"Not so fast, Bronor," Mirt growled, placing one hairy hand atop the cask and dropping the other beneath the table. "Like yer kind, not all of these coins are… what they seem."

Bronor of Luskan stiffened, eyes suddenly blazing like two green flames. "You insult my city?"

"Nay, Blood of Malaug," the old Waterdhavian moneylender replied softly. "I care not who sired ye or where ye hail from. 'Tis your coins I mislike."

Tentacles suddenly exploded through the air at Mirt, roiling across-and under-the table in a stabbing array, seeking to wrench and slay.

Inches shy of the walrus mustache and the battered nose above it they met something searing, which hurled them back amid sparks.

"A spell-shield!" the Malaugrym hissed.

Mirt blinked at the shapeshifter. "Come, come… you've seen such magics before, and used them, too. Why so touchy about yer heritage? Here we all thought ye were proud of it!"

The creature who wore the shape of Bronor of Luskan regarded the old merchant with furious green eyes. "'We all'? Just how many are these 'we' who know of my lineage?"

The old moneylender shrugged. "About two dozen traders in this city, I'd say. Yer secret has spread slowly, but any good merchant likes to know just who's sitting across the table when deals are closing. None of us sees any need to tell all the Realms, though."

Mirt spread his hairy hands. "Six years now, I've known-and have ye heard a word whispered in the streets? Killing me for knowing it, though. That would set tongues a-wagging-and Khelben and his ilk striding yer way with spells a-flaming in their hands, too! So put away yer tentacles, and let's haggle over these, ahem, altered coins, here. Got them from Radalus, I'll be bound. Learn this, if you learn nothing else about Waterdeep: The man, simply can't be trusted!"

Mirt regarded the nails of his right hand for a moment and added lightly, "Unlike those of us who know how to keep silence…"