"Just what does one use a pele for?"
"Putting bread, pies, and pastries in ovens and taking them forth again," the weaver explained. "As we've said before, Swordmaster, we've really nothing to hide here, an-"
There was a crash, as of armor clashing against armor, and the wagon shook. An expression of rage passed over the furrier's face, and he made as if to stride forward and grab someone, just for a moment-ere he let his face go blank again and his hands fall back to his sides. Arauntar observed this with interest as he watched both merchants for swift or covert movements, and Lavlaryn calmly drew forth a half-wound bowgun from his belt and began to winch it tight.
Onthur was the heavier of the two guards, and he was doing just what Arauntar had told him to: jumping up and down in one spot, in a place where he could grab a support-brace to keep from falling over if he had to. The entire floor of this wagon was false, raised about the width of a large man's hand above what it should be-and Orthil very much wanted to know what was hidden there.
Arms, it sounded like, or perhaps armor. Crash. Onthur looked to Arauntar for direction. The guard held up a staying hand in reply as he half-drew his sword and stepped forward. Lavlaryn was furiously readying his bowgun as Onthur stopped leaping and silence fell.
Into it Arauntar said calmly, "I'm glad ye've nothing to hide, merchants-because that should mean there won't be any unpleasantness about yer showing us yer hidden cargo. We haven't searched this wagon so often out of accident, nor for our own amusement. We spotted the false floor right away and figured ye were just getting something out of Scornubel unseen… but as time passes and attacks come down on us swift and heavy, Master Voldovan thought it'd be best if we knew all yer little secrets."
"Of course, Swordmaster," the weaver began, but the furrier drowned him out.
"Nothing in this wagon has anything to do with brigands or poses any danger to anyone on the run."
"Of course," Arauntar agreed, as Onthur lazily drew two throwing-daggers and Lavlaryn brought his now-ready bowgun down into a steady aim at the furrier's face. "However, my orders are very blunt and very clear: I am to see all, and so will Master Orthil-and we shall judge dangers… and consequences."
The weaver sighed and waved one hand in a gesture of submission. "In the interests of saving time, why don't I go with one of your men and fetch Master Voldovan now? If you really must see it all, we should bring back several guards to shift things, or we'll be spending the day camped right here… where we were attacked last night and where so many folk went missing. I'm sure none of us would want that."
Arauntar gave Sabran a smile that had very little mirth in it, and said, "So much, at least, we agree upon. Go with Onthur now."
Flamewind was a good horse-a princely gift, in fact, even if the Master of the Shadows had followed up his munificence with a death sentence-but Flamewind was now something else, too: exhausted.
Sharantyr had ridden all night and through the dawn, and if she'd been anywhere else but the Blackrocks, the merciful thing to do would have been to let Flamewind drink, and eat, and rest for two days, at least.
However, to leave any creature alone in this stretch of country-especially here along the Trade Way, which predators regarded more or less as an ever-laden butcher's block, providing ready meal after ready meal-was very far from merciful.
Wherefore Sharantyr now walked along the wagon-road, leading her unsteady horse through the bright morning. She could see Face Crag in the distance, not all that far ahead- but, on foot and walking slowly, still a very long way off.
The rustling she'd been expecting for some time occurred at that moment, and she laid her hand upon Lhaeo's little pouch and waited quite calmly for the attack to come.
There were four men-lawless adventurers wielding swords and not bows or spells-and they stood large and tall in their dirty and mismatched armor. They swaggered down out of the trees without haste and ranged themselves across her path with crossed arms and confident sneers.
"Well, well," the tallest one said slowly, an unfriendly and yet at the same time overly friendly gleam in his eyes. "The gods do bring us some wonderful things. Gems, good swords, coins in plenty… and now, a beautiful wench."
"I'm in haste," Sharantyr said warningly, not slowing her slow but steady walk, "and shan't suffer any delay. Please stand aside."
"Shan't you, now?" another of the brigands laughed, as his fellows snorted and guffawed.
"I thank you for your generous and courteous warning, lady fair," the tallest outlaw told Sharantyr mockingly. "But I fear we must insist you tarry with us-detained, you might say, at our pleasure."
Sharantyr sighed, drew her blade, and broke a gem across its keen edge. "Then it must be swords between us," she warned.
There was another chorus of laughter and snorts of mirth-wrapped around loud groans of mock sorrow, this time. They waved their own swords at her and took a step forward in unison.
"Don't slay her outright," the leader said. " 'Twill be far less fun with a corpse!"
Sharantyr gave him a wintry smile. "My thoughts exactly," she replied. "Wherefore I'd prefer to spare you. Live to fight another day, sirs. You stand in peril of death if you attack me."
"We'll be the judge of that," the tallest brigand sneered. "You're not the only one running around Faerun with a little magic, you know."
He nodded to his fellows, and they all muttered something, more or less in unison. Shandril let fall Flamewind's reins and took a step or two away, in case some fell magic should smite her weary mount whilst rebounding from her own protective enchantments.
The brigands' blades were suddenly alive with blue fire- arcs of tiny flames that leaped hungrily back and forth from blade to blade. They grinned at her from behind their risen, crawling magic, fanned out so as to imperil her far to her left and her right as well as straight ahead, steel to steel. They came at her in a rush, sparks flashing among the blue fire of their swords.
Small Secrets, Large Swords
There's nothing like a sharp sword for opening men and letting their secrets run out.
Malivur let fall his wagon-flap disgustedly. "Still searching- while we sit here within easy reach of whoever sworded us last night!"
"We'll be older, so much is certain, before we see Water-deep," Krostal agreed calmly, running his fingers through his ginger beard as his dark-robed partner stormed past like a fuming thundercloud, striding down the wagon to the decanters one more time.
The low-pitched clink of the stopper told him it was the fire-sweet green alanthe from Sheirtalar that was suffering depredations this time. Good; he hated the stuff-too sweet, and yet as tart as the yhaumarind they ate bowlsful of in the Tashalar. Brrrhh.
"What is this Voldovan thinking?" the spice-merchant burst out, waving a goblet that was half empty already. "He's supposed to be the best of masters on this run, not a ox-headed idiot!"
"I'm sure he is, and doing whatever seems most wise to him," Krostal said soothingly.
"I'm sure he's a wind-roaring tyrant, a lying, cheating whoreson rogue, and a-a treacherous fiend in league with too many brigands for us all to fight! Why else call a halt in the Blackrocks but to leave us undefended while the wolves gather dozens deep around us? Why-"
"Why storm and roar so?" Krostal asked mildly. "He'll only hear us and set his dogs to listening at our flaps… and who knows what they might hear before you master your temper?"