The Sapphire Crescent

PROLOGUE

Flamerule, 1362 DR

Xaphira Matrell stumbled into a narrow alley and against the back wall of a net mender's rough wooden shanty, where she slumped down behind a small stack of barrels, her left leg throbbing in pain. In the near-darkness of the moonlit night, she held still, hoping the clammy mists and the shadows of her hiding place were deep and dark enough to keep her concealed from pursuit. The salty scent of the bay was heavy, tantalizing her with the nearness of the quay, where she could gain refuge aboard a ship in the harbor.

Beyond her hiding place, along the fog-shrouded street that went past the alley and down to the docks of Arrabar, a trio of armed watchmen jogged into view, their booted feet slapping loudly on the damp cobblestones. They paused there, peering into the alley uncertainly. Xaphira held her breath and tightened her grip on the crossbow in her hands, ready to fire if it became obvious that she had been spotted.

One of the soldiers muttered something low and unintelligible to his companions, who both shook their heads. Just when it seemed that the trio was about to move closer and begin searching, a shout, muffled by distance and the muggy air, turned their attention away from Xaphira's location. They turned and sprinted out of sight. When the woman could no longer hear the sounds of their footsteps on the street, she sighed heavily in relief and closed her eyes.

The immediate danger past, the woman's attention was forcibly turned once more to the excruciating pain in her thigh, where she could see the silhouette of a crossbow bolt protruding from it. She knew she was going to have to yank the missile free, yet she hesitated. It was not so much out of fear of the pain. That she could handle. It was the fear that she would cry out and give away her hiding place that stayed her hand for the moment.

She leaned back, brushing aside the rivulets of sweat that drenched her face, keeping them clear of her eyes. Then she closed those eyes in weariness and sorrow and slumped against the rough wooden wall of the shanty, half listening for the inevitable sounds of soldiers coming into the alley and thinking back to the beginning of the evening, when her nephew had first approached her with his terrible news.

"Aunt Xaphira," Vambran Matrell said softly, his voice tight with fear as he approached his father's younger sister. "I think I killed someone."

Xaphira Matrell gasped softly as she jerked her head to stare at her nephew. He was standing beside her on a secluded patio overlooking the Lord of Arrabar's gardens, a finely crafted crossbow in his hands, the stock inlaid with silver and lapis. The matching quiver with its blue-fletched bolts hung by its strap from one shoulder. She recognized the weapon instantly, a recent gift from an uncle. Two of his friends-Adyan Mercatio and Horial Rohden, both proud scions of merchant families themselves- flanked him, staring with wide, round eyes. Behind her, inside the Generon, the palace of the Lord of Arrabar, the din of other guests attending Eles Wianar's annual Night of Ghosts festival began to fade as the twelve-year-old boy's words made the blood pound in the young woman's ears.

Xaphira grasped Vambran by the shoulders and held his gaze firmly.

"How?" the mercenary officer said, clenching her jaw and fighting to keep her voice low so that no one could hear. "Where?"

The younger man's face was faintly illuminated by both a series of rounded, pierced silver lanterns sitting in a row along the top of the balustrade and the waxing moon shining down upon the port city arrayed below them. Even in the dim light, the woman could see that his visage was grave and pale.

"It was an accident," Vambran whispered fiercely as the implication of his own deed hit him squarely. "We were just shooting plantains out of the trees, I swear!" he insisted, pointing down into the palace gardens below. "We didn't mean to…"

The boy's words faded away as he understood the futility of explanations.

"Are you certain?" Xaphira asked her nephew, locking eyes with him still. "Or is it just a trick of the festival? Someone playing at ghosts?"

Vambran shook his head and replied, "No. I fired a shot, and we heard it hit someone; they yelled in pain. We ran to see what happened and found a man."

"He's over there, in the trees," Horial offered softly, pointing down into the orchard that was part of the garden.

Xaphira groaned to herself, lamenting her nephew's ill fortune. And foolishness.

