57 – One More Heist

"No one's ever clearly explained to me why so many wizards insist on living in towers. I'd make a joke about them overcompensating for something, but many of the lady wizards I've met seem to love their towers too." –Ribald Barterman, Old Ribald's Guide to Dungeoneering

The walls and towers of the city and the Wyrm's Crossing were much as Ashura remembered them from the month before, though they were bustling with a lot more activity now. Fist soldiers swarmed like ants across the walkways and the battlements; spears polished to gleam bright in the morning sun, and the eyes of the sentries on the bridge towers were sharp and wary. The show of force and the scrutiny put Ashura on edge. Five dead city guard left in an alleyway. Still, there had been no indication that the Fist had connected her with that, or with the 'kidnapping' of a certain heiress.

And Skie was well disguised at least.

Thanks to one of Xan's spells the heir to House Silvershield now sported wavy, carrot-colored hair and prominent freckles, along with the coarse and crooked features of a peasant girl. When she had first looked at her newly transformed face in the mirror Skie had let out a stifled giggle and then –with Imoen's prompting and guidance– really gotten into the part. Now everything that came out of her mouth was crude, slightly slurred, and thick with an exaggerated take on the accent of the city's lower classes. The debutant seemed to take especial delight in swearing like a sailor.

Ashura felt eyes heavy upon them as their horses trotted beneath one of the bridge's gates and on to the next, but no words were spoken or questions asked, and even Viconia just seemed to receive the usual stares. Between the drow's formless cloak and cowl, skin that was a bit more grey than charcoal, and eyes that were violet rather than the typical red, people rarely seemed to guess her true identity. More likely they simply thought her an exotic woman from the Shining Lands or distant Zakhara.

In silence they rounded the bend beyond the bridge and passed through the yawning gates of the city, where they were swallowed up by the bustling crowd. Ashura was grateful not to spot any Elminster impersonators this morning, and she was extremely grateful to Imoen (all gods high and low bless her!) when the donkey and its annoying owner broke off and began to head up a northwestern street.

On the ride to the city Imoen had worked steadily on the gnome, convincing him that he could make a fortune entertaining people in The Wide with his illusions. Personally, Ashura figured he was more likely to get stoned by an angry mob, but she was just happy to see him go.

In order to weave through the heavy foot traffic they dismounted from their horses and led them forward, and they had not gone far when the wall of a storefront caught Ashura's eye, plastered heavy with posters, advertisements and broadsheets. One paper in particular drew her over; dominated by a woodcut likeness that seemed at first glance oddly familiar, though when she stepped closer and inspected it she couldn't quite put a finger on why.

It was the portrait of an impeccably dressed man, standing proud and straight, his features square and blunt, with a thick neck and broad shoulders that implied a great deal of muscle beneath his jacket. The man's head was completely bald, and sported some sort of glyph-like tattoo, and his jaw was framed by a crescent-shaped goatee, upper lip shaved. Hard to tell in black-and-white, but the likeness was shaded in a manner that implied the dark skin-tone of someone from Turmish or the Shining South.

Just an artist's rendering -and she didn't recognize the tattoo at all- but there was definitely something familiar about the man. The distinctive beard perhaps? Ashura's eyes drifted down to the caption beneath the portrait, and widened slightly. The headline read: Sarevok Anchev Gifts City with Untainted Arms and Armor, the smaller print beneath going into detail about how the 'kindly heir to House Anchev' was voluntarily taking great losses to protect the city from the 'Amnish threat.'

"Anchev," Ashura muttered. "Wasn't that the name of..?"

"The man Yeslick claimed was behind the slaver operation in the Cloakwood?" Xan suggested, reading over her shoulder. "Rieltar Anchev, yes. He is the leader of a branch of the Iron Throne merchant house. I had assumed they would be disgraced and run out of the city by now, but this reads as just the opposite. Most disturbing."

Ashura frowned at the broadsheet. "There's no mention of a Rieltar here. Just lots of praise for this Sarevok fellow."

"Well uv'course," Skie stated casually, voice thick with her affected accent. "Always like that in the rags."

"Oh?"

