Thus it was that the priest of Loviatar had an easy time finding the elf maid’s wandering spirit. An unseen hand reached out, seized the girl, and pulled her into a shadowy gray realm.
Hawkwing’s untamed spirit rebelled against this captivity, but these were fetters that even a will as strong as hers could not break. The entity that imprisoned her was powerful but twisted; a cold, salacious soul that reveled in the wounds of the girl’s discarded body and the frantic terror of her captive spirit. The ugly soul of this being—a human, a priest of some sort—was made all the more terrible for the impenetrable coating of smug piety that armored it.
“You must answer me what I ask you,” his voice demanded, speaking in a language Hawkwing had never before heard but found that she could understand. “Behold this man’s livid scar. Who is the elf whose mark this is?”
Hawkwing had no intention of responding, but the priest took the answer from her mind.
“Foxfire, an Elmanesse of the Talltrees clan,” the priest’s voice said aloud. “Where does this elf reside?”
Again the elven child refused. But it mattered not. The secrete of the hidden stronghold poured from her. She could no more stop them than she could command the wind or rain.
And so it went, for as long as the gray-souled priest desired to contain and compel her spirit. At last he was done with her. Hawkwing tore free and flung herself away from the inquisitor’s casual cruelty. Nothing the elven girl had endured in life had marked or bruised her as deeply as this captivity of her essence and the plundering of her tribe’s secrets. But though she was frantic and half mad, she set a true course for the elven woods and home.
There she had found solace before; in time, perhaps, it would come to her again.
* * * * *
Finding an agent of the Knights of the Shield was not so difficult a thing to do, provided one knew how and where to look. Hasheth suspected he could learn a great deal of information in the clandestine shop of one of Zazesspur’s coin brokers.
A very profitable and unofficial market in Tethyr dealt in the trading of the country’s various coins. There were many types of gold pieces used throughout the land. Many of the larger cities and even some of the more powerful guilds or noblemen minted their own coins. The value of these rose and fell with the changing tides of fortune. Predicting how a given currency might fare, and trading coins in speculation of these changes, was a thriving business in Tethyr.
Most merchants and makers of policy argued that there was no real difference in these currencies. The cities with more valuable currencies tended to pay higher wages and charge higher prices that those whose coins enjoyed a lesser reputation. In the end, they reasoned, the value of these coins in barter for goods and services was about the same throughout Tethyr and its neighboring lands. This was true enough, as far as it went, but this argument ignored a simple and rather obvious fact that occurred to remarkably few of Tethir’s coin brokers.
Many of these coins, though quite different in value and purchasing power, contained about the same amount of gold.
Thus it was that a bag of a hundred Zazesspurian gulders, while nearly twice the value of a bag holding an equal number of the zoth minted in Saradush, weighed almost the same. There were in Zazesspur two, perhaps three brokers who would buy up the lesser coins, then melt and recast them as more valuable currency. The services of these enterprising souls also came in handy when one had other reasons for changing the shape of one’s wealth. Prime among these were the personal coins, either stolen or given in payment, that were extremely difficult to pass in common trade. At times, possession of such a coin could be deadly.
The Knights of the Shield often ordered gold coins to be placed on the eyelids of those slain by their agents. So difficult was it to spend these coins that beggars and pickpockets would often pass such a corpse and leave the treasure untouched, rather than risk the Knights’ retribution. There were, however, some people who hoarded these coins and used them in a specialized system of barter. To an assassin or a hired sword, a cache of Knights’ coins was a mark of prestige that brought in other lucrative assignments. Such a coin could also be redeemed for favors or information that far surpassed the value of the gold it contained. And from time to time, assassins incurred expenses—such as the need for a new identity or a swift departure to a distant port—that demanded that such coins be melted down and made into more widely accepted currency.
During his time in the assassins’ guildhouse, Hasheth had learned the name of a woman who provided such services. He went to her now, riding one of his lesser steeds so as not to attract undue attention in the trades quarter of the city.
