Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [45]
"No," the purring voice of the ghost-lady said into his ear, "take me another way. I don't fancy this particular alley."
Slowly and very carefully, Besmer turned around, his captor turning with him like a soft-footed shadow, and asked in a tremulous voice, "Did you want to go by Rat Stair, Lady Winter, or Baluth's Hole – or do you know some other way?"
"The Hole, I think," Sharantyr told him pleasantly.
"Rat Stair reminds me of all the rats I've eaten, some of them alive and uncooked, and almost all of them without sauce."
The thief caught in her cords shivered again, and started to walk very slowly and carefully across Scornubel.
8: Seeing Folk Who Are Hard To
Get To See
When dealing with trade-rivals or slaughtering ruling dynasties, start at the top. "Tis more dangerous, but a lot more entertaining for bystanders – and will earn you an enviable reputation. Remember: Men stand back to gaze at those they admire but leap forward to aid those they respect (or, to use a more blunt word, those they fear).
Brathmur Engelstone, Sage of Saerloon
One Trail Chosen: A Path Through Life
Year of the Highmantle
“S-she wants to see the Master," Besmer quavered to the man who'd stepped suddenly into their path with a drawn sword in his hand, in this narrowest of dark and dripping passages. Most of Scornubel was dusty and dry, above and below ground, but this underway ran very deep, doubtless skirting an underground spring. Sharantyr had begun to think her unwilling guide just might be leading her on a needlessly extended tour of Scornubel's darker ways – but the smell of fear was strong on him, and he seemed almost as terrified of the man now standing in front of him as of the lady behind who could strangle him in a moment or on a whim.
The sentinel said nothing and evidently needed no light to see. His response to Besmer's words was to thrust his blade, lightning-swift, under the thief's arm – straight into the woman standing behind him, who presumably held the other end of the strangling-cord that was around Besmer's throat.
Into and through her it went, as if she was made of smoke. The sentinel uttered a startled grunt and slashed about in her with his steel, just to make sure, but he might have been cleaving empty air.
"When you're finished," Sharantyr told him pleasantly, "I'd like to see Belgon. Perhaps I'll have time to play at blades with you later."
The man with the sword frowned at her over Besmer's shoulder, then asked, in a voice rough with disuse, "You know him?"
"For an answer to that, why don't you give him my name and see his reaction?"
"And what," that rough voice asked heavily, "might that name be?"
The cord twitched around Besmer's neck, and he squeaked hastily, "Winter! The Lady Tessaril Winter!"
The man gave the thief a hard look and the woman behind him an even harder one. Then he stepped back into the side-passage he'd erupted from. Behind he left the flat words, "Wait here – or die."
"Well, Besmer," Sharantyr said brightly, "we've been left with a choice. Would you prefer to tarry?
Or choose death?"
*******
"Arauntar," Shandril murmured as a familiar form stalked past her wagon, "where's Narm?" The muchscarred veteran guard cast a look at Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar – who'd turned suspiciously to watch and listen, their hands going to their swordhilts – then looked back at Shandril and said, "He hit his head. Narbuth's tending him."
"No," the maid from Highmoon said flatly, lifting one of the coffers with flasks painted on it. "I'm tending him. Take me to him now or bring him to me."
The three guards stepped menacingly nearer, and she turned her fierce look on them and asked, "Well?
What are you waiting for? Bring me my husband!"
"We don't take orders from you, fire-witch," Sarlor snapped, drawing his sword slowly and holding it up so she could see the torchlight glimmer along its edge. "You do as Orthil told you to, or – "