Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  “Just what,” he asked mildly, as the guard Lavlaryn triumphantly plucked one of them up and hefted it, “are these?”

  “Peles, Swordmaster,” the weaver said calmly. “A side-cargo we’re carrying in hopes of recovering an outstanding debt.”

  Arauntar stared at the long-shafted wooden paddle, noting approvingly that Lavlaryn was paying particular attention to the ends and running his hands over it in search of secret hiding places or things that might twist or turn or … no, ’twas simply carved wood, a sapling mated to a paddle end too wide and shallow to be useful steering a boat in water.

  “Just what does one use a pele for?”

  “Putting bread, pies, and pastries in ovens and taking them forth again,” the weaver explained. “As we’ve said before, Swordmaster, we’ve really nothing to hide here, an—”

  There was a crash, as of armor clashing against armor, and the wagon shook. An expression of rage passed over the furrier’s face, and he made as if to stride forward and grab someone, just for a moment—ere he let his face go blank again and his hands fall back to his sides. Arauntar observed this with interest as he watched both merchants for swift or covert movements, and Lavlaryn calmly drew forth a half-wound bowgun from his belt and began to winch it tight.

  Onthur was the heavier of the two guards, and he was doing just what Arauntar had told him to: jumping up and down in one spot, in a place where he could grab a support-brace to keep from falling over if he had to. The entire floor of this wagon was false, raised about the width of a large man’s hand above what it should be—and Orthil very much wanted to know what was hidden there.

  Arms, it sounded like, or perhaps armor. Crash. Onthur looked to Arauntar for direction. The guard held up a staying hand in reply as he half-drew his sword and stepped forward. Lavlaryn was furiously readying his bowgun as Onthur stopped leaping and silence fell.

  Into it Arauntar said calmly, “I’m glad ye’ve nothing to hide, merchants—because that should mean there won’t be any unpleasantness about yer showing us yer hidden cargo. We haven’t searched this wagon so often out of accident, nor for our own amusement. We spotted the false floor right away and figured ye were just getting something out of Scornubel unseen … but as time passes and attacks come down on us swift and heavy, Master Voldovan thought it’d be best if we knew all yer little secrets.”

  “Of course, Swordmaster,” the weaver began, but the furrier drowned him out.

  “Nothing in this wagon has anything to do with brigands or poses any danger to anyone on the run.”

  “Of course,” Arauntar agreed, as Onthur lazily drew two throwing-daggers and Lavlaryn brought his now-ready bowgun down into a steady aim at the furrier’s face. “However, my orders are very blunt and very clear: I am to see all, and so will Master Orthil—and we shall judge dangers … and consequences.”

  The weaver sighed and waved one hand in a gesture of submission. “In the interests of saving time, why don’t I go with one of your men and fetch Master Voldovan now? If you really must see it all, we should bring back several guards to shift things, or we’ll be spending the day camped right here … where we were attacked last night and where so many folk went missing. I’m sure none of us would want that.”

  Arauntar gave Sabran a smile that had very little mirth in it, and said, “So much, at least, we agree upon. Go with Onthur now.”

  Flamewind was a good horse—a princely gift, in fact, even if the Master of the Shadows had followed up his munificence with a death sentence—but Flamewind was now something else, too: exhausted.

  Sharantyr had ridden all night and through the dawn, and if she’d been anywhere else but the Blackrocks, the merciful thing to do would have been to let Flamewind drink, and eat, and rest for two days, at least.

  However, to leave any creature alone in this stretch of country—especially here along the Trade Way, which predators regarded more or less as an ever-laden butcher’s block, providing ready meal after ready meal—was very far from merciful.

  Wherefore Sharantyr now walked along the wagon-road, leading her unsteady horse through the bright morning. She could see Face Crag in the distance, not all that far ahead—but, on foot and walking slowly, still a very long way off.

  The rustling she’d been expecting for some time occurred at that moment, and she laid her hand upon Lhaeo’s little pouch and waited quite calmly for the attack to come.

  There were four men—lawless adventurers wielding swords and not bows or spells—and they stood large and tall in their dirty and mismatched armor. They swaggered down out of the trees without haste and ranged themselves across her path with crossed arms and confident sneers.