The establishment he sought, unaccountably named the Smiling Smithy, was the sort of shabby place that replaced cast-off horseshoes and reattached the broken prongs of pitchforks. The sole proprietor and craftsperson did not exactly meet the expectations suggested by the sign outside her shop. Melissa Miningshaft was a short, squat woman singularly lacking in either physical beauty or social graces. She was half-dwarven, or perhaps a quarter-breed, yet she was nearly as stout and heavily muscled as any full-blooded dwarven smith. Her features brought to mind a dried apple, her graying brown hair was scraped back into a tight bun, and to call the lumpy, ample form that strained the seams of her brown linsey gown “shapeless” would be erring on the side of compassion.
At the moment, the smithy’s thick and sculpted arms were bared to the elbows and glowing red from the warmth of the forge and from the effort of pumping the bellows which fanned and coaxed the blazing fire.
Melissa glanced up when Hasheth entered, scanned him quickly from head to foot, and then harumphed.
“I would like to trade some coin,” he said, placing a leather bag on a stout trestle table that held some of her tongs and hammers.
“Fer what?” she demanded gruffly. “Yer horse throw a shoe?”
Hasheth had expected this response. Melissa was extremely particular about those to whom she sold her finer skills. The dwarf woman was capable of making shrewd, clandestine deals and forging incredibly accurate counterfeit coin molds, but if this were to become widely known, she’d be forced to spend too much time and effort guarding the wealth hidden in the walls and cellars of her humble shop and home.
But Hasheth had credentials of a sort. He pulled his sand-hue sash from its hiding place in his sleeve and placed it beside the bag of coins.
“I wish to trade standard Amn danters for other coins,” he said. “And nothing so common as gulders or moleans. I will pay twice the trade weight for any coin you possess that bears the mark of the Knights of the Shield.”
Melissa let loose a burst of sardonic laughter in much the same way that an irascible dragon might blow forth a puff of smoke. “Yer actually looking for the Knights? Poor sod! I give you three days afore they come looking for you.”
Actually, Hasheth was rather hoping to make contact before nightfall. “Have you any such coin?”
“A couple,” she admitted, squinting at the young man as she weighed and measured the worth of his personal metal. “But that’ll cost you four times trade weight.”
“I said two; that is more than fair.”
“Fair? That ring on yer little finger’s worth more Amn danters than you could stuff in yonder coin bag, and me living here in this sorry excuse for a shack. You call that fair? Three times trade weight.”
“Two and a half.”
“Done,” she said and spat into the fire. Hasheth was not certain whether this gesture was meant to punctuate the closure of their deal or to show contempt, but he was willing to let it pass.
Melissa pushed past him and disappeared into a back room. She returned promptly and tossed two large gold coins on the table. “Yer in luck. I was gonna melt these down for moleans come morning.”
Hasheth picked up the first coin and examined the markings. It was definitely a Knight’s coin, but he could not place it to any particular individual. The second coin yielded a bit more
information.
“These will do. You’ll find slightly more than two and a half times the trade weight in that bag.”
The coin broker dumped Hasheth’s danters onto the table and counted them twice, then nodded. “Good to do business with you, boy, but truth be told, I don’t expect to again. Baby assassin or no, you might as well stuff a fireball in yer pants as travel with them coins in yer pockets. You won’t be coming back.”
“I thank you for your concern,” he said coldly. “I’ll be certain to mention you, should anyone give me trouble about these coins.”
Melissa snorted, for the young man’s threatening retort was no more than bluster, and they both knew it. The smithy had clients who held an interest in protecting her privacy. Anyone who attempted to betray her was likely to become a notch on an assassin’s blade, or to be discovered with large gold coins, very much like the ones Hasheth had slipped into his bag, weighing down his eyelids.
Hasheth left the smithy, reclaimed his horse, and set off at a brisk pace for the stables. He would change to a more suitable mount, and then he would pay a visit to the gentleman whose coin he had purchased.
