Hand of Fire
Ed Greenwood
venit summa dies et ineluctabile tempus
vera incessu patuit dea
"We're no strangers to pain, we who play with fire.
Masters of fire or great archmages alike
Sooner or later, we all get burned."
Prologue
The breeze was blowing strong ashore this night, bringing wafts of the salty seacoast tang of dead things with it-and bringing the stink of the harbor to better wards of Waterdeep.
Both of the men in the many-shadowed upstairs room over The Laughing Lass festhall were used to the smells; they hadn't bothered to light the perfumed oil lamp that sat on the table between them-nor called for ale or soft and affectionate ladies to serve it to them, for that matter.
The sensuous, coiling music of the dancers made a muted throbbing beneath their boots on the bare board floor, punctuated by occasional high-pitched cries and peals of laughter-but neither man had a moment of attention for anything but the man across the table from him and the items on that table. Only the occasional scrape of a boot heel from closer at hand-the room outside the door, where bodyguards of both men lounged facing each other in uneasy, silently insolent tension-made the two merchants so much as flicker an eyelash.
"Come, Mirt!" the man with the slender, oiled-to-points mustache said, just a hint of anger in his brisk impatience. "Dawn comes, and I've other deals to make. I grant the quality, the amount is ideal, even the casks are to my liking. So let's sign and seal and be done."
The older, fatter, walrus-mustached man across the table rumbled, "There remains the small detail of price. Crowns of old Athalantar are good gold, heavy, and all too rarely seen. Them I like. The number of them on offer, however, seems less satisfactory."
"Six per cask seems generous to me."
"So 'twould be, were we at your sheds in Luskan," Mirt the Moneylender returned, "with me looking about in vain for someone else to take my wine. Yet-behold-we sit in fair Waterdeep, where men clamor to outbid each other… even for rare Evermeet vintages."
The man who wore the silks of Luskan-black, shot with irregular clusters of tiny white stars-sighed, ran one finger along his mustache, and said, "Seven per cask."
"Eight per cask and one crown more," Mirt replied, sliding the one small hand-cask that stood on the table forward a little, so that the Luskanite's eyes strayed to follow the movement.
"Seven."
"Seven and one crown more."
"Seven," the trader from Luskan said flatly, gathering himself as if to rise from his chair.
Mirt the Moneylender lifted an eyebrow-and calmly slid the hand-cask back to stand close by his own shoulder. "Have a pleasant day trading," he rumbled, lifting his hand toward the door.
The Luskanite stared at him. Cool, expressionless eyes locked with cool, expressionless eyes like two gauntlets softly touching knuckles-then strained against each other.
There was a moment of silence. Both men drew in breath, a longer silence, and the trader from Luskan said flatly, "Seven crowns per cask, plus one crown more."
"Acceptable," Mirt replied, without the slightest trace of a smile on his face.
"Agreed," snapped the Luskanite, giving the usual formal response. He spilled the contents of a cloth purse out in front of him, planted his fingertips atop four coins, and slid them into the painted ring in the center of the table. He reached back his hand and slid four more. In this smooth, deliberate manner he made up the sum, then reached for the hand-cask by Mirt's elbow.
"Not so fast, Bronor," Mirt growled, placing one hairy hand atop the cask and dropping the other beneath the table. "Like yer kind, not all of these coins are… what they seem."
Bronor of Luskan stiffened, eyes suddenly blazing like two green flames. "You insult my city?"
"Nay, Blood of Malaug," the old Waterdhavian moneylender replied softly. "I care not who sired ye or where ye hail from. 'Tis your coins I mislike."
Tentacles suddenly exploded through the air at Mirt, roiling across-and under-the table in a stabbing array, seeking to wrench and slay.
Inches shy of the walrus mustache and the battered nose above it they met something searing, which hurled them back amid sparks.
"A spell-shield!" the Malaugrym hissed.
Mirt blinked at the shapeshifter. "Come, come… you've seen such magics before, and used them, too. Why so touchy about yer heritage? Here we all thought ye were proud of it!"
The creature who wore the shape of Bronor of Luskan regarded the old merchant with furious green eyes. "'We all'? Just how many are these 'we' who know of my lineage?"
The old moneylender shrugged. "About two dozen traders in this city, I'd say. Yer secret has spread slowly, but any good merchant likes to know just who's sitting across the table when deals are closing. None of us sees any need to tell all the Realms, though."
Mirt spread his hairy hands. "Six years now, I've known-and have ye heard a word whispered in the streets? Killing me for knowing it, though. That would set tongues a-wagging-and Khelben and his ilk striding yer way with spells a-flaming in their hands, too! So put away yer tentacles, and let's haggle over these, ahem, altered coins, here. Got them from Radalus, I'll be bound. Learn this, if you learn nothing else about Waterdeep: The man, simply can't be trusted!"
Mirt regarded the nails of his right hand for a moment and added lightly, "Unlike those of us who know how to keep silence…"
Tentacles slithered back across the coin-littered table and melted into the shoulders they'd burst from.
"How much is your silence worth?" the Malaugrym asked silkily.
Mirt shrugged. "One thing only: that ye not try to slay, maim, or detain four persons. Myself, m'lady Asper-and the lass Shandril Shessair and her lad Narm."
It was the shapeshifter's turn to shrug. "We-"
He hesitated, then added, "That is, those of my kin whom I associate with-had already decided to abandon all hunting after spellfire. The cost has been too great already."
Showing his teeth in a sharklike smile, he added, "After the long slaughter is done and the last survivor holds spellfire in wounded hands… then it will be time to snatch the prize."
Mirt regarded him with old, calm eyes. "And ye'll break this agreement with me without hesitation or thought for the cost I may make ye pay?"
The false merchant shook his head. "I won't need to. When the Zhents stop using their wastrel magelings and the Cult its ambitious fools, and attack in earnest, there's little chance of the survivor being an overly lucky kitchenmaid from Highmoon named Shandril Shessair."
More Sparks For The Rising Fire
I've always had a particular hatred far foes who attack by night. Don't they know a Realms-rescuing hero needs his sleep?
Mirt of Waterdeep
Lines I've Lived By
Year of the Harp
Shandril came awake knowing they were no longer alone. She was aware of a presence, of being watched from very close by… even before Narm's hand clutched her thigh in a clawlike warning under the sleeping-furs.
Tessaril had promised that this chamber at least, of all the Hidden House, was safe, warded with the strongest spells she could muster. That meant someone had broken the power-and probably ended the life-of the lady mage who'd been so kind to them.
The Lord of Eveningstar must be dead.
Dead… or less a loyal friend than she'd seemed.
Without moving or opening her eyes properly, Shandril tried to peer through lowered lashes at all of the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedchamber around her.