The fact that Myrin had been flirting with him seemingly without knowing it told him much. Rhett, who had been raised in the ways of both Torm and Sune, knew the game of courtship well. Even if entirely unaware of it, Myrin was working out her anger at Kalen by turning her attentions to another. What was this barrier that lay between them-two people so obviously bound together? Perhaps Myrin told him true about Rath-this dwarf Kalen was supposed to have murdered-and that was the matter that stood between them. Rhett resolved to ask Kalen the next chance he got.
What worried him most was the suspicion that Myrin’s venture to the North Shore had more to do with spite for Kalen’s advice and less to do with her determination to resolve Luskan’s problems.
He remembered something else she had said-something that in passing he had barely noted. “Lady Darkdance,” he said. “What did you mean, when I spoke of your quest and you said ‘Oh, that’?”
“Hold.” Myrin raised a hand to stay him and focused her attention on a nearby alley. Rhett listened and heard the sounds of a scuffle. Rhett stepped in front of Myrin, but she pushed right past him with another curse of “Mystra,” whatever that meant.
Two men had pinned a third against the fire-scourged stones of a building while a fourth punched him repeatedly in the stomach or chest. All were bruised-apparently, the victim had fought back.
A deal gone wrong or a mugging gone right, Rhett couldn’t tell. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Myrin stepped up to them and pulled out her wand.
“Hail,” she said. “You should leave that man alone.”
The muggers went on pummeling the man as though they hadn’t heard.
Myrin rolled her eyes and waved her wand-first around, then up into the air.
Winds rose around the punching mugger as he wound back his fist. The man gave a strained cry, but it vanished in a clap of thunder as he sailed upward. Fifteen feet from the ground, he began tumbling in a localized storm of magic.
The two thugs took one look at Myrin, her blue hair whipping in the winds of her casting, and fled. The victim of their assault slumped against the wall, breathing hard.
“Have you got him?” Rhett nodded to the airborne ruffian.
“Obviously.” Myrin gave him a wearied look.
Taking care not to get swept up in the windstorm, Rhett kneeled at the downed man’s side. He set his shield against the wall, put his hand on the man’s chest, and concentrated the way he had when he’d healed Kalen. Sure enough, power flowed through him and into the stunned man, who coughed.
The victim of the mugging seemed somehow familiar to Rhett, though he couldn’t say why. He was a man of about thirty winters, thin and wiry, with his black hair falling in greasy curls. His nose had been broken and healed long ago. He could be anyone off any street in Luskan. The man’s eyes fluttered, then settled on Rhett’s face. His eyes were so pale gray as to seem without color at all. Like Kalen’s eyes. For a heartbeat, Rhett thought he was Kalen.
“Wait,” Rhett said. “You-”
“Ay!” Myrin cried, distracting him. “Hold, dammit!”
The swirling vortex of power wavered as the captured man struggled as though against ropes. Finally, Myrin’s magic fell apart and the knave fell to the ground. The mugger rose, his murderous eyes fixed not on Myrin but rather his prior victim. He clutched the handle of a rusty knife so hard his fingers turned white. His face held no hint of fear.
“Back away, dastard,” Rhett said, closing his hand tightly on Vindicator. “Don’t-”
The man charged just as Rhett brought Vindicator to bear. At the same instant, Myrin declaimed a word of magic and pulled her wand back.
The thief’s rush ended on the point of the fabulous bastard sword. Only then did the wild fanaticism fade from his visage and his eyes turned fearful. He gasped and jerked on the sword.
Rhett released his breath.
Then Myrin’s blast hit them.
Thunder clapped and a wave of force sent Rhett tumbling. Vindicator jolted from his grasp and the mugger’s body sprawled back against the wall. Rhett hit the ground with a bruising crunch of steel on flesh. He moaned in pain.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Myrin rushed over to him. “You were too close.”
Rhett groaned. “You couldn’t have waited another heartbeat?”
“What, and not blast him?” Myrin looked at Rhett as though he’d lost his mind.
A chuckle cut between them. Rhett turned and saw the ragged man they had saved was smiling broadly. “Gods save us from young adventurers and their love-banter,” he said.
“Adventurers?” Rhett said, rising. “Nay, my good man, merely-”
“Love-banter?” Myrin flushed. “With Recklan here? Ha! Ha ha!” She forced a laugh.
“It’s Rhe-you know what? Forget it.” Rhett helped the man to his feet.
Myrin looked very disturbed as she stared at the ground. “It wasn’t love-banter, was it?” she murmured. “I think I’d know. Wouldn’t I?”
“In any case-” said the man.
“Stay,” said a fourth voice. It sounded hollow, like wind scraping through a stone passage.
Rhett looked around. With a chill that ran all the way from his fingers to his toes, he realized that the voice was emanating from the mugger he’d slain: the one who lay transfixed by Vindicator and broken on the ground. In fact, the corpse began to move jerkily. He had been reaching for his sword, but he withdrew his hand as though from a spider.
“Oh, Mystra,” Myrin said. “It’s only a talking corpse. What’s so scary about that?”
“Perhaps the ‘talking’ and ‘corpse’ bit strung together?” Rhett said.
“Stay and hold, Witch-Queen of the Dead Rats,” the corpse said from the ground. “Hear me, for I am the Master of the Throat-Bheredahast, named for my greatfather.”
“Oh,” Myrin said. “Greetings, Bheredahast. I am Myrin Darkdance.”
“I know.” The corpse’s head swiveled on its broken neck to face her, which made Rhett more than slightly ill. Its eyes lit with crimson light. “I know also that you seek the plague which has killed many in Luskan, leaving only bones in its wake,” it said. “You come to me in vain, for I am not the source of this scourge.”
“You expect us to believe that?” Rhett asked. “We’re to believe that a plague that just happens to leave skeletons behind is nothing a necromancer would want?”
The corpse turned to him and-horribly-smiled. Chilled, Rhett backed away.
“No,” the Master of the Throat said through the corpse. “This scourge feeds upon my servants as well as living men, leaving skeletons rendered useless to me. Every scrap of living animus flees them. My magic can take no hold.”
“And I’m the Most High of Netheril,” Rhett said. Then, when the corpse glared at him, he amended: “Or maybe you are? O Lord Death?”
“No, that’s true,” Myrin said. “The skeletons are useless for necromancy. They just crumble to dust when you try it. It would be self-defeating for the Master of the Throat to spread the Fury.”
“You-you knew this?” Rhett asked. “And yet, here we are anyway? Going to face a necromancer you described as the most likely suspect?”
Again, Myrin stared at him as though he spoke illogical nonsense. He sighed.
“This plague is not my work, though I sense a great source of corruption in the bay. That is where you must go. Also, from hence forth, stay out of my dominion, and keep this out.” The corpse gestured to the sword buried in its chest. “If you do this, I shall not trouble you. You should accept this bargain, as-”
“Done,” Myrin said without hesitation.
The necromancer paused, then the corpse uttered a sound not unlike a chuckle. “You are a fascinating girl,” it said. “Should you wish to learn my arts, you may return to me anon-though I suspect there is little I can teach one of his heirs.”