by Ed Greenwood
"A quiet night," the peddler observed, leaning on his elbow. He was the only patron of The Moonshot Tankard, it seemed, but the bar master was diligently polishing boards that already gleamed glassy smooth under the lamplight.
"Indeed, sir," came the quiet, distant reply, as the bar master turned away to wipe a row of shining, unused glasses behind the bar.
Tarthan sipped soured beer from his tankard, keep shy;ing his face carefully expressionless despite the taste, and asked casually, "Any news?"
"News, sir?"
"What's befalling in the Caravan City these days? Any new talk of the drow coming up from the depths to kill us all in our beds?"
The bar master's shoulders stiffened for the space of a long breath ere he turned and said quietly, "Not that I've heard, sir. Some bad storms this past month. . fewer caravans running into town. That's about it, sir."
"Ah, well, then, I'd best get to my bed," the peddler replied, draining his tankard with a loud sigh and set shy;ting it carefully back down on the bar. "Good ale," he said, rising to go.
"Finest in the city, sir," the bar master murmured, turning to watch Tarthan lurch toward the door. His eyes never left the peddler's dusty back until the dwin shy;dling, dusty figure turned a corner at the end of the street. Then he turned with the speed of a striking snake, thrust his head back through the curtains that led into the kitchen, and hissed something soft and quick to someone unseen.
It came to pass that four furtive figures met under the cool, clear starlight of Scornubel that night. One had darted out of the Moonshot Tankard not long after its last guest of the night, another had patiently followed a man who'd left Cata's Pump earlier in the evening without a single taste of the meal he'd ordered, and two more had but recently stepped out of other establishments where a dusty peddler had asked for fresh news of the drow.
The four hadn't planned to meet. They converged separately on the same alley in the wake of a dusty man who now stumbled a little, and whistled a few tuneless notes from time to time. When they came together, four pairs of eyes flickered, one hand lifted in an intricate gesture, and four figures moved on as one. If all deals were so simple, swift, and quiet, Faerun might be a more efficient place. Then again, it might well also be a more deadly one.
The alley ended in a cluster of burned out, roofless warehouses, homes for rats and occasional beggars-though beggars didn't seem to linger long in the Cara shy;van City these days. The four silent, graceful men gathered speed, heading for the doorway the peddler had disappeared through. They knew it led into a fire-blackened stone foundation and cellar beneath, now lacking upper floors or a roof. If a certain peddler couldn't climb walls right smartly, they'd have him-a sheep backed into one corner of a shearing pen.
The foremost blank-faced man was still two swift strides from that gaping doorway when someone stepped out of it-someone small, slender, and obsidian skinned, who moved with catlike grace on spike heeled boots. Four hands had already dipped to the hilts of throwing knives and slender long swords. . and all of them froze now in astonishment as the drow who'd stepped out of the doorway drew her dark cloak up around her, gave them all a knowing smile, and slipped down the alley like a graceful shadow.
Four heads turned to watch her go, and four throats were longingly cleared in unison before the foremost man drew his sword and his knife and stepped through the doorway.
He was gone only a short time. When he returned his face was still blank and his weapons were clean and dry, but his gliding movements now showed unease rather than anticipation.
"Did she kill him?" one of the others asked.
The man who'd just come out of the burned ruin replied, "There's no sign of him. It's empty." They exchanged puzzled glances, then turned as one to look back down the empty alley.
Seemingly sleepy folk stiffened all over the taproom of Cata's Pump as a black-cloaked figure strolled in from the street straight up to the bar, and gave the room at large a cold smile.
The she-drow let her cloak fall away from her bare shoulders, and lamplight flashed back from the cluster of gems she wore at her throat; wealth that marked her as no outcast or lone runaway. Tracing a symbol idly on the bar with one sharp-nailed fingertip, she asked the bartender and the two serving wenches flanking him, "Any of you in the mood for a little trading? Homesick for any Underdark wines or fresh glowcap mushrooms?"
Folk blinked all over the room and leaned forward. "Ah, I don't-" the bartender began, his eyes dark pits of confusion.
