Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [22]
Trembling, Shandril heard Narm make a queer sound behind her. She whirled. He was reeling, his face twisting as he looked at her wildly, nostrils flaring like a wolf smelling blood – gods! The spell had taken him – and as he reached for her, she caught the side of his head in her hand and slammed it into the stairway wall.
His eyes went dark, like two snuffed candles, and he slumped. Letting go of him, Shandril rode her rage around in a whirling turn that brought her nose to nose with Marlel – who leaned forward, frozen, with his hands out to grab at her.
Feeling fresh magic rolling at her, the kitchenmaid from Highmoon sent spellfire racing along the paths of those unfolding spells – stabbing out through the walls around her in three directions. There were brief screams as half-seen wizards staggered, in both directions – but Shandril ignored them to snarl at the Harper, "If you had any hand in this trap, Marlel, I'll make your death slow and terrible, believe you me!"
"Lady, I never!" Marlel protested. "I – let me past and I'll take up your man and carry him! We must get to your room – here: the keys! Third door on the left along yon passage!"
He certainly looked guilty – but then, he also looked afraid, and for men who carried secrets in plenty, there often wasn't much difference between the two looks. Moreover, there might not be a man who dwelt in all Scornubel who didn't have dark secrets enough not to look guilty, if you seared him with the candle that was fear.
"Do so!" Shandril snapped, snatching the keys. "If you do him harm, I'll make you regret it for days!"
Her eyes were like two flames, and the Harper flinched away as he slipped past her. Shandril made sure the wizards in the two rooms she'd gutted moved no more, and by then Marlel was on his way past her again, panting under Narm's limp weight.
It seemed like a very short time before Marlel had them both into the room he'd indicated. Shandril made no protest when he snatched the keys back from her and used them on the door with a deftness that told her his usual profession more clearly than anything else he'd done thus far. The Harper slammed the door behind them, laid Narm gently on the bed, and whirled back to the door to drop its two wooden bars into place.
"You didn't leave anything burning, back there?" he panted.
"Why?" Shandril snapped, still furious. "Were those wizards friends of yours?"
"Lady, if the Tankard catches fire…"
"A few floorboards were smoking. Most of what I seared, I took to ashes. I'll care about such things when my Narm is awake and – whole again."
Marlel gave her a worried look, and bent over the young mage. "Have you means of healing?" he asked quietly, after a moment..
'Why?" Shandril asked, keeping her voice hard.
He shook his head in silent dismissal or exasperation, tapped gently at Narm's cheek, and then said, "He's coming around. That water -!" He pointed at an ewer of wash-water standing in the sink of a battered washstand. Shandril fetched it, and Marlel dipped his fingertips in it, nodded at its icy temperature, and drew a line of it down Narm's cheek.
The young mage's eyes flickered.
"Back with us. Narm?" Marlel asked loudly and jovially, throwing up a hand toward Shandril's face in a "be silent" gesture. "Ready to have a good look out at the lovely ladies of Hethbridle Street?"
Narm looked up at him dully, and the Harper waved airily at the window. "Hmm? Ready to buckle your swash, strut like a cockerel, and roar like a dragon?"
"Oh, gods," Narm muttered, "it's Torm's brother!"
Shandril exploded into giggles, a flood of mirth that dissolved into happy tears, and then her arms were around her man, shouldering Marlel aside.
The Harper