Shandril looked at Belarla, down at her own body hidden under the roiling brown sludge, and involuntarily glanced back at the pleasure-queen's robes-she gagged.
Mirt threw her expertly over his shoulder, but she struggled free and glared at him, "I'm not a little girl!" "Aye," he said dryly. "I'd noticed. Little girls are never this much trouble."
Belarla came to a stop, waters swirling around her, and looked up at the vaulted stone ceiling just above her. "This is the one," she announced, pointing at a rune burned into a dark wooden hatch overhead.
Dripping, she and Oelaerone reached up and hauled on its heavy bolt together, their hair plastered down their backs and matted with filth, The door fell open, suddenly, and they splashed and staggered in the water, struggling for balance.
Mirt blinked sewer water from his eyes, thanked the two Harpers gravely, and then heaved himself like an angry whale up out of the water and through the hatch. Grunting, he caught hold of the lowest rung of an old, massive iron ladder. "This must have been used as a well, long ago, " his voice echoed back to them.
"No wonder they all died of fevers back then," Oclaerone said disgustedly to Belarla.
"No doubt folk an age from now will wonder at all the barbaric things we do, too" Belarla replied.
"Going through the sewers ranks right up there," Oelaerone agreed, as they boosted Shandril up the ladder, "Hmmm," Belarla responded, "'rank' is the right word, yes!"
After a short, unpleasant climb, the three ladies found themselves facing a closed door in a small, round room crowded with old buckets, Mirt's arrival had evidently awakened some magic here: a faint, yellow-white glow was emanating from the door and growing steadily brighter.
Mirt rapped on the glowing door with his fist, snatched his hand back, and shook his fingers to clear away the tingling pain, "Strong wards," he commented, eyeing it and wondering if he'd have to knock again.
A breath or two later, the center of the door began to glow brightly, and then something swam out of that radiance, spun together, thickened like rising smoke, and suddenly coalesced into a floating, glowing eye.
The orb regarded them all, bobbing slightly as it turned, Mirt held up his Harper pendant in front of it. The eye blinked, peered at it for a moment, and then drew back to look around at them all again. Then it abruptly swooped back to the door, vanishing into the radiance once more.
Almost immediately, they heard bars fall and chains rattle, and then the door grated open. A young lady in a dark court dress with full skirts, a low bodice, and high shoulders stood looking at them, A wand was held ready in her hand, and her eyes were dark with fear. "Who are you, and why have you come here?" she asked.
Mirt was dripping sewage only a pace away from her.
He bent in a low bow and said gravely, "It grieves us deeply to trouble you at this hour and in this manner, great lady, but we are in desperate straits, and beg immediate audience with thy lady master."
The apprentice stared at him in disbelief for a moment, and then stifled a sudden giggle. "Lady!" she called over her shoulder, and a moment later, another face appeared.
It belonged to a tall, very beautiful lady with huge dark green eyes and glossy black hair.
"Ladies," Mirt said to Shandril and the Harpers, as he went to one knee, "may I present to you-Myrintara of the Masks."
Those beautiful eyes looked at the bedraggled old merchant and blinked in sudden recognition. She groaned, Not you again!"
Mirt grinned wolfishly and replied, "Just get us out of here."
"To do so speedily will be my distinct pleasure," Myrintara replied. ushering the filthy foursome up narrow stone steps. Her apprentice, eyes still wide with wonder, stood at the far end of the cellar they emerged into and held a lamp to light their way,
As they ascended from the cellar to the floor above, a richly decorated dwelling opened around them. A floor higher up, Shandril amended that first judgment to 'palatial.' She tried not to look back at the interesting trail they were leaving in their wake, all over the carpets.
You're sure you don't want to bathe?" Myrintara asked as she ushered them up another broad, gilded flight of stairs.
Mirt shook his head. "Not unless you feel like fighting off all the Zhentarim in the citadel."
Myrintara leaned her head to one side as if considering his suggestion rather longingly, and then shook her head with regret. "We'd never get the place cleaned up again before business hours."
On the upper landing, several men were cleaning and polishing the marble and carved, gilded railings. They broke off their work to stare at the four filthy guests.
Shandril's eyes widened. So far, she'd counted sixteen servants in their brief climb through the house.
"You must be very rich," she said.
Myrintara laughed, "My girls often say that, too-usually just before asking for money."
"She's generally thought to be the most successful pleasure-queen in all the Moonsea North," Oelaerone told Shandril.
Myrintara looked pleased, "I'm also a Harper and a sorceress, though I'd prefer if both those things were kept from the ears of the Zhentarim."
"How do the masks come into it-in your name, I mean?" Shandril asked curiously.
"She's an expert at cloaking magic; such spells used to be called 'masks' in the Old Empires," Mirt said. Shandril looked at him, "How is it you know all about her?"
Myrintara laughed again, "We were lovers, girl, Years ago." She looked fondly at Mirt, and added, "Before he got fat."
Mirt looked injured; Shandril giggled at his expression, Myrintara glanced teasingly at him and sang a snatch of an old song: "Go upstairs, take off your armor…"
"No time now," Mirt growled at her, "But if there were, Myrin, ye'd have to watch sharp-or I'd slide ye down the stair rail again."
Shandril looked back down the long, gleaming bannister of the stairs in wonder, At her expression, both Mirt and Myrintara exploded in laughter.
They were still laughing when Myrinlara ushered them through an arched doorway into a small room that was bare except for what looked like a massive stone coffin filled with water, Then she turned, face suddenly serious, and asked, "My dear, will you submit to one of my masking spells?"
"Will it make me subject to someone else's will?" Shandril asked quietly.
"No," Myrintara assured her, and Shandril nodded, "Step into the tub," Myrintara directed, "and lie down." Belarla and Oelaerone looked down at their soiled clothes and peered longingly at the water but said nothing.
Shandril looked up at Myrintara. "Like this?" Myrintara nodded, "I'll cast the spell on the water and then push you under the surface. Hold your breath and don't be alarmed; Ill let you rise very soon."
A few breaths later, it was done, and a dripping Shandril rose from the tub, Its once-clear water was now a muddv brown; Myrintara looked at it and sighed as she helped Shandril out. "Immersing you ensures you're completely covered," she said, "cloaked from all detecting magics. When you use spellfire again, my mask will be destroyed, but until then-no magic can find you, or see you if it is bent on someone or something known to be with you."
She led them down a passage and through an ornate archway into a chamber that took Shandril's breath away, Under her dripping feet were white fur rugs-whole pelts of northern snow bears. Each one stretched a good six paces in length; they formed a path toward a shallow stairway. The steps led to a raised area where a circular bed floated in midair. Polished, curved mirrors floated around it and spells made stars seem to glimmer in a night sky, Belarla whistled, looking up, "That's nice."
Myrintara smiled, "The moon rises to match the real Selune in the sky outside-Tears and all."