by Ed Greenwood
The wind slackened, and after a moment Mystra spoke again. HOW WELL … IN YOUR HONEST, BLUNT JUDGMENT, BOTH OF YOU, SPEAKING FREELY WITHOUT FEAR OF … REPRISAL … HOW AM I DOING?
Elminster and the Simbul turned their heads and traded sober glances, there in the whistling wind, and it was Elminster who spoke, his voice gentle.
“In this we are both agreed, Most Mighty,” he told the empty, echoing air around him. “Considering how we two, who have wielded some measure of the power ye hold for hundreds of years longer than ye have existed, so often mess up: fine. Just fine.”
* * * * *
A bobbing barge saved her. She leaped, landed hard, and skidded across its damp roof just slowly enough to kick up … and out … gaining the height she needed to cross a widening stretch of inky water and crash heels-first onto the already-battered rail of a barge littered with heaps of rusty chain, garbage, crab sink-cages, and a tangle of rotting nets—startling into cursing wakefulness the three filthy beggars sleeping thereon—and vault over its massive dragger-arm, onto the next island.
Where the Silken Shadow ducked into an alley and raced along, crouching low and coming to a cautious, creeping halt at its far end, which—as she’d correctly guessed—was also the other side of the isle. The bridge onward, to a much larger island that would give her a choice of routes toward the true shore, was only a few running paces away, but it would be guarded—and one or perhaps two warriors she could burst past, but more, or sentinels who had handbows or spells, would be quite another matter.
She crouched tensely, knowing she hadn’t much time before the pursuit caught up with her. Mantle of Mystra, but she couldn’t even count how many teleporting War Wizards and as-good-as-she-was-probably-better Harpers were down there—what if that Mage Royal sent them all after her?
Ironically, it was Glarasteer Rhauligan himself who saved her. He came bounding up to the top of the steps, puffing a little, and called an alarm to the guard, asking if he’d seen a lone lass in dark leathers and a mask running his way.
The startled guard stepped out to make reply. Narnra darted from behind him like an eager arrow and was halfway across the bridge before Rhauligan saw her and roared a warning in earnest.
A lantern glimmered as it was raised at the far end of the bridge—a simple, mist-slick stone arch—in the gloved hand of an armored guard who seemed to have brought several dozen of his fellows along with him. Narna cursed and sprang over the side of the bridge without slowing.
The water was as icy as it was filthy, and she came up clawing her way free of floating debris better not seen, and hauled herself around the bow of a barge that had been moored so long that weeds had grown themselves a curtain on its chains. Something nosed against and nibbled at her boot underwater. She kicked out in fear and revulsion, felt something solid flinch away, and clambered up out onto another dock as if all the gods themselves were clutching at her.
A guard called out to his fellows, somewhere nearby in the mist-curling darkness. Narnra cursed savagely and silently—and swarmed up the nearest crumbling wall, moments before a spearpoint came jabbing after her.
Loose, rotting shingles slipped and slid under her feet, pulling something in her thigh with a sickening jolt of pain, then she was away through an exhausting and seemingly endless labyrinth of slick rooftops, mist, more rooftops, more crumbling walls, and desperate leaps across narrow, stinking canals.
When a particularly long leap drove her breath from her and left her curled and gasping around an ornamental stone spire someone had thoughtfully carved jutting up from a roof-edge, Narnra Shalace took the time to catch her breath, rub at her leg, wince, and turn to notice two things.
At some point in her frantic flight, she’d well and truly reached the mainland, crossing several streets of what must be the city of Marsember. More importantly, the Harper who’d dared to bandy words with that fearsome Queen of Aglarond—Glar-something Rhauligan, that was his name—had followed her in her mad leaps and sprints all this way across the rooftops and was in sight of her now, jumping easily across an alley not three rooftops back!
“Mask and Tymora, aid me!” Narnra hurled that snarled prayer up at the few stars she could see glimmering through the chill, thickening mists, and ran on, kicking her leg to loosen the muscles, within, that were giving her pain. Yes, it was hurting less, but …
She scaled a roofpeak and slid down the far side, noting grimly just how far she’d have to leap to avoid a bone-shattering fall into the street below.
