"Temper? Temper! I'll show you temper, you gutter-born sneaking slybeard! Why-"
"Why, I wonder how 'tis I endure your slow-witted foolery, these stretching days!" Krostal said quickly, saying Malivur's next words half a syllable ahead of his wagon-partner.
Who fell silent, glaring at him down the length of the wagon with eyes that promised swift death in their green glitter. For a moment, Krostal could have sworn the goblet beneath them shone back that fell green glow… then the dark-robed wizard lifted the goblet, drained it in menacing silence, and snarled softly, as he strode forward like a stalking cat, "Have a care, gutter-thief. I can destroy you at will and hear no word of protest from our superiors for doing so. They told me to keep a very careful watch on you-for the treachery they fully expect you to work when spellfire's within our grasp."
The ginger-bearded seller of imported Lantanna clockworks-toys, self-igniting timer lamps, and musical devices! Rare and strange; get them while you can! — who was indeed a master thief for the Cult of the Dragon in his off hours, smiled easily at the raging wizard. "You think I wasn't told the same thing about you? Really, Malivur, you're very much the self-important child at times! Have some more alanthe and master your raging or I'll make sure the far more powerful wizard the Followers sent along on this admittedly cursed caravan sees and hears you. If his ears fill with one of your indiscreet tantrums, it'll take him about two breaths to muzzle you properly and permanently, without any direction from me."
The dark-robed wizard froze, then stroked his oiled black mustache very slowly and almost whispered, "What other Cult wizard? Or is this another of your tasteless, dangerous lies?"
"Oh, no, seller-of-spices, this is dark, blunt truth. He's probably not the only Cult mage along on this run, either. He's just the only one I know by looks, though I'm sure I'm not supposed to have ever seen him or know who he is."
Malivur hissed like a snake, a habit of thoughtfulness rather than malice, and swirled his empty goblet as if it still held something. When he spoke again, his fury was gone. "Is it your judgment, Krostal, that we've any hope of seizing the wench and wresting the secrets of spellfire from her-or just slaughtering her and avenging the Sacred Ones she destroyed?"
"I'm beginning to doubt we can do either," the ginger-bearded thief replied, lifting the flap again to look for guards or merchants who might have wandered to where they could overhear. "Yet if I was confident we could do one of those two things, I'd say the latter. A falling beam or the hooves of a maddened horse could slay this Shandril-she's just a lass, after all-but to hold her, after you'd somehow captured her, is something I doubt anyone in Faerun could do."
"Mmmph. Not even a zulkir of Thay or the one called Larloch?"
Krostal shrugged. "Who knows what they can do? What's truth in talk of their deeds and what's tavern embellishment?"
"Your point is good," Malivur agreed, slowly returning to the decanters, "and yet such reputations bring attention and attacks. No one of repute can last for long unless they hide themselves well or hold true power. We must close our hands around this Shandril cautiously, lest, say, the infamous Elminster appear and destroy us at the moment of our victory… or beset us on one side whilst we battle spellfire on the other. He did so before, recall you, when this same lass and her mageling were in Rauglothgor's lair."
Krostal shrugged again. "I've never curbed what I dare do for fear of the grand and great. One can't live guided by fear of these great heroes, unless one has centuries to spend idle in cautious waiting. When do they really show up, ever? Have you been confounded by one when hurling spells for the Cult-when you slew that mage in Westgate, say, and took his wealth for the Followers? Of course not. One stands and falls on one's own efforts. If one is good at it and resists the invariably fatal temptation to sit on a throne somewhere, one never even comes to the attention of the 'big folk' like Elminster, the Blackstaff, and the Seven Sisters we hear so much about!"
Malivur set down the alanthe decanter, raised his refilled goblet, and smiled a trifle ruefully. "Then here's to obscurity."
The thief smiled, raised an imaginary goblet in salute, and replied, "Here's to fewer angry outbursts, seller-of-spices, for silence may help to win us obscurity. I don't want to crow with triumph. I want to have spellfire in my hand like a dagger in the night and slay my foes before they know my stroke is coming, or that I am nigh, or even what slew them."
"That's the way of thieves," the Cult mage replied, "not wizards."
Krostal nodded. "Beyond that handful of 'big folk,'" he asked lightly, "how many old, powerful wizards do you know?"
"No, I want both of ye," the caravan master said sourly, snatching a look back over his shoulder to make sure Onthur was keeping the weaver out of earshot. "There could be walking skeletons or clawing-at-us corpses or even helmed horrors under that floor-and yon bastard get of a serpent would stand there smiling at me while his little surprises tore my men apart!"
"Cheery image," Shandril commented wryly. "Lead on."
Orthil Voldovan gave her a suspicious look and then rounded on Narm. "Well? And ye?"
"Where she goes, I go," Narm said quietly. "We told you that."
"Hmmph, yes. Come on, then!"
It was only a few hurrying strides to the wagon, but the eyes of the entire caravan seemed to be on the small knot of guards trotting along with the weaver. Voldovan seemed not to see the audience, but Beldimarr and two other guards smoothly stepped aside to take up positions around the wagon, facing out to keep the curious at a distance, while everyone else boiled up into the wagon with loaded bowguns, and herded Sabran down to join the indignantly sputtering Mhegras.
"I–I-protest in the strongest possible term-" he began, but the caravan master drowned him out.
"Ye'd dealt with me more honestly, ye two, I'd be politeness itself to ye, but 'tis a bit late for protests now. If ye'd like this to take as little time as possible and win for yerselves the best treatment I can find in myself to give ye, kindly reveal the swiftest and least damaging way to take up this floor-or I just might be inclined to use axes and make my own haste!"
"That won't be necessary, Roadmaster," Sabran said calmly. "If you light two lanterns and take up these two boards here, you'll find cross-spars. Pull them along, and you'll release a section of flooring from here to here that lifts in one piece."
"Why don't we aim our bowguns at the two of ye-while ye do it?"
"Certainly, if you'll help us with these coffers…"
The coffers were lifted aside, and hard-eyed guards crowded close to watch the merchants narrowly as the section of floor was freed and lifted aside-to reveal oiled cloth sacking sewn around large, thin somethings.
"Stand back now," Voldovan ordered, and then waved two of his men wordlessly forward. The guards probed the bundles with their daggers, cautiously lifted one bundle with the words, "Feels like armor plate," and slit its stitches, only to draw out-a blued, curving sheet of armor plate.
"Looks like barding," the caravan master said slowly, and then raised his gaze to meet that of Sabran. "Well?"
"Peytrals-twenty-two identical plates."
"What are peytrals?" Narm muttered. Shandril chose that moment to look at the two merchants and discovered both of them staring at her restlessly, almost quivering with-fear? Anticipation? Eagerness to do something?
"Horsebreast armor, lad," Voldovan said absently, watching one of his men bend down with a lantern and peer into the hole, seeking to see what was under the rest of the false floor.
"Looks to be all the same stuff, Master," the guard called, after long moments of twisting and peering.
"Any enchantments on them?" Orthil asked the weaver, who shook his head. Voldovan turned without pause to Narm and asked, "Is he telling the truth?"