Baergasra then laid her hands on Narm and murmured something. Her fingers glowed briefly. When the light died, she slowly sat back, sighed, and rested her hands on her thighs. With careful fingers, Mirt began to unlace and draw off Narm’s robes.
The beggar woman helped him. Shandril could hear her talking to the old merchant now. “It went deep, indeed, but it carries only sleep venom, not the usual Zhentarim killing blackslime. He’d have lived, but it’s good I was close by … so how are you, Old Wolf? It’s been awhile, it has ….”
Behind her, Shandril heard a sharply indrawn breath. She turned.
“Who let her in here?” demanded a furious voice. The tall, battered doorguard of the inn stood facing them, staff in hand. Barring his way with drawn knife, Delg squinted up at the man fearlessly.
“I did,” Shandril said hotly. “She can heal, and it was needed.”
The man strode forward and, with a sweep of his staff, thrust Delg aside into a helpless sprawl. “But she’s a leper! She’s—”
“—Always wanted to pay you back for belting me, Thomd,” said the woman in rags, rising with smooth, agile speed to thrust the reaching staff aside and embrace its wielder. They went over together with a splash into the mud, and the filthy lips met his sputtering ones firmly. Then the beggar woman rose atop him and laughed heartily.
“Ah, but it’s a good thing I’ve not got the wasting disease, Thomd, or you’d be sharing it now.” She rolled off the panting, frantic man in the mud and winked at Shandril with cool gray eyes. Pulling open the filthy lacings of her bodice for an instant, she revealed a tiny silver harp pendant nestling in the filthy folds of a gargantuan bosom.
Then she turned back to Mirt, shook her head resignedly, and said, “Well, now that you’ve let the world know I’m not as I seem, perhaps you’ll let me use your bath, Mirt, while I watch over the healing of your young man, here. Give me your cloak, Thomd.”
The struggling man in the mud looked at Delg’s dagger, inches from his nose, and with a helpless grunt unpinned the cloak and rolled out of it.
“Hand it here,” Baergasra said merrily, “and don’t mind the mud—I’m used to it, gods know.” Delicately she began to strip off rag after rag, dropping them all into the trampled mud at her feet.
“One more thing, Thomd,” she added, nudging the tall man with her foot as he slowly sat up, “burn these for me, will you? I never want to see any of them again.”
Delg and Thomd watched in identical amazement as the barrel-shaped woman stripped off rag after rag, and stood at last clad only in grime. Lots of grime and mud, caked thickly in places. She scratched some of those places, grinned at them both and held out an imperious hand for the cloak.
Delg bowed low and presented it to her as one would to a great lady. She swirled it about her shoulders and reached for the pin. Thomd handed it to Delg with a sigh, and Delg handed it on with a low whistle of appreciation.
The filthy woman stuck her tongue out at him as she pinned the cloak close about her, grinned again, and said to Thomd, “Did you see any leprous bits? Well?”
Thomd shook his head. “N-No,” he managed through his teeth. “But the smell …”
Baergasra sighed. “You know,” she said slowly, “one gets used to it?” She scratched again and said, “Well—get up, man, and get going! I want that bath.”
Mirt looked up from Narm. Shandril could see an ugly purple scar just forward of his armpit, but the skin was whole again, and the blood had stopped. He still slept, presumably from the venom.
Venom. The dagger. Shandril looked in the direction the Harper had thrown it, and saw its glint in the shadows. Carefully she picked it up and stuck it in her belt. You never know ….
“Ah, Thomd?” Mirt said. “If ye go in and fill the bath, I’ll bar the gate again. Delg, go in and tell them to calm down, hey? We’ll clean up, I give my promise ….If anyone gives ye trouble, mention my, er, close friendship with King Azoun. Shandril, as much as I hate to ask ye to do it, will ye guard us, until we’re in and settled?”
“Of course, Mirt. It’s a pleasure,” Shandril said happily, and meant it.
Eight
Soap, Steam, and Soft Curses
It’s usually around bath time that the tithe collectors come to call. Besieging warriors, on the other hand—now they generally have consideration enough to come early so you know how best to plan your day.
“Allow me, Lady,” the dwarf said gruffly, handing a brush and a hand-bucket of soap around the edge of the ragged curtain. Steam rose from the other side of it, accompanied by splashing noises and a few groans of pure pleasure. Baergasra the Harper, priestess of Eldath, was joyfully scrubbing away half a year’s sweat and dirt.
“My thanks, Sir Dwarf. Well met!” “Our thanks, Baera,” Mirt said feelingly. They were gathered in the inn’s largest and best bedroom. Shandril was feeling very sleepy again, but beside her, Narm felt much better—and was hungrily devouring a second serving of the dinner the innkeeper had brought up to them.
From the other side of the curtain, Baergasra chuckled. “Ah, but it was a little thing I did, and in return for it you’ve given me this. It feels good to be clean again!” There was a rueful pause, and she added despairingly, “But my hair!”
“What about yer hair?” Mirt asked carefully. “I’ve seen far worse, proudly sailing along the streets of Waterdeep, assured of a display of the highest fashion.”
The reply was mournful. “Most of this’ll have to be cut off to get rid of the worst that’s really stuck in the tangles.”
“If it’s not too personal,” Delg asked carefully, sitting down again on his stool beside the curtain, “just why did you choose to wander about in rags, anyway? Is begging so profitable hereabouts?”
“Little man,” Baergasra darkly replied, a nasty insult to any dwarf, “I do what I must, whether it’s harping or begging, and don’t snarl overmuch about it. Orders are orders, and a noble cause is, as they say, a noble cause. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”
“Ah,” said the dwarf, cocking his head at the word harping. “Of course. Forgive me, big woman.”
There was a sputtering laugh from the other side of the curtain, and it suddenly bulged beside Delg’s head as the brush came swiftly back to him—or at least to a momentary embrace with the side of his brow.
“Ooohhh,” he commented from the floor a moment later, lying beside the stool. “This one bites.”
“As I recall,” Mirt rumbled jovially, “yes. It—”
“A gentle reminder, Mirt,” the Harper called from her side of the curtain. “I still have the soap bucket to return to someone.”
“Ahh, aye—’hem! Ahem,” Mirt replied hastily. “To be sure, to be sure …. Are ye hungry perchance, Baera? We’ve food here, and—”
“Thank you, I will. It’s been awhile since I’ve had something properly cooked, and with sauces, to boot. And Narm may need another spell or two; I’d best remain here to be certain. I’ll stay the night, if you’ve room. If he falls asleep, don’t try to wake him without me, mind; that venom can’t be hurried.”
“Yer bed is ready when ye are. How are things in the Hullack wilds, then?”
“Not so bad, yet,” was the reply, punctuated by sounds of a scalp being vigorously scrubbed. “But getting worse. Zhentarim and bandits both are multiplying in the Stonelands and raiding farther. That one who called you out, downstairs? He’s one of the local Zhentarim rats—a thief by the name of Osber. He was probably so eager to take all the credit for capturing Shandril of the Spellfire that he didn’t bother to call on any nearby magelings. Tymora smiled on you there; the Zhentarim spell-hurlers hereabouts lie low and aren’t all that strong, but they can lay hands on powerful wands and the like if they’ve a mind to.”