There were merchants in Marsember more ruthless and dishonest than Lord Durexter Dagohnlar—but he took care not to have any dealings with them nor to cross them in even the smallest way. He even took small losses here and there in keeping himself too useful to them to be eliminated. There were also many Marsemban merchants almost as shady in dealings as he was—but Durexter took care to keep holds over such men, so as to prevent what was happening right now: two of them coming by night to forcibly collect coins the bound couple had swindled away from them.
The fat, sweating, jovial one would be the smuggler and stolen-goods-vendor Bezrar, whose schemes were as brutish and simple as he was. The taller, thinner one was the real danger: Malakur Surth dealt in poisons and drugs, among other things, and had dealings with local priests of Shar and with certain spell-wielding outlanders—even, if the latest whispers Durexter had paid good coin for were correct, at least one Red Wizard of Thay.
Unbeknownst to Durexter, his lady lying beside him could have supplied the name of that Thayan mage, for—thanks to the private rental-chambers at a local house of beauty, and the enterprising matrons who patronized them—her sources were even more expensive and exclusive. Malakar Surth had recently entered into limited bound service with one Harnrim "Darkspells" Starangh for their mutual profit and advancement.
None of which was much warm comfort, considering that Durexter had openly and sneeringly short-coined Bezrar and Surth, laughingly directing them to "call on the gods" or "beseech the Crown" for their losses; sums set down in writing nowhere, if any of the parties involved had any wits at all, and concerned with completely unlawful business dealings. It would be long seasons of cells and roadgang-work for anyone who went yapping to the authorities.
It was, of course, Surth who spoke first. "You both know us," he said silkily, "and why we're here. We intend to leave this grand house of yours with what's owed to us—Bezrar, the rope!—and the persuasion we employ can be as gentle or as painful as you determine."
"Oh! Ah!" Bezrar responded, unbuckling his breeches. Starmara made a muffled sound that might have been a bleat of alarm or might have merely been an expression of disgust, but revealed to her from-the-floor gaze was a leather cod of weary age and condition, below a long, continuous coil of coarse rope that had been wound round and round the merchant's hips, adding noticeably to his impressive girth—which shrank rapidly as the merchant tugged, hauled on the rope, then began a ponderous imitation of a dancing-lass undulating on a pedestal at a revel, shedding coils around his feet with a clumsiness that made Surth sigh and Starmara suddenly want to laugh. This Bezrar was so much like Durexter trying to be alluring. . . .
"Your bedposts will do admirably to anchor the two ropes we have here," Surth explained casually, "as we tie the other ends to your ankles—securely, I hope—and lower you both out the window, head-first into the canal below."
Starmara no longer felt in the least like laughing.
"We'll dangle you underwater for a bit for the eels to have something to nibble on then pull you up and ask you for some money. Bez here is strong; he can haul you up many times, though of course the more angry and tired we get, the longer we'll leave you to breathe water or feed fishes. Simple enough, hmm?"
Durexter—who had not been gagged—chose that moment to disagree, loudly and profanely. Surth merely smiled, but when the lord merchant progressed to shouting, the dealer in drinkables knelt with a knee on Durexter's throat and remarked, "Bellow any more and I'll cut your tongue out. I know you can write down the whereabouts of your money—even with several broken fingers."
He looked over at Starmara, and added, "That goes for you too, Lady Dagohnlar. Scream once, and you'll get away with it—but my knife will make sure you don't scream twice ... or ever again use that lashing tongue you're so proud of, for the rest of your life. However, ahem, short that may be. Bez and I have registered this little debt, you see—so we could seize this house in the regrettable event of your deaths and strip most of its contents before your other creditors awakened to dispute our right to do so."
He waved an airy hand, longknife flashing, and lifted his knee because Durexter had gone a rich, convulsively twisting purple. "Ah, but forgive me: I've forgotten to announce what will happen when we get tired of hauling you up to drip dirty canal-water all over this nice carpet. Assuming, of course, you don't simply remember where in this nice house your rainy-day wealth is hidden, so we your honored guests can recover our losses."
He pointed at his hooded companion with his blade. "Bez here has just taken delivery of a new longknife—show the nice Dagohnlars your knife, Bez! Aha, see!—and he wants to test its edge in real cutting. Now, I've recently noticed that men. . . and women, too, by the gods, come to think of it... have toes. Lots of them. Little appendages none of us really need. We could relieve you of them, one by one, and collect them for Ponczer down at the Firehelm to cook up for you in a nice dish. Durexter first, I think. When we're done, we'll drop you in your own cellar to bleed and give the rats something to nibble—I hate rats, don't you? Squeaking, swarming, ravenously gnawing things . . ."
Surth stood up, admired the glittering tip of his own knife, then lifted his eyebrows, looked down at Starmara as if only now remembering her, and said softly, "Ah, Lady Starmara! With your beauty, perhaps we could arrange a pleasanter punishment ... or, on the other hand, perhaps you might unfortunately lose that beauty." He watched his knife gleam as he turned it, slowly, and smiled.
"By S-shar herself," Durexter whispered, as the slender merchant bent swiftly to put his knife to Starmara's cheek, "what're you doing, man?"
"Hold still, dear," Malakar Surth said fondly—but unnecessarily, as Starmara had just fainted—and deftly sliced through the belt of her robe, to remove her gag. He turned his head to smile at Durexter and replied, "What am I doing, lord? 'Leering triumphantly' is the appropriate phrase, I believe."
