Silver Shadows

by Cunningham, Elaine

  Tinkersdam was awake and at work, as Arilyn had anticipated he would be. The alchemist had little regard for schedules of any sort. Here, in a cavern deep within the hills where there was no natural light to mark the passing of time, he was even saved from the minor annoyance of day and night.

  When the four travelers entered the alchemist’s lair, they found him lying on his back under a large wooden contraption that had the size and appearance of a carriage. His plump, bowed legs stuck out from under it, and his feet were dangerously close to a simmering kettle.

  Arilyn reflexively reached out to move the hazard away, but two things quickly occurred to her: Tinkersdam might appear preoccupied, but he was always incredibly aware of his surroundings. He would be less likely to kick over the kettle than a halfling would be to skip dinner. Secondly, there was no apparent reason why the kettle should be simmering. It hung on a tripod over the bare stone of the cave. There was no fire beneath it, not even a pile of glowing coals. Ergo, whatever was in that kettle was better left alone.

  “So you’re back,” Tinkersdam announced, not bothering to come out from under his current invention. “Brought friends, I see.”

  The half-elf stooped down and peered at the alchemist, who was busily connecting an odd network of tubes and vials. Arilyn did not want to think about what explosive force he might have in mind to power this strange conveyance. “I’ve got a job for you,” she said.

  “As you can see, I’ve got one at the moment,” Tinkersdam pointed out.

  Words danced ready on Arilyn’s tongue: the importance and urgency of the task ahead, the impact it would have on the elven folk, her own desperate need to free her Harper partner, if not herself, from the servitude demanded by the sword she carried. But none of this, she knew, would have the slightest impact on the alchemist.

  “How would you like to blow up a palace?” Arilyn asked casually.

  Tinkersdam looked at her at last with the expression of one who hardly dared to hope he might have heard aright. “How would I like to? As in, what method would I prefer to use?”

  “Bad choice of words,” the Harper agreed dryly. “You can use any method you like, but there must be enough of an explosion to throw all who are within the palace walls into confusion. The explosion must come from inside, and it must happen quickly, so as not to alert whatever passes for a city guard in Zazesspur these days.”

  The alchemist scooted out from under the carriage, bounded to his feet, and bustled over to a table. Muttering all the while, he began to toss odd-smelling powders and tip flasks of liquid into a large caldron, working with apparently indiscriminate haste.

  “I’ve been wanting to try this for years,” he said happily, briskly stirring all the while like a goodwife beating a batch of biscuits. “Oh, I’ve run the odd small test or two, but nothing truly substantial.”

  “That mansion you rendered into rubble in Suzail—that wouldn’t by any chance have been one of those small tests?” Arilyn asked cautiously.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. I’m looking forward to seeing what this can do when given a bit of time and space. What palace are we destroying, if I might ask?”

  “The home of Abrum Assante.”

  “Not the master assassin?” demanded Ferret, speaking for the first time since they had entered the cavern. “Are you utterly moon-mad?”

  Arilyn turned to the incredulous elf. “Assante has something we need. You remember the story you told of the Soora Thea, the hero who will return? Well, she can and will, but first we have to get her from her resting place—in Assante’s treasure chamber.”

  The elf’s eyes lit with hope and then blazed at this sacrilege. “So that is what the dwarf has been blathering about! The liddle blue-haired elf woman,’ indeed! Of course I will help. But you said the explosion must come from within the compound. How is this possible? Its defenses are nearly proverbial!”

  Arilyn quickly outlined the story of her previous mission and described the water-filled tunnel they would need to swim to get in. “But we cannot take her out the same way. We will have to go out by the front door. And the only way to do that is to create enough chaos to convince Assante that he must use his escape tunnel. We will await him there and persuade him to see us safely out of the complex.”

  “And then he will die,” Ferret added. “I can think of no man who would be more dangerous if left alive to nurse such a grievance. Even within the safety of Tethir, I would be ever looking over my shoulder! But what then? How are we to carry the sleeping hero into Tethir?”

