Realms of Valor a-1

by Douglas Niles

  "I wouldn't recommend it," said a voice edged with steel. An equally sharp blade bit into the base of Hasheth's neck. 'Turn around slowly."

  Hasheth did as he was bid, silently cursing himself for being bested by the barbarian peacock. He'd forgotten about Danilo, so accustomed had he become to ignoring the fool.

  "Look over at the rock ledge," the northerner ordered, lowering his blade until it was level with the young man's heart. "It could change your outlook considerably."

  Puzzled, Hasheth looked-and recoiled from the sight before him. All but one of the sun-loving lizards had fled in fright. The lone remaining creature writhed and twisted, impaled by a slender, familiar knife. The blade flashed in the bright sunlight as the lizard flopped about. As the young man gaped, the creature was seized by a final, convulsive shudder. Only moments before, Hasheth had been directly between the dead reptile and the former hiding place of his "brother assassin."

  "Arilyn cut that a bit close, wouldn't you say?" Danilo observed in his irritating drawl.

  "The elfwoman spoke the truth," Hasheth said softly. He turned and met Danilo Thann's eyes squarely. "Return my knife," he commanded. "She saved my life. Now I would come to her aid."

  The nobleman chuckled and lowered his sword. "Not if you value your skin, you won't." He motioned toward the ledge. "Have a seat. This shouldn't take long."

  "But-"

  "If she gets into trouble, we'll help. Agreed?"

  Absorbed in the battle before him, Hasheth could only nod. He clambered onto the rock, barely registering the dead lizard beside him, or the northerner's comic grimaces as he fastidiously removed the creature.

  Arilyn Moonblade fought like no other Hasheth had seen. She held her ancient sword with both hands, yet her strike was as quick as a desert snake. Easily she engaged both of the Calishite's flashing scimitars. Within moments the man fell backward, clutching at his slashed throat.

  The half-elf stooped and cleaned her sword in the sand. Like one asleep, Hasheth slid from the rocky ledge and drifted forward, his eyes fixed in horrified fascination on the dead man.

  Danilo came to stand beside Arilyn. "If ever I had doubts about your assessment of Hasheth, one look at his face now would dispel them. I'd wager my entire gem collection that the boy had never seen death close at hand-until now, that is."

  "He's lived a sheltered life," Arilyn responded softly. "Few men die in a harem."

  "And those who do, die happy," the young mage murmured.

  Oblivious to the Harpers' conversation, Hasheth dropped to his knees beside the body. His hands reached toward the man's outer shirt, hesitated, then parted the dark folds. A quilted sash of pale silver silk girded the dead man's under-tunic. Hasheth looked up at Arilyn.

  "This man wore a shadow sash," he whispered, "and you killed him with ease."

  The half-elf pushed a handful of black curls off her damp forehead and shrugged. "He was better at stealth than at honest combat."

  "Even so, the gray sash marks its wearer as an assassin of the highest rank and skill," the lad said quietly, never taking his eyes from the corpse.

  "Oh-oh," Danilo murmured, suddenly realizing what was coming.

  Hasheth drew in a steadying breath and quickly unknot-ted the sash, tugging it free of the dead man's body. He rose and presented it to Arilyn with grave formality. 'This belt and rank are now yours."

  Arilyn eyed the proffered sash and swallowed hard. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

  "Wear it with pride," Hasheth responded earnestly. "The sash will bring you much respect in these lands, and many offers from men of wealth and power. The shadow sash also grants you entrance into the Assassins Guild, and even a position in the ruling body of the School of Stealth, should you desire it."

  Arilyn's shoulders sagged. For much of her life, the half-elf had struggled to be known as something other than an assassin. Ironically, she had just earned a badge that proclaimed her false identity anew.

  "Two guilds," Danilo said softly. "Between the Assassins Guild and the Wine Merchants Guild, we could surely get the information we need."

  Arilyn cast a rueful glance into Danilo's sympathetic face and gave a curt nod of agreement. She gingerly plucked the sash from Hasheth's outstretched hands and tied it quickly around her waist.

  "I was not ready to listen to your words," Hasheth said, an apology in his tones. "Will you now tell me what brings the Harpers to our lands?"