"Yep." She gave Ashura a puzzled, 'Don't-you-keep-up-with-local-gossip?' look, then shrugged and poked a finger at the picture of Sarevok. "Just look'it 'em. A right handsome git iddent'e? Charmin' in person too, so he's the face o' the operation." She broke character, voice lowering and slipping into its usual cadence. "Everybody says that Rieltar runs things in the Iron Throne, but his son's the one you see at parties and public appearances. I've met him a few times. He has this real deep voice and take-charge attitude." A little laugh.

"Uh huh," Ashura murmured. Then she shrugged and turned away, pulling at her horse once more. Definitely a familiar face, but where had she seen it?

"I will have to speak with Commander Scar on this," Xan sighed. "He assured me that the Iron Throne would be dealt with."

Ashura frowned, remembering the Cloakwood; the raid and the sacrifices and the flood, the ruined plans of bandits and conspirators. Free and grateful slaves too. Surely that had meant something? Especially to the local authorities. And she had been relieved that it was all in someone else's hands after that.

But now Xan had that firm-but-resigned look that she had seen on his face a few times before. Duty and obligation. What a pain in the ass. Speaking of which.

She glanced over at Skie once again. "You said as soon as we entered the Gate, right?" She asked. "You still...?"

Skie's eyes went to the ground and she nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm sure," she said as she straightened up, the resolved tone in her voice not quite matching her goofy, illusionary face.

Carts and carriages rumbled down Bloomridge Street, competing with the relentless afternoon foot traffic; clusters of women carrying parasols and men lugging boxes and baskets while old gentlemen clicked their canes against the street and fleet-footed children dodged round them, parchment packages under the arms of the scampy little messengers. The buildings here were clean and tall and cramped in close, and above it all towered the stone walls of the grand estate, topped with sharp black ironwork. Up there –gleaming just above the broad gate and sharp portcullis– was the sigil of House Silvershield, round and green and edged with bronze; the motif of a golden key within.

A joke people never grew tired of asking at parties: 'Shouldn't your coat of arms be a silver shield?'

As she looked up at the placard, red hair and freckles now dispelled, Skie tried to stand up straight and proud, just as she had told herself she would over these past few days. Yet she found herself hugging her arms, the cloak of nondetection bundled tight around her. The cloak Eldoth had instructed her to steal.

After a long, steadying breath Skie reached up the where the laces were tied, undoing them with slow, deliberation motions. Then she shrugged the cloak off and into her hand.

Imoen let out a faint sigh, standing next to her. "You sure you don't wanna put it off just a bit longer?" she asked. "Have one last big night of partying before you check into House Stuffington?"

"Yeah," Garrick agreed. "We should have a party! I'm not sure if any of us knows how to bake a cake, but maybe we could find some chefs?" He and Ashura had also come to see Skie off.

"And yer always talkin' 'bout all the secret hotspots in the city," Imoen added. "You could show us how a debutante parties here in the Gate!"

Skie forced a smile, thinking of the dance clubs in the Undercellars and the seedy taverns. There wasn't a one that she hadn't toured with Eldoth, laughing at his jokes (he so loved to make fun of the partygoers,) and resting against his thick, steady arm. She cringed, no desire to go back to where those memories dwelt. "I'd best do this now," she told them. "While I've got the courage to face my father."

"Aw. Was hoping you'd at least teach me how to do the Mask Dance."

That brought out a genuine chuckle, and Skie turned to give Imoen an impish smirk. "I don't think there's a wrong way to do it, so long as the dancers are only wearing masks. If you really want there's a club in the Undercellars…"

Imoen waved a hand dismissively. "Doubt I could convince Xan to join in that."

"I can't imagine," Skie agreed. Silence fell over them for a moment, and eventually she turned towards the gate and straightened up. "I think the party's over for me though." Another little laugh. "Father will have all sorts of words I'm sure, about the 'chains of duty' that all who wish to rule are bound with. 'Little one, even I am more powerless than you imagine.'" She let out of a breath. "There'll probably be actual chains too."

"But you won't take that right?" Imoen insisted. "Just like you said. You'll hold your chin up, put on an imperious air, and yer gonna tell 'em that you've seen the outside world, yer the heir to House Silvershield, and damnit, Entar's at least gonna show you how the house is run so you won't get bored out of yer mind and run away again!"

