Arilyn shrugged away his teasing. Her methods had been abrupt, even by her standards, but the stakes in her quest were too high, and too personal, to allow room for regrets or time for diplomacy.
“Would you carry my answer—and my terms—to Amlaruil of Evermeet? And can you duplicate her commission? I’m in a hurry, but I’ll need as good a forgery as you can manage.”
“No need for that,” Macumail said. He took a sheet of parchment from the pile on his writing table and handed it to her. Arilyn scanned the Elvish script; it seemed to be a duplicate of the document she had destroyed.
“The genuine article,” the captain avowed. “Lady Laeral insisted that I carry a spare copy or two. And as for terms, the queen has authorized me to promise, on her behalf, any payment you might request.”
“Such wisdom and foresight,” Arilyn murmured dryly, still studying the parchment in her hands. “I’m seldom paid with blank promissory notes, though the benefits of time saved should be apparent to all.”
When she was satisfied that the elven queen’s offer was genuine and that all was in order, Arilyn put the parchment on the table and lifted her eyes to her host. “Can you take me back to Zazesspur? At once?”
In response, Macumail rose from his chair and tugged at the bellpull hanging against one polished wall. “My dear lady, I am entirely at your service. You know, of course, that the docks are chained off until dawn.”
“Dawn’s good,” Arilyn agreed.
“There is a cabin next to mine. It is empty this voyage, and you are more than welcome to rest there. You might find some dry garments in the large sea chest that will do until morning. If you need anything else, you’ve only to ask.”
Arilyn’s face relaxed into a grateful smile, one that transformed her face and brought an answering—and familiar—spark to the captain’s blue eyes.
The half-elf suppressed a sigh. Perhaps the captain was acting at the behest of the elven queen, but by all reports his fondness for elf women did not begin and end with Amlaruil. It did not surprise Arilyn to hear that the guest cabin boasted a feminine wardrobe, and she did not doubt that she would find a number of garments that would fit her elven frame. Rumors suggested that the green elf druid was not the only elf woman who had found a place in Macumail’s heart. Furthermore, the glint in his eyes suggested he would not be averse to adding a half-elf to his collection of fondly held memories. Not wishing to pursue this path, Arilyn thanked her host and rose to follow the cabin boy who came promptly to the ring of Macumail’s bell.
The captain watched her go and waited until he heard the bolt of her cabin door slide shut. Then he seated himself at his writing table and took up the parchment Arilyn had left there. Slowly, laboriously, he read the Elvish script to the place where the queen’s ambassador was named.
Macumail opened a small drawer beneath his table and took from it a tiny bottle of ink. It was of elven make, a rare deep-purple hue fashioned from a mixture of berries and flowers that grew only on Evermeet. Carefully he unstoppered the bottle and dipped a quill into the precious fluid. With painstaking care, he added a few tiny curves and lines to the Elvish script.
It was fortunate, Macumail thought as he sprinkled the parchment with drying powder, that the Elvish words for Moonblade and Moonflower were so similar in appearance.
The captain had heard from Laeral the tale of the elfgate and the deep sorrow it had brought to Queen Amlaruil. Having witnessed the sadness in the queen’s eyes and mourned it for love of her, Macumail was loath to do anything that might bring additional pain to the wondrous elven monarch.
Yet Macumail also held the half-elven fighter in high regard, and he understood the importance of the task before her. And he knew, as well as any human alive, the difficulty that would face Arilyn in the shadows of Tethir.
He himself had loved a woman of the forest, a green elf druid whose strange, fey ways had left him mystified much of the time. But from his elven love he had learned enough about the forest folk to suspect that the People of Tethir would reject a half-elven ambassador and perhaps even slay her. Passing as a full-blooded elf was never easy for the half-elven, not even for one as resourceful as Arilyn. Macumail had therefore devised a strategy that might help her do just that.
