Elfshadow

Five

The tavern hall of the Halfway Inn was bustling with activity when Arilyn came down from her room. Near the northwestern border of the mountain range that surrounded Evereska, the Halfway Inn was a stopping place for both human and elven trade caravans. There were few inns in the Greycloak Hills, and this one boasted comfortable rooms, vast stables, and warehouses for temporary secure storage of goods. Elves and humans, halflings and dwarves, and an occasional member of one of the other civilized races all commingled in a relaxed, congenial atmosphere.

The Halfway Inn was much more than an inn. Among other things, it was a trading center for the elven colony of Evereska. Set in a valley of fertile farmland and surrounded on all sides by mountains, Evereska was a beautiful and heavily fortified elven city. It was protected by an impressive arsenal of elven magic and military might. The Evereska Valley had been inhabited by elves longer than anyone could reckon, but the city itself was young by elven standards. As was the case with most elven settlements, little was known about Evereska other than its reputation for impregnability and the calibre of elven mages and fighters trained at its College of Magic and Arms. To most of those who traveled through the Greycloak Hills, the Halfway Inn was Evereska. Few persons got any closer to the city.

Myrin Silverspear, the inn’s proprietor, was a dour, silent moon elf whose silver eyes missed nothing. He kept his own council better than anyone Arilyn had ever met, and his cozy establishment seemed designed especially with discretion in mind. As a result, the Halfway Inn was ever abuzz with intrigue, dealmaking, and clandestine meetings.

Arilyn always stopped here on her way into Evereska, to receive assignments or to meet contacts. For no reason that she could fathom, Myrin Silverspear had taken a special interest in her and her career. Whenever she stayed at the inn, he looked after her as if she were elven royalty.

As usual, he met her at the foot of the stairs with a low bow. “Your presence honors this house, Arilyn Moonblade. Is there anything that you require this evening, quex etriel?”

As usual, Arilyn winced at the extreme deference of his greeting. “Just to be seen.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Arilyn grinned. “Let’s just say that I’d like to be seen coming into the inn, but not going out.”

“Ah. Of course.” As usual, that was explanation enough for the discrete innkeeper. He took her arm and escorted her with grave ceremony to the large bar. She took one of the most conspicuous barstools, and Myrin made a show of going behind the bar and serving her himself.

Arilyn sipped at the elven spirits he’d poured her and fought back a surge of laughter. “Thank you, Myrin. I’ve definitely been seen.”

“Not at all. Anything else?”

“Do I have any messages?”

Myrin produced a small scroll and handed it to her. “This came just this afternoon.”

She glanced at the seal, and her mood darkened. With a sigh, she took the scroll from the innkeeper, opened it, and scanned the fine, precise elven runes. Kymil wanted to meet her here, tonight. That would most likely mean that the Harpers had given him another assignment for her, just when she was so looking forward to getting back home to Evereska. Another unconscious sigh escaped her.

“Good news, I trust?”

Arilyn looked up into Myrin’s concerned silver eyes. “You might not think so. Kymil Nimesin is meeting me here tonight, at the usual place.”

The moon elf received her announcement without blinking. “I’ll see that your usual booth is cleared.”

“You’re a diplomat, Myrin,” Arilyn murmured. Little love was lost between the prowl innkeeper and the patrician armsmaster, but Myrin Silverspear always received Kymil with the utmost courtesy. To Arilyn’s puzzlement, Kymil treated the innkeeper with considerably less respect.

“So I have been told,” Myrin said. With another bow, he excused himself to see to Arilyn’s booth. She went upstairs to get the artifacts she’d retrieved from Darkhold, then returned to the tavern and made her way to the back of the large room where she dipped inside a heavily curtained booth.

Almost immediately tiny motes of light flickered over the bench opposite her. The golden pinpricks broadened, expanded, and finally coalesced into the form of her longtime friend and mentor, Kymil Nimesin.

“Your mode of entering a room never ceases to unnerve me,” Arilyn murmured with a smile of welcome for her teacher.

The elf dismissed her comment absently. “A simple matter. Your last venture went well, I trust?”

