by Ed Greenwood
“Through there,” Elminster murmured, pointing, “is rather more private. I’m sure the folk who were sitting here before thy enthusiastic men shoved them aside would like to resume what they were doing before thy interruption, too, my lord.”
The dandy snarled at him, promised death again in his eyes, but the swordmaster said firmly, “Take the young man’s advice, Otharr. He but tries to rescue your family name … and remind you of a few simple basics of courtesy.”
Otharr did not look around, but his shoulders stiffened, and he turned without a word, fingers firmly wound in Shandathe’s hair so that she gave a little shriek and then hurried along on her knees to avoid being dragged.
Elininster took a step forward, but the noble had already halted to fling the curtain wide. “A light in here,” he ordered curtly. The young alcove-lass unhooded a slow-wick lamp and blew it into brightness before slipping hurriedly away.
The curtained pleasure-alcove normally cost six gold falcons—but before the fury of the noble and the watchful gaze of the swordmaster, the young girl did not tarry to try for the price … and the bodyguards who stood to defend her and her demand kept to the walls and held their silence. Jansibal Otharr surveyed the cushioned, draperied bed that almost filled the niche, nodded in satisfaction, and curtly waved Shandathe to the bed. The curtains fell into place behind them with an angry switch.
Farl reached up the wall with a slow, stealthy hand and dimmed the lamp there by pinching down its wick. He caught the eyes of a lady across the benches, and she did the same, dimming that side of the taproom into darkness again.
The swordmaster turned away, keeping Thelonn Selemban carefully at his side. They went back to the bar together.
Farl and El exchanged glances. Farl sketched the swell of an imaginary bosom with one hand, pointed at the curtain, and then jerked his thumb at himself. El blinked slowly, once, and then pointed toward the jakes and touched his own chest. Farl nodded, and El set out across the room to where he could relieve himself. If there was going to be creeping about or fighting, he’d best be more at ease.
Had it been like this before the magelords came to Hastarl? Shouldering and slipping his way through drunken revelers into the dimly lit privy area, El wondered what the Wench had been like when his grandfather sat on the Stag Throne. Were all men of power as cruel as the two nobles who’d almost begun a battle here? And just how were they more honorable—or more villainous—than Farl and Eladar the Dark, two young and impudent rooftop thieves?
Just who stands better in the eyes of the gods—a magelord, a dandified noble, or a thief? What’s the choice between the lot of them? The first two have more influence to do ill, and the thief is at least honest or open about what he does … hmm … perhaps these would not be safe questions to ask a priest or sage in Hastarl. The foul-smelling trough in front of him had no ready answers either, and he’d best get back out there before Farl did something reckless. If they were going to have all the armsmen in the city out looking for them, he wanted to know about it …
When he returned along the far wall, Farl was sitting beside the curtain. He caught El’s eye and then slipped smoothly behind it, keeping low. El took his seat, noted that the couple beside him were well beyond noticing what anyone else was doing, and followed.
The two friends lay still, side by side and unseen on the dark carpeted floor, as the gasps in the dimly lit alcove grew louder and more urgent. Farl crawled slowly forward as the amorous sounds built to a height, and reached up silently to lift the glass of wine—complimentary with hire of the alcove, its surface thick with settled dust—from its usual spot. Deftly he tossed its contents over the lamp wick.
The alcove was plunged into sudden, hissing darkness. Elminster rose from the carpet like a vengeful, striking snake and plunged one hand over the dandy’s mouth from behind, reaching to stifle the man into slumber with the other.
Farl’s hands were already over the Shadow’s mouth. She jerked and burbled under him, fighting for breath enough to scream, but her eyes widened when she recognized the man atop her and she stopped struggling. Elminster saw one of her slim hands cease its clawing, and reach up to stroke Farl’s shoulder. Then he had no time left to spare for looking at anyone except the noble under him.
Jansibal was oiled and perfumed, slippery under Elminster’s hands. He’d never known the hard hours and harsh battle that the youth from Heldon had felt—but he was shorter and heavier, and fury lent him strength. He threw himself sideways, dragging Elminster with him, and tried to bite the fingers that were smothering him.
