Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters

She was coming abreast of him, nodding to him in pleasant, wordless greeting, and striding by. Now!

Maervidal Iloster turned to the Bard of Shadowdale as if something had just occurred to him, and laughed loudly. It sounded a little wild even in his own ears, and she spun around to face him, hand falling with smooth grace to the hilt of the sword she always wore.

Desperately he hissed out his situation to her, trying not to lose control of his voice. He found himself on the verge of tears only a few words later, pleading with her to come to the revel and rescue him.

She drew herself up and looked stern, and for one awful moment Maervidal thought she was going to rebuke him for being a craven coward, and send him on his way with harsh words, send him on his way to death. Instead, the Bard of Shadowdale stepped forward and embraced him. Maervidal found himself trembling, struggling not to break down and cry, as Storm Silverhand-who stood almost a head taller than he, and smelled distractingly of forest floors and nose-prickling spices-embraced him and said into his ear, 'Press yourself against me, Maervi shy;dal. Right in close-don't be shy. Thrust your belly and hips against me. Clasp your arms together, around my neck, and sag against me … aye, like that. Now speak not, and keep still.'

The wondering scrivener felt a sudden strangeness sweep over him, a tingling that left him feeling empty and faintly sick. Something stirred, then surged through him. . from Storm's hips, he thought. Or perhaps it seemed that way because he could feel her hands busy there shy;abouts, her knuckles grazing him as she did something that… that…

She was putting a belt around his waist-a waist that was more shapely than he remembered. His hips didn't stick out like that. And he was taller now, looking down at the muddy dale lane from a greater distance than he remembered, looking down even at Stor-ye gods!

Maervidal swallowed. He was looking down at himself. That is, where Storm had stood was a man with untidy brown hair and large, liquid brown eyes. It was the same handsome rake who looked back at him from his shaving mirror each morning. And he himself was … he looked straight down, at the body beneath his own chin.

'Great thundering gods!' he whispered hoarsely, utterly aghast. The man who looked like him chuckled.

'My body's not all that bad,' she said, 'for something that's seen around six hundred summers. Wear it well.'

She clapped him on the arm and turned north, back the way she'd come-or rather, the way he'd been heading.

'But-' Maervidal managed to blurt, noting that his voice sounded lower, and more musical. 'But-'

Storm turned around again, winking at him with his own eyes, and said quickly, 'We haven't really switched bodies-just exchanged shapes. You'll be yourself again in the morning.'

She giggled-Maervidal hadn't known his body could giggle-and he knew he, or rather, Storm Silverhand, the shape he was wearing, was starting to blush. He'd stared down at his new-found breasts in wonder, and without thinking had shaken himself to make them sway and bob. She'd buckled her sword belt around his hips-that'd been what he felt her doing. As for the rest, he was wearing her farming leathers, shiny with hard use at the knees and elbows, and she was him, in his best mauve silk shirt and black finery.

'You'll find coins in plenty slid in all along the sword belt,' she said gently. 'Now don't forget-you use the ladies' jakes this night, not that smelly corner one you men spray about in, so. Don't worry if it all seems strange. Just smile a lot, say little, and wait for the morning. My house is open. Feel free to eat and sleep as it pleases you. Oh, aye-when you're in the Skull, you'd best be careful who you have a drink with.'

'Uh, pardon?' he asked, putting his hands on his-her, oh, to the Nine Hells with this: his-hips as he'd seen Storm do.

She winked at him. 'I was on my way to the Old Skull Inn, to try to convince Jhaele to take the vacation she's been longing for, and see Waterdeep like she's dreamed aloud of doing, for years. Don't try to do that, but if you feel uncomfortable, just put your elbows on the bar and ask, 'Jhaele, what news of Waterdeep?' Then just let her talk.'

Maervidal nodded, then stopped, smiled, and nodded as he'd seen her do it, head tilted a little to the right, and a hand lifted as if to cup the chin.

