Before Hhune could speak, young Prince Hasheth pushed past the trio and made his bow. There was a haughtiness about his manner that bordered on disdain; this insolence was not lost upon Hhune. With difficulty the lord swallowed his first, angry response. Hhune was low-born, and he bitterly resented anything that might be construed as a slight. But with him, profit ever came before pride.
“You see before you my gift,” the young man began, gesturing toward the half-elven musician. He lifted a hand in a quick, peremptory gesture. “I do not offer you the woman. Those you no doubt have in plenty. My gift to you is something far more valuable: information.”
“Go on,” the lord said in an even voice. Despite the young man’s lapse of judgment—it was never wise to anger or mistreat a bard of any sort—this struck Hhune as a promising beginning, for he dealt in many commodities, not the least of which was information.
“Just last night, I heard this woman singing a song recently brought down from the Northlands. It seemed important to me that you hear it,” Hasheth proclaimed.
Hhune nodded to the men, who released their hold on the woman’s arms. She stumbled a bit. The lord leaped forward, catching her before she could fall. With a solicitous air that would have done honor to a countess, he helped her into a nearby chair.
“My sincere apologies, my dear lady, for the ungracious manner in which you were brought to me. By all means, I would hear the song of which my too-eager apprentice speaks. But first, I pray you, rest and enjoy a bit of refreshment. The ride from Zazesspur can be very tiring, can it not?”
The lord chatted on as he reached for an embroidered bellpull, speaking lightly of inconsequential things. The balm of social amenities had the desired effect. The tension began to drain from the half-elf’s face, slowly to be replaced by pleasure, even pride, as she came to understand that she was not a prisoner, but an honored guest.
In moments a servant appeared, bearing a tray laden with wine, fruit, and sweet breads. Lord Hhune waved the servant away and served the refreshments himself. He then offered brief and perfunctory prayers to Silvanus and Sune and Ilmater—the preferred deities of the land—and proposed a toast to the health of Pasha Balik. Hhune might not have been born into the nobility, but he had made a point to learn the proprieties and, like many newmade nobles, he adhered to them with a near-religious zeal. It would not be said of him that he was unmannered and common!
The half-elven bard warmed to Hhune’s courteous treatment, even flirting a bit between sips of her spiced wine. Through it all, Hasheth bore himself with the patience of one well accustomed to courtly manners. But as soon as propriety allowed, the young prince turned to business.
“Might we now hear this song?” he asked.
Hhune bit back an impatient retort and turned to the woman. “If you feel ready to sing, we would be most honored to listen.”
With a coy smile, the half-elf reached for her lyre and checked the tuning on the strings. She played a few silvery notes and then began to sing.
The song was a ballad, and as the story unfolded Hhune began to understand why his new apprentice was so eager for him to hear it. It was a story of betrayal and treachery, and of a heroic young bard who uncovered a plot to destroy the Harpers from within.
The Harpers. The very mention of this secret organization of meddling northerners was enough to set Hhune’s teeth on edge. There had been rumors that the Harpers were courting Pasha Balik, but the city’s ruler had spurned their advances, as he did those of any northern courtier.
Or had he?
Hhune often wondered how and why the guilds’ plan to oust Pasha Balik had failed. It had been so carefully planned, so flawlessly executed. Yet the main conspirators had been found slain, and the pasha himself had sponsored laws that severely limited the powers of the guilds. Clearly, word of the plot had reached his ears, yet try as they might, no one could learn who might have turned traitor.
Hhune settled back in his chair and regarded the half-elven bard thoughtfully. Harpers, at work in his Zazesspur! He shuddered at the thought of adding this canny society to the ever-growing list of those who sought to seize power or influence events in Tethyr. Their agent must be removed at once, before more of Hhune’s long-laid plans were discovered and brought down.