Skie gave her a little smile and nodded. They had discussed this a few times over the journey, trying to convince Imoen (and Skie herself) that going back home was a good idea. And she was going to tell her father exactly that, though truth be told the main reason that she was going back was just that she was very, very tired. Her feet no longer hurt from the long walks, but still; the past month had been overwhelming.

There was a rustling of paper as Imoen pulled out a rolled-up scroll, sealed with a grey ribbon. "And here! Before I forget. Just in case." Skie cocked her head quizzically as she took it, and Imoen elaborated. "It'll unlock any non-metaphorical chains. Even with mechanical gnome locks. You just have to read it the way that we practiced."

Skie tapped her vest. "But I already have the one that Xan-"

"I know, but I scribed you a spare last night. Just in case. And put wrapped it in a grey ribbon. Xan's persnickety 'bout that. Scrolls have to be color-coded."

Skie nodded. "Well, thank you. Hopefully I won't need to use them, but it's very sweet." With her other hand she offered Imoen her cloak. "Here. I won't be hiding anymore, and I'm sure you can make good use of this."

"Just hide the scrolls well," Imoen insisted as she accepted the gift. "I don't know if your house guards and servants would actually have the nerve to search you, or how that works in proper society even, but…"

"Don't worry." With a flick of her wrist Skie made the rolled-up paper vanish. "They won't find them. And if they really try, there's always that reverse-pickpocketing trick you taught me."

Imoen smiled, nodded, and then pressed her lips together pensively. A silent moment followed, and then she flung herself forward and wrapped Skie in a tight bear hug that nearly overbalanced them both. "I'm gonna miss youuuuuuuu!" she proclaimed, cheek nuzzled against Skie's shoulder.

Eyes a little cloudy, Skie patted her friend. "I'll miss you too Immy."

"We'll all miss you," Garrick agreed with one of his bashful smiles, and Ashura nodded beside him. Eventually Skie managed to disengage herself from Imoen, slipping forward to envelope Garrick in a big hug of her own.

Lastly Skie turned to Ashura, who had been watching in silence, arms crossed at her chest. They uncrossed and the two of them hugged, a little cautious of the heavy chainmail coat. "Good luck," Ashura said as she patted her friend on the arm. Then she stepped back. "Try to keep practicing your swordwork. You never know when you'll need it."

"I'll try," Skie replied, smiling. Then there was little else to do but turn towards the stone gate and the portcullis, the white façade of the estate peeking out from beyond.

No longer hooded, her posture straight and her head high, Skie forced herself to march directly for the yawning gate, and from there she went along the pebble pathway between the hedges and the cherry trees. When she felt her footsteps slowing and feared that she might falter, her hand found its way to the hilt of her short sword and gripped it.

With that sword she had fought kobolds, undead monstrosities, a demon, bandits, basilisks, survived the betrayal of the man she thought had loved her, and even killed a hellhound. A shame her father would probably order the sword confiscated immediately, but it didn't matter. For now it reminded her that she had faced and survived so much this past month; terrors and wonders.

Compared to all that facing her parents would be easy.

Without hesitation Skie Silvershield reached forward, found the polished brass knocker, and wrapped upon the door of her family estate.

Ashura couldn't help but turn from the tower and laugh, throwing a series of derisive, disbelieving cackles Edwin's way and shaking her head a few times for good measure.

"I am so pleased that I can amuse you," the red wizard droned in response once the laughter had died down.

"Yup," Imoen agreed from beside him. "Just learn to juggle and sing, and then maybe you can replace Garrick!"

Ashura just shook her head absently, eyes back on the red-and-blue tiered tower before them. It stood taller than the other nearby buildings, the ducal palace included. "'A simple task,' you said. "'We just need to procure a book from a house in Baldur's Gate.'"

"Indeed," Edwin replied with a humorless nod, gesturing. "That is a house. We're in the city of Baldur's Gate. And I have been informed that there's a well-stocked library on the top floor."

Ashura rolled her eyes. "That's a bloody wizard's tower. Probably warded to the Nine fucking Hells and back, and brimming with traps and magical constructs."

"True enough," Edwin admitted offhandedly. "Ramazith is a conjurer like myself, and supposedly he keeps a wide menagerie of summoned creatures on each floor of the tower. But you have more than sufficient forces to storm the place and deal with every layer of protection. Or was your pet bard lying when he told the story of how you defeated the mage Davaeorn in his own secured layer?"

