"Helpless?" Shandril put her arms around him. "I'd hate to share my life, my bed, my chatter time, and my dreams with some swash-booted, jaw-wagging strutter. I like the man I have, sensitive and a little bumbling. So don't turn into Torm of the Knights on me, now."
Narm snorted. "Small chance of that," he replied, "unless you remember all the lewd jokes for me."
They glanced one last time around the wagon, made sure the waterskins were handy but safely stowed, and took seats on the perch. Their familiar battered shields were ready to hand. As he hefted them to make sure neither was jammed but both were secure against the bouncing and wagon-wallowing to come, Narm glanced at his lady and said softly, "You were more than a little upset last night, love. You said some… dark things. As if you expected to die soon."
Shandril met his gaze, her eyes calm. "I do. If I lose mastery over my own body again, I might even welcome death."
Narm shuddered. "I-this is so sudden, talk like this from you. Where's the lass who blasted beholders and Zhentarim like an army of archmages? Who set out in a fury to slay Manshoon?"
Shandril put her hand on his. "She slipped away some time ago. Every day changes us all, but it changes me more swiftly than most, and I fear I haven't much time left. If each of our lives is a candle, mine gets plunged into forgefires daily and melts away like butter in the sun."
Narm opened his mouth to say something and found that he could think of no words at all. Shandril leaned forward and kissed him, softly and deeply. As her tongue probed his, he felt heat and just a smarting trace of flame.
She drew her mouth away but kept her face close to his, their noses almost touching, and said urgently, "Narm, please don't let us waste time in strife. I may not have much time left. I know this bewilders you, my talking like this, but-hear me: Just a day ago, I could feel cool breezes on my skin, rough wood, or the stubble on your chin under my fingertips. Now all I feel is pain."
She looked away, to where the distant shouting figure of the caravan master was striding along the line of wagons, and shivered. "Pain," she added softly, "and the constant surging of spellfire rising in me. I'm going to explode soon or scorch half the Realms. Perhaps both."
Korthauvar Hammantle ran long, weary fingers through his hair. "If I hadn't hurled that spell…"
Hlael smiled crookedly. "Our spellfire-lass might be dead now, but more than a score of merchants and Voldovan's caravan guards would still be alive."
"Hurrh. A good half of them were acting for the Red Wizards or the Arcane of Luskan or the Cult, anyway."
"Or our Brotherhood. I'd say you thinned the ranks of dangerous Scornubrian loyal-to-cabals skulkers for a good month at least. Your spell worked, the wench lives, and- who's left, of Voldovan's traveling band of spellfire-seekers? I don't mean grasping merchants who'd take it if it fell into their hands, but agents sent along on this run just for the purpose of getting their hands on one Shandril Shessair, or at least her spellfire. Who's left?"
Korthauvar reached for a handy decanter, scowling thoughtfully. "Well, now, I think we can agree Aumlar Chaunthoun is dead at last, and his two bully-blades, too. I'm not so sure that the Red Wizard who attacked him went down, though."
Hlael Toraunt held out an empty goblet to be filled. "Phel-dred? I doubt it. That one has survived more 'certain deaths' than even Aumlar."
The taller Zhentarim poured, sipped his own goblet, refilled it with apparent surprise at how much he'd just emptied it, and sighed. "So how many of us are left?"
Hlael made a wry face. "Considering the Brotherhood as a unified force? I don't think anyone since the High Imperceptor has made that mistake!"
Korthauvar gave him a look devoid of the slightest hint of mirth and replied, "Humor me."
Hlael set down his glass a little hastily. "Well, there're Mhegras and Sabran-a very dangerous priest. Mhegras is all temper and bluster, but with Sabran guiding him…"
"I've not seen either this morn. They were running around in the battle, but now seem to have disappeared."
"Yes, but we can't assume they're dead. Any two wagon-merchants could be them in spell-guise, or they could be skulking in the roadside brush, or-"
Korthauvar waved an impatient hand. "Who else?" Hlael held out his goblet again. "Praulgar and Stlarakur are dead, which leaves just three young magelings I know of, plus whatever hireswords they've brought along: Deverel, Jalarrak, and Rostol."
"More anxious to do each other dirty than to accomplish anything, of course," Korthauvar agreed, pouring,
"Of course. The most numerous opposition to the Brotherhood in the caravan remains the Cult of the Dragon-as usual, hereabouts. Our mighty young mage of a spellfire consort, Narm the Clueless, took down Praulgar's slayer, but 'twas really spellfire that slew him and his fellow blade, Brasker and Holvan. Another pair of Cult swords-their names, I know not-went down in the same battle by other hands. The worst of it all is, I'm not sure how many more Cult swordsmen and thieves like them are along posing as merchants. There was a flurry of signings with Voldovan, on and off, after he agreed to take Shandril Shessair's passage."
"Aye, every third wagon-horse could be a foe. Not a new worry. Count me out who else we do know."
"Well, the two really capable Cultists along are both dead: Malivur, who was rather carelessly playing a spice-merchant, and the thief Krostal. Another firewits mage with a wise guide."
"Ah, the clockseller. I thought I knew him from somewhere. He stole the Tiara of the Eyes from under our noses-and off Lady Thaulindra's head-in Sheirtalar some years back."
"That's the man. That leaves one more Krostal knew about, but I haven't spotted: a Cult wizard he considered 'powerful.' There were also whispers among Bluthlock's men that they'd best watch for a mage of Scornubel along on Voldovan's run who served the Cult but also quietly received messages from Luskan."
Korthauvar's brows rose, and he reached for the decanter again. "If both sayings are true and refer to the same man, he could well outstrip us both in spells."
Hlael nodded. "At least our tarrying has cleared the field of a handcount of other wizards, for when we have to move at last."
"What's your measure of the Arcane, the Red Wizards, and others? I confess I'm just peering and guessing, with not a single surety to my reckoning."
Hlael shrugged. "I wear the same cloak of doubt, but there are two persons for certain. One is Stlarakur's slayer, a sly rogue who calls himself the 'Dark Blade of Doom'-Marlel of Scornubel, being paid by I know not whom, and currently posing as Haransau Olimer, of 'Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths.' "
Korthauvar nodded. "For all his oil, he's hard to miss. The other?"
Hlael shrugged. "Another Red Wizard, but I know not whom, or his guise in the wagons."
"There's never just one of them," Korthauvar said bitterly, his fingers idly caressing the velvet-smooth decanter.
Hlael smiled his crooked smile. "Aye, but which fat, cowering merchant is it?"
"I don't know," Korthauvar said slowly, "and I don't dare show myself trying to find out." He smiled suddenly, and added, "So we can tell Drauthtar we dare not move in to try to take spellfire yet."
A cold, familiar voice spoke from another handy decanter sharply and suddenly enough to make both Zhentarim flinch. "Consider me informed. As it happens-luckily for you-I concur with your assessment. The time to snatch spellfire is not yet. Proceed, but don't fail to take Shandril when the time is right, or your deaths will be as lingering and as painful as you deserve."
Korthauvar and Hlael shivered in unison, exchanged hasty glances, and murmured, "It shall be as you command."
"Indeed. Don't smash decanters this time. 'Tis a waste of good wine, drink that I've a feeling you're going to need."
Panting, Besmer risked a look back. They were still plodding after him, red-faced and scowling, swords out.