“It is not your concern.”
“We’ll see. How is Amnestria?” Elaith asked, changing the subject. “Where has she been these many years?”
Bran was silent, and a look of deep sadness filled his eyes. “Despite everything, you are her far kinsman, and there is no reason why you should not know. Amnestria went into secret exile before Arilyn’s birth. She took the name Z’beryl of Evereska. She has been dead for almost twenty-five years.”
“No.”
“It is true. She was ambushed and overcome by a pair of cutpurses.”
The elf stared at Bran. “It does not seem possible,” he murmured, dropping his stricken eyes. “No one could fight like Amnestria. Has nothing has been done to avenge her death?”
“The murderers were brought to justice.”
“That remains to be seen,” Elaith said in a grim tone. When he again raised his eyes to Bran’s, hatred blazed in their amber depths. “Another weapon might have killed Amnestria, but it was you who destroyed her. Keep away from Arilyn. The etriel has her own life.”
Elaith leaned toward the Harper, looking the very picture of a fighter taking an offensive stance. His evil smile openly taunted his foe. “By the way, know you that Arilyn has taken the name Moonblade as her own? Denied family and rank, she made her own name and forged her own code. And she is good. Arilyn has developed skills that would make her Harper sire squirm.”
Elaith paused. “To answer your earlier question, my interest in her is both personal and professional.”
“I’ve no use for riddles.”
“Nor wit for them, either. In plain words, Arilyn should have been my daughter, but she is not. What a remarkable partner she would make, or—” he smiled maliciously “—what a consort. She and I could accomplish much, side by side.”
Bran’s massive hand shot out, grabbing Elaith’s shirtfront and jerking the slender elf up to his eye level. “I’ll see you dead first,” the man thundered.
“Keep your threats, Harper,” Elaith said scornfully. “Arilyn Moonblade has nothing to fear from me. I only wish to aid her and to guide her career.”
“Then she is indeed in grave danger,” Bran concluded.
Elaith misunderstood Bran’s meaning, and his eyes narrowed in menace. “She is in no danger from me,” he hissed. “The same, however, cannot be said for you.”
With the speed of a serpent’s strike, a dagger appeared in the elf’s hand and flashed toward Bran’s throat. The aging Harper ranger was faster still. He tossed the elf to the ground. Elaith twisted and landed crouched on his feet, wrist cocked in readiness to flick the dagger into his old friend and enemy.
But Bran Skorlsun had vanished. Elaith stood and tucked the dagger back into its hiding place.
“Not bad,” Elaith admitted, brushing a bit of dust from his leg as he admired Bran’s skill. “You should watch your back, old friend. Watch your back.”
Elaith turned back to his new establishment. As entertaining as the encounter had been, he had a myriad of details to attend to before the tavern could open. His eye fell upon the large oak sign, just delivered that morning, that leaned against the back wall of the building. This turned out nicely, the elf mused, moving in for a better look. I must have someone hang it immediately.
He ran his fingers over the raised letters of the sign that would soon grace the front door of the Hidden Blade.
Twelve
In early afternoon Virgin’s Square was teeming with activity and bright with autumn sunlight and colorful merchandise. Local legend claimed that an altar had once stood on the site, upon which virgins were sacrificed to dragon gods centuries before Waterdeep was a city. On such a day that dark past seemed distant indeed.
The time for the highsun meal had passed, and delicious scents lingered in the warm autumn air. A large crowd browsed among the stalls of an open air market that offered goods ranging from fresh produce to exotic weapons. On the other side of the square services were sold, and perhaps two hundred persons, representing many races and nationalities, milled up and down the steps of a tiered piazza.
Those who wished to find work flocked to the square. Newcomers to the city, travelers relieved of their purses by pickpockets and in need of passage home, adventurers, servants, mages, sells words—all gathered to hire themselves out. Services of many kinds could be purchased in Virgin’s Square. There was little overt pandering, but those who made inquiries were assured that discreet introductions were always possible.