Ashura shook her head. "We could do that, and yeah, we could win. But storming someone's home right here next to the ducal palace…" With that her head shook even harder. "I can't think of a better way to call down the full wrath of the Flaming Fist. Maybe burning down an orphanage?"

"A shame," Edwin muttered. "Your murderous rampages are so entertaining to watch. Of course subtlety is an option, as unsuited as you are for it. (Though I would prefer fireballs, hellhounds and swords. And it's not as if the law enforcers of this pisspot little town concern me.)"

"Hm." Ashura turned and gave Imoen a quizzical look. "Ims, do you think this tower could be…"

"Burglarized?" Imoen smirked. "Well sure. I cracked the Hall of Wonders didn't I?" She mock-glared, and a teasing tone entered her voice. "Though I'm not sure why I'm being dragged into this mess. You made the deal with Mr. Redbritches here. Why do I gotta do the heisting?"

"Because you love me?" Ashura suggested.

"Pish!" Imoen boxed Ashura on the shoulder lightly, chainmail clinking. "Suppose I do though."

"And you love a challenge?"

"True enough." Imoen rubbed her hands together, appraising the tower. After a time she nodded to herself and clapped. "A real shame Skie just went home, what with this being the perfect opportunity to put the old gang back together for one more heist!"

Plucky harp music rang from the taproom below, and as Ashura descended the stairs -her gear now securer in an upper room of the inn- a grin couldn't help but creep across her face. She had guessed the source of the tune correctly; Garrick sat on a stool near the far wall, head bowed and eyes closed as he strummed away. It was one of his nameless little ditties, fast but brittle at first, until the bass notes swung in and got some of the patrons clapping along, their laughter muffled a bit by the thick carpeting and wall-hangings.

Ashura walked along slowly, swishing a hand in time with the music, and when she commandeered a stool next to the bard she instantly draped an arm over his shoulder and planted a kiss on his cheek, careful and gentle, so he didn't miss a note. When the tune finally died down they exchanged a smile. "I know I tease you sometimes about your attempts at poetry," she began.

"Attempts?" He chuckled.

"Attempts. But you really do make beautiful music. Don't ever stop."

"Just wish I could come up with some good words to go to most of the songs."

"Bah! No need. Words are overrated anyway." To prove her point she leaned back on her stool, propped herself against the table, and didn't say anything further.

Of course, Garrick being Garrick, he had to keep talking. "You might be right. But the songs bards get remembered for all tend to have catchy lyrics. It's nice when they tell a good story too."

"You really care about being remembered?"

"Well sure! Or…at least a story or two. They talked about that a lot at the academy. 'Contributing to the cannon.'"

"And that's more important than getting people laughing and dancing in the here and now?" She shrugged. "Personally, I just like how you do that."

"Guess it would be nice to do both." He chuckled. "Maybe I'm being silly."

"Yep." A little pause, and then she gently messed with his short-cropped hair. "A big fat ego doesn't suit you. Who cares if they sing your lyrics about 'summer's last glint' or whatever a hundred years from now?" The lyric was from one of his half-finished songs. "You had these people clapping along. Might even be able to get them dancing. Of course a rhythm section would probably help with that."

He grinned mischievously at her. "I should teach you to play an instrument."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Me? I doubt-"

"You're so good at beating on most things. Why not drums?"

Ashura couldn't help but laugh. "Flatterer."

They had settled into a cozy and richly furnished inn called the Three Old Kegs, a place where well-off patrons dozed or drank in overstuffed chairs beneath walls hung heavy with trophies, epic paintings and bookcases. Imoen and Xan were sitting at a small table of their own, both reading from a pile of papers in front of them, and Viconia and Edwin had taken up a spot in a quiet corner, where the Thayan waved his hands about dramatically, apparently trying to entertain the drow with some silly story. For her part Viconia just watched him with cold, narrow eyes, a fingertip swirling about the rim of her winecup.

Shar-Teel was at the bar, a cup of wine sloshing around in her hand as she leaned in close to some foppish, spindly young man dressed in ruffled silks. A shove sent the guy tumbling off his barstool, though he landed on wobbling feet, and for a moment Ashura assumed a fight was about to break out. Then the fop laughed, turned around, and another shove from Shar-Teel sent him stumbling towards the stairs. She followed swiftly, pouncing and draping an arm over his shoulder, crushing him to her as they wound up the flight of steps.

