Ed Greenwood - Shandril's Saga 3 - Hand of Fire.pdf - Ed Greenwood - Planetar81

venit summa dies et ineluctabile tempus

"We're no strangers to pain, we who play with fire.

Masters of fire or great archmages alike

Sooner or later, we all get burned."

—The Simbul, Witch-Queen of Aglarond

vera incessu patuit dea

Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood.

Prologue

The breeze was blowing strong ashore this night, bringing wafts of the salty seacoast

tang of dead things with it—and bringing the stink of the harbor to better wards of

Water-deep.

Both of the men in the many-shadowed upstairs room over The Laughing Lass festhall

were used to the smells; they hadn't bothered to light the perfumed oil lamp that sat

on the table between them—nor called for ale or soft and affectionate ladies to serve

it to them, for that matter.

The sensuous, coiling music of the dancers made a muted throbbing beneath their boots

on the bare board floor, punctuated by occasional high-pitched cries and peals of

laughter—but neither man had a moment of attention for anything but the man across

the table from him and the items on that table. Only the occasional scrape of a boot

heel from closer at hand—the room outside the door, where bodyguards of both men

lounged facing each other in uneasy, silently insolent tension—made the two merchants

so much as flicker an eyelash.

"Come, Mirt!" the man with the slender, oiled-to-points mustache said, just a hint of

anger in his brisk impatience. "Dawn comes, and I've other deals to make. I grant the

quality, the amount is ideal, even the casks are to my liking. So let's sign and seal and

be done."

The older, fatter, walrus-mustached man across the table rumbled, "There remains the

small detail of price. Crowns of old Athalantar are good gold, heavy, and all too rarely

seen. Them I like. The number of them on offer, however, seems less satisfactory."

"Six per cask seems generous to me."

"So 'twould be, were we at your sheds in Luskan," Mirt the Moneylender returned,

"with me looking about in vain for someone else to take my wine. Yet—behold—we sit

in fair Waterdeep, where men clamor to outbid each other . . . even for rare Evermeet

vintages."

The man who wore the silks of Luskan—black, shot with irregular clusters of tiny

white stars—sighed, ran one finger along his mustache, and said, "Seven per cask."

"Eight per cask and one crown more," Mirt replied, sliding the one small hand-cask

that stood on the table forward a little, so that the Luskanite's eyes strayed to follow

the movement.

"Seven."

"Seven and one crown more."

"Seven," the trader from Luskan said flatly, gathering himself as if to rise from his

chair.

Mirt the Moneylender lifted an eyebrow—and calmly slid the hand-cask back to stand

close by his own shoulder. "Have a pleasant day trading," he rumbled, lifting his hand

toward the door.

The Luskanite stared at him. Cool, expressionless eyes

locked with cool, expressionless eyes like two gauntlets softly touching knuckles—then

strained against each other.

There was a moment of silence. Both men drew in breath, a longer silence, and the

trader from Luskan said flatly, "Seven crowns per cask, plus one crown more."

"Acceptable," Mirt replied, without the slightest trace of a smile on his face.

"Agreed," snapped the Luskanite, giving the usual formal response. He spilled the

contents of a cloth purse out in front of him, planted his fingertips atop four coins,

and slid them into the painted ring in the center of the table. He reached back his

hand and slid four more. In this smooth, deliberate manner he made up the sum, then

reached for the hand-cask by Mirt's elbow.

"Not so fast, Bronor," Mirt growled, placing one hairy hand atop the cask and

dropping the other beneath the table. "Like yer kind, not all of these coins are . . .

what they seem."

Bronor of Luskan stiffened, eyes suddenly blazing like two green flames. "You insult

my city?"

"Nay, Blood of Malaug," the old Waterdhavian moneylender replied softly. "I care not

who sired ye or where ye hail from. 'Tis your coins I mislike."

Tentacles suddenly exploded through the air at Mirt, roiling across—and under—the

table in a stabbing array, seeking to wrench and slay.

Inches shy of the walrus mustache and the battered nose above it they met something

searing, which hurled them back amid sparks.

"A spell-shield!" the Malaugrym hissed.

Mirt blinked at the shapeshifter. "Come, come . . . you've seen such magics before, and

used them, too. Why so touchy about yer heritage? Here we all thought ye were proud

of it!"

The creature who wore the shape of Bronor of Luskan regarded the old merchant with

furious green eyes. "'We all'? Just how many are these 'we' who know of my lineage?"

The old moneylender shrugged. "About two dozen traders in this city, I'd say. Yer

secret has spread slowly, but any good merchant likes to know just who's sitting

across the table when deals are closing. None of us sees any need to tell all the

Realms, though."

Mirt spread his hairy hands. "Six years now, I've known—and have ye heard a word

whispered in the streets? Killing me for knowing it, though. That would set tongues

a-wagging—and Khelben and his ilk striding yer way with spells a-flaming in their

hands, too! So put away yer tentacles, and let's haggle over these, ahem, altered coins,

here. Got them from Radalus, I'll be bound. Learn this, if you learn nothing else about

Waterdeep: The man , simply can't be trusted!"

Mirt regarded the nails of his right hand for a moment and added lightly, "Unlike

those of us who know how to keep silence ..."

Tentacles slithered back across the coin-littered table and melted into the shoulders

they'd burst from.

"How much is your silence worth?" the Malaugrym asked silkily.

Mirt shrugged. "One thing only: that ye not try to slay, maim, or detain four persons.

Myself, m'lady Asper—and the lass Shandril Shessair and her lad Narm."

It was the shapeshifter's turn to shrug. "We—" /

He hesitated, then added, "That is, those of my kin whom I associate with—had

already decided to abandon all hunting after spellfire. The cost has been too great

already."

Showing his teeth in a sharklike smile, he added, "After the long slaughter is done and

the last survivor holds

spellfire in wounded hands . . . then it will be time to snatch the prize."

Mirt regarded him with old, calm eyes. "And ye'll break this agreement with me

without hesitation or thought for the cost I may make ye pay?"

The false merchant shook his head. "I won't need to. When the Zhents stop using their

wastrel magelings and the Cult its ambitious fools, and attack in earnest, there's little

chance of the survivor being an overly lucky kitchenmaid from Highmoon named

Shandril Shessair."

More Sparks For The Rising Fire

I've always had a particular hatred far foes who attack by night. Don't they know a

Realms-rescuing hero needs his sleep?

Mirt of Waterdeep

Lines I've Lived By

Year of the Harp

Shandril came awake knowing they were no longer alone. She was aware of a presence,

of being watched from very close by ... even before Narm's hand clutched her thigh in

a clawlike warning under the sleeping-furs.

Tessaril had promised that this chamber at least, of all the Hidden House, was safe,

warded with the strongest spells she could muster. That meant someone had broken the

power—and probably ended the life—of the lady mage who'd been so kind to them.

The Lord of Eveningstar must be dead.

Dead ... or less a loyal friend than she'd seemed.

Without moving or opening her eyes properly, Shandnl tried to peer through lowered

lashes at all of the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedchamber around her.

Someone was standing at the foot of the bed. No, two someones.

"Shan," came a low, gentle voice she knew, from one of them. "Shan, I know you're

awake. Please do nothing hasty—let there yet be peace between us."

Tessaril! Treachery!

With a wild shriek Shandril flung herself into the air, using spellfire to propel herself

aloft out of a tangle of the sleeping-furs blazing up in flames. Narm cursed as he

ducked and twisted away from them.

Ed Greenwood - Shandril's Saga 3 - Hand of Fire.pdf

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