Shooting blindly into trees…

"Has any one else seen you?" she asked, straightening and peering around the balcony to see if other guests were near. "Was anyone else down there in the gardens with you?"

Vambran shook his head no.

"Have you told anyone else?" Xaphira demanded.

"No," Vambran replied.

"Are you certain he's dead?"

"He was bloody," the boy replied, shrugging helplessly. "When we saw, we just ran."

"Then take me to him," Xaphira insisted. "Show me where he is."

Despite her calm, firm demeanor, Xaphira's heart was pounding in her chest. She felt pity welling for Vambran, pity mixed with the devastated disbelief that something so tragic could have befallen her family again. She feared they would not recover from another setback.

Waukeen, please let him still breathe, the mercenary silently pleaded. Don't let my nephew have to live with a death on his hands.

The tiles beneath Xaphira's boots were slick with humidity as she followed the three boys toward broad, shallow stairs that would lead down into the gardens, leaving the sounds of the party behind them.

Just as the four of them reached the top of the steps, a voice called to them from behind, "Xaphira, there you are." It was Dregaul, the mercenary officer's older brother. The functioning head of House Matrell strolled closer as Xaphira and the three boys halted. "I've been looking for you. I wanted you to meet someone back inside. He's a-"

"There's been an accident," Xaphira cut in, keeping her voice low and motioning for her brother to do the same.

Dregaul cocked his head to one side quizzically, then his eyes widened slightly in surprise. "What?" he asked.

"Just come on," Xaphira said, turning back and gesturing for the boys to lead on. "Someone's hurt."

"Oh, by Waukeen, what's happened now?" Dregaul murmured softly as he fell into step beside his sister. "What's going on?"

"Vambran might have accidentally injured someone," Xaphira replied as she and Dregaul followed the trio, staying close as the boys led the way onto the vast expanse of grass that demarcated the beginning of the gardens. "They're taking me there now."

"What?" Dregaul said with a strangled cry, stopping and turning to face his younger sibling. "How did this happen? Vambran, what in the Nine Hells were you doing?"

"Shh!" Xaphira whispered insistently. "Keep your voice down or others will find out." She stared at her brother until he got the point and snapped his mouth shut. "He didn't know," the mercenary added.

"Didn't think, is more like it," Dregaul hissed. Out of the corner of her eye, Xaphira could see Vambran flinch. "Are you trying to ruin us, boy?" Dregaul added, shaking his head in disbelief. "Pray your victim still lives."

The five of them continued on, and none of them said a word. Indeed, Xaphira peered around as they progressed, watching and listening for any signs that others were nearby, others who could discover the victim and raise the cry before she and Dregaul could get the situation in hand. The Lord of Arrabar had invited many guests, and the Generon and its grounds were overflowing that night, but thankfully, no one seemed nearby at the moment.

The three boys pushed through a gap in the low, thick fronds of lush undergrowth near a row of plantain trees, and Xaphira could see several hunks of the fruit lying upon the ground there, slashed and pierced where they had been violently removed from the trees themselves. The boys' targets, she surmised.

"We were back there, shooting," Adyan began to explain, delivering the words in his usual lazy drawl, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "When Vambran took a shot, we heard a grunt and came to see what happened. We found him right… here," the young man finished, pointing toward the bank of a pond a few paces farther ahead.

Xaphira pushed past the boys and brushed aside damp, clinging foliage. She peered into the moonlit evening, followed closely behind by Dregaul. It was, if possible, even more humid among the lush greenery. She could see a form lying still upon the ground, right near the water's edge. It was a man, very obviously a party guest, judging by the lavish cut and style of his clothing. Then she spotted the fletched end of a crossbow bolt protruding from the man's chest, a dark stain spreading from it into the white linen shirt the man wore.

Damn.

Xaphira had hoped against hope that something else had hurt the man her nephew had found, but it was apparently not meant to be. She stepped closer and knelt down, feeling for any signs of life.

"Is he still alive?" Dregaul asked, looming over Xaphira's left shoulder.

"No," the woman replied miserably, rolling the body over onto its back.

