The Dream Spheres - Elaine Cunningham [87]
Chagrin poured through the elf as he acknowledged himself trapped. He lifted his hands to show that he held no weapons and turned to face the band behind him. He addressed his remarks to the largest form among the hooded men, knowing that brute physical size was deemed important in the sort of primitive hierarchies common among human thugs.
"If you had wished to kill me, you would have done so by now," he pointed out. "Now that you have my attention, speak your mind."
"We bring a message," intoned a gruff, familiar voice from beneath one of the hoods. "You have taken too much upon yourself. The elf lord, they call you."
"So I am, by right of birth and property," Elaith pointed out. "My concerns, both in this city and the one below, outstrip that of most of the merchant clans. Yours included," he added slyly.
The man's sudden jolt of surprise was gratifying-and enlightening. Elaith was not certain until this moment that Rhep, the Ilzimmers' mercenary captain, was beneath that hood. Well enough. At least he knew with whom he dealt.
"This is a city of laws and customs," the man continued, as if determined to put the discussion back on his terms.
"Really." Elaith smiled blandly. "I have not heard the law permitting armed trespass. This little visit must therefore fall under the banner of local custom."
"Mind your tongue, elf," snarled Rhep. "Your welcome in Waterdeep is wearing thin. Play tavern keeper if you will, but close up your Skullport trade. This will be your last warning."
"Good," returned the elf. "I find this particular custom rather tiresome. Please, bring my regards to your masters."
He reached into a pocket sewn into the shoulder seam of his jerkin and drew out a small, silver rod. This he pointed at one of the crates stacked high overhead, which had been marked with a curving rune that none of these louts could read.
A shower of sparks leaped from the tiny staff and coalesced into a single, arrowlike shaft. This sped toward the box and exploded into a second dazzling shower. This explosion was followed by a second, as the contents of the box-smokepowder, highly illegal and as unpredictable as a dryad's romantic fancy-caught flame.
Streams of burning light arced down, spitting and whistling in their descent. The archers dropped their bows and fell to their stomachs in an attempt to hold their perches on the swaying piles of crates.
Elaith drew his sword and ran at the trio guarding the blocked tunnel. He lunged and ran one man through the gut, then shifted his weight onto his back leg and lifted his bloodied sword to meet the second man's attack. A quick twist disengaged his weapon, another deft turn brought the blade slicing across the man's throat. On the backswing he caught the final man's blade. He pushed up, forcing the enjoined blades high, and leveled his silver wand at the man's chest.
Another tiny arrow of light sizzled forth, diving into the man's chest. Elaith dove aside as the magic weapon exploded from within, transforming the man into a crimson mist.
The elf ran up over the spilled crates and raced nimbly down the other side. Quickly he found the second hidden door, one known only to him, and slipped down into the tunnel that led to a tailor's shop two streets down.
As he emerged from the fitting room, Elaith heard the tolling bells that summoned the Watch to tend the fire. He was not particularly concerned: The warehouse was constructed of solid stone and would withstand the blaze. It held little of value, and he could well afford to lose a few empty crates.
Nor did he regret the survival of some of the "messengers." If a few escaped to bring word of his defiance to the merchant lords, so much the better. After all, he had the Mhaorkiira and the dream spheres. He now possessed the perfect weapon to strike back at those who