by Ed Greenwood
"In the wagon behind ye," Orthil growled at the maid of Highmoon, "seek ye three sorts of coffers with flasks painted on them. Yellow flask holds spoiled wine to wash clean wounds, fingerpots of sap to seal them where scarring doesn't matter, and old cloth to bind them. Red flask is merenthe to bring sleep whate'er the pain-but be sure folk swallow it and don't choke on it! Blue flask is painquench, but 'tis what's called 'dreamhappy,' mind: It leaves folk clumsy and slow-witted, not to be trusted with knives, beasts, or firetending. See to Thorst, and I'll send for ye when our search is done."
"Search?"
Not bothering to answer her, the caravan master turned his head and bellowed, "Arauntar! Beldimarr!"
Swift hoofbeats were his answer, and in a matter of moments the two guards galloped up to him, armor askew and bloody swords in hand. Beldimarr had lost his helm and was bleeding from a cut across his forehead, but both men were grinning fiercely.
"We drove'em off; Orthil!"
"I slew three!"
"Very nice," the caravan master said crushingly. "Ye two come with me now. We leave Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar here, to watch the wench and the woods, in case they come back again. Starting with this ready-wagon, we search every last conveyance down the line to see who's survived and if anyone's lurking. All undamaged wagons and unhurt folk, into the cleft. Call Varlamar to light yon braziers, and get Horlo an-"
"Horlo's dead," Arauntar said bluntly.
"Belmurl?"
"He's dead, too… or will be, by the time we get back to him."
Voldovan shook his head and pointed grimly at the ready-wagon. "Search it, and let's be going. Found any of those coffers yet, wench?"
"Easy, there," Arauntar growled. "She didn't attack our caravan."
"No, but she may well be why we were attacked," Orthil Voldovan said grimly. "I'd feed her and her lad merenthe and tie them to a tree together right now, if I thought there was some way of telling all Toril we'd left her behind and having them believe us. There isn't, so I'll use her fire magic instead… but look ye, Shandril Shessair: I have my eye on ye, and if ye set one foot down wrong, it'll be the swift sword or the bow for ye, and we'll see if all thy precious fire will save ye from the grave!"
Guards stared nervously at Shandril, where she knelt on the perch frozen in a sideways twist, half inside the wagon-curtain and half out, looking at the caravan master.
Beldimarr licked his lips. "Uh, Master, be this talk- wise?"
"Wisdom is something I've never had.and never found a need for," Orthil told him curtly. "I run caravans, remember?"
No one laughed at the savage jest. Into the little silence that followed Shandril said calmly, "I've not found your marked coffers yet, Orthil, but I will. Send for me when you need me."
Her level tone made the guards relax visibly. Both of the Harpers nodded approvingly and almost imperceptibly.
Orthil also gave her a nod, still glowering, and wheeled his mount. He pointed at Arauntar, then at Beldimarr, and then at Shandril's wagon in silent reminder ere he spurred his wearily foaming horse to the next upright wagon and roared at the night, "Varlamar! Torches in those braziers, for the love of all the gods!"
Arauntar and Beldimarr rode up to Shandril with muttered growls of "Sorry, lass," and swung down from their horses, handing her the reins.:
As they shouldered past her into the gloom, bloody swords first, she murmured, "Show me what to do for Thorst, will you?"
Thoadrin of the Cult reined in under the dead duskwood tree, looked around the half-seen circle of men who'd already gathered there, and then glanced back down the road. The moon was rising; he could see the distant prow of Face Crag against the sky, and the kindlings of many tiny flames thereabouts. "Report," he ordered, not bothering to keep the smile off his face. "Curthryn, you first."
"We lost Jaskel, and I think Murbryn. Others, too. The Dark Blade of Doom yet lives. He's posing as the blandreth-dealer in the maroon wagon with the yellow star on its side."
"Leave him for now," Thoadrin said. "There'll be plenty of time for a slaying to befall him later, if his next attempt to capture the lass fails. Enough of losses; what gains?"
"Three guards, and as many fat, shrieking merchants, or more."
"I slew one, and four merchants. One of them crashed his wagon," another Cult warrior said eagerly.
