Silver Shadows (30 page)

Hasheth lifted one hand to his nose and picked up his pace. At the end of this dock was the Berringer Shipyard. It was here that all his work had led him. For days he had examined Lord Hhune’s many books and ledgers, carefully piecing together bits of information and innuendo—even finding and deciphering some outright code. It had been a wondrous puzzle that led him at last to this place. All that remained for Hasheth to accomplish was to discern the purpose of Hhune’s scheme, and then to find some way to turn it to his own benefit!

Berringer Shipyard was a bustling, noisy, smelly place, not at all what the young man had expected. He bought his way in at the gate by using a copy of the credentials that Hhune had supplied to one of the many merchant companies that purchased ships for him.

Hasheth wandered about, taking note of all. Deckhands by the dozen grunted and sweated as they rolled immense logs from flat-bottomed barges onto a large dock. These logs were then handhewn, the outer wood fashioned into

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planks and beams and the heart of each shaped and smoothed into a strong, tall mast. Some planks, previously cut, soaked in an enormous vat of seawater mixed with some unspeakably vile-smelling concoction. Well-softened planks had been clamped onto curved frames so that they might take on the needed shape as they hardened and dried. A half-built ship rested on enormous trestles, looking for all the world like a well-picked skeleton. Three finished ships stood in dry dock.

The quality of work at all stages was well within the high standards expected of Tethyrian craftsmen. The ships were trim and sleek and showed every promise of remarkable speed. But it was the ironworks that impressed and enlightened Hasheth.

He stood and gazed at the trio of ships, to which several smiths were adding fittings and weaponry. These were to sail with an impressive arsenal: baltistae and catapults provided a considerable amount of firepower. Rows of iron-tipped bolts stood ready by each ballista, and piles of grapeshot—spiked iron balls linked with chain—would prove deadly when hurled from the catapult.

This, then, was it—the answer Hasheth had been seeking. These three ships were surely destined to become part of a private fleet of fast, heavily armed ships that could escort merchant vessels safely through pirate-infested waters or blockade a harbor.

Hasheth would have applauded either use. As head of the shipping guild, Lord Hhune had responsibilities and, perhaps, higher ambitions. And so did he. It was a shame that one of these ships must be sacrificed, but a man must be prepared to pay for his ambitions. The fact that he was using another man’s coin would make it considerably easier.

His questions answered, the young man hurried back to the inn where he had rented a room. From his pack he took a new suit of clothing. The finely made dark garments of a prosperous merchant had been fashioned by the tailor who made all of Lord Hhune’s clothing, as

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well as that of his boot-licking scribe, Achnib.

Hasheth pasted a thick mustache onto his lip and slicked back his hair with scented oil. He even swathed his middle with rolls of cloth to help approximate the scribe’s spreading midsection and stuffed a bit of resinous gum between teeth and cheeks to pad his face a bit. When all was in readiness, he slipped from the inn and made his way back to the docks—and to a dark and dangerous tavern at the very edge of the black water.

This drinking hole suited his purpose perfectly. The crudely lettered sign outside labeled it The Race,” a name taken from the channel of swift winds and dangerous waters that led into Firedrake Bay. Those ships that entered Port Kir ran a gauntlet of Nelanther pirates, a few of whom were bold enough to come ashore. Rumor had it that they drank here.

Hasheth found a corner table near some likely-looking toughs, one who sported a beard divided into twin prongs, the other of whom was more or less cleanshaven. A barmaid with an ale-soaked bodice and world-weary eyes came over to take his order.

“Wine, if you please,” he demanded in an imitation of Achnib’s pinched, querulous tones. He dropped his voice a notch or two. “I also need passage to Lantan, if such can be arranged.”

The men at the next table exchanged glances. One of them propped his boots up on the empty chair at Hasheth’s table.

“Couldn’t help overhearing you. Might be that we could do the arranging you were speaking of.”

Hasheth darted wary glances left and right, then leaned forward. “From Zazesspur? I would be grateful to you if this could be arranged, and swiftly.”

