Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [59]
“In,” she commanded tersely, and plucked up one shutter bar, holding it ready to brain him with. Ruthgul landed on the floor, grunted, then got up and took hold of the other shutter bar, moving slowly to reassure her.
He turned, drew her shutters closed, put the bar in its place, and did up the catches. Then he held out his hand for the other bar.
Amarune gave it to him, holding the spear steady at his throat. He sighed, mumbled something about trust being rarer and rarer these days, and finished bolting her shutters.
Then he kneeled down, spreading his hands again to show he wasn’t reaching for any weapon. Slowly worming his way out of the satchel straps, he slid his burden off his back.
“The contract,” he muttered, “is an agreement—”
“I don’t want to know.”
Their usual phrases. Ruthgul uncovered just the signature of one document and let her look at it long and hard. An ordinary ink, as far as she could tell. She lit her last precious candle to check its hue closely.
“Four lions,” she decreed flatly.
Ruthgul knew better than to haggle. He fished out a purse from somewhere amid his filthy rags and leathers—it wasn’t the one riding his belt—and slowly set forth four gold coins in an arc around her candle lamp, each one sticking to his middle finger until he set it down soundlessly and twisted firmly.
Then he used the purse and her glowstone to hold open the document bearing the signature, and uncovered the contract for her to sign.
Or rather, to peer closely at the rush paper it was written on. Then again at the signature.
Amarune fetched several bottles of ink, the right quills, and some scraps of paper, to practice a few swashes. Ruthgul waited in patient silence. His hands had once been young and strong and unsmashed enough to do such work himself; he knew what was necessary, and he knew the true measure of her skill, too.
She caught up the edge of her robe and wiped her forehead. She’d be sweating before she was done.
Then she sat back to breathe slowly, as if falling asleep in her chair, and let her hand mimic the signature again and again, until it flowed.
Ruthgul nodded approvingly and waited.
She signed it with a smooth, swift flourish, then sat back to mop away sweat again.
Perfect, or so it seemed to her eye—and she judged such things as critically as any miser of a coinlender.
The grizzled old man sat still as stone, waiting for the ink to dry. He let Amarune decide when the contract was ready to be covered again, and let her restore both documents to the wrappings he’d brought them in, too, and return them to the satchel.
“Thanks, lass,” he said, sitting back and away from her.
“You are welcome,” she said firmly.
“Better I go,” Ruthgul said. “I’ll be needing the rest of my falcons …”
The blade that thrust into the room through the shutters at that moment was much longer than Ruthgul’s knife, and gleamed very brightly.
“Not this night, thank you,” Amarune said firmly in its direction, raising her voice a trifle. “I have business unfolding in here already.”
“Will it have unfolded completely and be done, if I return in two hours?” The speaker was female, sharp-tongued, and unfamiliar.
Amarune rolled her eyes. “What price my slumber, this night?”
“I’ll pay double. Just a little copying.”
“Two hours,” Amarune agreed and heard the voice outside echo those words in confirmation, already sounding fainter and more distant.
Only then did she notice that Ruthgul was cowering on the floor, both hands over his mouth.
She joined him down there, close enough to whisper in his ear, “What?”
“ ’Tis her!” he said fiercely, eyes wide with fear.
“Which her? She and I aren’t the only females in Suzail this night, look you.”
“She whose name you just …” Ruthgul gestured frantically at the satchel then looked wildly around what little he could see of her dimly lit room. “I’ve got to get out and away—!”
“Oh, Ruthgul,” Amarune sighed into his ear, her exasperation as quiet as she could make it. “Let me get some boots on and lead you out through the cellars. It links