She nodded approvingly. 'Ver-ry good. What I meant about the drinks was that three of the regulars at the Skull are becoming quite ardent. Hands on my knees and wandering higher … that sort of thing.'

The scrivener who now looked like Storm Silverhand swallowed. 'And I should do what-?' he asked faintly. Suddenly, and just for a wild, fleeting moment, walking to sure death didn't seem so dark a thing. He closed his eyes and thought he'd probably kiss every man in the taproom of the Skull if that's what it would take to keep him alive.

'Josh them pleasantly. Don't act shocked. The rest, I’ll leave to you. The ones to watch out for are Sarnjack, Old Juk, and Halcedon.'

Maervidal's eyes narrowed. 'Sarnjack I know, but the others.. '

'Mystra above, man,' Storm said to him, in his own incredulous voice, 'you live in this dale for four seasons as an informant for the Zhents and for us, and don't know every last man and woman in the dale? No wonder you were walking to your-'

She saw the stricken look that climbed across his face, and quickly said, 'Sarnjack the ring maker-weathered face, retired farmer from Mistledale? Recall him?' At his nod, she went on. 'Big, fat, balding man who sits over the chessboard most nights, retired from farming in Voonlar to raise chickens here. That's 'Old Juk,' but you'll want to tartly call him by his full name, Belinjuk Trawan, as his wife does-to remind him he's still married.'

Maervidal didn't smile. He was nodding slowly, vaguely remembering the fat man by the chessboard.

Storm said swiftly, 'In case we're being watched, I should go. The last man is the one you really should have been keeping an eye on. Halcedon Muiryn was once a hiresword, but someone took his right arm off at the elbow for him, and now he tutors lads in weaponsplay, spies on caravan shipments for all manner of merchants, and makes those fine long swords you see him selling to trav shy;elers in the Skull. He has a pair of jaws, like a smith's pin shy;cers, fitted to his stump. Got that? Good, now wish me luck.'

'Storm,' Maervidal Iloster said, swallowing back threatening tears, 'May you have all the luck the gods are willing to hand out to mortals for the next season or so. They know better than I how much you deserve it.'

He drew in a deep breath, and asked the last thing that was troubling him then. 'But what of when I'm myself, on the morrow? Won't the Zhents just come after me then?'

Storm gave him a wintry smile. Maervidal stared at her; he'd never realized before just how chilling one of what he called his 'smiles of cold promise' really looked.

'If my plans work out,' she told him softly, 'there won't be one of them alive to come after you in the morn shy;ing.'

He stared at her for a moment, then a sudden shiver swept the length of his body. 'Hmm,' Storm said, survey shy;ing the result critically. 'That looks … interesting.'

She turned and left him then, standing dumbfounded in the road, scarcely able to believe his good fortune.

'So, Maervidal, how do you like the wine?' Storni looked up at Calivar Murpeth and smiled with an easiness that the real Maervidal Iloster would not have felt. 'It's very good,' she said eagerly. 'Very… fruity.'

'That's the saisha in it,' purred Murpeth's right-hand man. Aldluck Dreen had sidled up to them more quietly than she'd thought such a large man would have been able to move, though the revel was raging heartily all around them. Laughter and loud, well-oiled voices were raised in such a din that the Sembian piper trio could scarcely be heard this far across the lofty hall.

'The what?' Storm asked, playing the role of an inno shy;cent scrivener with a good memory and a clear eye, but not much worldliness backing them up. He was the per shy;fect Zhent informant, though they seemed to have found an imperfection in this one. A soon to be fatal imperfec shy;tion, she had no doubt.

'Saisha,' Murpeth said smoothly, darting a quelling glance at Aldluck, who seemed to have already downed rather more firewine than it was good for a man to take aboard this early of an evening, 'is more popularly known as hammerlock.'

'Because it locks up your joints,' Aldluck snarled, 'so we have to use a hammer if we want to bend them- ahahaha!'

'Aldluck,' the sly-tongued local Zhentarim leader said smoothly, 'I think it's time to tell Brezter to be ready,