  "We would like Pasha Balik to remain in power," Danilo began.

  The young man smiled. "Already you have my interest. That is my wish as well."

  Hasheth listened politely as Danilo spoke, but the boy's face darkened with shock and outrage as the mage related the guilds' plot against the pasha. He sat in silence for many moments after the story had ended.

  "What's wrong, Hasheth?" Arilyn prodded.

  The young man shifted uneasily. "Clearly I must withdraw from the School of Stealth if I wish to stay alive, but doing so would be regarded as a failure. The guild would not hesitate to spread false tales of my cowardice, which would bring great dishonor to me and to my father. This is more than a matter of pride," Hasheth added quietly. "I wish to aid my father, but will he regard the words of a man without honor?"

  "You might be able to leave the School of Stealth without dishonor," Danilo said thoughtfully.

  "I do not see how," the boy replied, his face glum.

  The nobleman grinned. "Barter much, Hasheth?"

  "That is generally a task for merchants and servants, but I am familiar with its principles. One begins by suggesting an impossibly high price, which is countered by a equally absurd low figure. Eventually both parties settle somewhere in the middle."

  "Precisely," Danilo said. 'This is what you do: You and a servant will take this man's body to the assassins' guildhall. If I understand the rules, his death earns not only the sash rank, but guild membership and a position at the School of Stealth. Demand all three. That's the high bid."

  "But I did not kill him," Hasheth protested.

  "This is barter, remember? What place does honesty have in making a bargain?"

  A touch of humor lit the boy's eyes. "Go on."

  "The guildmasters will counter with a low bid, perhaps offer to pay you this man's bloodprice. You merely sneer and toy with that priceless scarab of yours," Danilo suggested, casting a covetous glance at the boy's ring. "Then, after a suitable pause, you suggest that you might be willing to give up the position at the School of Stealth."

  "The guildmasters won't be satisfied with that," Hasheth protested. "It is true that they will not willingly make a man of my years a master assassin, but if they indeed plot against my father, they cannot allow me into the guild."

  "Exactly," Danilo said patiently. "Guild membership is the main issue, and most of their attention will be focused on it. When they release you from your commitment to the School of Stealth, they'll be thinking of you in terms of a potential master assassin, not a failed student."

  "Go on," urged Hasheth, a crafty smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

  "They'll release you from the school and make a counteroffer. Since they can't have you poking around in guild business, all they can offer is the shadow sash itself. You pretend to think it over, then casually observe that an assassin of such high rank must be allowed into the guild, so that her activities can be monitored and her fees properly tithed. Emphasize 'her' subtly."

  "Ahhh." A slow, admiring smile crept across Hasheth's face. "That will befuddle them."

  Danilo grinned. "That's right. You'll change the direction of negotiations abruptly, gaining an advantage through surprise. Introduce your 'servant'-that's you, Arilyn-as the woman who overcame the shadow sash. Repeat your demand for rank and guild membership for her-and imply you were speaking for Arilyn all along. Chances are they'll be so relieved to be rid of you that they'll embrace Arilyn. Figuratively speaking, my dear," Danilo hastily assured the half-elf.

  "But what of my assignment? I
can hardly champion a woman I was ordered to kill," the boy pointed out.

  The nobleman raised one eyebrow. "If the guildmasters bring that up, remind them that you were released from the school. Barter met is bargain sealed, as they say hereabouts. You'll have gotten the better of them, and they'll probably admire you for it."

  Hasheth threw back his head and let out a peal of delighted laughter. "You think like a southerner: devious and subtle. It would seem that I have misjudged you."

  "Everyone does," Arilyn said dryly. "That's why he's such an effective agent."

  "Lord Thann is a Harper, as well?" The young man's brow furrowed as he thought this over. "A nobleman can join such a group?"

  "Even a pasha's son," Arilyn said with a smile. "In time."

  Hasheth nodded thoughtfully. "I might like that."

  Danilo folded his arms and smiled broadly. "Then perhaps it is time for you and me to barter. Tell your father all that has happened. Tell him that Arilyn and I will seek proof that the guilds threaten his power. Ask him to hear what we say and judge for himself."