Eyebrows high, Ashura watched them disappear, and then shook her head. "Did I just see what I think I did?"

Garrick chuckled. "Every once in a while she seems to find a man who suits her…particular tastes." He bit his lower lip. "When the crowd isn't all rowdy thugs and sailors she's trying to beat up, that is."

"And I thought men were all just 'pathetic.'"

Crumpling the corners of the broadsheet before him, Xan let out a long sigh. "This is not good at all," he lamented, setting the ragged parchment down with the other leaves they had collected from the street and piled up on their tavern table. The outdated pamphlets and broadsheets told the (often highly embellished) story of what had been happening in the city over the past month or two.

"I know!" Imoen commiserated from behind the long sheet she had been reading. "Drizzt and Cattie Brie just almost kissed, but then didn't for like, the umpteenth time!" She waved the paper –an illustrated adventure serial– around in front of her. "I mean come on! We all know it's going to happen! It's gotten way beyond drawing out the whole 'will they or won't they?' thing at this point."

"I was more referring to real concerns," Xan pushed back in a dry voice.

"What? You don't think Drizzt is real?" Imoen tapped her broadsheet. "I mean, some of this stuff is a little outlandish, I'll grant you, but look! It says 'Based on True Events' right here in big blocky letters."

"Uh huh," Xan muttered, not sounding the least convinced.

"Hrmph. So what were you hemming and hawing about then?"

Xan lifted his own paper and read the headline out loud: "'Amnish Plot to Taint Iron Foiled by Commander Scar.'" He cleared his throat. "This…rather flowery story implies that Scar himself led the raid on the Cloakwood Mines, 'with the assistance of several freelance adventurers' –I suppose that would be us– and uncovered a plot to 'steal the only untainted iron in the region out from under our noses.' In addition to defeating the bandits who had been plaguing the region. Apparently he's been a very busy man. Some of the details here are similar to reality, although instead of a Luskan mage named Davaeorn they claim that the mastermind behind everything in both the Sharp Teeth and the Cloakwood was an Amnish officer named 'Corzon Carlez D'Roach.'"

Imoen giggled. "Bet he has a wicked moustache."

Setting the broadsheet down, Xan shook his head. "Scar seemed honorable and honest in my dealings with him."

"Well, that's just some sensationalist rag," Imoen pointed out. "Maybe the Fist really has been investigating the Iron Throne."

"True," Xan admitted, "though it is disturbing that they would allow this to be displayed in the streets. Amn." He shook his head. "I shall have to speak with Scar."

"The investigations never end, huh?"

"In my experience? No. There are always loose ends. Though this," he waved at the pile of papers, "seems a great deal more than that."

"Well, as soon as we're done with my little H-word in the T-word I'll do whatever I can ta help you!"

Once again Xan sighed. "I understand the necessity of sometimes breaking and entering," he droned. "The investigator's trade is quite similar to a thief's, in all honesty. But I sometimes find your unbridled enthusiasm for petty larceny a little disturbing."

"Aww. But I only steal from bad people."

"And you know that this Ramazith is a 'bad person?'"

"Yup! Most definitely. I asked around, and Halbazzer Drin says that he used to work as a guild mage for the Shadow Thieves, and that he deals in really nasty sorts of enchanted items and spell components. Unicorn's blood and substances from the abyss and formulas from the Book of Vile Darkness! Real nasty stuff."

Xan rolled skeptical eyes. "And you are sure Drin was not simply talking down a competitor because..?"

"Oh pish! Drin's an honest fellow. And Black Lily told me even worse! She said that Ramazith destroyed an entire pub a little while back. Everyone saw him arguing with the bartender about some money the man owed him, then right after Ramazith stormed out all these green slimes started swarming up from the floor and ate the bartender and half the customers!"

Xan grimaced. "Disturbing if true. I'm beginning to think that what passes for law enforcement in this city is completely useless." He leaned forward and looked Imoen in the eye. "I suppose I shall stay nearby when you go on this ill-advised adventure, in case you need rescuing from slimes or other dangers. We have the mirrors."

"Aww. But I could use you on the actual hei- urm…H-Word. Yer illusions and mind-fuckery would help a lot more than Edwin's fireballs and hellhounds."

