Elminster's Daughter

His fierce grin widened. Well, now . . .

* * * * *

Durexter and Starmara Dagohnlar lay side by side on their new and softly luxurious Athkatlan carpet—trussed, furious, and helpless. Their two assailants wore black hoods and waved two of the largest gleaming-sharp Marsemban longknives the lord and lady merchant had ever seen . . . but both Dagohnlars knew very well by now who the two were.

There were merchants in Marsember more ruthless and dishonest than Lord Durexter Dagohnlar—but he took care not to have any dealings with them nor to cross them in even the smallest way. He even took small losses here and there in keeping himself too useful to them to be eliminated. There were also many Marsemban merchants almost as shady in dealings as he was—but Durexter took care to keep holds over such men, so as to prevent what was happening right now: two of them coming by night to forcibly collect coins the bound couple had swindled away from them.

The fat, sweating, jovial one would be the smuggler and stolen-goods-vendor Bezrar, whose schemes were as brutish and simple as he was. The taller, thi

Unbeknownst to Durexter, his lady lying beside him could have supplied the name of that Thayan mage, for—thanks to the private rental-chambers at a local house of beauty, and the enterprising matrons who patronized them—her sources were even more expensive and exclusive. Malakar Surth had recently entered into limited bound service with one Harnrim "Darkspells" Starangh for their mutual profit and advancement.

None of which was much warm comfort, considering that Durexter had openly and sneeringly short-coined Bezrar and Surth, laughingly directing them to "call on the gods" or "beseech the Crown" for their losses; sums set down in writing nowhere, if any of the parties involved had any wits at all, and concerned with completely unlawful business dealings. It would be long seasons of cells and roadgang-work for anyone who went yapping to the authorities.

It was, of course, Surth who spoke first. "You both know us," he said silkily, "and why we're here. We intend to leave this grand house of yours with what's owed to us—Bezrar, the rope!—and the persuasion we employ can be as gentle or as painful as you determine."

"Oh! Ah!" Bezrar responded, unbuckling his breeches. Starmara made a muffled sound that might have been a bleat of alarm or might have merely been an expression of disgust, but revealed to her from-the-floor gaze was a leather cod of weary age and condition, below a long, continuous coil of coarse rope that had been wound round and round the merchant's hips, adding noticeably to his impressive girth—which shrank rapidly as the merchant tugged, hauled on the rope, then began a ponderous imitation of a dancing-lass undulating on a pedestal at a revel, shedding coils around his feet with a clumsiness that made Surth sigh and Starmara suddenly want to laugh. This Bezrar was so much like Durexter trying to be alluring. . . .

"Your bedposts will do admirably to anchor the two ropes we have here," Surth explained casually, "as we tie the other ends to your ankles—securely, I hope—and lower you both out the window, head-first into the canal below."

Starmara no longer felt in the least like laughing.

"We'll dangle you underwater for a bit for the eels to have something to nibble on then pull you up and ask you for some money. Bez here is strong; he can haul you up many times, though of course the more angry and tired we get, the longer we'll leave you to breathe water or feed fishes. Simple enough, hmm?"

Durexter—who had not been gagged—chose that moment to disagree, loudly and profanely. Surth merely smiled, but when the lord merchant progressed to shouting, the dealer in drinkables knelt with a knee on Durexter's throat and remarked, "Bellow any more and I'll cut your tongue out. I know you can write down the whereabouts of your money—even with several broken fingers."

He looked over at Starmara, and added, "That goes for you too, Lady Dagohnlar. Scream once, and you'll get away with it—but my knife will make sure you don't scream twice ... or ever again use that lashing tongue you're so proud of, for the rest of your life. However, ahem, short that may be. Bez and I have registered this little debt, you see—so we could seize this house in the regrettable event of your deaths and strip most of its contents before your other creditors awakened to dispute our right to do so."

He waved an airy hand, longknife flashing, and lifted his knee because Durexter had gone a rich, convulsively twisting purple. "Ah, but forgive me: I've forgotten to a

He pointed at his hooded companion with his blade. "Bez here has just taken delivery of a new longknife—show the nice Dagohnlars your knife, Bez! Aha, see!—and he wants to test its edge in real cutting. Now, I've recently noticed that men. . . and women, too, by the gods, come to think of it... have toes. Lots of them. Little appendages none of us really need. We could relieve you of them, one by one, and collect them for Ponczer down at the Firehelm to cook up for you in a nice dish. Durexter first, I think. When we're done, we'll drop you in your own cellar to bleed and give the rats something to nibble—I hate rats, don't you? Squeaking, swarming, ravenously gnawing things . . ."

Surth stood up, admired the glittering tip of his own knife, then lifted his eyebrows, looked down at Starmara as if only now remembering her, and said softly, "Ah, Lady Starmara! With your beauty, perhaps we could arrange a pleasanter punishment ... or, on the other hand, perhaps you might unfortunately lose that beauty." He watched his knife gleam as he turned it, slowly, and smiled.

"By S-shar herself," Durexter whispered, as the slender merchant bent swiftly to put his knife to Starmara's cheek, "what're you doing, man?"

"Hold still, dear," Malakar Surth said fondly—but u

As he felt Aumun Bezrar's rough hands at his ankles and the prickle of coarse rope, it was Lord Durexter Dagohnlar's chance to faint. Enthusiastically, he seized it.

* * * * *

She was panting, now, almost as loudly as the man so close behind her. They were both scrambling on the rooftops in the clinging mists, perhaps the length of a long wagon apart—and Rhauligan was gaining.

Narnra doubled around a buttress of vomiting gargoyles—vomiting birdnests, it seemed, and she slipped and almost fell when they suddenly erupted in black, squawking, fluttering gorcraws or the like—and silently cursed the man. He seemed to know every roof and facade and alleyway, where she did not, and twice now had almost cornered her with no place to leap to, and no safe place to climb down.

Almost, and—blast! Again!

At the far end of the roof she'd just landed on—one with a drenched little rooftop garden, reached through a door protected by a massive, chased iron gate that might have given an army trouble, let alone one thief armed with a few fangs and her fingernails—was . . . nothing.