Elminster's Daughter - Ed Greenwood [4]
Delicately, the Silken Shadow spilled her paltry handful coins down from above, to flash before his nose and bounce and roll. The moneylender froze rather than darting into a wild run back and away, peered at a rolling gold coin, and-looked up.
To meet the handful of sand from her larger purse, followed by a shadow that leaped down at him with spread hands clutching the cloak in front of her like a streaming shield.
Caethur the moneylender had time to gape but no breath for a shout ere she slammed into him, smashing him to the street. She felt something in him break and crumple as she rode him mercilessly, their bodies bouncing on the cobbles together. By then she had the cloak tight around his head, one knee atop the arm that bore the claw, and a hand free to backhand him across the throat, as hard as she could.
That quelled the dazed beginnings of his groans and left him sprawled and limp. Narnra cut his well-worn belt with a slash from her best knife, snatched away the belt-satchel-heavy with deeds, coins, and coffers-and was up and gone, leaving her sacrificed coins and stolen cloak behind.
Yet swift as she was, she was not quite swift enough. There was a shout from up the street and the flash and flicker of Watch torches turning.
Grimly the Silken Shadow sprinted for her life, seeking the shop just ahead that had an outside staircase.
You'd think I'd be somewhere grander than this, she thought savagely for perhaps the ten thousand and forty-sixth time, if my father truly was a great wizard and my mother a dragon. Where's my high station, my wealth, and my power? Why can't I hurl spells or turn into a dragon?
* * * * *
The old cook whirled around. "Hah! Caught ye! Boy, d'ye still want to have yer hire here, come dawn?"
The greasy kitchen lad froze, a basket of discarded cuttings and rotten leavings clutched to his stained apron, and gave Phaerorn a look of utter astonishment. "Hey?"
The cook stumped forward on his wooden leg, hefting his well-used cleaver in one stubby-fingered, hairy hand, and asked softly, "And now ye give me 'hey,' do ye? Fond of your nose, are ye?"
The rising cleaver gleamed menacingly, and Naviskurr realized the depths of his error. "Ah, no, Master Phaerorn, sir-ah, that is, yes, I am, but I meant no harm, truly, and-and-"
As the old cook advanced, the boy's voice rose in a terrified squeak as that shining steel rose coldly to touch his nose, "-and before all the gods I swear I know not what I've done to offend what'd I do wrong sorry sorry what lord?"
"Huh," Phaerorn said in disgust. "This is the spine they send me, these days. This is the eloquence of the young who'll shine so bright an' save us all."
He turned away-then spun so swiftly and smoothly that Naviskurr shrieked, pointed with his cleaver at the three baskets the lad had already set down, and growled, "How many times have I told ye nothing is to be set against that door, lad? Nothing!"
Naviskurr looked, blinked, set down the fourth basket where he stood, and hastily went to shift the three offending ones, grumbling, "Sorry, Master Phaerorn, sir… but 'tis no more than an old door. We never open it, never use it…"
He dragged the baskets aside and straightened with a grunt to regard the nail-studded old door here in the dingiest corner of the Rain Bird Rooming House kitchens. Peeling blue paint on rough, wide planks, adorned with an admittedly impressive relief carving: a long, flowing face of a beak-nosed, bearded man that Naviskurr had privately dubbed "The Stunned Old Wizard."
Naviskurr scowled at its perpetual sly smile. "So why must we keep everything clear of it, anyway?"
The carving flickered, glowing with a light that had never been there before-and even before the scullery knave could stagger back or cry the fear kindling in him, the face seemed to thrust forward, out of the door!
It was attached, Naviskurr