Silver Shadows

by Cunningham, Elaine

  As was his recent custom, he was clad entirely in shades of purple—the traditional color of Tethyr—and bedecked with a small fortune in gold-and-amethyst jewelry. Arilyn had told him more than once that this affectation made him look like a walking grape, but in truth the opulent color suited him well.

  Everything about the young man and his setting bespoke wealth, ease, and privilege. The room behind him was vast and luxurious, although a bit cluttered with the trappings of his public and personal endeavors. One long table was heavily laden with goblets and bottles of fine wine—a testament to his current role as a member of Tethyr’s guild of wine merchants. Spellbooks were scattered across a reading table of Chultan teak, and the small crystal scrying globe on the table near the window was but one of many magic devices that protected the room and its occupant. The chamber’s hand-knotted carpet—rendered in shades of purple, of course—was heaped with tapestry pillows. Lying among them was the lute Danilo had set aside, an exquisite instrument inlaid with darker woods and mother-of-pearl. Beside the lute was his swordbelt, which held not only his rapier, but an ancient sword in a bejeweled scabbard. A magic weapon, Arilyn guessed, noting the distinctive curved pommel that marked it as a sword of Halruaan make.

  All this she took in with a single sweeping glance. Noted, too, was the sudden intense flash, quickly hidden, that came into the young man’s eyes as his gaze swept over her. Arilyn knew her partner’s perception and attention to detail at least equaled her own, and for a moment she wondered what he saw in a disheveled, too-thin, half-elven assassin that could kindle such a flame.

  “Lovely night for second-story work,” Danilo observed in a casual tone as he handed her a goblet. “That jump was most impressive. But tell me, have you ever miscalculated the rope’s length?”

  Arilyn shook her head, then absently tossed back the contents of her goblet. “We’re leaving Tethyr,” she stated, plunking her empty goblet down on Danilo’s table.

  He placed his own goblet beside hers. “Oh?” he asked warily.

  “Someone has placed a bounty on your head,” Arilyn said in a grim tone as she handed him the heavy gold coin. “These were given to any assassin willing to take on the job. One hundred more to whoever makes the kill.”

  Danilo hefted the coin in a practiced hand and then let out a long, low whistle. The coin was about three times the normal trade weight. The amount Arilyn had named was a substantial sum, one likely to tempt even high-ranking assassins to take on the assignment. But the young Harper did not seem concerned by the danger. He examined the gold piece with the detachment of a coin collector, running admiring fingers over the embossed pattern of runes and symbols.

  “It would seem I’m attracting a better class of enemies these days,” he observed wryly.

  “Listen to me!” Arilyn snapped, clasping both his forearms and giving him a little shake. “I heard someone singing your ballad about the Harper assassin.”

  “Merciful Milil,” he swore softly, and Arilyn saw understanding dawning in his eyes.

  Danilo had written the ballad about their first adventure together. He hadn’t performed it in over two years and certainly had the sense not to sing it in Tethyr. Although the song did not identify him as a Harper, even a mention of those “meddling Northern barbarians” could create a good deal of resentment and suspicion in this troubled land. Woven into the ballad were hints concerning Danilo’s identity, and the careful listener could soon ascertain that the hero and the composer were one. He had written the song to convince Arilyn that he was a vain and vapid courtier, and it had effectively served its purpose. But the fact that it was being sung here in Tethyr would force a rapid end to their mission. The young Harper contemplated the loss of all this work with a rueful smile.

  “The locals express their musical preferences rather forcefully, wouldn’t you say?” he commented lightly.

  Before Arilyn could draw breath for an exasperated rejoinder, Danilo silenced her with an apologetic smile and an uplifted hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. Force of habit. You’re right, of course. We must ride north at once.”

  “No.”

  She reached out and touched one of Danilo’s rings—a magical gift from his uncle, Khelben Arunsun, that could teleport up to three people back to the safety of Blackstaff Tower, or elsewhere if the wielder so chose.