  “Well, well,” the tallest one said slowly, an unfriendly and yet at the same time overly friendly gleam in his eyes. “The gods do bring us some wonderful things. Gems, good swords, coins in plenty … and now, a beautiful wench.”

  “I’m in haste,” Sharantyr said warningly, not slowing her slow but steady walk, “and shan’t suffer any delay. Please stand aside.”

  “Shan’t you, now?” another of the brigands laughed, as his fellows snorted and guffawed.

  “I thank you for your generous and courteous warning, lady fair,” the tallest outlaw told Sharantyr mockingly. “But I fear we must insist you tarry with us—detained, you might say, at our pleasure.”

  Sharantyr sighed, drew her blade, and broke a gem across its keen edge. “Then it must be swords between us,” she warned.

  There was another chorus of laughter and snorts of mirth—wrapped around loud groans of mock sorrow, this time. They waved their own swords at her and took a step forward in unison.

  “Don’t slay her outright,” the leader said. “ ’Twill be far less fun with a corpse!”

  Sharantyr gave him a wintry smile. “My thoughts exactly,” she replied. “Wherefore I’d prefer to spare you. Live to fight another day, sirs. You stand in peril of death if you attack me.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” the tallest brigand sneered. “You’re not the only one running around Faerûn with a little magic, you know.”

  He nodded to his fellows, and they all muttered something, more or less in unison. Shandril let fall Flamewind’s reins and took a step or two away, in case some fell magic should smite her weary mount whilst rebounding from her own protective enchantments.

  The brigands’ blades were suddenly alive with blue fire—arcs of tiny flames that leaped hungrily back and forth from blade to blade. They grinned at her from behind their risen, crawling magic, fanned out so as to imperil her far to her left and her right as well as straight ahead, steel to steel. They came at her in a rush, sparks flashing among the blue fire of their swords.

  10

  SMALL SECRETS,

  LARGE SWORDS

  There’s nothing like a sharp sword for opening men and letting their secrets run out.

  Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr

  Why I Ride Men And Not Thrones

  Year of the Bow

  Malivur let fall his wagon-flap disgustedly. “Still searching—while we sit here within easy reach of whoever sworded us last night!”

  “We’ll be older, so much is certain, before we see Waterdeep,” Krostal agreed calmly, running his fingers through his ginger beard as his dark-robed partner stormed past like a fuming thundercloud, striding down the wagon to the decanters one more time.

  The low-pitched clink of the stopper told him it was the fire-sweet green alanthe from Sheirtalar that was suffering depredations this time. Good; he hated the stuff—too sweet, and yet as tart as the yhaumarind they ate bowlsful of in the Tashalar. Brrrhh.

  “What is this Voldovan thinking?” the spice-merchant burst out, waving a goblet that was half empty already. “He’s supposed to be the best of masters on this run, not a ox-headed idiot!”

  “I’m sure he is, and doing whatever seems most wise to him,” Krostal said soothingly.

  “I’m sure he’s a wind-roaring tyrant, a lying, cheating whor
eson rogue, and a—a treacherous fiend in league with too many brigands for us all to fight! Why else call a halt in the Blackrocks but to leave us undefended while the wolves gather dozens deep around us? Why—”

  “Why storm and roar so?” Krostal asked mildly. “He’ll only hear us and set his dogs to listening at our flaps … and who knows what they might hear before you master your temper?”

  “Temper? Temper! I’ll show you temper, you gutter-born sneaking slybeard! Why—”

  “Why, I wonder how ’tis I endure your slow-witted foolery, these stretching days!” Krostal said quickly, saying Malivur’s next words half a syllable ahead of his wagon-partner.

  Who fell silent, glaring at him down the length of the wagon with eyes that promised swift death in their green glitter. For a moment, Krostal could have sworn the goblet beneath them shone back that fell green glow … then the dark-robed wizard lifted the goblet, drained it in menacing silence, and snarled softly, as he strode forward like a stalking cat, “Have a care, gutter-thief. I can destroy you at will and hear no word of protest from our superiors for doing so. They told me to keep a very careful watch on you—for the treachery they fully expect you to work when spellfire’s within our grasp.”

