Songs & Swords 1 (27 page)

“I will.” Arilyn rose and extended her left palm to the moon elf. “Thank you for your help.”

“At your service,” he said, laving his palm briefly over hers. The half-elf walked to the back door, trailed by Danilo.

At the doorway, Arilyn turned back to Elaith. “One more thing: when we met in the House of Good Spirits, you mistook me for Z’beryl.”

“That is so.”

“Yet you called me by another name.”

“Did I?” Elaith shrugged as if the matter was of no consequence and turned to Danilo. “Oh, by the way, I’ve made arrangements to have you killed. Just in case I’m unable to rescind my request, you may wish to take extra precautions.”

Danilo’s eyes bulged. “By the way?” he repeated in disbelief.

The elf seemed to enjoy the dandy’s befuddlement. “I suggested the idea to an old acquaintance of mine, and he agreed to see to it.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to name that old acquaintance?” Arilyn asked. The moon elf merely raised one eyebrow, and Arilyn shrugged. “Just tell me one thing. Is he a Harper?”

Elaith laughed. “Most definitely not.”

The half-elf nodded and abandoned that line of inquiry. “By the way, why did you want Danilo killed?”

“By the way,” Danilo echoed in a dazed voice. “There’s that phrase again.”

“I don’t particularly like him,” the elf told Arilyn casually, as if that were reason enough. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do before this evening.”

Arilyn grabbed Danilo’s arm and dragged him out of the Hidden Blade. Evening was nearing, and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows. The dandy looked about nervously. “You don’t think the elf was serious, do you?” he asked when they were once again in the safety of the crowded street.

“Of course he was, but I’m sure we can handle whatever his ‘old acquaintance’ throws our way,” Arilyn said evenly, setting as brisk a pace as the crowded street allowed. Danilo’s distressed expression did not fade, so she added, “Why so glum? Hasn’t anyone tried to kill you before now?”

Danilo sniffed. “Of course. I’ve just never been disliked before now. Well, what’s next? Check into the moon elf’s old acquaintance, I suppose?”

“No. An adventurer such as Elaith would not live long if he revealed the names of his associates,” Arilyn pointed out. “It would do little good, anyway. The assassin is probably within the Harper ranks.”

“You said that before,” Danilo noted. “Why?”

Because Harpers and their allies work to maintain the Balance, Arilyn thought. Aloud she said, “Like I told you before, Harpers are a secret organization, yet the assassin knows the identity of his victims.”

“The assassin also knows a lot about you, it would seem,” Danilo said. “I don’t understand why someone in the Harpers would do such a thing, or why he would go to such lengths to make you look like the Harper Assassin.”

“Neither do I,” said Arilyn.

“So what do we do now? Now that Elaith is no longer suspect, we’ve run out of places to look.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure the assassin gets back on our trail,” Arilyn said. A slender, black-robed mage brushed past Danilo, and the half-elf’s eyes lit up. “Tymora’s luck might yet be with us,” she said softly. “See that young man carrying the huge book? We’re going to follow him.”

“Why?” Danilo fell in beside Arilyn as she wove through the crowds.

“I’m going to let the assassin know where to find me.”

“Oh. Why are you still wearing that disguise, then?”

“Elaith said that the Harpers suspect me. I’ve got to keep out of sight until I find the assassin and clear my name.”

“Ah. What should I do?”

The young mage slipped into a tavern by the name of the Drunken Dragon, Arilyn and Danilo close on his heels. “Have dinner,” the half-elf suggested. Obligingly, Danilo found a table near the front door and dropped into a seat.

While pretending to watch an ongoing game of darts, Arilyn observed the black-robed mage as he settled himself at a table. He pulled a bottle of ink and a quill from his bag, then opened his book and began to write. Every now and then he would look up, staring into space and absently chewing the end of his quill, then again take to scribbling.

Arilyn pushed through the crowded room toward the young man’s table. On the way, she relieved a passing serving wench of her tray, slipping the servant the price of the ale plus an extra silver coin. The girl pocketed the money, dimpling flirtatiously at the handsome lad Arilyn appeared to be. Having become accustomed to such responses to this particular disguise, Arilyn merely gave the girl a roguish wink and continued on her way.

