Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [57]
Farl and Elminster thought themselves subtle indeed not to try for a single thread of that first exciting landing. When a second followed, they left it alone, too, and watched from afar as an unfortunate grab-artist of the Moonclaws was caught stealing silks, whipped skinless, and hanged from the city wall.
The master tailors had no guild because the magelords did not hold with guilds. They did, however, meet earnestly over wine and roast boar in the Dancing Dryad feasting house and come to a business agreement of mutual advantage. A lass who served them at table and collected rather too many pinches for her liking told Farl and Elminster (in return for four gold coins) what had been decided. 'Twas money well spent, Farl judged. Elminster, as was his wont, said nothing.
And so this moonless night found them on the roof of a warehouse overlooking a certain dock, waiting for the creak of oars and surreptitious shining of unshuttered lanterns that would mark the arrival of the private shipment to the master tailors, including (it was rumored) cloth-of-gold and amber buttons.
It was a crisp, breezy night, the first heralding of leaf-fall to come and another cold damp winter, but wrapped in their dark cloaks, they hadn't time to grow stiff and cold before the flashes of lamplight were seen glimmering over the dark waters below.
The two thieves waited in patient silence for their victims-to-be to helpfully load the wagons, four in all and heavy-laden, then slid silently down from their perch, avoiding the lumbering hire-guards who clustered around the lead wagon. It was the work of but a moment to hurl a stone over into the heap of rusted metal pans in the alley behind the confectioners' shop, and while heads and blades were turned that way, to slip up into the fourth wagon from the other side of the street. Then they'd have a breath or six to sort before another diversion became necessary to cover their leaving.
It was about the time of the fourth breath that they heard a startled oath from somewhere nearby, the scream of a wounded horse, and the skirl of steel. "Competition?" El breathed into his friend's ear, and Farl nodded.
"Our diversion," he murmured, "provided by the Moonclaws, no doubt. Wait a bit, now-that horse means they've got at least one bow with them. Let the fight get well underway before we go out."
The fight obliged, and the two companions hastened to finish sorting and stowing their loot for carrying. When they were done, they drew their daggers and unlatched the back doors of the wagon to peer cautiously out into the night.
A face with a blade held ready beside it was glaring up at them. Farl leapt high to avoid the man's thrust, landed with both feet atop the blade, and jumped down on the swordwielder's arm, burying his dagger in that face before the man even had time to cry out.
As El jumped to the cobbles beside them, staggering under the weight of their booty, Farl tugged his dagger free and hurled it into the night, which seemed to be full of running men and drawn swords. It struck the brow of a hireguard, who cursed, clutched at the streaming blood, and ran.
Farl scooped up the long sword that had fallen from the shattered arm of his first victim and hissed, "Come on, out o' this!"
They ran to the right, toward one of the rising side streets where folk dwelt who were too respectable to live in hovels but not rich enough to have walls around their homes. Daggers flashed and spun in the night on all sides, but the Moonclaws
hadn't a decent blade-tosser among them. It seemed the guards had been inept, or spineless, or paid off: the fight was over. All the other folk yet alive in the street were Moonclaws.
Farl and El didn't waste breath on curses. They dodged from side to side erratically to discourage the Moonclaws' archer and plunged along the street, puffing for breath. The expected humming of a seeking arrow came to their ears accompanied by a startled curse from close behind them. The arrow wobbled past them strangely; Farl