pit of angry, hungry vipers.
The last ward parted at his word and gesrure, and he strode into the vault, speaking the words that would keep the spider frozen above him.
He stopped, gasping in disbelief.
The cradle on the table was empty.
He shot glances all around the room, even as he strode over to the cradle. 'Whiteblood!' he whispered slowly, aghast.
The staff-his work, his unfinished masterpiece-was gone.
Manshoon raced around the table, knowing his search was futile. He could already see every corner of the vault and the floor behind the table. He looked up, seeing only the soft, steady glow of the radiance spell he'd cast long ago to give him light in this place. The ceiling, just like the floor and the walls, was bare. He went to his knees and peered at the underside of the table, even though the staff was far too long to be hidden there. Nothing, of course.
Rage rising in him, Manshoon of the Zhentarim cast a tracing spell on the cradle, in hopes that some too- small-to-see dust mote or fragment had crumbled off the staff and been left behind there that he could use to try ro trace the vanished staff. If the magic did its utmost, he'd be able to identify who'd taken it and where.
His spell flared, wild hope leaping in him as it found something and began to work.
The spell died, leaving Manshoon staring at something small and white lying in the cradle, that hadn't been been there-or visible there, at least-before. It was…
A tiny stone carving of a human left hand, in a fist but with its forefinger pointing straight out or up. Smooth- carved of some white stone.
A tiny holy symbol of Azuth.
Manshoon really cursed this time, his face going as white as bleached bone.
He drew back from the little carving as if burned-and then warily approached it again to stare at it intently. His rage slowly left him, and he wrapped himself in cold calm.
Traveling back through all the guardposts, he consoled himself with a sudden thought.
Manshoon of the Zhentarim. He had become important enough for gods to notice.
'An agteement, Friend Procurer, is an agreement,' the plump, ragged-robed priest of Tymora said with dignity, 'and I took care that this one would be a bond before the gods-or at least the gods that most govern us both. Tymora answered my prayers with holy visions both vivid and specific. Did ye not assure me that Mask did the same for ye?'
'Y-yes,' Torm said reluctantly, hefting the staff in his hands: 'Tis just that I… I've never stolen anything quite this powerful or well-guarded before. I…' He waved one hand to indicate the strength of his struggle for the right words, his usual wit failing him, then burst out, 'My hands don't want to let it go out of their grasp.
I hunger to hold it, to stroke it-not like a woman, mind, but yes, stroke it-often. Whenever I feel the need. Something inside me doesn't want to let it out of my presence, lest I never get the chance to hold it again. Haularake, this seems fool-headed, even when I'm just saying it to you, but… 'tis so, I tell you!'
Rathan nodded sympathetically. 'We consecrated holy ones feel the same way when we first touch holy altars and relics of our gods. We cannot bear to be parted from them. 'Tis why some temple altats are surrounded of nights by sleeping priests with their hand or cheek or some part of their skin pressed against the holy stone. They end up heaped in a great snoring ring around an altar!'
'That must hamper morning devotions a trifle,' the young thief said, folding his arms around the staff as if it were an overlarge child he was holding tenderly to his breast. 'I-no, I can't do this!'
'And failing to do it, stand foresworn before three gods?' Rathan teminded him. 'Saer Torm, are ye already, in thy green count of seasons, that tired of living?'
'You're not much older!'
'I,' the priest of Tymora replied with as much dignity as any old, slow, and wise high priest, 'am not the one contemplating breaking a holy bond. My age enters not into this. I have never claimed ro be grayer in years then ye, nor wiser. I merely believe that a bond is a bond-and even a thief to whom lying and bond-breaking is everyday ease should hold that a bond is a bond when the very god of thieves hath been a part of the bond in question. In short, staff-stealer: break this agreement, and ye're tluined.'
Totm sighed gustily, looked down at the staff in his arms, then glanced around the forest glade they were sitting in. 'I know that,' he said in a voice raw with anguish, kicking his heels against the great rock he was sitting on. 'What, precisely, was the agreement again?'
'So ye can slithet all over it like a snake seeking a hole to slide through?' Rathan asked in amused tones. 'Very well. I'm a priest. I have every last waking moment left in my life to talk over holy matters. Except when actually praying, of course. I trust that doesn't poad ve into seeking to end mv life, here and now.'
'Don't tempt me,' Torm muttered. 'Let me hear the deal.'
Rathan smiled and leaned forward on his rock to stab one stubby finger at the thief. 'Ye were to steal the staff and put the token of Azuth that I gave ye in its place. Ye would thereby be protected from all harm by the spells and vigilance of the Unseen One, god of spellcasters, while ye did the theft. After, I am to put the staff on this altar of Azuth'-the priest swung around on his rock to point down the glade at the circular, flat-topped stone that lay in the leaf-littered moss and dirt at the far end of the clearing-'and the Unseen One will then magically claim it and leave a reward in its place. We split that offering evenly- evenly, thief-and ye give thy half to Mask, whilst I lay mine upon an altar of Tymora.'
Torm nodded a trifle wearily. 'I rise in Mask's measuring thanks ro my daring theft of something truly powerful, and you earn a smile from Lady Luck for chancing this crazed scheme and persuading me to have a hand in it.'
'Precisely,'Rathan agreed heartily. 'Tymora be praised.'
'And Mask be tickled pink or some such favorable hue,' Torm replied sourly-and thrust one end of the staff out to touch Rathan's chest, bowing his head and closing his eyes. 'Take it!'
Carefully, almost reverently, the priest closed both hands around the staff and tugged ever so gently.
Flinging back his head to sigh loudly enough to stir an echo in the nearest trees of Hullack Forest, Torm let go.
'There, now,' Rathan said soothingly. 'That wasn't-'
'Don't say it!' Torm shouted, springing up from his rock to yell in the priest's face. 'Yes, it was stlarning hard. Thank you very much for nor asking nor even suggesting I think along such lines! Grrr!'
He strode around the rocks, drawing his needle blade and slashing the air with it so furiously, it hissed and whistled as it cut nothing at all.
He stopped, sighed again, resheathed his thin sword, and sat down on the rocks again as if nothing had happened.
'Right,' he said calmly. 'That's done. Yout turn, I believe.'
Rathan nodded, his attention-as it had been from the moment the thief's sword had slid back into its sheath-on the staff in his hands. He wasn't stroking it as Torm had been, but he was studying it, hefting it in his hands as if to try to feel the magic it contained.
'Tymora look down!' he gasped. 'Such arrogance! He even labeled itI'
'Staff of Doom,' Torm intoned grandly. 'Made by Manshoon, mightiest of Zhentarim.' He chuckled. 'Modest, isn't he?'
'Hmm. Mayhap he feared it would get mixed up with the staff of another Zhent at some Brotherhood gathering or other,' the priest of Tymora said. 'We must grant that possibility.'
'We can grant the possibility that the tree he cut this from grew this limb with those words graven in it by the hands of the gods,' Torm replied sarcastically, 'and he merely found it and was seized by inspitation, but forgive me if I refrain from betting on such a likelihood, hey?'
Rathan raised his head and gave the thief a severe look. 'Thy faith is less than strong.'
'My faith in myself is strong,' Torm countered. 'The gods, I'm not so sure about. Especially the fanciful versions of gods some priests try to hand me. Some priests, note. Not you, stout champion of Tymora.'
Rathan looked up again. 'Stout champion?'
'Ah, you were listening.' Torm grinned. 'Purely an accidental slip of the tongue, I assure you.'
