Songs & Swords 1 (9 page)

“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 proud 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 slipped 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 Faerun 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.”