Elfshadow

Twelve

In early afternoon Virgin’s Square was teeming with activity and bright with autumn sunlight and colorful merchandise. Local legend claimed that an altar had once stood on the site, upon which virgins were sacrificed to dragon gods centuries before Waterdeep was a city. On such a day that dark past seemed distant indeed.

The time for the highsun meal had passed, and delicious scents lingered in the warm autumn air. A large crowd browsed among the stalls of an open air market that offered goods ranging from fresh produce to exotic weapons. On the other side of the square services were sold, and perhaps two hundred persons, representing many races and nationalities, milled up and down the steps of a tiered piazza.

Those who wished to find work flocked to the square. Newcomers to the city, travelers relieved of their purses by pickpockets and in need of passage home, adventurers, servants, mages, sells words—all gathered to hire themselves out. Services of many kinds could be purchased in Virgin’s Square. There was little overt pandering, but those who made inquiries were assured that discreet introductions were always possible.

Potential employers were there in large number, as well. Caravan-masters stopped in Virgin’s Square to acquire the guards and scouts needed for long trips. Since slavery was illegal in Waterdeep, visiting merchants and dignitaries from the southern and far-eastern lands often went there to find hired servants to replace their slaves. Even adventurers wishing to form parties sought each other out in the square.

At the center of this activity sat Blazidon One-Eye. He was, perhaps, the best known among his profession, and he ran a brisk trade matching those who would hire with those who wished to work. The grizzled former adventurer was an unlikely businessman. His clothes were dusty and unkempt, and his body seemed to be made of little more than bone and stringy muscle. The graying beard had probably once been bright red; at present it appeared ale-soaked and in dire need of a trim. A dusty eye patch covered his left eye, and a leather vest lay open over his bare chest.

Blazidon was attended by a clerk and a bodyguard, both of whom were as unlikely as their master. The former was a tallfellow, a rare type of halfling that grew to be somewhat taller and slimmer than most of their kind. A little over four feet in height, the tallfellow maintained thick crops of very blond hair on his head, chin, and bare feet, a color echoed by the lemon shade of his tunic and leggings. His frivolous appearance was greatly at odds with his serious demeanor, for he scribbled laboriously in the book that kept Blazidon’s accounts and records, and he counted each fee with the type of intensity that halflings usually reserve for their own treasure. The bodyguard was a tiny but ferocious dwarf whose knotted muscles and keen-edged axe more than made up for his lack of stature.

Arilyn nudged Danilo’s attention away from a display of pastries and pointed at the strange trio. “That’s Blazidon. If anyone would know our man, it’s him.”

Danilo nodded. “My family often outfits our caravans through him. Why don’t you let me do the talking?”

Arilyn looked doubtful, then she saw the merit in the dandy’s suggestion. Dressed as she was, a human lad of common class and limited means, she seemed an unlikely person to be making the type of inquiries that must be made. The well-dressed Danilo could ask questions without raising suspicions. She nodded and fell in behind Danilo, taking the role of servant to a wealthy merchant.

Blazidon looked up at their approach. “What’ll it be?”

“We were rather hoping you could help us find an employer,” Danilo began.

The man’s one good eye swept over the nobleman and his “servant,” and his lips pursed. “Got work for the boy, no problem, if he knows how to use that weapon he carries. Gem merchant needs a couple of hireswords. As for you,” Blazidon said, eyeing Danilo speculatively, “I hear there’s a lady from Thay what wants a local escort for the festival. Mind you, I usually don’t do this sort of hiring, but I can tell you where to find the lady.”

Arilyn smirked, but Danilo fell back a step, aghast. “Sir, you misunderstand. I don’t seek employment for myself. Rather, we need to ascertain the identity of—”

Arilyn pushed past Danilo and held out a charcoal sketch she’d made of the man who had had Perendra’s snuffbox. She was no artist, but depicting a one-eared man with a twisted nose and a lightning-bolt scar was not difficult.

“Do you know this man?” she asked, her voice low.

Blazidon squinted at the picture. “That’s got to be Barth. Haven’t seen him around for some time.” The man’s eyes shifted from the picture to Danilo and then Arilyn. “Who am I doing business with, lad? You or your master?”

“Me,” Arilyn said firmly.