As he felt Aumun Bezrar's rough hands at his ankles and the prickle of coarse rope, it was Lord Durexter Dagohnlar's chance to faint. Enthusiastically, he seized it.
* * * * *
She was panting, now, almost as loudly as the man so close behind her. They were both scrambling on the rooftops in the clinging mists, perhaps the length of a long wagon apart—and Rhauligan was gaining.
Narnra doubled around a buttress of vomiting gargoyles—vomiting birdnests, it seemed, and she slipped and almost fell when they suddenly erupted in black, squawking, fluttering gorcraws or the like—and silently cursed the man. He seemed to know every roof and facade and alleyway, where she did not, and twice now had almost cornered her with no place to leap to, and no safe place to climb down.
Almost, and—blast! Again!
At the far end of the roof she'd just landed on—one with a drenched little rooftop garden, reached through a door protected by a massive, chased iron gate that might have given an army trouble, let alone one thief armed with a few fangs and her fingernails—was . . . nothing.
A canal, with a near-impossible long leap across it to a grand mansion . . . and not the roof of that ornate turret-sprouting fortress of stone, either, but a lone dark and open window, high above the dark waters below. Narnra snatched a glance back over her shoulder and saw just what she'd expected: Rhauligan smiling grimly as he gained her rooftop, ready in a crouch for any desperate rush she might make at him . . . leaving her no place to go.
No place but the desperate fool's leap.
The Silken Shadow clenched her fists, threw back her head to gulp air, chose her path across the garden between the great tubs and barrels of dripping plants—and ran for all she was worth, gaining speed and veering at the end just enough to hurl herself up ... up ... high into the night, tumbling once . . . twice . . .
Glory of glories! She was going to—
Crash into the window-sill hard enough to numb her arm and shoulder or break them outright, smash all the wind from her lungs, and somersault her helplessly into the darkness beyond, to thump, bounce, and skid along on a thick, fur-like carpet.
Colored glass in two decorative side-panels shattered and sang around her as she burst them wide, to bounce and swing in her wake, and . . .
There was a great bed in the ornate room. A naked man and woman lay bound hand and foot beside each other by the foot of it—and turning from them, two dark-clad, hooded figures with curved, gleaming knives in their hands!
Winded and in pain, Narnra could do no more than twitch and writhe as she came to a halt—and black-clad bodies blotted out the light.
Steel flashed down and bit into her, so cold and sharp that she couldn't have screamed even if she'd had breath enough to do so. Narnra rolled away, or tried to, mewing in pain, as those knives bit down again and again.
Seven
INTRIGUE IS A FINE DARK WINE
Making coins and crushing rivals is a fine day's feasting—but the dance of intrigue that leads to such things is a fine dark wine.
Andratha Thunbarr
My Days As A Merchant Queen
Year of the Wandering Wyrm
"Get her! By Shar, a hired slayer! Durexter, you'll pay for this!" Surth snarled, stabbing for all he was worth. He promptly slipped on the bunched-up carpet for the fourth time and fell heavily across the newcomer, leaving Bezrar no safe place to stab.
"Not mine!" the trussed merchant cried frantically, from the floor. "Not mine!"
"That's true," another voice roared, as someone else burst through the window, sending fresh shards of glass bouncing and singing across the bedchamber, "because she's mine!"
Gasping, shuddering, and pawing feebly for her own knife, Narnra Shalace sobbed in the grip of worse pain than she'd ever felt before, searing and wet and—emptying. She was emptying out, flowing . . .
Struggling atop her, Malakar Surth set the point of his knife into the floor, drove it down hard through a gap in the tiles, and used it as a handle to drag himself off of the heaving, slithering night-slayer beneath him. Such folk often carried poisons—possibly ones he himself had supplied—and he wanted to be well away from this one before—
Glarasteer Rhauligan ducked under Bezrar's wild slash, slammed a balled fist into the fat merchant's rotund chest—above the belly and below the heart, forcing Bezrar into the wild battlecry of "Eeep!"—and ran on, slamming hard into Surth and smashing him back against the nearest wall, which happened to sport a glass-fronted wardrobe.
More singing shards rained down amid the bouncing of Surth's bruised limbs, and Rhauligan found his feet, snatched Narnra by the shoulder, and was away toward the window before the wardrobe wavered, shivered all over as Starmara Dagohnlar screamed for the fate of her finest frilled lovegowns and nightrobes, and began its ponderous but inexorable thundering topple to the floor.
Malakar Surth, head ringing and hands smarting from dozens of small cuts, got himself dazedly up onto one elbow, coughing for breath, in time to wonder why what faint light there was in the room was so swiftly disappearing . . . for all the world as if black night was coming down from above like a solid ceiling . . .
The crash of the wardrobe slamming down with force enough to snatch everyone off their feet—or in the case of the trussed Dagohnlars, into the air—was loud enough to deafen Surth, even before his head burst through the flimsy back panel of the piece with a loud splintering sound. Had the wardrobe possessed stout wooden front doors, on the other hand, he might never again have heard anything at all.
This was not a consideration he was presently in any fit condition to entertain. Wearing a rough cap of splinters, Surth's hooded head lolled and sagged to one side.
Bezrar caught a glimpse of his partner's fate as he fetched up against the window-frame and for one sickening moment thought he was going to go canal-diving right out through it.
When he found his feet again, he reeled across the room with more speed than skill, suffering a bruising punch from the second night-slayer as he rushed past—and was gone out the bedchamber door and down through the dark and silent house.