look," a grizzled thief said, just loudly enough to overwhelm the ten or so voices vying for dominance in the Thieves Guild common room. "Rhigaerd was a bully. No one's arguing with that. All I'm saying is we knew what to expect from him."

"Yeah," someone chimed in, "a quick hanging if we got caught on the road with five silver falcons we couldn't prove as our own."

The grizzled thief frowned. "But at least we knew where we stood. He was a strong king, sure, but that also meant prosperity for the n.o.bles-and good pickings for scamps smart enough to follow guild rules and keep away from his patrols."

From his position in the center of the throng, the Shadow-hawk cleared his throat. The room quieted noticeably and all eyes turned to him. "Azoun don't want to be king, right? So maybe 'e'll spend 'is time daydreaming about fighting giants and leave us be." He put his boots up on the table right in front of Artus and paused smugly. "Yeah, I think 'e'll just leave us be. After all, the bloke owes 'is life to a scamp, right?"

"But what about Vangerdahast, that tutor of his?" another thief asked. "He's a scary one, real sly and real smart. That wizard'll be running things himself if Azoun isn't going to do it proper, and he has no love of the guild."

A pickpocket with three fingers missing on one hand nodded sagely. "Wizards ain't to be trusted," he said, wiggling his remaining digits meaningfully. "It may not matter, though. I hear said that when Azoun's son died last year he changed, started to think of things more like a prince. It took the wildness out of him. Not surprising, when a babe two winters old dies so sudden. Makes you wonder what he did to offend the G.o.ds, eh?"

Someone across the room raised a mug in mock reverence. "To Azoun," he said. "May he be half the king his father was-half as good at catching thieves!"

Silent the entire morning, Artus shook his head. "Azoun will be a great king. All the a.s.sa.s.sins and thieves in Cormyr will be sorry for it, too."

"You'd better 'ope not, Art," the Shadowhawk said, surprised by the comment. "After all, you'll be the scamp to end all scamps yourself one day."

The boy turned cold brown eyes to his father, and the Shadowhawk caught a glimpse of that strange expression he'd seen on Artus's face the night of the battle, just before he'd killed the last of the a.s.sa.s.sins. "But, Father," he announced in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "you said I don't have to be a scamp."

"What?" the Shadowhawk bellowed. "I never-"

"Right after the fight-right after you killed all three a.s.sa.s.sins-" Artus cut in quickly, "you said I fought so badly I would never be safe robbing people. I should be a scribe, you said, or a bard."

Everyone's attention was on Artus and the Shadowhawk, and those thieves p.r.o.ne to jealously and envy-which was, in fact, all of them-found their spirits buoyed by a sudden hope that Scoril Cimber's yarns might now be proved untrue. The room stood frozen for a moment as the highwayman searched in vain for some way out of his son's well-laid trap. The boy had let him tell his version of the rescue, let him take all the glory and reap the guild's rewards for such notoriety. Now, it seemed, he wanted his payment.

But when Scoril looked closely at Artus, he realized there was no escape. The predatory look in his son's eyes was a familiar one, a glint as hard as the stiletto hidden in his boot and as cold as the winter chill creeping through the guildhall's cheap floorboards.

"Yeah. You be a bard," the Shadowhawk murmured at last.

He turned away from Artus's triumphant smile and gulped his ale. Even if he ain't going to be my apprentice, the highwayman thought ruefully, the boy's learned more than I ever intended to teach him.

Grandfather's Toys

Jean Rabe

The druid stood before the weathered oak door of the tower. His wheat-colored hair lay plastered against his neck, and his dark green tunic clung slickly, like a second skin, to his muscular frame. His embroidered cloak stretched to the gra.s.s behind him and tugged annoyingly at his neck as he tipped his head back and glanced upward through the soft, steady rain.

The tower's slate-gray stones merged with the dreary early evening sky, making it difficult for the druid to see the crenelated battlements. Squinting, he peered into the gloom and glimpsed a flicker of light from a window on the highest floor.

The druid dropped his gaze until his chin rested on his chest "I haven't seen him in years," he said softly.

A rushed sequence of chitters and squeaks issued from his tunic in reply.

"Yes. It has been too long."

The druid gently tugged the lacings of his tunic, loosening the material about his neck. A moment later a weasel's s.h.i.+ny black nose poked out from the V-neck of the sodden garment. The creature chittered again.

"All right. I'll hurry," the druid answered, stepping forward and rapping on the tower door.

An interminable time later the door groaned inward, revealing a figure draped in a hooded cloak.

"Galvin, my friend!" The speaker brushed aside the cowl, revealing rheumy blue eyes and skin that was as pale and wrinkled as crumpled parchment. White stubble edged the man's jaw. "You must help me! She's gone missing in my tower, and I can't find her. I'm very worried."

"Can't find who?"

A weak smile played at the old man's ashen lips. "My granddaughter." The old man paused. "Please, come in. You'll catch your death in this weather." Reaching out a shaky, age-speckled hand, the man grasped the druid's sleeve and drew him into the tower. "Oh, Galvin, I was afraid Elias wouldn't find you. I wasn't sure where you were living. And this storm..."

