Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [1]
"A spell-shield!" the Malaugrym hissed.
Mirt blinked at the shapeshifter. "Come, come… you've seen such magics before, and used them, too.
Why so touchy about yer heritage? Here we all thought ye were proud of it!"
The creature who wore the shape of Bronor of Luskan regarded the old merchant with furious green eyes. "'We all'? Just how many are these 'we' who know of my lineage?"
The old moneylender shrugged. "About two dozen traders in this city, I'd say. Yer secret has spread slowly, but any good merchant likes to know just who's sitting across the table when deals are closing.
None of us sees any need to tell all the Realms, though."
Mirt spread his hairy hands. "Six years now, I've known – and have ye heard a word whispered in the streets? Killing me for knowing it, though. That would set tongues a-wagging – and Khelben and his ilk striding yer way with spells a-flaming in their hands, too! So put away yer tentacles, and let's haggle over these, ahem, altered coins, here. Got them from Radalus, I'll be bound. Learn this, if you learn nothing else about Waterdeep: The man, simply can't be trusted!" Mirt regarded the nails of his right hand for a moment and added lightly,
"Unlike those of us who know how to keep silence …"
Tentacles slithered back across the coin-littered table and melted into the shoulders they'd burst from.
"How much is your silence worth?" the Malaugrym asked silkily.
Mirt shrugged. "One thing only: that ye not try to slay, maim, or detain four persons. Myself, m'lady Asper – and the lass Shandril Shessair and her lad Narm."
It was the shapeshifter's turn to shrug. "We – " He hesitated, then added, "That is, those of my kin whom I associate with – had already decided to abandon all hunting after spellfire. The cost has been too great already."
Showing his teeth in a sharklike smile, he added,
"After the long slaughter is done and the last survivor holds spellfire in wounded hands… then it will be time to snatch the prize."
Mirt regarded him with old, calm eyes. "And ye'll break this agreement with me without hesitation or thought for the cost I may make ye pay?"
The false merchant shook his head. "I won't need to.
When the Zhents stop using their wastrel magelings and the Cult its ambitious fools, and attack in earnest, there's little chance of the survivor being an overly lucky kitchenmaid from Highmoon named Shandril Shessair."
1: More Sparks For The Rising Fire
I've always had a particular hatred far foes who attack by night. Don't they know a Realms-rescuing hero needs his sleep?
Mirt of Waterdeep
Lines I've Lived By
Year of the Harp
Shandril came awake knowing they were no longer alone. She was aware of a presence, of being watched from very close by… even before Narm's hand clutched her thigh in a clawlike warning under the sleeping-furs.
Tessaril had promised that this chamber at least, of all the Hidden House, was safe, warded with the strongest spells she could muster. That meant someone had broken the power – and probably ended the life – of the lady mage who'd been so kind to them.
The Lord of Eveningstar must be dead. Dead… or less a loyal friend than she'd seemed.
Without moving or opening her eyes properly, Shandril tried to peer through lowered lashes at all of the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedchamber around her.
Someone was standing at the foot of the bed. No, two someones.
"Shan," came a low, gentle voice she knew, from one of them. "Shan, I know you're awake. Please do nothing hasty – let there yet be peace between us."
Tessaril! Treachery!
With a wild shriek Shandril flung herself into the air, using spellfire to propel herself aloft out of a tangle of the sleeping-furs blazing up in flames. Narm cursed as he ducked and twisted away from them.
A wizard had been glaring down at Shan as she slept. He was shorter and much stouter than