Resigning herself to the situation, Lhasha said, “I guess that’s a sacrifice I have to make, isn’t it? Well, at least I can go down to the tavern to pass the time.”
Corin would have preferred her to stay upstairs, but he already knew his charge well enough to realize that wasn’t an option.
“I’ll meet you for supper,” Corin said. “The same time as last night.”
“Sleep tight,” Lhasha said, closing the door between their rooms.
“Many of the young men are asking about you,” Tebia, the halfling waitress, told Lhasha as she cleared away the supper plates. With a mischievous smile she added, “They want me to find out if you’re going to be dancing with anyone in particular this evening.”
“Not tonight,” the half-elf answered. “I think I’ll just turn in early.” Seeing the sour, accusing look the young server shot Corin, Lhasha quickly added, “I’m just a little tired. I’ll be back out on the dance floor tomorrow—I promise.”
Seemingly satisfied, the halfling finished clearing the table. “Sleep well, Lhasha,” she said as the half-elf went up the stairs to her room, Corin only a few steps behind.
“I’m glad to see you showing some restraint,” the warrior said as they climbed the steps.
“Well, I’ve got to work sometime,” Lhasha explained. “If I don’t go out and earn some gold, we won’t be able to stay here very long.”
Corin waited until they had reached the rooms before responding to her comment. He followed Lhasha into her chambers and closed the door behind him before saying, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should keep a low profile for a while. Maybe the Masks will forget about you if you disappear for a month or two.”
Lhasha shook her head with a rueful smile.
“We both know they won’t forget, no matter how long I wait. And I need to earn some coin. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
The warrior could only hope she spoke the truth. He wouldn’t be able to follow her on her mission. He lacked the skills, and limbs, necessary to scale walls, climb through windows, and sneak silently through the shadows. If he went with her, he’d only attract attention, and increase the likelihood of her getting caught in the act.
“I’ll be waiting here for you when you get back,” he said, taking a seat on the chair by her bed.
“I don’t mind you waiting in my room for me to return,” Lhasha told him, “but do you mind stepping out for a minute while I change clothes? Unless you want me to go out wearing this.”
Hopping to his feet, Corin silently cursed himself for his stupidity. Of course Lhasha had no intention of leaving the building clad in the eye catching ensemble she had worn down to supper.
“I’ll let you back in when I’m ready to go,” the half-elf assured him as he marched back to his own room.
Twenty minutes later Lhasha knocked at the door separating their adjoining rooms. After a brief pause, she opened it and stepped through. She was clad head to toe in a black, form-fitting outfit. Her long, delicate fingers were covered by thin black gloves, and a wide belt hung with a variety of tools and pouches encircled her tiny waist.
“What do you think?” she asked coyly. “Like my work clothes?”
“Very … practical,” Corin said at last, arching an eyebrow.
“Gond’s hammer,” Lhasha exclaimed, “I think that just may have been a joke! There’s hope for you yet, Corin.” With that she was gone, slipping out the window to her own room and gliding down the wall to the street two floors below. She disappeared into the gloom, becoming one with the shadows of the night.
CHAPTER SIX
As the young man waited for his superior to arrive, he began to wonder if it was all worth it. The life of a Harper was never easy. The road was hard, the demands relentless. Family and friends were often neglected or left behind in the course of doing one’s duty. Death hounded a Harper’s every step.
In Elversult, that life was particularly harsh. In addition to the usual difficulties, there were a wide variety of concerns peculiar to the area. Infiltrating the Purple Masks. Maintaining Yanseldara’s rule of law in a city that was, until only recently, controlled entirely by criminals. Plus, Elversult had always been a flashpoint for the ongoing war between the Harpers and the Cult of the Dragon.
For this particular young Harper agent, all the other dangers paled in comparison to the anxiety he felt over the impending meeting with Vaerana Hawklyn, the leader of the Elversult Maces.
Just then the ranger burst into the room, her long legs never even breaking stride as she kicked the doors open and crossed the hardwood floor until she stood right beside the young agent, towering over him. It was almost as if the mere thought of Vaerana’s name had conjured her out of thin air.
To call the woman responsible for the security of Elversult, as well as Lady Lord Yanseldara’s personal protection intimidating was the grossest of understatements. It wasn’t the gleaming armor she always wore, or the savage array of weapons belted on her waist and strapped across her chest. Her wild mane of honey blonde hair and the way her muscles flexed as she moved were imposing to say the least, but even these were not the cause of the sudden trembling in the young man. With Vaerana, the most frightening thing about her was something intangible—her blunt, straightforward, some would say rude, manner. She had a seemingly permanent scowl etched upon her face and hard, unblinking eyes that bore right through you.
“Well,” she demanded sharply of the already nervous young man, “what do you want? I’m in a hurry.”
Somehow the agent was able to speak without stuttering. He was, after all, a Harper. “I’ve brought news of the Cult of the Dragon.”
“So spit it out already and quit wasting my time.”
The young man was smart enough not to further annoy Vaerana by apologizing.
“There is a mage—Azlar is his name—who is rapidly growing in power and importance among the ranks of the dragon worshipers. He has just arrived in Elversult, accompanied by a platoon of elite guards.”
