“I desire to wear the body of a Lord of Waterdeep for a time,” the fell monster replied, with a smile that displayed a row of jagged fangs that in places outstripped his sword for length. “And—unfortunately for the sometimes-famous and often beloved-of-the-gods man called Durnan—I’ve chosen you.”
* * * * *
Strange sights in plenty are seen in Skullport, and folk who survive there long have learned not to stare overmuch, nor linger long in one place, lest they be marked for dealing with later. So it was that no lizardman nor scurrying halfling moved more than a wary eyeball as a little line of drifting, dancing sparks of radiance came out of the darkness, heading down a certain alley that was narrow and noisome even for the Source of Slaves. A sorceress out a-hunting from the great city above, perhaps, or a fetch sent by a noble’s pet wizard, or a brood of will o’ wisp younglings? It was better not to speculate, but merely to observe without being seen to look, and mark where the lights went.
More than a few of those watchful eyes widened as they recognized the shuffling, wheezing bulk that trudged along in the lights’ wake, worn leather boots flopping. A Lord of Waterdeep, now…
Many folk now skulking the streets of Skullport would fain be seeing the sun over Waterdeep above were it not for the Lords’ decrees—and Mirt had made rather more than a handcount of personal foes down the years, too. Some of them had offered much coin for his delivery to their feet, alive and more or less whole—or failing that, just his head, goggling at them on a platter.
So it was that the distinctive rolling walk and bristling moustache was noticed often, and excited whispers and hurryings followed those recognitions. It was not long before a dagger spun out of the night, thrown hard and unerringly, coming fast at the old Harper’s left eyeball. Mirt ignored it, keeping his gaze instead on the stones underfoot, any bodies that might be moving out to block his path, and the guiding trail of star-motes.
The dagger struck his invisible shields and spun away with the faintest of singing sounds, heading back at the hand that had flung it. So, too, did the first stone that leaped out of the darkness at the back of Mirt’s head, and the second; the band of slayers-for-hire called Hoelorton’s Hands were known to be deft hands with a sling.
Or a cudgel. Mirt heard the faint scrape of a rushing boot on stone and spun around like a wary barrel, his dagger gleaming in one fat fist. Two rogues were almost upon him, running fast. One swung his stout club in a deadly arc as he came.
The fat moneylender’s hairy fingers plucked at the battered wood as it whistled past, and pulled. Overbalanced, the startled man barely had time for an apprehensive grunt as the pommel of Mirt’s dagger came up under his chin and sent him swiftly into the arms of the ladies who whisper softly to warriors in slumber: He crashed over like a felled tree, spitting teeth from his shattered jaw, his eyes already dark.
The second man had to dance around the falling body and met Mirt’s roundhouse left while trying to get his cudgel up. Mirt let his knuckles take the man’s head into the nearest wall, hard, and felt something break under them before he spun away to follow the drifting lights again, wheezing along patiently as if nothing had befallen. The two huddled bodies in the alley did not rise to follow.
Another dagger flashed out of the darkness and a bucketful of stones plummeted from the air as Mirt trudged under one of the many catwalks that crisscrossed the emptiness above most streets and passages of Skullport. His shields sent both offerings back whence they’d come, journeys marked by one strangled, gurgling cry.
Mirt sighed in reply—Faerun certainly seemed to breed no pressing shortage of fools, these days—and hunched his shoulders to pass under a particularly low catwalk.
A garotte slipped down and around his throat as he emerged into the torchlight beyond—but the fat old Lord paid it no apparent heed, striding deliberately on. Only the corded muscles rising into view on his thick neck betrayed the effort it took to walk on without slowing, as the waxed cord skittered over the hard, smooth steel of the gorget that covered his grizzled throat.
It took less than a breath before the wheezing merchant reached the full stretch of the deadly cord and the skilled arms that wielded it, and their leather-clad owner pitched forward out of the darkness above with a startled oath, hauled down into the street like a grain sack from a loft. A casual swing of one thick arm brought the ready dagger solidly into the masked man’s temple, and the garotte fell to the cobbles alongside its limp, crumpled owner. Mirt did not even bother to look down; this was Skullport, after all. Moreover, business awaited ahead … and if he knew Durnan, ‘twould be hasty business.
Three masked figures stepped out of a side alley a little way ahead of him, but Mirt showed no sign of slowing or drawing the stout sword at his belt. He forged on steadily into waiting death, and after a tense moment, one of the three stepped back and waved at his fellows to do likewise.
“Your pardon, Mirt,” he growled. “You’re looking so well, I almost didn’t know you.”
“Prettily said, Ilbarth,” Mirt grunted, turning suddenly to glare at one of the others, who’d sidled just a step too close to the fat old man’s back. “So ye can live, all of ye.”
“Generous, white-whiskers,” that man said softly, “when it’s three to one.”
“I’m known for my open-handed generosity,” Mirt said, baring his teeth in a grin without slowing, “so I’ll let ye live a second time, Aldon. Take care ye don’t use up all thy luck and my patience, now.”
Aldon took one uncertain step in pursuit of the wheezing man. “How’d you know my name?”
“He knows everyone in Skullport,” Ilbarth said with a nervous grin. “Isn’t that right, Mirt? I’ll bet cold coin you’ve lived all your life down here.”
“Not yet,” Mirt grunted, turning to fix him with one cold and level gray-blue eye. “Not quite yet.”
He turned away and went on down the alley without looking back, but the three men did not follow. They stood watching him for a time, and soon had cause to be very glad they’d not proceeded with more violent activities.
The old moneylender strode past a tentacle that slid down from an upper window to pluck aloft a man who’d whistled to summon it, stepped around an ore sprawled on its face in a pool of blood with a spear standing up in its back, and found his way suddenly blocked by a dozen or more lithe, slim figures whose skin was as jet black as the soft leathers they wore. Almost mockingly, the line of guiding motes of light winked and sparkled in the distance beyond them.
“How now, old man?” one of the drow hissed. “Care to buy your life with a careful and verbose listing of all your wealth, where it can be found, and just how it’s guarded?”
“No,” Mirt growled, “I’m in a hurry. So stand aside, and I’ll let all of ye live.”
Coldly mocking laughter gave him reply, and one of the dark elves sneered, “Kind of you, indeed.”
“Indeed, but I won’t tarry,” Mirt growled. “Stand aside, now!”
“Giving us orders, old man?” the drow who’d first spoken responded tartly. “For that, you’ll taste a whip!” Slim gloved fingers went eagerly to a thigh sheath.
“Or three,” another of the drow agreed, as other hands made the same movement, and slim black tentacles curled and cracked. Mirt sighed, opened his cupped hand to reveal the thing he’d taken from his pouch in the House of the Long Slow Kiss, and murmured a word.
The battered metal chevron in his palm erupted in a ringing, leaping sparkle of steel—and the old moneylender stood calmly watching as the magic he’d unleashed became a hundred slashing, darting swords that flew about the alley in front of him in a deadly whirlwind. Drow leaped desperately for safety, anywhere it might lie… but died anyway amid screams from open windows above. Someone paused on a catwalk to watch—and someone else smote that watcher from behind, contributing a helplessly-plunging, senseless body to the flashing carnage below.