Potential employers were there in large number, as well. Caravan-masters stopped in Virgin’s Square to acquire the guards and scouts needed for long trips. Since slavery was illegal in Waterdeep, visiting merchants and dignitaries from the southern and far-eastern lands often went there to find hired servants to replace their slaves. Even adventurers wishing to form parties sought each other out in the square.
At the center of this activity sat Blazidon One-Eye. He was, perhaps, the best known among his profession, and he ran a brisk trade matching those who would hire with those who wished to work. The grizzled former adventurer was an unlikely businessman. His clothes were dusty and unkempt, and his body seemed to be made of little more than bone and stringy muscle. The graying beard had probably once been bright red; at present it appeared ale-soaked and in dire need of a trim. A dusty eye patch covered his left eye, and a leather vest lay open over his bare chest.
Blazidon was attended by a clerk and a bodyguard, both of whom were as unlikely as their master. The former was a tallfellow, a rare type of halfling that grew to be somewhat taller and slimmer than most of their kind. A little over four feet in height, the tallfellow maintained thick crops of very blond hair on his head, chin, and bare feet, a color echoed by the lemon shade of his tunic and leggings. His frivolous appearance was greatly at odds with his serious demeanor, for he scribbled laboriously in the book that kept Blazidon’s accounts and records, and he counted each fee with the type of intensity that halflings usually reserve for their own treasure. The bodyguard was a tiny but ferocious dwarf whose knotted muscles and keen-edged axe more than made up for his lack of stature.
Arilyn nudged Danilo’s attention away from a display of pastries and pointed at the strange trio. “That’s Blazidon. If anyone would know our man, it’s him.”
Danilo nodded. “My family often outfits our caravans through him. Why don’t you let me do the talking?”
Arilyn looked doubtful, then she saw the merit in the dandy’s suggestion. Dressed as she was, a human lad of common class and limited means, she seemed an unlikely person to be making the type of inquiries that must be made. The well-dressed Danilo could ask questions without raising suspicions. She nodded and fell in behind Danilo, taking the role of servant to a wealthy merchant.
Blazidon looked up at their approach. “What’ll it be?”
“We were rather hoping you could help us find an employer,” Danilo began.
The man’s one good eye swept over the nobleman and his “servant,” and his lips pursed. “Got work for the boy, no problem, if he knows how to use that weapon he carries. Gem merchant needs a couple of hireswords. As for you,” Blazidon said, eyeing Danilo speculatively, “I hear there’s a lady from Thay what wants a local escort for the festival. Mind you, I usually don’t do this sort of hiring, but I can tell you where to find the lady.”
Arilyn smirked, but Danilo fell back a step, aghast. “Sir, you misunderstand. I don’t seek employment for myself. Rather, we need to ascertain the identity of—”
Arilyn pushed past Danilo and held out a charcoal sketch she’d made of the man who had had Perendra’s snuffbox. She was no artist, but depicting a one-eared man with a twisted nose and a lightning-bolt scar was not difficult.
“Do you know this man?” she asked, her voice low.
Blazidon squinted at the picture. “That’s got to be Barth. Haven’t seen him around for some time.” The man’s eyes shifted from the picture to Danilo and then Arilyn. “Who am I doing business with,
lad? You or your master?”
“Me,” Arilyn said firmly.
The man nodded. “Good.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?” Arilyn asked.
“No, can’t say as I know much to tell. Hamit, his partner, is a whole ’nother story. We go way back.”
“Where can I find this Hamit?”
“In the City,” the man said bluntly, using the Waterdhavian slang for the City of the Dead, the large cemetery on the northwestern side of Waterdeep. “He must have crossed someone. They found him with a dagger in his back.” The man shrugged. “It happens.”
“Do you have any idea who might have hired Barth and Hamit recently?”
“That’s precisely what I was trying to say,” Danilo explained plaintively. No one paid him any notice.
“I might,” Blazidon said, glancing at the dwarf.