"Who is it?" Adyan asked quietly from behind, cautiously peering between the two adults at the corpse.

Xaphira started to shake her head, for she did not recognize the man's features, but at that moment, a call arose from nearby, in another section of the gardens.

"Rodolpho, where are you?" It was a woman's call, a cheerful, laughing sound. "Rodolpho, you hide too well. Come out now and take me inside where it's cooler for some iced punch."

Dregaul gasped as he heard the mysterious woman's words.

"By Waukeen," he breathed softly. "You've killed Lord Wianar's cousin, you fools," he said, his voice cracking in near-panic as he spun around to stare at the three boys.

Xaphira's heart fell. She was fond of Vambran. She had been almost fourteen when he was born, and she thought of him as a younger brother. In fact, she had practically raised her nephew herself and felt somewhat like his protector.

And now this, she lamented.

The Lord of Arrabar's cousin was dead, by the hand of Xaphira's nephew. However innocently slain, it would be called murder, and Eles Wianar would have his retribution upon the guilty. Upon Vambran.

"Rodolpho! What kind of a rake leaves a lady wandering through his gardens?" The woman called, very clearly closer than she had been previously. "Rodolpho, answer me! This is no longer amusing."

Xaphira could hear the woman's footsteps by then, strolling through the orchard toward them. Farther in the distance, others were also calling for the man, moving across the grounds of the palace.

"What were you thinking?" Dregaul demanded quietly, almost pleading, as though an answer might change the situation. Vambran could only shrug helplessly, miserably.

The other two young men stood aghast, utter despair plain in their widening eyes. Adyan's mouth hung open as he stared back and forth between Dregaul and Vambran, while Horial clutched at his midsection and staggered away a couple of steps, shaking his head in futile denial, looking like he was about to be sick.

"This can't be happening," Dregaul muttered helplessly, his gaze locked on nothing, his stare distant. "The House," he said, his tone forlorn. "The estate. We'll lose it all."

His hands went to his temples, his fingertips first grinding into his skull and running up and through his swept-back, graying hair. The man opened and shut his mouth several times more, unable to find the words he needed.

Xaphira shook her head.

"No," she whispered firmly, trying to reason out some way to extract Vambran from the situation. "It was an accident. We can explain it to Lord Wianar, have him bring priests, fund a resurrection. Surely he will under-"

"Don't be a fool," Dregaul snapped. "You know the game. The family is responsible for killing Lord Wianar's cousin, and now House Matrell is at his mercy. He will crush us. Or worse, manipulate the situation to his advantage, and House Matrell will be his to use as he wishes. All because my foolish nephew," Dregaul said, turning back to Vambran, who stood with tears running down his face, "the son of my dead brother, could not be bothered to consider the consequences of his actions. Your uncle Kovrim should never have given you that wretched weapon, and I should never have allowed you to bring it to the Generon tonight. You cannot fathom the doom you have brought upon us all, most especially upon yourself. And I cannot help you."

He turned away from the rest of them, his shoulders slumped, and he took several paces to distance himself.

Xaphira watched, heartbroken, as Vambran stood silently sobbing, tears running down his face as his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides. She wanted to take hold of him, crush him to her like she had when he was a small child, but she dared not. She could not take his guilt from him, no matter how hard she tried. Or can I?

The idea came so suddenly, it nearly knocked Xaphira flat. If her heart seemed to have been pounding before, at that point it felt as though it would burst from her chest. It was a way to redeem Vambran, a way to allow him to reclaim his life-for he was still merely a child in so many ways, and had so much still to look forward to-but at the same time, it terrified the mercenary officer. The implications…

Xaphira acted before she could think, before she could change her mind.

"Wait," she called to Dregaul.

Xaphira peered through the hedge and could see the woman who had been calling out. She was moving slowly toward them, her head scanning back and forth uncertainly, one hand rapidly airing herself with a fan spread wide. As she peered about, she moved her other hand up and testily brushed aside damp, limp ringlets of hair that had plastered themselves to the sides of her face from the dampness. She had not spotted them. Carefully, silently, Xaphira motioned for her four companions to crouch down, out of sight. She moved close to them.

