They behaved not unlike the Zhentarim, but enough unlike their work to remove them from suspicion, even if there'd been no Thayans or Sharran clergy to make the differences sharp.
Drow were working with humans to supplant other humans, using magical guises-long-lasting shapeshifting; powerful magic needed there. Humans were busily engaged in smuggling, hidden investments, market manipulations, and slavery, but such a widespread secret organization, with all of its perils, was hardly needed for anything but the slavery and smuggling. So why? Larger aims, as yet unseen, must underlie it all. The presence of the Red Wizards-who by nature need great power, and therefore work at a great reach, whether prudent or not-and that of any clergy of Shar both pointed to bigger things.
Just what those bigger things were was probably beyond what Labraster knew, but not necessarily beyond what he could guess.
Well, Chosen of Mystra could make guesses, too. If drow could masquerade as humans in Scornubel, what was to stop others in the cabal-yes, call it that, however ugly or possibly misplaced the word-from using similar means and magics to take the places of other folk, elsewhere? They'd target rich folk, of course, influential folk, rulers-why else had others considered this Labraster a fitting stand-in for Azoun of Cormyr, and Meira thought him too weak? — and elder noble families, energetically rising merchants, those who commanded armies or con shy;trolled fleets, caravan companies, and trading costers.
It was grain and beans again. Centuries ago, a certain bored, younger Sylune-restless and not yet rooted, not yet the Witch of Shadowdale, not yet loving any place too closely, and the poorer for it-had watched merchants grow rich. Oh, aye, merchants grew rich all the time, sometimes by innovation and more often by rushing in needed goods when there were shortages.
She remembered a few growing rich by virtue of the mercenaries they could hire to burn crops in one place, or fight the mercenaries hastily hired against them across sown farmers' fields, which bought the same result. They'd take advantage of these shortages, rushing in goods they'd already secured elsewhere when demand and prices were highest.
Grains and beans. Not so glamorous as kidnapped princesses or fell wizards cracking castles asunder, but just as hard on the folk whose land the wars raged through, or who starved outright or dwelt in misery, for the lack of things that need not have been scarce. All the while merchants who hired armsmen to kick back beg shy;gars rode in ever grander coaches to revels where they grew fatter and laughed louder, guzzling wine and eyeing each other's new jewels and hired bedmates, until they were all so bored that feuds and hunts and the ever-changing whimsy of styles known as 'fashion' came to the fore as a way of spending time and coin.
Just the way of the world, a Waterdhavian merchant dead and dust these four hundred years had told her, derisively dismissing her protests at such behavior. Just something she hadn't, of course, the native wits to under shy;stand, and should leave off thinking about and hurry, while she still had her looks, to the nearest whorehouse to get back to earning herself a living.
She'd tried that, too. Mirth still rose in Sylune after all these years at the haughty merchant's wife who'd looked down from a festhall balcony with scorn at the silver-haired dancer and called out that she might as well wear naught but pig herders' boots to do what she did … only to recognize her own son in Sylune's arms later the same night… a Sylune wearing only pig herders' boots, which she'd given the man to present to his mother on her morningfeast platter the next day. The woman's shrieks of rage had been the talk of her hitherto quietly exclusive Waterdhavian neighborhood, but that woman, too, was long dead, and her fine son. Sylune, caught defending her beloved dale in the heart of a storm of dragons, should have followed them both into the cold, eternal darkness, but for the love of her sisters and the grace of her mother Mystra.
'Oh, Mystra,' she prayed now, alone in the darkness with no voice to speak aloud. 'Let me do what is right and best for thee and for all Faerun. . and let those two rights and bests run ever together.'
From dark nothingness came a faint, singing sound. The gentlest echo of a chime Sylune had heard before, when drifting in the arms of the Lady of Mystery. It lin shy;gered around her, almost faint beyond hearing, then was gone.
The Witch of Shadowdale smiled, and knew peace, for she was no longer alone in the darkness.
