Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [56]
"Ah," Sabran replied with a little smile, "you're learning already."
Mhegras muttered angrily, "Well, listening to clever sayings from smug priests of Bane isn't why I joined the Zhentarim! I – "
"You joined for power," the weaver snapped back.
"Like all the other young fools who think they can rule the world if they can just steal one more spell.
Here were all these magics on offer, in return for a little groveling! I'm always amazed at how swiftly such trifling obediences become too high a price to pay for you arrogant puppies – and how each of you so clumsily plots treachery, thinking you're somehow special and your fate will be different from all your fellows you see slapped down all around you."
"You're the one who thinks yourself special," the wizard hissed. "You and all the rest of your smug brethre – "
"Fair morn to you, Swordmaster," Sabran said pleasantly. "I must confess my partner and I are fretting over the lateness of our departure. This certainly doesn't seem a safe place to spend another night!"
"Nay, ye've got that right," Arauntar grunted, stepping up into the wagon with two grim guards in tow. "We're almost ready to roll – but I've orders to search four wagons once more, first, and I'm afraid yours is one of them. I'd like to do this quickly and take myself out of your way again, so…"
"Of course," the weaver replied. "We've moved nothing since your last look: finished garments to the left, bolts to the right, our own effects at the back…"
Mhegras stood glowering in the narrow cleared passage between the stacked and wedged tallchests and carry-coffers as the guards shuffled forward, moving a few coffers and peering halfheartedly into a tallchest or two.
"The flat carry-coffers all hold bolts of the same fabric," the weaver offered, watching a guard wrestle a coffertop off and peer suspiciously into its interior.
"Musterdelvys."
Arauntar nodded and tapped a palm-sized painted plaque that had been slipped into a frame on one side of a tallchest. "Remind me one again what these symbols mean, please."
"Three stripes? Livery," Sabran explained. "Tabards and lambrequins for noble clients in Waterdeep, who desire all of their guards to wear their colors. Very wealthy patrons."
"We'll try not to keep them waiting longer than we have to," the caravan guard replied heavily and tapped a plaque with another symbol. "This one?"
"Mine," the furrier said quickly, stepping forward.
"Pelicons of the finest make, also bound for sale in Waterdeep."
"Pelicons?"
"Open, fur-trimmed overcloaks worn by ladies of fashion, Swordmaster," Mhegras explained curtly.
"Ah. Fancycloaks!"
The furrier looked pained. "A particular sort of, ah, 'fancycloak,' sirrah, just as not all armor is the same."
"Hunhh. Fashion, to be sure," Arauntar replied, his eyes fixed on the other two guards. They were busily shifting aside carry-coffers and peering behind them, making sure that nothing had been hidden along the sides of the wagon. He caught sight of something long and wooden at about the same time as they did – not the usual wedges, but something like a spar.
"Just what," he asked mildly, as the guard Lavlaryn triumphantly plucked one of them up and hefted it,
"are these?"
"Peles, Swordmaster," the weaver said calmly. "A side-cargo we're carrying in hopes of recovering an outstanding debt."
Arauntar stared at the long-shafted wooden paddle, noting approvingly that Lavlaryn was paying particular attention to the ends and running his hands over it in search of secret hiding places or things that might twist or turn or… no, 'twas simply carved wood, a sapling mated to a paddle end too wide and shallow to be useful steering a boat in water.
"Just what does one use a pele for?"
"Putting bread, pies, and pastries in ovens and taking them forth again," the weaver explained. "As we've said before, Swordmaster, we've really nothing to hide here, an – "
There was a crash, as of armor clashing against armor, and the wagon shook. An expression of rage passed over the furrier's