The dwarf stuck out his square hand, palm up. “Fee,” he rumbled. Danilo obligingly dropped a gold coin into the upturned paw. The dwarf examined it, bit it, and gave a curt nod to the tallfellow. Blazidon’s clerk turned several pages.
“That pair worked for anyone who had money,” the tallfellow said, his voice that of a human boychild. “Bodyguard, strongarms, second-story, even an assassination or two, although no one of pith and moment. Barth liked to work on his own, as well. His specialty was sleight-of-hand theft. He worked with one fence in particular.”
“The name’ll cost you extra,” added the dwarf. Danilo dumped a handful of coppers into the dwarf’s hand. The bodyguard regarded Danilo so balefully that the nobleman hastily added a gold coin to the pile.
“Jannaxil Serpentil,” said the tallfellow. “A merchant and scholar of Turmish descent who runs a folio shop on Book Street. Rather stuck on himself, but if you’ve got good merchandise, that’s the place to go.”
“Need anything else?” Blazidon asked.
“I don’t think so,” Arilyn said. She tucked the sketch of Barth into her sleeve. Unable to resist, she cocked an eyebrow at Danilo and added, “Unless you want to reconsider the offer from the Thayvian woman?”
By now Danilo had regained his equilibrium. “She couldn’t afford me,” he said grandly.
* * * * *
Clad in a sober dress of deep burgundy silk, Loene laced her fingers in her lap and looked across the parlor at her old friend, the mage Nain Keenwhistler. Times had changed. Once they both had shared adventures as members of the Company of Crazed Venturers. Now they primly discussed trade and politics. “Your plan sounds good, Nain. I’m in.”
The man smiled with satisfaction. “You won’t regret your investment, Loene. Not only is there a growing market for Chultan teak and mahogany, but our venture will help establish Waterdeep’s ties to the island of Lantan. Piracy along the coasts is worsening, and Lantan offers us a port in exchange for some additional protection for their fishing waters.”
“You’ve become quite the politician, Nain,” Loene said, deftly cutting him off with a compliment. Tales she enjoyed, but Nain’s recital of political matters held little interest. “You’ve been here since before highsun. Have you eaten? No? Nor I. We can talk over lunch.”
“I’d be glad to stay.”
“Good.” Loene rose from her chair and reached for an embroidered bell pull. “I’ll let Graves know.”
The servant did not answer the summons. Loene rang the bell a second time, and her face clouded. “Graves is usually so prompt. I think I’ll see what might be keeping him.”
She made her way to the kitchen, pausing at the doorway, almost like an intruder. After all, she had rarely been near the room since the day she’d bought the tiny castle. Her gaze swept through the meticulously kept room. Not a thing was out of place, except the sole occupant.
Graves slumped over a pine worktable, next to a bowl of apples that awaited peeling and a pastry crust that had long since become dry and transparent. His mace was still hooked on his belt, and a paring knife lay within reach, next to a halved apple.
Fear rose in Loene, and she walked like one asleep across the spotless floor. Reaching for his left hand, she turned it over. On the cold palm of her oldest and most trusted friend blazed a harp and crescent moon.
Loene dropped to her knees beside the kitchen table and gathered the man’s thin body in her arms. “Damn you, Elliot,” she said softly. “You should have thrown that Harper pin down the sewers years ago.”
* * * * *
“Hello, Jannaxil.”
The merchant jumped, and the priceless volume he’d been perusing dropped from his hands. Elaith “the Serpent” Craulnobur had entered the room and was seated comfortably in a chair, his legs stretched out before him and his pale hands toying with a small dagger.
“By all means, pick it up,” Elaith said, amused.
Jannaxil Serpentil, the owner of Serpentil Books and Folios, did as he was told. In a state a shock, he retrieved the book and put it down on the edge of the table. Until now, the merchant-fence had always felt relatively safe despite his risky business and his location in the rough and tumble Dock Ward. The elf had somehow gotten past the defenses of might and magic that every good fence had in place. Here, in his inner sanctum, Jannaxil had no such protection.
