Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [119]
"Or something," Oelaerone said quickly before Mirt could, "I've been in better places to defend against the Zhentarim than this old breeze-box, too,"
"If the Zhentarim discover Shandril's here," Belarla responded, "it's not defending the place we'll have to worry about-it's dying well in the few breaths well have left"
A chill ran through Shandril. Here were yet more folk she'd pulled into danger, Mirt must have followed her to the citadel, somehow, and rescued her… she had hazy memories of seeing him running toward her after the last beholder had finally gone down. He'd brought her to a house of pleasure.
Typical of Mirt.
Her lips quirked, but she was too horrified to smile. These two ladies could be dead before night fell if the Zhentarim found her here…and who can hide from the magic archmages wield?
The voices downstairs went on. As quietly as she could, Shandril swung her legs over the side of the couch, She felt empty and weak inside, and her arms and one hip were stiff, but she was whole and everything moved properly. Someone had sponged her face and hands clean, but she was still dressed.
Experimentally, she held up a hand and gathered her will.
A dull ache instantly smote the back of her head from within-but her hand flamed with spellfire. She was ready for a fight. Stretching and wiggling her fingers, Shandril gathered her courage and slipped out of the room. If she could help it, she'd never bring death to any friends again… the way Delg had found death, Her lips moved in a soundless prayer: gods will it so.
With the air of a man who had expected to ruin a task but had triumphed instead, Mirt passed warm, fluffy towels to Oelaerone. She merely raised amused eyebrows, and Mirt harrumphed at her and reached for the bottle of wine they'd brought him. He took a swig of the ruby red Westgate vintage, sighed lustily, and took another. His lips were still at the mouth of the raised bottle when he saw movement out of the corner of one eye-Shandril, passing the doorway like a wind-driven ghost, on her way to the front entrance, Mirt choked, coughed good Westgate Ruby all down the front of his clothes, and bellowed, "Shan!
Stop!" The answering bang of the door told him she was out onto the street, Mitt groaned, pulled on his boots, stamping in haste, and snatched up his saber as he hurried for the door, "She'll be needing me," he said.
Belarla looked at the drawn blade and reached under the table.
There was a snapping sound as she twisted something free, followed by a grating noise as she slid a long, needlelike blade into view. It gleamed blue in her hand, "Where are we bound?" she asked calmly.
"The Wizards' Watch Tower." Mirt rumbled from the doorway, Belarla raised her eyebrows and sighed. "Ah, well," she said, as they hurried out, "I was getting tired of Zhentilar men, anyway."
"A good life, while it lasted," Oelaerone agreed, slamming the purple door behind them. "Lead on, Old Wolf."
The time for secrecy was past. Fzoul strode across the antechamber, By the flickering light of the gate behind him, he pushed the eyes of the gasping maiden carved on the wall. Her ivory tongue slid out from between the parted lips, and he pressed it down with one finger. There was a dull grating sound, and the rest of the carved wallsatyrs, nymphs, and all-slid inward and sideways, revealing a dark opening. Fzoul snapped his fingers, and glowfire swirled into being around that fraud, Holding his arm high like a torch to light the way, he set off down the secret passage, excited underpriests hurrying behind him.
The passage was long, cold, and damp. Where it dipped in the center of its run, shallow puddles glistened on the floor. Fzoul ignored them, and the illusion of the lich rising from its coffin to stare at the intruders. He strode on past it-and right through the stone wall behind it. The passage continued into a round room somewhere beneath Wizards' Watch