But first, he had to devise some pretense. It would be fairly easy, as Lord Hhune’s apprentice, to be granted an audience. But first, Hasheth wanted to figure out some way to insinuate himself into the society of the Knights, something that would buy him membership into this exclusive and powerful group.
The Harpers were all fine and well, and they seemed to come up with coin when they required it, but from what Hasheth had observed, most of their agents were not concerned with amassing personal wealth or power. All told, the Knights of the Shield was a society far more suited to his ambitions. Hasheth was determined to find a way in, and he would count the cost—whatever it might be—a bargain.
Eighteen
Nearly two days passed. The forest elves seemed quietly impressed with Kendel Leafbower, for the moon elf had picked up considerable skill at woods lore during his four centuries of life. He walked nearly as silently as a forest elf, and he hunted game for the small group while the others stayed at their camp to guard their moon-elven battle leader.
Jill spent much of the time teasing Ferret, much to the amusement of Arilyn and Foxfire. It quickly became apparent to everyone but Ferret that the dwarf was flirting outrageously with her. As she watched Jill’s avid pursuit of the elf woman, Arilyn was reminded of a question that often occurred to her when she saw a farm dog chasing a horse-drawn cart: what would he do if, by chance, he succeeded in catching it?
She read in Foxfire’s twinkling eyes thoughts similar to her own. And behind the laughter in his eyes lurked the memories of their own times together. This made the course before Arilyn even more difficult, yet it steeled her resolution to follow it. Foxfire was dear to her; she would do what she must for him and the People.
And so, as soon as Arilyn felt strong enough to travel, she announced her intention of returning to Zazesspur.
“It was your idea,” she retorted when Foxfire tried to dissuade her. “You brought up the fact that this Bunlap and his men are a matter for the humans to deal with. Let me find out who holds this hound’s leash, and then let the humans take care of their own problems.”
“I’m going with you,” Ferret declared, her black eyes daring the half-elf to argue.
Arilyn didn’t bother to try. For what she had in mind, two people would be needed. And she was certain Ferret would give her enthusiastic support to the plan Arilyn had in mind.
She was going to bring Soora Thea back to the wild elves.
Jill, however, had already divined her purpose. “Yer not thinkin’ to go back into that pink prison, are you? Yer plannin’ on bringin’ out that sleeping elf woman, aren’t you? You are,” he added with disgust. “I kin see it in yer face. Well, I’m not fer goin’ with you.”
“I wouldn’t ask it of you,” Arilyn said gently. “You spent ten years in that palace. That is enough.”
“You think I’m owing you fer springin’ me outta that trap,” the dwarf continued ranting, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said. “You and this scrawny female can’t fight yer way outta there alone, and you can’t be totin’ that liddle sleeping elf woman back to the forest, jest the two of you. Now, I’m not wantin’ to speak for Kendel, here—”
“I will come, too,” the moon elf said quietly.
“Never said I was goin’, now did I?” Jill grumbled. “But since this ding-blasted elf here has gone and signed hisself up, I suppose I gotta go along and look out fer him. Gets into fights, he does, without never once stoppin’ to think on whether or not he can win ’em!”
“I’d be happy to have you both,” Arilyn said. “And you needn’t enter that palace. You two can wait for us outside and hold the horses.”
“Horses! I rode me a donkey this far, and I’ll be a one-headed ettin if’n I’ll trade him in fer one o’ them long-legged hay-eaters,” Jill said darkly.
“In that case, we’d better leave at once,” Ferret observed, not recognizing the bluster behind the dwarfs gruff arguments.
But at Foxfire’s insistence, Arilyn agreed to wait until morning before setting out. They settled down to rest for the journey ahead. Soon Jill was snoring lustily, and the practical elves Ferret and Kendel were deep in reverie. But to Arilyn’s eyes, the usually serene Foxfire seemed restless, preoccupied. When the first flickering lights of the firebugs announced the coming night, he asked Arilyn to walk with him.
