Elminster's Daughter

There was Rhauligan, their eyes meeting for a brief, thoughtful moment ere she dropped out of view and slid down the far side of her roof toward a lower one, beyond. Belonging to a small building, it was narrow, relatively flat, and of wooden shingles streaked with thick and probably slippery moss—but it led to another steep roof, not far away, and the short distance between the two peaks gave Narnra an idea.

She could spare a dagger—a dagger. If she could get to that second roof in time . . .

She could, and—thank you, Mask and Tymora both!—the far side of this Marsemban mansion sprouted a side-wing whose lower roofpeak gave her something to stand on, below the one that looked back at the way her pursuer should be coming. And high-ranked Harper in the service of Cormyr or not—what'd the Simbul called him? "Highknight"?—he'd not chase her half so well once he'd stopped a steel fang in the face!

Rhauligan's head was suddenly there, bobbing up over the edge of his roof—and she set her teeth, rose up, and threw her second-best belt knife as hard and as fast as she could.

It bit home and stuck, quillons-deep in ... well, he must have slipped on a hood, or a mask. His head—if it was his head—sank down out of view, leaving the Silken Shadow to stare across at the rooftop, briefly moonlit, now, as the mists parted momentarily . . . and breathe heavily . . . and wonder if she'd just killed the man.

When the mists came back and returned the rooftops to smoke-like shadow, several long breaths later, Narnra drew in a deep, shuddering breath, turned, and went on.

* * * * *

"Starmara? Starmara, my love, are you awake?"

Her husband's voice was a throaty growl—the tone he fondly believed was some sort of irresistible amorous purr—and Starmara Dagohnlar stared drowsily at the luxurious rubyweave draperies of their bed-canopy, high overhead, and managed not to sigh.

Durexter Dagohnlar could certainly rake in the coins when she urged him on. He might be a thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling brute and boor of a mightily successful—and widely hated— Marsemban merchant . . . but before all the gods, he was her thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling brute and boor.

And there were times when beasts must be sated, no matter how distasteful the process. Sleepily Starmara shed her shimmer-weave robe so he wouldn't tear it apart like he had the last one, elbowed a cushion aside so she'd be comfortable, and whispered back as alluringly as she knew how, "Awake and aching for you, my lord."

Durexter chuckled and rolled across the substantial acreage of silken sheeting between them, scattering cushions and breathing the garlic and Thayan pepper sauce she fervently wished he wouldn't douse his meat so heavily with, all over her.

"Well, now, my proud beauty—so smooth and warm and, heh-heh, handy—know the love of the most grasping, deceitful, law-shattering, tax-evading, and just gods-kissed successful merchant in all Marsember!"

Starmara gently bit her husband's chest to keep from having to kiss the stinking mouth that was so enthusiastically delivering his usual modest little speech, as he bruisingly maneuvered himself into what he imagined was a heroic stance. She entertained a brief fantasy of just sliding right down the bed and out from under whilst he was still chest-beating and crowing his exploits, so that he'd ultimately crash down onto—nothing.

Then he was ... he was . . .

Choking and gurgling strangely above her, awakening Starmara to the sudden apprehension that his heart might have given out at blessed last and he was now going to slam down and crush her into the bed, suffocating her with his dead weight long before any servant could find them! Frantically, she clambered and slid toward the foot of the bed, her perfumed robe tangling—and emitted a brief shriek as Durexter toppled over suddenly onto her left elbow.

With a frantic twist and kick she freed herself and wormed past, wriggling—

Hard into an unfamiliar knee, that was clad in black leather and attached to someone who wheezed and smelled quite differently from her husband . . . and who now reached down to discover what had fetched up against him, felt it thoroughly as Starmara gave in to a sudden impulse to scream—as loudly and as throat-strippingly as she knew how—and roared, "Ho, Mai! I've found the wench! And she's—heh-heh—she's . . ."

"All right, all right," hissed another, vaguely familiar and much sharper man's voice. "Stop leering. Have you done strangling him yet?"

"Uh, well, he's not dead, but I thought y'said—"

"Tie him up? the thin voice snarled. "Back of neck to bedpost, so he doesn't get any ideas about escaping or fighting, then his little fingers together because no one enjoys breaking their own fingers—both on the same side of the bedpost rather than around behind it, mind—and leave the rest to me. I'll be finished with Haughty Lady Starmara here by then."

Head enveloped in her own silks, the wife of the most grasping, deceitful, law-shattering, tax-evading, and successful merchant in all Marsember threw herself up and over the ornately rolled scrollwork end of the bed, kicking wildly, and succeeded only in hurling herself into the cold and exceedingly efficient hands of the unseen owner of the thin voice. He threw her across her own footstool with force enough to leave her helplessly sobbing for breath and had her ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows trussed before she even had enough wind back to protest.

When she did, of course, he fed silken robe into her mouth until she choked then bound it there with the robe's belt, leaving the rest of the material across her face. He bent with a grunt—almost inaudible amid louder growls, grunts, and scufflings from the bed—and the next thing Lady Starmara Dagohnlar knew, a cold, hard, and very heavy weight was lying across her stomach and hips, and she could have no more struggled or moved than flapped her arms and flown across the Sea of Fallen Stars to that lovely house-of-baths in Westgate. The smell of moth-powder told her she was probably pinioned under her own blanket-chest.

"Done," the voice of the owner of the knee said triumphantly from the bed. "Trussed like a feasting-fowl."

"Then we'll have him down here on the floor next to his blushing lady—at least she should be blushing; just look at that tattoo!—and the fun can begin."

"Oh? What tattoo?"

"Later, Bez. Relocation of doomed merchants first, hmm?'

* * * * *

Glarasteer Rhauligan winced as he drew Narnra's razor-sharp blade out of his capture hood and one of his spread fingers inside it. He bound his sliced digit tightly with one of the strips of cloth he always kept ready in one of his belt pouches.

So his little fleeing vixen was down one dagger but bound to have at least two—and probably twice that many—more. Next time one might bite his real head and not a hasty counterfeit. The capture hood had one much enlarged eyehole now and would bear replacing when he ...

He scrambled up, ran along the roof-gutter—thank the gods for Marsember's filthy-wet weather; it meant every house was covered with copious and sturdy troughs and spouts—and sprang onto the next roof along, rather than going over the roofpeak again to greet a second dagger.

If Tymora was with him, she'd run where he was anticipating she would, which was—yes! There!

A slender hip in dark leathers hastily ducking away around the edge of another roof . . . she knew he was still on her heels—but he knew just how little city she had left to run through in that direction before the wall would hedge her in and force her to either go west and south and down to the streets ... or turn back toward him.

Breathing easily, Glarasteer Rhauligan trotted through the mist that seemed now to be threatening to turn to a dawn rain and gri