The she-drow facing him raised an eyebrow and purred, "Well then, do you know someone who does? There's demand below for Calishite-or Tashlutan-silk, pitted dates, and metalwork: gates, bars, gratings, filigree. . and I've wine and 'shrooms to trade, but not much time to waste." She shifted perfect obsidian shoulders and murmured, "Are you sure you don't? By the looks of things, everyone here could use some real wine."
No one smiled or looked angered; folk with blank faces drifted a little nearer as the bartender stam shy;mered, "S-sarltan. Speak to Sarltan."
"And where might I find …?" the she-drow murmured, watching furtive movements in the tightening crowd that marked the journeys of hands to weapons. She shrugged back her cloak still more, and from the glistening black garment she wore beneath it, four slender black-bladed knives rose slowly up into the air. There was a momentary murmur that might have been alarm, or might have been recognition, and patrons began to drift back to their seats to resume looking as sleepy as before. The knives hung in the air around the she-draw's shoulders, points menacing the floor, as the bartender pointed wordlessly out the door.
"You keep this Sarltan out in the street. ." the she-drow asked, eyebrows raised, in a voice that did not-quite-hold open sarcasm.". . or as one of your doorswords?"
The bartender shook his head, then spread his hands in a wordless gesture of helplessness before waving again at the street.
His visitor shook her head, smiled, and said, "Well, think on my offer. I'll be back later to see if anyone has developed a taste for the finer things of home."
There was already astonishment in the stares of the doorswords as the she-drow in the cloak whom they'd watched striding openly down the street glided up to them and asked, "I suppose neither of you knows the present whereabouts of Sarltan?"
The guards stiffened as if they'd been kicked in tender places, exchanged baffled glances, then silently backed away from their questioner, waving gloved hands in gestures of denial. The she-drow shrugged, smiled, and strode between them into the cluttered and dusty labyrinth of Chasper's Trading Tower.
Chasper's never closed, no matter what the hour or weather. Its lobby was crowded with the usual badly-mended array of life-sized wooden shop figurines, and the obsidian-skinned visitor passed through them without delay to push wide the inner doors and step into the warm lamplight beyond.
She was greeted by the same sight that had met the eyes of a decade of patrons: a welter of nets, ropes, boats, cartwheels, coach-harnesses, mended lances and armor hanging from the rafters, and heaps of well-used boots, belts, gloves, and scabbards on tables before her. Beyond these mountains of gear, aisles snaked away through piles of animal cages, battered traveling strongchests, and moldering books to sagging tables that stretched away into a warren of shelving whose far reaches were lost in dimness. From their crannies two startled men were hastening forward to serve this unexpected client.
"Yes, good lady?" one of them asked hesitantly, rub shy;bing nervous hands together. "How may we serve you this fair night?"
"We can offer you the widest selection of goods in all Scornubel," the other put in brightly, "and at excellent prices."
The she-drow in the black cloak eyed him. "I come not to buy," she purred, "but to trade. Have you any interest in exchanging bolts of woven silk-Calishite, if you have such-pitted dates, and metalwork for wines and mushrooms from below?"
The shop attendants reared back from her as if she'd thrust a viper into their faces. One of them dropped a
hand to the knife at his belt, and the other stammered, "W-we don't usually barter here at Chasper's, good lady-and certainly not in bulk. Perhaps you should meet with Sarltan."
"Ah, yes," the lady drow agreed with the faintest of smiles. "That's a name I've heard before. Yet no one in all Scornubel tonight seems to know where Sarltan can be found. You wouldn't have him under one of these tables, would you? Or in another room, per shy;haps?"
The doorswords appeared behind her then, having taken the unprecedented step of leaving their posts. The she-drow had her back to them, and gave no indication that she knew of their approach, but as they approached her, four long black knives rose in unison from among her garments. The knives came to a halt, hanging in a cluster in the air above her. The two guards eyed them, frozen with their hands gripping the hilts of their swords, and came no closer to the unexpected visitor. One of them reached up to a bellpull on the wall and tugged it in a careful rhythm. No resulting bell or chime could be heard.
