Elminster Must Die

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I thank you, Lord Delcastle,” Amarune murmured gravely, sliding into Arclath’s arms to look into his eyes from very near, expecting him to want at least a kiss, “and remain mindful of … the debt I owe you. Yet if you have any kind regard for me at all, I would ask that you depart this place now and let me go my own way until at least dusk on the morrow, when-”

Arclath was already using the arm that wasn’t around her to push open the Dragonriders’ street doors. Amarune broke off abruptly at what she saw inside.

At the look on her face, Arclath spun around to see what was the matter, letting the door start to swing closed again, and in so doing whirled Amarune away from what she was facing. With the briefest of angry growls, Amarune swung him around again and forward into the club.

Where amid a quiet cluster of Purple Dragons and servants still cleaning up and a few tables of newly arrived drinkers, Tress was helping a rather tipsy-looking man to his feet. Not one of the nobles who’d brawled so messily in the club earlier, but a rather haughty-looking wizard of war in full palace robes who had evidently just risen from a table and sprawled on his face and was showing signs of doing so again the moment he lost the deft support of the womanly shoulder under one of his armpits.

“Thank you, wench,” he was growling rather blearily at Tress. “Know that you have aided a ver’ important wizard of the court, who enjoys the ear and confidence of the king himself! Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake am I, and urkgh … I’m going to be sick, s’what I’m-”

He promptly demonstrated the truth of his words, with force and enthusiasm.

Arclath and Amarune both raised their eyes to the ceiling in disgust and parted to glide well aside as Tress steered her burden firmly through his own filth and straight to the door.

Two steps away from which the weaving, green-faced Mreldrake caught sight of Amarune, gave her a nasty grin, pointed one shaking finger, and spat maliciously, “You! You’re the Silent Shadow, you are!”

“I’ve skulked in the dark long enough,” Elminster growled under his breath. “Time to play the befuddled old man and walk right in there and get to hear just what terms our jaunty young lordling is on with the most important lass in the worl-”

Playing a stooped graybeard to the hilt, he was still three age-shuffling strides away from the doors of the Dragonriders’ Club and starting to reach for the nearest smooth-worn door handle, when Amarune Whitewave burst out of those doors, sprinting like the wind, with the bellowed “Stop! Stop and stand!” shout of a Purple Dragon pursuing her.

Elminster blinked, straightened up far too hastily for the decrepit elder he was trying to portray-and slipped. Which left him unable to get out of the way.

Amarune did not try to get out of the way either.

Even as he flung his arms wide to fight for balance, she slammed into him, running hard. The impact snatched the Sage of Shadowdale off his feet and dashed him down on the cobbles in a crash that drove all the wind out of him and brought sharp and instant pain. As she trampled him and ran on, not slowing in the slightest.

Leaving the man who had been the mightiest Chosen of Mystra flat on his back on the cold cobblestones of the street, half-dazed and struggling to breathe through what felt like broken ribs. He couldn’t even think of a spell to hurl, not that he had wind enough left to cast anything …

He couldn’t even roll over, let alone crawl aside, as a fresh tempest burst out of the Dragonriders’ and roared over him, a storm of hard-running Purple Dragons with lungs far healthier than his own, swords glittering in their fists, and very heavy boots.

He did, in their wake, manage a groan or two.

One of which caught the attention of a telsword who obviously hadn’t been given orders to pursue the fleeing woman. Coming out of the club to stand and watch the chase dwindling into the night, he glanced down at the sound of pain then bent to lend the huddled old man a hand.

“Come on, old drunkard! You can’t lie here; you’ll get trampled, you will!”

“I’m not drunk,” Elminster snarled through his pain. Ribs gone, to be sure. “I’m hurt. Some woman ran right through me.”

“Which way did she go?” the telsword snapped back, excited in an instant.

“Down the street,” Elminster replied dryly. “If she turned off it, I didn’t see. I was too busy lying stunned to notice.”

“All right, all right, old jester.” The telsword sighed, helping Elminster to sit up against the club wall. He peered down at the weathered old face out of sheer veterans’ habit-and frowned. “Have I seen you before? Who are you?”

