Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [61]
"Magic is no longer the sure thing it once was." Baergasra said quietly. "A certain friend of mine reminded me of Alaundo the Seer, and his prophecies. Something about ‘chaos of Art.' Remember, Mirt?"
"Aye. Aye." The old merchant's voice was rough. "That's part of the one about the gods walking the world and making war, isn't it?"
"Yes," Baergasra said in a near whisper from behind the curtain. She was silent for a long time, and then added, "I knew you'd remember, Old Wolf. It's good to see you again, if Realmsdoom is really upon us. That's another reason I'd like to stay until morn."
Mirt nodded and rose quietly, wheezing only a little. He walked around the curtain and replied, "It's good to see ye again too, Baera. Hmmm-the rags did add a certain something, didn't theeeeaaHHH!"
He reeled back into view again, doubled over. Mirt, sometimes the Merciless, had ducked too slowly.
The soap bucket looked most fetching on his head.
Delg convulsed in silent laughter. Narm and Shandril could not keep so quiet. The dwarf rose amid their mirth and solemnly handed Mirt the brush, pointing meaningfully at the curtain.
Mirt removed the bucket slowly and winced, but took the brush. "I'll save it for later," he muttered, and sat down again. "Thanks, Delg."
"No quarrels," said the dwarf, finding his stool. "You were impressive indeed, downstairs."
Mirt grinned. "So it's my turn to be the giddy-goat here and now, hey?"
"Something like that," Delg agreed, and they laughed. "You've certainly assembled a band of giggling idiots this time, Mirt," came the sharp voice from the other side of the curtain.
Mirt raised an eyebrow. "What d’you mean, 'this time?" .
Storm took off her second boot and stretched, catlike. On the other side of their leaping fire, Elminster sat sucking his pipe into life in a cloud of drifting, snapping white sparks and curling green smoke.
“The wards, El?" the silver-haired bard asked. Elminster nodded. "Set as strong as my Art can make them in these troubled times. None can see us or reach us, short of the gods. Ye can lay blades aside, take thy ease, and undress-if that's what ye're asking."
Storm grinned at him and began unbuckling and unlacing. Then she frowned. "What do you mean, 'in these troubled times'?"
Elminster puffed on his pipe; a small inferno went up. "Magic's not the sure thing it was a winter ago," he said. "It's going wild now sometimes, and not even Mystra herself will answer me over it-"
Storm met his eyes for a long breath of silence, then shivered. "Alaundo," she whispered, and he nodded. Storm stared at him a moment longer and then sighed, shrugged, and went on disrobing. Silver hair curled free about her shoulders and down her back; she removed dagger sheaths and safe-pouches from where they were strapped next to her skin, and with obvious pleasure rubbed away the marks they left behind.
The old man across the fire had seen her do this many a time before, since the days when he himself had changed her, when she was only a babe. He sat and smoked companionably, directing discarded apparel away with magic that spun unseen from one lazy finger. Clothing floated silently through the air in his direction; more than once Storm smiled her thanks at him. When she was done, he said merely, "Ye still look magnificent, lass."
"It's a good thing ye're the great age ye are, isn't it?" Storm teased him, mimicking his own voice and manner before lie could utter the same sentence. Elminster chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows.
Obediently his pipe extinguished, rose up into the darkness overhead, and vanished.
The fire followed it, leaving behind only a warmth and a glowing in the air.
Storm stared at it, and then looked at Elminster, mouth open. "Ye gods," she whispered, "was thatspellfire? I thought you'd used fire spells