The eyes of the older and larger of the shop atten shy;dants flicked to the doorsword's work with the bellpull, then came quickly back to the faintly smiling drow in front of him.
He tried a smile of his own, licked his lips, and said, "Ah, no, good lady. I don't think there's a shop in all the city that could help you there, but if you'd care to step into the back our owner might be able to help you. . ah, in regards to what you seek."
He motioned down one of the corridors as reverently as if he'd been conducting a queen or priestess of power, and the lady drow in the cloak flashed him a dazzling smile and glided forward whence he'd indicated, her knives keeping station above her shoulders.
The back room proved to contain a once grand carpet, paneled walls almost completely hidden behind stacked and dusty rows of bulging ledgers, and a sharp-eyed, wrinkled old woman behind a desk who gave her visitor a sharp look as the lady drow entered, and said crisply, "Close the door and sit down, dear."
In smooth silence the lady drow did as she was bid, taking the only chair in the room that wasn't heaped with bundles of papers. It offered her behind a fresh, dust free cushion that hissed and settled under her weight as she sat upon it. If she noticed the wisps of greenish gas that curled up out of it to drift around her, she gave no sign of this.
The old woman behind the desk sat in frozen silence for the space of a long breath, as if waiting for some shy;thing, and at length her visitor leaned forward and said pleasantly, "Greetings this night, and prosperity upon this house of commerce. I've come to Scornubel to do a little trade, but find folk here curiously reluctant to do business with me. I represent interests from below who have a strong assortment of wines to offer, and many barrels of fresh glowcap mushrooms, which they desire to exchange for Calishite silks, pitted dates, and metal gates, bars, gratings, and filigree of superior quality. Whenever I speak of this to anyone in this city, they seem ill at ease, and direct me to 'Sarltan.' Your helpful young men out front believe you can help me. Can you, or is this a notion we should both disabuse them of?"
The old woman's fingers moved in a few quick, crawl shy;ing patterns above the parchments on her desk; her visitor responded with a gesture of her own.
The old woman sighed, then, and sat back. "I don't deal with the nameless," she said quietly. "Give."
"Iylinvyx," the lady drow replied, "of House Nrel'tabra. I'm also called"-she gestured at the knives hanging above her shoulders-" 'Pretty Teeth.' "
"And in what city does House Nrel'tabra flourish?" the old woman asked, her eyes two black flames.
"Telnarquel," Iylinvyx replied, gracefully crossing two black-booted legs and lounging back in her chair.
"Ah, yes, the Hidden City-sought by many, and found by none. Many of our wisest explorers refuse to believe that it even exists."
" 'Our'?" the she-drow asked softly.
The old woman gave her a smile bereft of warmth and humor, and said, "All of us in this city obey Sarltan. Among other things, he strictly forbids us to reveal our true natures. I advise you to at least put up your cowl on your way to see him. I know not if he'll apply his dic shy;tates to outside traders. So far as I am aware, you are the first such to come here."
" 'On my way to see him'?" Iylinvyx echoed, reaching for her cowl.
The old woman nodded, her smile now a trifle more approving, and said, "Ask my doorswords to direct you to a private club called Blackmanacles, and there seek a man known as Daeraude. Tell him Yamaerthe sent you before you ask him how to find Sarltan-and keep your cowl up and those knives of yours out of sight. You might say those from below are cautious in Scornubel, and embrace cautious ways."
Iylinvyx Nrel'tabra nodded and let her cloak fall away to her elbows to let the four daggers slide down into waiting scabbards. She did not try to hide the dazzle of gems at her throat as she replied softly, "I had begun to notice that-and had also begun to wonder how far a people can stray from their true natures before they become that which they dis shy;dain."
The old woman stiffened behind her desk. She let out a hiss from between clenched teeth before she replied, "A pleasant night outside, is it not? I wish you every success in the conduct of your business in our fair city."
And with those words, the owner of Chasper's Trad shy;ing Tower rose and let herself out through another door at the back of the room as fast as any charging warrior, but with considerably more grace than most.