“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” She handed him the sack containing the artifacts. “Will you return these to Sune’s people and see that our informant gets the rest of his money?”

“Of course.” After a brief silence Kymil attended to the amenities. “I heard of Rafe Silverspur’s death. A shame. He was a good ranger, and the Harpers’ cause will miss him.”

“As will I,” she replied softly. Kymil’s words were a polite formula required by convention; hers revealed genuine emotion. She looked up sharply. “How did you hear about Rafe’s death so quickly?”

“I was concerned about you, so I made inquiries.”

“Oh?”

Kymil regarded his pupil keenly. “You know, of course, that the assassin was looking for you.”

Arilyn stared down at her clenched hands. “I’ve come to that conclusion, yes,” she said evenly. “Now, if you don’t mind, could we please speak of other matters? Have you another assignment for me?”

“No, I called the meeting to discuss the assassinations,” Kymil said. He leaned forward to emphasize his words. “I’m concerned about your safety, child. You must take steps to protect yourself from this assassin.”

Her head jerked up, and anger flooded her face. “What would you have me do? Hide?”

“Far from it,” Kymil corrected her sternly. “You must seek out this assassin.”

“Many seek him.”

“Ah, but perhaps they are looking in the wrong places. As a Harper agent, you can succeed where others fail. In my opinion, the assassin hides within the ranks of the Harpers.”

Arilyn drew in a sharp breath. “The assassin, a Harper?” she demanded, incredulous.

“Yes,” Kymil noted. “Or a Harper agent.”

She considered her teacher’s words and nodded slowly. It was an appalling possibility, but it made sense. The Harpers were a confederation of individuals, not a highly structured organization. Harper agents—those like Arilyn who were not official members of the group, but worked on particular assignments—tended to operate alone, and many of the members kept their affiliation secret. It seemed incredible to Arilyn that this veil of secrecy could be turned against the Harpers, cloaking an assassin in their very midst. On the other hand, she had grown to trust Kymil Nimesin’s judgment. He had been allied with the Harpers since she was an infant, and if he thought that the Harper Assassin was within the ranks she was inclined to believe him.

Kymil’s urgent voice broke into her reflections. “You must find this assassin, and soon. The common people hold Harpers in high regard. If we cannot find and stop the murderer, it will damage the Harpers’ honor and reputation.”

The gold elf paused. “Have you any idea of the implications of this? Why, the Balance itself could be disrupted! The Harpers serve a vital function in fighting against evil, in particular the encroachments of the Zhentarim—”

“I know what the Harpers stand for,” Arilyn said with a touch of impatience. Kymil had lectured her on the need for Balance since she was fifteen, and she knew his arguments by heart. “Have you a plan?”

“Yes. I would suggest that you go among the Harpers, in disguise if necessary, to ferret out the assassin.”

Arilyn nodded. “Yes, you might be right.” A slight, humorless smile flickered across her face. “At any rate, it is better than doing nothing. Just waiting for the assassin to strike is intolerable. I can’t keep at it much longer.”

“Why is it that you seem so unnerved by this threat? Your life has been in danger many times.” Kymil paused and eyed her keenly. “Or is there something else?”

“There is,” she admitted reluctantly. “For some time now—several months, actually—I’ve had the sense that I’m being followed. Try as I might, I can find no trace of pursuit.”

“Yes?”

She’d expected him to reproach her, or at least to question her regarding her inability to lay hands upon her shadowy pursuer. “You don’t seem surprised by this,” she ventured.

“Many Harpers are highly accomplished rangers and trackers,” Kymil responded evenly. “It’s not inconceivable that this assassin, especially if he or she is from the Harper ranks, is skilled enough to avoid detection—even by someone as skilled as you. All the more reason, I believe, for you to take the offensive. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“That is all I have to say this evening. I would be happy to teleport you to Waterdeep—”

“No, thank you,” Arilyn cut in hastily.

Kymil’s eyebrows rose. “You do not intend to go to Waterdeep? It would seem a likely place to begin your search.”

