Hand of Fire

Southwards, Shandril interpreted mentally.

"Payable in full before we leave, not 'half now and half there.' I'm not pretty, but I'm worth it. My caravans get where they're going."

"Well, that's a good start," Shandril said calmly. "Seven gold, did you say?"

Orthil gave her a sharp look, and one of his guards laughed.

"Eleven, I said," he told her with a grin. "Ye should listen better, dearie."

"Evidently so," Shandril said, perching herself on the table in front of him and shoving his most recent tankard aside. "I could have sworn I heard you say four gold for the pair of us."

Orthil regarded her coldly, and she leaned forward to stare with great interest right back into his gaze. Two tiny flames kindled in her eyes. From behind her, knowing what must be happening, Narm sighed and murmured, "Try not to kill anyone yet, love. They all seem to be such-gentle people."

Cold glares were lifted the young mage's way, and the oldest and most grizzled guard in the most patched and scarred leathers chuckled and leaned back to watch the unfolding fun, lifting a finger to signal a bet to his fellows.

"Four gold for the pair of ye 'tis, then," Orthil said quietly. The chorus of gasps and tiny clanks that followed came from his guards: the sounds of many jaws dropping open.

"The spellfire wench? You're sure?"

Belgon Bradraskor looked up from his littered desk with eager hunger catching fire in his pale eyes. His movement lifted the ample folds of his jowls from their customary resting place on the descending mountain of flesh that was his torso.

Standing safely in the shadows beyond the lamplight, Tornar the Eye shuddered delicately. Belgon had a wife-a tall, splendid woman-and half a dozen daughters. How they survived seeing that unclad was beyond him; as it padded around the house, it must seem like some sort of pale, quivering monster…

Still, the Master of the Shadows could move swiftly* enough when he had to-and his wits were as keen as any dozen caravan masters put together. For over a decade he'd seen through their every swindle and had always had a response ready ere it was needed; a very hard thing to do in the roaring, ever-lawless city of Scornubel.

"Yes, Master," Tornar said firmly. "I saw flames flare in her eyes, and she had a man with her who matches in looks, voice, and ma

"No, the Dark Blade of Doom has been seen not ten breaths ago, slipping out of town by the looks of where he was headed and what he was carrying." Bradraskor's tone dripped with scorn for Marlel's self-assumed title. "And she's sitting with Voldovan in the Tankard right now?"

"Making a deal with him," Tornar confirmed. "If they agree, she'll be part of his caravan up to the Big Brawl on the morrow."

"Hmm. 'Tis a long way to Waterdeep," the Master of the Shadows said thoughtfully. "I wonder how many accidents Voldovan will have on this run."

Tornar waited for the huge man behind the desk to say more, but silence stretched until he felt moved to ask, "We're not going to try for…?"

"No," Bradraskor said slowly. "No, I don't think I want to die badly enough for that."

Tornar nodded, as relief flooded through him and quite drove away his fleeting disappointment. He made for the door with his usual soundless tread.

"Eye of mine," the Master of the Shadows said softly, freezing Tornar in mid-step with his gloved hand reaching for the bolt, "not quite so fast. Something occurs to me."

Tornar waited. Something always did.

"We dare not try to seize spellfire because of what would certainly befall us if we tried to hold it," Bradraskor said slowly, "when all the vultures came down with their talons to tear us apart-but by not trying for it, and lurking like a vulture ourselves, we could do some handsome harm to any of our rivals who dare to snatch at it."

Tornar turned, excitement stirring in him. "And so?"

"So I think you'll be on your way to see Bluthlock right now," the Master of the Shadows said with a soft smile. "Tell him that he can spend freely, with my backing, to thin the ranks of anyone Scornubrian he's grown tired of. There are some faces about town that we can all easily miss."

Tornar matched the Master's smile and asked, "What about Andor?"

"You mean the shapeshifter who's gosing as Andor?"

Tornar the Eye stiffened. "What?"

"Andor was found in Old Ornrim's nets in the Chionthar a little over two months back, with a goodly part of his face eaten away by the fishes."

"I never heard about this," Tornar murmured, leaning forward in frowning interest. "Ornrim went missing about then, as I recall."

The Master of the Shadows nodded. "The one who's now posing as Andor saw to that."

"And how-?"

"Do I know this? Someone saw Ornrim's neck being broken."

Tornar did not voice his question, and Bradraskor grew a slow smile. "No, not one of my other Eyes. A visiting noble, as it happens."

Tornar's lip curled. '"You've found a noble who can be trusted?"

"Do you recall the lady who put a sword through Ulbegh last summer?"

"Tessaril Winter of Eveningstar?"

Belgon Bradraskor smiled. "Faerun is such a small place, sometimes. It's comforting, how all the spiderwebs draw together in tangles and most folk don't even notice. Haste now, Tornar-I can feel someone about to tug on this most interesting of webs."

The informant nodded, went out, and carefully drew the door closed before he shivered. The last thing he'd seen had been those two pale eyes, watching him. Yes, exactly like a pale, quivering monster, padding softly through the darkness…

Fallen By The Wayside

Ah, yes, spellspun gates. Portals, some call them. "Death-doors" is the term I prefer. The reason? Well, each step through one is a step closer to the time when your death is standing waiting for you on the other side-with a big cold grin on its face and a sword in its hand you'll have no time nor chance to avoid. 'Tis like any adventuring life, but shorter.

Bharajak Steelshar, Warmaster For Hire from a lecture at The Swords Club in Elturel

Year of the Bright Blade

"As I see it," Hlael said gloomily, "we're doomed if we face spellfire-and just as doomed if we fail and our superiors hear of it. Unless we can change our shapes and hide so well as to never be traced or found-or win spellfire for ourselves, and with it remove every last one of our superiors from the unfolding tapestry of life without anyone else in all Faerun seeing or guessing that we have spellfire… we're dead men. Somehow neither of those events seems very likely."

"Enough," Korthauvar Hammantle snapped. "Move carefully, as we agreed to do, avoid mistakes, and see what befalls. Slowly and carefully, not like the ever-growing army of fool-headed magelings all falling over each other to impress Manshoon! Some of Fzoul's upperpriests have been working on tasks he set them for years and have thus far accomplished nothing that the rest of us can see-and yet live still and hold their places in councils!"

"Places we've never been offered," Hlael returned, slamming shut a spellbook in a momentary show of anger.

"Hlael! Bane take you! You've enough gloom in you for any dozen old men in a tavern! Have we not woven a splendid plan-brilliant enough to please old Iceglare himself? Have I not just recast no less than four spells of power and had all of them w.ork successfully? Just one more, and we're on our way!"

"Hear my joy and rejoicing," Hlael Toraunt of the Zhentarim told the ceiling, quiet sarcasm dripping from every syllable.