  The ginger-bearded seller of imported Lantanna clockworks—toys, self-igniting timer lamps, and musical devices! Rare and strange; get them while you can!—who was indeed a master thief for the Cult of the Dragon in his off hours, smiled easily at the raging wizard. “You think I wasn’t told the same thing about you? Really, Malivur, you’re very much the self-important child at times! Have some more alanthe and master your raging or I’ll make sure the far more powerful wizard the Followers sent along on this admittedly cursed caravan sees and hears you. If his ears fill with one of your indiscreet tantrums, it’ll take him about two breaths to muzzle you properly and permanently, without any direction from me.”

  The dark-robed wizard froze, then stroked his oiled black mustache very slowly and almost whispered, “What other Cult wizard? Or is this another of your tasteless, dangerous lies?”

  “Oh, no, seller-of-spices, this is dark, blunt truth. He’s probably not the only Cult mage along on this run, either. He’s just the only one I know by looks, though I’m sure I’m not supposed to have ever seen him or know who he is.”

  Malivur hissed like a snake, a habit of thoughtfulness rather than malice, and swirled his empty goblet as if it still held something. When he spoke again, his fury was gone. “Is it your judgment, Krostal, that we’ve any hope of seizing the wench and wresting the secrets of spellfire from her—or just slaughtering her and avenging the Sacred Ones she destroyed?”

  “I’m beginning to doubt we can do either,” the ginger-bearded thief replied, lifting the flap again to look for guards or merchants who might have wandered to where they could overhear. “Yet if I was confident we could do one of those two things, I’d say the latter. A falling beam or the hooves of a maddened horse could slay this Shandril—she’s just a lass, after all—but to hold her, after you’d somehow captured her, is something I doubt anyone in Faerûn could do.”

  “Mmmph. Not even a zulkir of Thay or the one called Larloch?”

  Krostal shrugged. “Who knows what they can do? What’s truth in talk of their deeds and what’s tavern embellishment?”

  “Your point is good,” Malivur agreed, slowly returning to the decanters, “and yet such reputations bring attention and attacks. No one of repute can last for long unless they hide themselves well or hold true power. We must close our hands around this Shandril cautiously, lest, say, the infamous Elminster appear and destroy us at the moment of our victory … or beset us on one side whilst we battle spellfire on the other. He did so before, recall you, when this same lass and her mageling were in Rauglothgor’s lair.”

  Krostal shrugged again. “I’ve never curbed what I dare do for fear of the grand and great. One can’t live guided by fear of these great heroes, unless one has centuries to spend idle in cautious waiting. When do they really show up, ever? Have you been confounded by one when hurling spells for the Cult—when you slew that mage in Westgate, say, and took his wealth for the Followers? Of course not. One stands and falls on one’s own efforts. If one is good at it and resists the invariably fatal temptation to sit on a throne somewhere, one never even comes to the attention of the ‘big folk’ like Elminster, the Blackstaff, and the Seven Sisters we hear so much about!”

  Malivur set down the alanthe decanter, raised his refilled goblet, and smiled a trifle ruefully. “Then here’s to obscurity.”

  The thief smiled, raised an imaginary goblet in salute, and replied, “Here’s to fewer angry outbursts, seller-of-spices, for silence may help to win us obscurity. I don’t want to crow with triumph. I want to have spellfire in my hand like a dagger in the night and slay my foes before they know my stroke is coming, or that I am nigh, or even what slew them.”

  “That’s the way of thieves,” the Cult mage replied, “not wizards.”

  Krostal nodded. “Beyond that handful of ‘big folk,’ ” he asked lightly, “how many old, powerful wizards do you know?”

  “No, I want both of ye,” the caravan master said sourly, snatching a look back over his shoulder to make sure Onthur was keeping the weaver out of earshot. “There could be walking skeletons or clawing-at-us corpses or even helmed horrors under that floor—and yon bastard get of a serpent would stand there smiling at me while his little surprises tore my men apart!”

  “Cheery image,” Shandril commented wryly. “Lead on.”