“I agree, and I do plan to go to Waterdeep. I just prefer to get there on horseback.”

Exasperation flooded Kymil’s face. “My dear etriel, I will never understand your aversion to magic, especially considering that you’ve been carrying a magic sword since childhood.”

“That’s bad enough,” Arilyn said with a rare hint of bitterness. “Where magic is concerned, I draw the line where the moonblade ends.”

“I don’t understand you.” Kymil shook his head. “Granted, there was an unfortunate incident during the Time of Troubles—”

“Unfortunate?” Arilyn broke in, her voice incredulous. “I wouldn’t exactly call the accidental disintegration of an entire adventuring party a ‘misfortune.’ ”

“The Hammerfell Seven,” Kymil said, his tone dismissing the human adventurers as inconsequential. “You yourself had little need for concern from magic fire.”

“Oh? Why not?”

For an instant Kymil looked disconcerted, then he smiled faintly. “Ever the demanding student. Elves and elven magic were not as severely affected as humans by that interlude.”

He settled back and steepled his fingers, the very picture of an erudite professor. Knowing what was coming, Arilyn groaned silently. Kymil was currently guest-teaching a seminar at the Evereska College of Magic and Arms on the effect on elven magic by the Time of Troubles. Not a scholar in the best of times, Arilyn was of no mind to sit through the inevitable lecture. And she did not care to relive the Time of Troubles, the disastrous interlude when gods walked Faerûn in the form of mortal avatars, creating havoc and immense destruction.

“It is thus,” Kymil began, his voice taking on a pedantic tone. “In layman’s terms, humans use the weave to work magic. Elves are, in a sense, part of the weave. Tel’Quessir are inherently magic, by our very nature, and …”

Arilyn abruptly lifted one hand, again cutting him off. “Many would consider me N’Tel’Quess: not-people. I am half-human, remember? I have little inherent magical ability.”

Kymil paused, then inclined his head in a gesture of apology. “Forgive me, child. Your superior gifts often lead me to forget the unfortunate circumstances of your birth.”

Arilyn had known Kymil for too long to be insulted by his patrician airs. “Unfortunate circumstances? I am a half-elf, Kymil, not a bastard.” She grinned fleetingly. “Of course, there are those who would disagree.”

As if on cue, a hoarse voice roared her name. Arilyn edged aside the curtain for a look. She shook her head and swore softly in a mixture of Elvish and Common.

Arilyn’s bilingual curse brought a startled gasp from Kymil Nimesin. She shot a quick glance at him and bit her lip to keep from laughing at his outraged expression. “Sorry.”

He started to speak, undoubtedly to chide her about her undignified use of Elvish. His words were drowned out by a racket that sounded like a minor barbarian invasion.

A small horde of ruffians had stormed into the tavern. They stomped around in a rather aimless fashion, overturning empty tables, emitting an assortment of whoops and shouts. The leader of the band was a uncouth giant of a man, an almost comic caricature of a thug. The man’s appearance was sinister enough: an eyepatch covered one eye, a mace studded with iron spikes hung from his belt, and a shirt of rusty chain mail more or less covered his belly. Yet something about him tended to inspire covert smiles. Perhaps it was a pate as bald as a new-laid egg, framed by a wispy blond fringe that had been gathered into two long, skinny yellow braids.

The blond-and-bald man stalked over to Myrin Silverspear. Grabbing the slender innkeeper, the lout hoisted him up to eye level.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, elf. I asked if Arilyn Moonblade was here tonight. If you don’t answer me, my men here—” He jerked his head at the group of toughs clustered behind him. “My men will take to questioning your patrons. Not good for business.”

Not many men, human or elven, could maintain dignity while their feet dangled several inches from the floor, but Myrin Silverspear returned the huge oaf’s threatening glare with a calm, measured look. Something in the innkeeper’s expression took the bluster out of the ruffian’s face, and he lowered the elf to the floor.

“Wasting my time,” he announced to his men, his voice loud enough to carry throughout the room. It was an obvious and transparent exercise at saving face. “This elf don’t know anything. Spread out. If that gray wench is within a mile, we’ll find her!”

