Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [0]
Shandrils Saga 03 - Hand of
Fire
venit summa dies et ineluctabile tempus
"We're no strangers to pain, we who play with fire.
Masters of fire or great archmages alike Sooner or later, we all get burned."
–The Simbul, Witch-Queen of Aglarond
vera incessu patuit dea
Prologue
The breeze was blowing strong ashore this night, bringing wafts of the salty seacoast tang of dead things with it – and bringing the stink of the harbor to better wards of Waterdeep.
Both of the men in the many-shadowed upstairs room over The Laughing Lass feasthall were used to the smells; they hadn't bothered to light the perfumed oil lamp that sat on the table between them – nor called for ale or soft and affectionate ladies to serve it to them, for that matter.
The sensuous, coiling music of the dancers made a muted throbbing beneath their boots on the bare board floor, punctuated by occasional high-pitched cries and peals of laughter – but neither man had a moment of attention for anything but the man across the table from him and the items on that table. Only the occasional scrape of a boot heel from closer at hand – the room outside the door, where bodyguards of both men lounged facing each other in uneasy, silently insolent tension – made the two merchants so much as flicker an eyelash.
"Come, Mirt!" the man with the slender, oiled-topoints mustache said, just a hint of anger in his brisk impatience. "Dawn comes, and I've other deals to make. I grant the quality, the amount is ideal, even the casks are to my liking. So let's sign and seal and be done."
The older, fatter, walrus-mustached man across the table rumbled, "There remains the small detail of price. Crowns of old Athalantar are good gold, heavy, and all too rarely seen. Them I like. The number of them on offer, however, seems less satisfactory."
"Six per cask seems generous to me."
"So 'twould be, were we at your sheds in Luskan,"
Mirt the Moneylender returned, "with me looking about in vain for someone else to take my wine. Yet – behold – we sit in fair Waterdeep, where men clamor to outbid each other… even for rare Evermeet vintages."
The man who wore the silks of Luskan – black, shot with irregular clusters of tiny white stars – sighed, ran one finger along his mustache, and said, "Seven per cask."
"Eight per cask and one crown more," Mirt replied, sliding the one small hand-cask that stood on the table forward a little, so that the Luskanite's eyes strayed to follow the movement.
"Seven."
"Seven and one crown more."
"Seven," the trader from Luskan said flatly, gathering himself as if to rise from his chair.
Mirt the Moneylender lifted an eyebrow – and calmly slid the hand-cask back to stand close by his own shoulder. "Have a pleasant day trading," he rumbled, lifting his hand toward the door.
The Luskanite stared at him. Cool, expressionless eyes locked with cool, expressionless eyes like two gauntlets softly touching knuckles – then strained against each other.
There was a moment of silence. Both men drew in breath, a longer silence, and the trader from Luskan said flatly, "Seven crowns per cask, plus one crown more."
"Acceptable," Mirt replied, without the slightest trace of a smile on his face.
"Agreed," snapped the Luskanite, giving the usual formal response. He spilled the contents of a cloth purse out in front of him, planted his fingertips atop four coins, and slid them into the painted ring in the center of the table. He reached back his hand and slid four more. In this smooth, deliberate manner he made up the sum, then reached for the hand-cask by Mirt's elbow.
"Not so fast, Bronor," Mirt growled, placing one hairy hand atop the cask and dropping the other beneath the table. "Like yer kind, not all of these coins are… what they seem."
Bronor of Luskan stiffened, eyes suddenly blazing like two green flames. "You insult my city?"
"Nay, Blood of Malaug," the old Waterdhavian moneylender replied softly. "I care not who sired ye or where ye hail from. 'Tis your coins I mislike."
Tentacles suddenly exploded through the air at Mirt,