"I wounded a guard and two merchants-one should die soon," put in a third.
The reports continued, brief and unboasting. Thoadrin smiled in the darkness, well pleased.
He said as much to his men before asking if any of them were hurt. This had been a good harrying. He'd called them off the moment things started to turn against the Cult blades, when most of their lances and bolts were gone and the caravan guards had gotten over their shock and were seeking to strike back.
Let them wait, and lose sleep for another night where no attack would come. Untrammeled by wagons, Thoadrin's band could take the Two Pools overland trail, probably buy more bolts from the traders at Dowan Pool, and be waiting for Voldovan's caravan two nights hence to do it all again. Yes, it had been a good harrying.
There was plenty of time yet for the caravan to be stripped down to one spellfire-wielding wench, frightened and alone, trying to race a wagon to Waterdeep ere her wounded man, lying in the back, died of his wounds.
Thoadrin's smile broadened. Yes, his men were good enough to bring things to that.
The first needle broke, but Marlel wasted no time on curses. His left boot always carried three needles and goodly lengths of thread and stout waxed cord. The latter would do for this quick stitching, to gather the gaping lips of the slashed false belly together under a hastily donned new robe from Olimer's best chest. He slashed off the trailing end of cord, let the robe fall back into place, and stowed the needle back in his boot just as the heavy boots of Voldovan's trained hounds landed upon the perch outside the curtain.
Marlel turned, blinking, as the curtain was roughly plucked back and the brute Beldimarr thrust a lantern inside, with the tip of his drawn sword glimmering beside it. A second grizzled veteran guard-Arauntar, that was the name, as much a lout as his sword-companion-brandished another ready blade a pace back, his eyes leaping here and there across the interior of Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths wagon.
"How fare ye?" Arauntar asked bluntly. "Hurts? Goods damage? We've orders to search every wagon."
Haransau Olimer waved an airy hand. "I live, unscathed by the grace of Tymora, and so am at peace with Faerun-so long as ye guard me well when I must sleep, as must soon befall. Wherefore search away, my bold protectors-search diligently, and the watching gods shrewdly guide thee!"
"All right, all right," Beldimarr muttered. "Yer enthusiasm ' grates nigh as much as it overwhelms. Just stand aside for a trice, and we'll-anything, Raunt?"
Arauntar was wading gingerly among hoop-topped open chests of cargo. "Blandreths look all too much like crouching men in armor," he growled back. "Good merchant, tell me: Why d'ye carry these pots uncovered? Strikes me they'll rust!" Warily he thrust his blade close to one suspicious-looking heap and stirred it with his hand.
Haransau Olimer smiled. "Ah, good warrior, 'tis precisely 'gainst rust that my best pots travel bared to the world-when the air can reach them, they rust not! A good blandreth, know you, must be special, lest the coals or fires its three feet stand in scorch it and ruin what cooks within it!"
"I thought blandreths hung above fires on chains-from tripods, like we see in camps," Beldimarr rumbled, his eyes never leaving the cautiously stalking figure of Arauntar.
"Ah, good warrior, those cauldrons of the tripods are 'great blandreths.' My beauties stand right in thy coals or thy fire but are raised on their legs above the burning!" The merchant spread his hands. "Would you like to buy one? They're just the thing for warriors who must dine by night over fires and move on again with the new day! Why, I believe-"
"I believe there're no lurking brigands here, and we've more than a score of other wagons still to ch
eck," Arauntar growled. "Another time, perhaps, Olimer. Oh, mind out: The three pots in that corner are a-crawl with rust. I'd cover these chests at dewfall, if yer wagonflaps are open."
The blandreth-dealer gave him a sickly smile. "I thank you," he said with a little bow. "I–I'll bear that in mind."
Arauntar gave him a cheery wave and swung down from the wagon. The other guard straightened slowly with the lantern in his hand, his eyes never leaving the face of the merchant.
"Call out if you see or hear anything suspicious," Beldimarr added, as he turned to follow Arauntar. "Anything at all."
"I shall, yes," the merchant assured him, clasping his hands as men who are well satisfied-or very nervous-do. The guard nodded and strode away.
