"Get her! By Shar, a hired slayer! Durexter, you'll pay for this!" Surth snarled, stabbing for all he was worth. He promptly slipped on the bunched-up carpet for the fourth time and fell heavily across the newcomer, leaving Bezrar no safe place to stab.
"Not mine!" the trussed merchant cried frantically, from the floor. "Not mine!"
"That's true," another voice roared, as someone else burst through the window, sending fresh shards of glass bouncing and singing across the bedchamber, "because she's mine!"
Gasping, shuddering, and pawing feebly for her own knife, Narnra Shalace sobbed in the grip of worse pain than she'd ever felt before, searing and wet and-emptying. She was emptying out, flowing . . .
Struggling atop her, Malakar Surth set the point of his knife into the floor, drove it down hard through a gap in the tiles, and used it as a handle to drag himself off of the heaving, slithering night-slayer beneath him. Such folk often carried poisons-possibly ones he himself had supplied-and he wanted to be well away from this one before-
Glarasteer Rhauligan ducked under Bezrar's wild slash, slammed a balled fist into the fat merchant's rotund chest-above the belly and below the heart, forcing Bezrar into the wild battlecry of "Eeep!"-and ran on, slamming hard into Surth and smashing him back against the nearest wall, which happened to sport a glass-fronted wardrobe.
More singing shards rained down amid the bouncing of Surth's bruised limbs, and Rhauligan found his feet, snatched Narnra by the shoulder, and was away toward the window before the wardrobe wavered, shivered all over as Starmara Dagohnlar screamed for the fate of her finest frilled lovegowns and nightrobes, and began its ponderous but inexorable thundering topple to the floor.
Malakar Surth, head ringing and hands smarting from dozens of small cuts, got himself dazedly up onto one elbow, coughing for breath, in time to wonder why what faint light there was in the room was so swiftly disappearing . . . for all the world as if black night was coming down from above like a solid ceiling . . .
The crash of the wardrobe slamming down with force enough to snatch everyone off their feet-or in the case of the trussed Dagohnlars, into the air-was loud enough to deafen Surth, even before his head burst through the flimsy back panel of the piece with a loud splintering sound. Had the wardrobe possessed stout wooden front doors, on the other hand, he might never again have heard anything at all.
This was not a consideration he was presently in any fit condition to entertain. Wearing a rough cap of splinters, Surth's hooded head lolled and sagged to one side.
Bezrar caught a glimpse of his partner's fate as he fetched up against the window-frame and for one sickening moment thought he was going to go canal-diving right out through it.
When he found his feet again, he reeled across the room with more speed than skill, suffering a bruising punch from the second night-slayer as he rushed past-and was gone out the bedchamber door and down through the dark and silent house.
A few frightened servants peered at him through the little peep-panels in the doors of their rooms, but no one ventured forth to see what was causing all the tumult. Dagohnlar business was Dagohnlar business, and Dagohnlar privacy was Dagohnlar privacy. These rules had been made firmly clear years ago and upheld several times. It was very clearly understood that any servant who dared to intrude upon the Lord and Lady Masters before they were summoned by the gong could expect immediate dismissal-if not worse.
Ignoring the frantically pleading and squirming couple on the floor, Glarasteer Rhauligan dragged his quarry over to the window where the light was best and roughly unhooded her.
"Right, lass," he growled, shaking her, "let's be having your blades-hilt first, mind, and-"
Narnra Shalace threw her arms around him-and collapsed.
Rhauligan held her in one encircling arm and peered at her pale face. Blood was running freely from her mouth, her beseeching eyes were sliding into darkness . . . and the front of her leathers, where she was pressed against him, was dark and slick with her own welling blood.
* * * * *
The brazier spat a larger flame than before. This gout of fire did not fade as most do, but grew and curled as it rose, brightened, pulsed once more, and expanded into … a floating head. A long-bearded, thin, and human male head, that turned to give the young wizard standing alone in the room a sharp look.
Harnrim "Darkspells" Starangh smiled. "I am here, Lord Tharun-dar, and quite alone. My meeting with Lady Ambrur is but hours away."
"You know your orders, and have satisfied me as to your reasons for meeting this person; why, then . . .?"
Starangh inclined his head. "I know you've many important workings active, Lord, and presume on your time only in this one wise: my measure of the Lady Joysil Ambrur has thus far been taken purely through hearsay-the testimony of others. All deeds and entanglements and wealth, rather than personality. It would help greatly to successfully accomplish my task for you if I knew anything you can tell me about this woman's character, ere I meet her."
The spell-spun head smiled just as thinly and coldly as the real Tharundar, half of Faerun away at this moment, was wont to, and replied, "You, Harnrim, have perhaps a third of the competence with spells that you think you do. However, I value you very highly among my tools, because you are that rarest of Red Wizards: one who combines youth, what are so glibly called 'good looks,' ambition, slyness, the clever tongue and iron self-control of a veteran diplomat, patience, superb acting skills, and a talent for handling powerful magic."
The spectral head drifted a little closer. "And you defer to me and call on my wisdom where most others would be too proud to do so. Keep yourself alive, young Starangh, and you'll rise high indeed. As for the Lady Ambrur, tell me first your judgment of her-briefly, for you've no need to impress me further."
The man who was pleased to be called "Darkspells" spread his hands in a gesture of amused bafflement. "I believe, so far as I believe anything, that she's a bored noble utterly fascinated by intrigue and being 'in the know' and at the heart of secrets and conspiracies. In other words, she does it all for fun."
The head of flames seemed to nod slightly. "Your conclusions, so far as the wider world has been able to tell, are correct. Yet let me lay this warning beside them: There seems to me to be more to the Lady Joysil than mere money and sophisticated boredom. Intrigue is like a drug to her, yes, but . . . there's something more to her as well. . . ."
"Hidden depths?" Starangh smiled. "We all have them, Lord."
* * * * *
Rhauligan blinked in astonishment, shot swift glances across the bedchamber to make sure no stealthy foe was readying a blade to throw or some other mischief, and lowered the woman he'd been hunting gently to the floor. One of the trussed couple rolled over to watch.
Gods above, how could such a slender thing have so much blood to lose? If she was to be taken alive, there was no time left for thinking of such things!
Kneeling over her, he reached past the spreading river of dark, wet stickiness to his left boot, and drew out the steel vial he kept sheathed therein. Its bottom sported a spike for planting it ready in the ground, and he used that spike and his fingers to part her clenched teeth, ramming a knuckle into the corner of her jaw to keep it open as he bit the cork off the vial.
Under his finger, Narnra's eyes flickered. As Rhauligan spat the cork away into the gloom, they flashed open-and she twisted feebly under him, making no sound but a ragged hiss of pain. One hand lifted to strike at his face, wavered far from its target, and fell back as a groan escaped her. The Harper brought the vial down with his thumb over the end, thrust it between her teeth-and held it there, collapsing forward onto her to pin her where she lay.