by Ed Greenwood
Bradraskor seemed to wince, but whatever he might have been going to say was interrupted by a voice from behind Sharantyr.
"Master?"
The Master of the Shadows made a swift gesture that Sharantyr correctly interpreted as a signal to put away whatever weapon the newcomer was holding ready. She did not bother to turn, but asked lightly, "Tornar the Eye?"
There was a silence, ended by another sharp gesture from Bradraskor, and the voice spoke again, its tones not entirely free of surprise. "Tornar I am, Lady, and give you greeting. You are-?"
"Sharantyr of Shadowdale," she replied, turning until she could see both Tornar and his master. She exchanged nods with the Eye as the Master of the Shadows said, "Tornar, I'm giving Flamewind to Sharantyr, the best saddle and all. I need her ready for a long ride in the north courtyard, as swiftly as possible. Let there be two skins of water, a saddlebag of wine, and a meal-untainted and the very best. I'll escort the lady thither directly and expect Flamewind to be waiting for us when we reach the well."
Tornar bowed to them both and strode swiftly out. His master went to one of the other doors, opened it, gestured within, and asked, "Lady?"
Sharantyr took his arm as she passed and murmured, "Walk with me, Belgon. As you say, 'tis safer if a lady goes not alone."
The thief-lord winced, then stiffened as two things enveloped him: a faint, cinammonlike scent that was either his visitor or the leathers she wore and a crawling, tingling sensation that he was sure must be magic. He drew in a deep breath as her hip brushed his huge thigh and carefully matched his pace to hers like a court gallant. They entered the shadowed passage together.
"How're you, lad?" Arauntar murmured, cradling Narm as gently as a mother holds her child. "Head splitting, aye, but otherwise?"
"Otherwise," Narm mumbled, wincing, "I'm… all right, I suppose. How's Shan?"
"Frightened for you, demanding you be brought to her right now, an'-ahem-a mite annoyed," the guard rumbled. "If you can walk without falling, I'd like to be getting you to her straight away."
"I'll manage," Narm grunted, snatching hold of the nearest lashing-ring on the wagon wall and hauling himself up the row of rings with trembling fingers. He clung groggily to the uppermost ring for a moment and stared down at his tingling hands. They were swollen and seemed numb and weak…
"Narbuth bound you a little tight," the Harper explained. "I just cut you free. Catch thy breath a bit, lad-an' do something for me, if you will."
Narm looked at Arauntar, squinting against the pain, and asked faintly, "What?"
"Forget for now Orthil ordering you bound an' Jathun hitting you, all right? 'Twill be easier for us all if yer lady doesn't go frying all our heads off just yet."
The mage gave the Harper a sidelong look, smiled wryly, and replied, "I'll grant it will, at that. Right, you'll have my silence on this-for now. Now, take me to Shan, before she comes looking for me herself."
"That," Arauntar told him with a wry and gap-toothed grin, "is precisely why I want you to hurry."
Sharantyr of Shadowdale gave them a merry wave and cantered into the night. The Master of the Shadows let the arm that had saluted her in return fall back to the moonlit rim of the well and said softly to the man beside him, "Follow her. Let her work death among all the spellfire-seekers Bluthlock has sent after Voldovan's wagons-but when you judge the time right, make sure she dies."
Tornar nodded. "Of course, Master. She knows your looks, where you lair, and how to reach you. She must not live."
Belgon Bradraskor nodded. "A pity. No woman has ever called me gallant before."
"Hesperdan was right," Hlael mused thoughtfully.
Korthauvar sighed. "Hesperdan is always right. Why else would one feeble old man with such expensive vices yet be suffered by the Brotherhood to live?"
"Too useful to slay, too unambitious to be a danger."
"So he appears. I wonder if he isn't plotting some dark magic to someday drain us all of life and magic."
"What, to make himself master over all the Brotherhood and rise to challenge Shaaan and Larloch, Szass Tarn, and Maraunth Torr?"
"Nay, that's the gods-smile-down worst of it all. Anyone else would do such a thing to become an Archmage Most Mighty and conquer Faerun at will. Hesperdan, Bane take him, would do it as an interesting experiment!"