  Arilyn hated magical travel; in her mind, it was a choice of last resort. The knowledge of this was written clearly in Danilo’s eyes. Understanding her urgency, he quickly donned his swordbelt and affixed to it the magic bag that held his wardrobe and travel supplies. He added three spellbooks to the bag and then absently dropped in the assassin’s coin. With one hand he snatched up his lute; with the other he reached out to Arilyn.

  She took a step backward and shook her head. “I’m not coming with you.”

  “Arilyn, this is no time to be squeamish!”

  “It’s not that.” She took a deep breath, for the words were harder to say than she had imagined possible. “Word came from Waterdeep. I’ve been assigned another mission. I leave in the morning.”

  Danilo’s eyes widened. For a moment, Arilyn glimpsed in them the poignant longing that he was so careful to hide from her. Then, deftly, his expression changed to portray the pique of a spoiled nobleman who was unaccustomed to events that strayed from the path of his preference. His eyes betrayed nothing but incredulity that the Master Harpers would presume to separate them. It was a fine performance. Arilyn, however, was not fooled.

  But before she could speak, the alarm on Danilo’s magical scrying globe began to pulse again. The half-elf snatched up the crystal and peered into it. The scene within showed three shadowy figures moving toward the edge of the roof, just two stories above them. Some of Arilyn’s colleagues were coming to collect their prize.

  She tossed the alarm aside and cast a glace toward the open window and the nearly invisible rope outside. “There’s no time to explain,” she told him. “Go!”

  But Danilo, who had also taken a good look into the crystal, shook his head. “And leave you to face them alone? Not bloody likely.”

  Arilyn attempted a smile and touched the gray silk sash that proclaimed her rank among Tethyr’s assassins. “I’m one of them, remember? I’ll say that you were gone. No one will challenge me.”

  “Of course they will,” he snapped, for he well knew how Tethyr’s assassins rose through the ranks. Arilyn was aware that her partner had paid out large sums to keep apprised of her dark and solitary path. She’d been able to keep news of many of her adventures from him, but he knew she’d been forced more than once to defend her reluctantly worn sash from ambitious fellow assassins. There were three of them now, and if she was alone, they would almost certainly seize the opportunity to attack her. Which of them would eventually possess her Shadow Sash would be a matter they’d settle among themselves at a later time.

  The rope she’d left hanging outside Danilo’s window began to sway as someone inched down it toward his room. “Go,” Arilyn pleaded.

  “Come with me,” he demanded in an implacable tone.

  The half-elf shook her head, cursing the streak of steel that hid behind Danilo’s foppish persona. She knew it well, and knew also that there was little chance of reasoning with him once his mind was set.

  Predictably enough, the Harper tossed aside his priceless lute without thought or care, and pulled her into his arms.

  “If you think I’d leave you, you’re a bigger fool than I am,” he said quickly, angrily, his words racing against the approaching danger. “This is hardly the moment I’d have chosen to mention this, but damn it, woman, I love you.”

  “I know,” Arilyn replied softly, clinging to him in turn. For a single, intense second, she let her eyes speak her heart. Then she eased out of his arms and lifted one hand to stroke his cheek. It was the first such acknowledgment, the first caressing gesture, she had ever offered him. His eyes darkened as he cupped her hand in both of his and pressed her fingers to his lips
in a fervent kiss.

  Leaving his midsection conveniently unguarded.

  Arilyn doubled her free hand into a fist and drove it hard into a point slightly below his rib cage. Danilo folded and went down like a felled oak.

  As the winded nobleman struggled to draw breath, the half-elf stooped and twisted the ring of teleportation on his hand that would send him back to Waterdeep and safety.

  He lunged for her wrist, obviously intending to drag her along, but Arilyn was already on her feet. The moonblade, glowing the intense blue that warned of approaching battle, hissed free from her scabbard as Danilo faded from view, one hand outstretched for her and naked anguish written on his face.

