Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [37]
One laid hold of Budaera's ankle, and hauled her off Farl to a hard landing on the floor. She squealed in pain, and anger rode high in Farl's face as he rose from the bench.
"Just who in Hastarl do you think you are?" he addressed the perfumed man. The bodyguard reached a menacing hand toward him, and Farl snapped his own fingers like the man's master had done, and as if by a spell a dagger gleamed in them. He waved it warningly at the bodyguard's eyes, and the man hesitated.
"Jansibal is my name," came arrogant tones that obviously expected the name to awe everyone within hearing. "Jansibal Otharr."
Farl shrugged. "Heard of any testers of cheap scent by that name, El?" he asked. Elminster waved a dagger of his own under the nose of the bodyguard who'd shoved him, and slipped out from under the man's gauntleted hands.
"No," he said calmly, "but one rat looks quite the same as another." That did bring little gasps and indrawn hisses of breath from around, and a little silence fell. The dandy's face turned dark with anger, and his fingers tightened in Shandathe's hair as she knelt in front of him. Then a sick, lopsided, sneering smile slid onto Jansibal's face, and Elminster felt a little chill inside. This man meant their deaths, here and now. The bodyguards drifted nearer.
"This sounds like the sort of insult that a man of honor"-the loud, new voice that had broken in from behind them dropped little commas around that last word, and Jansibal paled in recognition and fresh anger-"can answer only with a formal duel, not a distressing brawl that will cost him at least two bodyguards."
Jansibal and his men spun around-to find another dandy, as well-garbed as the first, eyeing them with dancing amusement in his eyes. He, too, wore silks, with crawling dragons embroidered on his puffed sleeves. A flagon was in his hand-and to either side of him stood men in matching livery, slim swords in their hands. The needlelike blades were aimed at the crotches of Jansibal's bodyguards. A hush spread across the dark taproom, and men craned their necks to watch.
"Fair even, Jansibal," the newcomer said calmly, rubbing at the thin beginnings of a moustache with the lip of his flagon. "Laryssa spurn you again? Dlaedra insufficiently impressed with your-ah, rampant glory?"
Jansibal snarled. "Get gone, Thelorn! You can't strut in the safety of your sire's shadow forever!"
"His shadow stretches longer than your father's, Janz. My men and I but stopped for a drink… but the appalling stench drew us to this corner to see what had died. You really must stop wearing that stuff, Janz; some chambermaid's likely to empty a pisspot out a window to try and wash your stink away!"
"Your yapping tongue carries you ever closer to a waiting grave, Selemban!" Jansibal spat. "Now begone, or I'll have one of my men spoil that pretty face of yours with a few shards of glass!"
"I love thee too, Jansibal. Which of your two men is it to be? My six would dearly love to know." From behind him, another pair of men in livery glided forward, blades raised and glittering in the little dangling lamp that a trembling servant still held aloft on its pole.
"I'll not fight a duel with all these blades of yours around," Jansibal said, drawing himself up. "I know your liking for convenient 'accidents.'"
"While you grandly slash at someone with that blade you've dipped in sleep-venom? Aren't you tired of such deceits, Janz? Doesn't using them remind you, every even', that you're a worm? Or is it so much part of your lovely nature that you don't even notice?"
"Shut your lying mouth," Jansibal snarled, "or-"
"Or you'll get away with your little trick, yes? And stab all these lads and lasses around to work off your little rage, no doubt. And what would you be doing with them once they were asleep? Robbing them, of course-you have such expensive