  Orthil Voldovan gave her a suspicious look and then rounded on Narm. “Well? And ye?”

  “Where she goes, I go,” Narm said quietly. “We told you that.”

  “Hmmph, yes. Come on, then!”

  It was only a few hurrying strides to the wagon, but the eyes of the entire caravan seemed to be on the small knot of guards trotting along with the weaver. Voldovan seemed not to see the audience, but Beldimarr and two other guards smoothly stepped aside to take up positions around the wagon, facing out to keep the curious at a distance, while everyone else boiled up into the wagon with loaded bowguns, and herded Sabran down to join the indignantly sputtering Mhegras.

  “I-I-protest in the strongest possible term—” he began, but the caravan master drowned him out.

  “If ye’d dealt with me more honestly, ye two, I’d be politeness itself to ye, but ’tis a bit late for protests now. If ye’d like this to take as little time as possible and win for yerselves the best treatment I can find in myself to give ye, kindly reveal the swiftest and least damaging way to take up this floor—or I just might be inclined to use axes and make my own haste!”

  “That won’t be necessary, Roadmaster,” Sabran said calmly. “If you light two lanterns and take up these two boards here, you’ll find cross-spars. Pull them along, and you’ll release a section of flooring from here to here that lifts in one piece.”

  “Why don’t we aim our bowguns at the two of ye—while ye do it?”

  “Certainly, if you’ll help us with these coffers …”

  The coffers were lifted aside, and hard-eyed guards crowded close to watch the merchants narrowly as the section of floor was freed and lifted aside—to reveal oiled cloth sacking sewn around large, thin somethings.

  “Stand back now,” Voldovan ordered, and then waved two of his men wordlessly forward. The guards probed the bundles with their daggers, cautiously lifted one bundle with the words, “Feels like armor plate,” and slit its stitches, only to draw out—a blued, curving sheet of armor plate.

  “Looks like barding,” the caravan master said slowly, and then raised his gaze to meet that of Sabran. “Well?”

  “Peytrals—twenty-two identical plates.”

  “What are peytrals?” Narm muttered. Shandril chose that moment to look at the two merchants and discovered both of them staring at her restlessly, almost quivering with—fear? Anticipation? Eagerness to do something?

  “Horsebreast armo
r, lad,” Voldovan said absently, watching one of his men bend down with a lantern and peer into the hole, seeking to see what was under the rest of the false floor.

  “Looks to be all the same stuff, Master,” the guard called, after long moments of twisting and peering.

  “Any enchantments on them?” Orthil asked the weaver, who shook his head. Voldovan turned without pause to Narm and asked, “Is he telling the truth?”

  Narm swallowed, doffed his helm, and handed it to—Voldovan, who snatched it with a curt shake of his head as Narm was handing it to Shandril. The caravan master gestured to her to keep aside from Narm and watch the two merchants. She nodded and did as she was bid.

  The young mage frowned, raised his hands, and cast a careful detection spell Jhessail had taught him, a variant of the common magic that could see linked castings and layers of magic … even where one had been cast to conceal another.

  The furrier—Mhegras of Esmeltaran—seemed to sneer slightly at Narm’s spellweaving. Shandril regarded him thoughtfully; a mage, perhaps?

  “N-no,” Narm said slowly. “No magic on any of the goods here, that I can see.” He raised his head and gave Mhegras an apparently casual glance that made the Master-of-Furs stiffen as if he’d been insulted, then turned to Voldovan and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Without pause or change of expression the caravan master asked Sabran, “The new arms tax?”

  The weaver nodded, and Voldovan waved at his men to restore the floor and the coffers. “Make ready to roll in all haste,” he snapped. He strode to the wagon-flaps and there turned to glare at the two merchants, adding, “A word of advice: keep no secrets from any roadmaster. ’Tis a good way to get yerselves left behind in the wilderness without yer wagons and wealth, left to walk to the next town—if the wolves let ye.”

  Collecting Narm and Shandril with a jerk of his head, he went out. In a few grunting moments, the guards finished heaving and stowing, and followed. From outside the wagon came shouted orders, the crack of drovers’ whips, and the rumblings of wagon wheels reluctantly gathering speed.