“No one important, anymore,” Elminster said gruffly. “Just another old man.”

“Oh? Living on the streets?”

“When I can’t make it home before dark.”

“Oh, so you have a home, then.”

“Aye.”

“So, graybeard, how do you usually spend your days?”

“Growing older,” Elminster told him wryly. “And ye?”

It was almost dawn, and a weary and heartsick Amarune Whitewave didn’t know what to do.

She was standing in a dark street surrounded by grim-faced Purple Dragons, listening to Lord Arclath Delcastle glibly explain to them all once more that the dancer couldn’t possibly be the Silent Shadow, because she’d been with him more than once when that notorious thief had performed a daring theft, and that she must have fled out of sheer fear of being enspelled by a drunken wizard of war. Not only was he of noble birth, he himself had suffered thefts at the hands of the Shadow, and so, believe me …

Oh, gods. And he was again, oh-so-gallantly, offering to escort Amarune home.

She wanted to hit him. Or lose herself to sobbing in the warm comfort of his arms, and … she didn’t know what she wanted to do.

And she couldn’t stop yawning.

The Dragons believed him, nodding and looking at her with faces a little less unfriendly, and lowering the swords that had been pointed her way.

Which meant they’d soon leave her alone with him. A young and spirited noble lord who suddenly knew, whatever his clever tongue was saying to them that moment, that she was the Silent Shadow.

She remembered full well she’d stolen from him more than once. So, obviously, did he. Should she just deny all and claim the wizard must have mistaken her for someone else? Finding proof wouldn’t be easy-so long as he didn’t come upon Ruthgul or any of her other clients, and tie what they said to where she lived-but driving away his suspicions would be harder still. Suspicion always died a slow death.

“Go with the Lord Delcastle, lass,” a Purple Dragon was saying in her ear then, kind but firm. “He’ll see you safe home.”

That’s just what he could not do-but she dared not admit it.

Wearily she nodded, half-numb, and accepted Arclath’s attentive arm.

All she could think of doing was wandering the streets of Suzail until full day ran him out of time and into the jaws of some important business or appointment or other that he dared not miss. If her legs held out that long and she could keep her eyes open, that is …

“Trust me,” Arclath murmured, giving her that bright grin that she couldn’t tell if she loved or hated. “Dawn will be breaking soon enough. If you don’t happen to live next door or in the rafters above us, we’ll have time to see it-and sober, too!”

The stench at the end of the alley was indescribable. “Man-strangling” wasn’t a strong enough description. Nor was “forty sick snails lying dead in their own fresh vomit,” or “the heaped wet offerings of a hairy garrison all in the throes of the runs, brought on by eating lots of candy and mustard.”

El tried all of those and some far more colorful ones on for size as he winced and hobbled his way down the greasy, narrowing, and increasingly refuse-choked way. Even the rats avoided that end of the alley, and the smell had long before forced the boarding-up and mud-sealing of all the windows opening onto it.

Alone in the graying tail end of night, the Sage of Shadowdale set his teeth and lurched on. His many bruises were stiffening, and his ribs felt on fire. He’d fallen twice, many alleys before, but it had been worth it to persuade the young and fastidious Dragon tailing him that he really was an old crazed-wits living on the streets, and make the man turn back. The soldier had fallen at least once, too, and Elminster hoped the young dolt’s bright uniform was so besmirched that he was gagging.

Nevertheless, the filth had its uses. Not the least of which was safeguarding what he was retrieving. At the end of the alley was a fly-swarming heap of dung, old topped by fresh, beneath a cracked tile protruding from the wall.

El tugged the tile out-it came away in pieces, just like last time, brown and dripping-and thrust his fingers into the hole it had come from. There was a cavity in one side of that hole, within the thickness of the wall, and-aye! — the reassuring smooth hardness was there. Or rather, hardnesses, five of them. He closed his filthy fingers around the uppermost and then the lowest, drew them both forth, and shoved the tile back into place, piece by piece.

When he was done, the vials, guarded against rust by their own magic, were entirely hidden in fresh, wet dung.

