"Easy, lad," Sabran said. "You're here to learn patience, remember?"

Mhegras snorted. "As if the Brotherhood puts any value on that! All it really seems to mean in our ranks is 'underlings smiling and submitting as superiors do stupid things to them.'"

"Ah," Sabran replied with a little smile, "you're learning already."

Mhegras muttered angrily, "Well, listening to clever sayings from smug priests of Bane isn't why I joined the Zhentarim! I-"

"You joined for power," the weaver snapped back. "Like all the other young fools who think they can rule the world if they can just steal one more spell. Here were all these magics on offer, in return for a little groveling! I'm always amazed at how swiftly such trifling obediences become too high a price to pay for you arrogant puppies-and how each of you so clumsily plots treachery, thinking you're somehow special and your fate will be different from all your fellows you see slapped down all around you."

"You're the one who thinks yourself special," the wizard hissed. "You and all the rest of your smug brethre-"

"Fair morn to you, Swordmaster," Sabran said pleasantly. "I must confess my partner and I are fretting over the lateness of our departure. This certainly doesn't seem a safe y place to spend another night!"

"Nay, ye've got that right," Arauntar grunted, stepping up into the wagon with two grim guards in tow. "We're almost ready to roll-but I've orders to search four wagons once more, first, and I'm afraid yours is one of them. I'd like to do this quickly and take myself out of your way again, so…"

"Of course," the weaver replied. "We've moved nothing since your last look: finished garments to the left, bolts to the right, our own effects at the back…"

Mhegras stood glowering in the narrow cleared passage between the stacked and wedged tallchests and carry-coffers as the guards shuffled forward, moving a few coffers and peering halfheartedly into a tallchest or two.

"The flat carry-coffers all hold bolts of the same fabric," the weaver offered, watching a guard wrestle a coffertop off and peer suspiciously into its interior. "Musterdelvys."

Arauntar nodded and tapped a palm-sized painted plaque that had been slipped into a frame on one side of a tallchest. "Remind me one again what these symbols mean, please."

"Three stripes? Livery," Sabran explained. "Tabards and lambrequins for noble clients in Waterdeep, who desire all of their guards to wear their colors. Very wealthy patrons."

"We'll try not to keep them waiting longer than we have to," the caravan guard replied heavily and tapped a plaque with another symbol. "This one?"

"Mine," the furrier said quickly, stepping forward. "Pelicons of the finest make, also bound for sale in Waterdeep."

"Pelicons?"

"Open, fur-trimmed overcloaks worn by ladies of fashion, Swordmaster," Mhegras explained curtly.

"Ah. Fancycloaks!"

The furrier looked pained. "A particular sort of, ah, 'fancycloak,' sirrah, just as not all armor is the same." '

"Hunhh. Fashion, to be sure," Arauntar replied, his eyes fixed on the other two guards. They were busily shifting aside carry-coffers and peering behind them, making sure that nothing had been hidden along the sides of the wagon. He caught sight of something long and wooden at about the same time as they did-not the usual wedges, but something like a spar.

"Just what," he asked mildly, as the guard Lavlaryn triumphantly plucked one of them up and hefted it, "are these?"

"Peles, Swordmaster," the weaver said calmly. "A side-cargo we're carrying in hopes of recovering an outstanding debt."

Arauntar stared at the long-shafted wooden paddle, noting approvingly that Lavlaryn was paying particular attention to the ends and running his hands over it in search of secret hiding places or things that might twist or turn or… no, 'twas simply carved wood, a sapling mated to a paddle end too wide and shallow to be useful steering a boat in water.

"Just what does one use a pele for?"

"Putting bread, pies, and pastries in ovens and taking them forth again," the weaver explained. "As we've said before, Swordmaster, we've really nothing to hide here, an-"

There was a crash, as of armor clashing against armor, and the wagon shook. An expression of rage passed over the furrier's face, and he made as if to stride forward and grab someone, just for a moment-ere he let his face go blank again and his hands fall back to his sides. Arauntar observed this with interest as he watched both merchants for swift or covert movements, and Lavlaryn calmly drew forth a half-wound bowgun from his belt and began to winch it tight.

Onthur was the heavier of the two guards, and he was doing just what Arauntar had told him to: jumping up and down in one spot, in a place where he could grab a support-brace to keep from falling over if he had to. The entire floor of this wagon was false, raised about the width of a large man's hand above what it should be-and Orthil very much wanted to know what was hidden there.

Arms, it sounded like, or perhaps armor. Crash. Onthur looked to Arauntar for direction. The guard held up a staying hand in reply as he half-drew his sword and stepped forward. Lavlaryn was furiously readying his bowgun as Onthur stopped leaping and silence fell.

Into it Arauntar said calmly, "I'm glad ye've nothing to hide, merchants-because that should mean there won't be any unpleasantness about yer showing us yer hidden cargo. We haven't searched this wagon so often out of accident, nor for our own amusement. We spotted the false floor right away and figured ye were just getting something out of Scornubel unseen… but as time passes and attacks come down on us swift and heavy, Master Voldovan thought it'd be best if we knew all yer little secrets."

"Of course, Swordmaster," the weaver began, but the furrier drowned him out.

"Nothing in this wagon has anything to do with brigands or poses any danger to anyone on the run."

"Of course," Arauntar agreed, as Onthur lazily drew two throwing-daggers and Lavlaryn brought his now-ready bowgun down into a steady aim at the furrier's face. "However, my orders are very blunt and very clear: I am to see all, and so will Master Orthil-and we shall judge dangers… and consequences."

The weaver sighed and waved one hand in a gesture of submission. "In the interests of saving time, why don't I go with one of your men and fetch Master Voldovan now? If you really must see it all, we should bring back several guards to shift things, or we'll be spending the day camped right here… where we were attacked last night and where so many folk went missing. I'm sure none of us would want that."

Arauntar gave Sabran a smile that had very little mirth in it, and said, "So much, at least, we agree upon. Go with Onthur now."

Flamewind was a good horse-a princely gift, in fact, even if the Master of the Shadows had followed up his munificence with a death sentence-but Flamewind was now something else, too: exhausted.

Sharantyr had ridden all night and through the dawn, and if she'd been anywhere else but the Blackrocks, the merciful thing to do would have been to let Flamewind drink, and eat, and rest for two days, at least.

However, to leave any creature alone in this stretch of country-especially here along the Trade Way, which predators regarded more or less as an ever-laden butcher's block, providing ready meal after ready meal-was very far from merciful.

Wherefore Sharantyr now walked along the wagon-road, leading her unsteady horse through the bright morning. She could see Face Crag in the distance, not all that far ahead- but, on foot and walking slowly, still a very long way off.

The rustling she'd been expecting for some time occurred at that moment, and she laid her hand upon Lhaeo's little pouch and waited quite calmly for the attack to come.