"Narbuth bound you a little tight," the Harper explained. "I just cut you free. Catch thy breath a bit, lad-an' do something for me, if you will."
Narm looked at Arauntar, squinting against the pain, and asked faintly, "What?"
"Forget for now Orthil ordering you bound an' Jathun hitting you, all right? 'Twill be easier for us all if yer lady doesn't go frying all our heads off just yet."
The mage gave the Harper a sidelong look, smiled wryly, and replied, "I'll grant it will, at that. Right, you'll have my silence on this-for now. Now, take me to Shan, before she comes looking for me herself."
"That," Arauntar told him with a wry and gap-toothed grin, "is precisely why I want you to hurry."
Sharantyr of Shadowdale gave them a merry wave and cantered into the night. The Master of the Shadows let the arm that had saluted her in return fall back to the moonlit rim of the well and said softly to the man beside him, "Follow her. Let her work death among all the spellfire-seekers Bluthlock has sent after Voldovan's wagons-but when you judge the time right, make sure she dies."
Tornar nodded. "Of course, Master. She knows your looks, where you lair, and how to reach you. She must not live."
Belgon Bradraskor nodded. "A pity. No woman has ever called me gallant before."
"Hesperdan was right," Hlael mused thoughtfully.
Korthauvar sighed. "Hesperdan is always right. Why else would one feeble old man with such expensive vices yet be suffered by the Brotherhood to live?"
"Too useful to slay, too unambitious to be a danger."
"So he appears. I wonder if he isn't plotting some dark magic to someday drain us all of life and magic."
"What, to make himself master over all the Brotherhood and rise to challenge Shaaan and Larloch, Szass Tarn, and Maraunth Torr?"
"Nay, that's the gods-smile-down worst of it all. Anyone else would do such a thing to become an Archmage Most Mighty and conquer Faerun at will. Hesperdan, Bane take him, would do it as an interesting experiment!"
The gem she'd broken on the lip of the stone well had done its work. It would not last long, and its awakening had banished the ironguard that had made metal pass harmlessly through her, but Sharantyr could see and hear the two grim men as clearly as if she still stood in the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder with the Master of the Shadows and Tornar. She grinned savagely at the moon as she overheard Bradraskor's orders.
"Ah, we must all die sometime, Belgon," she told the wind. "Let you be gallant to the last, and I'll be well pleased. Of course Tornar must try to slay me. I only hope Besmer has sense enough to flee the city as fast as he can. No one must know that a lone woman marched straight in on the Master of the Shadows in his lair, defeating guards and traps at will, forced a deal on the lord of Scornubel's thieves, and went on her way with his gifts. No sinister reputation could quite recover from such news-and no thief-lord without such a reputation can hope to last long."
As Tornar hurried away across the courtyard to where he'd no doubt left another mount waiting, her tiny magic faded away. The last Sharantyr saw of the Master of the Shadows was his brooding face, as he leaned on crossed arms on the well rim and stared into the night after her.
"Too late, Belgon," the ranger told the wind of her galloping, as her hair streamed out behind her like a dark cloud and the moon painted the Blackrocks bright before her, "and too slow. Not even Tornar can ride fast enough to save you, for rumor runs ever before him, clear across Scornubel. I learned as much myself a long time ago, when first I swung a sword and ran unclad with boys-and the little lady my parents thought I'd become was swept away by gossip, forever. Whispers fly as fast as arrows."
Daily Disappearances
Thrusk in the morning wakes a man, banishes sour breath, and kindles hero-fire within. It also leaves the drinker unable to taste anything else, sleepless, and swift to rage-and draws beasts near. Yet if a slinking monster disturbs a dedicated thrusk-drinker, it's often difficult from the snarls to tell one from the other.
The hand on her shoulder was so gentle that for a long, murmuring time Shandril thought it was Narm's. Then her nose caught a whiff of rank breath and old sweat, and she came awake with spelllire boiling up in her, borne on a leaping flame of fear and rage-to stare into Arauntar's anxious face, as far away from her as he could be and still touch her with just the tips of his fingers.
He drew back his hand hastily and growled, "Up, lass. Orthil's in a rare rage this morn an' will be less merry still when he finds the two of you together. I've made you a fire an' put water on, for washing and thrusk-brew."
Shandril wrinkled her nose. "Thrusk? I hate thrusk! It tastes like old boots!"
The grizzled guard grinned. "I suppose you've enjoyed a steady diet of footwear, old boots included?"
"I was maid at a small inn," Shandril told him irritably. "Lick and polish, all too oft-"
She watched Arauntar's gaze descend, realized Narm's cloak had fallen away to her waist and that she wasn't wearing a Sembian stitch of anything, and snapped, "Thank you! Now get out of here!"
"Of course, great lady," Arauntar replied, keeping his gaze now on the curving inner roof of the wagon as he quickly ducked out. "I was just leav-whoa, get clothes on, lass, an' hurry! Orthil's on his way over here with a face on him like a winter storm!"
“Is he now!" Shandril snarled, turning to the warm and oblivious man still snoring ever so slightly beside her. "Narm, love, get up!" She kissed him, put her arms around him and tickled him mercilessly-and when he started to guffaw, whipped away the cloak and blankets so that the flower of the Tamaraiths roared at the cold. "Get dressed, and hurry!"
She hastened to use the chamberpot before he could, snatched up her clothes, and went running on chilled bare feet to the corner of the wagon where she'd torn her armor off last night-or rather, where Narm had hurled it, piece by clattering piece, in his haste to peel it from her.
She was still squatting over the heap, frantically untangling and heaving aside an unfolding chaos of rusty plate and leather, when the wagon-flap fairly flew aside and the master of the caravan strode into the remains of their bed. Kicking it aside, he glared around the wagon, past the hopping, sleepily blinking young man who was still knuckling his eyes and feeling about for his clothes- and stopped to place the full weight of his angry stare upon the unclad woman in the corner.
Orthil Voldovan put his head to one side and smiled in a way that somehow managed to combine leering and sneering and I-told-ye-so sarcasm, and said, "Well, well, well, if it isn't the Lord and Lady of Love, right here in my own ready-wagon! Here I thought yer spells and yer fire-take-all might be of some use to us, in the trifle of trouble that's made us later in leaving than I've ever been in all my runs, later than any sane wagoneer would desire to be who wants to make Orcskull Rise by nightfall-and I find ye still cooing and moaning away in yer snug little lovenest, not in yer armor and being guards at all! Why, I've half a mind to just fling wide the flap and show all the prize fools along with us what yer up to, just to-lass, what're ye doing?"
Wearing only her tousled hair and a tight little smile, Shandril marched past him, flung wide the wagon-flap with a loud snapping of tarred cloth, and waved cheerfully to the faces that turned her way.
Jaws dropped open and stares grew intense-as she turned her back on them, put her hands on her hips, and bellowed, "Finished, Lord Love Voldovan? Can I get dressed now? Tis cold, and I really should be back in my armor and getting us out of here!"