Hand of Fire

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The breeze was blowing strong ashore this night, bringing wafts of the salty seacoast tang of dead things with it-and bringing the stink of the harbor to better wards of Waterdeep.

Both of the men in the many-shadowed upstairs room over The Laughing Lass festhall were used to the smells; they hadn't bothered to light the perfumed oil lamp that sat on the table between them-nor called for ale or soft and affectionate ladies to serve it to them, for that matter.

The sensuous, coiling music of the dancers made a muted throbbing beneath their boots on the bare board floor, punctuated by occasional high-pitched cries and peals of laughter-but neither man had a moment of attention for anything but the man across the table from him and the items on that table. Only the occasional scrape of a boot heel from closer at hand-the room outside the door, where bodyguards of both men lounged facing each other in uneasy, silently insolent tension-made the two merchants so much as flicker an eyelash.

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