In mid-leap she had a momentary glimpse of a sleepy apprentice reaching out to fasten the shutters of his high window, seeing her, and freezing the moment he got his mouth open to gape at her—then she was past, slamming into the roof above the dumbstruck apprentice with her knees and elbows. Tiles broke and skittered away down the roof under her as she slid a little way, got her boot onto the dormer root just above the apprentice, stopped her fall, and doggedly climbed back up and over this roofpeak. As she went over, she risked a glance back over her shoulder.
There was Rhauligan, their eyes meeting for a brief, thoughtful moment ere she dropped out of view and slid down the far side of her roof toward a lower one, beyond. Belonging to a small building, it was narrow, relatively flat, and of wooden shingles streaked with thick and probably slippery moss—but it led to another steep roof, not far away, and the short distance between the two peaks gave Narnra an idea.
She could spare a dagger—a dagger. If she could get to that second roof in time …
She could, and—thank you, Mask and Tymora both!—the far side of this Marsemban mansion sprouted a side-wing whose lower roofpeak gave her something to stand on, below the one that looked back at the way her pursuer should be coming. And high-ranked Harper in the service of Cormyr or not—what’d the Simbul called him? “Highknight”?—he’d not chase her half so well once he’d stopped a steel fang in the face!
Rhauligan’s head was suddenly there, bobbing up over the edge of his roof—and she set her teeth, rose up, and threw her second-best belt knife as hard and as fast as she could.
It bit home and stuck, quillons-deep in … well, he must have slipped on a hood, or a mask. His head—if it was his head—sank down out of view, leaving the Silken Shadow to stare across at the rooftop, briefly moonlit, now, as the mists parted momentarily … and breathe heavily … and wonder if she’d just killed the man.
When the mists came back and returned the rooftops to smoke-like shadow, several long breaths later, Narnra drew in a deep, shuddering breath, turned, and went on.
* * * * *
“Starmara? Starmara, my love, are you awake?”
Her husband’s voice was a throaty growl—the tone he fondly believed was some sort of irresistible amorous purr—and Starmara Dagohnlar stared drowsily at the luxurious rubyweave draperies of their bed-canopy, high overhead, and managed not to sigh.
Durexter Dagohnlar could certainly rake in the coins when she urged him on. He might be a thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling brute and boor of a mightily successful—and widely hated—Marsemban merchant … but before all the gods, he was her thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling brute and boor.
And there were times when beasts must be sated, no matter how distasteful the process. Sleepily Starmara shed her shimmerweave robe so he wouldn’t tear it apart like he had the last one, elbowed a cushion aside so she’d be comfortable, and whispered back as alluringly as she knew how, “Awake and aching for you, my lord.”
Durexter chuckled and rolled across the substantial acreage of silken sheeting between them, scattering cushions and breathing the garlic and Thayan pepper sauce she fervently wished he wouldn’t douse his meat so heavily with, all over her.
“Well, now, my proud beauty—so smooth and warm and, heh-heh, handy—know the love of the most grasping, deceitful, law-shattering, tax-evading, and just gods-kisséd successful merchant in all Marsember!”
Starmara gently bit her husband’s chest to keep from having to kiss t
he stinking mouth that was so enthusiastically delivering his usual modest little speech, as he bruisingly maneuvered himself into what he imagined was a heroic stance. She entertained a brief fantasy of just sliding right down the bed and out from under whilst he was still chest-beating and crowing his exploits, so that he’d ultimately crash down onto—nothing.
Then he was … he was …
Choking and gurgling strangely above her, awakening Starmara to the sudden apprehension that his heart might have given out at blesséd last and he was now going to slam down and crush her into the bed, suffocating her with his dead weight long before any servant could find them! Frantically, she clambered and slid toward the foot of the bed, her perfumed robe tangling—and emitted a brief shriek as Durexter toppled over suddenly onto her left elbow.
With a frantic twist and kick she freed herself and wormed past, wriggling—
Hard into an unfamiliar knee, that was clad in black leather and attached to someone who wheezed and smelled quite differently from her husband … and who now reached down to discover what had fetched up against him, felt it thoroughly as Starmara gave in to a sudden impulse to scream—as loudly and as throat-strippingly as she knew how—and roared, “Ho, Mal! I’ve found the wench! And she’s—heh-heh—she’s …”
“All right, all right,” hissed another, vaguely familiar and much sharper man’s voice. “Stop leering. Have you done strangling him yet?”