"Is not so bad, Drollo," the druid offered, extracting the weasel from his tunic. "Elias here doesn't seem to like the rain much, though."

The old man gingerly took the dripping weasel from the druid and scratched the top of its head. Elias squeaked loudly and stretched so its ear could be rubbed. The weasel shot an angry glance at the druid and squealed shrilly.

Galvin nodded to the animal and closed the tower door, m.u.f.fling the patter of the rain and shutting out the sweet scent of the wet earth. After the long trek in the open air, the tower smelled musty. The druid wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Little of the thick, chiseled stone that made up the structure was visible on the inside. Paintings of fancifully dressed men and women competed with meticulously embroidered tapestries depicting life along the banks of the nearby Dragon Reach. In some places the tapestries and paintings overlapped. Galvin found himself staring at a partially covered tapestry showing several men putting a large boat out into the Reach. A satyr stood at the boat's prow, one hoofed leg up on the stern, an overlarge jacket wrapped about his human torso. The druid couldn't see the entire boat. A tapestry filled with prancing unicorns draped over it.

Beneath the paintings and tapestries, piles of labeled and unlabeled crates stretched across the length of the wall and reached as high as Calvin's chest. Bundles of folded clothes, stacks of colorful clay dishes, mismatched boots, smoke-tinted jars filled with gla.s.s beads, mounds of books, carefully balanced pyramids of scroll cases, and many objects the druid couldn't identify peeked out between the crates.

Galvin continued to gape at the dust-covered collection until a hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the old man.

"My granddaughter," Drollo began. "She's only five. I was categorizing a new s.h.i.+pment when she wandered off. I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention to her."

"Your grandchildren are older than I am," the druid noted. When Drollo didn't reply, Galvin found himself staring at the old man.

At one time Drollo had been tall, with square shoulders and a long stride, but the seasons had taken their toll on his frame. Now he stood stooped over, his upper back a hump and his shoulders rounded and turned toward his chest. The skin hung on his bones as if it belonged to someone larger, falling in folds like the worn, oversized robes he wore. His wispy gray hair matched the color of the spiderwebs that clung to nearly everything in the tower. Only his eyes showed a spark.

With considerable effort Drollo bent and carefully placed the weasel on one of the few sections of slate floor that was free of clutter. The creature wriggled furiously to shake the rain from its fur, then darted around the pool of water forming from Calvin's dripping clothes and slid behind a crate marked "Alguduire feathers." The old man huffed, then stretched out an arm to grasp a nearby crate. Using it for support, he righted himself.

Drollo rubbed his hands together nervously and looked about for something. At last, after gathering his thoughts, he met the druid's gaze.

"I used to play with your grandchildren," Galvin said a bit more loudly. "I used to run after them in the marketplace close to three decades ago. They're older than I by several winters."

"Did I say 'granddaughter? Er, she's the child of one of my grandchildren, or one of my grandchildren's children," the old man said, shaking his head. "The years have sped by so quickly that I can't recall. She calls me Grandfather. That's what's important."

"And you're certain she's here?"

Drollo nodded absently. "Somewhere. I call her, but she doesn't answer. Maybe she's playing a game on me. Maybe she's hurt."

"Her mother?"

"Isaura. She's a hundred miles away," Drollo replied. "The girl's spending a few months with me. Isaura thought it would do me good to have some company. But she'll have little to do with me anymore if she learns of this."

"So you sent Elias for me." Calvin's tone was sympathetic. He could tell the old man was frightened, and the druid never remembered him being concerned about anyone-only about the junk he collected. "How long has she been missing?"

"Two days," the old man answered quickly. "Perhaps three. But not more than that, I don't think. Time runs together." Drollo stared into Calvin's emerald green eyes. "I sent Elias as soon as I noticed her gone."

"We'll find her," Galvin stated simply, hoping his tone would help lessen Drollo's worry.

The druid tugged his cloak loose and glanced about for a rack. There was a pole-shaped object behind a large crate, but it was well out of reach. Shrugging, he laid the dripping garment across a tall, narrow crate lettered "frangible." Next came the boots. They made a slurping sound as he pulled them loose and water spilled out. The puddle beneath him grew to cover half of the entryway, and the water began to seep between the crates. He pulled his tunic over his head and laid it unceremoniously on top of the cloak, leaving his wet chest glistening in the light from the oil lamp overhead.

Elias poked its head out and chittered a scolding to the druid.

"The floor will dry," the druid told him.

Barefoot and s.h.i.+vering in the dampness of the tower, Galvin padded past Drollo, with the weasel scampering at his heels.

The lagging, shuffling footsteps of the old man followed the druid, who started picking his way down a hallway lined with a jumble of crates. In places the boxes were piled six feet high, as tall as Galvin, and the writing on most of the labels had faded with age. Dust blanketed many of the crates, showing they had not been moved in a long time. However, some had been tampered with recently. The druid noted small, round holes where mice had chewed their way into them.