“The People face many battles ahead,” he said somberly. “Within the forest, I am an able commander. The Elmanesse have not suffered raids by other tribes for many years, and even the orcs know to keep a wide berth from our hunting lands. But these new troubles are beyond me. You are needed here. Do not stay long from the forest.”
“A few days, no more,” she promised him. “But there are things I must do that can be accomplished only in the city. As I said before, we must know why Bunlap does what he does. In Zazesspur I have contacts; I’ll get to the bottom of this problem.”
“I believe you will. We work well together, you and I,” he agreed.
Suddenly Foxfire stopped and faced the half-elf, taking both her hands in his. “There is something I must say before you go. We do well as we are, but I would make our partnership deeper. How much more could we accomplish if we could speak mind to mind, sense the other’s thoughts and plans without words? Enter with me into rapport, Arilyn, and when you return from the city, stay with me in the forest for all time!”
Arilyn stared at the elf, too dumbfounded to speak. Rapport was the most intimate bond between elves, one that would last for the remainder of their mortal lives. It was uncommon even among the People, and almost unheard of for an elf to establish rapport with a human. She was not even certain that she, who was only half-elven, was capable of this mystic elven bond.
And to her astonishment, Arilyn realized she did not really want to try. Foxfire was a noble elf, admirable in all the ways that she valued. He was also a good and true friend, and she cared deeply for him. But though she loved the elf, the idea of entering into such a bond with him seemed wrong. It was not in her to do. Foxfire was everything Arilyn had ever thought she wanted, but for some reason it was not enough.
There were no soft words to explain these things to the elf. The only alternative method of responding was considerably less noble, but it was all that came into the half-elf’s mind. And so Arilyn prepared to do what many another decent woman had done under similar circumstances: lie through her teeth.
“You do me more honor than you know,” she began, starting with words she could speak in all sincerity. “I admire how deep your devotion to your tribe runs. And you are right. We would do much better as battle leaders if we could know each other’s minds without words.”
“Do not for a moment think I suggest rapport only for the benefit of the tribe,” Foxfire said with a little smile. “It would be no hardship for me to enter such a bond.”
“Nor to me,” she told him. “But I cannot. I … I have already joined with another.”
Foxfire stared at her for a long moment. “But how is this possible? Until midsummer’s eve, you were a maiden still!”
“Well then, what of the twin-born?” she countered. “They form rapport from birth. There are many means of establishing bonds. As precious as midsummer was to me, there are other things in life equally worth sharing.”
Understanding came in bleak waves into his eyes. “I see. Forgive me,” he murmured.
She placed one hand on his shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive, only thanks to be spoken for the honor you have shown me.”
He nodded and covered her hand with one of his, accepting her decision with grace. “It is late, and the morning will come all too soon. You must rest if you are to travel,” he said.
They made their way back to the place were Ferret and Kendel rested in reverie. But Arilyn did not sleep, nor, she suspected, did Foxfire find his way into the fey repose of the elves.
* * * * *
The two elf women and their odd escorts traveled east along the forest’s line—a longer path, but Arilyn wanted to put as much space as possible between them and Bunlap’s fortress before entering open terrain. They traveled on foot the first day. Then Arilyn, in her guise of human lad, slipped into a farming village and bartered some of her emergency coin for a trio of sturdy horses—and a donkey for Jill.
Arilyn set a fast pace through the foothills, heading for Tinkersdam’s hidden lair. The task ahead was tailor-made for the special skills of the eccentric alchemist. There were times that called for subtlety and finesse; this was not one of them.
They pressed their mounts as fast as Arilyn dared—and Ferret would allow—and they reached the entrance to Tinkersdam’s cavern in the middle of the night. Arilyn led the way through the curtain of pines into the cavern and then down the winding passages toward the lair.
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