Xan shook his head slightly. "Better that someone stays a little ways back. After all, you may need bailing out of prison when the inevitable occurs."

"Pish and posh! I haven't been caught yet."

The next morning found Imoen on the rooftop of the Three Old Kegs, laying on her belly with her chin over the edge and her eyes fixed on the pagoda-style tower as she weighed her options. There was only the slightest slant to the roof, but Edwin shifted about uncomfortably beside her, sitting in an ungainly position and peering at the tower as well.

"Plenty of windows to slip through," Imoen observed.

The red wizard shook his head immediately. "They are all thoroughly warded. And mostly from the inside."

"And you can't take care of that?"

He huffed. "Of course I can dispel wards! What manner of amateur hedgemage do you take me for? Unfortunately it cannot be done without setting off alarms and alerting Ramazith. In which case we may as well dispense with stealth and take the direct approach."

Imoen chuckled to herself. She was versed enough in magic tricks and countermeasures to know that there are ways to bypass alarm spells, but of course Edwin would conflate 'I cannot do something' with 'It cannot be done.' Not to mention that if she could just get inside the tower and close to the glyphs with her thieves' tools…

"And you said that you've never actually met this Ramazith fellow, right?"

"No, though I assure you my information about the many useful objects in his study is quite accurate. The book will be there, just as I described. Along with many other rare and expensive tomes, which I encourage you to-"

"But I mean," Imoen went on, rolling on her back so her hair dangled off the roof and she could gesture at the wizard with her hands, "he doesn't know you from Szass Tam right?"

Edwin stroked his chin. "Ah. I think I see where your little monkey-mind is going with this. He does not know me, which could impart an element of surprise. We could enter the tower on some pretense, lull him somehow (perhaps you could attempt to seduce him?) And then the fireballs will begin to fly."

"Urm…close, but not exactly what I had in mind. You remember that spell you cast on Ashura that made her a giant?"

"Of course. A simple, piddling transmutation."

"Well, can you cast the reverse?"

Once the sun had disappeared behind the walls of the city they made good on Imoen's plan, proceeding through the streets with a haughty red wizard of Thay in the lead and Ashura and Garrick in step behind him. The pair carried a bulky iron-framed chest between them, hands gripping the handles at the front and the back, and as they went the greengrocers and day laborers they passed on the street gave them suspicious looks. Edwin ignored that of course, nose high in the air.

"Once this annoying business is concluded," the red wizard announced over his shoulder, "I could offer you permanent employment doing just this sort of thing."

Ashura snorted. "Carrying your luggage? That's…tempting."

Edwin shook his head at the sarcasm. "We typically use aerial servants and other magics for heavy loads, so you would rarely need to stoop to such. I speak more of work as an esteemed and well-kept servant of House Odesseiron. We are the ruling family of the tharch of Surthay, you know. (Of course my branch of the family is ill-favored by my uncle, the tharchion, but best not to mention that.)"

He went on as if no one could hear his obvious mutterings. "It would be a life of leisure for the most part, punctuated by a few simple tasks here and there, such as giving guests intimidating glares, a little luggage carrying, and general bodyguarding (and bedwarming.)"

The chest rattled slightly as Garrick seemed to fumble with his grip. Ashura turned and tried her best to shoot the bard a 'Really now?' look. "You make it all sound so appealing, Edwin," she said in a mocking tone. "'Come back with me to my nation of slavers, where I can give you work as my concubine.' Every girl's dream, surely."

The crate straightened a bit and Garrick snickered. "Yeah. For someone who styles himself a businessman you really need to work on your sales pitches."

"Bah!" Edwin puffed. "I style myself a master of the arcane arts, as well as a crafter of enchanted paraphernalia powerful, subtle, and exquisitely beyond anything found in these dreary lands. Were I dealing with intelligent people my wares would sell themselves. Not to mention that you obviously have no clue of the extent of Thayvian luxury compared to this," he gestured, "cesspit!"

"Well tell us about it," Garrick offered. "Come on. She might not be interested, but maybe I want to hire on as a servant."

"He does make a fine concubine," Ashura added. "I can attest to that."

Edwin let out an annoyed sigh. "The palace in Surthay already boasts several winged monkeys from Estagund that serve as entertainment. I do not believe it needs another."