Kymil dropped the curtain and turned to Arilyn. “Do you know this man?”

“Oh, yes,” she said wryly, still watching the drama unfold in the main tavern area. “That’s Harvid Beornigarth, a third-rate adventurer. Some months ago we sought the same prize. He lost.”

“Ah. Not a gracious loser, I take it,” Kymil concluded.

“Hardly.” Arilyn parted the curtain another fraction of an inch, watching as Harvid’s thugs spread out and started working the room. “Neither is he much of a challenge, but at the moment I have enough to think about.”

So much for my plan to slip away from my mysterious shadow, Arilyn thought. With Harvid Beornigarth creating such a stir, she might as well stay right in the booth where she was and hang out a sign: “Arilyn Moonblade. Assassins Inquire Within.” On the other hand, she mused, all that racket might create enough of a diversion …

Arilyn abruptly let the curtain fall. She reached into the small bag that hung from her belt and drew from it a tiny mirror, a handful of gold mesh, and some tiny gilded pots engraved with the bright pink runes that identified the cosmetic unguents of “Faereen the Far-Traveled.”

Deftly she spread a pale ivory cosmetic over her face, concealing the hint of blue that highlighted the fine bones. The second pot yielded a rose-colored cream. With this she touched her lips and cheeks. She shook the gold mesh, a quaint ornamental headpiece made of tiny metal rings linked in intricate patterns and studded with green stones. After smoothing her hair over her pointed ears, she covered the ebony waves with the headpiece.

Now that her part was completed, Arilyn closed one hand around the moonblade’s grip and shut her eyes, forming a mental picture of a Sembian courtesan. When she looked down at herself a moment later, she saw that the moonblade’s work was complete. Her travel leathers were replaced by a filmy, multi-tiered gown of jade and sapphire silk, and her loose shirt was now a bodice laced tight and low. The moonblade itself appeared to be a small, jeweled dagger. Arilyn held out the tiny mirror at arm’s length and considered the effect. Even after twenty years, she felt a bit unnerved by the transformation. The half-elven fighter had disappeared, and in her place sat an exotically beautiful human woman.

One final touch was needed: Arilyn drew a tiny carved box from her bag and removed from it a pair of delicate lenses. She placed them directly over her eyes, and the distinctively elven gold-flecked blue became a startling—but very human—shade of green.

The entire transformation had taken place within minutes. Ready to go, Arilyn glanced up at Kymil. For once, his inscrutable demeanor had slipped, and a look of obvious distaste twisted his features. Early in Arilyn’s training, Kymil had discovered the moonblade’s ability to create disguises for its wielder. Arilyn and the moonblade had developed a repertoire of several practical facades, but Kymil had never become reconciled to what he considered an undignified manner of doing business.

“Dressed this way, I can leave without attracting notice,” she explained a trifle defensively. Even after all the years she’d known Kymil, she was stung by any sign of disapproval from her mentor.

Kymil recovered his composure and harumphed. “Hardly. Dressed in that manner, you cannot possibly escape notice. A courtesan without a patron? It is unusual, and you will be a matter of much speculation. Many will remember you.”

“True,” Arilyn agreed. “They will see and remember a human courtesan. An illusion.”

The noise of the approaching ruffians came closer, cutting short any argument Kymil might have had. “Your methods are highly successful,” he conceded. “Go then, and the gods speed your quest. Sweet water and light laughter until next,” he concluded, in the traditional elven form of leave-taking.

Having dismissed Arilyn, Kymil’s eyes became distant as he focused on some faraway destination. He murmured, “Silver path. Evereska College of Magic.”

His body became translucent, then the outline of his form wavered and filled with golden pinpricks of light. These in turn flickered briefly, then disappeared.

