With a resigned sigh, Ythnel shouldered her way through the press. She emerged to find herself within a cleared space in the middle of the lane. In the center of the circle, a dark-haired man towered over a trembling Iuna. Ythnel could read the threat of harm in his body language. As she took a step forward, Iuna turned toward her and pointed.
'She made me do it,' the little girl shrieked. 'She's a witch. She cast a spell over me and my father. I saw her do it in the middle of the night.'
At the mention of a witch, the crowd froze and a few cries arose from some faint-hearted citizens. The dark-haired man's head snapped up, his gaze following Iuna's outstretched arm and locking onto Ythnel. He straightened but made no move toward her.
'Is this true?' The man's hand dropped casually to the hilt of the short sword hanging in a leather scabbard at his side. 'Are you a witch, as the girl claims?'
In a city were the arcane was forbidden, Iuna's charge had turned the situation from a childish prank into a potentially deadly encounter. From the man's arrogant bearing, he was obviously nobility, which meant he also probably thought he was invincible. Ythnel had learned how to interact with such people from her years at the manor.
'I apologize, milord,' she began, bowing slightly at the waist. 'The truth of the matter is that I am this girl's governess. I'm afraid she is not very happy with the arrangement and has been making every attempt to ruin me. I assure you I will see to it personally that she is severely punished for this display.'
The nobleman nodded thoughtfully at this. Ythnel walked toward Iuna, hoping the matter finished and she could drag the girl off.
'She's lying,' Iuna blurted. 'My father bought her as a slave from Thay. Everybody knows that Thay is full of wizards.'
'Halt!' At the command, Ythnel stopped, watching the nobleman from the corner of her eye. He circled her slowly, examining her from head to foot. 'Your height, skin tone, and shaved head all mark you as Thayan. And the tattoo, is it not also a custom for wizards of that land to wear such decorations?'
'Many who are not wizards also bear such decorations, milord, so as not to stand out.' Ythnel noted that the nobleman's hand was now firmly wrapped around his sword hilt.
'Regardless, I think it prudent that you be questioned further. In the name of House Karanok, I order you arrested. Guards, take her.' The nobleman motioned, and Ythnel's attention was drawn to the several large, brutish men standing at the edge of the circle, acting as barriers between their lord and the Trade Center crowd. She cursed herself for not noticing them sooner, assuming they were just gawking bystanders.
Ythnel felt a presence behind her and spun inward to her left. With her right hand, she caught the outstretched wrist of the guard sneaking up on her, twisting it then thrusting down in a move she had learned from one of the many classes Sister Yenael taught on dealing pain. Driven to his knees, the man cried out as several bones in his wrist popped. Ythnel rammed her knee into his lower jaw, snapping his head back violently. The guard's eyes lost focus, and he collapsed to the ground with a thud.
Ythnel backed away, trying to keep the other brutes within her field of vision. There was no way she could take all of them. They easily outweighed her by a couple of hundred pounds each. If even one of them were to get hold of her, she would not have the strength to break free. Running was just as futile. The throng of spectators formed a tight, living wall that would surely slow her down enough for one of the thugs to grab her before she could break through. If only she were stronger, then she might stand a chance.
She could give herself that chance with magic.
Ythnel knew she could call on Loviatar for aid, tapping into the Power to enhance her own strength enough that she might be able to defeat the Karanok guards. She would be vulnerable, though, while she uttered the prayer and gave herself over to the divine energy flowing from her goddess in response to the petition. It was a risk she would take.
Yanking out the small scourge she wore under her dress, Ythnel began to chant. While there were no visible signs that anything was happening, she could feel the Power begin to flow into her. The sensation was different for everyone. Some handmaidens had told her it felt like being immersed in a bath of ice. A maiden visiting from Calimshan said it was a fire burning from the inside out. For Ythnel, her skin stung from a thousand tiny whips as the divine magic coursed through her. She wanted to cry out with joy and scream in agony.
'The witch is casting a spell! Stop her!' The nobleman's shout echoed in the recesses of Ythnel's mind. From somewhere beyond the pain, she registered the movement of the guards as they closed in, but she stayed focused on the symbol held out in front of her. Any distraction now, before the prayer was complete, and the Power would slip away.
'Iuna!' With a cry, Prisus burst from the crowd. The commotion drew Ythnel's attention, and as she turned to look, her concentration broke, severing the link to Loviatar. Then something smashed into the back of Ythnel's head, and darkness enveloped her.
The street was empty save for the light of the full moon shining down from a crisp and cloudless winter's night sky. Therescales stood in the shadows cast by a twstory building, his dark, hooded cloak aiding his thin frame to blend with the pools of blackness. Across the street lay his target, a large warehouse used by a local importer of exotic items to store his wares.
Satisfied no one else was around, Therescales intoned the Draconic words that accompanied the motions his hands were now making. With each syllable and sweep, his face began to change. The blond strands that barely covered his scalp became thick white curls. Skin that was once pulled tight over jaw and cheekbones now sagged and wrinkled.
Pockmarks appeared all over his beaklike nose, which flattened as the spell completed. In a matter of seconds, he was the spitting image of his mentor, the man who taught him this minor illusion.
Therescales picked the disguise not only for its irony, but because he never tired of the looks on the others' faces. It was like they had seen a ghost. Just the memory of their widened eyes and startled gasps brought a smirk to his lips as he crossed the street.
Stopping before the entrance, Therescales nervously played with the heavy gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand. He felt somewhat naked without his bracers and dagger, though the protection offered by the enchanted armbands would do him little good in this situation, and the weapon would only arouse suspicions. No, it was the shielding the ring provided that was important. Without it, his mind would be an open book to any with the means and desire to flip through its pages. Were that to happen, he would be as good as dead.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't the first time he considered the consequences, but there was no turning back; he was already in too deep. Fortunately, the rewards promised should he succeed made the dangers an acceptable part of the bargain. Therescales opened the door and stepped into the warehouse.
The interior of the building had been partitioned off so that Therescales now stood in a lantern-lit showroom that was only a fraction of the warehouse's square footage. Shelves of dark wood lined the walls at various heights, and marble pedestals dotted the floor. Upon these were displayed crafts and trinkets from all across Faerun: ivory carvings by Cormyrean artisans, carpets from Tethyr, lamps of multicolored glass made in Neverwinter, Thayan artwork, and other items of less recognizable origin but certainly no less value. Therescales walked through the gallery, making a show of examining each and every piece. From the corner of his eye, he watched a small, balding man sorting through a pile of papers at a desk by a door in the far wall. He didn't recognize the clerk; it was always someone different, so that was hardly surprising. Therescales worked his way closer, getting to within a few arm's lengths of the desk, when the clerk finally finished his task and looked up.
'I'm sorry, but all sales are by appointment only.' The man scowled. If Therescales had not seen his initial, startled reaction, he would have thought the clerk truly frustrated by the interruption.
'That's quite all right,' Therescales replied confidently. 'I was referred by a shadowy sage whose symbol is a black staff.' He smiled and waited.
The clerk became still for a moment, and Therescales could practically hear the clockwork gears turning in his head. Recognition blossomed on the little man's face, and he walked over to the nearby door. He pulled a key from a pouch on his belt and inserted it into the doorknob. With a twist, the lock was undone, and the clerk pushed the door open.
'I hope you find what you're looking for.'
Therescales quickly moved past the man and through the doorway. Beyond it waited the rest of the warehouse. The vast space was unlit save by moonbeams that fell through two skylights spaced evenly along the
