Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [149]
“We do indeed,” Marlin Stormserpent told him in silken tones, stalking forward with blade in hand.
Along the other side of the table, Broryn Windstag began the same slow, armed advance.
“Ahem,” Mirt said tentatively, taking a step backward. “I believe I did warn ye that I’m a lord of Waterdeep.”
“And we quake at the news,” Marlin Stormserpent sneered, hefting his blade. “This is what we think of lords of Waterdeep.”
He spat at Mirt, though the range was considerable and he merely wetted the floor in front of the old man’s worn and flopping sea boots.
Mirt raised his brows, face mild.
Windstag strode forward, menacing the Waterdhavian with his sword. “Though we do know how rich lords of Waterdeep are. So you can either yield up a lot of coin to us, here and now—or die.”
The old man sighed.
“I don’t, as it happens,” he said sourly, “carry heavy sacks of coins around in my codpiece—or anywhere else under these old rags, either. All the bulges ye see are my own.”
“So how much coin can you lay hands on in Suzail? And how quickly?”
“Well,” Mirt wheezed, lumbering forward with an utter disregard for the sharp points of their swords, to peer at the table that displayed Marlin’s map of the city, “that depends.”
“On?” The decanter had caught Marlin’s interest, but he stopped heading for it to see just where on the map the old man—who was standing right against the table, holding onto it for support—was looking.
“On whether or not ye fall for this,” the old man said calmly, heaving up, hard—and hurling the table over onto the fine-booted toes of both noblemen.
Who shrieked in pain and dropped their swords, lost in writhing agony. Which gave Mirt plenty of time to take a heavy statuette of Arlond Stormserpent Slaying a Dragon from the sideboard, lurch alongside the blindly hopping, shouting Windstag, and dash the noble to the floor with a blow to the head.
Marlin, who was also hopping in pain, turned to try to fight, lost his balance, and toppled. Whereupon Arlond landed hard on his face, breaking his nose and sending him off to dreamland.
Mirt calmly drew his dagger and sliced free two bulging noble purses. “That quickly,” he told the silent, sprawled, and copiously bleeding Marlin Stormserpent.
The royal palace of Suzail was always quieter by night than by day. Not that the servants ever slept—least of all with the council almost upon the realm—but by the dark hours the collective vigilance of guards, courtiers, and wizards of war had at least ensured that all the visiting nobles were temporarily gone, and no more of them were coming to the gates haughtily demanding things.
With morning heading for highsun, the floors above were abuzz with busy servants—though much furniture-shifting and rifling of the wine cellars had been done, and most of the chambers of state arranged, prepared, and then firmly shut up to await their coming times of need. Only the kitchens were working full tilt, with already-weary chambermaids pressed into service to help shift fresh-baked goods from the ovens to tables in nearby function rooms, thereby clearing the way so that more could be baked.
The lone armored figure stalking unseen past all this tumult in one of the better-known secret passages was weary, too. He’d filched an entire tray of sage-and-egg tarts—better a tray than just one or two, when that might rouse a search for some lurking intruder—and had eaten more than was comfortable, but this armor had room enough for a dozen trays of uneaten tarts, if he cared not how much they crumbled.
Elminster was slowly getting used to the weight and awkwardness of the armor—without its leather underpadding, it shifted loosely at his every movement and seemed to have a great abundance of sharp, jabbing edges—and had long since concluded that King Duar Obarskyr must have been more mighty bull than man.
In his postprandial discomfort, and seeking to avoid unpleasant confrontations with Purple Dragons or officious wizards, he had taken his overfull stomach and copious resulting wind down to the