Arilyn shuddered. As the wielder of a moonblade, she had of necessity become reconciled to using magic, although she still bore a fighter’s distrust of the art. Magic fire and dimensional travel appalled her. Her earliest experiences with teleportation at Kymil’s side had left her sick and shaken, and her strong bias against magical travel had been strengthened during the Time of Trouble; she’d seen one mage too many teleport himself into a solid wall. Kymil might not like her attitude, but she simply couldn’t change the way she felt. With the elf gone, Arilyn returned her thoughts to the matter at hand. Again she drew the curtain aside, searching for the final piece of her disguise.

She needed a man.

Kymil was right about that much: a courtesan needed a patron. So accustomed was she to traveling alone that she had forgotten this. To properly play her sultry role, she needed to borrow a man as a prop. Arilyn scanned the tavern for a likely prospect. A burst of laughter drew her eye toward the front door.

Several merchants slouched around a table littered with empty ale mugs. One of their number, a young man in bright green finery, was openly flirting with an elven barmaid. Arilyn couldn’t hear his words, but they brought a roar of approving, tipsy laughter from his comrades and made the smiling young moon elf blush a bright shade of blue.

Perfect, Arilyn thought, her mouth twisting in a faint smile of derision. She could not have produced a better prospect if she had been capable of conjuring one from thin air. The man was young, less than thirty winters. His flaxen hair was meticulously styled, his richly embroidered cloak was draped over his shoulders with consummate artistry. He lounged indolently in his chair as he ogled the swaying walk of the departing barmaid. His clothes and lazy elegance bespoke wealth and privilege, and his smile indicated supreme self-satisfaction. By all appearances, he was spoiled and shallow and selfish. In short, he was perfect.

She disliked his type, those who were content with a path of ease and luxury. On the other hand, the services of a Sembian courtesan didn’t come cheap, and of all the men in the tavern he seemed the most credible—and the most receptive—target for her advances.

Blissfully unaware of Arilyn’s scrutiny, the young man made another, presumably witty observation. One of his companions, a rough-looking man in the garb of a mercenary, roared with laughter and swatted the humorist’s shoulder with a large, grimy paw. The young man did not seem affronted by the mercenary’s familiarity; rather, he winced and clutched at his shoulder, making another remark that set the table to laughter.

Probably not a nobleman, Arilyn concluded, but a wealthy merchant. The men at the table did not appear drunk enough to take such liberties with a noble. The pale-haired dandy did not seem to have been drinking heavily, which was also good. He appeared to have his wits about him.

Arilyn rose and slipped quietly into the room. The back half of the tavern was kept deliberately dark, and she hugged the wall and stayed within the convenient shadows. She wanted no one to connect the airy courtesan with the travel-worn etriel who had entered the tavern earlier. A sudden lull in the various conversations about the room greeted her as she moved into the lighted area. Men and women alike cast speculative glances at Arilyn. She tilted her head at a coquettish angle and moved purposely toward her target.

One of the fop’s companions stopped gaping at Arilyn long enough to elbow her intended quarry in his ribs. The young dandy looked up at her, his eyebrows raising in a lazy expression of appreciation. He rose politely as she reached his table, and Arilyn was surprised to note that he was taller than she by several inches.

“Well met, indeed. I must be living right,” he marveled, claiming her hand and bowing low over it.

Arilyn doubted it, but she answered him only with a soft smite. The fool could take that as he would.

“Would you care to join me? I’m Danilo, by the way. Danilo Thann.”

With effort, Arilyn held back a groan. She knew that name: the Thann family had far-flung merchant concerns, as well as vast lands north of Waterdeep. The dandy was a Waterdhavian nobleman. It was too late to withdraw, so she held her seductive smile in place as Danilo Thann elbowed aside a comrade and ushered her into the vacant seat. He slid comfortably into the chair next to her.

“And you are …?” His voice trailed off, inviting her to finish.

“Drinking Elquesstria, please,” she purred, deliberately misunderstanding him.

His eyes lit up. “Ah! No name. A lady of mystery. And drinking elven spirits. That makes you a lady of taste, as well.” He smirked around the table at his audience. “Although your choice in companions has already established that fact beyond question.” His cronies chuckled in agreement, apparently sharing young Thann’s comfortable opinion of himself.

