As always, standing behind him like one more tree trunk, was his companion in so many crimes, Master Malakar Surth.
Surth was clutching a handful of something that looked like oversized silver coins, and frowning in puzzlement.
Bezrar looked down and discovered that his own fat, sweaty palm was cradling another handful of the same things: ovals of gleaming metal graven with intricate runes-nothing he could read or had ever seen before, but the same things on each one. These long-as-his-fmgers gewgaws bulged in their middles like snail-cakes but were flattened out all around the edges like, well, again like snail-cakes.
So where by all the cozy Nine Hells had these come from-and where was here, anyhow? And how . . . how had he and Surth gotten here?
"Uh, Surth?" he asked, seeking some answers. "Surth?"
"Bite your tongue til it bleeds," Marsember's richest dealer in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs snapped, employing the standard polite port expression for what slightly more highborn Cormyreans usually rendered as "Belt up" or (if they were priests or elders) "Be silent."
Surth was glaring around at trees and vines and the deep damp green vista of more trees, that stretched away in all directions from the narrow trail they were standing on. His manner made it clear that he was blaming the trees themselves for being here-at least for the few moments it would take him to find someone nearby to blame.
"I don't know either," he muttered, as his face turned slowly to regard his longtime partner. And darkened.
"What did you do to get us here, Bez? You must have done something! You're an idiot, you know that? An idiot! You must have fiddled with something enchanted or lit the fuse of that . . . that. . ." His face went clouded, almost frightened, and he waved a dismissive hand. "You know: that . . . man."
Bezrar drew himself up like an indignant walrus, puffing and sweating, and jabbed Surth's chest with one fat, hairy finger. "Now, you listen here, O mighty Malakar! You're the one who's always dabbling with Shar-magic, dark little toys and mumble-spells and all that untrustworthy idiocy! B'gads, you wound me, you do! Twasn't anything I did to get us here! 'Twas that smiling . . . some magic word . . . that green glow . . . him … he gave us these, didn't he?"
He thrust out his handful of shiny gewgaws and said, "He must've, because I sure by all the happy dancing gods haven't seen 'em before! You're holding some too!"
"I know that, you fat little dolt," Surth snarled. "I can see and feel, you know!"
"Odd's fish, but you can't think half as clever as you think you can, now, can you-hey?"
"Oh yes, I can," Surth snarled, reaching for the hilt of his knife.
"Well, then, use your thinking part, whatever 'tis, and tell me how we got here and what these things are and how we get back to Marsember!" the fat smuggler roared, his longknife already out and jabbing warningly at Surth's knife-hand. "Because sure as Shar's a dark lass, this ain't Marsember!"
His shout echoed a little way through the damp trees, and something unseen scuttled away from beside the trail nearby, leaving a trail of quivering leaves.
Malakar Surth drew in a deep breath, wrestling down his temper, and with a firm hand pushed the point of Bezrar's wavering knife aside. "Let me think," he snarled.
Bezrar gave him a sour expression and flourished his hands in mimicry of a high-nosed Marsemban servant bidding a Marsemban noble to pass this way, or partake of this platter of viands, or do something.
Surth stroked at his chin as if its clean-shaven point was home to a handsome beard, stared around at the trees, and muttered, "Can't tell where the sun is, and we mustn't get off the trail. This forest is big!' He shivered suddenly and muttered, "Mustn't be here when night comes."
Bezrar nodded, eyes widening in horror at the thought of long-taloned, creeping forest monsters, slithering closer. … He fought down a cry of alarm and started looking in all directions at once, crouching and waving his longknife wildly.
Surth gave him a sour look and murmured, "Fat, useless idiot!' He held up a hand and said, "This way. I don't know why, but I'm sure this is the right way to head. Shar must be with me-thank you for invoking her, Bez. Come on."
The smuggler stood suspiciously looking in all directions, so Surth plucked him sharply by the elbow while passing, jerking him into a stumbling walk. No sooner had the fat wholesaler regained his balance when Surth took firm grip of his elbow once more and just as firmly propelled him into the lead.
Bezrar shot him a fearful look. Surth favored him with what was intended to be a reassuring smile and said, "Go on, but mind you go quietly. Don't worry. I'll be right behind you."
Bezrar's reply was a growl. The smuggler didn't quite dare to say that knowing Malakar Surth was right behind you was no cause for a lack of worry.
He needed Surth to do the thinking-and to be with him in this vast and rustling wood. The mere thought of-what was that?
"Mask and Tymora love me!" he cried, as a warrior in full armor rose up from behind some bushes, visor down and drawn sword in hand. "Surth?"
"I see him," Surth said in a strange voice. Bezrar cast a very quick glance back over his shoulder to see why his partner's voice sounded like that-and saw that Surth had lifted one of his gewgaws in a trembling hand and was staring at it with a weird expression on his face.
"Malakar!" he snarled. "Help me here!"
His eyes back on the armored warrior, he moaned in fear as the silently menacing Purple Dragon drifted toward him. Aye, drifted-gods above, it was floating! Its feet were right off the ground, toes pointing downwards like a knight laid out for his tomb!
Yet that helmed head was turning to look at him then at Surth then back again, and the gauntleted hands were swinging that great naked sword up and back, ready to slash down and slay-
"Surth!" the smuggler almost wept, his longknife shaking in his hand. "Aid!"
Something bright flashed past his shoulder, tumbling end over end at the floating warrior. It struck that armored breast-and the world exploded in bright blue fire and ringing, tumbling shards of battle-steel that half-deafened Aumun Bezrar and flung him off his feet back past a tree or two and crashing down among bushes, very hard roots, and wet dead leaves, with pieces of riven armor pattering onto the ground all around him.
"Bezrar?" his partner cried in fear, stumbling blindly forward along the path and groping at the air. "Bez, where are you?"
Bezrar blinked at the leaf-shrouded sky overhead, deciding he was still alive and could hear things through a faint ringing in his ears and could feel all parts of his body with not much more than the usual pain. He rolled over hastily, driving his longknife into wet moss and earth as a handle, to puff his way to his knees and see . . . Malakar Surth stepping straight into a tree, shrieking in alarm, turning to run, and taking three wild, windmilling strides into-another tree.
Surth sat down hard, clutching at his head, and Bezrar, surveying the now-empty path, found himself laughing wildly.
His chortles died away abruptly as he felt his free hand trembling. He looked down and discovered that he was clutching one of the gewgaws like a stone ready to throw and that it was glowing slightly, a blue radiance that pulsed and faded under his astonished gaze. More than that: somehow, in the moments of fear since he'd first seen that armored head rise into view, his free hand had opened two of his pouches, tossed away the palm-flasks of wine he carried there, and thrust all of the rest of the gewgaws into the emptied pouches.
"Mystra, Lady of Magic," he prayed hoarsely, watching the trembling in his hand grow stronger and realizing that something was urging him to return to the trail and take it ahead in that direction and to go nowhere else. "What by all your sacred mysteries is going on?"