Anthony's greedy heart skipped a beat at the mention of money.
Treasure moves dragons' hearts. As long as the price was right, everything except his own life was negotiable.
Still, caution prevailed. Anthony stepped forward and placed his hand on the drow's shoulder.
Evil-aligned folk usually had no principles when it came to self-preservation, unlike their stubborn good-aligned counterparts who'd rather die than yield.
But drow had the worst reputation, and mages' tricks were countless. Combined, they demanded extreme caution.
Too many fools had fallen victim to sweet talk. Anthony couldn't tell if this guy had truly surrendered or was buying time.
Against evil mages who led with lethal spells, one had to respond overwhelmingly.
One of The Book of Pink Shop Sign's magics: Unclothe, activate!
With a poof, Belos stared in horror as every piece of clothing on his body began shedding on its own. Even his talisman rings and other jewelry refused to stay put.
The most terrifying part? Due to excessive sugar consumption, he'd been forced to extract his teeth—only to replace them with eight mithral ones. Now, even those clattered to the ground.
What kind of bizarre spell was this?!
For Belos, an archmage, this was far more shocking than the near-fatal kick from earlier.
Anthony had no interest in observing the naked drow man before him. He yanked a rope from his backpack, bound Belos's unresisting hands, then tossed the magic-aura-glowing items on the ground into his own bag.
+2 high-tier mage robes—nice loot.
An auto-deflect arrows amulet? Tsk, this thing's worth a pretty penny. Could be useful for self-defense.
Too bad its charges were spent. Wouldn't work until tomorrow.
A +3 ring of protection? Not bad. Usable.
Last one—+1 bracers of deflection. A bit shabby, but still worth something.
Opening the mage's waist bag, he found over a dozen magic scrolls. A quick skim revealed the best among them was a single third-level Haste spell; the rest were mostly low-tier scrolls for resisting various energies and alignments.
Better than nothing. Anthony unceremoniously stuffed the mage's equipment and items into his bag of holding.
After pocketing the dropped mithral teeth, he finally addressed the drow mage.
"Alright, mage. Now put your shirt and pants back on. Behave, or I can't guarantee your life safety."
Belos exhaled in relief. For a moment, he'd feared he'd run into one of those types—nearly lost his dignity then and there.
With his hands bound, he wiped cold sweat from his forehead with his forearm, then tried picking up his clothes—only to find he couldn't put them on. Hesitantly, he asked, "My lord, might I summon a Mage Hand to dress myself? I hope you don't mind…"
Anthony knew being tied up made such tasks difficult. For the sake of future gold, he was reasonable. "Fine. But for your own sake—no tricks, mage."
"Wouldn't dream of it…" Belos muttered. His fingers twitched, and a faint blue Mage Hand materialized, assisting its master in donning his pants and fastening his belt. Once his shirt was clumsily draped over him, he meekly added, "Might I ask which family sent you, my lord? Name them, and I'll arrange payment—be it gold or magic items…"
Anthony had no idea which debts this mage owed. Now, which family's name should he borrow…?
House Baenre's Matron Mother still lived—a true, hardened legendary priestess. Borrowing her family's name risked stirring unnecessary trouble.
As for House Do'Urden… Weren't they currently plotting against the Fourth House? The details, though, had mostly slipped Anthony's mind.
Playing it safe, he casually adjusted his cloak, letting the mage catch a glimpse of House Maever's insignia.
If the fool didn't react, he'd try dropping House Do'Urden's name next.
As the old saying went: "Swing the stick thrice—who knows if the tree bears fruit?" Since he was bluffing anyway, failure cost him nothing.
"Oh. House Maever." Belos's face twisted into pure anguish at the sight of the insignia. "By the Dark Mother's web… The matriarch's mask—the one the Matron Mother commissioned—it's due in just seven days! Seven! I would've delivered it by then. Does this answer satisfy you, my lord?"
"Hmph." Anthony hadn't expected to hit the mark on the first try. Luck? Or was this mage drowning in debts? He waved a dismissive hand. "Best hurry. The Matron's patience wears thinner than a phase spider's silk."