The clank of an ill-kept chain mail shell interrupted the groups’ merriment, and Arilyn stiffened involuntarily. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Harvid Beornigarth himself. Arilyn’s hands itched to grab the moonblade and cleave the pesky human crustacean in two, but she willed herself to maintain the languid posture of a courtesan.

“Pardon, my lord, but have you seen this elf-wench about?”

Harvid thrust a roughly-drawn sketch of Arilyn at the young noble. Danilo took it, gave it a quick glance, and handed it back.

“No, can’t say that I have.”

“You’re sure?”

Danilo draped an arm around Arilyn’s shoulders, smiling up at Harvid Beornigarth as if he and the adventurer were old friends. “Frankly, no. If you were in my position,” he drawled, squeezing the woman beside him, “would you have eyes for another?”

The lout’s approving leer swept over Arilyn, and in response she forced herself to raise her eyes to his face. Harvid showed no sign of recognizing her. He grinned, revealing several rotting teeth.

“I wouldn’t be looking, either,” he admitted. He moved on to the next table, where he began to question the patrons with considerably less courtesy.

Arilyn relaxed. Now to get out of the inn and away. She would definitely have to take Danilo with her; the respect Harvid had shown the young noblemen indicated that she would probably not be approached by any of the other thugs as long as she was in the dandy’s presence. Resisting the urge to peel the noble’s arm from her shoulder, she glanced up at her future hostage.

Danilo Thann was leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed and fixed intently upon something. Arilyn followed the line of his gaze. From his angle, he could see her hands, resting on her lap and tightly clenched. He appeared to be noting her whitened knuckles, and there was a speculative expression on his face.

She glanced sharply at him. What had he guessed?

He looked up and met her eyes, and her suspicions faded away. The young fool’s face was as bland as porridge, and he flashed the charming smile that she was beginning to find irritating.

“Lovely ring. Very popular style in Waterdeep,” he commented lightly. He picked up Arilyn’s hand and surveyed it with the grave expression of a connoisseur, several of his own rings catching the light as he turned her hand this way and that. “They were selling these at the open-air market last summer festival. Did you get it then?”

His question seemed innocent enough, but Arilyn answered evasively. “My business hasn’t taken me to Waterdeep in some time.”

“What business are you in?” A huge man with black hair and rust-colored whiskers addressed the neckline of Arilyn’s gown, leaning forward for a better view as he spoke. “A fellow merchant, perhaps?”

“No, not a merchant,” Arilyn answered sweetly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the last of Harvid’s men leave the tavern. The inn’s patrons relaxed, and renewed conversation and calls for ale filled the tavern. It was the perfect moment to slip away. “My ‘business,’ such as it is, is best conducted in private.” She rose, extending a hand and a smile of invitation to Danilo.

The red-whiskered man guffawed and clapped Danilo on the back. “Well, lad, you’re set for the evening.”

“If I don’t return for a while, don’t bother looking for me,” he told the men with mock sternness. He took Arilyn’s hand and let her lead him to the rear of the tavern. There was a door there, an exit that could lead upstairs or outside. She’d have to persuade him to take the latter option.

“Perhaps a short stroll?” Danilo suggested when they reached the doorway. “The night is lovely. Cool, but I do love autumn weather.”

That’s one problem solved, Arilyn noted, and she readily agreed. A pair of lovers out for a moonlight stroll would not draw a second glance. Then, once they were safely in the forest, she could conveniently lose him. Let him wander back on his own and explain her absence to his cronies.

Danilo tucked her arm cozily into his. He chattered merrily as they walked down the street behind the tavern, regaling her with a version of Waterdhavian gossip that would have been highly amusing if Arilyn had been in the mood to be entertained.

Arilyn encouraged the young nobleman’s cheerful talk with appropriate inane noises, subtly guiding their path out of the bustle of arriving merchant caravans and toward the forest. The trading center at the Halfway Inn was as large as some towns, and at their leisurely pace it was almost an hour before they neared the path that followed the forest edge. The fickle autumn weather changed as they walked, and a damp wind began to hint at rain.