Haransau Olimer lifted both of his eyebrows and looked up at the starry sky. "And that, O watching gods," he murmured in a voice so soft that even a man standing right — behind him would have struggled to hear it, "is all I know about blandreths, so the special oils wilt stay stoppered and those pots will simply have to rust. I'd best separate them into a chest of their own ere our eagle-eyed friend next inspects my wares."
It had taken only one spell from his ring to set two wagons afire and immolate the real Haransau Olimer and his assistant in one of them. It had taken Marlel's natural guile and but a few moments of pretty speech to lure the two men into one of those wagons in search of some very good deals-and he was back in Olimer's wagon hastily donning the padded belly and one of the blandreth-dealer's second-best robes before most of the shouting began. It was a matter of moments with face paints to give himself Olimer's pimples and baggy eyes, and he was ready to emerge and gawk with the rest and later sorrowfully tell Voldovan that both his passenger and his assistant seemed to be among the missing.
That passenger, paying a wagon-owner for riding-in-shelter passage from Scornubel to Waterdeep, had been a young, slender man of few words and a face hidden in a cowl. Earlier Olimer had confided a few suspicions regarding him to one of the guards-but the merchant's customary cheerful disposition soon returned after the disaster, and he dismissed suggestions that his passenger had been involved in fell magic with the news that he'd gathered by roundabout queries that the lad was on something of a pilgrimage to a Waterdhavian temple and considered himself both unworthy to serve his god and unable to work holy magics. Just which god, the youngling had declined to say.
Now, of course, he was beyond questioning. Marlel looked around his wagon of clanking pots and smiled. The fat merchant had terrible taste in clothes-but oh, the food and wine the man enjoyed! None of your usual overbrewed thrusk and handfuls of stale nuts but pickled rock beetles from the Tashalar, spiced firestorm wine from Elturel, and keg after keg of roast bustard marinated in zzar!
'Twas a good thing Waterdeep wasn't all that far off, or Olimer's wardrobe of voluminous robes would soon be all Marlel would be able to fit into!
There was just time for a skewer of fried arnhake and jellied eel ere he tied the bell-cords across the wagon-flaps and took his rest for the night. Being searched was such hungry work.
"Lady," said the softly menacing voice behind the knife that gleamed in front of her throat, "am I glad to see you!"
"Not half so much," Sharantyr replied with a smile, seizing the thief's wrist and jerking hard down and toward her, so that his deadly blade plunged hilt-deep into her breast-without sound or resistance, as if she was a ghost, or a woman made of smoke-and slipping a noose of her stonemaiden around his neck, "as I am gladdened, sirrah, to see you".
Startled eyes stared at her, eyes bulged, and lingers clawed at the tightening cord. A knee shot up desperately between her legs to strike her armored codpiece with numbing force. Numbing for the thief, that is. A loop of her cord captured his knife-wrist even more tightly than it held his throat, and after a moment of frenzied and futile struggle, he sagged limply in her grasp. He was helpless, and they both knew it.
"My delight is so sharp and swift, good sir," the lady ranger continued sweetly, "because you're going to take me to see Belgon Bradraskor-or the Master of the Shadows, if you prefer his, ah, professional title."
The thief s pleading eyes managed to convey even deeper desperation, and he clawed and wrenched at her arms in vain. This shapely woman was much stronger than she looked… and much stronger than he was.
Sharantyr gave him another, almost impish smile and tweaked the cord she was holding to remind him wordlessly that she knew just how much air he was getting and could cut off his supply-and his life with it-at any time.
"I don't want to hurt you," she told the strangling man, "and I don't want to harm Belgon. In fact, if you give him my name, I believe he'll be pleased indeed to see me. Now, can you take me to him, or are you… expendable?"
By a swift and rising series of panting sobs and nods the thief managed to convey his ability and deeply earnest willingness to guide this woman, whom blades couldn't touch, anywhere she pleased, this very moment, and to any number of Masters of Shadows she might care to see.
Sharantyr smiled still more broadly and did something to his wrist that made his fingers burn and his knife clatter to the ground. "Remember," she purred, making it clink on the cobblestones with the toe of her boot, "that I could have slain you and did not. I want no further unpleasantness between us. Consider me a mistake who decided to be merciful to you."
