Hand of Fire

With a wordless roar of anger Azoun sprang into the air to reach over flailing tentacles and run his blade right through the head of his false double.

Blood spurted, the shapeshifter squalled, and tentacles whipped about in a frenzy, shattering the lamp, hurling Tessaril across the floor in a helpless tumble, and driving Azoun back along the stairhead rail in a confusion of curses and creaking wood.

The wand! Tessaril struggled to claw herself to a stop and get free of the encumbrances of her gown and her own hair, to see where the wand of lightnings now lay ere the shape-shifter did.

There was a slithering sound, the garderobe door banged open amid more slitherings, and the room was suddenly empty of tentacles.

Empty of… battle. Azoun was panting against the rail with his sword in hand and his fine tunic torn half off his body. Her wand lay alone and forlorn on the tangled furs, a headless Highknight was sprawled across the head of the stairs, his sword not far from his hand, and over in a corner the man's staring head lay amid the shards of her lamp. No flames, thank the gods.

She looked wildly around the room, past the wreckage of the big table. No flames anywhere-and not three paces away, the covered platter still steamed merrily.

With a groan, Tessaril struggled to her feet, shrugged her robe back onto her shoulders-gods, the pain!-and darted barefoot for her wand. Snatching it up, she raced to the garderobe.

It was empty, the window hanging down crazily from its frame.

"Tess," the King growled, "come away from there. I'll not have you killed chasing after some beast! Whence came it? Have you seen it before?"

Tessaril ran to Azoun and hugged him fiercely. His arm tightened around her shoulder, and she couldn't help but scream.

There was a frantic thudding of boots and the clang and thunder of armor striking against walls and railings, as Highknights came pounding up the stairs with blades drawn.

"Shapeshifter!" Azoun snapped, ere the questions could begin. "It went out the window-and, mind: It already knows how to take my shape quite well!"

Highknights plunged into the tiny privy-room. Wood splintered as someone burst right out the window frame without slowing, there was a curse and a scraping of boots on stone and roof tiles, and man after man followed after.

Two Highknights lingered, swords out and eyes hard as they looked at Tessaril and around at the ruins of her room. "We're fine," Azoun told them curtly, and jerked his head toward the stairs in an unmistakable order. Reluctantly- and not before giving the Lady Lord parting looks of cold promise-the knights went downstairs.

Azoun sighed and stepped away from Tessaril. "I didn't want to even ask this," he said to the stair rail, "but you did shelter Shandril Shessair in the Hidden House. Is she there yet? Where have you hidden her?" At his last words, the King brought his head up and looked at her sharply.

Tessaril gave him a crooked smile, and said softly, "She's half Faerun away from here by now, my Dragon-and that's all I'll say."

Azoun looked into her eyes for a long moment, expression grim-and then bowed. "I'm sorry, Tess. I trust you… but the next time Manshoon of the Zhentarim comes skulking nigh Eveningstar, call on me, won't you? I don't want to lose the best Lord I have!"

"Azoun," Tessaril murmured, "hold me. Please. Just hold me."

"Of course," the King of Cormyr said quietly, and put his arms around her with the greatest of care.

"Gods, but I'm hungry," Shandril murmured into Narm's ear as another wagon rumbled deafeningly past, sending the dust swirling up around them. "Grubby, too. Ah, for a bath!"

"The river's just back there," Narm suggested slyly.

Shandril pinched him. "Did you see how many dead fish were floating around those docks? No, thank you!"

"Well, how about yon bright establishment?" Narm waved across the crowded street. More mules than people inhabited Scornubel, it seemed, and thanks to the dung no one cleared away, buzzing flies outnumbered both together. They looked at the bright signboard of a shopfront that seemed grander than most.

"The Sun Over Scornubel," Shandril murmured, squinting through her hood to read the name on the sign aloud. "A club, do you think? Or a proper i

"Well, there's washing hanging, out behind-bedlinens," Narm replied. "I saw it a few paces back… and smell the food?"

"Well, then, why are you holding me back?"

"Do priestesses of Chauntea use i

"Sisters of the Soil certainly slept under Gorstag's roof, back in Highmoon," Shandril said. "Often." She took a step toward the signboard, pulling her rope harness tight in Narm's grasp. "Come on. I'm hungry."

"And if I refuse?"

"I," Shandril reminded him, with a wry grin that he could hear in her voice, "have the spellfire, remember? I'm not to be argued with."

"Yes," Narm agreed quietly, holding firmly to the ropes that bound her arms to her sides but letting her walk forward, “thwart me out, out does the rest of the Realms know that? And how urgently do you want them to?"

"No, Torm, I'm going alone," Sharantyr said firmly, for perhaps the eighteenth time. "Much as I enjoy your lame jokes and prancing pranks, there are times when stealth is necessary, and a little quiet so one can think, and even something called 'prudence,' which I believe would require Elminster and about a year of his unbroken time to make you fully and truly understand. So bide you here with Rathan, drinking far too much and a

Wordlessly the thief held out the next piece of her leather war-harness, to help her put it on. He was holding the breastplates, of course.

Sharantyr stepped forward until she filled them, lifted her arms so he could bring the buckles around, endured his novel way of doing so in good-natured silence, and as he casually brought one of his knives up to her throat intercepted his wrist in a grip of iron and said, "No, Torm. As much as you find it hard to believe that any female could refuse you in anything, I'm going to do just that. Threaten and coerce all you like: You stay here. Now I'd like to be on my way. I'm almost dressed despite your kind help, the sun waits for no laggard, and if you delay my leaving I'm going to toss you in the nearest horse trough and hold you there while Shaerl douses you with all the vile perfumes her older Rowanmantle kin insist on sending her from the highhouse fashion lounges of Suzail-and believe me, you wouldn't like that."

"Ah," Torm said impishly, "but just how far d'you think you're going to get without this?" He opened his hand, and the ranger saw the little ivory skull gleaming in it.

Sharantyr sighed, made a grab for it that He easily ienueu off-and as he twisted away, chuckling, brought her booted left foot up hard into his crotch with all the force she could put behind it.

His codpiece was armored and would leave a bruise on her shin that might take a month to stop aching, but the thief of the Knights was smaller and lighter than the lady ranger, and her kick launched him into the air with a startled whistle of pain and escaping breath that took him into senselessness with nary another sound-save for the meaty thud of his body falling with full, limp force into the waiting arms of Rathan Thentraver, Stalwart of Tymora. The priest winced, cradled Torm as gently as one might hold a babe, and lowered him deftly to the floor.

"Had he not been armored, lass," he said gravely, "that would have been far less than kind. As 'tis-well, one can't deny he hath reaped a harvest his own hand hath most enthusiastically sown. The cup will have cut his thighs. He'll be stiff and sore for some days, and then-1-I fear, as should we all-himself again." He tossed her something small and smooth: the ivory skull.