by Ed Greenwood
Dove nodded, her smile gone now. "Because, in your own way, you serve Faerun as I do-a service for which you are all too unlikely to be otherwise thanked. I could hardly leave you to bleed to death in the center of my Dancing Place when you'd taken your wound trying to protect me."
She folded her fingers as if closing an unseen book, and acquired an impish smile as she drew her hand back from above his breast. "Even if doing so would greatly please a large and ever growing host of folk spread all across the continent of Faerun."
Mirt grunted at that and snaked out a hand to touch her knee. A surge of power washed through him, as if he'd been touched by a spell. His entire body jumped ere something happened inside Dove Falconhand, and the flow was cut off as if cut by a knife. . leaving him holding a knee. A shapely knee, but mere flesh and bone now, not some storage keg of stirring magic.
"My, but we're greedy," said the silver-haired woman in calm tones, firmly disengaging his stout fingers, with a hand that-for all its smooth slenderness-was stronger than his.
She rose in a single graceful movement and stood look shy;ing down at him. "I can see a question or three fairly bursting out of you," she said with a smile, and word shy;lessly beckoned forth his speech with two imperiously hooked fingers.
Mirt looked up at the woman who could kill him with just one of several dozen even smaller gestures, and asked in a raw, bemused voice, "If it pleases you to tell me, lady, I must know this: why, before all the gods, were you dancing with a dozen swords?"
She held out a hand to help him rise, Mirt rolled to a sitting position, marveling at a strength and a physical ease he'd not felt in himself for thirty winters, and took that proffered hand. He barely needed it, and stood flex shy;ing his arms in sheer pleasure.
"All of us Chosen," she replied gently, as they stood together in a glade where eerie spell-glow, drifting smoke, or darting sword kept the calling birds at bay no longer, "have our own magical pursuits-hobbies, even 'secret schemes,' if you will. What you blundered into was one of mine."
"I'm deeply sorry that I did so," the old merchant said quickly, "even if it did win me years of hurts healed. I-"
Dove laid two gentle fingers across his lips. "Please don't babble more thanks at me, Mirt. I have too few friends and too many admiring worshipers." Her lips twisted. "They almost outnumber the foes who'd dance on my dead body with glee."
The Old Wolf nodded. "Then say on about your dancing and the swords, lady," he bade gently.
"My name is Dove … or to certain angry Lords of Waterdeep, 'Clever Bitch,' " the silver-haired woman told him serenely, and Mirt flushed scarlet to the very tips of his ears.
"Ah, now, lass, I meant it not. Gods, 'twas years back, that! And how could you have heard me clear across the city? 'Twas just th-"
Those fingers tapped his lips again. "Just call me Dove, hmm? I hope you'll have sense enough not to cavort around like a youngling in days to come, or speak of what happened here. I don't want to end up leading a procession of wrinkled-skin lordlings around the North, all of them pleading to be made vigorous again. Nor do I want parties of axe-wielding, torch-bearing idiots blundering around in this forest seeking a glade where magic swords can be found flying around."
"Lady," Mirt said gravely, "you have my wor-I–I mean Dove, I promise you I'll tell no one at all. Truly."
Dove nodded, her eyes studying his face a trifle sadly. She was not smiling.
"Is-is anything wrong?" Mirt asked anxiously.
Dove shook her head. "Memories, Old Wolf, are per shy;sonal gems … or curses. I was just remembering another man who used almost the same words you just did, and what became of his promise-and him. And before you ask, no, I won't tell you his name or fate."
The old merchant spread helpless hands and took a restless stride away from her. "Of course not, great lady. Is there anything I can do for y-"
A firm hand took hold of his arm and turned him around. "Hear the secret you sought, and keep it," she replied simply. "Mirt, you saw no hostile spell at work on me, but merely my own sloth. I was enhanc shy;ing the enchantments of those blades the easy way, by borrowing powers from one to echo into another. I do such augmentations at Mystra's bidding, making the magic I spawn last by means of my own blood."
"The silver fire that legends speak of," Mirt whis shy;pered. "Tears of Mystra. . the blood of the Seven."
