A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [18]
"Let it be soon," Ariathe snapped, glaring balefully at Craer.
The procurer stuck out his tongue at her in reply-an instant before Olone's upswept hand took the four sisters away into shimmering nothingness again.
No bolt from a wand crashed into the thief, and nothing remained to show that the sudden apparitions had been there; flies buzzed through otherwise empty air.
Craer looked at Hawk, and Hawk looked at Craer. Their sighs came more or less in unison.
The procurer took a dancing step forward, then wheeled to face Raulin and Hawkril. Spreading his hands, Craer said in sudden exasperation, "What is it about Aglirta? We ride along on a nice bright day dealing with one nice, tidy little mystery-and suddenly wizards are dropping out of the trees and the sky and the Three know where else, and lads want to join us, and doom bids fair to fall on us all in moments-"
Raulin held up a hand again for silence. Glowering, Craer granted it with a "pray proceed" gesture.
The lad held out a small, ornate metal flask to the procurer. "One of them-Tshamarra-put this into my hand," he explained, "and then pointed at Sarasper. She didn't want the other ladies to see."
Craer held the flask up and stared at it, his face a battlefield between bewilderment and suspicion.
Hawkril smiled and echoed: "What is it about Aglirta?"
Silently, the procurer looked at Sarasper and Embra, turned his gaze back to Hawkril, and gave a helpless shrug.
Hawkril shrugged back. "What choice have we?"
Craer nodded, unstoppered the flask, sniffed its contents suspiciously, stoppered its mouth with a finger, and tipped it just enough so as to leave that finger wet, sniffed and licked the residue-and men, as they'd all known he'd have to, slid the mouth of the flask between Sarasper's jaws, and imparted a small dose.
The old healer coughed, gave a great shiver as an expression of bitter distaste flashed across his face, embarked on another deep, racking cough, and started sputtering like an indignant drunkard. His eyes remained firmly closed throughout. Craer frowned down at him, then sighed and turned to Embra.
A clawlike hand tugged at the procurer's elbow from behind before he could apply the flask to her mouth, accompanied by a raw, rattling shout of: "Wait!"
Craer turned. "Save it," Sarasper croaked. "Any of us can drink it. Let me heal her."
Waving one hand in a florid gesture to indicate that the healer should proceed to work on Embra, the procurer restoppered the flask, hooked it onto his belt, and shook his head. "I wish-just for once-I knew what was going on," he told the trees above him. "Back when we were warriors of Blackgult, or even starving outlaws, things were much simpler. One knew where one stood-"
"Aye, a running stride ahead of the hangman's noose, usually," Hawkril growled, "thanks to your urge to steal things large, florid, and useless."
Craer spread eloquent hands. "Large you are, aye, I'll grant, and useless, too-but florid, now-"
"Right," Sarasper agreed, a twinkle kindling deep in his weary eyes. "'I'd not go around saying a man was 'florid,' by the Three."
"We're mad, boy," Hawkril explained to Raulin. "Run fast and far, while you still can."
The young bard grinned at him. "In truth, Lord Anharu, I've been missing this. There's a shortage of good buffoons elsewhere in Aglirta."
Craer stiffened.
Sarasper looked up, then slowly drew the dagger at his belt, squinting hard at Raulin. Like the side of a ponderous, armored mountain, Hawkril slowly turned to face the young bard squarely.
Large-eyed and beginning to tremble, Raulin met the armaragor's gaze steadily. Eyes as sharp and fearless as a swordblade stared into-and through-Raulin. Castlecloaks…
And then Hawkril's face split into a gigantic grin. Roaring out sudden laughter, he swept the bard into a bruising, dust- and blood-spattered embrace.
Grinning in wild relief, Raulin laughed right back, and they waltzed briefly past a smirking Craer, to where Sarasper was shaking his head.
The old healer did not, however, lower the fine dagger.