El sighed, wiped his hands on random nearby walls until matters had been reduced to what might delicately be termed “smeared,” then trudged back up the alley until he could find space enough to set the vials down on bare stone, spit on his hands so as to clean them enough to thrust them under his robe to reach his clout, and arrange himself so as to let fly all over the vials, washing them … well, not clean, but a lot cleaner.

So he could twist the uppermost open-an enchanted cap rather than a cork; well, the Art advanced in little things as well as large-and drink its contents down.

It tasted like cold, clear, mint sugar water, soothing all the way down … and brought in its wake that surging, warming thrill of healing, the banishment of the fire in his ribs, the stiffnesses, and all the small aches and pains he’d acquired since the last time he’d had to crawl down that alley.

When all of that was gone, El stood up straight, squared his shoulders, then thrust both vials-the lower one was reassuringly heavy with good Cormyrean coins he’d soon be needing-into his under-robe pouch and started for the street again. He felt whole and strong. Not to mention wealthier.

“See?” Arclath told her as triumphantly as if he were personally responsible. “I told you! Behold, dawn!”

Amarune nodded wearily, stumbling. Only his arm through hers was holding her up. For what seemed like hours they’d been walking the streets of Suzail together, a Purple Dragon plodding along behind tailing them as Amarune led her inanely chattering escort on a random meander across the city, waiting for his anger to rise.

Dreading the moment when Arclath stopped, refusing to go along with her obvious deception any longer and protesting that she was leading him astray. A protest that would reveal that he already knew where she dwelt.

A moment that hadn’t yet come, though there was a gleam in his eye that she was beginning to think meant he was grinning inwardly at her tactic and happily going along with it.

The noble had kept up a constant, never-flagging stream of light, inane-and one-sided-converse.

“Dawn,” she gasped, feeling she had to say something. “I’m … enchanted.”

“And so am I!” Arclath agreed with enthusiasm. “Charmed, even! I find you the most beautiful woman to ever adorn my arm, and await that moment of full glory when you reveal to me the full sparkle of your wit, the bright edge of your tongue-in the conversational sense of course, lady fair, for I would not want even the slightest misunderstanding to lead you to take offense at a slander that was not meant, no, no, not at all! — the full grandeur, as I was saying, of your happily attentive company! At a time when you are not tired, not shocked by the horrible events of earlier this night, and not grieving the loss of your longtime and staunchly loyal employer! In short, when you can be your full and engaging self! When you can-”

“Somehow shut you up,” Amarune snarled, in spite of herself. “Gods above, do all nobles carry themselves through their every waking moment of life on rivers of babbling drivel?”

“In a word, Lady: yes.” Arclath’s grin told her he wasn’t abashed in the slightest. “So, how would you contemplate shutting me up? No violence, please, you know how I abhor viol-”

“Yes, I noticed you abhorring it right skillfully, earlier,” Amarune sighed. “Though I probably owe you my life a time or six. So have my thanks, Lord Delcastle, and I’m done trying to deceive you. I no longer care if you learn where I live.”

“My lady! Has that been your concern, all this time? That I might discover the whereabouts of your abode? Has preventing that dark secret-though how it can truly be dark, I fail to conceive-been the pursuit that now has you nigh staggering with weariness?”

“It has,” Amarune said grimly. “Let’s go. This way.”

“Lady, your every command is my fond wish!”

“Really? How is it that you’re still alive, then?”

“Amarune Whitewave, you’re snarling!”

“Mask dancers snarl all the time, Lord Delcastle. Want to know what else we can do?”

“Lady, I thought you’d never be so bold! Of course I-”

“Of course you do,” Amarune said with the most withering sarcasm she could muster as she turned a familiar corner and headed into an even more familiar midyard that … seemed to be swarming with Purple Dragons.

Several of those officers were already giving them hard stares, and-gods above! — there were Dragons searching every alley, balcony, and outside stair in sight. There were even Dragons up on her roof.

Not to mention a large, grim cluster of them standing over … no. Oh, no.