When the last silvery notes of the lyre shimmered into silence, the lord turned a smile upon the bard. “Thank you for this song, my dear lady. My steward will compensate you for your performance and for the troubles of your journey. But first, can you tell me where you heard this most interesting story?”
“In a tavern, my lord, just as did your young apprentice,” the half-elf said. “It is widely sung. But it is said that the ballad was brought to Tethyr by the Harper bard who wrote it.”
“And can you name this Harper?”
“I cannot, my lord. But they say that in his song, he has named himself.”
Understanding jolted through Hhune like a dagger’s thrust. Indeed, now that he considered the ballad, the identity of this “bard” became achingly clear. Surely the composer and the hero were one—the ballad was too self-congratulatory for it to be otherwise! And the description of the hero was very like someone Hhune knew, not well, but far too well for his liking.
The lord carefully hid his response. Again he summoned his capable servant and placed the half-elf into the man’s care, instructing him to treat their guest with all courtesy and have her escorted back to the city.
That settled, Hhune shut the door and took a chair directly across from his watchful apprentice. The lord knew, of course, who the Harper agent was. It was someone whose identity should have been apparent all along. A newcomer, a northerner, a wealthy young man nobly born into one of Waterdeep’s powerful merchant clans—all of these things were ample grounds for suspicion. But with an audacious nerve worthy of master thieves, the Harpers had hidden their agent in plain sight. Who would have suspected that the frivolous young man who’d composed this ballad—to all appearances a fop and a fool—was in reality a viper disguised by a jester’s motley?
In short, who would have suspected Danilo Thann?
What Hhune wanted to know now was how this knowledge had come to Hasheth.
“The pasha will be interested to learn that these meddlesome northerners are at work in his kingdom,” Hhune began, feeling his way a step at a time.
“He knows already,” the young man stated coldly. “This so-called bard sings his tales directly into my father’s ear. Word of it came to me. I do not approve.”
“Yet it is a wise man who will take a valuable gift, even from an enemy,” the lord observed cautiously. He could hardly voice his agreement with Hasheth’s harsh sentiments. For all he knew, this could be a trap, and it would not do to have the young upstart run to his father with word of Hhune’s disapproval.
“The gift is given. We have no more use for this man,” Hasheth continued.
“We?”
Hhune let the question hang in the air, observing his apprentice closely as the young man formulated a response. There was much in the youth’s eyes that interested Hhune. Whatever Hasheth’s talents might be, the prince had not yet learned to hide his emotions. There was a personal matter between him and this Harper, of that Hhune was certain.
“I am now in your service,” Hasheth said, speaking with careful emphasis. “It seems to me that you would not be well served should a Harper remain within the guilds.”
Well, that answered many questions, Hhune thought wryly. The palace was aware of the guilds’ plot against Balik. It was even possible that young Hasheth had been placed here, in Hhune’s service, to act as an informant, perhaps by the Harpers themselves. Well enough—information could flow both ways.
Hhune settled back in his chair. “I consider myself a fair judge of men. You know this Harper. You have something against him, something of a personal nature.”
An image of Danilo Thann flashed into the lord’s mind: a handsome blond youth, dancing at a recent party and char
ming the ladies of the court.
“A woman, perhaps?” Hhune concluded slyly, and was rewarded by a flash of sullen resentment in the prince’s eyes. “A woman, then. And you want the rival for her affections removed.”
“It is not so simple a matter. And even if it were, as your apprentice I would not act without your approval,” Hasheth said stiffly.
“Ah. Let us say you have obtained it. What would you do?”
“I would hire every assassin in the guild to hunt him down with all possible haste,” the young man said coldly. “This is more than a personal matter. Any amount of gold needed to buy the death of this particular traitor would be well spent!”
But Hhune shook his head. “Wait three days,” he said. “The young fool has powerful friends in Waterdeep, and there would be grave repercussions should we in Tethyr move against him too quickly. Give the ballad time to do its work before we strike. The Harpers can hardly avenge an agent who betrayed himself with a song!”