The man nodded. “Good.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?” Arilyn asked.

“No, can’t say as I know much to tell. Hamit, his partner, is a whole ’nother story. We go way back.”

“Where can I find this Hamit?”

“In the City,” the man said bluntly, using the Waterdhavian slang for the City of the Dead, the large cemetery on the northwestern side of Waterdeep. “He must have crossed someone. They found him with a dagger in his back.” The man shrugged. “It happens.”

“Do you have any idea who might have hired Barth and Hamit recently?”

“That’s precisely what I was trying to say,” Danilo explained plaintively. No one paid him any notice.

“I might,” Blazidon said, glancing at the dwarf.

The dwarf stuck out his square hand, palm up. “Fee,” he rumbled. Danilo obligingly dropped a gold coin into the upturned paw. The dwarf examined it, bit it, and gave a curt nod to the tallfellow. Blazidon’s clerk turned several pages.

“That pair worked for anyone who had money,” the tallfellow said, his voice that of a human boychild. “Bodyguard, strongarms, second-story, even an assassination or two, although no one of pith and moment. Barth liked to work on his own, as well. His specialty was sleight-of-hand theft. He worked with one fence in particular.”

“The name’ll cost you extra,” added the dwarf. Danilo dumped a handful of coppers into the dwarf’s hand. The bodyguard regarded Danilo so balefully that the nobleman hastily added a gold coin to the pile.

“Jannaxil Serpentil,” said the tallfellow. “A merchant and scholar of Turmish descent who runs a folio shop on Book Street. Rather stuck on himself, but if you’ve got good merchandise, that’s the place to go.”

“Need anything else?” Blazidon asked.

“I don’t think so,” Arilyn said. She tucked the sketch of Barth into her sleeve. Unable to resist, she cocked an eyebrow at Danilo and added, “Unless you want to reconsider the offer from the Thayvian woman?”

By now Danilo had regained his equilibrium. “She couldn’t afford me,” he said grandly.

Clad in a sober dress of deep burgundy silk, Loene laced her fingers in her lap and looked across the parlor at her old friend, the mage Nain Keenwhistler. Times had changed. Once they both had shared adventures as members of the Company of Crazed Venturers. Now they primly discussed trade and politics. “Your plan sounds good, Nain. I’m in.”

The man smiled with satisfaction. “You won’t regret your investment, Loene. Not only is there a growing market for Chultan teak and mahogany, but our venture will help establish Waterdeep’s ties to the island of Lantan. Piracy along the coasts is worsening, and Lantan offers us a port in exchange for some additional protection for their fishing waters.”

“You’ve become quite the politician, Nain,” Loene said, deftly cutting him off with a compliment. Tales she enjoyed, but Nain’s recital of political matters held little interest. “You’ve been here since before highsun. Have you eaten? No? Nor I. We can talk over lunch.”

“I’d be glad to stay.”

“Good.” Loene rose from her chair and reached for an embroidered bell pull. “I’ll let Graves know.”

The servant did not answer the summons. Loene rang the bell a second time, and her face clouded. “Graves is usually so prompt. I think I’ll see what might be keeping him.”

She made her way to the kitchen, pausing at the doorway, almost like an intruder. After all, she had rarely been near the room since the day she’d bought the tiny castle. Her gaze swept through the meticulously kept room. Not a thing was out of place, except the sole occupant.

Graves slumped over a pine worktable, next to a bowl of apples that awaited peeling and a pastry crust that had long since become dry and transparent. His mace was still hooked on his belt, and a paring knife lay within reach, next to a halved apple.

Fear rose in Loene, and she walked like one asleep across the spotless floor. Reaching for his left hand, she turned it over. On the cold palm of her oldest and most trusted friend blazed a harp and crescent moon.

Loene dropped to her knees beside the kitchen table and gathered the man’s thin body in her arms. “Damn you, Elliot,” she said softly. “You should have thrown that Harper pin down the sewers years ago.”

“Hello, Jannaxil.”

The merchant jumped, and the priceless volume he’d been perusing dropped from his hands. Elaith “the Serpent” Craulnobur had entered the room and was seated comfortably in a chair, his legs stretched out before him and his pale hands toying with a small dagger.

“By all means, pick it up,” Elaith said, amused.