Elven naming customs were endlessly complicated. Although it was not unusual for an elf to take on a surname that spoke of a particular skill or weapon—names such as Snowrunner or Oakstaff or Ashenbow—these descriptive titles were for common use: a name to use during travels, or to give acquaintances or outsiders, especially dwarves and humans. Among themselves, however, elves considered the giving of a family name and the recitation of lineage to be a vital step in formal exchanges. For Arilyn to identify herself to an elven tribe by only the sword she carried would be an egregious breach of protocol. It would almost certainly shout that her claim as Evermeet’s ambassador was spurious. In her case this was particularly true, for moonblades were known to be hereditary swords, and a refusal to identify herself by family would be regarded by the elves as a blatant, arrogant admission that she was not what she claimed to be. And that, Macumail noted wryly, would go over in elven society about as well as an ogrish daughter-in-law.
With this in mind, the captain had decided to give Arilyn a family name and an ancient lineage—all with a few small strokes of a quill pen. His opinion that these honors were truly hers to claim eased his mind somewhat. Nor did he doubt that the borrowed glamour of the royal family would drape a protective mantle over the half-elven woman and silence many questions before they were spoken. And after all, it was well known that of all the races of elves, moon people were most like humans!
The elves of Tethir’s forest were insular, but they knew that no half-elves were allowed on Evermeet, and it would not occur to them that a half-elf would be permitted to carry the name of the royal family. A missive from Amlaruil’s own hand, claiming Arilyn as her descendant, would settle the matter. It was not a ploy that would enter the proud half-elf’s mind, nor would she agree to it if the captain explained his intentions.
To Macumail’s way of thinking, they were much akin, the elven queen and the not-quite-elven swordmistress.
“Forgive me, my ladies,” he murmured as he rolled the parchment and slipped it into a tube. “And may the gods grant that broad and stormy seas lie between me and either one of you when you learn what I’ve done!”
* * * * *
True to his word, Captain Macumail had Arilyn back in Zazesspur before sunrise. Her last day in the Tethyrian city flew by, for there was still much to do before she left for the forest. Arrangements long in the making had to be confirmed, messages sent, materials gathered.
There was one personal detail, however, that Arilyn left off attending for as long as she could. She could not leave Zazesspur without word to her Harper partner, nor would she inform him of her going by note or messenger. Yet she was reluctant to face the young nobleman. Danilo would understand at once the danger of her mission, and he would not accept lightly what might well be a final leave-taking between them. Worse, the stubborn fool might even devise a way to follow her!
But when the hour of evenfeast approached, Arilyn prepared herself to enter Danilo’s world. She dressed herself in her one fine gown, a simple shift of deep blue silk with an embroidered overgown that was draped and sashed in a manner that hid her weapon belt, yet gave her quick access to her moonblade. Arilyn arranged her hair so that it covered her pointed ears and applied a bit of rosy ointment to add a more human tint to her white skin. As a final touch, one that would give her an aura of wealth and grant her instant admission to the posh festhouses and taverns that her partner frequented, Arilyn slipped gold-and-sapphire rings onto several of her fingers and fastened a matching jeweled pin onto her bodice.
Danilo had a passion for fine gems and an apparent desire to see her covered with them. After nearly three years, Arilyn had amassed quite a collection. She had declined his first few offerings, but he’d made it a point t
o learn of elven festivals and special days so that he could press his tokens upon her when it was hardest for her to refuse. Among Danilo’s annoying traits—and these were numerous—was his ability to circumvent, if not forestall, nearly any feminine objection. Nor did it escape Arilyn’s notice that she possessed a much sterner resistance to his charms than many of the women of Zazesspur did. Or the women of Waterdeep, for that matter. Or Baldur’s Gate, or …
With a sigh, Arilyn banished this unprofitable line of thought. She climbed into her hired carriage and settled down for a long evening. Danilo customarily took his evening meal at one of several festhalls or taverns—at her insistence, never in any predictable pattern. Thus it might be some time before she would find him.
The first stop was the Hanging Garden, a tavern fashioned to reflect the tastes and preferences of Zazesspur’s current ruler. Arilyn was not fond of the place—it was too much like being in Calimport for her liking—but Danilo came here frequently to enjoy the quality of the wine and the music. Traveling bards, as well as local musicians, performed nightly.