"There is a way out of this," she said, her voice barely even a whisper. "For you."

Dregaul looked at his sister sharply, his incomprehension clear.

"What are you planning, Xaphira?" he asked, just as softly "What foolishness now?"

Instead of answering her brother, Xaphira slipped off her ornate officer's breastplate and turned to Vambran.

"Give me the crossbow," she said, her hand outstretched.

The boy looked at her, puzzled.

"Now," she hissed, peering up momentarily to see what progress the woman had made.

Rodolpho's huntress was definitely closer, though she had stopped and was turning back as others out playing the hiding game had called to her and were moving to join her. Xaphira nodded in relief and turned her attention back to Vambran.

The boy handed the crossbow to his aunt.

"Now the quiver," Xaphira demanded, reaching for the strap.

Quickly, Vambran shrugged out of the container and passed it across.

"What are you going to do?" Dregaul asked again, reaching out and laying his hand across Xaphira's arm. "Tell me, Xaphira."

"I'm going to give you back some hope," the mercenary officer replied, "and Vambran his life."

"What?" Dregaul blurted in a strangled voice, finally understanding. "You can't! Don't be a-"

"Shh!" Xaphira hissed. "You will ruin it if you don't be still." Then, taking a deep breath, she said, "You know this is right, Dregaul. You know this is the only way to spare the family.

"And you," she said, turning back to Vambran and handing him her breastplate, "keep this. And do good in the world. For me."

Her nephew stared hard at the armor for a moment, its polished silver and gold surface glinting faintly in the dim light, then his eyes went wide in understanding, and he lunged toward Xaphira, clenching her tightly in a hug.

"No," he said. "Please, don't do this."

Gently, Xaphira disentangled herself from her nephew's embrace, though she wanted in the worst way to grip him just as tightly.

"I do it for you, Vambran-" He began to shake his head and protest, but Xaphira placed her finger on his lips to quiet him. "Don't worry for me. I can make my way in the wider world just fine. You're still young, and you have endless futures ahead of you, to do with whatever you want. Don't waste my gift to you; make it count."

Vambran was crying again, perhaps realizing for the first time that he would never see his aunt again. He clung to the breastplate she had given him.

Xaphira began to unwrap her uniform sash from around her waist as she turned back to Dregaul.

"Get them out of here," she said. "You cannot be seen near the body."

Dregaul nodded and replied, "And you cannot be caught, or the plan is ruined."

"I know," Xaphira replied, wrapping the sash around her head, disguising her face. "I won't be." She managed to conceal her face entirely, hiding all except her eyes beneath the red cloth. "Tell Grandmother Hetta that-" and she had to stop, for she was choking back her own sobs.

Dregaul took her hand in his and nodded.

"I will," he said, his voice tight, too. "I'll tell them all."

Xaphira nodded back, then motioned for them to go.

Vambran lingered, staring hard at her, but she turned away, to watch the oncoming guests and to avoid his gaze. Finally, she heard him slip away, pass back through the gap in the hedge. She closed her eyes once in sorrow, thankful the cloth would hide her tears.

It was time to vanquish her emotions then, time for the real test at hand. Taking one long, deep breath, Xaphira cocked the crossbow and set a bolt into the channel, then watched and waited. The woman had been joined by two others, a man and a second woman, more guests of the Night of Ghosts festival.

Momentarily, Xaphira wondered if they would even believe her as genuine. They might instead perceive her as just another of the many hired entertainers instructed to pretend to be ghosts, abruptly but playfully scaring the guests throughout the evening. She would have to make certain they recognized her as a legitimate threat right away.

When the trio of guests drew close enough, Xaphira darted out of the protection of the undergrowth, as though she was fleeing from something behind her. She paused for a moment, staring back, waiting for the guests to take note of her.

"Hey there!" the man in the group called as both of the women gasped. "You're quite a frightful little spook," he added, laughing, the women joining in.