Emerging into what he remembered as the sitting room, Galvin saw more crates and clutter. Stuffing spilled out of the furniture in places, adding to the disorder on the floor. Nicks covered the wooden arms and legs of chairs that Galvin recalled from his youth as being polished and perfect. The cus.h.i.+ons and tabletops were cluttered with papers, knickknacks, and other objects. Only one piece of furniture, a large black leather chair, stood devoid of odds and ends.

"The woman was crazy to leave a little girl here," Galvin muttered.

The shuffling behind him stopped. "Oh, it didn't look quite this bad when the girl arrived a few weeks ago," Drollo nervously defended himself. "I'd picked up a bit and, er, cast a spell to hide all the crates and cover the dust."

The druid groaned and dropped to his knees. He peered under the furniture. Amongst the filth were sc.r.a.ps of paper and an old, toeless slipper that was much too large for Drollo.

Elias sprinted past the druid and dove into a ma.s.s of webs. The weasel returned a few moments later, trailing a cloud of gray-white webbing that was dotted with the husks of unfortunate insects. Elias brushed up against a table leg, knocking most of the webs loose, then began squeaking at the druid.

"Yes, I know she's not under there," Galvin replied. The druid rose to discover his wet leggings were coated with grime. Futilely he tried to brush them off.

"Her name?" Galvin turned to Drollo.

The old man beamed. "Isabelle. Named after my second wife."

"And you're certain she's still inside?"

"Oh, yes. She's too small to reach the door latch or the windowsills."

"And she's been missing two days, maybe three?"

"Yes," the old man stated simply.

Galvin rubbed his chin. "When I was her age," he mused aloud, "I occupied myself for days rummaging about your tower. But after two days she should have come out for a bite to eat-if she could." At once he regretted saying that, knowing the old man would fear the worst.

"The kitchen," the druid offered quickly. "If she's all right, she has to be looking for food. We'll start searching in the kitchen."

Drollo frowned and s.h.i.+fted his weight back and forth on his slippered feet.

"What is it?" Galvin asked curtly.

"She might not be hungry," Drollo suggested. "I have bits of food stashed all over the tower. I'm getting old, you know, and sometimes it's hard to get around. I keep things to eat here and there, so when I get hungry I don't have to come all the way downstairs to the kitchen."

The druid sighed. "Is she p.r.o.ne to playing games? Is it like her to just disappear like this?"

"She likes to play," Drollo said. "Hide-and-find is her favorite game."

The druid scanned the clutter. There were dozens of hiding places for a little girl in this room alone, and there were eight floors to the tower and a deep bas.e.m.e.nt that had more than two levels. "You used magic to hide this mess," Galvin began. "Did you use magic to look for her?"

A pained expression crossed Drollo's face. "Oh, Galvin, would that I had that kind of magic. I can mask things, make something look like something else, make sounds appear out of silence, or silence something noisy. My magic doesn't have any real substance to it. I'm sorry." He chewed his lower lip. "What about your magic?"

"I'm a druid," Galvin noted flatly. "I can't do that sort of magic either."

"But you talk to Elias. And I've seen you talk to plants and rocks," Drollo stammered.

"I don't see how those skills are going to help us here."

Drollo blanched. "Then what are we going to do?"

"We're going to find her the old-fas.h.i.+oned way, by searching for her," Galvin sighed. "You start looking over there." He indicated the section of the room blanketed in sheafs of parchment.

"I've looked there. I think I've looked everywhere," Drollo moaned. "This is my fault."

The druid pointed again, and the old man complied, shuffling toward the parchment mound. Drollo began shuting through the ma.s.s. "Isabelle!" he called. Unsurprisingly, no one answered.

An hour later the druid was certain every inch of the room had been searched. There was no sign of a little girl.

Frustrated and sneezing, Galvin strode from the room and nearly b.u.mped into a pile of crates in the hallway. "What's in all of these?" he asked. The old man pursed his lips. "Oh, things I've collected through the years. I've forgotten what's in most of them. You'd have to look at the labels. What room shall we try next?"

The druid continued to stare, dumbfounded, at the mounds of boxes and piles of books. If he were outdoors looking for someone, he would track them like a hunter tracks an animal. Broken branches, muddy footprints, flattened gra.s.s, and other clues would point the way.

Perhaps, Galvin thought, I was wrong about my magic, especially if I treat this collection of junk like the wilderness.

The druid looked around, searching for disturbed patches of webbing. His eyes rested on the base of a large crate. There, nearly hidden by the shadows, a mouse was tugging a pale pink ribbon into a hole. Galvin knelt and began squeaking to the mouse, but the little rodent was determined in its task and ignored the druid. Reaching forward, Galvin s.n.a.t.c.hed the ribbon and squeaked again.

The mouse shuddered with fear, wriggled its nose, and darted into the hole.

Galvin rubbed his thumb across the silk ribbon, still s.h.i.+ny and new. "Isabelle's?" he asked.