As a hostess dressed in filmy silk draperies ushered the disguised Harper to a table, the strains of a harp mingled with the sounds of soft conversation. As was the current fashion, the harpist played the melody of a ballad through once before joining the strings in song. There was something vaguely familiar about the tune. Arilyn was not one to give much heed to tavern performers, but she listened carefully when the singer—a young woman with the olive skin and dark hair common to natives of Tethyr—began the ballad.
The melody was catchy but common enough, the rippling chords of the harp pleasant but not especially clever, the singer’s voice a clear but unremarkable soprano. In all, the music deserved to be no more than an agreeable backdrop to conversation. Yet by the time the ballad entered its third stanza, the Tethyrian woman sang into complete and utter silence.
Arilyn was no bard, but she understood full well the impact of the song. It told a story she knew all too well, even though the facts had been changed to conceal certain secrets and to glorify the alleged hero of the ballad, a nobleman and a bard who had done a great service to the Harpers by bringing to justice—single-handedly, if the ballad was to be believed—the gold elf assassin who caused the deaths of twenty and more of Those Who Harped. As Arilyn watched the listening patrons, she had no doubt that their sympathies fell firmly on the side of the gold elf killer!
Harpers were not welcome in troubled Zazesspur, and Harper heroes were hardly an acceptable subject for tavern tales. A visiting bard might possibly be forgiven for a social blunder of this magnitude, but Arilyn could think of only one reason why a Tethyrian-born singer would risk performing such a ballad: as a dramatic prelude to exposing a Harper in their midst.
Arilyn carefully painted an expression of disdain on her face and rose from her table. She slowly left the tavern, forcing herself to move with the languid stroll of a wealthy lady who had no more compelling purpose than to remove herself from a performance that did not suit her tastes and political inclinations.
She held her sedate pace until she’d reached the dimly lit side street where her hired carriage awaited her. Arilyn tossed a couple of coins to the driver and cut the traces that held her own mare to the carriage. She hiked up her skirts and leaped onto the horse’s back. The mare seemed to sense her mistress’s urgency, for she fairly flew over the streets that led to the assassins’ guildhouse.
Normally Arilyn would have gone back to a safe room to change from her disguise and would have made several additional stops to distract any who might make a connection between the rarified world of high society and the guild of hired killers. She dared not take time for such precautions now. At dusk, the assassins of Zazesspur gathered to bid on the new assignments that were posted nightly. If this ballad had been widely sung, Danilo’s name might well be among them.
Seven
Arilyn left the assassins’ Council Hall with a large gold coin clamped in her fist and dread chilling her heart. The situation was worse than she had feared. The damning tavern song had spread through the city like lice, and a commission had been placed upon the life of the bard mentioned in the ballad.
Unlike most assignments, this one offered a fee to all and sundry who wished to take up the challenge. A half-dozen fighters had been hired to ensure that no single assassin removed the paper and hoarded the assignment for himself. Apparently speed was of more concern than money. There were many wealthy men and women in Tethyr who would pay dearly to swiftly eliminate even the possibility of Harper involvement in their multi-layered affairs.
Danilo’s name had not been mentioned on the pronouncement, but Arilyn knew that the highly skilled assassins of the guild would not need much time to discover his identity. The fact that she had been the first to read the pronouncement did little to ease her mind.
She hurried to her room in the women’s guildhouse, changed into her working clothes, and quickly packed her saddlebags with the things she needed for her mission. It was unlikely she would have an opportunity to return.
Without a backward glance at the complex that had been her home for several months, Arilyn rode as swiftly as she dared down the streets that led into the city’s most fashionable quarter. Even so, she took a few twists and turns to make certain she was not being followed. Each one took her closer to the Purple Minotaur, the finest and most costly inn in all of Zazesspur.
The half-elf reined her mare to a stop several blocks away from her destination, for she could hardly ride up to the white marble walls that surrounded the garden courtyard and present herself at the arched gate. Assassins were heartily respected in this city, but that regard did not extend to social settings. Many of the Minotaur’s guests were wealthy and powerful men—likely recipients of an assassin’s blade. The guards posted at the inn’s gate were about as likely to give Arilyn access to these guests as poultry farmers would be to invite a fox to dine at will among their hens.