Xaphira whirled to face them, letting a low snarl escape her. She raised the crossbow and fired, aiming low, right at the wide skirts of the first woman, the one who had originally been calling for Rodolpho. She squeezed the release on the weapon and felt it jerk as the bolt jumped free. The missile whistled through the air, slicing through the expensive dress, and struck the trunk of a large pear tree behind her with a loud and solid thunk. The woman gasped again.

"Beware!" the other woman cried out, realizing Xaphira was truly threatening them. "He means to strike us down!"

With those words, the woman stumbled backward, trying to flee from the would-be assassin. Beside her, the man and the woman with the ruined dress stared in confusion for a heartbeat, then they, too, began to retreat, shouting for help in frantic voices. Xaphira made a defiant gesture at the three of them, then turned and sprinted away, working to reload the crossbow as she did so.

That ought to draw everyone's attention, the mercenary officer thought. Now to see if I can get over the walls before the cry is raised in full.

For a moment, Xaphira allowed herself to think of Vambran, of her family. She prayed to Waukeen that her actions would be enough to draw the attention from them. She hoped that Dregaul would be clever enough to conceal their involvement, to tidy up the loose ends. And she began to doubt the wisdom of her decision, wondering if she had been rash.

Too late to change my mind now, she realized grimly. Farewell, Vambran, she thought, sending her thoughts out to her nephew. Do good in the world.

Xaphira dashed around the edge of the pond toward the opposite side, leaving behind the frantic calls for aid, hoping that the moonlight was bright enough for the trio she had threatened to see which way she had fled without making it impossible to hide later. She tore through blooming plants and shoved her way past tendrils of hanging vines, all of which soaked her billowy white shirt and gray trousers with moisture. She was thankful she was not wearing the breastplate then, for it would not only have been cumbersome for such light-footed work, it also would have made her even more miserably hot than she was at the moment. Even without it, she was soon gasping for breath, almost choking on the warm, cloying air. Finally, she broke clear of the dense undergrowth and was running through the orchard itself. The woman turned directly toward the perimeter of the palace grounds, then, sprinting between two rows of tall peach trees, ducking low to avoid the occasional dipping branch.

As she neared a wall, Xaphira spied a way to get to the top. As she approached, she did not slow down much, but instead slung the crossbow across her back. Reaching the wall, she redirected her momentum upward, planting her feet against the stone and jumping at the same time. As she rose high off the ground, she spun in the air, turning back toward the nearest tree. A single thick limb jutted out from its trunk, parallel to the ground, and it was that branch that Xaphira hoped to grasp. The leap seemed to go on forever, her fingers outstretched desperately as she drifted toward the limb.

She had given herself just enough of a push to reach the branch, and once she had a hold of it, it was a simple matter to swing her legs back and forth a couple of times until she could fully flip over and get her weight on top of it. Xaphira was just struggling to her feet when the first of the palace guards began to arrive. The mercenary officer knew that, even in the thick, concealing leaves of the tree, her white shirt was too easily seen in the moonlight. She dared not slow her ascent and look back down. She frantically climbed higher in the tree as a crossbow bolt sliced through leaves near her shoulder, working her way toward another limb that might be close enough to the top of the wall.

A second and a third palace guard arrived, and each of them began to fire missiles at her, even though she was difficult to see. She wasn't bothering much with stealth, so perhaps they were tracking her by the sounds of rustling leaves.

The mercenary officer swallowed hard and flinched as a bolt struck the trunk of the tree near her head, showering her with splinters of bark. Thankful that the sash wrapped around her head protected her from the stinging chunks of wood, she eyed her jump. It didn't seem terribly far, but then again, if she missed, it was a long way down, and the fall would drop her into a hornet's nest of guards, too. Mentally urging herself on, Xaphira took three quick but careful steps along the branch, propelling herself forward toward the wall and thrusting her arms out slightly to each side to try to keep her balance. As the branch began to sag under her weight, she took one additional step, practically running, and leaped again, lunging up and forward.

