Elfshadow

Two

“Oh, this is rich! This is one for my memoirs, that’s sure and certain. The Harpers’ pet assassin, coming to me for advice!” The old man cackled with delight, clinging to the edge of his writing table as he rocked back and forth in his chair, caught up in a delirium of wheezing mirth.

His enjoyment of the situation did not at all endear him to his visitor. Hands clenched at her side, Arilyn Moonblade gritted her teeth and waited for the retired Zhentarim agent to have done with his amusement. In her opinion, any encounter with the Zhentarim should be handled with a sword, not with diplomacy and bargaining. The Dark Network was devoted to the gods of evil as well as to the individual and collective greed of its members, and this man was a particularly unsavory specimen. The moonblade at Arilyn’s side fairly hummed with silent indignation, echoing her opinion precisely. Besides, the man’s taunt had struck her a little too close to home.

The half-elven adventurer had little choice but to endure the cackling fool, since he possessed information that she was unlikely to get elsewhere. She waited calmly, eyeing the old man with a well-concealed revulsion. His wrinkled skin had an unhealthy grayish hue, and his gaunt limbs and bloated belly made him look very like an oversized spider. He was spiderlike in character, as well, and every time Arilyn looked at him, she was surprised anew to see that he did not possess the standard-issue eight legs of his kind. His lair was an appropriate setting, a low-beamed dark room over a tavern, festooned by dust webs and enlivened only by the dim light of a lantern and the rising odor of dinner cooking—liver and onions would be Arilyn’s guess. Where the man spent his ill-gotten wealth was immediately apparent; he had literary pretensions and was engaged in writing a massive tome. Piles of expensive parchment littered his writing table, which shook under the assault of his laughter.

Finally the old man wound down to a chuckle and wiped his streaming eyes. Still beaming, he motioned to the chair next to his writing table. “Sit down, sit down. Make yourself comfortable, and let’s talk shop.”

Arilyn resented his cozy inference. The man had also been an assassin in his day, but she had nothing in common with this vile human. She perched on the edge of the offered chair and said in a formal tone, “You’ve received our communications, and I trust you understand the situation.”

“More or less.” The man raised one shaggy eyebrow. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a bunch of religious trinkets.”

“Priceless artifacts, sacred to the goddess Sune,” she corrected.

“Suddenly the Harpers are overcome with devotion to the goddess of beauty, eh? When did this come about?”

“The artifacts were stolen from an envoy of Sune’s church, and the clerics with him were murdered.”

“So? These things happen.” The man shrugged.

His attitude raised Arilyn’s ready temper to dangerously near its boiling point. She had been in the search party that had discovered the twisted bodies, and the memory banished her halfhearted commitment to diplomacy. “Of course, the loss of innocent lives is a trivial matter,” she said with venomous irony, “but the Church of Sune would very much like to get the artifacts back.”

“Innocent lives or not, this isn’t the type of pie Harpers generally poke their fingers into,” the Zhentishman pointed out with sarcasm of his own. “Recovering stolen property? Come on, now. It’s not lofty enough by half.”

That much was true, Arilyn agreed silently. The Harpers sponsored noble causes seemingly at random, chosen through some mysterious process to which Arilyn was not privy. This time, however, she knew exactly what the Harpers’ purpose was. The previous year, the kingdoms of the Heartlands had united in a crusade to stop a barbarian invasion. This crusade, although successful, had left the Heartlands politically unsettled and had, ironically, strengthened the position of the Zhentarim stationed at Darkhold, their mountain fortress. To these issues the Harpers now addressed themselves.

“As you no doubt know, the Zhentarim has a one-year treaty with the local government. The year’s almost up, but for a time Darkhold’s raiding parties can strike without fear of harassment or reprisal. Fortunately,” Arilyn said wryly, “the Harpers don’t answer to the local government. The Church of Sune has no recourse through the usual channels, so like many other victims of the raids, they turned to the Harpers for help.”

The old Zhentishman grinned and leaned back in his chair. He tapped out a jaunty rhythm on his table with knotted, ink-stained fingers. “Of course. So the Harpers are sending a highly skilled assassin to infiltrate Darkhold, politely ask for Sune’s property back, stay to share afternoon tea with the locals, and sneak back out. That sound about right?”

“I generally don’t drink tea,” Arilyn said with a touch of grim humor, “but you’ve got the basic idea.”

“Aha. Now that the formalities are out of the way, why don’t you tell me what you’re really planning.”

“To retrieve the stolen artifacts.”

Another rheumy chuckle grated from the old man. “Stubborn wench, aren’t you? All right, we’ll play it your way. What unlucky bastard has these artifacts?”

