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 grinned. This was fun, and-whoalaho! She'd doubled back already and-a dark form spun across a street below him, just above a guard-lamp-was really putting wings to her boots!
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, thinner one was the real danger: Malakur Surth dealt in poisons and drugs, among other things, and had dealings with local priests of Shar and with certain spell-wielding outlanders- even, if the latest whispers Durexter had paid good coin for were correct, at least one Red Wizard of Thay.
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 announce what will happen when we get tired of hauling you up to drip dirty canal-water all over this nice carpet. Assuming, of course, you don't simply remember where in this nice house your rainy-day wealth is hidden, so we your honored guests can recover our losses.'
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
