Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [110]
"Exactly," the Harper snapped. "Taking down travelers is their sport an' their chief source o' coin, an' there's no law nor justice to appeal to."
He swung himself nimbly over Narm and down off the perch in one energetic lunge, landing boots-first on the ground with a solid thud, and squinted back up at them through the dust of his own landing.
"So stay here," he said sternly, "both of you. Triel's like Scornubel but a twentieth its size, thrice its desperation, an' no tense standoffs to forge peace.
Here, 'tis every man for himself, an' daggers see heavy use."
Shandril smiled thinly. "So how exactly, Arauntar, is it different from anywhere else in Faerun?"
17: Pleasing The Bringer of Doom
The true purposes of kings are to set fashions, take blame for famine and harsh laws and oppressions practiced by nobles, to give commoners someone to shout at and throw dung upon, bards and romantics someone to be proud of or wax tragic about, and to feed the rats – personally, with their own bones. I just wish some of them would get around to doing it sooner.
Hanjack Thallowblade, "The Farfaring Minstrel"
Why I'll Never Be A Respected Bard
Year of the Leaning Post
"Behold," Voldovan muttered to Beldimarr. "The only man in Triel we can trust."
The guard nodded, his weather-beaten face expressionless, and murmured as softly as any sly courtier, "Pity we can't hire him and leave these others."
They were looking across the palatial lounge of Dusk-view House at a tall, gaunt man who looked every bit as Realms-worn as Beldimarr. Voldovan had no idea what his real name was, but he'd been a fixture in Triel for thirty winters at least: the local herald, Stormshield. He was here to witness any bonds of hiring Voldovan might arrange with the motley crew of swordsmen gathered in the lounge.
The caravan master didn't need to look at Beldimarr to know the burly guard shared his assessment of this bunch; gutter-scrapings and broken men.
"Loyalty" was a worthless fiction to most of them, whatever words came out of their mouths and no matter what papers they signed. But then, the way things were going, most of them would probably be dead in a day or two.
Along with the rest of us, Orthil Voldovan thought grimly, as he took the high-backed chair the stonefaced Duskview stewards provided. Beldimarr took up a stance behind Voldovan's right shoulder, arms folded across his chest – and fingers on the hilts of two of the many throwing-daggers sheathed down his baldrics.
Voldovan tried not to sigh. Some of these men were down-on-their-luck hireswords, but most would be thieves and outlaws on the run from trouble elsewhere. If he was lucky, a few might be caravan guards who'd taken wounds or fallen sick, tarried in Triel, and now needed coin to travel on. He'd no doubt word of "the spellfire-wench" had raced ahead of him, though; word always did whenever cargo or folk of special interest made runs through the Sword Coast backlands.
Similar whispers had come to Scornubel a season ago, when Duskview House had been built. Word was that Thayans had raised this inn – and someone with more coins than wits had certainly done so, to build such luxury out here in the Blackrocks, on the doorstep of Mad Elvar. That meant, try as he might, Orthil Voldovan would be hiring snakes into his midst.
Lucky me, Voldovan thought sourly, ignoring the decanter the stewards had placed in front of him in favor of his own belt-flask. He surveyed the uneasily shifting men across the room, chose not to see Stormshield's expectant "Shall we begin?" glance for a moment or two, and thought again about Duskview. The whitedaub ceiling, he noted, was worked into an intricate design of stylized dragons flying in curves and snarling at each other… a design in bold relief that was studded with many cavities. Spyholes, of course.
This place was a trading center – and to a Thayan, a trading center is also a spying center. There'd been whispers up and down the Trade Way for some seasons now that a Red Wizard was