Jannaxil Serpentil, the owner of Serpentil Books and Folios, did as he was told. In a state a shock, he retrieved the book and put it down on the edge of the table. Until now, the merchant-fence had always felt relatively safe despite his risky business and his location in the rough and tumble Dock Ward. The elf had somehow gotten past the defenses of might and magic that every good fence had in place. Here, in his inner sanctum, Jannaxil had no such protection.

Hoping to get the upper hand on the situation, Jannaxil walked behind the oak table that dominated his private office and lowered his girth into a wide leather chair, doing his best to appear master of his own small world. “How did you get in here?” he asked bluntly.

“Really, my dear man. In your business and mine, there are questions that one simply doesn’t ask,” the elf replied, crossing his ankles in a leisurely fashion. “I understand that some papers have come into your possession, some correspondence to the Zhentarim leadership at Zhentil Keep regarding a series of assassinations?”

“That is so,” the fence said cautiously.

“I should like to see them.”

“By all means.” Jannaxil hefted himself out of the chair and retrieved a sheaf of papers from one of the shelves that lined the walls of the office. He handed the papers to the elf, who took his time looking them over.

“The asking price is ten silver,” the fence said into the silence. He should have asked twice that amount. Bartering was second nature to the man, but today his enthusiasm was tempered by the reputation of his client. He began to wish that he had not spoken of these papers to Elaith Craulnobur’s messenger earlier in the morning. To be sure, the elf had spread word that he would pay well for certain types of information, but a good fence should realize that some risks were simply not worth taking. When an assassin started looking into the business of other assassins, it was never prudent to be caught in the middle.

Elaith laid the papers down on the table. Interesting, he mused. There was a connection here, an important one that nonetheless eluded him. As he was wont to do when thinking, the elf toyed with a small ornamental dagger, twirling it idly between dexterous fingers. He did not miss the effect this action had upon the fence.

Jannaxil’s eyes followed the jeweled dagger’s path, watching each flash and twist with an expression of horrified fascination. Yet the fence’s hands rested calmly on the table, pudgy fingers spread wide as if ready to reach for profit, despite the risk.

Greed. Elaith liked that in a human. Jannaxil, one of Waterdeep’s best fences, had that quality in abundance. Squat and shrewd, the fat little man could deal with the worst the Dock Ward had to offer, yet he could discuss rare tomes with the most learned sages of several kingdoms. Elaith considered the man a valued contact and did business with him frequently. The elf intended to pay the asking price, but he saw no reason why he should not first amuse himself a bit.

“Very valuable,” Jannaxil repeated, this time with less conviction.

“To whom?” the elf asked. “The Assassin’s Guild?”

Jannaxil blanched and pointed to the papers on the table. “That is a communication to Zhentil Keep. Those don’t come from Waterdeep every day,” he sputtered.

“A curiosity,” Elaith allowed. The dagger’s circling slowed.

“A bargain. They’re worth much more than ten silver,” Jannaxil insisted, scenting a potential sale.

The dagger resumed its dance. “I don’t see why.”

“Well, there’s probably a reward for the papers.”

“Who would offer such a reward?”

“The Lords of Waterdeep might like to know that someone from the city is billing the Black Network for the services of a ‘Zhentarim enforcer,’ ” suggested the fence. He invoked the powerful but mysterious council who ruled the city, hoping to strengthen and legitimize his selling price. After all, there wasn’t a broad market for stolen papers of this sort.

“The Lords of Waterdeep?” Elaith broke into genuine laughter. “Will you tell them about this or shall I?”

The human colored a dull red. Unnerved and embarrassed, he muttered, “All right, then, take the papers. You’ve got more use for the Zhentarim than I do.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Jannaxil realized his error. Too late. Without faltering or missing a spin, the circling dagger flashed toward him. A scream echoed through the empty shop.

Elaith was known for his utter disdain of the evil rulers of Zhentil Keep and the members of the dark network that used the black-walled city for one of its prime bases. To the elf this was less a matter of conscience than of style: the Zhentish and the Zhentarim had neither. Despite the insult and the hurled dagger, Elaith’s smile never wavered.

“I will take those papers. Thank you for your generous offer.” With leisurely movements, the elf moved the sheaf safely away from the bloodstain that was beginning to spread across the table. He tucked the papers inside his cloak and rose to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached for the hilt of his weapon.