Elminster drew back one arm, dagger hilt foremost, and slugged the noble hard on the jaw. Jansibal’s head snapped around, spittle and blood flying together. The dandy gave a little grunt, shook his head—and toppled over sideways on the bed, knocked senseless. One open eye stared up unseeing at Elminster; satisfied, El spun to look behind them and be sure no one had noticed the sudden dousing of the light behind the curtain, or heard the brief, unloving sounds. The hubbub of folk drinking continued unabated—and sudden soft sounds from beside him proclaimed that Farl was taking full advantage of the noble’s generous payment to Shandathe. The gold coins lay on the floor around, freed when Otharr had torn open her bodice; El ignored them to bend closer over the entwined couple, and delicately free a single distinctive earring from where the Shadow’s hair curled around her ear.
Shandathe freed her lips from Farl’s long enough to whisper a sharp, “What—?”
Elminster put a finger to his lips and murmured, “To lure the other one; ye’ll see it again, I promise.”
Holding it cupped carefully in his hand, he slipped around the curtain again and made his way unhurriedly across the taproom.
As he’d hoped, the swordmaster and Thelonn stood side by side at the bar.
“You’ll appreciate,” the officer was saying wearily, “that sons of magelords must set an example that makes the people feel they’re close and among them, not aloof. Magic, and those who wield it, are feared enough; if the kingdom is ever to be strong, th—”
He broke off as Elminster glided up between them, displayed the earring, and murmured, “Cry pardon for the interruption, my lords, but I am sent on a mission of love. The lady Lord Otharr was so anxious to make the acquaintance of confesses herself somewhat disappointed by his … ah, brief performance, and hopeful that another man of importance—such as yourself, my lord—would be made of rather sterner stuff. She bade me be sure to tell ye that she found thy tongue and bearing most impressive, and would know both better.”
Thelorn looked up at Elminster and grinned suddenly; the swordmaster shook his head, rolled his eyes, and turned away. The young noble’s eyes went across the room to the curtain. Elminster nodded and strode toward it, Thelorn following through the way that the youth cleared.
When they reached the curtain, El ducked a look around it and held it a little aside; Thelorn peered in.
A heap of clothing and bed draperies lay close by; beyond them, a single flickering stub of candle glimmered in the navel of the lady who lay bare to his sight on the bed. A silk half-mask hooded her face, and she was smiling through the swirl of long hair that lay across her mouth as she lounged with her arms clasped behind her head. “Come in, and be at ease,” she murmured, “my lord.”
Thelorn’s smile widened, and he stepped forward. As the curtain fell into place behind them both, Elminster moved with the noble, raised his trusty dagger hilt, and clubbed down, leaping a little off the floor to put his strength behind the blow.
Thelorn fell forward onto the end of the bed like a chopped sapling; Farl exploded from his concealment under heaped pillows to pull Shandathe’s feet away before he crashed down atop them.
Farl and El grinned at each other, working swiftly. Rings that might carry spells they dared not take, and Shandathe was due her coins; they tossed them to her as she swiftly dressed, and were rewarded with an enthusiastic kiss each. She was as beautiful as El had thought she’d be;
well, some other night, perhaps.
They quickly stripped Selemban’s clothes away, dragged the senseless Jansibal out from under the heap of draperies, and arranged the two naked lordlings in an embrace on the bed for others to find. Supporting the Shadow between them as if she were faint, arms around her shoulders, they helped her out through the taproom, to the alley door by the jakes.
A hopeful slug-and-snatcher glided out from a dark angle of walls, saw Farl’s warning gaze and El’s dagger gleaming ready, and drew back again. Without a word the trio turned north, toward old Hannibur’s.
The grizzled old baker lived alone over his shop. His weathered face, wooden foot, acerbic tongue, and natural stinginess made him unattractive to the ladies of Hastarl. Most days, he tossed drying, unbought bread ends, and sometimes even whole loaves, out his back door to the hopeful and hungry urchins who played there. Tonight his snores rumbled faintly out into the alley through the closed shutters of his bedchamber.
