The Nether Scroll

"Good sir awake?"

"No," Dru grumbled and stretched himself to a seated position.

"Good sir go home now?"

"Soon." He looked around at his sleeping companions.

"Good sir take Sheemzher?"

Dru wasn't surprised. "It's not my decision and, Sheemzher—the places we go, a goblin won't always be welcomed as a man."

"Sheemzher know. Sheemzher understand. Sheemzher good ears, good nose. Sheemzher quiet, no trouble. Sheemzher find trouble, Sheemzher tell good sir, yes?"

"You can travel with us to the next town—Parnast, I suppose." He sighed. "Whichever way we go, we need to stock up first. We'll talk, but don't get your hopes up."

"No hopes. Sheemzher leave hopes behind. Behind Dekanter. Behind good lady. Sheemzher alone now, good sir. All alone. Choose friends, yes?"

Rozt'a and Galimer were moving now, roused by the sound of conversation. Rozt'a was pleased to see Sheemzher up and about, but she was less enthusiastic when she learned the goblin would be traveling with them.

"To the next town ... to Parnast. We need supplies. I can talk to Amarandaris, if he's still there."

"Amarandaris?" Galimer asked a wealth of questions with a single word. Rozt'a hadn't told them what Tiep had been up to. She opened her mouth to begin an explanation.

Dru held up his hand. "Later." Tiep was stirring. "I don't want him to know yet."

"Know what?" Galimer insisted. "What's going on?"

It would be awhile before they were a team again.

Wyndyfarh stayed behind her waterfall. Sheemzher was, again, her emissary—his last duty for her, he insisted. They had safe passage and gold, a handsome purse of it, to compensate their losses.

"Get horse. New horse. Name Hopper, yes?"

Tiep behaved himself on the way out of the Wood. Perhaps the youth had been cured of his bad habits.

Their horses were waiting for them at twilight—saddled, bridled and tied to a line. Eleven Zhentarim thugs waited with them, armed to the teeth with swords, knives, and bows. A twelfth Zhentarim wore the robes of a Banite priest.

"You're expected for a late supper," the priest said with the friendliness of a man who knows his generosity won't be refused.

"You expect me to believe that's the full length and breadth of your story?" Amarandaris asked after a sip of wine.

Druhallen was alone with the Zhentarim in his quarters above the Parnast charterhouse. They'd dined on two roast chickens that had gone cold before Dru arrived. Amarandaris had carved his clean to the bone while Dru's was largely intact. He'd done most of the talking, staying ahead of Amarandaris's questions for the most part.

Until now.

"I expect you to accept that the rest is of no use to the Zhentarim."

"Everything is useful to us, Druhallen. Our trade is information. Too bad you didn't find a way to keep the Nether scroll. A thing like that would float straight to the top. To have held it in my hands and glanced at the first few sentences as you did . .."

Amarandaris's voice faded. Dru had no doubt that the man's yearning was sincere, and futile. Men like him and Amarandaris couldn't hold onto artifacts like the Nether scroll. He took a deep breath and baited the trap he hoped would free his foster son.

"What would you say to a copy of the Nether scroll, Arcanus Fundare Tiersus?"

The Zhentarim chuckled. "If they could have been copied, they'd never have been lost in the first place and Netheril would rule the world still today."

Dru reached inside his shirt—a clean shirt—Amarandaris had waited for him to sluice the journey from his hide and change his clothes. The hour was, again, long past midnight. Dru dropped a wad of linen cloth on the table between himself and the Zhentarim.

Amarandaris held it up to the lamp and examined it from behind. His eyes widened—he could read the script on the three-fingers, lengthwise strip that Dru had cut from the middle of Tiep's shirt while he was alone in the charterhouse's bathing room. The copy was true and complete, but merely interesting. The magic was in the Nether scroll itself.

"I could have you killed."

"And lose the rest?" Dru scowled. He'd hoped they could avoid petty threats. "Don't take me for a fool. The box will burn and the linen within it. This is trade, not robbery."

The Zhentarim leaned back in his chair. "Name your price. I'm sure something can be arranged, if not here, then in Scornubel. My lord often visits Scornubel."

"I know," Dru said quietly.

Amarandaris sat forward. "Name it. What do you want, Dru?"

"A life. A life free from the Zhentarim. Call it a fresh start, a rebirth."

The Zhentarim hid his face behind steepled hands. By his ma

"No guarantees," Dru agreed. "I'm not asking for a miracle, only a clean slate. The rest is up to him."

"I don't suppose you'd give me the rest of the cloth now?"

"You have a band, that ought to be enough, if you're any good at trade."

"I'm good enough," Amarandaris returned Dru's smile. "You should get those cuts on your nose looked at; they're going to scar. We've got a Banite priest—you met him earlier? He's good with battle wounds."

"Lots of practice, I expect. No, thank you, I want a life, nothing more, nothing less."

Another smile as Amarandaris stood up. "Consider it done. The Zhentarim will forget that we've ever known the boy, except as we've always known him—the youngest son of Bitter Ansoain." He held out his hand to seal the trade.

Dru hesitated then clasped the Zhentarim's hand. They exchanged the hollow good- wishes of men who do not expect to meet again. The sun was poking above the horizon as Dru walked down the stairs alone.

Another night without sleep.

He thought about Amarandaris's words before they had shaken hands. Her youngest son?