The dagger stood upright, deeply embedded in the wood, and it pinned Jannaxil’s left hand firmly to the table.

Elaith curled his fingers around the grip and leaned toward the fence’s terrified eyes. Sweat poured down Jannaxil’s face as he stared up at Elaith, every bit as mesmerized as if the elf were truly the serpent for whom he was named.

The moon elf slid a gold coin beneath the fingers of the maimed hand. “You may need this for a cleric,” he observed.

Chuckling at his own cruel joke, the elf wrenched the weapon free and turned to go. A second, anguished scream followed him out into the alley behind the Books and Folios.

Book Street was busy at midday, and Jannaxil’s screams had drawn a crowd to the front door of the book shop. Elaith could hear the Waterdhavians, muttering and exclaiming over what might have happened and what they ought to do about it. The alley was also occupied, as were many alleys in the Dock Ward, by an assortment of scoundrels plying their dark trades. Even the blackest rogues fell back into the shadows at the elf’s approach.

“There’s a healthy demand for rare books today,” Danilo noted, pointing toward the small knot of people gathered under the modest sign for Serpentil’s Books & Folios.

“Most of them are leaving,” Arilyn said, noting the wary expressions on the faces of the onlookers and the rapidly diminishing size of the crowd. “Whatever happened in there seems to be over.”

The shop itself was an unassuming building fashioned of sandstone blocks. The only extravagance was a richly carved door of some exotic dark wood. As Arilyn drew closer, she saw that the door had in it a second, smaller door, which closed over a window cut near eye level. This small door stood ajar to reveal shelves and cases displaying the merchant’s wares, but the door itself was securely bolted. Arilyn rapped loudly on the jamb.

“We’re closed,” came a voice from the back. “Come back another day.”

“My business can’t wait.”

“Well, it’ll have to!”

Arilyn balled her hand into a fist and knocked again, louder this time. The last two people who lingered near the shop exchanged uncertain glances and drifted off.

“Go away!”

“As soon as my business is concluded, I’ll be happy to.”

Muttering, a short pudgy man came out of a back room and lumbered to the door. Despite his rather undignified size, the man strove for a suave appearance. His clothes were carefully tailored dark garments, over which he wore an open scholar’s robe of sober black to emphasize that he was both a successful merchant and a learned man. His black hair had been oiled and smoothed into place, and his round face was wreathed in fat. At the moment he appeared pale and drawn, and one hand had been clumsily wrapped in layers of gauze. His eyes swept disdainfully over Arilyn’s peasant boy disguise. “What business of yours could be so important?”

“I’m looking for Jannaxil.”

“What do you want with me?”

Arilyn held up the charcoal sketch she’d made of the thief Barth. “Do you know this man?”

The merchant’s small eyes narrowed into slits. “He does not look like the sort who purchases books. Neither do you, for that matter. Go away, and don’t waste my time.”

“Now see here, my good man,” Danilo said, his hand toying casually with his pendant so that the Thann family crest was prominently displayed. “We have excellent reasons for seeking this man, and I suggest you cooperate with us.”

The nobleman’s tone was haughty in the extreme, his stance the overbearing mien of one who was accustomed to obedience. Jannaxil responded with the instincts of a born sycophant. He shot back the bolt locking the door to the shop and ushered them in with murmured apologies and repeated bows that were as low as his pudgy physique permitted.

The fence led Danilo and Arilyn to a back office. The room was lined with shelves of rare books, many inlaid with precious stones and metals. Arilyn refused any refreshments and took the seat offered her in front of the merchant’s oaken table. Danilo refused both, preferring to lounge against a shelf laden with books.

“I’ll just browse, if you don’t mind,” he said to Jannaxil.

“Of course.” The fence took a chair behind the table. Arilyn caught sight of a small, jagged hole, made obvious by the polished wood. The fence casually moved an ink stand over the spot and dropped his bandaged hand onto his lap.

“What can I do for the Thann family?” he asked grandly. The unspoken addition “this time” echoed clearly in his tone.

Arilyn drew a gold snuffbox from the folds of her cloak and held it up. “Ever see this before?”

The man shrugged. “It is possible. Gold snuffboxes of that type are common enough.”