Dove nodded. "The Lady Steel used to do sword dances-alone, in remote forest glades-to swiftly transform blades of minor enchantment into duplicates of a more formidable weapon. I thought others avoided such practices because of the danger and their dislike of pain, but I've discovered another reason."
She waved a hand at the scattered armor, "That is now twisted in its magic," she explained. "What some folk called 'cursed.'"
Mirt nodded. "And if you hadn't worn it?"
"You'd have found my body lying here with a dozen swords in it," she replied calmly, "or blown to blood and dust. That many enchantments at once would hamper my own powers in strange ways."
The fat merchant looked down at the scattered frag shy;ments of black and silver steel again and Dove smiled thinly. "There are those who feel far too many Chosen of Mystra walk the face of Toril these days," she said. "This is one secret you'd best not spill with your over-loose tongue."
The Old Wolf shook his head. "And you trust me.. " he murmured in wonder. He shook his head again, then cleared his throat and said formally, "Dove Falconhand, know that I will obey you in anything. You have but to call on me."
The silver-haired woman regarded him soberly and said, "Be careful, Mirt. I may one day collect on that promise-and my calling may cost you your life."
Mirt kept his eyes on hers as he went to his knees. "La-Dove, I will answer that call right gladly, even if it comes with the clear promise of my death. We must all die … and in your service seems to me a goodly way to go."
Dove shook her head and turned away, but not before Mirt saw what might have been tears in her eyes. When she spoke again, however, her voice was calm and composed. "Words spoken near death tend to lay bare the heart more than grand and formal prom shy;ises. Forgive me if I wonder aloud why a man so eager to promise me his death now, cried out as he did, ear shy;lier, just before he was struck down?"
The Old Wolf nudged a piece of armor with the scuffed toe of one of his boots and replied, "If die I must, I'd rather it not be in the throes of my own mistake, or a calamity I've caused. That's why I spake thus, then." He looked up at her, discovered her eyes steady upon him, and added quietly, "You're waiting for another answer, though, Lady Falconhand. . aren't you?"
She smiled and almost whispered three words: "Lady? Clever Bitch."
Mirt smiled ruefully. "Dove," he began carefully, "know that I came looking for you because I knew of both your skills and the approximate location of this your Dancing Place, though nothing of how or why you danced."
The silver-haired woman made a cycling motion with her left hand, bidding him say on.
Mirt drew in a deep breath, let it out in a sigh, and began to speak in a rush, as if emptying himself of a heavy burden. "As you know, I've been a rather busy merchant for some years. I've done business with many folk in most cities between here and the Sea of Fallen Stars. I'm known professionally to a score of men, or more. In Scornubel, perhaps ten times that many trust me with some secrets, or seek my counsel."
Dove bent her head and regarded him sidelong. "And what currently troubles bustling Scornubel?" she asked softly.
Mirt threw back his head in thought, framing his next words, and caught sight of one of the flying swords. It was hanging motionless in midair above the lip of the dell, pointed toward him and half hidden among tree branches. He turned his head and saw another, and another, hanging silent in a deadly ring.
Waiting.
He looked back at Dove's calm face, and said, "Lady, please understand that alliances and formal pacts in the Caravan City come and go with the passing hours, not merely by the day or t
enday. Few of my contacts there habitually trust or confide in each other. In the matter that brought me here they spoke to me sepa shy;rately, each driven by his own fear."
Dove nodded and he continued, "Folk have been slow to realize this, and therefore we can't say with any surety as to when it began or how widespread 'tis. Scor shy;nubel is experiencing a stealthy influx of drow."
Dove raised an eyebrow. Drow. Most humans of Faerun had an almost hysterical fear of the dark elves.
The evil, spider-worshiping Ones Who Went Below cleaved from their fairer elf brethren millennia ago to descend under the earth and dwell there. Vicious and stealthy, masters of fell sorcery whose skins were the color of the blacksmoke obsidian sold in Tashlutan bazaars, the drow were a mysterious race, all but unseen but for the rare, terrible nights when they crept up to the surface to raid, cruelly slaughtering at will. Drow never stayed above, for fear of their magic losing its efficacy and finding every creature's hand raised against them. So how were they invading Scornubel? Burrowing up under warehouses to make a building above seem part of their dark realms below?