Arilyn hesitated for a long moment before answering. There were rumors of bad blood between this man and the person she sought, and she’d been advised that this informant would relish an opportunity to even the score. Selling out a former comrade was inconceivable to her, yet she knew that it was a fairly routine practice among the Zhentarim. Indeed, the man before her looked as though he would gladly sell his own mother to an Ulgarthian harem.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Cherbill Nimmt,” she said grudgingly.

The Zhentishman let out a slow whistle. “Now I’m beginning to see what’s what. We used to run together some, Nimmt and me, when he was just starting out. If ever a man needed killing, it’s him. Nasty piece of work. And coming from me, that’s saying something,” he noted with a perverse pride. The old assassin reflected for a moment on the pleasant prospect of his former friend’s death before he concluded with a touch of regret, “Still and all, I don’t suppose killing Nimmt’s worth dying over.”

“I don’t intend to do either. I have been instructed to barter with him for the stolen items, no more.”

The sarcastic look that the man threw Arilyn clearly stated that he didn’t consider her denial worthy of comment. “Clerics of Sune are chosen for their beauty, aren’t they? I imagine Nimmt and his men had a good time before they wiped out the envoy.” A nostalgic look oozed onto the man’s face. “Nimmt could be good company on a raid. I remember the time we—”

Arilyn raised her hand, cutting the man off before he could journey too deeply into the swamp of his memories. “You were about to sell me some information about the fortress.”

“For the right price, I’ll sell anything.”

Arilyn took the cue. She produced a bag of gold from the folds of her cloak and tossed it to him. The informant caught the bag with amazing dexterity and hefted it in a practiced hand. “This is about half the agreed-upon price,” he noted.

“It’s exactly half,” she told him. “You’ll get the rest upon my safe return.”

“Safe,” he repeated with scathing emphasis. “Sneaking into Darkhold and facing down a man like Nimmt is no way to insure your old age. No, I want the rest of the gold upon the conclusion of your mission, whether you’re dead or alive.”

“If I agree, what will stop you from contacting your old friends at Darkhold?” Arilyn shook her head. “No, the original deal stands. I risk my life on your information, and you risk half your fee on my chance of success.”

The old Zhentish assassin considered this, then shrugged. “All right. There’s not much call for this information, so I might as well take what I can get for it. Let’s get down to work.” He fumbled through a stack of papers on his desk and drew out several hand-drawn maps.

Maps! Arilyn leaned closer for a better look, taking care to keep her face impassive. Any sign of excitement would surely raise the man’s price. She had not expected to find maps of the fortress. Her secret elation mounted as the man talked. She could see why he commanded such enormous fees. Carefully and in great detail he discussed the layout of the fortress, outlined its defenses, discussed the habits and the timetables of the various factions and leaders. As he talked, Arilyn began to formulate a plan. After an hour with the old man, all that remained to her was figuring a way into the keep’s parameters.

As if he read her mind, the informant stopped talking and looked up at her. “Here’s your first big problem,” he said, tracing a broad oval around the edge of the map with one gnarled finger. “This line here represents the cliffs that surround the Vale of Darkhold. Solid granite, anywhere from sixty to one hundred feet high, and sheer as a city wall. Not an easy climb. To make it worse, slaves keep the cliffs completely clear of bushes, grass, you name it. There’s no cover at all.

“Now this,” he continued, pointing to a straight line at the western end of the cliffs, “is the perimeter wall, and this mark here is the gate. It’s the only safe way into the valley, but don’t even bother thinking about it. It’s too well-guarded. No one comes over or through that wall unless Sememmon, Master of Darkhold, wants them to. Got that?” He looked at her expectantly.

Arilyn nodded. “Go on.”

“The fortress itself sits in the middle of this valley. Nothing much on the valley floor except a few acres of trees over here. There’s a stream, but it’s full of rocks and none too deep. Can’t swim up without getting shredded or spotted. It’s not going to be easy to sneak up to the castle.” He paused to let his words sink in, then added slyly, “As it turns out, though, I have just the thing. For the right price, of course.”

Without waiting for her reply, he hauled himself out of his chair and hunched over a brass-banded chest. He flipped open the lid and, after a few moments of rummaging, he pulled out a glittering black cape. Arilyn caught her breath. It was a piwafwi, a magic cape of invisibility created by the evil drow elves. How did this man get hold of such a rare and ferociously guarded treasure?

“Nice, isn’t it?” he said, turning the cape this way and that to catch and reflect the dim lamplight. “Wear this, and you’ll have clear sailing right up to the fortress.”

