Mirt the Merciless commanded would entertain many offers in the years ahead.
If, that is, he survived this first hiring in the lawless cauldron Amn had become.
No noble of Waterdeep personally risked his neck in those bloody fields, for Amnians did not take kindly to outlanders meddling in their affairs. Mirt's commander these few fleeting months had been no clear-eyed Hawkwinter veteran, but a man of Amn. A tall, emerald-eyed, neatly bearded, and gently smiling ruthless murderer of a vizier, Harlo Ongalor. Mirt hated his very shadow, and strongly suspected the vizier loved him about as much.
Ongalor ruled Prince Elashar just as he did Mirt, which surprised Mirt not at all. Prince Elashar Torlath was purportedly the descendant of Prince Esmar, a son of King Imnel IV of Amn who'd long been believed to have died soon after birth.
That much, Mirt believed. What he did not believe was the rest of the tale the vizier spun so glibly whenever it seemed necessary: that all those years ago, Esmar had been spirited away to provide a royal line in hiding for Amn, 'awaiting its dire hour of need.'
For one thing, there was more than one Prince Elashar. Or rather, more than one man of the Rightful Hands riding with a closed helm whose seldom-seen face was identical to that of the prince. Coincidence, perhaps, but Mirt himself had bull-broad shoulders that were unusual, and doubly so in a man of his height. Such builds were more often seen in men a head taller than he-yet another man riding with the Rightful Hands looked just like Mirt.
Moreover, the Hands had captured several members of rival merchant families-including the Lady Helora Roselarr and Gorus Narbridle-and as he'd been alert enough to watch for all briefly-bared faces, Mirt was certain 'doubles' of most of them were riding under the vizier's command.
Nor was Ongalor working alone. Magic aided him out of nowhere when he needed it. Which meant that his mutterings from time to time with various riders were conferences with disguised hurlers-of-magic.
Mirt's eyes might miss nothing, but he knew how to keep his mouth shut. He was, after all, being paid to do so.
So he nodded respectfully to the pretender riding with them, and held high the princely banner: an emerald- hued human right hand clutching a horizontal dagger, point to the sinister, erupting vertically out of the top of a large, faceted emerald. Tasteless, and bad blazonry to boot, but then, Mirt wasn't being paid to be a herald, either.
There were armies riding all over Amn, some backed by wealthy traders from Tethyr or from Calimshan, and every one concealing their true natures behind this or that false heir from the various fallen royal families of Amn; ambitious-or trapped-pretenders, all.
One of those rival armies, the Just Blades, was on its way even then. A strong band of well-armed and armored butchers, sponsored by the Gauntyls and Gralhunds, and backing Prince Uldrako, a true pretender. Which was to say an ambitious young Amnian who knew full well he had no royal nor noble blood, and was passing himself off as the scion of an entirely fictitious elder branch of the royal family. His skills consisted of good looks, a complete lack of scruples, staggering indebtedness to his sponsors, and the good sense to accord them the utter loyalty of a fawning slave. Mirt happened to know that his banner (a stylized side-on crown, depicted as a black arc with five spires erupting from it, on a gold field) had been designed by the Gauntyl house limner, and Gauntyl tutors had coached 'Uldrako' in his invented lineage and life story.
He had no doubt that Harlo Ongalor had done likewise with the doubles of Prince Elashar, the Amnian noble captives, and a certain Mirt the Merciless. All part of preparing for the right moment to eliminate the troublesome originals-who stubbornly persisted in having opinions and aims of their own-for replacement with their loyal-to- Ongalor duplicates.
And that right moment, Mirt suspected, had almost arrived. Why else would the vizier have ordered Mirt and only 'this dozen' of his warriors to remain in Ombreir and guard 'the valuable ones,' with the Just Blades sweeping across the Dauntir to storm the Araunvol mansion while the main might of the Rightful Hands rode elsewhere with the doubles? The Merciless hadn't failed to notice that the vizier's chosen dozen consisted of the veterans who were most personally loyal to Mirt-and Torandral, the most inexperienced, trouble-prone youngling in the Hands.
The vizier and his wizard friends would vanish at the last possible moment, of course, once the Just Blades were at the mansion's very gates and escape was impossible. Leaving Mirt and his warriors to a bloody doom and any surviving hostages to be later spell-switched with their doubles, or magically blown apart from afar, to shatter any chances of Gauntyl and Gralhund success.
Mirt had long since become disgusted with various atrocities ordered by the vizier, as the Rightful Hands butchered their way across Amn-to say nothing of the general ruin of the fair country around the Hands-and had begun looking for a way out. Only to discover Ongalor's hidden wizards, and how closely they were watching to thwart just such desertions.
'We're trapped here,' Lady Roselarr said quietly. 'Are you trapped, too? Is that why you're keeping silent?'
'Or have you been enthralled by the vizier's pet wizards? Or hatching your own betrayals?' Narbridle asked, even more softly. Mirt did not have to look to know that the bald noble had drawn a little poisoned needle-dagger, under the table.
Instead, he looked to Roselarr. 'To your queries: yes.' Then he turned to Narbridle. 'To yours: no. So put your tainted steel away.'
Sighing heavily, Mirt told them truthfully, 'I have no intention of betraying either of you, yet I see no road by which I
'Are camped the other side of yonder hill,' Narbridle agreed. 'While that sneering sadist Ongalor smiles, watching us all with those lazy-lidded eyes, and waits for them to close his little trap.'
'We hate and fear him,' Roselarr whispered. 'Warrior, admit it: So do you.'
'Admitting things is seldom wise for anyone in my profession,' Mirt replied, 'let alone someone in my current situation. That is the only reply I can give you, other than to say I understand you fully, I deeply appreciate your truly generous offer, and I shall be in touch with both of you-with utmost discretion, for all our sakes-as soon as I can. Whenever that 'soon' may be. You have my word on this.'
The two Amnians sat as if frozen for a moment. Then they sighed and took up their figurines, not looking at each other. Both little carvings still glowed as they vanished once more beneath concealing clothing, signifying that their shieldings remained active.
Turlos wordlessly held open the door, and Mirt nodded the two Amnians out of the turret room, keeping his face carefully expressionless.
After the Amnians had descended the stairs out of sight, the two sellswords stood listening for a long time ere closing the door again to wall out the rest of Ombreir.
Then, leaning against it, nose to nose, Mirt and Turlos regarded each other.
'Well, now,' Turlos murmured. 'Well, now.. '
Mirt shook his head grimly. 'By Tempus and Tymora both, I know not what I'm going to do. This trap is intended to end in all our deaths. Things are going to get far nastier before they get better.'
'Oh, yes,' his trusted bodyguard replied softly, as his body shivered and shifted shape, the grim face of Turlos melting back into the sneering visage of the vizier. Ongalor was smiling a crooked smile as he warningly held up fingers that bore magic rings glowing with sudden power. 'I've no doubt of that.'
'Another moonlit night,' Deln said grimly, checking the hilts of his many blades.
'Another feast to which we're not invited,' Marimbrar added, drawing on his gauntlets.
'Aye,' Loraun put in sarcastically, 'it seems the vizier doesn't need us to stand guard over the food this time.'
'That means either he doesn't want us there to see what happens,' Tauniira murmured, 'and it'll probably be something fatal, to someone who's displeased Lord Most Highnosed Ongalor-or he believes his loyal wizards and bullyboys hidden among the Amnian captives can handle any trouble the rest of the Amnians might give him.'
Mirt nodded. Of those hired into the Rightful Hands with him, Tauniira and Loraun were the two he most