“Oh, well, from Zazesapur,” the other man said with more than a bit of sarcasm. “That’s too easy by halt Sure you don’t want to set sail from Evermeet, while you’re at it?”

Tve business to attend in my home city,” Hasheth

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said stiffly. “It should be concluded in ten days or so, and I need to leave quickly upon its conclusion. Can this be done?”

“Maybe, but it’ll cost you. What were you thinking of paying?”

“I will pay you with information,” he said in a low, furtive voice.
Tell me what cargo you prefer, and I can name you a likely ship, tell you her route and the strength of her crew. The merchant vessel will be guarded, but I can find out the name of the armed ship and help you place your own men upon it. Take over the escort ship, and the caravel and her cargo will be yours as well.”

The first pirate picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail as he considered this outrageous scenario. “And how would you be knowing so much? What’s to say that this information you’re eager to pay with is worth more than clay coins?”

Hasheth took a scrap of parchment and a bit of charcoal pencil from the bag tied to his augmented waistline. He scrawled a name and title on the sheet, then passed it to the men. They looked at him and burst into raucous laughter.

“What do you take us for, a coupla priests? Who learns to read but sandal-footed priests and wide-ass clerks?” hooted the bearded pirate. Nonetheless, he picked up the bit of paper and pocketed it, as Hasheth had hoped he might.

“My name is Achnib,” Hasheth said with as much dignity as he thought the man he imitated could muster, “and I am chief scribe to Lord Hhune of Zazesspur.”

“Hmm.” This information seemed to impress the pirate. “But why the ten days, especially?”

“My lord is away on business. It behooves me to remove myself from the city before his return.”

The men chuckled. “Been skimming, have you? Well, Lantan’s a good place to be taking your coins. There’s money to be made in some of them new weapons coming

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out off the island. Get in on the business early, and you’ll likely do well.”

“I require passage, not advice on my investments,” Hasheth said in a haughty tone as he began to rise from his chair. “Do you wish to do business, or shall I look elsewhere?”

“Haul in your sails a might, lad,” the bearded pirate said dryly. “You want to go to Lantan. Tell us what you know, and if it holds water then maybe we can see about getting you there.”

This was precisely what Hasheth had hoped to hear. Let them ask questions about Achnib—the more the better.

When the arrangements were completed, an elated Hasheth made his way back toward the inn to rid himself of his borrowed persona. He was not so enamored of his success, however, that he did not notice the two men lounging against the alley-side wall of a shop. They fell into step behind him, obviously considering the well-dressed and portly young man to be a ripe, easy mark.

Hasheth’s lip curled with disdain. These clods did not even know how to tread silently—the first lesson given to fledgling assassins. He did not slow his pace, did not react at all until their sudden, board-thumping rush began. Then he whirled, tossing his assassin’s knife with a quick, underhand snap. The blade spun once and then sank into one thug’s gut with a wet, meaty thud.

The other man lacked the presence of mind or the rapid reflexes needed to halt his charge. Hasheth let him come, stepping aside at the last moment and extending one rigid forearm, elbow braced against his waist. He caught the second thug slightly below his center. The man’s heavier top half flipped forward over Hasheth’s arm. The thug crashed heavily into the wooden dock, leading with his teeth.

Before the stunned man could move, Hasheth stooped beside him and pulled a rusty, pitted knife from his belt. He snatched a handful of the thug’s greasy hair, yanked

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back his head, pressed the edge of the knife to his throat and then—hesitated.

The young man was pleased that the skills he had learned in his training served him so well on the street. But he was young, and he had yet to kill a man. He glanced at his first victim, noted the red bubbles forming at the corners of the man’s gaping mouth, and knew this would hold true only for a few moments more. But this second man—he was already down and dazed. Was there truly a need to kill twice?

Hasheth needed only a moment to think. He was dressed as Achnib, a man too soft and slow to have done what he himself had just accomplished. If word of his feat should spread, it might jeopardize the plans he had laid this night. The possibility was slight, but it was there. That was enough.

