Crown of Fire

Then the Zhent turned and ran after Mirt, grabbing at Shandril's dangling throat with the gauntlet. Mirt snarled and thrust with his blade, but Shandril's body hampered his weapon; he could not get a good strike at the mage without carving her, too. He lowered her to the ground so that he could battle this wizard-but the Zhentarim already had his gauntlet locked around her throat in a strangling grip, and had begun to mouth the words of another spell.

Mirt dropped both Shandril and his sword. His fist crashed into the man's mouth-and the wizard's head snapped back, spun, and slumped. Sightless, fading eyes swung past him as the man dropped to the street.

"Getting old, am I?" Mirt growled as he hoisted Shandril onto his shoulders again. With great satisfaction, he kicked the Zhent's body, hard.

Oelaerone was helping Belarla up.

"How much farther is this way to the sewers?" Mirt snarled, looking around for other Zlients. He saw none-only curious citizens glancing up from their daily business. Thank Tymora for that. Oelaerone was pointing again, and Mirt anxiously lumbered in the indicated direction.

"I've run down more streets in the Realms…" he muttered as they turned another corner. This street was narrower, and it smelled; strewn garbage and pools of water were frequent, and Mirt's boots skidded more than once.

"Not far now, Old Wolf," Belarla said from somewhere near his elbow.

Mirt looked around at the squalid street and replied, 'You know this area? I just hope he was worth it, Belarla-whoever he was."

"If you weren't carrying the most important being in Faerun right now," Belarla replied calmly, "I'd trip you into that next pool."

Mirt grunted, swayed, and managed to get through it upright "I always wondered what pleasure-queens did for entertainment."

"Go down sewers, of course," Oelaerone said sweetly, from just ahead, "After all, folk say our morals belong in the sewer-why shouldn't our bodies keep them company?" She led the way into a short, stinking alley and, with a grand flourish, indicated a pile of dung.

Mirt set Shandril gently down in the crook of his arm, and stared at it. "I was picturing something a little closer to a door," he rumbled.

Belarla sighed and dug into the pile with both hands. "Come on," she said over her shoulder, "We'll have plenty of chances to wash all this off, down below."

"I was afraid of that," Mirt growled, handing Shandril's limp form to Oelaerone.

Water dripped, echoing somewhere in the dim distance. The archways overhead were old and cracked and covered with slimy growths. Here and there, the ends of pipes dripped filth clown into the thick, oily brown waters they toiled through, The muck was chest high.

Mirt ducked under a sagging pipe and muttered, "No sneezing, now."

Belarla struggled along at his elbow, helping to keep Shandril's face out of the grime, "Could this be the worldfamous Mirt the Moneylender I see? Lord of Waterdeep? Harper Lord? Scourge of the Sea of Swords? Mirt the Merciless, Old Wolf of the North? This same old man, plastered with excrement?"

"I'm in disguise." Mirt growled, squeezing under another pipe, The smell was indescribable; as far as he could tell, the sewers here never drained out except during snowmelt. This would be a great place for a gulguthra lair… and as soon as that thought occurred to him, he wished it hadn't.

He peered around in the gloms; light drifted down from street-gratings high overhead-sometimes accompanied by brief deluges as citadel folk dumped chamber pots or washtubs.

"Are we heading anywhere in particular-" he asked "-besides toward our graves, I mean?"

You mentioned Myrintara, earlier," Belarla answered carefully, keeping her chin up as she walked over an uneven spot and the filth rose to her lower lilt. Bubbles broke on the dark brown surface all around her, and she gagged.

"Not in my direction, thank you," Oelaerone told her, edging away "Mirt, we're getting into the older part." Ahead, a noisome waterfall carried the waters they were sloshing through down a short cascade to plunge into the blacker waters of a larger cha

On his arm, Shandril stirred, "Not now, lass," Mirt growled at her. "If you make us fall in this filth, I swear I'll take my hand to your bottom."

"Uhmm?" her sleepy voice responded. "Is that you dear?" The Harper ladies giggled; Mirt snorted, and shook the weight in his arms, A moment later, Shandril's eyes fluttered, opened-anti met his. Then she looked around.

"Where are we?" she asked and frowned. "And what happened?" Then-the Old Wolf could tell by her face-the smell hit her.

"We're with friends," Mirt said, "in the sewers of the citadel."

"I'd worked that much out already," Shandril replied, wrinkling her nose.

"We're trying to get to the house of Myrintara of the Masks."

"Who's she?"

"A noted perfumer," Mirt panted, as they turned through an arch and into an unexpectedly strong flow of effluent, heading in the other direction. "And an old friend,"

"A perfumer would come in very handy about now," Shandril observed faintly, "I think I'm going to be sick," "Over my shoulder, lass," Mirt grunted, as they struggled on. "Just keep it over my shoulder."

After a moment, Shandril said in a small voice, "I burned one of you ladies; I'm sorry."

Belarla flashed a smile at Shandril and held up one hand to wiggle dung-covered fingers cheerfully at her, "All better, lass-no lasting harm done."

"If we can ever scrub this stuff off us, that is," Oelaerone said ruefully. "The last time we traveled the sewers, we had a boat."

Mirt looked around, "Folk have boats down here?" "Yes-rafts, and mushroom beds, and lots of little caches where they hide things, too."

"Treasure?"

"Aye, and the bodies of rivals or rich older relatives, and suchlike."

A sudden outflow from above drenched them all, They gasped and sputtered and swore; the Harper ladies proved they knew expressions every bit as colorful as Mirt did.

"If we ever get out of here, Shandrl-my-lass," Mirt said through clenched teeth, "I'm going to give ye a few choice words about what it means to be a Harper-notably, of considering consequences before ye act."

Shandril leaned against the comforting bulk of his shoulder as he forged on through the stinking muck, and she said in a small voice, "I guess you mean I shouldn't have come here at all."

Mirt shrugged. "Well, not so fast, lass-'twas high time someone gave the Zhentarim something to think about. And ye've certainly found the knack of giving everyone around a wild time, indeed."

Shandril gri

Mirt rolled his eyes and wrapped his excrement smeared arms more tightly around her, murmuring soothingly.

Oclaerone turned and reproved him mildly. "You've certainly cultivated an expert boudoir ma

"Only a little way, now," Belarla added, turning into a side cha

Shandril looked at Belarla, down at her own body hidden under the roiling brown sludge, and involuntarily glanced back at the pleasure-queen's robes-she gagged.

Mirt threw her expertly over his shoulder, but she struggled free and glared at him, "I'm not a little girl!" "Aye," he said dryly. "I'd noticed. Little girls are never this much trouble."

Belarla came to a stop, waters swirling around her, and looked up at the vaulted stone ceiling just above her. "This is the one," she a