"Arauntar," Shandril murmured as a familiar form stalked past her wagon, "where's Narm?" The much-scarred veteran guard cast a look at Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar- who'd turned suspiciously to watch and listen, their hands going to their swordhilts-then looked back at Shandril and said, "He hit his head. Narbuth's tending him."
"No," the maid from Highmoon said flatly, lifting one of the coffers with flasks painted on it. "I'm tending him. Take me to him now or bring him to me."
The three guards stepped menacingly nearer, and she turned her fierce look on them and asked, "Well? What are you waiting for? Bring me my husband!"
"We don't take orders from you, fire-witch," Sarlor snapped, drawing his sword slowly and holding it up so she could see the torchlight glimmer along its edge. "You do as Orthil told you to, or-"
He was suddenly gazing into two eyes that blazed with tiny flames. "Or you'll do what, sir?" Shandril asked softly. "The man who stands between me and my Narm can expect to be ashes in a very short time. If none of you swaggering blades will bring me my Narm, go and get Orthil Voldovan, and I'll see if I can make him more reasonable. Or I could just go do a little wagon-searching of my own, gentle sirs- and any man who tried to stop me wouldn't have to worry about brigands on the morrow… or ever again."
"Keep back, witch!" Mulgar snarled. The three guards hastily retreated, swords flashing up to menace her, and glanced this way and that for shields-or any handy cover.
"Sit you here, lass," Arauntar growled. "I'll go fetch Narm or Orthil for you. There's no need for flames or anyone hurt."
Shandril sighed and sat down on her wagon-perch, seeming suddenly small, young, and very close to tears. "Arauntar, you've no idea how many times I've said that these past few months-and how many folk have refused to listen to me and died." She waved a hand at Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar and added, "Don't make me add these three fools to my bone-reckoning. Please."
Strangely, no one laughed or scoffed. Arauntar merely nodded and strode hastily off into the night. The three guards lowered their swords and stared expressionlessly at Shandril, who sighed again and idly shaped a sword of flame from her fingertips.
Sarlor eyed it and started to curse softly, but Tarth slapped him to silence. Mulgar deliberately sheathed his own sword, made the downward, spreading gesture of flat, open hands that means "Enough. Let there be peace here between us," and slowly turned around to watch the night again. After a moment, Tarth also turned to take up that watch, but it was a long and wary time ere Sarlor reluctantly took his eyes off the fire-witch.
He looked swiftly back over his shoulder at her twice, thereafter, but she never moved from where she sat on the wagon-perch, head resting morosely on arms clasped around her knees… like many a young girl he'd seen brooding by firelight.
"Well?"
Besmer emitted a little moan and whispered, "Please, Lady, don't… don't toy with me. We must wait here."
"Besmer," the soft voice in his ear asked calmly, "what did you intend to do to me, when we first met? Rob me… or something more?"
The thief started to shake. "Uh-I-just rob you, Lady! Truly!"
"Besmer, you're a terrible liar. What if I'd been ugly, and a man, armored so heavily that your blade couldn't touch me but so trammeled that you could snatch my purse at will? Is stealing coins how you eat?"
"M-mostly, Lady. That and… jobs for the Master."
"How much does such work win you, in a tenday?"
"Sometimes much." She waited, and reluctantly he added, "Sometimes little: a few coppers, a silver falcon."
A slender hand came around in front of his face. Between its fingers were four gold coins. "I pay well for good guides," his captor said calmly, "if they give me no trouble and offer me no treachery. Remember that." The hand vanished again.
Besmer swallowed, and-his mind a-whirl-saw many possible treacheries. He also saw vividly the perils the Master of the Shadows could visit upon him for his guiding this night, or being bested by this mysterious woman, or just on a whim…
"You're thinking of whether you'll survive to spend any coins I give you, after bringing me here," the Lady's soft voice said from behind him. "You're wondering if you can hide those coins and somehow live to spend them-if you can flee Scornubel at all. You're wondering what you can do to me if this damned cord is ever not around your neck. All of these things are as plain as the light of highsun. What I don't know is whether you want to leave Scornubel… or if it's just too much a part of Besmer for you to dare."
Her words hung in the silence between them.
He licked his lips, swallowed-so much sweat was pouring down his face that it was dripping off his nose and chin-and whispered, "I don't want to, but now I'll have to or die. I can see that."
After another silence, he added, in a voice so low she had to almost rest her chin on the back of his neck to hear him, "Will you-take me with you, Lady? I'll do anything…"
"I don't doubt that," she whispered back. "Think on this before you ask again, Besmer: We're almost certainly being listened to, right now-and where I'm going, death will be well-nigh inevitable. In truth, it might be safer for you to throw yourself onto Bradraskor's mercies."
There was another silence before he whispered, "Lady, what are you?"
As if his words had been a cue, the sentinel with the sword stepped back into the passage, said curtly, "Come,".and whirled back into his side-passage again.
"Lead on, guide," the soft voice said gently in Besmer's ear, and the trembling thief reluctantly stepped into the side-passage.
They'd gone barely six paces before a sword thrust through Sharantyr again. She regarded the sentinel with -a raised eyebrow, and he put out his other hand to snatch the cords of her stonemaiden and snapped, "From here on, you go to see the Master alone. Leave me your sword-and your dagger, and every other weapon you have."
Sharantyr's strength held the cords immobile despite his strong tug, keeping the suddenly gargling Besmer alive. She looked straight into the sentinel's stony face and said in exact mimicry of his flat tones, "Let go of my cords-or die."
For a long moment they stared at each other, strength straining against strength and the thief staggering and clawing for air, trying desperately to turn around. Sharantyr raised one eyebrow, and the sentinel let go of the stone-maiden, stepped back a pace, and growled, "Surrender your weapons now!"
"I hired this man as a guide," Sharantyr told him calmly, taking her cord from around Besmer's neck and dropping a handful of coins into his hand. Out of habit the thief looked down at them, and she said to him, "I hope those few coins will suffice. If I need a guide again in Scornubel, I know what alley to expect you in."
Besmer stared at her, clenched his hand around the small mound of gold coins that filled his palm-then turned and ran, rubbing at his throat.
The sentinel repeated his demand, and Sharantyr turned back to him, lifted her eyebrow again, and said, "You seem slow to grasp the fact that I take no orders from you or from the Master. To borrow again the phrasing you seem to love so much, stand aside-or die."
The man's face tightened, and he lunged like a trained sword-master, thrusting his blade-through her harmlessly, as before.
Almost lazily Sharantyr swung the stonemaiden. The sentinel's hand darted up to prevent the cords from being looped around his neck, and both stones struck his head from behind, one on either side.
Limply he sagged to the floor of the passage. Sharantyr sprang over him and walked on.