Tentacles slithered back across the coin-littered table and melted into the shoulders they'd burst from.

"How much is your silence worth?" the Malaugrym asked silkily.

Mirt shrugged. "One thing only: that ye not try to slay, maim, or detain four persons. Myself, m'lady Asper-and the lass Shandril Shessair and her lad Narm."

It was the shapeshifter's turn to shrug. "We-"

He hesitated, then added, "That is, those of my kin whom I associate with-had already decided to abandon all hunting after spellfire. The cost has been too great already."

Showing his teeth in a sharklike smile, he added, "After the long slaughter is done and the last survivor holds spellfire in wounded hands… then it will be time to snatch the prize."

Mirt regarded him with old, calm eyes. "And ye'll break this agreement with me without hesitation or thought for the cost I may make ye pay?"

The false merchant shook his head. "I won't need to. When the Zhents stop using their wastrel magelings and the Cult its ambitious fools, and attack in earnest, there's little chance of the survivor being an overly lucky kitchenmaid from Highmoon named Shandril Shessair."

More Sparks For The Rising Fire

I've always had a particular hatred far foes who attack by night. Don't they know a Realms-rescuing hero needs his sleep?

Mirt of Waterdeep, Lines I've Lived By, Year of the Harp

Shandril came awake knowing they were no longer alone. She was aware of a presence, of being watched from very close by… even before Narm's hand clutched her thigh in a clawlike warning under the sleeping-furs.

Tessaril had promised that this chamber at least, of all the Hidden House, was safe, warded with the strongest spells she could muster. That meant someone had broken the power-and probably ended the life-of the lady mage who'd been so kind to them.