The gem she'd broken on the lip of the stone well had done its work. It would not last long, and its awakening had banished the ironguard that had made metal pass harmlessly through her, but Sharantyr could see and hear the two grim men as clearly as if she still stood in the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder with the Master of the Shadows and Tornar. She grinned savagely at the moon as she overheard Bradraskor's orders.
"Ah, we must all die sometime, Belgon," she told the wind. "Let you be gallant to the last, and I'll be well pleased. Of course Tornar must try to slay me. I only hope Besmer has sense enough to flee the city as fast as he can. No one must know that a lone woman marched straight in on the Master of the Shadows in his lair, defeating guards and traps at will, forced a deal on the lord of Scornubel's thieves, and went on her way with his gifts. No sinister reputation could quite recover from such news-and no thief-lord without such a reputation can hope to last long."
As Tornar hurried away across the courtyard to where he'd no doubt left another mount waiting, her tiny magic faded away. The last Sharantyr saw of the Master of the Shadows was his brooding face, as he leaned on crossed arms on the well rim and stared into the night after her.
"Too late, Belgon," the ranger told the wind of her galloping, as her hair streamed out behind her like a dark cloud and the moon painted the Blackrocks bright before her, "and too slow. Not even Tornar can ride fast enough to save you, for rumor runs ever before him, clear across Scornubel. I learned as much myself a long time ago, when first I swung a sword and ran unclad with boys-and the little lady my parents thought I'd become was swept away by gossip, forever. Whispers fly as fast as arrows."
Daily Disappearances
Thrusk in the morning wakes a man, banishes sour breath, and kindles hero-fire within. It also leaves the drinker unable to taste anything else, sleepless, and swift to rage-and draws beasts near. Yet if a slinking monster disturbs a dedicated thrusk-drinker, it's often difficult from the snarls to tell one from the other.
Imgaun Cordelvur, Master of Platters,We Can All Dine Like Kings,Year of the Lost Helm
The hand on her shoulder was so gentle that for a long, murmuring time Shandril thought it was Narm's. Then her nose caught a whiff of rank breath and old sweat, and she came awake with spelllire boiling up in her, borne on a leaping flame of fear and rage-to stare into Arauntar's anxious face, as far away from her as he could be and still touch her with just the tips of his fingers.
He drew back his hand hastily and growled, "Up, lass. Orthil's in a rare rage this morn an' will be less merry still when he finds the two of you together. I've made you a fire an' put water on, for washing and thrusk-brew."
Shandril wrinkled her nose. "Thrusk? I hate thrusk! It tastes like old boots!"
The grizzled guard grinned. "I suppose you've enjoyed a steady diet of footwear, old boots included?"
"I was maid at a small inn," Shandril told him irritably. "Lick and polish, all too oft-"
She watched Arauntar's gaze descend, realized Narm's cloak had fallen away to her waist and that she wasn't wearing a Sembian stitch of anything, and snapped, "Thank you! Now get out of here!"
"Of course, great lady," Arauntar replied, keeping his gaze now on the curving inner roof of the wagon as he quickly ducked out. "I was just leav-whoa, get clothes on, lass, an' hurry! Orthil's on his way over here with a face on him like a winter storm!"
“Is he now!" Shandril snarled, turning to the warm and oblivious man still snoring ever so slightly beside her. "Narm, love, get up!" She kissed him, put her arms around him and tickled him mercilessly-and when he started to guffaw, whipped away the cloak and blankets so that the flower of th
e Tamaraiths roared at the cold. "Get dressed, and hurry!"
She hastened to use the chamberpot before he could, snatched up her clothes, and went running on chilled bare feet to the corner of the wagon where she'd torn her armor off last night-or rather, where Narm had hurled it, piece by clattering piece, in his haste to peel it from her.
She was still squatting over the heap, frantically untangling and heaving aside an unfolding chaos of rusty plate and leather, when the wagon-flap fairly flew aside and the master of the caravan strode into the remains of their bed. Kicking it aside, he glared around the wagon, past the hopping, sleepily blinking young man who was still knuckling his eyes and feeling about for his clothes- and stopped to place the full weight of his angry stare upon the unclad woman in the corner.