Ramazith's tower loomed over them now, and the three of them slowed, then stopped. After a pause, a deep breath, and a moment preening and smoothing out his robes, Edwin approached the door and gave it a few careful knocks.

There was a long pause, but eventually something clicked and the door creaked inward. There appeared to be no one on the other side to greet them, but after another exaggerated period a disembodied voice echoed through the foyer.

"Ah, the Thayvian merchant," it observed in an amused tone. "Do come in. But wipe your feet, of course."

With that Edwin marched across the threshold, and his 'servants' followed, lugging the bulky chest. They paused in the little mudbrick room to do as the voice had instructed before passing through the next doorway and into a lavish parlor that appeared to take up most of the tower's lower floor. The great round chamber was lit by the soft glow of crystalline lamps spaced along walls of polished hardwood, along with flames that danced in the great hearth that dominated the room. Every rug and stuffed chair was spotless and vivid with color, and the great mahogany table that looked like it could serve a dozen dinners -along with a smaller one carved of cherrywood that rested before the hearth- where both polished to a mirror's sheen.

At the very center of the room a carpeted staircase spiraled up to the next story, and in front of the hearth sat a plush red sofa. A man reclined upon its cushions, face slightly wrinkled and drawn taut, his brown hair tightly bound and streaked with grey. He was the sole occupant of the parlor, dressed in impeccable green and gold-threaded silks, face unreadable as he watched them lug the chest inside and place it upon a carpet next to an exceptionally stuffed chair with crushed velvet drapery that brushed all the way to the floor.

"Ramazith," Edwin presumed, inclining his head.

"Aye," the man in silk replied with a faintly Amnish accent. "I received your letter. Short notice but intriguing. Thayvian 'artifacts' is it? A funny word to throw around, as I presume 'trinkets' would be more accurate."

Ashura groaned internally and found her hand resting on her sword. Great. He's like a second Edwin. This won't end well.

To her surprise Edwin didn't immediately conjure up a fireball, and even seemed to take the insult in stride. "By the standards of Thay they certainly are trinkets, but I assure you that the quality of my goods surpasses any magical craftsmanship you would find in this backwoods (bones and shells strung together with hempen rope and blessed by one-eyed crones is all the fashion here, isn't it?)" He gestured towards the chest and it yawned open of its own accord, revealing a pile of rods and wands in a wide assortment of sizes and designs, along with bracers of bronze, brass, and even what appeared to be gold. Scattered here and there in the pile of treasure were decorative wooden boxes, each marked with a glyph of red, green, or royal purple.

An impressive little hoard, if it hadn't all been completely fake; conjured less than an hour before by one of Edwin's spells that created temporarily solid objects, and glamered up by Xan's illusions and magic aura spells. The two mages had assured everyone else that Ramazith would be fooled by the trick, but the unreadable and unimpressed look he gave pile of treasure made Ashura wary.

"Rings are my specialty," Edwin added, drawing attention to his fingers and the bejeweled bands he wore prominently on each hand. He went into a familiar sales pitch. "I am especially fond of this one, bound with an enchantment to quicken and expand the mind to the extent that there is room for more spells." He tapped a second band. "Of course a strong aura of protection never goes out of fashion, for those rare times when contingencies and extra spells fail."

Ramazith cocked his head slightly and a hint of amusement tugged at his eyes and lips. "More spells and a quickened mind? Now that is intriguing. Any mage worth his mephit-powder knows that more spells should always be of top priority, provided you're not some fool who prepares water breathing and control in the desert, as the saying goes."

"Indeed," Edwin agreed. "And I've several copies of this ring, along with, as you can see, a wide variety of wands. You'll find my prices quite reasonable should you buy in bulk. More than enough to turn a tidy profit."

"I'm mostly interested in these rings of yours." Ramazith stood, brushing off his fine silks. "And more particularly how they are forged. It's an enchantment I must admit I've never come across. Something that would be quite useful to add to my repertoire."

Edwin's eyes narrowed. "Thayvian enchanting techniques are most certainly not for sale."

"A pity, as that's all I'm interested in. I'm one of the most prominent dealers in enchanted items in this city, you see." Ramazith waved a hand at the opulence around them. "And I didn't reach this kind of wealth and status by turning over secondhand goods for a 'tidy profit.'" He shot a glare at the chest. "Or falling for illusions."

