Avarilous's cynical smile informed Garmansder in what spirit the fat man received this statement.
Bin-Daar coughed gently, as one approaching the heart of the matter. "Of late," he said, "we have seen much activity at one of these oases, one near our lands. The dark-robed ones are becoming increasingly bold, striking out against our tribesmen. Where before they were content to leave us in peace, now they seem determined to destroy us. It would almost seem as if there is something they have found of which they do not want us to learn."
Avarilous's body was relaxed, his pudgy body stretched out along the ground, resting on one elbow. His eyes were sleepy, half hooded, but the observant might have noticed a glitter within their depths.
"Rumors have come to us of a great excavation by the Zhentarim in this place." Bin-Daar snapped his fingers, and one of his councilors thrust a roll of goatskin into his outstretched hand. "They are digging… here."
His finger jabbed a spot on the crude map that adorned the goatskin. Avarilous looked at it.
"Humph. Near Hlondath. One of the Buried Realms."
Bin-Daar nodded. "Precisely."
Garmansder broke into the conversation. "What's Hlondath? And what does this have to do with kidnapping us?"
Avarilous spoke without looking at his companion. His voice was far away.
"Hlondath was a mighty state that existed centuries ago, after the fall of Netheril. It faded away, buried by the desert sands, but some say that there was buried with it some of the mighty magic of lost Netheril. Many have come searching for those items, but few have been found, and most of the explorers have vanished into the sands." He looked carefully at Bin-Daar. "I take it you think the Zhents have found something."
Bin-Daar shook his head. "I do not know if they have found anything, but I suspect they are looking for something. Something they do not wish others to find. Something that might make them a more powerful force in Anauroch."
"Why should they have any more success than in the past?"
"Because-" Bin-Daar dropped his voice-"because of the coming of the City of Shade. Its return may herald a new rise of Netherese magic, one the Zhentarim hope to take advantage of. If they found an artifact of ancient Netheril, they could use it to forge an alliance with the Shadovar. That would be disastrous for my people. They must be stopped."
"What does that have to do with us?" growled Garmansder, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
Bin-Daar's eyes never left the fat merchant's face.
"I have a proposition for you, Avarilous."
The merchant stretched his pudgy legs, which had grown cramped from kneeling. "I'm aware of that."
For the first time, Bin-Daar's face showed surprise. "You are aware? How-" He stopped and nodded slowly, as if satisfying himself on some point. "So," he continued, "we did not find you. You found us."
Avarilous shrugged. "I had heard you were looking for me. I simply put myself in a place where we were likely to meet."
"Why?"
"Your situation interests me. I've heard of this excavation, and I suspected you or one of the other Bedine tribes would try to stop it. An outright attack on the site would be disastrous for you, so you had to resort to other means. As I say, I heard you were looking for me."
"You might have told me," growled Garmansder. "If I'd known who and what you were, I'd have run from you as fast as I could. As it is, I want nothing to do with any of this."
Bin-Daar chuckled softly. "You will aid Avarilous in his mission," he told the mercenary. "Your reward will be far more than whatever he has promised you."
Greed flickered in the tall man's eyes, but he held his ground. "It's all very well to talk, but where there's Zhents, I don't want to be watching my back all the time, and I don't trust him."
Bin-Daar's mouth curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I do not trust him either, but he is a powerful weapon. A warrior in battle does not ask where a sharp sword came from, only that it cut true."
Garmansder snorted. Avarilous sighed, and his stomach rumbled.
"Can't we do this over food?" he asked plaintively. "I'm starving."
The Zhent guards had had a sleepy afternoon, basking in the shade of their tent, shielded against the blazing sun. They passed the time throwing dice and drinking raki, a powerful liquor distilled from the stunted bushes that covered the hills around the oasis. By midafternoon they were dozing, half drunk, and not in a mood to be disturbed.
One nudged the other then roused him with a kick. The two men rose and stood, swaying slightly, watching the travelers approach.
They were mounted on a camel, but the one riding in front, the stouter of the two, had his hands bound tightly together, while the other held the end of the rope. As the pair drew nearer, the Zhentarim could see that the fat man had a streak of blood down one cheek and an ugly bruise over his left eye.
The camel halted before the guard's tent, and the thinner man jumped down easily, leaving his bound companion seated on the beast.
"Hail!" he said, in a voice scraped raw by the desert winds. "I want to see your commander."
The more sober of the two guards spat in the sand. "Hah! What for?"
"I have something for him." The traveler jerked the cord he was holding, pulling his prisoner off the camel. The captive crashed to the ground with a loud grunt of pain.
One of the guards sauntered over, trying not to appear unsteady on his feet. "Wasss this?" He stirred the fallen man with his foot.
"I'll tell your commander. Trust me, hell want to see this one right away."
The Zhents exchanged glances, then turned away. One turned back, while the other disappeared into the tent.
"Well get Lieutenant Thass."
"I want to see the commander, not some lieutenant."
"You'll see Thass. Hell 'tide who you see next. He'll be here in m'nit." He slumped back down on the cask he'd been sitting on.
The tall man looked beyond the guard tent at the rest of the oasis. It was bustling with activity. A long line of Bedine tribesmen were passing buckets filled with sand from hand to hand, supervised by purple-robed Zhents, many of whom bore whips or clubs. The sand was being drawn from a central excavation, perhaps fifty feet wide. Even from a distance, the visitor could see a network of ladders and ropes descending into it. A heavy wooden framework had been erected over it with a wheel to haul up the buckets of sand from the shovels of unseen diggers. The air was full of the groan of the wheel, the creaking of the wooden supports, the moaning of the tribesmen, and the shouts and curses of the Zhents.
A Black Robe with an air of authority strode toward the guard tent, his clothing snapping with impatience. He glanced at the sentries then dealt one of them a slap that spun the man around and knocked him bleeding to the ground.
"Fool! Drunk on duty!"
He lifted a hand and inscribed a gesture in the air. The guard screamed, and his hand came up to one cheek. A thin stream of smoke spurted between his fingers as he shrieked with pain. When he brought his hand down, the visitor could see the raw, red mark of the brand that had been magically inscribed on the guard's skin.
The lieutenant turned his attention to the two men before him, while the other guard splashed liquor on his companion's wound and led him back into their tent.
"Who are you, and why are you traveling this way? It's prohibited to come near this place, on pain of death. By rights, I should flay the flesh from your bones here and now, but I'm in an exceptionally good mood today, so I'll listen to your story before I kill you both."