“May I join you?” she asked the mage, holding out the ale-laden tray.

“Why not? Good company and free ale are always welcome,” came the response. He took a mug from the tray Arilyn offered him, drained it, and then gestured toward the book that was prominently displayed before him. “I welcome a diversion from my work. It’s not going well tonight.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arilyn replied, sitting down and taking the cue that the young man so obviously supplied. “What are you working on? Is that a spellbook?”

Beaming with the pride of a father displaying his firstborn son, the young man pushed the tome toward Arilyn. “No. It’s a collection of my poetry.”

The half-elf opened the book and leafed through it. Written on its pages in slanted, spidery script was some of the most execrable verse she had ever encountered.

“Not my best work,” the youth disclaimed modestly.

Even without seeing his best efforts, Arilyn was inclined to believe him. She had read more edifying poetry on the walls of public conveniences.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she lied heartily as she tapped the page, her thoughts drifting back to a certain battle on the Marshes of Chelimber. “This ballad in particular seems quite stirring. If ever you decide to set any of your work to music, I know of a suitable bard.” She cast a quick glance at Danilo. He was busily charming a serving wench whose overstated curves strained the lacings of her bodice. Arilyn sniffed. The girl looked like a two-pound sausage stuffed into a half-pound casing.

“A ballad, you say?” The young man brightened at the perceived praise. “I had never thought of doing that,” he marveled. “Do you really think some of these poems would make songs?”

Arilyn dragged her gaze back to the young mage. “Why not? I’ve surely heard worse.”

“Hmmm.” He pondered that for a moment, then stuck out his hand in a belated gesture of introduction. “Thank you for the suggestion, my friend. My name is Coril.”

“Well met, Coril. I’m Tomas,” Arilyn replied, clasping the offered hand. She already knew the young man’s identity. As well as a terrible poet and minor mage, Coril was an agent of the Harpers. Reputed to be a shrewd observer of people, Coril was employed to gather and pass on information.

“So, Tomas, what brings you here?” Coril asked, helping himself to another mug of ale.

Arilyn waved her own mug in a nonchalant arch. “The festival, of course.”

“No, I mean what brings you here, to this table?” persisted Coril.

“Oh, I see. I need some information.”

The Harper’s face hardened almost imperceptibly. “Information? I’m not sure I can help you.”

“Oh, but surely you can,” Arilyn insisted, painting disappointment and dismay on her face. “You are a mage, are you not?”

“I am,” allowed Coril, somewhat mollified. “What do you need?”

Arilyn unbuckled her swordbelt and laid the sheathed moonblade on the table. The task she intended to place before Coril would surely fall beyond the mage’s limited abilities. “There’s some writing on this scabbard. It’s supposed to be magic. Can you read it?” Arilyn asked.

Coril bent forward and examined the marks with great interest. “No,” he admitted, “but if you wish, I can cast a comprehend language spell on them.”

Arilyn feigned relief and gratitude. “Such a thing can be done?”

“For a price, yes.”

Arilyn fished several copper coins from her pocket. The sum, although paltry, would represent a small fortune to “Tomas.” It was too little for even such a simple spell, but offering any more might raise suspicions. So she held out the money and asked eagerly, “Will this be enough?”

Coril hesitated for only a moment, then he nodded and gathered up the coins. He drew out a mysterious substance from some corner of his robes and hunkered down over the sword, muttering the words of the spell.

Arilyn waited through the spellcasting, confident that the mage would fail. Early in Arilyn’s training, Kymil Nimesin had sought to decipher the runes through both magic and scholarship. If Kymil’s powerful elven magic could not read the ancient, arcane form of Espruar, Coril’s spellcasting had no chance of success.

Her purpose in showing the rare sword to Coril was to send a message to the assassin. Since Coril was a conduit for information to the Harpers and the assassin was likely someone within the Harper ranks, word of the moonblade might reach him and put him again on Arilyn’s trail. She’d lost the assassin back at the House of Fine Spirits due to Danilo’s cowardly pretense, and now she would lure him back with a ruse of her own.

After several minutes, Coril looked up, puzzled. “I cannot read all of it,” he admitted to Arilyn.

“What?”

Coril’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the youth’s sharp tone. “There seems to be magical wards on most of these runes against such spells,” he said defensively. “Very powerful wards.”