She ignored the scratching of leaves and branches along her face as she dived out into space, reaching forward toward the edge of the wall, where a walkway traversed its length. She heard the sound of another crossbow firing, felt the bolt zip past her ribs, rustling the cloth of her shirt, but she steadfastly kept her attention on the edge of the walkway. Her hands hooked over the edge of the stone and held tight as she slammed against the wall with a grunt.

"He's getting away!" one of the soldiers called from below. "Shoot him! Shoot him, damn you!"

"To the wall, to the wall!" another guard shouted.

Gasping for breath, Xaphira smiled slightly to herself, glad that her pursuers still mistook her for a man. Her deception was intact, at least for the moment. Deftly, she began to swing her legs side to side. After three or four times, she had enough momentum that she was able to get a leg up and over the side of the walkway. From there, she quickly pulled herself up the rest of the way and rolled out of sight, just as two more crossbow bolts clacked against the stone wall where she had been.

Xaphira lay on her back, taking two or three deep breaths to regain some of her endurance, but she could not tarry. Already, she could see more soldiers coming at her along the walkway, having gained the top from farther along its length. Never hesitating, she arose to her feet once more and peered over the far side of the wall.

It was a long drop, longer than the side Xaphira had ascended, but that did not stop her. Swiftly, the mercenary officer swung herself out over the edge, just as another shot was fired at her, whistling past her head and into the night. Holding firmly to the parapet top, she dropped out of sight and hung there, stopping her momentum for a heartbeat. Then she let go and dropped the rest of the way down to the soft ground below, using her hands and feet against the wall to slow her fall a bit.

The woman was on her feet and running almost instantly after touching down, looking back only once to spot soldiers converge on the point where she had eluded them.

Xaphira had thought that, once she had escaped the confines of the Generon, she would have been able to disappear into the city. But it was not the case. Somehow, the patrols all throughout Arrabar knew to look for her, and the easy stroll she had expected turned into a desperate flight. She had at first thought to return to the Matrell estate, to perhaps gather a few things before vanishing, but it quickly became apparent to the woman that she would be lucky to reach the docks unscathed.

About two streets from the quay, that luck ran out. Xaphira was half walking, half jogging along one of the streets toward the docks, ducking from shadow to shadow, when a patrol appeared suddenly from around a corner just ahead of her. The four soldiers were surprised for a heartbeat longer than she, which gave her the chance to react.

Spinning on one foot, she lashed out with her other boot at the closest soldier, raking her heel across the side of his jaw and snapping his face sharply to the side. At the same time, Xaphira reached out and grabbed the soldier's weapon arm, which was just bringing a slender short sword up and into play. Using her own torque from the kick and levering her hip underneath the soldier's, the mercenary officer drew the young watchman forward, between herself and the other soldiers. The move prevented two other guards from attacking, as they had leaped forward to cut at her with their own blades, pulling up short at the last possible moment to avoid striking at their mate. Xaphira continued the throw, flipping her off-balance soldier completely around and away, but before she released him, she yanked his blade free of his grasp and sent it flying across the street with a clatter. The watchman tumbled to the street several feet away, grunting in pain. She ignored him and pivoted back around to face the other three adversaries.

The fourth member of the group, who had not yet engaged Xaphira, fired a crossbow at her from perhaps ten paces away. She shifted her weight reflexively and slashed out with her hand, slapping the bolt aside just enough to redirect it past her hip. The remaining two watchmen who had been forced to pull their attacks short before fanned out and dropped into defensive crouches, waiting to see what she would do. Xaphira did not hesitate, for she wanted to flee, not fight. Before the soldiers could maneuver around to surround her, the mercenary officer feinted a punch at one then spun and kicked low toward a second foe.