Hoping to get the upper hand on the situation, Jannaxil walked behind the oak table that dominated his private office and lowered his girth into a wide leather chair, doing his best to appear master of his own small world. “How did you get in here?” he asked bluntly.
“Really, my dear man. In your business and mine, there are questions that one simply doesn’t ask,” the elf replied, crossing his ankles in a leisurely fashion. “I understand that some papers have come into your possession, some correspondence to the Zhentarim leadership at Zhentil Keep regarding a series of assassinations?”
“That is so,” the fence said cautiously.
“I should like to see them.”
“By all means.” Jannaxil hefted himself out of the chair and retrieved a sheaf of papers from one of the shelves that lined the walls of the office. He handed the papers to the elf, who took his time looking them over.
“The asking price is ten silver,” the fence said into the silence. He should have asked twice that amount. Bartering was second nature to the man, but today his enthusiasm was tempered by the reputation of his client. He began to wish that he had not spoken of these papers to Elaith Craulnobur’s messenger earlier in the morning. To be sure, the elf had spread word that he would pay well for certain types of information, but a good fence should realize that some risks were simply not worth taking. When an assassin started looking into the business of other assassins, it was never prudent to be caught in the middle.
Elaith laid the papers down on the table. Interesting, he mused. There was a connection here, an important one that nonetheless eluded him. As he was wont to do when thinking, the elf toyed with a small ornamental dagger, twirling it idly between dexterous fingers. He did not miss the effect this action had upon the fence.
Jannaxil’s eyes followed the jeweled dagger’s path, watching each flash and twist with an expression of horrified fascination. Yet the fence’s hands rested calmly on the table, pudgy fingers spread wide as if ready to reach for profit, despite the risk.
Greed. Elaith liked that in a human. Jannaxil, one of Waterdeep’s best fences, had that quality in abundance. Squat and shrewd, the fat little man could deal with the worst the Dock Ward had to offer, yet he could discuss rare tomes with the most learned sages of several kingdoms. Elaith considered the man a valued contact and did business with him frequently. The elf intended to pay the asking price, but he saw no reason why he should not first amuse himself a bit.
“Very valuable,” Jannaxil repeated, this time with less conviction.
“To whom?” the elf asked. “The Assassin’s Guild?”
Jannaxil blanched and pointed to the papers on the table. “That is a communication to Zhentil Keep. Those don’t come from Waterdeep every day,” he sputtered.
> “A curiosity,” Elaith allowed. The dagger’s circling slowed.
“A bargain. They’re worth much more than ten silver,” Jannaxil insisted, scenting a potential sale.
The dagger resumed its dance. “I don’t see why.”
“Well, there’s probably a reward for the papers.”
“Who would offer such a reward?”
“The Lords of Waterdeep might like to know that someone from the city is billing the Black Network for the services of a ‘Zhentarim enforcer,’ ” suggested the fence. He invoked the powerful but mysterious council who ruled the city, hoping to strengthen and legitimize his selling price. After all, there wasn’t a broad market for stolen papers of this sort.
“The Lords of Waterdeep?” Elaith broke into genuine laughter. “Will you tell them about this or shall I?”
The human colored a dull red. Unnerved and embarrassed, he muttered, “All right, then, take the papers. You’ve got more use for the Zhentarim than I do.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Jannaxil realized his error. Too late. Without faltering or missing a spin, the circling dagger flashed toward him. A scream echoed through the empty shop.
Elaith was known for his utter disdain of the evil rulers of Zhentil Keep and the members of the dark network that used the black-walled city for one of its prime bases. To the elf this was less a matter of conscience than of style: the Zhentish and the Zhentarim had neither. Despite the insult and the hurled dagger, Elaith’s smile never wavered.
“I will take those papers. Thank you for your generous offer.” With leisurely movements, the elf moved the sheaf safely away from the bloodstain that was beginning to spread across the table. He tucked the papers inside his cloak and rose to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached for the hilt of his weapon.
The dagger stood upright, deeply embedded in the wood, and it pinned Jannaxil’s left hand firmly to the table.
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