“But you can read some of it?” Arilyn persisted.

“Just this.” With one slender finger Coril traced the lowest rune, a small mark about two-thirds down the scabbard.

“What does it say?” Arilyn demanded.

” ‘Elfgate.’ And this one up here says ‘elfshadow.’ That’s all I can read.” He looked sharply at Arilyn. “How did you happen to come by an enspelled sword?”

“I won it in a game of dice,” Arilyn said ruefully. “The former owner swore to me that the marks on the sword would give the location of a great treasure, if only I could find a mage to read the runes for me. Are you sure there’s nothing on there about a treasure?”

“Very. Nothing I can read, at least.”

Arilyn shrugged. “Well, then I guess I lost that bet after all. Next time I’ll know better than to take my winnings in magic swords.”

Her explanation seemed to satisfy Coril. The young mage looked sympathetic, although not sufficiently so to offer to return the fistful of coppers to the disappointed lad.

Still stunned by Coril’s revelation, Arilyn thanked the mage and slipped out of the tavern. Her mind reeled with questions. What was an elfgate, and what was an elfshadow? Why had Kymil not told her of either?

She circled around to the back of the inn, intending to rid herself of her disguise. A large barrel of rainwater stood by the kitchen door. Arilyn discarded her cap and work gloves, then washed the dark stain from her face with the icy water.

It was time to become an elf again. Arilyn took from her bag another tiny jar, this one filled with an iridescent cream. She spread it over her face and hands, and her skin took on the golden hue of a high elf. Her hair she shook out free and full, then tucked it back so her pointed ears would be obvious.

Gripping the moonblade, she formed a mental image of an elven cleric of Mielikki, goddess of the forest. It was a simple illusion, requiring only that her blue tunic take on the appearance of a long red and white silk tabard and the moonblade itself become a nondescript staff such as any cleric might carry. The illusion was complete in the span of a heartbeat. Arilyn adjusted the tabard so that the unicorn-head symbol of the goddess lay properly over her heart, then she returned to the tavern.

Arilyn had long ago learned that elaborate physical changes were not necessary for an effective disguise. Her regular features and an unusually mobile face made her a natural chameleon and the moonblade’s illusion power provided her with any necessary costume, but the transformation from human lad to elven cleric was achieved largely in matters of speech, stance, and movement. No one could note the cleric’s distinctive elven grace and equate her with the heavy-footed lad who had just left the inn.

So it was that Arilyn glided back into the Drunken Dragon with confidence. She seated herself at the table next to Coril, not drawing a second glance from the mage she had spoken with only minutes before. She ordered dinner and a glass of wine and made a pretense of eating.

Arilyn hadn’t long to wait. Shalar Simgulphin, a bard reputed to be a member of the Harpers, entered the tavern and joined Coril. Arilyn eagerly eavesdropped upon their conversation as she sipped her wine.

“Greetings, Coril. What brings you to the Drunken Dragon?” Shalar said, slipping into a chair and acting as if theirs was a chance meeting.

Coril shrugged. “It is a good place for watching people,” he said in a noncommittal tone.

The bard’s voice dropped. “And what have you seen?”

“Everything and nothing.” Coril again shrugged. “I see much, but I have not the means to make sense of it all.”

A small bag changed hands under the table. “Perhaps this will help,” Shalar noted, adding, “There is a little extra this month.”

“As there should be,” Coril said. “Festival expenses are high. The costs are already being tallied,” he added significantly.

Shalar sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re speaking of Rhys Ravenwind?”

“And others,” Coril added in a dark voice. “The assassin struck again, shortly after daybreak.”

“Who?”

“The man has used many names, but most recently he was known as Elliot Graves,” responded Coril.

Arilyn’s goblet slipped from her fingers, and its contents spilled unheeded onto the table. She had brought this upon her friends. Elliot Graves’s death was on her hands, as surely as if she had killed the man with her own sword. Fighting despair, Arilyn mopped at the spilled wine with a linen napkin an attentive servant brought her, and she forced herself to attend to Coril’s next words.

“Graves was a former adventurer, now a servant in the house of—”

“Yes, yes, I know of him,” the bard broke in impatiently. “How did it happen?”