Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [9]
"Where are ye, love?" he roared, whirling back to face the domed trophy chamber and spreading his arms wide. "Wher – "
The air shimmered in front of him, over the widest open expanse of furs and cushions, and that shimmer became an opening door of silver sparks and roiling blue flame. Silent flames traced a doorway that hung upright in midair.
Through it stepped a very long, shapely leg, followed by a tall, even more shapely body that sported a face even the most unattentive Waterdhavian knew. Emerald eyes framed by long, flowing silver hair, the limbs below half-seen through a gown of fine silk worn over thigh-high boots, the gown itself covered by a tight-waisted stomacher adorned with flowing, sapphire-studded elven traceries of silverstar-thread. The Lady Mage of Waterdeep strode forward to face the gaping merchant, who stood silent, teetering with the halfempty decanter in his hand and his mouth hanging open where he'd broken off in mid-bellow.
"Old Wolf," Laeral said crisply, "we have to talk."
There was the faintest of sounds – and cold steel pressed against the Lady Mage's throat from behind.
"After," Asper said softly into Laeral's ear, from just behind the knife, "you identify yourself. I suspect you're the Lady Mage of Waterdeep, but we've been having a little trouble lately with shapeshifters."
Mirt made a half-amazed, half-delighted rumble deep in his throat. Like a striking snake, his leatherclad lady had swung down from the plant-filled skylight in the ceiling and now hung upside down above the Lady Mage, dangling from one foot caught in one of the rope loops used by those watering the plants.
Laeral calmly pushed the knife aside, turned around without stepping out of Asper's reach, and replied with a wry smile, "Most of the time I suspect I'm the Lady Mage of Waterdeep, too. Please accept my apologies for this overbold intrusion; 'tis not my habit nor to my liking, but – Asper, what shapeshifters?"
"Two I was forced to slay," Asper said, just as calmly, dropping barefoot and catlike to the floor with the knife still raised in her hand and ready to throw, "and one – "
"Who regrettably fell off yon balcony," Mirt rumbled with an airy wave of his hand, "when discussing the finer points of existence with me: my existence, to be more particular, and its chances of continuing."
"Malaugrym," Laeral muttered, "even here!" Mirt made a dramatic show of sighing. "Even in the best neighborhoods…"
Laeral gave him a sigh of her own and snapped four words: "Asper. Mirt. Spellfire. Shandril."
"What?" Asper asked, stepping forward, Mirt only a pace behind. "What's happened to Shandril?"
"She's heading this way," Laeral said grimly. "With half the darker folk in the Realms right behind her, blades and spells out."
"Methought the lass was bound for Silverymoon and Alustriel," Mirt growled, rubbing his chin. "This city's a deadlier lair by far."
"Not so perilous as trying to cross the wilderlands to Silverymoon unseen," Laeral told him softly, plucking the decanter from his hands, "so my sister has agreed to come here, meet Shandril, and take her hence. Or wherever else she can best be safe." She raised the decanter, turned it, and eyed the liquid within, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
"Amberfire. Drink all you like, but be warned; he adds pepper to it," Asper said. "You need us to guard her." Her last sentence was a flat statement rather than a question.
Mirt lifted one bushy eyebrow. "Here in the 'Deep or out there in the wilds, a-finding her way hither?"
The Lady Mage drank deeply, shuddered,