and took her while she slept? What then?
Trembling, Shandril heard Narm make a queer sound behind her. She whirled. He was reeling, his face twisting as he looked at her wildly, nostrils flaring like a wolf smelling blood-gods! The spell had taken him-and as he reached for her, she caught the side of his head in her hand and slammed it into the stairway wall.
His eyes went dark, like two snuffed candles, and he slumped. Letting go of him, Shandril rode her rage around in a whirling turn that brought her nose to nose with Marlel- who leaned forward, frozen, with his hands out to grab at her.
Feeling fresh magic rolling at her, the kitchenmaid from Highmoon sent spellfire racing along the paths of those unfolding spells-stabbing out through the walls around her in three directions. There were brief screams as half-seen wizards staggered, in both directions-but Shandril ignored them to snarl at the Harper, 'If you had any hand in this trap, Marlel, I'll make your death slow and terrible, believe you me!'
'Lady, I never!' Marlel protested. 'I-let me past and I'll take up your man and carry him! We must get to your room-here: the keys! Third door on the left along yon passage!'
He certainly looked guilty-but then, he also looked afraid, and for men who carried secrets in plenty, there often wasn't much difference between the two looks. Moreover, there might not be a man who dwelt in all Scornubel who didn't have dark secrets enough not to look guilty, if you seared him with the candle that was fear.
'Do so!' Shandril snapped, snatching the keys. 'If you do him harm, I'll make you regret it for days!'
Her eyes were like two flames, and the Harper flinched away as he slipped past her. Shandril made sure the wizards in the two rooms she'd gutted moved no more, and by then Marlel was on his way past her again, panting under Narm's limp weight.
It seemed like a very short time before Marlel had them both into the room he'd indicated. Shandril made no protest when he snatched the keys back from her and used them on the door with a deftness that told her his usual profession more clearly than anything else he'd done thus far. The Harper slammed the door behind them, laid Narm gently on the bed, and whirled back to the door to drop its two wooden bars into place.
'You didn't leave anything burning, back there?' he panted.
'Why?' Shandril snapped, still furious. 'Were those wizards friends of yours?'
'Lady, if the Tankard catches fire…'
'A few floorboards were smoking. Most of what I seared, I took to ashes. I'll care about such things when my Narm is awake and-whole again.'
Marlel gave her a worried look, and bent over the young mage. 'Have you means of healing?' he asked quietly, after a moment..
“Why?' Shandril asked, keeping her voice hard.
He shook his head in silent dismissal or exasperation, tapped gently at Narm's cheek, and then said, 'He's coming around. That water-!' He pointed at an ewer of wash-water standing in the sink of a battered washstand. Shandril fetched it, and Marlel dipped his fingertips in it, nodded at its icy temperature, and drew a line of it down Narm's cheek.
The young mage's eyes flickered.
'Back with us. Narm?' Marlel asked loudly and jovially, throwing up a hand toward Shandril's face in a 'be silent' gesture. 'Ready to have a good look out at the lovely ladies of Hethbridle Street?'
Narm looked up at him dully, and the Harper waved airily at the window. 'Hmm? Ready to buckle your swash, strut like a cockerel, and roar like a dragon?'
'Oh, gods,' Narm muttered, 'it's Torm's brother!'
Shandril exploded into giggles, a flood of mirth that dissolved into happy tears, and then her arms were around her man, shouldering Marlel aside.
The Harper drew back with a strange expression. His hand stole toward*the dagger at his belt-then fell away again, as he lifted his head and stared at the wall… in the direction of the two rooms full of wizards that Shandril had so swiftly blasted.
He swallowed and took a careful step back from the young couple. That movement was enough to bring Shandril whirling around to face him again, eyes sharp-and Marlel raised his eyebrows and his fingers in unison, waggling all of his fingertips to show that they were idle and that he meant no harm.
Shandril let her face show that she believed him not for a moment. 'And now, Sir Harper?' she asked him softly.
Marlel gave her his quick, crooked smile. 'Well, now. This room is yours for the night-I've paid for it, no need to thank me, all who carry the little badge you saw are paragons of flowering honor-and you'll have to give three silvers to Pharaulee by highsun tomorrow if you need it for another night, and so on. I should tell you a little trick we use: Take some of the soot from-back there-on a finger and run it around your eyes, and just here and here on your cheeks. Then wipe most of it away again, so it looks like shadow and not black face-paint, and gods above, but the shape of your face changes! Effective, if you don't want to be recognized straightaway, hmm? But I fear I must soon disappear on other business. Is there anything else you need me to do?'
'Yes,' Shandril said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. 'Tell us the truth.'
Marlel raised his eyebrows, and refrained from smiling. 'Ah. Well. That would be a grave mistake in style, here in Scornubel.' He spread his hands, still unsmiling. 'Anything else?'
Narm and Shandril exchanged glances. 'Marlel,' Narm said faintly, wincing at a hurt remaining in his head, 'we're supposed to find and meet a man named Orthil Voldovan here.'
The Harper nodded. 'And join his next caravan to Water-deep? You're just in time and had best get down to the taproom and find him right now. He leaves on the morrow.' He waved at the double-barred door.
Shandril looked at Narm, who winced again, then nodded. She turned her head and gave Marlel a commanding look.
That crooked smile touched his lips for a moment and went away again. 'Leave nothing of value here,' he said. 'In Scornubel, without bars and bolts and guards whose loyalty you are certain of, locks are not to be trusted.' He put a hand on the uppermost bar he'd so recently slammed down into place, and added, 'Come with me now, and I'll point out Orthil to you.'
Shandril nodded and came toward him. Narm followed, a little unsteadily.
In the darkness of the room next door, a watchful eye drew back cautiously from a spyhole nigh the floor, and its owner lay still on the soft fur he'd brought with him. When he heard the keys jingle in the lock and the soft, swift footfalls of the three moving along the passage to the front stair he stood up, stretched in the gloom, plucked up his fur, and cautiously opened his door. The passage was empty, and the man wrapped in the fur cloak slipped out into it and headed for the third stair. They were the two he'd been watching for, right enough, and he knew where they intended to go, now.
He hurried to deliver that news to those who'd promised to pay well for it. There'd be a slight delay while he picked up his own bodyguards-but without them, this was one meeting he probably wouldn't have survived. No messenger grows very old without knowing which clients are the dangerous ones.
These were the very worst, which was why his bodyguards included several mages and over a dozen other men he hoped these clients didn't yet know about. The alleys of Scornubel had seen all-out battles before.
The broad stair Marlel took them down this time opened onto a landing overlooking the deafening, smoky din of the taproom. The Harper put a hand on Shandril's arm to bring her to a stop-then snatched it away as if he feared she'd burn him, and pointed.
'That's your man,' he murmured into her ear, making sure her finger was pointing at the same man his was, 'and I'd rather he didn't see me or hear about me.' He rose, and slipped back up the stair past them. 'We have,' he murmured as he went, raising his hand in a farewell salute, 'painfully unfinished business between us.'
Shandril returned his wave-then he was gone into the shadows. She traded looks with Narm. They sighed in soundless unison, gave each other rueful grins, got up, and went boldly down the stair.
Orthil Voldovan sat facing their stair in the corner seat of a booth with his back to one of the stout pillars that held up the taproom ceiling. Even seated, he was tall and straight-backed, as broad as many a door at his shoulders, and with forearms like hairy tree trunks, massive, gnarled, and seemingly more solid than the stout, weathered tavern table they rested on. His eyes were like two dark daggers beneath the largest shaggy white eyebrows Shandril had ever seen, and his square-jawed face was fringed all around with a short but ragged