  Although she’d seen no other way to save her would-be lover, Arilyn’s necessary act of treachery left her feeling shaken and strangely empty. She took a long, ragged breath and turned to face the trio of Tethyrian assassins, feeling a certain grim comfort at the thought of impending battle.

  That, at least, was something she understood.

  Eight

  The spider-silk rope swayed as Ferret worked her way down toward the Harper’s open window, cursing silently as she went.

  The female assassin had encountered many frustrations during her sojourn in Zazesspur, not the least of which was the odd fact that under Pasha Balik’s rule, men enjoyed social dominance. It was, in her opinion, a folly beyond comprehension. Ferret only hoped this bit of stupidity didn’t cause her to lose her quarry! Had she gone first, she’d be down already, and her task would be done. But no—the two men had to proceed her.

  For a moment Ferret entertained the idea of stomping on the head of the man below her and knocking him off the rope. She would have done so gladly, but for the fact that he was unlikely to oblige her by falling to his death in silence!

  Indeed, only the need for stealth had kept her from battling the two other assassins who had converged on the rooftop with such inconvenient speed. All three had realized the folly of such action, and they’d agreed to cooperate for a quick kill and a share of the reward. But once they were all within Danilo Thann’s chamber, Ferret would gladly turn her blade against them to defend the man she had been hired to kill. Perhaps doing so would pique the Harper’s interest and convince him to listen to her tale and perhaps to help her.

  Seeking aid from humans and Harpers! Ferret could think of no surer sign of her desperation than this.

  But what else was she to do? Her skills were many and considerable, but there were things at work in Zazesspur that she simply could not comprehend. A chance-heard tavern song had sparked an idea: who better to solve this puzzle than a Harper, a member of that legendary tribe of spies, informants, and meddlers? It was unfortunate that a contract had been placed upon this particular Harper, for if Danilo Thann bred true to type, he would surely be able to find his way to the source of the problem. That was all Ferret needed. She knew what had to be done, but she needed to know who to do it to!

  At last the first of the male assassins ducked in through the Harper’s window. Ferret heard his startled oath and then the first bright clash of steel on steel. She prodded the man below her with her boot.

  “Hurry, or Samir will make the kill by himself and claim the full reward,” she demanded, speaking the words most likely to coax haste from the assassin.

  Her reasoning was sound; the avaricious man slid the rest of the way down the rope and virtually dove into the room.

  With her way now clear, Ferret let go of the rope and fell the last several feet. As she passed the open window, she grabbed the sill and pulled herself up to it with all her might. She tumbled through, tucked her head down, rolled into the room, and came up on her feet, a long dagger already in her hand. Ready—or so she thought—for anything.

  The sight before her stole her breath and froze her feet to the lush carpet.

  An eldritch blue light filled the room, tossing the dancing shadows of three fighters against every wall of the chamber. The source of the light was a living moonblade, and it was held in the two hands of a half-elven assassin.

  Like a hero from some ancient elven legend, Arilyn stood firm against her two attackers, beating back every thrust and slash of their wickedly curved scimitars. Her magical sword flashed and spun, leaving dizzy ribbons of blue light to mark its path.

  A moonblade, Ferret thought dazedly. A true, living moonblade!

  She knew the half-elf carried such a sword and even presumed to take her name from it, but Ferret had assumed the weapon had been dormant for centuries, and that Arilyn had purchased it from some ignorant peddler, or plundered it from some ancient elven tomb. Moonblades were hereditary swords of fearsome magic, and according to legend, none but moon elves of true blood and noble spirit could wield them. To see such a weapon in the hands of a half-elf—and a hired killer—raised implications that staggered Ferret’s imagination.

  Just then Arilyn’s blazing eyes settled on the new intruder. Instinctively Ferret lifted her dagger into a defensive position.