"Drow are dwelling in Scornubel?" she asked.
Mirt shrugged and said, "It seems someone is giving the dark-skins the magical means to adopt the shapes of humans-for months or tendays, not mere hours-and they're then practicing copying human ways, speech, and mannerisms. At times, various mer shy;chants have told me, 'tis like talking to a bad actor lampooning a grasping horse monger or an oily dealer in scents. . and 'tis chilling, if you know the mer shy;chant well and were joking with him only a day or two before."
The silver-haired ranger nodded. "Folk of Waterdeep tend to suspect dopplegangers when they encounter such impostors," she observed. "Why then are you so sure these are drow?"
Mirt spread his hands. "I know no details, but at least two mages learned so with their spells. One left the city shortly thereafter; the other's not been seen for a little more than two tendays now."
"And the drow are taking the likenesses of-watch-blades? Lord inspectors? The richest moneylenders?"
The Old Wolf shook his shaggy head. "One Scornubrian merchant company or family, then another, not local authorities. Their purpose, if they share one, is as yet unknown. They seem uninterested in seizing control of the city, but very interested in gaining control of its most important shipping and caravan concerns. We don't know if the humans they displace are enslaved or simply slain. There've been no bodies found-and they seem to take the places of everyone in a target family, down to the children and chamber servants."
"While I can see no good in this," Dove said slowly, "I've little stomach for slaughtering my way through a city of drow-and starting wildfire rumors that will bring about the deaths, one way and another, of many 'suspected drow' in cities all over Faerun. I serve Mystra, not the Lords' Alliance or some 'humans over all others' creed."
The fat merchant nodded. "I expect no whelmed Harper army to descend on Scornubel this season, or next. . I just want to know why."
Dove frowned, then smiled wryly. "An eternal human need," she commented, "wherefore we have a grand variety of altars across this world, and others."
Mirt stood looking at her anxiously, like a dog await shy;ing either kind words or a kick. When she saw his face, the silver-haired ranger smiled and strode forward to clasp his forearms, as one warrior to another. "Your journey wasn't wasted, Old Wolf. Someday soon, if I can, I'll tell you a story set in Scornubel."
The fat merchant smiled as she patted his shoulder, then he turned back to her and asked curiously, "Do you-Dove, tell me-do you ever grow tired of racing around Faerun righting wrongs and setting the crooked straight?"
They stared into each other's eyes for a long, silent time, and Mirt was shaken by the sadness and longing she let him see before she smiled, shrugged, and replied, "It's what I am, and what I do."
She turned away then, the folds of her shift swirling around her bare feet, and added briskly, "Return to Waterdeep, Lord Mirt. Follow me not, nor linger over-long in this place."
She strode across the trampled moss to where rising ground marked one edge of her dell, and turned to look back over her shoulder at him severely.
"And don't let your invigorated body make you a young fool again," she told him. "You're not to go look shy;ing for other trouble or trying to find again the adven shy;tures of your youth. I don't want all of my healing work wasted."
"You condemn me to a life of boredom," Mirt protested, half seriously.
Dove's merry laugh rang out across the dell. "Would it be impolite, my lord, to remind you how much some folk of Faerun would give to enjoy such boredom?"
Without waiting for an answer she moved her hands in two quick gestures, and spell-glow filled the dell once more, blue-white and swirling, as the swords she'd danced with flew down from their hovering stations to swirl around her.
Mirt took a step toward her, opening his mouth to speak, then came to a halt. He'd seen that warning ges shy;ture before, and tasted a sword blade when he ignored it. The blades boiled up around Dove Falconhand in a bright blue whirlwind that rose a trifle off the ground, snarled up into a furious spiral, then all at once van shy;ished, leaving a fat merchant blinking at emptiness beneath the trees.
All at once, the birds began calling again. Mirt stood on the trampled moss facing no swords, spell-glow, nor barefoot Chosen of Mystra.
