Tymora's luck

OFFSTAGE

Somewhere in the Prime Material Plane on the world known as Toril in Realmspace, Mirt the Moneylender settled his prodigious girth on a heavy ironwood chair and said, "You are the last person I ever expected to see in my office."

Joshuan Havabuck-"Fast Joshy," as he was known on the street-squirmed in his chair, his furry halfling feet dangling a good foot off the floor. "Would that you were not seeing me, guv'nor," the halfling said, "but I appreciate your willingness to aid my situation."

Mirt folded his hands over his belly and smiled. His aid always came at a hefty, if deferred, cost. "It's hard to believe that you, of all people, are short of ready money," Mirt stated. "You've lectured me many a time about keeping your eggs in numerous baskets."

"Diversification," Havabuck said with a sage bob of his head.

"Numbers running, smuggling, pornographic Talis cards, stolen goods…" Mirt enumerated Havabuck's baskets, ticking them off on his sausage-sized fingers.

"All solid enterprises," the halfling boasted, "though subject to normal irregularities and marketing fluxes."

"So why are you here?" Mirt asked.

The halfling sighed, a sigh that ended in a shuddering sob. A moment later Havabuck pulled himself together and explained. "It's my core business, guv'nor. The ready money for all the others comes from a lottery I run in Dock Ward. A bet on the total daily tonnage that conies into Waterdeep, as reported by the dockmaster." "An honest man," said Mirt solemnly. The halfling nodded. "Incorruptible, and best of all, a man with a trustworthy demeanor. The lottery costs a gold lion a ticket, and it pays out a thousand gold lions. Normal take is ten thousand lions, so I get a tidy profit, which I can use to cover losses of other, less dependable operations."

"Unless more than ten people pick the winning number," said Mirt.

The halfling suppressed another shudder and nodded.

"So I take it more than ten people won?" Mirt queried

The halfling nodded again.

"Fifteen people?"

The halfling pressed his lips together and did not respond.

"Twenty?"

Havabuck shook his head.

Mirt's eyes widened in surprise. "Thirty people all picked the same number?" he asked in a breathless whisper.

"All of them," the halfling declared in a piteous whine. "All ten thousand miserable souls picked the same bleeding number. And it was the right number. They're all expecting payment tonight."

A silence pervaded the room as Mirt marveled at the anguished halfling before him. A lesser being might have taken the ten-thousand-gold-lion take and fled the city. Yet Havabuck was prepared to take on the obligation of paying out the ten million gold lions, not to mention the interest payments on the loan. Mirt suspected the halfling was prepared to pay any price to retain the honor of being a major crime lord of Waterdeep.

With such round figures, Mirt did not require his abacus to calculate the interest. He slid the wooden frame aside and drew up the papers.

"You have enough armed guards to cart away the principal?" Mirt asked as the halfling signed the papers. Havabuck nodded. He was nothing if not efficient. It only took four hours to clear the one hundred thousand bags of gold from Mirt's treasury, since Havabuck had not thought it necessary to count the coin in each sack. Mirt's reputation was unimpeachable

Much later that evening, as Mirt sat calculating which gems, magical artifacts, and art pieces he would be selling to partially replenish his stock of coin, a masked figure appeared before him. Mirt was not startled. The mask was one of the helms worn by the members of the council who ruled the city. The council members kept their identities secret.

"I was wondering if you would be dropping by," Mirt said, motioning for the anonymous figure to have a seat. "You've heard about Havabuck. What do you think? Godly influence? Did Havabuck enrage Mask, Master of All Thieves, or simply annoy Beshaba? Or perhaps this is a mad plot of Cyric, Prince of Lies."

"Havabuck isn't the only victim," the figure said.

Mirt's eyes widened in surprise.

'The Cassalanters have made two similar loans, one to Widow Silvermane for a similar lottery that she runs in the North Ward, the other to the Field of Triumph Race Track in Sea Ward. Over four hundred people placed bets averaging fifty gold lions on a horse named Song of the Wind before the track could post new odds. The horse ran as if Kesef the Chaos Hound was chasing him. Won three lengths ahead of the favorite. Then there's the good luck of a venture capital company called The Rock, which funded an adventuring group that took out two beholders and raided their lair. That's another million to be divided between the company's one hundred and sixty shareholders."

"So do you have a theory?"

"Don't need a theory. There's something wrong with Tymora," the figure said. "Her priests are keeping it hushed up, but they've made a private off-the-record admission to Lord Piergeiron. Lord Piergeiron sent me with a question for you."

"Yes?"

"Could we be in the same trouble as Amn?"

"Amn?" Mirt asked.

"Yes. Remember a few years back when Amn invaded Maztica and brought back all that gold? A bushel of corn cost fifty gold there after the war. You said it was because there was more money circulating through their kingdom than actual goods that the money is supposed to represent."

Mirt nodded slowly. "It's a theory espoused by some sages."

"Could Waterdeep be in the same danger?" the masked figure asked.

Mirt slid a few beads across his abacus. His fingers were quick and sure. "I don't think so," he said finally, but his tone was not certain.

"Suppose similar things happened again tomorrow?" the masked figure asked. "Suppose that much money came in all week?"

Mirt gave a low whistle. He slid all the beads on the abacus to one side with a violent sweep of his hand. Then," he said, "we'd be in a lot of trouble."