Her visitor heard a heavy bolt clack into place an instant after the door closed, and acquired a thoughtful half smile as she gathered her cloak about herself and left the room, her cowl up.
Iylinvyx Nrel'tabra was unsurprised to discover that she'd acquired a stealthy escort that increased in number by one pair of soft-booted feet for every person she was sent to after Daeraude: a corner lantern and candle seller, a lock storage keeper, and a master of "discretion guaranteed" hireswords, thus far.
"Well," she told the night air lightly, "at least I'm get shy;ting to see the glories of Scornubel."
According to her latest directions, the cobbled lane she was now traversing was Delsart's Drive, named for a long-ago wagon maker whose habit, when in his cups, was to race his latest creations along the winding lane at breakneck speed-with the inevitable consequences. Delsart's descendants owned the coach yard ahead on her right, and somewhere in the darkness to her left was Pelmuth's Draw, a narrow alley that would take her to a little lamp-lit courtyard, where among the busi shy;nesses and their loitering doorswords she'd find a cer shy;tain blue door. . and somewhere beyond it (she didn't doubt complications awaited) was the elusive Sarltan.
The Draw, the lamp-lit court beyond, and the bored guardsmen were all as they'd been described to her. If her escort disliked her pauses in the alley to cast two spells, that was just too bad.
A mountain of a man was leaning against the blue door as she approached. He lowered the dagger he was using to clean his nails and rumbled, "Closed. Try else shy;where."
"I've been sent," the dark figure before him replied calmly, from within its cowl, "and would fain pass within-unless you can tell me another way to find Sarltan."
"Uh," the gigantic guard replied, in tones devoid of emotion, and extended one hand as he drew steel-a fearsome, much-scarred cleaver whose blade was thrice as broad as most swords-with the other. "I'll have yer sword-hilt first, mind."
"And if not?"
The guard shrugged. "Turn about and leave, or die. No exceptions."
The figure before him slowly opened its cloak and let it fall away. A shapely female drow stood before him, jewels glittering at her throat. Below their fire she wore a tight black leather tunic that left her shoulders bare, and thigh-high spike heeled boots.
"Not even for the likes of me?" she asked softly.
There was a stirring around the courtyard as guards at other doors shifted their positions to get a better look at this newcomer. The guard hefted his weapon as he let his eyes travel slowly from the crown of her head to her toes, then back again.
"I'll be ha
ving the sword and all of those daggers I see," he rumbled flatly. "Toss yer cloak down, and lay all yer steel in it-and I mean all yer steel. Now."
Their eyes met-black flames flaring into two chips of stone-and held in a long silence that was broken only by the softest of sounds from behind Iylinvyx Nrel'tabra. The various folk who'd been following her drifted out of the Draw and into the courtyard, one by one, and the doorswords turned alertly to face them. Silence had fallen again before the slender dark elf slowly cast down her cloak, laid her needle-slim short sword atop it, then followed it with a pair of daggers from her belt, another pair from her boot tops, and one from each wrist.
She paused then, buckling sheath straps, and the mountainous guard gestured with his drawn blade at the sheaths sewn into her tunic. "Them, too," he said. "Especially them-all four of them."
He'd never moved to see the two knives that rode below her shoulder blades, so tongues must have trav shy;eled across Scornubel faster than the route she'd been sent on. After holding his eyes for another long, cold time, the drow trader plucked out the black bladed quar shy;tet of daggers and casually let them fall onto the heap of edged steel. They landed without making a sound.
"Turn around," the guard rumbled, "and stand still." After Iylinvyx had-slowly-complied, he added, "Bend over forward and cast yer hair down. I need to see the back of yer neck."
The drow trader complied. As she stood bent over in the lamplight, her magesight awake, she felt the quiver she'd been expecting. Someone had cast a dispel upon her, stripping away the shielding spell she'd thoughtfully added. Most mages would now be defenseless, but her Shield of Azuth-a spell of her own creation-had nulli shy;fied the dispel with its own death-leaving her aroused protective spells untouched beneath it. She straightened up after two long breaths and turned to face the guard with a challenge in her eyes.