“This ballad—”
“Will be sung in every tavern in Zazesspur,” Hhune finished firmly. “You may believe me when I say this.” With these words, he took a large gold coin from his pocket and flipped it to his apprentice.
The young man deftly fielded the coin and studied it. The proud, stiff posture of his shoulders melted, and the eyes he lifted to Hhune’s face were wide with wonder—and the dawning of true respect.
“I see that you know the marks on that coin,” the lord said dryly. “And it is well that you do, for the Knights of the Shield were largely responsible for your father’s rise to power. If you are to enter my service, you should also understand my position with this powerful group, and your worth to me. That coin may mark me as an agent of the Knights, but information is the true currency. With this currency, an ambitious man can purchase power. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord,” Hasheth agreed eagerly.
“Good. You should also understand that very little happens in these southern lands that the Knights have not planned, and by which we do not profit. It is not so in the north. This could change, if we had agents who could infiltrate the ranks of the Harpers and bring us information gathered by those northern meddlers. Could such a thing be done, do you think?”
“It can, my lord.”
Hhune noted the confidence in the prince’s voice, the proud, determined tilt of his chin. So there was another Harper beside that Thann nuisance, Hhune mused, and one whom Hasheth knew. Perhaps the woman for whose affections Hasheth was willing to betray a former ally.
“She is very beautiful, this Harper?” Hhune asked casually.
“A goddess, my lord,” the prince blurted out, and then bit his lip as he realized what he had revealed.
The lord chuckled. “I care not how you amuse yourself. Nor do I wish to know the name of this other Harper—not yet, at least. Do all that you can to gain her trust. Prove yourself a competent informant. In doing so, you will serve me well.”
“As you wish, Lord Hhune,” he agreed.
Hhune, who was in fact a rather astute judge of men, did not doubt that all would be done as agreed. He recognized the fires of ambition, and seldom had he seen them burn so brightly as they did in Hasheth’s black eyes. This youth would do whatever he could to further his own cause.
The lord rose to his feet, signifying that the interview was at an end. “You will return to the city at once. My scribe, Achnib, has been instructed to teach you of my shipping affairs. Learn well. We will speak more when I return.”
“Return, my lord?”
“Each summer I travel to Waterdeep to attend the midsummer fair and to receive the report of our agent there, a countrywoman, Lucia Thione, who is highly placed both in business and society.”
The young man looked impressed, as Hhune had intended. The Thione family was related to the royal house of Tethyr. Few members had escaped the sword after the fall of the royal family. That one of these survivors was allied with the Knights of the Shield gave an additional luster to the secret society.
All things, including loyalty, had a price. As Hhune sent the young man on his way, there was no doubt in his mind that he was now the proud owner of a prince—a prince who also happened to be a trusted ally of the Harpers. It was, in his estimation, a bargain well made.
* * * * *
The night passed slowly for Arilyn, for try as she might, she could not banish from her mind the image of the elven warrior she had seen in Assante’s treasure rooms. When at last she slept, her dreams were haunted by the face of her unknown ancestor and by a chorus of Elvish voices that demanded that the dishonor done to the swordmistress be redressed. Arilyn woke before dawn with the voices still ringing in her ears and the conviction that there was more to the night vision than the promptings of her own outrage. The dream had an eldritch intensity of a sort Arilyn had not experienced in over two years.
Instinctively her eyes went to her moonblade, which lay bared and ready on her night table, within easy reach. Arilyn reached out a tentative hand to touch the sword. As she expected, a surge of restless magic jolted through her.
The Harper snatched back her tingling hand. Then, with a sigh, she reached for the weapon and slid it back into its ancient sheath. She kicked off her covers and rose, buckling on her swordbelt with practiced fingers.
Barefoot and clad only in her leggings and under tunic—and, of course, the moonblade—Arilyn walked over to the window. The city below still lay sleeping, except for those who, like herself, were most likely to do business under the cover of night.
