"Aye, every third wagon-horse could be a foe. Not a new worry. Count me out who else we do know."
"Well, the two really capable Cultists along are both dead: Malivur, who was rather carelessly playing a spice-merchant, and the thief Krostal. Another firewits mage with a wise guide."
"Ah, the clockseller. I thought I knew him from somewhere. He stole the Tiara of the Eyes from under our noses-and off Lady Thaulindra's head-in Sheirtalar some years back."
"That's the man. That leaves one more Krostal knew about, but I haven't spotted: a Cult wizard he considered 'powerful.' There were also whispers among Bluthlock's men that they'd best watch for a mage of Scornubel along on Voldovan's run who served the Cult but also quietly received messages from Luskan."
Korthauvar's brows rose, and he reached for the decanter again. "If both sayings are true and refer to the same man, he could well outstrip us both in spells."
Hlael nodded. "At least our tarrying has cleared the field of a handcount of other wizards, for when we have to move at last."
"What's your measure of the Arcane, the Red Wizards, and others? I confess I'm just peering and guessing, with not a single surety to my reckoning."
Hlael shrugged. "I wear the same cloak of doubt, but there are two persons for certain. One is Stlarakur's slayer, a sly rogue who calls himself the 'Dark Blade of Doom'-Marlel of Scornubel, being paid by I know not whom, and currently posing as Haransau Olimer, of 'Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths.' "
Korthauvar nodded. "For all his oil, he's hard to miss. The other?"
Hlael shrugged. "Another Red Wizard, but I know not whom, or his guise in the wagons."
"There's never just one of them," Korthauvar said bitterly, his fingers idly caressing the velvet-smooth decanter.
Hlael smiled his crooked smile. "Aye, but which fat, cowering merchant is it?"
"I don't know," Korthauvar said slowly, "and I don't dare show myself trying to find out." He smiled suddenly, and added, "So we can tell Drauthtar we dare not move in to try to take spellfire yet."
A cold, familiar voice spoke from another handy decanter sharply and suddenly enough to make both Zhentarim flinch. "Consider me informed. As it happens-luckily for you-I concur with your assessment. The time to snatch spellfire is not yet. Proceed, but don't fail to take Shandril when the time is right, or your deaths will be as lingering and as painful as you deserve."
Korthauvar and Hlael shivered in unison, exchanged hasty glances, and murmured, "It shall be as you command."
"Indeed. Don't smash decanters this time. 'Tis a waste of good wine, drink that I've a feeling you're going to need."
Panting, Besmer risked a look back. They were still plodding after him, red-faced and scowling, swords out.
It had been a mistake, aye, but-a firespitting wand that anyone could use! How often in a life did one get the chance to snatch one of those?
Perhaps just once, if those bully-blades caught up to him. Pounds of heavy armor they were wearing, and still closing! Catching up despite the miles he'd loped, then walked, and now staggered since stabbing the merchant.
Most traders had guards who were only too glad to plunder the baggage and be gone when you slew their masters, but… most merchants didn't wander the Chionthar-bank trails with wands thrust through their belts, either.
He didn't need to see the face of the Master of Shadows to know all too well that the lady with the sword-gods, what a beauty!-had been right. He had to get out of Scornubel in haste or die.
Following the Chionthar couldn't get him lost but wasn't a road the Master's Eyes could ride swiftly along, seeking him. West it led, to Baldur's Gate, where he could take ship for Water deep to hide amongst the throngs.
Besmer knew better than to take a barge downriver. If he was spotted, signals could race to Scornubel and back, and his execution could be ordered without any warning to him.
What he hadn't known better than to do was put his dagger through the throat of that boastful merchant, after the man's pack-train had come out of nowhere to the pool Besmer was drinking from. Who'd have thought a dead man could command such loyalty?
Perhaps they just wanted the wand as much as he did. 'Twas a beautiful thing, a massive and smooth-wrought metal grip that fit the hand beautifully, mated to a jewel-studded carved wood shaft. As he staggered on, his hand went to its reassuring comfort time and time again. More like a royal scepter than a wizard's wand. Those were usually plain sticks of wood, but this gaudy thing was real enough. He'd seen that merchant blast a boar and clearly heard the muttered word that unleashed a ball of fire. It had streamed across the pool, trailing sparks, and cooked the boar before it could even begin its charge.
A dinner none of them would ever enjoy, now. He'd had the man's throat open and the wand in his own hand in a trice and been off through the tall grass before a single bodyguard had even shouted. They'd set off after him like hounds, not hesitating a moment, and not giving up as the miles passed and hills rose and fell under their boots.
None of them had turned back even after he'd given the two swiftest the wand they so wanted-or at least its fireballs, two air-shattering blasts that turned hard-striding men to whirling ashes. The surviving bodyguards had been careful to keep well apart from each other after that.
He touched the wand again. He'd never had magic at his command before, and gods, now he knew why wizards swaggered so! What power! Look at someone, point your wand, say a word, and wham! Knight or lord, priest or mage, they went down, gone in smoke at your whim.
Oh, he could see why they wanted this wand, all right. He didn't want to use it too often, lest there be some limit to the fires it held… particularly if he used it all before getting away from these doggedly pursuing men. His feet felt like two heavy-laden coffers, his lungs burned, and he was starting to slip and stumble. He had to catch his breath, win time to rest Blarrrgh! Besmer fell on his face, slid to a stop and hopped upright again, his ankle shrieking protest. He hobbled on, downslope, and had to look back. One of them was cresting the height he'd just left already, teeth bared in an angry grin.
Tymora claw Beshaba for me now! Nothing could stop that man from catching him before he reached the bottom of the slope. Besmer assumed a look of despair, drew the wand and held it concealed, close to his body. He waited until the man's thudding boots were growing loud behind him, then whirled, said the word, and pointed.
The blast of flame snatched him back off his feet and hurled him away, head ringing and half-blinded. He'd seen the man's agonized, spreadeagled body outlined by fire, ere he'd been whirled away, but… 'twas done.
Shaking his head to clear it, Besmer got up and stumbled on, never seeing the dark, wraith-like cloud descending out of the sky behind his shoulders.
Waterdeep had been glorious, a feast of magics, and Evaereol Rathrane had grown strong enough to manifest hands that could snatch and hold and carry. Greatness soon to come was more than a dream now.
Yet he still dropped things from time to time, and found it easier by far to drift along as a shifting, shapeless cloud, as he was drifting now, excited by his whelmed power but wary. The world had changed much since his days in Jethaere.
These humans would have marveled at Jethaere of the Towers, and might well have been less arrogant than to call their crowded, stinking harbor-huddle a "City of Splendors," but they rolled in magic-magic so carelessly and lavishly used as to seemingly be held of little value.
Yet Waterdeep had not been an unguarded treasure-house. Rathrane still shuddered at the remembered pain of its wards and leaping enchantments and the spells hurled by furious mages who saw him and lashed out without a moment's hesitation. Flames too bright and too close still burned more than they succored.