Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [75]
"Oh, most gracious of men, flower of mercy," Laeral wept, "your kindness warms me! I'm unworthy to kiss your boots and the feet within them, but please allow me to do so! Command me as your slave! Oh, Mirt, all Waterdeep lives and breathes because of your deeds and coins and wisdom, and I'm so ashamed at my failure to repay in time! Just a few days more, perhaps a tenday, and – "
"Start licking," Mirt growled, watching the grandly clad woman snaking her way forward. Hurriedly Laeral threw herself across the remaining expanse of furs to the toes of his worn, flopping seaboots and lavished kisses upon them, her shapely behind in the air.
All the color had gone out of Paraster Montheir's face, leaving it the color of an old, dirty seal tusk.
Mirt looked up at him and then back at the woman at his feet, frowned thoughtfully, and grunted, "Well, now, perhaps there is a way ye and Khelben could hurl magics to aid me in a little matter. Keep licking, wench! I gave ye no command to stop, did I?"
"Mirt," the Athkatlan wine-merchant stammered hastily, "I've changed my mind. You'll have your money in full later in the day, plus double interest for the tenday arrears. I'll send it to you here, in the hands of my banker's trusties, forthwith! Ah – "
The old moneylender rose, no trace of a grin on his face, and snapped, "Be still and speak not" to the Lady Mage at his feet. He pointed at Montheir and growled, "I accept, in gold coins of a minting, weight, and condition as would be accepted by a guildmaster of this city. Wait to send the coincarriers until sundown."
He took something that had been hanging on the quillons of a scabbarded sword low on the wall behind his desk into his hand, and Montheir saw that it was a whip. Mirt lashed the palm of his own hand thoughtfully, looked down at the backside of the silently kneeling Lady Mage, then lifted his gaze to the Athkatlan again and added, "Ye see, I'll probably be busy until then."
Paraster Montheir swallowed, nodded hastily, and was still nodding with a sickly grin coming and going on his face when Mirt barked, "Asper! To me!
Hasten, no need to crawl!" The lithe, leather-clad lass raced into view through the archway and came to a halt with hands at her sides, as alert and straightbacked-rigid as any Palace guard standing to attention.
"Conduct our valued friend Master Montheir to the gates with all courtesy," Mirt commanded her.
"At once, my Lord!" she breathed and made her turn toward the Athkatlan merchant almost a leap of eagerness. "This way, honored merchant," she urged, indicating the door with a flourish as if he'd never seen it before, bowing low, then leaping to open it for him.
Swallowing again, Paraster Montheir nodded hastily to Mirt, turned, and waved at Asper to precede him.
She bowed to him again and did so, slowing to offer him her arm on the broad rough-slab stairs that descended into the forehall past rows of figureheads and bowsprit filigrees salvaged from wrecks in the dangerous coastal seas just north of Waterdeep.
At about the sixth step down, Asper murmured, "If you'll allow me to say this, Master Montheir, you are a very brave man."
The Athkatlan looked at her sharply, seeking any hint of sarcasm or perhaps pleading or admiration, but her eyes were downcast and her face unreadable.
Paraster made no immediate reply, but when they reached the bottom of the stair and a sharp singing in the air around him announced the passage of his shielding magics out through a stronger, invisible enchantment, he murmured in a low voice, "He won't really whip the Lady Mage of Waterdeep, will he?"
"Oh, yes," Asper replied, slowing and turning to look at him with eyes that were large and grave. "In fact, Khelben insists on it."
"The Blackstaff? He does?"
"Oh,