  Just in time. With the speed of a striking snake, the half-elf whirled on the nearest man and feinted high. As he lifted his blade, she spun away in a quick, tight circle and then ducked in under her opponent’s defensive parry. She lunged past him toward the female assassin, her glowing sword leading with deadly intent.

  The elven sword struck Ferret’s parrying dagger with a force that sent bright sparks of pain dancing up her arm to explode in her head like festival fireworks. The half-elf’s intent was apparent: in a battle against greater odds, it was wise to eliminate the most dangerous opponent first, and quickly. In some corner of her mind, Ferret reminded herself that a moonblade could not shed innocent blood. She was not, however, convinced of her safety. The path she had taken was a needed thing, but it may have tarnished her in the sentient sword’s perception.

  Fortunately for her, the two men recovered from their surprise and closed in on the half-elf. They charged at her, scimitars aloft, fueling their attack with yells of bloodlust. Without turning, Arilyn lifted her moonblade high overhead and met the first downward strike. At the same time she kicked forward; her booted foot caught Ferret in the gut with a force that folded the smaller female over and sent her staggering back into a table. In the next heartbeat the half-elf pivoted, using the momentum of her turn to press the joined blades toward the second attacker. The three swords met with a ringing clash. Arilyn pulled hers free of the tangle and danced back. Her gaze again settled upon the female.

  Ferret saw her own death in the half-elf’s eyes and knew that her next action would either be brilliant, or it would be her last.

  The ache in the assassin’s lower ribs gave her inspiration: she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood.

  Pressing one hand against her rib cage, Ferret let out a groan. As she did, bloody foam spilled onto her lips. She wiped it off, regarded her hand with dawning horror, and then fixed a venomous glare upon the half-elf. Slowly, she slid down, the table’s edge scraping her back, until she lay crumpled on the floor, clutching her ribs and moaning softly. Seeing that the female was down for good, Arilyn turned away to face the other assassins.

  Ferret was not surprised that the half-elf accepted her performance as genuine. In her time as an assassin, Ferret had seen enough men die, in enough ways, to know exactly what the process looked like. A kick like that could have broken a rib, which in turn could have pierced a lung. Death by drowning was the inevitable, albeit slow, result of such an injury. But what did surprise Ferret was the flash of compassion that came into Arilyn Moonblade’s eyes as she realized the manner of death she had dealt. It was just as well for Ferret that the half-elf was otherwise engaged, or she might well have granted her fallen adversary a quick and merciful end.

  Better die quickly, Ferret admonished herself with a touch of grim humor.

  Lying as still as she could, the assassin closed her eyes to mere slits and watched the battle from beneath the thick curtain of her lashes.

&nb
sp; Ferret had to admit that her half-elven enemy was brilliant in battle. She had never seen anyone who possessed a surer knowledge of the sword. Yet much of what Arilyn did seemed to be pure instinct. She seemed to sense when and how the next strike would come, and she was quick enough to keep a step ahead of both her opponents.

  In fact, the speed and force of her strike seemed all out of proportion with her size. Granted, the half-elf was tall, and her slender form had an elf’s surprising resilience and strength, but those things could not account for the power of her fighting. Ferret wondered what secrets lay behind the glowing aura of the half-elf’s moonblade.

  Just then Arilyn’s sword dove in past Samir’s guard and buried itself in his throat. She pulled the moonblade down hard, thrusting deeper as she went, sweeping through bone and sinew with terrifying ease. Ferret suppressed a wince as the elven blade cleaved the man from gizzard to groin.

  Seeing an opportunity in his comrade’s death, the other man grinned wolfishly and raised his scimitar high overhead for the killing strike. To add force to the blow—and perhaps in unconscious imitation of his half-elven foe—he gripped the blade with both hands and began the downward slash.

  But his intended victim had other plans. Arilyn tore the blade free of the assassin’s body and continued its downward cut. The sword gained momentum as she traced a sweeping circle back and around. As the elven sword reached the zenith of its swing, Arilyn spun to face the surviving assassin and stepped hard into the attack.