Belos clutched his chest as if physically wounded. "Fangs of Lolth! A mere 9,000-gold order… Why would she send someone like you to collect? A monk of your skill can't come cheap…"
Anthony smirked, keeping his words deliberately vague. "I merely dropped by as a guest. Imagine my surprise when a certain drow mage attacked unprovoked."
Belos forced a servile grin. "Ah, well… Recent… visitors have been overly persistent. My temper frayed."
Anthony wasn't fooled. No prior feud, yet the mage had opened with a sixth-level spell? Premeditated murder, plain as day.
Likely, the man had been this close to fleeing his debts—until they'd stumbled upon him.
Just how much gold did he owe to panic like this?
With Belos distracted by groveling, Anthony finally glanced behind him.
The little witch knelt beside Zad and Dagger, channeling Cure Light Wounds. Both men grimaced, their hair singed, but at least they breathed.
Odd. The girl herself seemed untouched—despite Anthony nursing his own injuries. He'd grill her later, somewhere quiet.
Assured the others were safe, Anthony turned back to the despairing mage, his grin widening like a dragon eyeing a vault.
Did this fool think this was over?
Oh, you have no idea how deep a dragon's greed runs.
"Now, mage." Anthony's tone snapped Belos to attention. "House Maever's matter is settled. Let's discuss ours."
"Ours?" Belos's stomach dropped.
"Indeed," Anthony said smoothly. "Namely, the medical fees for your unprovoked attack on me and my slaves... and the price of your miserable life."
Belos's heart nearly stopped. He took a deep breath to keep from cursing aloud.
You already took everything I own—piece by piece, in front of everyone! What more could you possibly want?!
Are all surface-dwellers this shameless? No wonder the drow got driven underground and stayed there.
Still, he forced his voice into something resembling politeness. "My lord, you've already claimed every valuable item I possessed. Surely that suffices to compensate for my... lapse in judgment?"
Anthony used his little finger to pick his ear, as if he didn't hear clearly: "What did you say?"
Humiliation burned in Belos's chest, but survival came first. He repeated himself through gritted teeth, his smile strained.
Anthony chuckled. He stepped closer, prodding a finger between the mage's ribs—hard enough to make him hiss—before sneering, "Your items? No, no. Those are my spoils of war. The moment they hit the ground, they became mine."
"But," he continued magnanimously, "since you're clearly strapped for coin, I'll be generous. You craft flesh golems, so you must be at least fourteenth-level. Let's say your life is worth... 14,000 gold. Or equivalent magic items."
Belos gaped, but Anthony wasn't done.
"Then there's the repair fee for my custom black robe—10 gold. Spell slot reimbursement—300. Emotional distress—1,000. And medical costs for these two slaves—5,000."
"Times are tough for everyone," he mused. "But given your ties to House Maever's Matron Mother, I'll round it down. Call it 6,000. Add the 14,000, and we've got a neat 20,000. Gold, white gold, gems, or magic items—I'm flexible."
Belos swayed, his vision swimming. He pointed at himself, then at the two half-dead surface-dwellers on the floor.
"My lord, I'll begrudgingly accept the 14,000 gold coins for my life. Even your 1,000 'distress' fee. But these worthless slaves?!" His voice cracked. "They're surface trash—no special traits, no rarity! My arena goes through dozens like them yearly. Killing them outright wouldn't cost half that!"
Anthony grinned, about to recycle his earlier Slave Market boasts—when the door creaked open.
"Good afternoon, Belos," came the smooth greeting. "My, what a sorry state you're in. And to our visiting archmage - as leader of Menzoberranzan's mercenary bands, let me extend my warmest welcome to our fair city. May your business here prove... profitable."
It was none other than Jarlaxle.
Belos nearly wept with relief at the sight of his old acquaintance. He opened his mouth to beg his friend to talk some sense into this shameless surface-dwelling extortionist - only to freeze when he realized Jarlaxle seemed to know something about this impostor.
"An archmage?" Belos sputtered in disbelief.
Jarlaxle nodded solemnly. "Indeed. Just this morning, this distinguished master sold a goblin monk and paladin at the Slave Market. Twenty thousand gold coins for the pair, if my sources are correct."
Staring at Jarlaxle's perfectly serious expression, Belos decided this was quite possibly the most ridiculous joke he'd heard in his entire century of existence.