“Very few bear this mark.” Arilyn placed the box on the table before him and tapped the flowing rune engraved onto the top. “Do you know this mark?”

“My field of expertise is books and rare papers,” the man said importantly. “I cannot be expected to know the sigil of every mage in Faerûn.”

Arilyn leaned forward. “I can tell you’re a learned man,” she said in a pleasant voice. Jannaxil inclined his head in modest agreement. “Otherwise, you could not know that this was a mage’s sigil.” Her shot found its mark, and a nerve twitched under the man’s left eye.

“What else could such a mark be?”

“What else indeed?” Arilyn laid the sketch down beside the box. “You’re quite certain you’ve never seen this man?”

Jannaxil picked up the sketch and studied it. “Hmm. Come to think of it, I believe he did purchase a book some months ago. Paid for it in barter.”

“This box?” she asked.

The man smiled suavely and spread the fingers of his one good hand, as if to say, “all right, you’ve caught me.”

“These books must be quite expensive,” Danilo said, looking up from an illuminated volume. “I doubt you got the best of that deal.”

“It is a most unusual box,” Jannaxil said defensively. He reached for it and raised his eyebrow to ask permission. Arilyn gave a curt nod. The fence opened the box, took a liberal pinch of snuff, savored it. “Ahh. The best I’ve encountered anywhere.” He removed a large piece of parchment from a drawer and placed it on the table, then he dumped the rest of the snuff onto it, shaking the box to empty it completely. Then he closed the lid and handed the box to Arilyn. “Have some.”

Curious, the half-elf opened the box. It was full to the brim. She set it down.

“You see?” The fence shot a triumphant glance at Danilo. “It is quite a valuable item. The enchantment is very strong.”

“It ought to be,” Arilyn said. “The box belonged to the mage Perendra.” Jannaxil responded to this announcement with deftly feigned surprise. “I don’t suppose you received anything else of hers—in barter?”

“It’s not likely.” The man paused, considered. “Of course, since I didn’t know this was stolen, it’s possible that something else of the mage’s came into my hands. I do not know. I deal in books, mind you. And, as young Lord Thann pointed out, many of my books are extremely valuable. On occasion, I do exchange a book for barter, since scholars are notoriously short of cash. I get whatever I can for the goods I receive.”

“Funny, I wouldn’t have taken our man Barth for a scholar,” Danilo said mildly.

“The thirst for knowledge can reside in the humblest of men,” the fence said piously. “I have learned to overlook appearances.”

“That is wise, I’m sure,” Danilo said. He picked up a small, leatherbound tome and glanced at the pages. “What language is this?”

“Turmish.” Jannaxil looked sharply at the nobleman. “That book is not for sale.” Nodding agreeably, Danilo put the book down and picked up another.

“How did this man happen to acquire the snuffbox?” Arilyn broke in.

“Who can say?”

“Our man said he got it from an elf,” Danilo said helpfully. “Strangest thing, really. He tried to tell us the elf’s name, and he died.” Danilo shrugged and picked up a book with a cover made of fine inlaid wood.

“An elf?” asked the fence in a dry whisper.

“Yes, that’s what he said. Barth also had a partner,” Danilo mentioned, looking up from the book. “A man by the name of Hamit. Poor man got a dagger in the back.” Jannaxil’s eyes widened in pure panic, and the nobleman appeared stricken with remorse. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was he a friend of yours?”

“No,” the fence said hastily. A light went on in the man’s eyes, and as he glanced down at the hand in his lap his face took on a crafty appearance. “Perendra the mage was slain by the Harper Assassin, was she not?”

“It’s possible,” Arilyn said.

“What will happen to this assassin, should you find him?”

Arilyn looked steadily at the fence, letting him read her intentions. He looked intrigued, then his round face clouded and his eyes fell to the desk. After a moment he said in a flat tone, “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Murmuring her thanks, Arilyn rose to leave. Danilo laid down the book he’d been perusing, stretched lazily, and followed her out of the shop.

“We certainly didn’t get much from him,” the half-elf grumbled as they walked down Book Street.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Something in the dandy’s smug tone stopped Arilyn in midstride. “What did we get?”

“This.” Danilo held up a book bound in plain brown leather.

“What’s that?”

“Jannaxil’s account book.”