Orthil Voldovan put his head to one side and smiled in a way that somehow managed to combine leering and sneering and I-told-ye-so sarcasm, and said, "Well, well, well, if it isn't the Lord and Lady of Love, right here in my own ready-wagon! Here I thought yer spells and yer fire-take-all might be of some use to us, in the trifle of trouble that's made us later in leaving than I've ever been in all my runs, later than any sane wagoneer would desire to be who wants to make Orcskull Rise by nightfall-and I find ye still cooing and moaning away in yer snug little lovenest, not in yer armor and being guards at all! Why, I've half a mind to just fling wide the flap and show all the prize fools along with us what yer up to, just to-lass, what're ye doing?"
Wearing only her tousled hair and a tight little smile, Shandril marched past him, flung wide the wagon-flap with a loud snapping of tarred cloth, and waved cheerfully to the faces that turned her way.
Jaws dropped open and stares grew intense-as she turned her back on them, put her hands on her hips, and bellowed, "Finished, Lord Love Voldovan? Can I get dressed now? Tis cold, and I really should be back in my armor and getting us out of here!"
Orthil's jaw dropped and he stared at her in bewilderment. "Wha-buh-"
"Orthil," Shandril said icily, paying no attention to the gathering crowd of gawking men behind her but knowing quite well how their numbers were swelling, "get! Unless you'd be so kind as to take that blandreth off the boil and make thrusk for us. In fact, I'd like that-and over a tankard each, you can tell us about your trifle of trouble whilst I finish getting dressed… after, that is, you let me start getting dressed!"
Eager hands lifted the blandreth off the fire, stirred the thrusk, and handed tankards up to the baffled-looking caravan master. Shaking his head a little, Voldovan took them, set them down carefully, then whirled to face the crowd and roared, "Get out of here! Each of ye, to yer own beast and harness! Make ready to roll wagons-now!"
He pulled down the wagon-flap again to shut out the watching world, turned back to Narm and Shandril, and asked politely, "Thrusk, anyone?"
Narm couldn't hide his grin. Shaking his head, he accepted a steaming tankard, set it aside to avoid scalded lips, and went on settling his nondescript armor into place and rolling away bedding.
Shandril, wearing nothing but boots and the strange network of straps that would hold up her greaves and armored stomacher when they were fastened, strolled from the depths of the wagon over to Voldovan, turned her back on him, and said, "I've no Storstil nor Narbuth handy, so could you do me up, sir?"
For a moment she thought she was going to get a tankard of scalding thrusk flung over her, but instead she felt warm breath on her bare shoulder blades and heard the loud hissing of the caravan master heaving a gusty sigh. The sound of tankards being carefully set down again followed, and then rough-surfaced knuckles were gently snugging straps together down her back.
Orthil said in a low voice, "I-my apologies, both of ye. I'm… not a happy man, this morn. There was more trouble in the night."
"What sort of trouble?" Narm asked, taking his first cautious sip of thrusk-then grimacing and wishing he hadn't. Boiled tongue for breakfast again.
"More folk gone."
"Gone?" Shandril asked, as wiry, dirty hair brushed her behind and those hardened fingers laced and buckled their ways down to her ankles.
"Gone-vanished, leaving their wagons behind, goods and all. If they fought, we heard it not, and no one saw anything. I sent the lads out to search the woods and they found tracks, right enough: leucrotta and bear, plus a little blood here and there."
Narm and Shandril both heard the "but" in the caravan master's tone. Shan turned to regard Voldovan with a thoughtful frown on her face, but it was Narm who prompted him. "But-?"
"The tracks don't come close to any wagons. The beasts might have scavenged the dead, but they didn't drag or chase them away from camp. Why'd the men stray? Or did someone-a few men at least, it'd take-creep in with knife or strangle-wire and carry them off? If so, why steal nothing? Folk scared by brigands and all our warnings don't just wander from their wagons, right past my guards, and get clear out of a rock cleft unseen!"
"You need our magic," Narm said quietly, "now that you've come and seen and made sure we aren't the murderers you're looking for."