“Uh, well, he’s not dead, but I thought y’said—”
“Tie him up,” the thin voice snarled. “Back of neck to bedpost, so he doesn’t get any ideas about escaping or fighting, then his little fingers together because no one enjoys breaking their own fingers—both on the same side of the bedpost rather than around behind it, mind—and leave the rest to me. I’ll be finished with Haughty Lady Starmara here by then.”
Head enveloped in her own silks, the wife of the most grasping, deceitful, law-shattering, tax-evading, and successful merchant in all Marsember threw herself up and over the ornately rolled scrollwork end of the bed, kicking wildly, and succeeded only in hurling herself into the cold and exceedingly efficient hands of the unseen owner of the thin voice. He threw her across her own footstool with force enough to leave her helplessly sobbing for breath and had her ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows trussed before she even had enough wind back to protest.
When she did, of course, he fed silken robe into her mouth until she choked then bound it there with the robe’s belt, leaving the rest of the material across her face. He bent with a grunt—almost inaudible amid louder growls, grunts, and scufflings from the bed—and the next thing Lady Starmara Dagohnlar knew, a cold, hard, and very heavy weight was lying across her stomach and hips, and she could have no more struggled or moved than flapped her arms and flown across the Sea of Fallen Stars to that lovely house-of-baths in Westgate. The smell of moth-powder told her she was probably pinioned under her own blanket-chest.
“Done,” the voice of the owner of the knee said triumphantly from the bed. “Trussed like a feasting-fowl.”
“Then we’ll have him down here on the floor next to his blushing lady—at least she should be blushing; just look at that tattoo!—and the fun can begin.”
“Oh? What tattoo?”
“Later, Bez. Relocation of doomed merchants first, hmm?”
* * * * *
Glarasteer Rhauligan winced as he drew Narnra’s razor-sharp blade out of his capture hood and one of his spread fingers inside it. He bound his sliced digit tightly with one of the strips of cloth he always kept ready in one of his belt pouches.
So his little fleeing vixen was down one dagger but bound to have at least two—and probably twice that many—more. Next time one might bite his real head and not a hasty counterfeit. The capture hood had one much enlarged eyehole now and would bear replacing when he …
He scrambled up, ran along the roof-gutter—thank the gods for Marsember’s filthy-wet weather; it meant every house was covered with copious and sturdy troughs and spouts—and sprang onto the next roof along, rather than going over the roofpeak again to greet a second dagger.
If Tymora was with him, she’d run where he was anticipating she would, which was—yes! There!
A slender hip in dark leathers hastily ducking away around the edge of another roof … she knew he was still on her heels—but he knew just how little city she had left to run through in that direction before the wall would hedge her in and force her to either go west and south and down to the streets … or turn back toward him.
Breathing easily, Glarasteer Rhauligan trotted through the mist that seemed now to be threatening to turn to a dawn rain and grinned. This was fun, and—whoalaho! She’d doubled back already and—a dark form spun across a street below him, just above a guard-lamp—was really putting wings to her boots!
His fierce grin widened. Well, now …
* * * * *
Durexter and Starmara Dagohnlar lay side by side on their new and softly luxurious Athkatlan carpet—trussed, furious, and helpless. Their two assailants wore black hoods and waved two of the largest gleaming-sharp Marsemban long-knives the lord and lady merchant had ever seen … but both Dagohnlars knew very well by now who the two were.
There were merchants in Marsember more ruthless and dishonest than Lord Durexter Dagohnlar—but he took care not to have any dealings with them nor to cross them in even the smallest way. He even took small losses here and there in keeping himself too useful to them to be eliminated. There were also many Marsemban merchants almost as shady in dealings as he was—but Durexter took care to keep holds over such men, so as to prevent what was happening right now: two of them coming by night to forcibly collect coins the bound couple had swindled away from them.