The scowl on the ranger’s face became even more angry, if that was possible.
“What’s he here for?”
Shaking his head, the Harper agent replied, “We don’t know. His mission has been shrouded in secrecy. All of our usual contacts in the cult have come up with nothing.”
“What’s the use in giving me a report if you don’t know anything?” she demanded. She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing,. “If they’re being that close-mouthed about what this wizard is up to, it must be something big. Very big. I don’t like not knowing what those scaly Black Caps are up to. It’s never good.”
“Never,” the spy agreed, instantly regretting his decision to open his mouth.
Vaerana fixed him with an angry glare. “Well, don’t you think you better find out what’s going on, instead of standing here chatting away the day with me?”
“Uh … yes. Of course. Right away.”
And with that the ranger spun on the heel of her boot and stormed out of the room. The young man breathed a sigh of relief.
A full tenday had passed since Lhasha had formed her strange yet practical partnership with the taciturn soldier. Their relationship had already begun to settle into a familiar pattern. Every other night Lhasha would slip out to perform a burglary, returning after a few hours with a pouch full of coins. The rest of her evenings were spent dancing into the late hours while Corin relentlessly scrutinized the crowded tavern for non-existent enemies.
It didn’t take many days for Lhasha to realize that Corin was always on duty. The warrior’s vigilance never failed, it never flagged, it never let up. He was constantly on alert, every sense attuned to his surroundings, his thick muscles occasionally twitching in their perpetual readiness. On some level, Lhasha admired such dedication. But for the most part, she simply found it disturbing and unnatural.
Corin needed to relax, or he was going to explode. He had no outlet in his life, no way to ease the pressures of the world.
That was probably what had driven him to waste his money and life on alcohol, but he didn’t drink anymore. Not since she had hired him. Not even a glass of wine.
He didn’t socialize either. Unlike Lhasha, he hadn’t made friends with the staff. He barely even spoke to her. All her efforts to learn more about Corin, to turn the conversation to his past or his personal life before their business partnership, were met with cold silence.
Lhasha was certain that if she could just get him to open up a little bit their cold relationship would thaw. As it was, he was focused solely on his role as a soldier and bodyguard. When he wasn’t hovering over Lhasha like a vulture over a fresh kill, he was in his room honing his already formidable martial skills with drills and practice. In Lhasha’s mind, such obsession couldn’t be healthy.
One night after supper, completely on a whim, she decided to do something about his one track mind. Somehow, she’d get him to open up. When the pulse quickening music of the halfling minstrels started, she resisted the urge to leap to her feet and dash out onto the dance floor.
The warrior gave her a look of mild surprise, but didn’t say anything.
“I don’t really feel like dancing tonight,” she lied. “I’d rather just sit and talk, if that’s all right with you.
The warrior shrugged indifferently.
“So, Corin,” she said, “tell me something about yourself. Tell me your life’s story.”
“I don’t feel like talking tonight.”
She gave him a sour look. “You never feel like talking. To anybody. You might find if you didn’t keep things so bottled up, you wouldn’t be so miserable.”
“I’m not miserable.” His voice was dead, his words devoid of all emotion.
The half-elf shook her head. “You’re not going to freeze me out this time, Corin,” she insisted. “I think its time you let someone else share some of whatever burden you’re carrying.”
“My burden is my own business.”
Inside, Lhasha smiled. Now she had him. “Actually, Corin, its my business as well. I can see it in your eyes, in the way you sit and stand, in the way you go about your duties as my bodyguard. Something is eating away at you, and that has a direct effect on me.”
She paused to let her words sink in, and to give him a chance to respond. As she expected, he responded with silence.
“Corin,” she insisted, “I have a right to know what’s going on inside my bodyguard’s head. You owe it to me to tell me about your past. About how you lost your hand.”
The warrior glared at her. “I owe you nothing more than the protection of my blade.”
“Then tell me as a friend, Corin.” Lhasha had decided to lay all her cards on the table. She knew there was something worth saving in the grim warrior, a core of basic human decency hidden away beneath his bitterness and rage. She had seen glimpses of it, glimmers of promise. It wasn’t in Lhasha’s nature to turn her back on a person’s suffering. She had learned that from Fendel.
But if she reached out to him, and tried to force him to open up what he wanted to keep hidden, she might just alienate him once and for all. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but if she couldn’t reach him tonight she might have to admit defeat and leave the angry man to his own self-destructive course.
“We’ve only known each other a tenday, but we’ve saved each other’s lives. I think we’ve been through enough to consider ourselves friends. Tell me your story. It might even ease your pain.”
The warrior laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. “You really think my pain so slight that you can talk it out of existence?”
“What can it hurt to try?” she insisted. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever suffered, Corin?” she added, her voice taking a harsher tone. Compassion wasn’t the only way to make a connection.
“You know nothing of my suffering,” the warrior shot back. “You couldn’t even begin to understand.”
“Try me.”
“I was a soldier once, a warrior, a White Shield. I lost my hand in battle, and my life was over. There is no more to tell.”
Lhasha had known drawing Corin out wasn’t going to be easy, but his sanctimonious attitude was beginning to annoy her.