  "That is your high bid?" scoffed Hasheth.

  "You interrupted me too soon," the nobleman said plaintively. "I was going to ask for that ring of yours, as well."

  The boy's dark eyes flashed. "That is absurd! This ring is a mark of royalty. Here is my offer: as you ask, I will deliver your warning to my father. You may not have the ring, but I will be your ears and eyes in Tethyr. From this day, I will pass to the Harpers whatever information reaches the pasha's court."

  "Throw in a couple of camels, and you have a deal," Danilo offered.

  "Done."

  The young man concluded the bargain in such solemn fashion that neither Harper had the heart to explain that Danilo had been joking.

  "Congratulations, Danilo," Arilyn murmured, struggling to keep the laughter from her voice. "We've done our duty to the Harpers and you finally got your two camels."

  PATRONAGE

  David Cook

  "Master Koja, have you forgotten? Tonight is Duke Piniago's dinner. You are going, aren't you?"

  The pricking scratch of my quill ends as my secretary's shadow falls across the parchment sheet on which I am toiling. Light is precious in this dim tower closet the priests have granted me, and now my aide, granted by those selfsame clerics of Denier, has managed to position his broad self in front of the only window.

  Looking up, I blink as his girth is swathed in the glow of daylight beyond. I am annoyed by his presence, since it is an interruption of my solitude, but I cannot ignore his question. Besides, my secretary is a good priest, so I curb my temper, pushing back the stack of parchment before me, and considering.

  "I am undecided, Firstborn Foxe." I cannot manage the accents of his honest family name, foreign to me though common enough in this city, so I call him Firstborn in honor of his birth. "I have heard your gossip about his table, all the magnificent dishes he serves-the finest in Procampur. What if it were to overtax my humble stomach? Besides, I am not learned in the ways of your western courts and might offend him. After all, I am only a simple lama."

  Foxe will not relent as he gathers up the sheets and fusses in a bass voice that matches his size. "Simple lama, indeed," he mutters, once again assuming because of my weatherbeaten and shaved looks that I am old and therefore hard of hearing. "You are a famous historian. You were a guest of the king of Cormyr and wrote a history of the Tuigan wars for him." From one of the book-crowded shelves, he takes a bundle of blotting paper and cuts the twine.

  "It was not a history, Firstborn Foxe, only a few incomplete notes on the customs of the Tuigan-nothing at all compared to Goodman Reaverson's complete account of the wars." I recall the bard Reaverson's patient translation and guidance with those notes. For the time he put in, my work had been as much his as mine.

  "The duke has money and he likes the arts," Foxe reminds me with an irritated glare. He thrusts my manuscript into the hands of waiting scribe. The boy nods and slowly backs down the stairs, apparently reluctant to miss any of our words. I wave him away. It is clear I will write no more today.

  "The duke has all the manners of a foreigner." My insult, the worst to any born in the East as I have been, is lost on Foxe. "He is less than pleasant," I explain. "I am a poor ambassador, Foxe. I will say something foolish to anger him. There must be some other way to raise the money to pay the scriveners and binders or some cheaper way to have a book copied. Perhaps a wizard could conjure duplicates." I barely glance at my secretary. Perhaps he will disappear if I do not look at him, the way the epistemological Brother Ulin claims everything should-what we do not observe does not exist.

  "Hah! That kind of work's beneath most mages. Too much like a trade." Foxe snorts; he has seen through my deceit. "You know there is no need for this. You can stay with us here at the temple while you write. I'll make sure the high scrivener sends copies of your Tuigan history to every temple of Denier throughout the Heartlands."

  I shake my head. We have discussed this before and he knows some of my feelings, but both Foxe and I are too stubborn to relent. Part of the problem is my pride, for I have been too long a guest at this temple of the Lord of Glyphs, ever since leaving King Azoun's court in Suzail. More importantly, and the point I have not told Foxe, is that in all those temples, the priests will tuck my history of the Tuigan into their great vaults and no one will ever see it again. I do not feel heroic enough to make such a futile gesture.