The fat, sweating, jovial one would be the smuggler and stolen-goods-vendor Bezrar, whose schemes were as brutish and simple as he was. The taller, thinner one was the real danger: Malakur Surth dealt in poisons and drugs, among other things, and had dealings with local priests of Shar and with certain spell-wielding outlanders—even, if the latest whispers Durexter had paid good coin for were correct, at least one Red Wizard of Thay.
Unbeknownst to Durexter, his lady lying beside him could have supplied the name of that Thayan mage, for—thanks to the private rental-chambers at a local house of beauty, and the enterprising matrons who patronized them—her sources were even more expensive and exclusive. Malakar Surth had recently entered into limited bound service with one Harnrim “Darkspells” Starangh for their mutual profit and advancement.
None of which was much warm comfort, considering that Durexter had openly and sneeringly short-coined Bezrar and Surth, laughingly directing them to “call on the gods” or “beseech the Crown” for their losses; sums set down in writing nowhere, if any of the parties involved had any wits at all, and concerned with completely unlawful business dealings. It would be long seasons of cells and roadgang-work for anyone who went yapping to the authorities.
It was, of course, Surth who spoke first. “You both know us,” he said silkily, “and why we’re here. We intend to leave this grand house of yours with what’s owed to us—Bezrar, the rope!—and the persuasion we employ can be as gentle or as painful as you determine.”
“Oh! Ah!” Bezrar responded, unbuckling his breeches. Starmara made a muffled sound that might have been a bleat of alarm or might have merely been an expression of disgust, but revealed to her from-the-floor gaze was a leather cod of weary age and condition, below a long, continuous coil of coarse rope that had been wound round and round the merchant’s hips, adding noticeably to his impressive girth—which shrank rapidly as the merchant tugged, hauled on the rope, then began a ponderous imitation of a dancing-lass undulating on a pedestal at a revel, shedding coils around his feet with a clumsiness that made Surth sigh and Starmara suddenly want to laugh. This Bezrar was so much like Durexter trying to be alluring.…
“Your bedposts will do admirably to anchor the two ropes we have here,” Surth expla
ined casually, “as we tie the other ends to your ankles—securely, I hope—and lower you both out the window, head-first into the canal below.”
Starmara no longer felt in the least like laughing.
“We’ll dangle you underwater for a bit for the eels to have something to nibble on then pull you up and ask you for some money. Bez here is strong; he can haul you up many times, though of course the more angry and tired we get, the longer we’ll leave you to breathe water or feed fishes. Simple enough, hmm?”
Durexter—who had not been gagged—chose that moment to disagree, loudly and profanely. Surth merely smiled, but when the lord merchant progressed to shouting, the dealer in drinkables knelt with a knee on Durexter’s throat and remarked, “Bellow any more and I’ll cut your tongue out. I know you can write down the whereabouts of your money—even with several broken fingers.”
He looked over at Starmara, and added, “That goes for you too, Lady Dagohnlar. Scream once, and you’ll get away with it—but my knife will make sure you don’t scream twice … or ever again use that lashing tongue you’re so proud of, for the rest of your life. However, ahem, short that may be. Bez and I have registered this little debt, you see—so we could seize this house in the regrettable event of your deaths and strip most of its contents before your other creditors awakened to dispute our right to do so.”
He waved an airy hand, longknife flashing, and lifted his knee because Durexter had gone a rich, convulsively twisting purple. “Ah, but forgive me: I’ve forgotten to announce what will happen when we get tired of hauling you up to drip dirty canal-water all over this nice carpet. Assuming, of course, you don’t simply remember where in this nice house your rainy-day wealth is hidden, so we your honored guests can recover our losses.”
He pointed at his hooded companion with his blade. “Bez here has just taken delivery of a new longknife—show the nice Dagohnlars your knife, Bez! Aha, see!—and he wants to test its edge in real cutting. Now, I’ve recently noticed that men … and women, too, by the gods, come to think of it … have toes. Lots of them. Little appendages none of us really need. We could relieve you of them, one by one, and collect them for Ponczer down at the Firehelm to cook up for you in a nice dish. Durexter first, I think. When we’re done, we’ll drop you in your own cellar to bleed and give the rats something to nibble—I hate rats, don’t you? Squeaking, swarming, ravenously gnawing things …”