“Isn’t Darkhold protected by spells that alert the guards to such magic?” she hedged, eyeing the dark cape with a mixture of fascination and repugnance.

The old assassin resumed his seat, draping the cape over his lap. “They have some wards, but nothing that’ll spot this. Lord Sememmon doesn’t expect any trouble from the drow. This beauty here will get you into the fortress.” He smiled evilly. “It got the original owner in, right enough. A drow female. The cape’s magic doesn’t seem to work inside Darkhold, though. I caught her sneaking around in the arsenal. Whether she was a spy or a thief I didn’t bother to ask, but I kept her around for a bit. Hard to kill, those drow. I like an elf, now and then, and this one had real spice to her.”

He paused, reflected, then reached across the table for his lantern and turned up the flame to get a better look at his visitor. Twenty five years of adventuring lay lightly upon the half-elven woman, and her lack of battle scars gave testament to her uncanny skill with a sword. Arilyn Moonblade possessed the fresh beauty of a woman still south of her twentieth winter, but the informant knew her age to be almost twice that. Her angular elven features were softened by her human blood, and her slender form looked deceptively fragile. Delicate and deadly, she was; a combination that would make her a favorite in any brothel in Faerûn. His familiarity with such establishments lent authority to his judgment. Old as he was, his gaze swept over Arilyn and took in every detail with lascivious precision.

“Hmmm. You’re a gray, aren’t you?” he asked, noting that her pale, almost white skin was touched with blue along her high sharp cheekbones and pointed ears.

“I am a moon elf, yes,” Arilyn corrected.

“Gray elf” was a derogatory term when used by a human or a dwarf, and a deadly insult from the lips of another elf. Oblivious to the slight he had just given her, the man continued to examine Arilyn. “A half-gray at that. Oh, well. Half an elf is better than none, I always say,” he noted with a leer. “After we’re done here, maybe you’d like to—”

“No,” Arilyn said quickly. The lecherous expression on the man’s loathsome face raised her bile. After his comment about her lineage, she wouldn’t have had anything do to with him even if he’d been as handsome and virtuous as the elflord Erlan Duirsar.

“Your loss.” He shrugged, then held up the piwafwi again. “Do you want the cape, or not?”

Arilyn hesitated. She had assumed many identities in her career, and on one occasion she’d had to disguise herself as a dark elf to join a renegade band of drow mercenaries. It was not a pleasant memory. The drow, if possible, were worse than the Zhentarim. Once the assignment was over, it had taken her hours to wash the ebony stain from her skin and days to banish the pervasive sense of evil from her soul.

“Squeamish?” he taunted.

“Not really. I’m just wondering how you can part with such a sentimental token,” she said coldly.

The Zhentishman responded with a grin. “Why not? I’ve got some real interesting battle scars to remember her by.”

“Ten gold pieces for the cape?” Arilyn asked, cutting off the old man before he could regale her with more of his vile anecdotes. The mention of money brought him right around.

“Ten? Huh! Not likely. Twenty pieces, and make it platinum.”

“Five platinum,” Arilyn counteroffered.

“Ten.”

“Done.” The money and the cape changed hands, and Arilyn quickly tucked the garment into her bag before the lantern’s light could further erode it. She noted that the piwafwi’s luster had already dimmed in the short time it had been out of the dark trunk. The cape would probably disintegrate completely with the coming of dawn, and its magic had waned long before the death of the dark elf who once wore it. Arilyn had learned that drow magical items faded outside of the Underdark, their subterranean world. She suspected that the informant knew this as well, judging from his small sly smile as he pocketed the ten platinum coins. He looked immensely pleased with himself, probably picturing the look her face would likely hold when the expensive cape dissolved into gray smoke.

Arilyn intentionally allowed the old man this small triumph. He took pride in the quality of the information he sold, but he also felt a compulsion to cheat his clients.

“By the way,” he said expansively, “how do you plan to get into the fortress?” Arilyn raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he cackled again and waved a wizened hand. “You’re right, you’re right. If I were you, I wouldn’t tell me, either. I suppose that concludes our business, unless, of course …” He let his words trail off suggestively.

Arilyn ignored him and pointed to one of the maps. “I need more information about this area. Can you list all the ways out of the basement level?”

“Sure, but why bother? I doubt you’ll get that far.”

Arilyn held her temper with difficulty. “Any secret doors? Passages? Or do I have to swim out through the midden?”