  Tired of arguing, I look out the tower's small window, signaling Foxe I wish him to go. My high chamber gives me an ample view of Procampur, looking across the walled wards to the sea at the far end of the city. Smoke drifts lazily above the colorful roofs, whole districts tiled in blue for seamen, yellow for taverns and other services, and the sea green that denotes merchants. All are dotted with patches of late winter snow, dull white and sooty gray. It is this peculiarity of Procampur's people, reflected in their roofs, that I like, far more comforting to me than Suzail, where I spent my first years in the West.

  In the capital of King Azoun, victor of the crusade over the Tuigan, there was always the feeling that I was a spoil of war-a scholar oddity from the conquered court of Yamun Khahan-no matter how kindly I was treated, no matter how fascinating the city was. When Denier's priests offered me the chance to travel, I accepted eagerly. Looking over the city now, I welcome my decision. Procampur, with its walled wards carefully dividing the city into merchant, noble, and priest, reminds me of a proper Khazari city-of home. There is a sense of order and place here that Suzail lacked.

  Perhaps, I realize with a start, I stay here because I want to go home.

  Foxe's deep voice rumbles up from the stone stairwell as he undoubtedly accosts the boy still lurking near the top steps. "Lay out the master's orange monk robes for tonight. After that, get to work on today's pages. Have them transcribed before morning."

  "More pages," whines the reedy-voiced lad with resignation. "Master Koja doesn't make Azoun's crusade heroic enough. It's got no dragons or anything."

  "Maybe you should leave now," comes Foxe's suddenly gruff reply. "Go do your copying."

  The youth is oblivious to Foxe's reproach. I am glad Foxe cannot see my smile. "If it were like, you know, like the Lay of the Purple Dragons-the one that bard-uh, Talamic- sings at the Griffin's Claw. That's a good story of a crusade, full of knights and magic. I really like the part the part where the gods appear to King Azoun and bless the crusade. Master Koja should write about that."

  "Go!" Foxe snarls as fiercely as a priest can manage. There is a scuffling of feet as the acolyte complies.

  The stairs silent, I return to my writing for another try, shifting the table slightly to make better use of the sunlight. The legs scrape over the hard stone floor, the sound quickly swallowed up by the walls of sea-mildewed tomes. I take up the quill again.

  During the summer season, a popular sport among the Tuigan men was to hunt the snow beasts of the mountains-

  There is an
ink blot on my parchment, caused by my inattention, so I must set aside the quill and carefully clean the stain. I am thankful for the coarse parchment's poor absorbency as I daub it up with a scrap of leftover paper-a sample of real paper that Foxe has brought for me to examine. It is a cheap handbill, covered with large blockish script: Announcing the services of Forgemaster Inkstain and his wondrous printing device!

  More writing is obscured by absorbed ink. In trying to read the rest, it stains my fingers smudgy black.

  "Firstborn Foxe!"

  Hurried footsteps come up the stairs in response to my excited cry. "What is it, Master Koja?" my flushed secretary wheezes as lumbers up the stone steps of the tower.

  "Who is this Forgemaster Inkstain?" Unable to restrain my curiosity, I leave my desk and come face-to-face with Foxe as he plods, face red and puffy, through the arched doorway. The foolscap flutters eagerly in my fingers under his nose. I have never before seen letters so black and methodically drawn. Foxe looks surprised as he takes the sheet and holds it close to his face, squinting to read it in the dim light.

  "He's one of the new-fangled printers, sir."

  "A printer-some type of scribe?"

  Foxe puckers his fat cheeks as he seeks a way to explain it to me. "Like a scrivener, master, except he uses some sort of contraption to copy the pages."

  "Like Sister Deara's enchanted copyist?" The sister had been working in one of the vaults to form a perfect scribe from sculpted clays, a creature called a golem. In the one test I witnessed, her hulking brute smashed a writing desk by driving a quill through the wooden top. The thing now stands mute guard over the main hall, porter to occasional guests.

  "Not like that, sir," Foxe allows with a smile. "It stamps out the pages, making lots of copies at one time."

  "I would very much like to see this. Can you find the place?"

  Foxe squints at the sheet again. "It says he's on Scribes' Alley, I think. That's easy enough."