"That's better," Shandril told him, trudging for cover in boots that were already wadding shapelessly down around her ankles. "That's much better."
The Sun Over Scornubel
Lawless places all have a particular smell. 'Tis the mingled scents of blood and everything else that can be made to flow, spew, or spill out of a man, plus the stench of rotting corpses and long-moldering bones-and the stink of fear.
Unpleasant, but familiar soon enough, and I've come to appreciate the honesty of this "lawless smell." After all, 'tis no more nor less than the aroma of life.
Rathrol of Scornubel
Merchant Lord of Sebben
Wheels That Groan, Purses of Gold
Year of the Weeping Moon
"Pinch my nose," Shandril hissed. "Pinch it, or I'll sneeze!"
Thaerla of Chauntea promptly reached stubby fingers to the hooded face thrust toward her, found Shan's nose through the fabric, and covered the sneeze that promptly followed anyway with the severe comment, "You know the rule, sister." A solid application of the switch across the shoulders of the Sister of the Soil followed.
Thaerla found the tall, greasy-haired ferryman grinning at them and gave him a cold stare. "Seek not to misunderstand this sacred matter," she told him ponderously, and resumed her stare across the dirty waters of the Chionthar at the ramshackle buildings of Scornubel.
"Of course," the ferryman said in tones of mock humility, and spat into the river.
As if this had been a signal, his rowers leaned into their oars, and amid many creakings and thunkings the boat swiftly closed the distance to the docks.
With a regal nod to the ferryman-who grinned again- Thaerla stepped up the worn stone steps, tugging on the length of cord that kept her hooded companion stumbling along at her heels.
Shandril almost fell twice on the stairs, and Narm hauled her up the last few by the harness of ropes he'd tied around her. Glancing back and seeing the ferryman's eyes still upon them, Narm led his captive a good four paces away from the docks, stopped with hands on hips to glare around at the colorful sights and generally disagreeable sounds of nigh-lawless Scornubel, and sniffed.
"This is a most unholy place," Thaerla of Chauntea intoned. "Unwelcoming to Chauntea."
Shandril rolled her eyes, strode past the fat priestess of Chauntea, and gave "her" a most unladylike tug at the ample hill of flesh where the homespun robe curled around one hip. "Come on," Shan ordered, from beneath her hood. "We'll have plenty of opportunities to be unwelcome just a few paces from here. In among all the buildings, where I don't feel quite so watched."
Tessaril stretched, sighed-gods, what a magnificent man, even after all these years!-and tied the sash at her waist with a flourish. If she knew Azoun, his "just going down to fetch a map and a bottle" would bring him back with a Highknight or two in tow, and food. He always seemed to work up a hunger in this room, somehow…
She smiled wryly at that and kicked one of her boots out of sight, under the bed. The Beldragon lamp would cast the best light onto any map unfurled on the big table. She fetched it, reached a wooden skewer into the fire to light it with, positioned the lit lamp just so, and scooped up four Purple Dragon badges from her writing table to serve as map-corner weights.
The garderobe door opened just as she was setting them down, and Azoun stepped out-in a grand court tunic and breeches, no less. He was alone and emptyhanded, and when he looked at her, there seemed to be a question or an uneasiness brewing in his eyes.
She knew her own eyes had widened, and she hastened to soften whatever impression the startled-rather than welcoming-expression on her face must have made by saying eagerly, "Back so soon for more, my lord? I'm surprised you can still get through that little window!"
"I'm worried," Azoun said in a strange voice, "about this Shandril. She's a danger to all of us-not so much her, but all the folk seeking her, who bring their swords and spells to menace fair Cormyr, striking out whenever any of our folk or laws or walls stand in their paths. Where have you hidden her?"
His voice almost sounded like someone else…
Tessaril's eyes narrowed, and she took a swift step back. "Azoun?"
His hands reached for her with dizzying speed-on arms that lengthened into ropy, snakelike tentacles!
They swooped after her as she ducked away, around behind the table. One tentacle shot under it, thrusting at Tessaril, but she'd gained the handful of moments she needed. Hissing forth a spell, she vaulted up onto the table, rolled across it kicking at an eel-like arm that came snatching after her, found the floor on the far side-and the wand hanging in its sheath where she'd left it.
Behind her, her spell flung a vicious ring of lightnings around her foe, and left the thing that was not Azoun snarling and writhing in the heart of a crackling ring of restlessly leaping bolts.
By then she had hold of the wand-for a moment or two, ere the last ragged force of Tessaril's own spell was flung back at her.
Faerun flashed blindingly around the Lady Lord of Eveningstar, and it felt like she'd been slapped across the face with the flat of a swordblade.
There was a deafening crashing sound in her ears as the magic broke over her, then the fainter, deeper crash of her shoulders smashing into her bookshelf and rocking it back against the wall. A cluster of tallglasses shattered somewhere above her and rained down their shards in front of her as she rebounded, breathless and staggering, and saw her wand spinning away from her numbed fingers… even as a small forest of tentacles stabbed at her…
There were times in Tessaril Winter's life when the gods were pleased to slow things to a crawl, so she could enjoy- or endure-them to the utmost. So it was that after the breathless whirling moments of being hurled back by her own magic, striking her shelves with force enough to break one shoulder-she could feel the sickening searing of bone grinding against bone, now-things became very quiet for a time, and very slow.
The shapeshifter was a thing of horror now, Azoun's features halt-melted into gray-brown, mottled shapelessness, the semblance of magnificent royal boots incongruously retained beneath a thicket of writhing, reaching tentacles-and now, off" to her right, the real Azoun was coming back up the stairs with a large, loosely rolled map of the Stonelands in one hand and two wine bottles clutched between the long, strong fingers of the other. There was a Highknight following behind him, carrying a domed platter from which steam streamed in enthusiastic plumes-bringing a strong scent of roast bustard with it.
"By Boldovar's bloody beard!" the King snarled. Things began to move swiftly again before Tessaril's eyes. Very swiftly. Bottles and platter thumped to the furs, swords flashed out, and men leaped forward through a fresh, whirling forest of tentacles. Tessaril ran after her wand-straight at the shapeshifting monster-and she had a glimpse of Azoun snarling and batting away swarming tentacles.
The Highknight plunged in front of his King, hacking with his blade like a madman, and the tentacles closed over him in an eager, writhing storm. Tess struggled against a thickening tangle of tentacles, trying desperately to snatch up the wand before the shapeshifter did.
The Highknight gave a desperate, gurgling cry, somewhere under the surging, shifting flesh that enveloped him-and a horrible wet splintering of bone followed.
Tessaril knew what that sound meant and felt no surprise at all when the man's head thumped to furs right beside her straining hand, bounced up into several questing tentacles, then thumped again to the floor and rolled away somewhere unseen, leaving a glistening trail of blood across the Lady Lord's fingers.
With a wordless roar of anger Azoun sprang into the air to reach over flailing tentacles and run his blade right through the head of his false double.