The Zhentishman scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I believe there is something that could be of use. It will cost you extra, of course.” He picked up a pile of parchment and rifled through it until something caught his eye. He scanned a few pages of his manuscript, then nodded in satisfaction. “Ah, good. Very few people know about this door. I’d almost forgotten about it, myself.”

“Well?”

He handed her a page of manuscript, and after she’d scanned it they discussed the escape route in detail. When she was satisfied, she handed him a few more coins and stood to leave. “Remember, you won’t get the second half of your original fee until I return from Darkhold. Are you still confident of your advice?”

“I’ll stand by my information,” he proclaimed stoutly. He gave his last word a slight emphasis, barely stifling a grin as he glanced at the bag holding the doomed piwafwi.

He believes he’s bested me, Arilyn noted, though she was pleased with that. Such a belief would enable him to save face in the light of her next move. She drew a rolled parchment from her belt and tossed it onto the table. “This is a letter describing our deal. My associates hold copies. If you sell me out, you die.”

The Zhentishman laughed, albeit uneasily. “Harpers don’t work that way.”

Arilyn placed both hands on the writing table and leaned forward. “Remember, I’m not really a Harper,” she said.

The threat was a bluff, but the old man appeared to give her words serious consideration. He picked up the bag of gold again, balancing it in his hand as if he were weighing the risk along with the promise of future payment.

In truth, Arilyn was an independent adventurer. She had been an oft-used agent for the Harpers for several years, but she had never been invited to join the Harpers’ ranks. Many of her assignments came to her secondhand, through her mentor, Kymil Nimesin, for there were those in the secret organization who looked askance at the half-elf and her deadly reputation. As both Harper-friend and assassin she was an odd hybrid, but in encounters like the one in which she was presently involved, the combination gave her an edge. The informant eyed her warily, completely convinced that she would carry out her threat against him.

Finally he glanced again at the bag holding the drow cape, and broke into a grin. “Half-elf, half-Harper, eh? Nice title for a chapter of my memoirs.”

The comment stung Arilyn, even coming from such as he. “If you keep our bargain, you just might live long enough to finish that chapter,” she said. Not wanting to cast any shadow upon the Harpers, she clarified her original threat. “If I die through my own error, you merely lose your fee. If I am betrayed, copies of the letter will be sent to Cherbill Nimmt as well as the elven mage who rules as Darkhold’s second-in-command. I understand that Lady Ashemmi is no friend of yours, and I imagine that neither she nor Nimmt will be amused to learn of this transaction.”

The informant shook his head and wheezed out another chuckle. “Not bad, not bad,” he admitted. “With a mind like that, you might just make it through Darkhold after all. I must say it’s refreshing to see the Harpers develop a devious streak.”

“The cause is the Harpers’, but my methods are my own,” Arilyn said firmly.

“Whatever.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about the information I gave you. It’s good. Go along, and have fun infiltrating the fortress.”

Since Arilyn could think of no appropriate response, she gathered up the maps and with a deep sense of relief left the old Zhentish spider alone in his lair.

The informant gazed after her for a long silent moment. “Half-elf, half-Harper,” he murmured into the empty room, enjoying the sound of his phrase. He nibbled reflectively on a hangnail for several moments, then with a flourish he drew his quill from the ink pot and began to write. This would be one of the finest chapters in his memoirs, even if he did have to improvise a bit to come up with a satisfying ending.

Deep into the night the old man wrote, caught up in his own salacious imaginings. His lantern ran out of oil, but he lit the first of many candles and kept writing. It was nearly daybreak when his door swung open, noiselessly and unexpectedly. He looked up, startled, then his face relaxed into a leer. He lay down his quill and flexed his stiff fingers in anticipation.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said to the approaching figure. “Changed your mind, I suppose? Well, that’s fine. Come right on over to old Sratish, and I’ll—”

The old man’s invitation ended in a strangled gulp as two slender feminine hands closed around his neck. Frantically he tried to pry the hands loose, but his attacker was inhumanly strong. He threw himself back and forth, but the intruder hung on, her grip tightening. Within moments the informant’s rheumy eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and dosed like that of a fish gasping on the sand. Finally his spidery body slumped, lifeless, onto piles of parchment.

The intruder casually pushed the body to the floor and sat down at the writing table. She picked up the smudged page, quickly scanning the still-damp writing by the light of a single, rapidly diminishing candle. Quiet as a shadow, she rose and carried the candle and several pages of parchment to the room’s fireplace. The manuscript fluttered onto the hearth, and she stooped and held out the stub of burning candle. The edges of one page turned brown, then curled in upon itself as the flame caught and spread. The shadowy figure stood and watched as the final chapter of the old man’s memoirs turned to ash.