The first target flinched back, but the second one, thinking his quarry was turning her back on him, stepped in too confidently. He barely managed to hop over her kick when she suddenly shifted her weight over and brought her other foot up and back around toward him. The heel of her boot raked inches from his nose and he stumbled back, scowling. With him out of range, the woman darted in close to the last of the four, making several quick jabs and kicks designed to drive him back a step or two, while at the same time she rotated her position around him, placing him between herself and the last remaining threat. Then she darted in quickly, striking at the flat of his weapon with her palm open and snapping his blade free of his hand. At the same moment, Xaphira went low with a sweeping kick and hooked his heel, tripping him.

With a second soldier down, Xaphira ran forward, leaping high over his prone form and at the crossbow-man standing a bit farther back, who had just reloaded and was about to fire again. Before he could get the weapon up and aimed properly, Xaphira planted her right foot squarely into his chest and kicked off of him, sending him skidding backward several feet and reversing her own direction in the process. The woman used her momentum to spin and kick at the only soldier still standing, snapping the instep of her left foot into his ribs. He flinched sideways and crumpled to the ground, moaning.

Xaphira landed on her feet and turned quickly in place, noting that all four of the soldiers were prone but not seriously hurt. She turned to jog off, leaving them to recover on their own, when a crossbow bolt whistled out of nowhere and plunged into her thigh. The mercenary officer gasped in pain and went down to her good knee, swearing. Her hidden opponent had fired from a rooftop across the street, and she could see the silhouette of a figure crouched there, reloading. At the same time, a shrill whistle erupted from nearby.

Xaphira turned to see the first of the four soldiers she had downed up on his knees, holding a whistle in his mouth. She shook her head in frustration. Reacting quickly, the woman mouthed a quick prayer to Waukeen while making a slight undulating gesture with both hands to either side of her body. A thick, damp mist rose up from the cobblestones, thicker than the light fog that had risen up naturally from the cool night air. In a couple of breaths, the mist had completely enveloped Xaphira.

Not waiting to see what the crossbowman on the roof would do, she turned and limped away, fleeing down the closest alley, then along another street and into a second alley. From there, Xaphira sought a place to hide, ducking down behind the barrels near the net mender's shack.

Thinking quickly, Xaphira grabbed one of the bolts from the quiver hanging from her shoulder and considered it carefully. It would do, she decided, and wedged the thick wooden shaft of that bolt between her teeth.

Biting down hard on the wood, Xaphira prepared to jerk the bolt from her leg. She closed her eyes and placed both hands on it, gripping the end of the missile firmly. She took one, two, three deep breaths and, before she could think about what she was doing, withdrew the shaft from her flesh.

The motion was like burning steel sliding through her, and she gave a deep-throated howl of agony, biting down hard into the wood of the bolt in her mouth. She had to bury her face in her shoulder to stifle the cry. A single shudder passed through her body as she trembled from the pain, breathing hoarsely. Finally, the initial nauseating waves of torment subsided enough that she was able to refocus.

Grabbing at the medallion that hung from a small chain down inside her shirt and between her breasts, Xaphira kissed the image of the Merchant's Friend and softly muttered a second prayer to the goddess of trade. Then she pressed both of her hands palms down against the freely bleeding wound and held them there for several moments. As she felt the slight tingle of healing course through her leg, Xaphira breathed a sigh of relief. When she removed her palms, all that remained was the torn and bloodied breeches and a pink, puckered scar on her flesh.

Xaphira examined the bloody bolt that had wounded her. As she gazed at it, her eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth in anger. She tucked the missile away for safekeeping and prepared to flee the city. Peeking up over the top of the barrels, she saw that the alley was clear. Rising slowly, she tested her leg, putting weight on it gradually. It felt a bit weak, but she could stand on it.

Cautiously, the mercenary moved out from behind the wall of barrels and prowled toward the end of the alley. She peered around the corner into the street itself and saw no one. Carefully, fearful that she was being watched from some unseen place, she took the first cautious step out into the open. Then another. She slowly worked her way to the end of the street, down to the docks. When she got there, she slipped into the water and swam toward a ship that sat at anchor a few yards off the pier. Carefully and quietly, she climbed up the side of the ship and slipped over the side onto the deck.

By dawn the next morning, the ship and Xaphira were well gone from the port of Arrabar.