A Purple Dragon moved to intercept them, two of his fellows walking to where they could surround the two. “Your names, and business here?”

“I am Lord Arclath Delcastle,” the nobleman snapped pointedly, “and I am escorting this lady to her home, by order of a Watch officer of the Purple Dragons. And yours?”

“My what?”

“Your name, soldier.”

“I’ll ask the questions here for now, my lord. You can have my name for your inevitable complaint later. Now, which officer would it be who gave you this or-”

“He’s telling truth, Randelo,” a gravelly man’s voice said rather sullenly from behind Amarune. “I can vouch for their whereabouts and deeds-seeing as they’ve been leading me all over Suzail for half the night.” It was the Dragon who’d been following them since their departure from the club.

He was giving the young couple a rather baleful glance as he added, “Stlarning boots hurt worse’n ever. Shouldn’t wonder if they’re full of blood down by my toes, right now.”

“Ah, the price of shining service,” Arclath remarked. Turning back to their questioner, he said with dignity, “Seeing as we’ve just been cleared of any involvement in this unfortunate, ah, death, please withdraw from us a pace or two, so as to accord us some small measure of privacy. This is a lady of high moral standing, despite what you may think-for I have found that far too many Purple Dragons have low, coarse minds-and I have no intention of damaging her reputation by entering her domicile at this time of night.”

That little speech earned him an eloquent eye roll and a mockingly elaborate bow from both Dragons, but they did withdraw, muttering together.

Arclath pointedly turned his back on them, shielding Amarune from their scrutiny with his broad shoulders, and murmured, “So, would you like me to leave you here, Lady, with a suspicious death-almost undoubtedly a murder-hard by wherever you live, but with the dubious safety of Purple Dragons very much in evidence everywhere? Or-?”

“Or yield myself to your tender mercies in your noble mansion?”

“I do have some measure of honor, Lady,” Delcastle murmured, almost sadly.

They regarded each other in sober, unsmiling silence for a breath or two, before Amarune almost whispered, “Lord Delcastle, did you hear what the wizard called me?”

“The Silent Shadow? I had dismissed that from my mind. A wild, baseless accusation, that-”

“No,” Amarune said firmly, suddenly finding she did not want to lie to this man. “No, it’s not. I am the Silent Shadow, though my silence has been the quiet of inaction this past season.”

She gave him a glare, suddenly defiant. “So, are you going to denounce me to yon Dragons? See me flogged, stripped of every last coin, and jailed? There’ll be nobles enough wanting my blood, to be sure, and-”

“And I am not one of them,” Arclath interrupted smoothly. “Putting one over on my fellow highborn is what I do, whenever possible. I might add that occasionally I indulge in undertakings of low moral character myself … and I find that this is one of those times.”

He lifted a finger, almost as if he was a pompously lecturing tutor, and spoke even more softly. “So I’ll keep your secret, but in return I demand a price, Lady. No, don’t look at me like that; my price is one truthful answer, no more. Tell me plainly, now: Whom do you work for? Just who is interested in what I and Halance and Belnar were talking about, that you had to listen so hard?”

“I was interested,” Amarune told him truthfully, “because I’m curious. Too curious. And I’m working for no one but myself.” She hesitated, then added, “Though someone is now seeking to force the Silent Shadow to work for her, by threatening to unmask me to the Dragons. A woman every bit as agile as I am, who calls herself ‘Talane.’ ”

“Talane,” Arclath murmured, frowning. “Not a name I’ve heard before, but I’ve a feeling, by all the Watching Gods, that I’ll be hearing it again.”

“Swordcaptain Dralkin?” a Dragon telsword gasped then, trotting out of the night right past them. “We’ve found a word written in blood up on that rooftop.”

“From where the body probably fell, yes,” the swordcaptain agreed curtly, advancing from the group standing around the corpse sprawled in its pool of blood, and sending Arclath and Amarune a glare that told them clearly “move away and don’t listen.” When neither of them moved, he shrugged and asked the telsword curtly, “What word?”

“A strange one. Might be a name,” the telsword replied. “ ‘Talane.’ In Common: T-a-l-a-n-e.”