For a long time Arilyn stood at her tower window, staring at Zazesspur’s rooftops with eyes that did not see, struggling to accept what she knew to be true. After a silence of more than two years, the elfshadow, the essence of the moonblade, was growing restless. Once again the spirit of the magic sword was demanding something of the half-elf who commanded it.
The last time this had happened, twenty and more Harpers lay dead before Arilyn finally recognized the voice of the sword. She knew the cost of ignoring the moonblade’s warnings, yet the sunrise colors had faded from the sky before she was able to decide upon a course of action. The morning was nearly spent before she was ready to proceed.
The half-elf did not consider herself a coward. From an early age she had battled armed men, fought monsters of almost every description, met the Tuigan hoard in the lingering horror that was war. There was only one thing under the stars that Arilyn Moonblade truly feared: the unknown powers hidden in the ancient sword that was strapped to her side.
There were aspects of the moonblade’s magic that Arilyn understood and wielded with skill. The moonblade warned her of danger, struck with preternatural speed and power, enabled her to take on a number of disguises, and gave her a resistance to fire that had spared her life more than once. It was the elfshadow, her own mirror image, that Arilyn dreaded. Yet what else could she do but summon the elfshadow and learn from it what she could?
The Harper placed her hand on the moonblade’s hilt and drew a long, steadying breath. The elven sword hissed free of the scabbard and glittered in the bright morning light as Arilyn held it high in her two-handed grip.
“Come forth,” she called softly.
In response, a faintly azure mist rose from the sword and swirled into the air, taking on a familiar, yet ghostly form. The Harper’s arms lowered until the moonblade’s point rested on the wooden floor. But Arilyn hardly noticed, so intent was she on the image taking shape before her.
For a moment she had the feeling she was looking at her own reflection in some moonlit pond. Then the elfshadow stepped out of the mist and stood before her, as apparently solid and mortal as Arilyn herself. Unlike the Harper, the elfshadow was dressed as if for the road, in the worn but comfortable boots and breeches that Arilyn favored when left solely to her own desires.
For a long moment the half-elf and the elfshadow regarded each other solemnly. A strange impulse—the urge to scratch her nose just to see if th
e elfshadow followed suit—flashed into Arilyn’s mind. The absurdity of this brought a tiny smile to her lips.
“Well again, sister,” the elfshadow said, speaking in an exact duplicate of Arilyn’s contralto tones. “I had hoped you would call me forth long ere this.”
The Harper folded her arms over her chest and glared. “I’ve been busy.”
A sad smile crossed the elfshadow’s face. “You still blame yourself for the death of those Harpers, though the hand that slew them was mine.”
“There’s a difference?” Arilyn asked bitterly.
“Oh, yes. For the time being, at least.”
The half-elf’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. She had many questions; this one seemed a logical place to start. “I don’t suppose you want to explain that.”
“No more than you want to hear the explanation,” the elfshadow responded with an unexpected touch of dry humor.
Arilyn lifted an inquiring brow. “That’s something I might have said,” she observed. “What are you? Are you the moonblade, or are you me?”
“Both, and yet neither.” The elfshadow fell silent, as if carefully measuring her next words. “You know that each wielder of a moonblade imbues the sword with a new power, but you do not understand the source of that power. Unlike any other moonfighter who came before you, you were not told of the moonblade’s secrets before you claimed the sword.”
“So tell me.”
“It is not so simple,” the elfshadow cautioned her. “The moonblades are ancient elven artifacts, and the mysteries that went into their crafting cannot be adequately described—no more than I could convey to you with mere words a melody you have never heard or a color you have never seen.”
“Noted. Go on,” Arilyn said tersely.
“First let me point out that the moonblade accepted you when you were but a child, not to mention the first half-elf ever to inherit such a sword! This decision was not lightly made, for it was foreseen that you would do a great service to the People.”
Silver Shadows Page 9