  “As luck would have it,” Arilyn said dryly, “I have a friend working in the shipping guild. He will help make the arrangements.”

  “Here you are,” the alchemist said, handing each of the elf women a small bowl. Arilyn glanced at hers. It appeared to be fine Shou porcelain, and around its rim was painted a ring of fire-breathing serpent dragons. A clear, waxy substance, still somewhat pliable, filled the bowl, and a cotton wick thrust up from it. At the bottom of the bowl was a layer of multicolored crystals.

  “To all appearances, a candle,” Arilyn said with admiration. “How long before the fire burns down?”

  Tinkersdam shrugged. “An hour. Perhaps a bit less. Just be sure you are well away from it when it ignites. And put the bowls so that the fuchsia dragon—see that one over on the side?—points in the direction in which you want to direct the most damage.”

  “Assante’s palace is fashioned of Halruaan marble, and the walls are a good foot thick. Are you sure these two will be enough?”

  The alchemist’s face took on a pinched, peevish expression. “Five of them would destroy a good part of the city! Why is it that the ignorant and the uninformed insist that anything of Halruaan make has an edge on the rest of the world? Bah!”

  An idea, one that Arilyn would have dismissed as insane in less desperate times, leaped into her mind. The rivalry between Lantan’s priests of Gond and the artificers of Halruaa was legendary.

  “How would a Halruaan wizard prepare a fortress for attack?” she asked.

  “Badly,” Tinkersdam said with a sniff of professional disdain. “An artificer might do somewhat better, but even so!”

  “You could anticipate such traps and dispel them? Of course you could,” Arilyn said quickly. “All right then, here’s what we’re going to do. We four must go to Zazesspur to tend to Assante’s palace. We will then return here, pick you up, and take you to the battle. Can you have ready the things you’ll need?”

  “I expect so,” the alchemist said absently, his attention turning back to the wooden conveyance. “You might pick up a few things for me in the city. Some coal, some powdered sulphur, a good-sized bag of alum, and a jar of pickled herring. Lunch, you know,” he added by way of explanation.

  Arilyn swallowed a smile and led the way out of the caves. If it was herring that Tinkersdam wanted, she’d see that the Harpers and Amlaruil bought the alchemist his own fleet of fishing vessels! Provided, of course, that any of them survived the mission ahead.

  * * * * *

  By early morning they were in Zazesspur. Jill and Kendel took off to the parts of the city where non-humans would be less conspicuous. The two elf women made their way to Hasheth’s home. Before they’d reached the outskirts of the city, Ferret had paused to don the disguise she used to walk among the humans. For some reason, in her face paint and jewelry and silken clothes Ferret looked even more feral and deadly than the elven hunter and warrior that she truly was.

  “Who is this friend of yours?” the wild elf asked in a low voice as they strolled along the broad streets, to all appearances, two elegantly clad women out for a morning promenade.

  “Hasheth. A son of Pasha Balik.”

  “Ah. The Harpers have many threads in their webs,” Ferret said approvingly. “But I have seen this human; he is very young, is he not? Not quite a man.”

  “He is not quite a friend, either,” said Arilyn with a rueful smile. “But he hears many things and passes most of them along. And
he is becoming skilled in the sort of intrigues such as we might need.”

  She opened the gate to a small marble town house and led the way through the small garden that fronted it. They were met at the door by one liveried manservant and ushered into a sitting room by another, who advised them that the young master had recently arisen and would be with them shortly. Apparently, Arilyn noted, Hasheth’s fortunes were on the rise.

  After a few moments the young prince joined them. He greeted Arilyn with a bow and slid an appraising gaze over the silk-clad Ferret.

  “Your business in the east is completed? This visit is, I hope, a celebration of your success?”

  “Not quite yet. We need some information. But first, how goes your apprenticeship?”

  “Very well, actually,” Hasheth said in a smug tone. “Hhune is an ambitious man who carries out some rather audacious plans.”

  “Just remember that one of those plans was the attempt to oust your father,” Arilyn said, hoping to temper the young man’s admiration of the lord. From what she had seen of Hhune, he was not particularly worthy of such adulation.

