War in Tethyr by Victor Milan, Walter (CON) Velez Page A
Authors: Victor Milan, Walter (CON) Velez
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clot of halberdiers came alarmed cries, and the bronzed axe blades wavered as their bearers tried to make signs against evil while keeping grasp on the weapons.
"Desist from this magic hand-waving!" the officer rapped. "We know of you. Gesture more, and my men will pierce you like Waterdhavian cheese!"
Stillhawk growled deep in his throat.
"No magic," his employer said quietly. "I am Zaranda Star. Why do you block my way?"
"I am Cangaro, captain of the guard," the officer said, unrolling a parchment scroll. "In the name of the city council, I hereby impound this caravan and all the goods it carries!"
8
It had not been a day to improve her composure. The scar-faced guard officer's parchment declared that the caravan was being seized for unlicensed importation of magic artifacts into Zazesspur in violation of city council edict. Nothing she could say would dissuade him from executing it-and his troop of bravos had the drop on her own tiny guard force. Not that she would have fought, since she was trying to do business in an honest and aboveboard way.
The rest of the day gave her leisure to repent that choice. It had been spent in fruitless wrangling with officials in the slab-sided Palace of Governance in the city's middle, so new it was still under construction. There had been the usual block-faced indifference of officialdom: No, you'll have to wait for things to take their course, like anyone. No, I can't help you. There had also been the usual half-clever solicitations for bribes, with the odd sniggering suggestion-accompanied by a free wandering of the eye over Zaranda's wiry but very feminine form-that they need not be paid in gold.
Accustomed to dealing with bureaucrats across Faerun, Zaranda had paid such squeeze as she thought would prove useful-in gold on the desktop. The bulk of her resources, not to mention her hopes of keeping her home, were of course locked up somewhere in the city coffers by now, but she retained her private stash of coin, choice gems, and jewelry that she carried on her person and in Goldie's panniers for emergencies. Even after paying off the muleteers and escorts, she wasn't destitute. Yet.
But gold bought her nothing. Bribed or not, the council's lackeys could say nothing more than that she would have to wait for an administrative hearing. But the courts were busy. If a large enough donation to the council's grand plan to remake Zazesspur were forthcoming, the process might be expedited, and a hearing held within, say, three months.
When Zaranda left the palace in disgust, the sun was already dropping into the harbor. She became aware of a sense of unease that had been stealing, unnoticed, upon her all the time she had spent within the palace.
She shook her head in something like annoyance. I've always dreaded dealing with bureaucrats, she reminded herself. How could I be other than nervous, with my fortune resting in their hands? I mustn't let these cursed dreams get to me. On the spot she decided to go get drunk.
* * * * *
"Zaranda," the adventurer declared, leaning forward to bathe her face in the fumes of a less-famous Tethyrian wine, "your problem is that you're lowering yourself by playing at merchant."
Zaranda carefully set her own goblet of local red wine-of a somewhat more reputable vintage-carefully down upon the knife-gouged tabletop before her. She had come to the Smiling Centaur with Stillhawk, Father Pelletyr, Shield, and Farlorn, intending to drown her troubles in wine, a course of action that did little good. Now this scabrous mercenary was interfering with the process, and she didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.
"Oh, so, Valides?" she said neutrally.
The mercenary nodded with the exaggerated emphasis of the drunken. "Certainly so. How else could it be?" He belched and wiped the back of his mouth with a hand no cleaner but drier. "Look at yourself, Zaranda. You used to be a warrior."
"I still am."
He waved a black-nailed hand, slopping wine from the
"Desist from this magic hand-waving!" the officer rapped. "We know of you. Gesture more, and my men will pierce you like Waterdhavian cheese!"
Stillhawk growled deep in his throat.
"No magic," his employer said quietly. "I am Zaranda Star. Why do you block my way?"
"I am Cangaro, captain of the guard," the officer said, unrolling a parchment scroll. "In the name of the city council, I hereby impound this caravan and all the goods it carries!"
8
It had not been a day to improve her composure. The scar-faced guard officer's parchment declared that the caravan was being seized for unlicensed importation of magic artifacts into Zazesspur in violation of city council edict. Nothing she could say would dissuade him from executing it-and his troop of bravos had the drop on her own tiny guard force. Not that she would have fought, since she was trying to do business in an honest and aboveboard way.
The rest of the day gave her leisure to repent that choice. It had been spent in fruitless wrangling with officials in the slab-sided Palace of Governance in the city's middle, so new it was still under construction. There had been the usual block-faced indifference of officialdom: No, you'll have to wait for things to take their course, like anyone. No, I can't help you. There had also been the usual half-clever solicitations for bribes, with the odd sniggering suggestion-accompanied by a free wandering of the eye over Zaranda's wiry but very feminine form-that they need not be paid in gold.
Accustomed to dealing with bureaucrats across Faerun, Zaranda had paid such squeeze as she thought would prove useful-in gold on the desktop. The bulk of her resources, not to mention her hopes of keeping her home, were of course locked up somewhere in the city coffers by now, but she retained her private stash of coin, choice gems, and jewelry that she carried on her person and in Goldie's panniers for emergencies. Even after paying off the muleteers and escorts, she wasn't destitute. Yet.
But gold bought her nothing. Bribed or not, the council's lackeys could say nothing more than that she would have to wait for an administrative hearing. But the courts were busy. If a large enough donation to the council's grand plan to remake Zazesspur were forthcoming, the process might be expedited, and a hearing held within, say, three months.
When Zaranda left the palace in disgust, the sun was already dropping into the harbor. She became aware of a sense of unease that had been stealing, unnoticed, upon her all the time she had spent within the palace.
She shook her head in something like annoyance. I've always dreaded dealing with bureaucrats, she reminded herself. How could I be other than nervous, with my fortune resting in their hands? I mustn't let these cursed dreams get to me. On the spot she decided to go get drunk.
* * * * *
"Zaranda," the adventurer declared, leaning forward to bathe her face in the fumes of a less-famous Tethyrian wine, "your problem is that you're lowering yourself by playing at merchant."
Zaranda carefully set her own goblet of local red wine-of a somewhat more reputable vintage-carefully down upon the knife-gouged tabletop before her. She had come to the Smiling Centaur with Stillhawk, Father Pelletyr, Shield, and Farlorn, intending to drown her troubles in wine, a course of action that did little good. Now this scabrous mercenary was interfering with the process, and she didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.
"Oh, so, Valides?" she said neutrally.
The mercenary nodded with the exaggerated emphasis of the drunken. "Certainly so. How else could it be?" He belched and wiped the back of his mouth with a hand no cleaner but drier. "Look at yourself, Zaranda. You used to be a warrior."
"I still am."
He waved a black-nailed hand, slopping wine from the
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