"Ah, lass-?" he asked the empty air. "Dove?" Silence was his only reply. A rattlewings came swooping heavily across the dell and veered aside with a squawk of alarm when it realized that the motionless tree trunk ahead was in truth a human engaged in the rare occupation of standing still and silent. It flapped on into the forest, crying the fear of its discovery to the world. Mirt turned to watch it go, then turned slowly on one boot heel to survey the dell.
Aside from the deep marks his own boots had left here and there in the mud and the scattered shards of black and silver armor, it looked like any other part of the wild forest.
Might Dove have left magic hidden here, buried close to the surface where she could readily find it? Well, it wouldn't hurt to just look. .
Even as Mirt put his hands to an upthrust, helm-shaped clump of moss, the air around him sang in high, clear warning, and the ring that allowed him to pass wards unchallenged throbbed upon his finger.
Ah, well. Mirt shrugged, smiled, and straightened up. "Clever bitch," he told the dell affectionately.
When he bent again to take up a shard of armor the air around him almost screamed, but despite the danger its skirling promised, the Old Wolf stood turn shy;ing it in his hands, lost in unhurried thought for some time before he stooped to gather all of the armor plates and carefully stack them against a rock. He covered them with other stones to keep them from weathering overmuch, took a last, long look around, and started the long walk back to Waterdeep.
In a certain corner of the plains city of Scornubel, overly curious visitors can find a narrow, nameless pas shy;sage that plunges from a garbage-strewn back alley down a short and slippery way to an open cesspool. The only folk who customarily visit this noisome spot are hairy, reeking men in old carts, who come to empty bar shy;rels of night soil. Rats often scurry along the walls of the passage, but on this particular afternoon one of them was quite surprised to see the empty, dung-smeared cobbles ahead of it suddenly grow a gnarled old woman. She appeared out of empty air an inch or so above the cobbles, holding a cane. With a grunt she slammed to the ground with a clatter, and quite nearly fell over.
Reeling upright, this aged bundle of rags cast a level look around, seeking to find anyone who might have seen her arrival, then settled her cane into a bony hand. She stumped up the passage into the alley beyond, spitting thoughtfully in the rat's direction. The rodent blinked, and decided to forage elsewhere.
The old woman staggered on around the corner, making slow work of her short trip down the alley. She turned onto a street where the houses were old, cloaked with ivy, and leaned close together among their
iron-barred fences and refuse-choked yards. Old and stunted trees thrust weary branches into the late afternoon sky. Many of the houses looked empty. Those who snored within them, huddled in the corners of empty rooms in clothes no better than the old woman wore, wouldn't awaken until nightfall. The old woman planned to be long gone by then.
She stopped in front of a house ringed by tall stone garden walls capped with a gleaming row of jagged bottle-shards and looked up and down the street, but it seemed empty. The gate, flanked by two squat pillars, was unlocked. The squeal of its opening roused a large black dog in the yard within into a wild fury of barking and howling. It bounded the length of its chain, teeth snapping about an arm's length short of the path that led to the house. The beast kept up its noisy and vigor shy;ous threats for the entire length of the old woman's journey to the front door. Straining as it was at the links that held it, someone watching might have been forgiven for expecting the old, moss-girt, leaning statue to which its chain was fastened to topple the rest of the way to the ground and set free one frantic canine.
The old woman knew the length of that chain, though its captive had changed since her last visit, and she didn't spare the dog a glance. Her eyes were on the pair of bored-looking warriors now rising from stools flanking the door, slapping at the hilts of their swords and dag shy;gers to ensure these were ready, and staring back at the old woman with barely concealed irritation. One door-sword prudently moved to one side-to be out of range of any spell that might smite his fellow if this old crone turned out to be some sort of sorceress-and stayed on the porch, drawing his dagger to be ready for a throw. The other guard strode forward down the path to bar the old crone's progress a good twenty paces from the porch. "This is a private abode," he announced briskly, "and my master does not make welcome beggars or unso shy;licited vendors. Would you have other business here, this day?"
"Mmmnh, mmmnh," the old woman said, as if work shy;ing long unused gums. She turned her head as slowly as any tortoise might and fixed the doorsword with an eye that was startlingly cold, keen, and blue. "I would."