  “I will remember and be on my guard,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “But tell me what you need to know, and I will begin the search.”

  “I need anything you can get on a man who goes by the name of Bunlap. He has a fortress on the northern branch of the Sulduskoon.”

  “The name is already known to me,” Hasheth said with satisfaction, delighted to be a step ahead of the Harper. “He is a mercenary captain from the northern lands. There is much demand for his services. His men are well trained and as loyal to their captain as is reasonable. My Lord Hhune occasionally employs his men as personal or caravan guards.”

  “What is Bunlap doing in the Forest of Tethir?”

  “That, I cannot tell you. He is not supposed to be in the forest proper. His men are supposed to guard the logging camp from attacks.”

  Ferret leaped to her feet as if she’d been shot from a balista. “A logging camp? Where is this place?”

  “In truth, I do not know. The records say the logs are shipped from southern lands.”

  The elf woman shook with repressed fury—and something deeper than rage. “I would see something that was built of these logs. Now!”

  Hasheth scowled, unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a tone. But Arilyn nodded, and the young man walked from the room. He returned with a polished circle of wood, some three feet across, that was in the process of being made into a small gaming table. This he placed on the floor; then he shot an inquiring glare at Ferret.

  The female paid him no heed. She let out a small, strangled cry and fell to her knees beside the wooden circle. Her fingers traced the narrow rings, lingering at the pattern of tiny eyes that peppered the intricate grain. Finally she lifted grimly furious eyes to Arilyn.

  “This tree was ancient when the hills of Tethyr were populated only by wolves and wild sheep! There are few trees of this age in the southern lands. This has to have been taken from the elven forest!”

  A heavy silence fell over the room. “I’m no expert in local ordinance, but I know that’s hideously illegal,” Arilyn said. “Why would Hhune take such chances?”

  “It may be that he does not know the origin of the lumber,” Hasheth suggested quickly.

  “I doubt that. Well, Ferret, it’s not hard to guess what your next target will be,” Arilyn said grimly.

  “Hhune,” agreed the elven assassin.

  “But first we need your planning expertise,” Arilyn said, turning to the tense young man. She described the mission and what they needed of him. Hasheth agreed to all, but there was a distracted, mechanical quality to his responses that Arilyn heard and mistrusted.

  When their planning was complete, the young man walked the women to the front gate. On impulse, Arilyn turned to Hasheth and said softly, “Listen, I don’t particularly like Hhune, but as long as he keeps away from the forest and the elves I’m content to let him live. Do this: find out why Hhune is taking such a risk and who might be at the head of it. If there’s a way to stop this without killing your new employer, we’ll do it.”

  “I will do what I can,” Hasheth agreed at once.

  He stood at the gate for a long time after the half-elf and the exotic courtesan had left, pondering how best to handle this new wrinkle. Of course, he could arrange matters so that Arilyn and her associate never found their way out of Assante’s stronghold. That would be simple. A few words from him, describing the plans of a Harper within their midst, would surely buy him his coveted membership into the Knights of the Shield.

  But there was no knowing what Arilyn had told her superiors, or whether the Harpers would send agents to replace her. Hasheth did not want any meddling northerners digging into Hhune’s affairs or taking his place as Harper informant. No, Arilyn must be protected.

  But he could not allow her to harm Lord Hhune. The merchant was too pivotal a part of the plans Hasheth had made for his own future. Certain sacrifices must be made, and the plans made a bit more complex, but surely, Hasheth concluded comfortably, such was not beyond a man of his abilities.

  * * * * *

  The lythari slipped from his den through an eastern door in the Forest of Tethir, one he had not used for many years.

  This door took him to the easternmost reaches of the Suldusk hunting grounds, near the edge of the forest’s boundaries. Ganamede seldom came here, for the wild elves who lived among these ancient trees had little use for anyone outside their tribe. There were few wild elves as hostile and reclusive as the Suldusk.