“When I hired you, I didn’t realize you were a quitter, Corin. I lost both my parents when I was too young to even talk, but I managed to carry on. You don’t see me wallowing in self pity.”
The one-armed warrior sneered at her. “You know nothing about me, about what I’ve endured. You couldn’t possibly understand my suffering.”
“Then tell me,” she demanded. “Explain it so I understand.”
They locked defiant stares, then Corin dropped his eyes. His anger had given way to apathy. With a shrug of his shoulders he said, “Very well.”
Corin collected his thoughts for a second then he spoke in a voice devoid of all emotion. “The battle that took my hand also claimed the life of many of my companions. Igland, the leader of our troop, was cut down in front of my very eyes. And the boy we were supposed to protect—a nobleman’s heir—was seized by bandits and held for ransom.
“I lay in a bed for many tendays after the ambush, fighting for my life. My injury healed slowly, I became frail and weak. The blade that took my hand had poisoned me with foul magic. It was a month before I could even walk again. By that time the White Shields were no more. Leaderless, depleted in numbers and shamed by our failure to protect the boy, the surviving members of the White Shields had left the city, slinking away in disgrace one by one, but I chose to stay … Elversult is my home. I grew up here, my parents are buried here. How could I leave this place, despite all that had happened?”
Corin paused for a long moment, and when he resumed his voice was tight, his words tense with suppressed rage.
“At first I did not look for work, but spent my time praying to Lathander. They say he is the god of new beginnings and rebirth, and I prayed to him so that I could start my life over again.
“With each rising of the sun I made a pilgrimage to the Temple of the Dawnbringer, every day ascending the steep path that winds up the barren face of Temple Hill. I gave generously—virtually all I had—and prayed for many months to the Morninglord that I might be reborn and made whole again. But the clerics were powerless … their magic was no match for the foul necromancy of the dark blade that had marked me. The clerics did nothing for me, but they kept my coins.”
Corin cast a hate filled glance out a nearby window, toward the bare hilltop that towered over all of Elversult. “Over the past year I found my money was better spent on bitter ale—at least it offered some temporary relief. But no matter how much I drank each night, the next morning I would awake again, stuck here in this city, beneath the shadow of that false Temple—a constant reminder of how the gods failed me, just as I failed to protect the nobleman’s son. Perhaps that is justice.”
“What happened to the boy?” Lhasha asked.
“He was returned, unharmed, after several months … though it might have been better for me if the bandits had just …”
Corin caught himself mid-sentence. “I bear no ill will to the boy,” he said softly. “I am glad he is alive. I do not have to add the guilt of his blood to my burden.”
He continued, his voice finally betraying his deep seated anger, rising into a shout. “But Fhazail—the pile of offal that was the boy’s steward—I curse the bandits for not slitting his swollen neck!”
“Fhazail was ransomed with the young master, but he returned to Elversult with hate and revenge on his mind. He accused the White Shields of betraying the mission. Accused us of arranging the ambush. With the others gone, his finger pointed squarely at me, despite my injury. Of course he could not prove his lies, but the rumor spread … ‘Corin Onehand cannot be trusted’!”
Corin pounded his stump into his left hand in anger, and then smashed it against the table. Noticing the startled glances of the other tavern patrons, the warrior lowered his voice before continuing.
“I
trained myself to wield a sword again, but no mercenary company would hire me once Fhazail was done smearing my good name. Who will fight beside a man he does not trust? The Maces sent me away because of my wound … arrogant bastards wouldn’t even give me a chance!
“I thought about ending my own life, but something stilled my hand as I held my rusty blade against my own throat. I heard the voice of Igland, my captain, calling to me from a great distance. As any good soldier, I heeded the call.
“ ‘Corin,’ his voice said, ‘the White Shields have been betrayed, and you must bring our killer to justice.’ ”
The warrior paused, trying to judge Lhasha’s reaction to his story. The half-elf said nothing.
Corin resumed his tale. “Suddenly, it all became clear to me. There was a traitor on the mission, but it was not one of my fellow soldiers. Fhazail had arranged the ambush, and then turned the blame onto us.”
“How do you know it was him?” Lhasha asked.
The warrior was silent for a long time. He had told the half-elf much, more than he meant to. Once the words started, it was almost as if they came unbidden, longing for release after being pent up for so long. Corin realized that he felt some connection to Lhasha. She treated him as an equal, rather than a cripple. She respected him for what he could do, instead of pitying him for what he couldn’t, for that, he was grateful.
It was the rings that had given Fhazail away, of course. Those hideous rings that the vain steward always wore had exposed his lies. For some reason, Corin didn’t want to mention the rings to Lhasha.
At the trial Fhazail was still wearing his precious rings, even after spending several months as a supposed prisoner of ruthless bandits. If Fhazail’s story was true, the jewelry would have been taken from him. The brigands would have even gone so far as to cut the steward’s fleshy digits off to steal his rings.
It was only after he had heard the voice of Igland that Corin had been able to remember this small but vital detail about the steward. The realization had come too late. By then, Fhazail had long since disappeared, and the chance for Corin to avenge his fallen comrades was gone.
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