Ashura's feet slipped into a stance that would let her spring forward easily, and her right hand gripped one of her swords. Knew that trick wouldn't work. Wizards always have a way of knowing, or at least guessing ahead of you. Even if your magic is flawless, they're usually smart, cagey buggers. Especially the kind of wizard who lives in a bloody tower.

"If there truly was a merchant entering my city with such a large stash of wands and rings," Ramazith went on, "do you think I would not know about it? That I wouldn't have heard about your sales from my contacts here and along the coast? A rolled up cloth full of wands I could believe, but a whole treasure chest? You really overdid it."

"Believe what you-" Edwin began.

"But you do know something of enchanting rings like the one on your finger, I'm guessing." As he droned on Ramazith's fingers swirled and Edwin stretched his hands out as well. "And I suggest you just relax and tell me everything you know about forging them."

Edwin did not relax.

In fact his face contorted with a look of deep discomfort for a moment, and one of his hands shot up to his temple. There seemed to be a brief buzzing sound, his eyes scrunched up tight, and then he violently shook his head, steadied himself, and glared. "You dare!" he immediately snarled.

"Ah, so that's what that circlet does," Ramazith observed, frowning slightly. "Another intriguing enchantment."

"You dare try to control a Red Wizard of Thay! I should burn you and this tower to the ground!" Ramazith just held a calm, focused glare as Edwin snarled and rolled his sleeves up. Beyond the tension in the air Ashura couldn't see or feel anything, but Garrick was looking around at different spots of the room with horror on his face, backing away slightly, and reaching for his crossbow. No doubt someone who had dabbled in magic could see the signs of countless contingencies, ward and magical countermeasures that Ramazith was ready to spring.

Attacking a prepared wizard in his own layer. Always foolish.

"We should go," Ashura hissed, grabbing Edwin by the elbow and backing towards the door, her other hand at her sword. Garrick stood beside her, his crossbow out and loaded.

Ramazith's frown had deepened, and though he made no move it looked like calculations were rolling through his head. "Yes, I think you should," he agreed coldly. "Tempting as it is to take that ring and circlet from your corpse, Thayvian, it would not be worth the scorch marks on my carpets." The door leading out of the tower creaked open on its own.

"Oh, there would be far more than-" Edwin snarled.

"Edwin, come on!" With one hand still at the red wizard's elbow, Ashura grabbed the handle of the chest, Garrick took another, and for a long, tense moment they backed through the doorways, wrestling a bit with their gangly cargo and the barely restrained red wizard. Thankfully the chest was a bit lighter now, and when they stepped out onto the darkened street and Edwin shook himself and waved a hand to dismiss his conjurations, it grew lighter still.

"The nerve of that arrogant bastard," Edwin muttered as he peered up at the tower, still shaking his head.

"To step into a wizard's tower and try and pull one over on him?" Garrick suggested. "That does certainly take some nerve."

Edwin rolled his eyes, still fuming. At least he had limited himself to huffiness and snarled threats, though. Despite the bluster he had probably known that attacking Ramazith in his home and with his hackles up was a terrible idea, just as Ramazith had known that the battle was no safe bet for him either.

And it didn't matter; they had done exactly what they had set out to accomplish. In all the hubbub over mind-expanding rings and mind-protecting circlets Ramazith had never noticed when the hidden cache on the opposite side of the trunk had opened, nor had he seen a magically-miniaturized Imoen crawl out and slip under the nearby chair.

Now they just had to lug the false-bottomed chest back to Black Lily at the thieves' house, and hope that Imoen and her friends could do the rest.

Author's Note: I should mention that this isn't the last we've seen of Skie Silvershield. And how could Skie read a magic scroll, you might ask? Why, the D&D Third Edition Use Magical Device skill of course. She's a Third Edition rogue after all, not some common Second Edition thief!

I think it was Kaispan's wonderful fic Truth or Tale that inspired the idea of Edwin's circlet giving him mental protections (if I remember how Edwin's circlet works in that story at least. I may have that detail mixed up with other fanfics that have blurred together in my head. And in this case it's meant to be a very basic Circlet of Charm Protection.) In his portrait Edwin looks like he's decked out in jewelry, and you just have to wonder what sort of enchantments the circlet, bracers and rings might carry.