“Where are we going, m’lords?” Shandathe was still amused at the jest—and grateful for the extra gold—but her voice held a note of alarm. She’d heard some things about her two young escorts.
“We must hide you before those beasts awaken and send their bodyguards out to collect what you neglected to give them—and your hide along with it,” Farl said in her ear, embracing her.
“Aye, but where?” the Shadow asked, putting her arms around him. Farl pointed up at the window from which the snoring was coming.
Shandathe stared at him. “Are you crazed?” she hissed in sudden anger. “If you think I’m g—”
Farl’s hands glided to just the right places as he pressed his lips to hers. She struggled angrily for a moment, managing to utter some angry-sounding murmurs … and then went limp. Farl promptly passed her to Elminster. “Here,” he said brightly.
He turned away and hastily erected a pyramid of crates from the baker’s litter of shipping refuse. Elminster stared at him and then down at the girl in his arms. She was soft and beautiful—if heavy—and was stirring already; in a breath or two, she’d return to her senses … and if El knew anything about the Shadow, she’d be very angry. He looked around gingerly for a place to put her.
“ ’Tis Hannibur’s lucky night,” Farl said with a smile, as he swarmed back down the swiftly erected pyramid. Above, the shutters now hung open, and the snores roared out unmuted down the alley. He pointed at Elminster and at Shandathe, and then up at the window again.
“To be sure,” El murmured in reply, mounting the crates with the limp Shadow heavy on his back. Her delicate scent played at his nostrils, and he added under his breath, “Luckier than me, I’ll warrant.”
Then he was climbing carefully through the window, Farl steadying Shandathe’s limbs to prevent a fall or noise. She stirred as they crossed the bare board floor to Hannibur’s bed.
They drew back the patched woolen covers and laid her carefully beside the sleeping baker. Then they both turned away to stifle rising mirth: the old man wore a daringly cut, frilly wanton wench’s robe. Hairy vein-mottled flesh and bony knees protruded from the sheer silk.
El bit his lip and staggered to the window, shoulders shaking silently. Farl mastered himself sooner, and delicately drew aside two sets of garments; their owners stirred. Softly he stroked two bodies, and raced on catlike feet for the window. El was already halfway down the crates, outside.
The two thieves giggled at each other as they hauled out the bottom crates. Everything above tumbled and fell, creating a din that ought to cut through even Hannibur’s snores, and they raced away around a corner.
Pausing for breath in a courtyard half Hastarl away, Farl said, “Whew! A good even’s work. Pity I hadn’t time to empty my tankard before that hippopotamus-ass pushed his way in on you.”
Elminster grinned and handed him Shandathe’s earring. Farl smiled down at it. “Well, at least we got some pay for all our thoughtful work.”
El’s own grin widened as he dropped three heavy links of gold chain into Farl’s other hand. “Twisted it open and shortened the thing by a few links,” he said innocently. “He was wearing his lion too low for the full effect, anyway.”
Farl burst into delighted laughter, and they clung together, chuckling, until Farl caught sight of a nearby signboard. “Let’s go hoist a tankard,” he puffed.
“What?” Elminster’s blue-gray eyes danced dangerously. “Again?”
Three times Selûne had risen over the high towers of Athalgard since that night, and talk of the two young and very friendly sons of magelords was all over the city. The bodyguards of both were prowling through every tavern and beanpot dining room in the poorer parts of Hastarl, obviously looking for a certain hawk-nosed, black-haired youth and his clever-tongued friend … so Eladar and Farl had judged it prudent to take a brief vacation until the searchers grew careless enough for accidents to happen to them—or until some street thief too desperate to be wise tried to rob one of them, and their search was diverted to new targets.
Lying exposed to the gaze and bows of bored guards on the battlements of Athalgard made both the friends uneasy, so they had taken to chatting, relaxing, and plotting in the seclusion of the old walled burial ground at the other end of the city: an overgrown, disused place where the cracked and leaning stone vaults of wealthy families crumbled into rubble amid stunted trees that burst up through them, and spread concealing branches in all directions.