The young man pulled the dagger hard and fast, curving his hand back and around as he had been taught to do. Blood spurted forth in a pulsating geyser, but not so much as a drop of it stained Hasheth’s hands.

Hasheth stood and regarded his handiwork. His time in the assassins’ guild had served him well—not even an assassin of the Shadow Sash rank could have handled this matter more smoothly. It was just as his royal tutors always claimed—no knowledge is truly wasted.

The young man walked the few paces over to the first dead thug and ripped his dagger free. He wiped the blade clean on the corpse’s tunic—or as clean as it was likely to get on the filthy garment—and slipped it back into his belt.

Later, when he reached the solitude of his hired room, he would carve two marks upon it, the first of what Hasheth expected would be many.

Throughout that night and into the next day, Arilyn could think of little but her strange conversation with

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the magical entity of her moonblade. If the elves must fight, and if they would not follow the leaders they had, then would she not have to find them a leader they would follow? Try as she might, she could think of no other solution to the problem.

There was something about Talltrees, however, that acted as a balm to her troubled thoughts. Each day was longer than the one before, and the time of midsummer was fast approaching. The summer solstice was a time of celebration for all elves, but Arilyn had never seen such joyous anticipation as that which gripped the elven settlement.

Twilight of midsummer eve came late and softly, with a deepening of golden green light. With it came those woodland creatures who would celebrate with the elven tribe. There were fauns, small feral folk with wild thatches of hair, furred hindquarters and legs that ended in dainty cloven hooves. Satyrs—larger, more ribald relatives of the fauns—came as well, already full of mead and high spirits. Several centaurs, grave and dignified even in this most joyous season, brought gifts of fruit and flowers to their elven hosts. There were pixies and sprites and other fey creatures for which Arilyn knew no names. And there were others who seemed to be there one moment, and not the next. At midsummer, she reasoned, the walls between the worlds were so thin that even a half-elf might catch glimpses through the veil.

All joined in the feasting and the sharing of summer mead, a wondrous honey wine distilled from flowers and fruit. No green elves kept bees, but they carefully harvested a part of that stored nectar that they found in hollowed trees, adding to it the essence of wild raspberries and elven magic. The result was far from primitive. Arilyn would easily place the mead alongside the best elven wines she had tasted.

At a certain, very prescribed point in the celebration— when the elves were growing merry and before the satyrs were entirely given over to impulse—themid—

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summer prayers were chanted and sung. The elves venerated the Seldarine, particularly the god of the forest, but homage was also paid to the gods of their visitors.

At last the music began. A lilting tune played on panpipes was the traditional invitation to dance. As the merrymakers joined in, so did other instruments: pipes, shaken bells, and pulsing drums.

For a while Arilyn only watched. There had been midsummer festivals in Evereska in the days before her mother’s death, but she had been deemed too young to take part. Nor would she have been welcomed to many of the celebrations. Among the elves there were subtle, sacred overtones to such times that none other could share. Yet there was that about the music that drew her steadily closer to the dancers.

Arilyn had never quite understood the mystic fascination the elven people had with dance, nor was she particularly skilled. Yet at the urging of Hawkwing, her protege turned mentor, she had dressed in a filmy green gown made for dancing away a warm summer’s night. It was by far the loveliest thing Arilyn had ever worn. Gossamer-soft, light enough to float around her as she moved, it captured the clear, fresh green of a perfect summer day. It was also the scantiest costume she had ever put on; the skirts were short, and her arms and legs were bared for dancing. At Hawkwing’s insistence, Arilyn wore a wreath of tiny white flowers in her hair and had left her feet bare. Oddly enough, all the elves were dressed in similar fashion. There was no deerskin tonight, no ornaments of bones or feathers. It seemed as if the folk of Tethir had stepped back for one night into a still more ancient time.

Hawkwing had already joined the dancing, wearing proudly the emerald that had been Arilyn’s midsummer gift to her. Most of the gifts exchanged were simple: fruit or flowers for the most part, but the memory of the purely feminine joy this gift had ignited in the girl-child’s eyes warmed Arilyn still. She worried for the