  Even so, Ganamede had promised to look out after the interests of all the green elves. In his wolflike form, he padded silently southward to the Suldusk settlement.

  The terrain here was more uneven and wild than in the western parts of the forest. The trees grew upon tall hills filled with caves and punctuated by rocky cliffs and ravines. To Ganamede’s eyes, it was more like the forests of the far Northlands than those of most of Tethyr. Indeed, here the first refugees from Cormanthor had settled so many years ago. The trees they’d brought from the elven forest still watched over the land.

  The Suldusk, however, had lived beneath the trees of Tethir for time out of memory. Their tribe had been there to greet the refugees from Cormanthor—the elves who, in time, had become the Elmanesse tribe—and they had received the gift of seedling trees from the northern forest. But relationships did not remain cordial between the tribes. There had been centuries of raiding, followed by an uneasy truce. For many years there had been no contact between the tribes at all. Even the lythari clans did not hunt Suldusk lands.

  Ganamede’s sharp ears caught a distant sound—faint, but alien to the forest and therefore keenly audible. The lythari climbed a large hill that led toward the settlement. From there he would have a view of the valley below. Although it was heavily forested, he might catch a glimpse of the source of the disturbance.

  Running lightly, the elf in wolf form crested the hill and came to a stop at the edge of a cliff. He stood, stunned, gazing out over the valley. What had once been a wondrous elven forest was ravaged and stripped of life and magic. Massive tree stumps dotted the land. The thick foliage had been burned away so that the dead trees could be more easily dragged to the river for transport.

  Ganamede shook his silver head in denial. How could this be? The fierce Suldusk elves would never allow their home to be ravaged. Not while they lived, at least.

  The lythari spun and ran for the elven settlement, which was hidden in a valley not far from the devastated forest. He stopped long before he reached it, halted by the scent of sorrow and death and despair. He crested the hill that overlooked the Suldusk valley, finding what scant cover remained. Cautiously he crept closer, for he had to know what had become of the Suldusk folk.

  For a long time Ganamede stood gazing upon the ravaged Suldusk land. Then his silver form shimmered and disappeared, and he stood on the charred circle on two legs, a solemn, silver-ha
ired elf. This he did without thought, driven by a deep and compelling need.

  In his wolf form, Ganamede could not weep.

  Nineteen

  Bound together at the wrist with Arilyn’s amulet of water breathing, the two elven females entered the well that was Abrum Assante’s escape tunnel. While the giant shrimp went into a feeding frenzy over the ham hock Arilyn had thrown them, she and Ferret swam quickly upward. They bobbed to the surface of the water, cautiously scanned the pink-marbled tunnels for guards, and then climbed out.

  As soon as Arilyn unfastened the amulet from around their wrists, Ferret toweled the water from her hair and then bound it up in a turban. She shook out a number of veils from her pack and draped them over her nearly naked form. Her role was to place Tinkersdam’s candles in the upper palace. Dressed as a Calishite courtesan, she could do so without attracting much attention. A new face among Assante’s women would be nothing unusual; his harem was extensive, and the women apparently came and went quickly enough. After all, the guardian shrimp must be fed!

  And while Ferret set Tinkersdam’s destructive candles in place, Arilyn would go about the task of stealing the slumbering Zoastria from Assante’s treasure rooms.

  When Ferret was safely away, following the palace map Jill had drawn for her, the Harper drew her sword and strode toward the door to the first treasure room. As before, three guards barred the way. Arilyn didn’t slow her pace, but came on with deadly intent.

  Two of the guards rushed her. Arilyn ducked under the first swing of the scimitar, and came up, twisting into a lunge at the second man. He parried her attack and shoved hard enough with his sword to send the much smaller female reeling back. Instinctively, Arilyn raised her blade overhead to meet his next slashing blow. She did not stop it so much as catch the blade with her own and press its attack slightly to one side.

  The wicked scimitar continued its descent, cutting deep into the first man’s shoulder. His scimitar clattered to the floor, his sword arm ruined, and his life’s blood flooding the pink marble of the floor.