Drashka made his way unsteadily to the edge of the excavation. A flimsy rail ran between the wooden uprights that held the scaffolding in place, and a few torches on long poles thrust into the sand illuminated the scene. The lieutenant staggered, and Garmansder grabbed his arm.
"Careful. You wanna fall?"
Drashka considered the question for a moment then shook his head. "You fall in there, you'd have a long time to think before you bit the bottom. Lissen!"
He groped for a loose stone and dropped it into the pit. Both men held their breaths until at last, far away, magnified by the walls of the shaft, they heard the distant thunk! of stone on stone.
Garmansder nodded, impressed. "So wassit all "bout?" He leaned against an upright and took another draught of raki.
Drashka gestured toward the pit. "We're lookin' for magic. Magic stuff from Netheril. You know. Stuff they lost when the cities fell down and th' empire crashed."
"So?" The mercenary held out the bottle to his companion. "Everbody knows that stuff was lost a long time ago. Why d'you think you can find it now?"
" 'Cause we already found part of it." Drashka swigged from the bottle and snickered. "We already found stuff, and we're gonna bring up more stuff. Magical stuff."
Garmansder snorted. "I'll believe it when I see it."
"Maybe you'd like to see it." Drashka straightened up and hurled the raki bottle into the pit. It smashed against the far side, and the fragments fell into the gulf.
"Hey!" cried the mercenary. "There was more in there!"
"That's all right." The guard's voice was strong, without a trace of slurred, drunken speech. "You can go after it."
He lunged forward with the speed of a striking snake. One hand thrust against the mercenary's shoulder, shoving him back into the blackness beyond the upright. Garmansder shouted, as one hand darted up to clutch at a dangling rope. He swung out and over the pit, then back, landing farther around the rim, some ten feet from where he'd started. A sword was already glittering in his hand when he landed.
Drashka stared then laughed. "I see I wasn't the only one pretending to drink that rot gut." He drew his own blade and stepped forward.
Garmansder retreated cautiously around the pit, his eyes on his opponent's sword. Drashka came on, slashing, his blade whistling through the night air. The guard thrust savagely, and the mercenary, barely avoiding being spitted, stumbled and struck against the rail. The wood shattered, and Garmansder, with a cry, fell sideways into the pit.
With a yell of triumph, Drashka rushed to see the body of his foe hurtling downward. Then he staggered back, blood spurting from a long cut along his cheek. The mercenary was clinging with one hand to the support timbers that lined the side of the pit. In the other hand he still held his sword.
His muscles bulged and he gave a groan of effort as he pulled himself one-handed from the darkness. He heaved his torso onto solid ground and rolled sideways as Drashka struck at him. The soldier's blade left a trail of red in the sand as it slashed across Garmansder's ribs.
The mercenary rolled to his feet. With his free hand he grasped a torch and threw it.
The flames touched and ignited the guard's flowing robe. He tried to beat out the fire with one hand, but it engulfed him. Shrieking, he dropped his sword, whirling, staggering. The sands gave way under his feet and he fell into the darkness. Garmansder could see the sides of the pit lit by the flames as Drashka, still screaming, fell and fell, until there was a faint crash, then silence.
The mercenary tore a rag from the hem of his robe and bound up his wound, cautiously glancing around to make sure the battle had roused no one. Apparently the Zhentarim guards kept a loose watch-or they were drunk on raki-for no one came to investigate the disturbance. Garmansder sheathed his sword and disappeared into the night.
Taking another bite of his pomegranate, the commander stared at the bound merchant, who did his best to preserve an air of detachment. At last, the commander gestured, and a small, glittering knife rose from the table and moved slowly forward in the air, hovering in front of the helpless merchant's face.
"What would the Bedine like back first from their spy?" he mused, nibbling on his pomegranate. "His ear? His nose? His upper lip?"
The knife swayed and dived through the air, humming. It whirled around the merchant's head, snipping a lock of hair from his brow.
"I know," chortled the commander. "An eye. That's it. To be followed by more… interesting parts."
The knife drew back and prepared to plunge into Avarilous’s left eye. The merchant, watching beyond the knife to the commander's face, saw the stream of pink juice dribbling from his lips turn suddenly red. The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter as the commander, a bite of fruit still caught between his teeth, fell stiffly forward, facedown on the floor.
Through a narrow slit in the tent stepped Garmansder, holding a stiletto. He kicked the body of the commander aside and sauntered over to Avarilous, who glared at him.
"Well, you took your sweet time. Were you going to let me lose an eye? Or did you just find it funny to wait that long before doing anything?"
" 'Thank you, Garmansder. Thank you for saving my life.' That's how you say it, Avi. It's quite simple, really."
Garmansder's blade made short work of the ropes, and Avarilous rose, massaging his wrists.
"We haven't time for nonsense. Someone will be missing him soon. We'd best be about our business."
The tall man stirred the body of the late commander with his foot. "Did he tell you anything?"
"A good deal. Here's a piece of practical advice for you, Garmansder, if you ever decide to become an agent of evil. When you have your enemy in your power, just kill him and get on with it. I don't know why it is that servants of evil simply can't resist the temptation to gloat. It's a very bad habit, one they should get out of
Garmansder nodded. "It's basic human nature, I suppose. He wanted to tell someone how clever he was, and it didn't matter if that person was a friend or an enemy. I was hoping my guard might tell me after I was kind enough to deliver the Zhents a Bedine spy, but he was pretty vague. I must not be as persuasive as you."
Avarilous had been searching the tent swiftly, his fingers flying everywhere, turning out boxes and bags. His eyes, glittering with a hard light, were drawn back into his head, and the shadows played over his stout form. A rivulet of sweat coursed down his forehead. Garmansder too was looking about, lifting tapestries and cushions with swift, decisive movements.
"How did you get away from the guard-Draka, or whatever his name was," Avarilous asked.
"Not too difficult. We shared some raki, and he began showing me the excavation site." He shrugged. "Last I saw of him, he was trying to learn to fly." He gestured toward the body. "Can we make this look like a murder? There doesn't seem to have been any love lost between any of the guards and their officers."
Avarilous ignored the question and countered with one of his own. "How much did you see of the excavation?"
"Some. After Drashka went for his flight, I wandered around. It's deep and very impressive. They're using smokepowder to open up some of the more difficult bits. The whole thing's a bit on the shaky side though."
"Meaning."
"It would be a great pity," observed Garmansder absently, "if anything happened to the scaffolding. Probably bring the whole thing down around their heads. I know I wouldn't care to be in there when it happens."