'What if I do not choose to follow this road longer? This meandering backwoods trail that leaves me far from my city, my business, the folk that I love and know, and, by all the good gods there may be, from the-the-'
'Action you crave?' the hooded man's voice was smooth and unruffled. Something that was almost amusement rippled across its rich tones.
'Well, yes. I'd not have put it that way, but this does leave me far from my coins and my battles, and yes, the grander things we … are both part of I chafe in these chains.' Labraster's voice had risen high in exasperation. Something in the other man's stillness warned him that he was drawing too much attention to them both, and he dropped his voice almost to a whisper to add, 'They drive me wild. Sometimes I think I may go mad.'
'So much is increasingly apparent, Blandras Nuin,' the cloth merchant's visitor replied. 'Yet it does you no credit in our eyes if we see in you a weakness. Those lions who are always bold to be a-hunt, in at the slayings whenever they scent blood, all too often move too soon and ruin things. Even when they do not, their restless shy;ness makes them poor allies after the victories have been won. Cold patience sits comfortably in some of us, and turns our wits to think ill of those who have too little patience, or too much hunger for the chase.'
'But it's been months now,' Labraster protested, clenching one hand-the hand that bore a certain ring-into a fist, 'and until you, today, nothing but silence. Silence and selling cloth. Gods! More than that, I tell you, Harpers are as thick hereabouts as flies on rotting meat.'
'Perhaps too apt a choice of words,' the hooded man murmured. 'More than one of us in a certain city much visited by caravans has fallen to Harper blades in recent days. The dead carts held many surprises. Much flesh that was as black as the darkest night. Your swift and thorough flight from the questioning of the High Lady has done much to hold you blameless in this-among those who look for blame in such things.'
'I thought that project was overbold from the first. How many actors can there be who can fool kin and trade partners and all, night and day, eh?' The cloth merchant waved a dismissive hand, then almost lunged forward to hiss, 'Can you tell me nothing of what else has befallen? So many plans were on the brink of becoming real projects. Just to know a few shreds of-gods! Cloth again! — a little of what's hap shy;pening will keep me alive, keep me feeling a part of things.'
'You find excitement a drink every bit as alluring as good wine, Master Nuin?' the hooded man asked softly. 'Think on this, then. Like wine, excitement can be all the better when it's aged properly.'
Auvrarn Labraster growled, deep in his throat, and smoothed out a bolt of cloth with unnecessary savagery. 'You'll give me nothing at all?'
'I did not say that,' his visitor said smoothly. 'There's word from Sembia. Tael is ready to move. The inn outside Westgate called the Black Baron burned down a tenday back, and-'
Labraster's head jerked up like a stabbing blade.
That calm, smooth voice said reprovingly, 'Master Nuin, I've heard it said that overeagerness has carried many a lion over a cliff. You've heard the same, I trust?'
Auvrarn Labraster swallowed, stepped back a pace, and nodded, his face carefully expressionless once more. 'Yes,' he mumbled, then cleared his throat, threw his head back, and said more clearly, 'Yes. Yes, I have.'
The hood seemed to nod, almost imperceptibly, as new customers entered Blandras Nuin's shop and headed straight for the proprietor. 'Other engagements press me hard now. Perhaps I'll return to buy your excellent cloth another day, but it may not be soon. Perhaps even … next season.'
'Of course,' the man who wore the name Blandras Nuin agreed with a quick smile. 'I shall be waiting here; eager to serve you, as always.'
He saw teeth flash in the gloom of the hood, for just a moment, shaping a smile. 'Of course.'
The hood turned away, but as its owner stepped around an advancing customer to seek the door, turned back again. The voice that rolled out from within it one last time was somehow no louder, and yet still as clear as if it came from right beside the cloth merchant's elbow.
Its tones were gentle, almost fatherly. 'It all comes back, Master Nuin, to patience. Try not to forget that.'
Blandras Nuin stared at the door as it banged, not seeming to see the customers now gathering before
