The caravan master and his senior guard were already out of the wagon and tramping away, the problem of the young mage and the fire-witch forgotten.
Beldimarr gave Narm and Shandril a gap-toothed grin and said, "That went rather well, hey?"
Shandril nodded, but Narm frowned. "Those cords?"
"Tallies, knotted an' unknotted to track payments an' debts an' cargo amounts."
"Yes, but what's to stop Voldovan or any master from making whatever knots he pleases?"
The scarred, coarse-tongued caravan guard gave Narm a severe look and growled, "His love for retaining his own head. Now let's be loading. If we're not ready to roll when the horn calls, 'twill be our heads in the next stew-blandreth."
Shandril gave him a scornful look. "Just save breath and stop trying to scare us, B'marr. You don't boil heads for stew."
"Nay, you're right about that. I leave that to Raunt, who's better'n'me with salt an' suchlike."
He gave the young couple a sidelong grin. Shandril answered it with another sour look and asked, "I suppose nothing frightens veteran Harpers like you?"
Beldimarr's unlovely head and fearsome mustache turned her way and Shandril found herself looking into eyes that seemed older than she thought they'd be.
"Oh now, lass, I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that at all. We've just learned not to waste time worrying, or noise fretting to others about it. I'm scared of a goodly handful of things right now."
"Oh?" Shandril shook her head, and gave him a little grin. "Somehow that makes me feel better. A goodly handful, eh?" She pointed at the wagon-flap. "Therefore tremble and depart."
"As you command, fire-witch," the Harper said good-naturedly and stepped down from the wagon with a grunt. Settling his swordbelt into place, Narm strolled across the floorboards to watch Beldimarr go-and was sent staggering by the arrival of the first coffer, tossed into his midriff with deadly accuracy by the guard outside. Shandril sputtered with laughter as Narm found an unexpected seat upon the roll of bedding and sprang forward to catch the next box herself. It clanged into her frontal collection of armor plates, rebounded up into her chin, and left her wishing she had put on her hot, heavy helm.
Another day was under way in earnest, it seemed, and familiar aches and pains swiftly returned to register their protests. Shandril and Narm gave each other wry grins and commenced fielding coffers, not bothering about proper stowage. The casks would determine that, with Beldimarr's roared directions, when they started arriving.
"I'm not spending my life running caravans," Narm grunted. "This one is more than enough."
Shandril wrinkled her nose at him. "I wonder how many folk have said that before?"
The man who was not Haransau Olimer smiled a soft smile as he watched the taller and dirtier of Voldovan's head guards stride purposefully past, several more sword-dogs in his wake. All it had taken was a bewildered comment about a certain wagon "clanking" to another merchant nursing thrusk over a fire. Even suspicious merchants talk. Especially suspicious merchants talk-and as weakened and scared as these guards were, now, they'd even learned to listen.
The Dark Blade of Doom was a long way from familiar alleys and hiding-holes, now. In fact, everyone's favorite Marlel was trapped amid wolves who hid behind masks. Little games like this could tug a few of those masks into slipping-but the spells their wearers could hurl could snatch away his life in an instant. He'd need spellfire to have any hope of standing against them.
Spellfire. Well, now. What a coincidence…
"Watch, now," Sabran the Weaver murmured to his business partner. "They're coming this way again."
"Dolts," Mhegras Master-of-Furs snapped, whirling back into the wagon. "Do they really think that searching us once more will show them things they somehow missed the last dozen times? This fool of a Voldovan'll give every last prowling beast and desperate fool of a brigand a chance at us, going so slowly! We should have been up and away at dawn, not waiting around for his self-important sword-heads to tramp all over us one more time!"
"Easy, lad," Sabran said. "You're here to learn patience, remember?"
Mhegras snorted. "As if the Brotherhood puts any value on that! All it really seems to mean in our ranks is 'underlings smiling and submitting as superiors do stupid things to them.'"
"Ah," Sabran replied with a little smile, "you're learning already."
Mhegras muttered angrily, "Well, listening to clever sayings from smug priests of Bane isn't why I joined the Zhentarim! I-"
"You joined for power," the weaver snapped back. "Like all the other young fools who think they can rule the world if they can just steal one more spell. Here were all these magics on offer, in return for a little groveling! I'm always amazed at how swiftly such trifling obediences become too high a price to pay for you arrogant puppies-and how each of you so clumsily plots treachery, thinking you're somehow special and your fate will be different from all your fellows you see slapped down all around you."
"You're the one who thinks yourself special," the wizard hissed. "You and all the rest of your smug brethre-"
"Fair morn to you, Swordmaster," Sabran said pleasantly. "I must confess my partner and I are fretting over the lateness of our departure. This certainly doesn't seem a safe y place to spend another night!"
"Nay, ye've got that right," Arauntar grunted, stepping up into the wagon with two grim guards in tow. "We're almost ready to roll-but I've orders to search four wagons once more, first, and I'm afraid yours is one of them. I'd like to do this quickly and take myself out of your way again, so…"
"Of course," the weaver replied. "We've moved nothing since your last look: finished garments to the left, bolts to the right, our own effects at the back…"
Mhegras stood glowering in the narrow cleared passage between the stacked and wedged tallchests and carry-coffers as the guards shuffled forward, moving a few coffers and peering halfheartedly into a tallchest or two.
"The flat carry-coffers all hold bolts of the same fabric," the weaver offered, watching a guard wrestle a coffertop off and peer suspiciously into its interior. "Musterdelvys."
Arauntar nodded and tapped a palm-sized painted plaque that had been slipped into a frame on one side of a tallchest. "Remind me one again what these symbols mean, please."
"Three stripes? Livery," Sabran explained. "Tabards and lambrequins for noble clients in Waterdeep, who desire all of their guards to wear their colors. Very wealthy patrons."
"We'll try not to keep them waiting longer than we have to," the caravan guard replied heavily and tapped a plaque with another symbol. "This one?"
"Mine," the furrier said quickly, stepping forward. "Pelicons of the finest make, also bound for sale in Waterdeep."
"Pelicons?"
"Open, fur-trimmed overcloaks worn by ladies of fashion, Swordmaster," Mhegras explained curtly.
"Ah. Fancycloaks!"
The furrier looked pained. "A particular sort of, ah, 'fancycloak,' sirrah, just as not all armor is the same." '
"Hunhh. Fashion, to be sure," Arauntar replied, his eyes fixed on the other two guards. They were busily shifting aside carry-coffers and peering behind them, making sure that nothing had been hidden along the sides of the wagon. He caught sight of something long and wooden at about the same time as they did-not the usual wedges, but something like a spar.
"Just what," he asked mildly, as the guard Lavlaryn triumphantly plucked one of them up and hefted it, "are these?"
"Peles, Swordmaster," the weaver said calmly. "A side-cargo we're carrying in hopes of recovering an outstanding debt."
Arauntar stared at the long-shafted wooden paddle, noting approvingly that Lavlaryn was paying particular attention to the ends and running his hands over it in search of secret hiding places or things that might twist or turn or… no, 'twas simply carved wood, a sapling mated to a paddle end too wide and shallow to be useful steering a boat in water.