And so Arilyn left her horse—and a handful of silver pieces—at a public stable in the care of an enterprising lad who had a talent for averting his eyes at precisely the right moment. While the boy tended to her mare, Arilyn climbed the ladder that led into the stable’s hayloft. A large pile of straw leaned against one wall; this she climbed to the top. The half-elf studied the rough ceiling carefully, then she pulled her sword and used it to push open the nearly invisible trapdoor. She leaped up and grabbed the edge. Quickly she hauled herself up and crawled out onto the flat, tiled roof of the stable.
After replacing the trapdoor, Arilyn stood and surveyed the many levels of the city laid out before her. The rooftops of Zazesspur offered a landscape of their own. Here were paths well-worn by the feet of those who did business in darkness. Although she had been in the city but a few months, Arilyn knew these pathways as well as most of Zazesspur’s citizens knew the streets.
Between her and the soaring palace known as the Purple Minotaur lay a festhall, two taverns, the homes of several shopkeepers, the stables that served the posh inn, and the humble dwellings used for the servants and slaves who tended the pampered guests. With practiced ease, Arilyn made her way from rooftop to rooftop;
As she neared the Purple Minotaur, she glanced toward the upper floors of the inn and noticed that Danilo’s window was flung open to admit the summer night’s breeze—and possibly in the hope of an unexpected visit. From the open window wafted the gentle strains of a lute accompanying a well-trained tenor voice.
Arilyn’s first response was relief. Danilo was yet safe. For a moment she paused to listen to the faint song and the carefree singer who seemed far removed from the sordid reality of the squalid streets.
For some reason, this solidified Arilyn’s resolve. What she intended to do this night would not be easy, but it was a needed thing.
A sliver of new moon rose high into the sky as Arilyn crept across the roof of the Purple Minotaur, but its feeble light was veiled by the thick sea mist that settled in with t
he coming of night. On the street far below, dim circles of light clung to the street lanterns, and faint light spilled from the windows of the festhalls and gambling parlors on the lower floors of the building. But where she trod, all was darkness. Danilo’s chamber was only two floors down from the roof, a location chosen to allow Arilyn to make her infrequent visits with discretion.
Indeed, her slender figure was barely discernible against the dark sky. The pale skin of her face had been smudged with dark ointment, and she wore the garb of an assassin: leggings and a loose shirt of an indistinct dark hue that seemed to absorb shadow. In the mist-laden air her black curls clung to her head in damp tendrils, and her only ornament was the sash of pale gray silk at her waist.
Arilyn took a rope of spider silk from her pack and affixed one end firmly to the nearest chimney. She crept to the roof’s edge and counted carefully down the rope’s knotted length. Holding the rope firmly, she backed up, took a few running steps, and flung herself as far out into the darkness as she could.
As she dropped, she braced herself, accepted the jolting tug that came when the rope snapped taut. Then she swung like a pendulum toward the open window, shifting her weight a bit to adjust her course. At the last possible moment, she pulled up into a tight tuck.
The agile half-elf cleared the window. In one smooth move she released the rope and pulled a dagger from her boot, and then landed in a crouch. Her blue eyes swept the room, checking for danger. Satisfied that all was well, she stood and faced her Harper partner.
The young nobleman had apparently expected her, for he stood facing the window, a smile of welcome lighting his gray eyes and a goblet of elverquisst in each hand.
Arilyn had known Danilo Thann for almost three years now, but she had yet to reconcile herself to the disparity between his public persona and the man she had come to know. Few saw him as anything more than the youngest son of a Waterdhavian noble, a dandy and a dilettante who dabbled in magic and music. It took a keen ear to hear the artistry beneath the bawdy little ballads he composed, a sharp eye to note the ease with which he tossed off his “miscast” spells. But few people were inclined to seek deeply, and as a handsome charmer blessed with a noble’s rank and a merchant’s heavy purse, Danilo was welcomed in circles that a half-elven assassin could not hope to enter. Although Arilyn recognized the worth of this disguise, the contrast between Danilo’s appearance and his true nature did not, for one moment, cease to irritate her.
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