by Ed Greenwood
"Yes, but what's to stop Voldovan or any master from making whatever knots he pleases?"
The scarred, coarse-tongued caravan guard gave Narm a severe look and growled, "His love for retaining his own head. Now let's be loading. If we're not ready to roll when the horn calls, 'twill be our heads in the next stew-blandreth."
Shandril gave him a scornful look. "Just save breath and stop trying to scare us, B'marr. You don't boil heads for stew."
"Nay, you're right about that. I leave that to Raunt, who's better'n'me with salt an' suchlike."
He gave the young couple a sidelong grin. Shandril answered it with another sour look and asked, "I suppose nothing frightens veteran Harpers like you?"
Beldimarr's unlovely head and fearsome mustache turned her way and Shandril found herself looking into eyes that seemed older than she thought they'd be.
"Oh now, lass, I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that at all. We've just learned not to waste time worrying, or noise fretting to others about it. I'm scared of a goodly handful of things right now."
"Oh?" Shandril shook her head, and gave him a little grin. "Somehow that makes me feel better. A goodly handful, eh?" She pointed at the wagon-flap. "Therefore tremble and depart."
"As you command, fire-witch," the Harper said good-naturedly and stepped down from the wagon with a grunt. Settling his swordbelt into place, Narm strolled across the floorboards to watch Beldimarr go-and was sent staggering by the arrival of the first coffer, tossed into his midriff with deadly accuracy by the guard outside. Shandril sputtered with laughter as Narm found an unexpected seat upon the roll of bedding and sprang forward to catch the next box herself. It clanged into her frontal collection of armor plates, rebounded up into her chin, and left her wishing she had put on her hot, heavy helm.
Another day was under way in earnest, it seemed, and familiar aches and pains swiftly returned to register their protests. Shandril and Narm gave each other wry grins and commenced fielding coffers, not bothering about proper stowage. The casks would determine that, with Beldimarr's roared directions, when they started arriving.
"I'm not spending my life running caravans," Narm grunted. "This one is more than enough."
Shandril wrinkled her nose at him. "I wonder how many folk have said that before?"
The man who was not Haransau Olimer smiled a soft smile as he watched the taller and dirtier of Voldovan's head guards stride purposefully past, several more sword-dogs in his wake. All it had taken was a bewildered comment about a certain wagon "clanking" to another merchant nursing thrusk over a fire. Even suspicious merchants talk. Especially suspicious merchants talk-and as weakened and scared as these guards were, now, they'd even learned to listen.
The Dark Blade of Doom was a long way from familiar alleys and hiding-holes, now. In fact, everyone's favorite Marlel was trapped amid wolves who hid behind masks. Little games like this could tug a few of those masks into slipping-but the spells their wearers could hurl could snatch away his life in an instant. He'd need spellfire to have any hope of standing against them.
Spellfire. Well, now. What a coincidence…
"Watch, now," Sabran the Weaver murmured to his business partner. "They're coming this way again."
"Dolts," Mhegras Master-of-Furs snapped, whirling back into the wagon. "Do they really think that searching us once more will show them things they somehow missed the last dozen times? This fool of a Voldovan'll give every last prowling beast and desperate fool of a brigand a chance at us, going so slowly! We should have been up and away at dawn, not waiting around for his self-important sword-heads to tramp all over us one more time!"
"Easy, lad," Sabran said. "You're here to learn patience, remember?"
Mhegras snorted. "As if the Brotherhood puts any value on that! All it really seems to mean in our ranks is 'underlings smiling and submitting as superiors do stupid things to them.'"
"Ah," Sabran replied with a little smile, "you're learning already."
Mhegras muttered angrily, "Well, listening to clever sayings from smug priests of Bane isn't why I joined the Zhentarim! I-"
"You joined for power," the weaver snapped back. "Like all the other young fools who think they can rule the world if they can just steal one more spell. Here were all these magics on offer, in return for a little groveling! I'm always amazed at how swiftly such trifling obediences become too high a price to pay for you arrogant puppies-and how each of you so clumsily plots treachery, thinking you're somehow special and your fate will be different from all your fellows you see slapped down all around you."
"You're the one who thinks yourself special," the wizard hissed. "You and all the rest of your smug brethre-"
"Fair morn to you, Swordmaster," Sabran said pleasantly. "I must confess my partner and I are fretting over the lateness of our departure. This certainly doesn't seem a safe y place to spend another night!"
"Nay, ye've got that right," Arauntar grunted, stepping up into the wagon with two grim guards in tow. "We're almost ready to roll-but I've orders to search four wagons once more, first, and I'm afraid yours is one of them. I'd like to do this quickly and take myself out of your way again, so…"
"Of course," the weaver replied. "We've moved nothing since your last look: finished garments to the left, bolts to the right, our own effects at the back…"
Mhegras stood glowering in the narrow cleared passage between the stacked and wedged tallchests and carry-coffers as the guards shuffled forward, moving a few coffers and peering halfheartedly into a tallchest or two.
"The flat carry-coffers all hold bolts of the same fabric," the weaver offered, watching a guard wrestle a coffertop off and peer suspiciously into its interior. "Musterdelvys."
Arauntar nodded and tapped a palm-sized painted plaque that had been slipped into a frame on one side of a tallchest. "Remind me one again what these symbols mean, please."
"Three stripes? Livery," Sabran explained. "Tabards and lambrequins for noble clients in Waterdeep, who desire all of their guards to wear their colors. Very wealthy patrons."
"We'll try not to keep them waiting longer than we have to," the caravan guard replied heavily and tapped a plaque with another symbol. "This one?"
"Mine," the furrier said quickly, stepping forward. "Pelicons of the finest make, also bound for sale in Waterdeep."
"Pelicons?"
"Open, fur-trimmed overcloaks worn by ladies of fashion, Swordmaster," Mhegras explained curtly.
"Ah. Fancycloaks!"
The furrier looked pained. "A particular sort of, ah, 'fancycloak,' sirrah, just as not all armor is the same." '
"Hunhh. Fashion, to be sure," Arauntar replied, his eyes fixed on the other two guards. They were busily shifting aside carry-coffers and peering behind them, making sure that nothing had been hidden along the sides of the wagon. He caught sight of something long and wooden at about the same time as they did-not the usual wedges, but something like a spar.
"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 sid
es. 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 Faerun 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.
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 Water-deep," 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 whoreson 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 Faerun 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."