Proud names and thieves successful enough to buy wealth and station all came here in the end … all their boasts and plots and gold coins bought them no more than crumbling gravestones, inscribed with lies about their greatness and good character. Scant comfort, El thought, to the moldering bones beneath.
In the tranquil shade of the tomb trees, the two friends lay atop the sloping roof of Ansildabar’s Last Rest, knowing but not caring that the bones of the once-famous explorer lay gnawed and exposed in the pillaged tomb beneath, and passed a wineskin back and forth as they watched the shadows cast by the lowering sun creep across leaning tombs and collapsed mausoleums, heralding dusk.
“I’ve been thinking,” Farl said suddenly, holding out his hand for the skin.
“Usually a bad sign,” Elminster agreed affably, handing it over.
“Hah-ha,” Farl replied, “between wild orgies, I mean.”
“Ah, I’d been wondering what those momentary pauses were,” Elminster said, extending his hand for the skin. Farl, who hadn’t yet drunk, gave him a hurt look and a ‘stay’ gesture, and then drank deeply. Sighing with satisfaction, he wiped his mouth and held it out.
“D’you recall how much Budaera was asking me for pleasure together?”
Elminster grinned. “Aye. A low price—just for thee.”
Farl nodded. “Exactly. Gold pieces hand over fist, these maids make … ’twould be easy, I’m thinking, to find out where some of ’em hide their loot—and help ourselves while they were sleeping, or out ‘busy’ at the taverns and rich merchants’ clubs.”
“Nay,” El said firmly, “count me out of such plots. Fleece such sheep an’ ye’ll do it alone.”
Farl looked at him. “Right, consider the plot abandoned. Now tell me why.”
Elminster set his jaw. “I’ll not steal from those who barely have enough coins for food, let alone taxes or saving.”
“Principles?” Farl rescued the nearly empty wineskin.
“I’ve always had ’em. Ye know that.” El waved away the skin, and Farl happily drained it.
“I thought ye wanted to slay all the wizards in Athalantar.”
Elminster nodded. “All the magelords. Aye, I’ve sworn that oath—and slow, iron-careful, I’ve set about fulfilling it,” he replied, staring out over the river, where a pole barge had just come into view in the distance, heading downstream toward the docks. “Yet sometimes I wonder what else I should do—what more life should be.”
“Roast boar feasts every night,” Farl said. “So much coin to buy them that I’ll never have to
feel the bite of a knife or hide in rotting dung while armsmen poke into it with their halberds.”
“Nothing more?” El asked. “Nothing—higher?”
“What’s the point?” Farl asked with a touch of scorn. “There’re priests enough all over Faerûn to worry about things like that—and my empty stomach never tires of telling me what I should be tending to.” Satisfied that the very last drop of wine had fallen into his open mouth, he lowered the skin, rolled it, and thrust it through his belt. Then he looked across at his friend.
Eladar the Dark was frowning at him. “What gods should I worship?”
Farl shrugged, taken aback, and spread his hands. “A man must find that out for himself—or should. Only fools obey the nearest priest.”
Amusement came into the blue-gray eyes locked on his. “What do priests do, then?”
Farl shrugged. “A lot of chanting and angry shouting and sticking swords into people who worship other gods.”
In the same quiet, serious voice, El asked, “What use are faiths, then?”
Farl shrugged wildly, adopting a crazed, “Who can know?” expression, but El’s serious eyes stayed on him, and after a silence Farl said slowly, “Folk always have to believe there’s something better, somewhere, than what they have right now—and that they just might get it. And they like to belong, to be part of a group, and feel superior to outlanders. It’s why folk join clubs, and companies, and fellowships.”
Eladar looked at him. “And go out and stick swords in each other in dark alleys—and then feel superior about it?”
Farl grinned. “Exactly.” He watched the pole barge scrape to a stop against a distant dock, and said casually, “If we’re going to be facing death together many nights longer, it’d probably be a good thing if I knew this code of yours. I know you prefer shop guarding, dockwork, and errand- and package-running to thieving, but who wouldn’t?”
“Crazed-wits out looking for thrills,” El said dryly.
Farl laughed. “Leave me out of it for a breath or two, and tell.”