Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [68]
"While Drauthtar does what, awaiting our reports?"
Hlael snapped.
"Considers our strategy as clever as every last mage of the Zhentarim should be," Korthauvar said firmly.
"Why fight someone and reveal yourself as a foe, thereafter to stand in danger when you can get your enemy to do what you want him to, by manipulating this and hinting that? All of these young, ambitious fools seem to think that striding out to hurl spells up Elminster's nose is how you show your power. All that does is show you a welcoming grave – and your own stupidity in the few seconds it takes you to reach it. Why do the swordheads always judge we who work magic by how many towers we can topple? Why do they never appreciate how we can make a gentle suggestion and have an entire village leap to our bidding for fear of what we might do?"
"Old Kaummorth's 'smile and walk softly and be greatly feared' speech," Hlael said wearily. "I remember it, too, Korthauvar. I only hope Drauthtar took those same teachings, and thought as highly of Kaummorth as you do."
"I'd rather be alive to face his fury than dead by spellfire or at the hands of these vultures falling all over each other right now to get at Shandril Shessair," Korthauvar replied. "Now find me that mindriding spell! We need more eyes in that caravan than the paltry pair we have already. Some of the Cult swordheads and even ambition-blinded mages of our own Brotherhood along on that run are likely to slaughter anyone who stands in their path.
There're others along, too: that blandreth-dealer, for one, isn't the same man who was in that wagon earlier! 'Twould not do to have a lone view of all the tumult and lose it at some crucial moment."
"No," Hlael Toraunt said thoughtfully, eyeing Korthauvar. "No, 'twould not do at all."
*******
"A small step shy of thievery," Thoadrin growled, almost perfunctorily. In truth, the price was about what he'd expected: five times what would be asked in a back room in Dock Ward and about thrice what quarrels could be had for in Scornubel or in most places where competition wasn't fierce, The supply was better than he'd hoped for, too: twice the crossbow bolts they'd set out with, in full score-andone quivers. Four quivers each, if he bought them all.
"Acceptable," he added. "We'll take them all."
"All?" the trader echoed, his surprise too strong to leave his customary stoneface intact. "Waukeen praise you, warrior!"
"Ah, but she does," Thoadrin grunted, with a minimum of enthusiasm, "and the tax collector conies trotting right behind her gifts, with his hand out to fondle my purse and more!"
The trader chuckled politely, signaled with one finger – and his assistants took up a quiver each and held them out to the nearest of Thoadrin's men.
The Cult warrior shook his gauntlet off his hand and drew forth the leather snake of coins from along his forearm, under the armor. He let its river of gold spill into the trader's bowl and had the satisfaction of seeing the trader shake his head and murmur,
"Waukeen does smile upon you, lord."
"True enough," Thoadrin agreed, noting – without appearing to look – his men checking the quivers they received by drawing random bolts forth, ere settling them in saddlebags and on baldrics. "Yet other gods call on me all too often and interrupt the time I'd fain spend with the Lady of All Coins." He nodded as the last coin fell into the bowl, then plucked another from a slit in his swordbelt and tossed it in, too. "Mention me to her in your prayers," he said, turning his horse away.
"I shall," the merchant said, as they exchanged nods of respect. "What name shall I tell her?"
Thoadrin smiled. "She knows me well. Just say, 'the dragonbone fool on the horse' and she'll know."
The trader frowned. "Dragonbone?"
The warrior shrugged. "Paerun holds a lot of