As Danilo Thann talked, Arilyn listened carefully to the night sounds. Voices drifted toward them from the inn, and horses nickered contentedly in the nearby stables. Once, she noticed that the shadow of a bush seemed disproportionately long. Later, a partridge flew up as if something had come too close to her nest. Never was there a suspicious sound, but Arilyn slowly became convinced that someone was following her still.

Damn! she thought vehemently. And after all the trouble she had gone through in the tavern to leave her shadow behind. Harvid’s men were still stomping around the inn’s grounds, and sounds of a fight would draw them like vultures to carrion.

A twig snapped a few feet away. Keeping her face expressionless, Arilyn slid one hand between the folds of her bright skirt and drew a dagger from its hiding place. As she and Danilo passed a large elm, Arilyn burst into motion. Wrenching her arm free from the nobleman’s grasp, she reached behind the tree and dragged out a man by a handful of his hair. She threw the man against the trunk of the tree and pressed her dagger firmly against his neck. Immediately she recognized him as one of the ruffians who’d been with Harvid Beornigarth in the tavern, although she had not seen him in Harvid’s crew before tonight. His face would be hard to forget; a jagged purple scar cut across one cheek, his nose had been broken at least once, and he was minus an ear.

“Why are you following me?” she demanded.

The man licked his lips nervously. “I saw you in the tavern. You came out alone, so I thought I’d … you know.”

“The lady is not alone,” Danilo Thann broke in haughtily. “Most certainly not. She is with me.”

“Stay out of this,” growled the lady in question. The noblemen fell back a step, raising his hands obligingly.

“You’ve been following me since I left the tavern? Not before?” It seemed unlikely to Arilyn that this ruffian could be her mysterious shadow, but she planned to find out for sure. The man hesitated just a shade too long before answering.

“No, just since the tavern. I’ve never seen you before.”

Arilyn’s blade slid along the man’s jawline, removing a good deal of dark stubble as well as a bit of skin. “I’m not sure I believe you. Who are you working for?”

“Harvid Beornigarth. The big man with the yellow braids.”

“No one else?”

“No!”

In spite of his guilty, furtive eyes, Arilyn was inclined to believe him. This was no canny assassin. She started to ease the dagger away when a dull flash of gold caught her eye. Her free hand darted into the open sack that was tied around the man’s waist, and she drew out a golden snuff box with a curling rune engraved on the lid. It was a familiar rune. Arilyn caught her breath.

“Where did you get this?” she rasped, thrusting the box close to the man’s face. The rune on it was the sigil of the mage Perendra of Waterdeep. She had been one of the first to fall to the Harper Assassin.

The man’s eyes filled with panic and flickered back and forth as if seeking a means of escape. “Waterdeep,” he croaked. “I got it in Waterdeep.”

“I know that. Tell me more.”

“From an elf. In Waterdeep. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Does this elf have a name?”

Beads of sweat broke out on the man’s face. “No, please! If I tell you his name he’ll kill me.”

“If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

“Life is just full of difficult decisions,” Danilo Thann noted behind her. The unexpected sound startled Arilyn.

“Are you still here?” She threw a glance over her shoulder. The nobleman was leaning casually against a tree, arms crossed.

“Well, naturally,” he replied. “It’s dangerous out here. Who knows, there could be more of these men lying in wait.”

“I don’t need protection,” she said emphatically.

“My point precisely,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you, I don’t mind remaining in the company of a lady who knows her way around a dagger.”

“Suit yourself.” Arilyn turned her full attention back to her captive. “The elf’s name?”

“I can’t tell you!” he said in desperation. The dagger began its path along his jaw again. “All right! All right.”

“Well?”

“His name is—”

The ruffian’s voice snapped off as if he’d been throttled. Slowly Arilyn lowered the dagger, watching in disbelief as the man’s face blackened and his tongue bulged out of his mouth. She backed away, unable to take her eyes from the horribly distorted face. A low, rattling gurgle burst from the man, and he slid, lifeless, down the length of the tree trunk.

“Merciful Mystra!” exclaimed Danilo Thann. “You’ve killed him!”