Mirt could lurch forward with surprising speed when he had to, and in a trice he'd snatched the wand from her trembling hand and flung it aside, then come around the desk and laid hold of one booted ankle. Thankfully these slender, high pointy-toed jobs didn't come off all that easily, so he could do this:
He hauled hard, put a foot on her stool, pushed off as if he was starting to climb a steep stair-and the choking apprentice was suddenly upside down.
Her fashionable skirts fell away to reveal old petticoats with holes in them and a stained undersash that wasn't much cleaner than Mirt's own customary clout. Her face promptly changed from trying to turn blue to also trying to blush crimson at the same time.
The Old Wolf shook the lass once, vigorously, then thumped her on the back hard enough to make her limbs bounce and flail like a rag doll's.
'This'll clear your pipes!' he announced heartily, watching hot mussels, gravy, and half-chewed bread shoot past his boots. Before she could even begin to sob for breath, he threw her up into the air, caught her waist in both hands, and spun her upright like a wheel.
She was taller and more gangly than Asper, and Mirt got an unintentional elbow in his face for his pains, but in another moment she was coughing and crying all over her desk, with Mirt resting one hand on her flank to keep her standing.
It took her some time to recover her breath, and Mirt passed it by reading her book-it was a heaving-bosoms affair, by Sharess!-aloud.
''The bruising strength of his grip made her gasp, and even as she twisted furiously away, cursing her silks for their lack of handy daggers, she knew she'd been dangerously-possibly fatally-wrong about him.'
''A moment later, her fingers found what they'd been straining for… and a moment after that, he knew it too.''
Mirt chuckled. 'Ho-ho, but this is ripe stuff!' He thumbed a few pages, ate the discarded end of her bun with lip-smacking enjoyment, then glanced at still-heaving shoulders and asked, 'Are ye all right yet, lass?'
'M-my… my…' She was still fighting for breath and turning to face him slowly, hands far from her belt dagger- or the one strapped to her ankle that Mirt's rough medicine had just revealed.
'Wand? 'Tis under my boot-and staying there, until ye settle down.'
'Who are you?'
Mirt grinned at what he could see of the tear-streaked face through all the hair. 'Call me Elminster-and get me Laeral straightaway, aye?'
Large, dark eyes goggled at him as frantic fingers dragged hair out of the way, then the still-raw voice that went with them managed to stammer, 'The L-Lady Laeral is, uh, elsewhere at the moment.'
'Then,' Mirt growled grandly, 'I suppose Old Windbag-Khelben, to ye-will have to do.'
A strange expression crossed the guard-prentice's face as mirth rose to join anger and embarrassment. Abruptly she gasped, 'Stay here!' and rushed out of the room, looking even more like she was struggling not to laugh.
Mirt waited for her to look back and then disappear around the first bend of the ascending stair. Then he set off after her. He knew where she was almost certainly heading.
A short but wheezing journey later, they arrived more or less together at a certain door, where the guard- prentice gave Mirt an angry, helpless glare, and whispered something to its latch, almost as if she was kissing it.
The door clicked and moved a little, as if a lock had been released, and the apprentice quickly stepped forward, whirling to slam it shut again-and discovered that the fat stranger had somehow crossed three paces of passage and got not just his foot, but an entire leg through the door in her wake, and there was just no way she was going to be able to get it closed.
The rest of Mirt followed his bold leg into the chamber, favoring her with a fond grin. 'Shouldn't ye be getting back to your post?'
The mage drew herself up to say something really blistering-and someone else said an oath for her, a long and heartfelt string of obscenities that owed so much to spell-inferences and references to wizards long dead that its heat was quite lost in its own bewildering grandeur.
'I love ye, too,' Mirt replied affably, as the Lord Mage of Waterdeep came toward them like a thundercloud, with the chaos of collapsing spells singing and lashing across the vast chamber behind him like wildly whipping mooring ropes flung by a storm-ropes that glowed and spat showers of sparks and flung lightnings, that is.
So large was that room that it should not have been able to fit inside the neighborhood, let alone the slender girth of Blackstaff Tower-yet most of it was occupied by a gigantic stone head that any Waterdhavian would know at a glance as belonging to one of the Walking Statues of Waterdeep. Mirt knew Khelben was 'bringing them all in' this month to augment their enchantments, but couldn't identify any of the strangeness in the air around the head as more than just 'powerful magic.'
There were glowing golden lines of force, now drifting slowly to the floor. Along and above some of them were elaborate runes and words, written in flowing script on the empty air, and here and there Mirt could even see tiny gemstones and winking motes of light orbiting a few of the sigils. It looked like hours of work to him… and by the expression adorning the Blackstaff's face, probably was.
From somewhere down near her boots the guard-prentice found her voice. It emerged quavering dangerously, but quite loud enough. 'S-sorry, Lord Master. I bring Elminster, who craves audience with you.'
The exhaustion, loss, and rage warring on Khelben's face twisted into something like incredulity. 'That's not Elminster! Idiot lass! He's not nearly so handsome!'
The apprentice recoiled from her master's anger but glanced helplessly at the fat, spiderweb-covered bulk of Mirt. Her face changed. She struggled again for a moment, as if she was going to choke anew, and then burst into helpless giggles.
With the last of his great web of spells crashing soundlessly to the floor behind him, Khelben 'Blackstaff' Arunsun clasped his hands behind his back, gave his helpless apprentice a disgusted look, and swung his glare back to Mirt.
'Well, whatever do you want?'
Mrelder nodded thanks to the wench as she set down the latest round of ale.
The dozen men in the booth with him-apprentices, daycoin-men, and hireswords, strangers all-took up the tankards and drank deeply.
His offer of a free highsun meal with drink had bought him their time, and a few sly hints about a rich, fat, easily plucked pigeon of a merchant had won their close attention.
The theft he was hiring them for was pure fancy, of course. The men in the booth would probably always wonder how the plot had unraveled but would have no doubts about the fate of the man who'd hired them-or rather, the man whose face Mrelder currently wore. That unfortunate would be found dead in an alley before nightfall. Golskyn's mongrelmen would make sure of it.
Mrelder set down his tankard and tried not to be seen scratching. His father's spells had reattached his arm, but the fingers always felt numb, now, and the rest of it itched damnably. 'Our time draws to a close. Questions?'
'What of the Watch?' asked a sell-sword.
The disguised sorcerer put on a grim face. 'Greater concerns ride them than what we offer.'
Uneasy glances were exchanged. 'There's trouble in the city?'
'Trouble enough,' Mrelder told them. ''Tis whispered Lord Piergeiron's passed into the Halls of Tempus.'
'The Open Lord, dead?' someone gasped incredulously.
His neighbor gave him a sharp elbow. 'How else d'ye get there, fool? And when the answer comes, try not to shout it quite so loud!'
'Aye,' Mrelder said in a grim whisper. 'The Lords're keeping it secret. Until they let it be known, I'd be taking it as a favor if you'd keep it secret too.'
Every one of the dozen grunted agreement, but every last one of them drained their tankards in haste and looked to him for dismissal. Mrelder doubted their eagerness to depart came from any desire to return to work. He
