SOAP, STEAM, AND SOFT CURSES

It's usually around bath time that the tithe collectors cone to call. Besieging warriors, on the other hand-

now they generally have consideration enough to come early so you know how best to plan your day.

Estimyra of High Horn Twenty Winters a War Wizard Year of the Dragon

"Allow me, Lady," the dwarf said gruffly, handing a brush and a handbucket of soap around the edge of the ragged curtain. Steam rose from the other side of it, accompanied by splashing noises and a few groans of pure pleasure. Baergasra the Harper, priestess of Eldath, was joyfully scrubbing away half a year's sweat and dirt.

"My thanks, Sir Dwarf. Well met!"

"Our thanks, Baera," Mirt said feelingly. They were gathered in the inn's largest and best bedroom. Shandril was feeling very sleepy again, but beside her, Narm felt much better-and was hungrily devouring a second serving of the dinner the innkeeper had brought up to them.

From the other side of the curtain, Baergasra chuckled. "Ah, but it was a little thing I did, and in return for it you've given me this. It feels good to be clean again!" There was a rueful pause, and she added despairingly, "But my hair!"

"What about yer hair?" Mirt asked carefully. "I've seen far worse, proudly sailing along the streets of Waterdeep, assured of a display of the highest fashion."

The reply was mournful. "Most of this'll have to be cut off to get rid of the worst that's really stuck in the tangles," "If it's not too personal," Delg asked carefully, sitting down again on his stool beside the curtain, "just why did you choose to wander about in rags, anyway? Is begging so profitable hereabouts?"

"Little man," Baergasra darkly replied, a nasty insult to any dwarf, "I do what I must, whether it's harping or begging, and don't snarl overmuch about it. Orders are orders, and a noble cause is, as they say, a noble cause. But that doesn't mean I enjoy it."

"All," said the dwarf, cocking his head at the word harping. "Of course. Forgive me, big woman."

There was a sputtering laugh from the other side of the curtain, and it suddenly bulged beside Delg's head as the brush came swiftly back to him-or at least to a momentary embrace with the side of his brow.

"Ooohhh," he commented from the floor a moment later, lying beside the stool. "This one bites."

"as I recall," Mirt rumbled jovially, "yes. It-"

"A gentle reminder, Mirt," the Harper called from her side of the curtain. "I still have the soap bucket to return to someone."

"Ahh, aye-'hem! Ahem," Mirt replied hastily. "To be sure, to be sure… Are ye hungry perchance, Baera? We've food here, and-"

"Thank you, I will. It's been awhile since I've had something properly cooked, and with sauces, to boot. And Narm may need another spell or two; I'd best remain here to be certain. I'll stay the night, if you've room. If he falls asleep, don't try to wake him without me, mind; that venom can't be hurried,"

"Yer bed is ready when ye are. How are things in the Hullack wilds, then?"

"Not so bad, yet," was the reply, punctuated by sounds of a scalp being vigorously scrubbed. "But getting worse. Zhentarim and bandits both are multiplying in the Stonelands and raiding farther. That one who called you out, downstairs? He's one of the local Zhentarim rats-a thief by the name of Osber. He was probably so eager to take all the credit for capturing Shandril of the Spellfire that he didn't bother to call on any nearby magelings. Tymora smiled on you there; the Zhentarim spell-hurlers hereabouts lie low and aren't all that strong, but they can lay hands on powerful wands and the like if they've a mind to."

"But he did manage to round up six men-at-arms," Narm protested.

Baergasra chuckled. "Those were his 'fist,' his own little band of bully-boys. "they're never far away from him, and tonight three of them were enjoying a quiet evening's entertainment here with several of the local night girls." "What's that?" Mirt asked. alert. "Shouldn't we-?"

The Harper chuckled again. "No fears there. The girls aren't Zhentarim; two, in fact, like to…"

"Harp?" Delg offered, back on his stool again.

"Indeed they do, Sir Dwarf." Her voice changed again. "But there's darker news than that." She coughed briefly and went on. "The real reason I want to see Narm safely back on his feet myself, in fact, is that all across the Realms, these last three rides or so, spells have been going wrong. Going wild, sometimes."

She paused, but no one said anything. Narm stared at the curtain in growing horror. If that was true, what in the name of all the gods was he going to defend Shandril with? And what, a small voice whispered chillingly inside him, will befall if Shandril's spellfire itself becomes unreliable?

"Magic is no longer the sure thing it once was." Baergasra said quietly. "A certain friend of mine reminded me of Alaundo the Seer, and his prophecies. Something about ‘chaos of Art.' Remember, Mirt?"

"Aye. Aye." The old merchant's voice was rough. "That's part of the one about the gods walking the world and making war, isn't it?"

"Yes," Baergasra said in a near whisper from behind the curtain. She was silent for a long time, and then added, "I knew you'd remember, Old Wolf. It's good to see you again, if Realmsdoom is really upon us. That's another reason I'd like to stay until morn."

Mirt nodded and rose quietly, wheezing only a little. He walked around the curtain and replied, "It's good to see ye again too, Baera. Hmmm-the rags did add a certain something, didn't theeeeaaHHH!"

He reeled back into view again, doubled over. Mirt, sometimes the Merciless, had ducked too slowly. The soap bucket looked most fetching on his head.

Delg convulsed in silent laughter. Narm and Shandril could not keep so quiet. The dwarf rose amid their mirth and solemnly handed Mirt the brush, pointing meaningfully at the curtain.

Mirt removed the bucket slowly and winced, but took the brush. "I'll save it for later," he muttered, and sat down again. "Thanks, Delg."

"No quarrels," said the dwarf, finding his stool. "You were impressive indeed, downstairs."

Mirt grinned. "So it's my turn to be the giddy-goat here and now, hey?"

"Something like that," Delg agreed, and they laughed. "You've certainly assembled a band of giggling idiots this time, Mirt," came the sharp voice from the other side of the curtain.

Mirt raised an eyebrow. "What d’you mean, 'this time?".

Storm took off her second boot and stretched, catlike. On the other side of their leaping fire, Elminster sat sucking his pipe into life in a cloud of drifting, snapping white sparks and curling green smoke.

“The wards, El?" the silver-haired bard asked. Elminster nodded. "Set as strong as my Art can make them in these troubled times. None can see us or reach us, short of the gods. Ye can lay blades aside, take thy ease, and undress-if that's what ye're asking."

Storm grinned at him and began unbuckling and unlacing. Then she frowned. "What do you mean, 'in these troubled times'?"

Elminster puffed on his pipe; a small inferno went up. "Magic's not the sure thing it was a winter ago," he said. "It's going wild now sometimes, and not even Mystra herself will answer me over it-"

Storm met his eyes for a long breath of silence, then shivered. "Alaundo," she whispered, and he nodded. Storm stared at him a moment longer and then sighed, shrugged, and went on disrobing. Silver hair curled free about her shoulders and down her back; she removed dagger sheaths and safe-pouches from where they were strapped next to her skin, and with obvious pleasure rubbed away the marks they left behind.

The old man across the fire had seen her do this many a time before, since the days when he himself had changed her, when she was only a babe. He sat and smoked companionably, directing discarded apparel away with magic that spun unseen from one lazy finger. Clothing floated silently through the air in his direction; more than once Storm smiled her thanks at him. When she was done, he said merely, "Ye still look magnificent, lass."