"I've made sure of nothing, lad," Voldovan told him heavily, "but for what 'tis worth, no, I don't think either of ye were snatching away a dozen merchants last night. I–I don't hold with wizards. There's none in Scornubel as I'd trust within a kingdom of me, and I can't afford one casting from any of'em, let alone entice one to set foot in the Blackrocks and ride guard for me. Damned expensive, arrogant nuisances, but when ye need them, ye really need them!"
The caravan master took a swig of steaming thrusk that would have cooked Narm's gullet, realized who he was talking to, and added hastily, "Uh, no offense meant to ye, lad and lady."
Back in her corner, Shandril waved a dismissive hand and returned to Voldovan with a despairing look and the heavy chaos of her breastplate in her arms. The caravan master drained his tankard in another throat-scalding swig, hastily lifted the garment, and turned it so that she could step in under his hands and let him lower it into place.
"Watch this," the maid from Highmoon said sharply to her husband. "I won't be troubling Master Voldovan to be dressing me every morn, no matter how much he enjoys it."
Orthil gave her a half-amused snort and said grimly to Narm, "Ye may have to get battle-spells ready, lad, if this goes on. Those brigands haven't done with us. They probably took the Two Pools trail and will be waiting for us next night. Or they're shadowing us, along the ridges. Either way, we're so much cook-meat on firespits once they learn how weak we're getting."
"Voldovan?" a rough but familiar voice called from close by outside the wagon.
"In!" the caravan master called curtly, and Arauntar thrust his head in at the flap, Beldimarr at his shoulder. "Well?"
"We've searched all. Nothing."
"Just gone, hey?"
The veteran guards nodded in grim unison.
"Any of the wagons better than what's still rolling?"
Arauntar shook his head. "Two clients lost theirs, an' we've shifted them to the best abandoned ones already. Valuable cargo, food, an' wagon wheels are in the other ready-wagon. Packed to the high hoops, 'tis."
"Thank the gods ye two know what to do. Anything to come in here?"
"A dozen strongchests an' a water barrel, if there's room."
"Oh, there'll be room. With just the lass riding the perch and one of ye as drover, we can pack this one to the hoops, too. Gods, but the hay's going fast."
"We'll be staying together," Narm said quietly, "Shan and me. At all times."
Orthil glared at him. "Oh ye will, will ye?"
"Yes," Shandril told him crisply, hefting her helmet. "We will, Orthil."
"That'd be best," Arauntar said quickly, ere Voldovan could draw breath for the angry tirade that by the look on his face seemed to be building swiftly to an eruption, "now that so many of us guards're down. With 'em both together, it takes only one of us to watch 'em. B'marr and I can take turns at that."
Beldimarr nodded, and then looked at Orthil.
After a long, narrow-eyed look, Voldovan turned back to the mage and the spellfire-maid and growled, "If I thought ye'd worked a spell on these two to get them to say aye to yer plan, it'd be my sword ye'd both be feeling about now." He sighed. "My scheme was to have a hold over ye, lass, to guard against any tyranny ye might feel the need of dispensing, by having thy husband elsewhere, in our grasp. I can make the same threats with crossbows, if need be. Be warned."
"Oh, aye," Beldimarr growled before Shandril could reply, "one more thing: Carngaur died. The lance must've been poisoned."
"Buried?"
"Nay-let him poison a few leucrotta an' do us all one last service. He's back in the woods a-ways."
The caravan master nodded, sighed again, and made a large, circular knot in one of the tally-cords at his belt.
"He has a wife," Arauntar said softly, and Orthil frowned and changed the knot to another. Then his hands went to his other hip and held up some of the cords hanging there.
"We haven't the day it would take to tally every last chest and coffer and cask moved here or there; just tell me what wagons to tie off."
"Well, now. Dead folk can't pay us outstanding passage costs-an' we're going to have a real battle if we try to charge men who lost wagons any costs that come with another one we salvaged, to give to them…"
The caravan master and his senior guard were already out of the wagon and tramping away, the problem of the young mage and the fire-witch forgotten.
Beldimarr gave Narm and Shandril a gap-toothed grin and said, "That went rather well, hey?"
Shandril nodded, but Narm frowned. "Those cords?"
"Tallies, knotted an' unknotted to track payments an' debts an' cargo amounts."