He nodded, eyes very wide, and she slipped around behind him like a graceful ghost and tightened the stonemaiden around his throat in a slip-knot, so that it made a leash. She slipped another of its cords around one of his legs below the knee and let it hang loose. If he tried to run, it could be pulled tight to trip him in an instant.
"My name is Tessaril Winter," she purred. "What's yours?"
"Ta-Taber, 1-lady."
The cord around his neck tightened suddenly, leaving him with no air at all. He sobbed, reeled as the night grew darker around him… then the cord loosened, and he could breathe again.
"No, no," that gentle voice said, deep with sadness and disappointment, "I want your real name."
"B-Besmer, lady."
"Lady-?"The cord twitched, warningly.
"Lady Winter!" he said hastily. "Lady Tessaril Winter."
"That's much better, Besmer," the lady behind him said approvingly. "We both grow older, though, and so doth the night-a night I could be spending with my friend Belgon."
"Y-yes?"
"Guide me," she breathed into his ear, and the thief shivered, swallowed, then started to walk, slowly and carefully, down the alley-only to be brought to choking heel.
"No," the purring voice of the ghost-lady said into his ear, "take me another way. I don't fancy this particular alley."
Slowly and very carefully, Besmer turned around, his captor turning with him like a soft-footed shadow, and asked in a tremulous voice, "Did you want to go by Rat Stair, Lady Winter, or Baluth's Hole-or do you know some other way?"
"The Hole, I think," Sharantyr told him pleasantly. "Rat Stair reminds me of all the rats I've eaten, some of them alive and uncooked, and almost all of them without sauce."
The thief caught in her cords shivered again, and started to walk very slowly and carefully across Scornubel.
Seeing Folk Who Are Hard To Get To See
When dealing with trade-rivals or slaughtering ruling dynasties, start at the top. "Tis more dangerous, but a lot more entertaining for bystanders-and will earn you an enviable reputation. Remember: Men stand back to gaze at those they admire but leap forward to aid those they respect (or, to use a more blunt word, those they fear.
Brathmur Engelstone, Sage of Saerloon, One Trail Chosen: A Path Through Life,Year of the Highmantle
"S-she wants to see the Master," Besmer quavered to the man who'd stepped suddenly into their path with a drawn sword in his hand, in this narrowest of dark and dripping passages. Most of Scornubel was dusty and dry, above and below ground, but this underway ran very deep, doubtless skirting an underground spring. Sharantyr had begun to th
ink her unwilling guide just might be leading her on a needlessly extended tour of Scornubel's darker ways-but the smell of fear was strong on him, and he seemed almost as terrified of the man now standing in front of him as of the lady behind who could strangle him in a moment or on a whim.
The sentinel said nothing and evidently needed no light to see. His response to Besmer's words was to thrust his blade, lightning-swift, under the thief's arm-straight into the woman standing behind him, who presumably held the other end of the strangling-cord that was around Besmer's throat.
Into and through her it went, as if she was made of smoke. The sentinel uttered a startled grunt and slashed about in her with his steel, just to make sure, but he might have been cleaving empty air.
"When you're finished," Sharantyr told him pleasantly, "I'd like to see Belgon. Perhaps I'll have time to play at blades with you later."
The man with the sword frowned at her over Besmer's shoulder, then asked, in a voice rough with disuse, "You know him?"
"For an answer to that, why don't you give him my name and see his reaction?"
"And what," that rough voice asked heavily, "might that name be?"
The cord twitched around Besmer's neck, and he squeaked hastily, "Winter! The Lady Tessaril Winter!"
The man gave the thief a hard look and the woman behind him an even harder one. Then he stepped back into the side-passage he'd erupted from. Behind he left the flat words, "Wait here-or die."
"Well, Besmer," Sharantyr said brightly, "we've been left with a choice. Would you prefer to tarry? Or choose death?"
"Arauntar," Shandril murmured as a familiar form stalked past her wagon, "where's Narm?" The much-scarred veteran guard cast a look at Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar- who'd turned suspiciously to watch and listen, their hands going to their swordhilts-then looked back at Shandril and said, "He hit his head. Narbuth's tending him."