Silver Shadows (6 page)

“Scant pickings tonight,” observed a whispery voice at Arilyn’s elbow.

The Harper turned to regard the only other female in the assassins’ guild—an exotic beauty who went by the name of Ferret. To Arilyn’s way of thinking, the assassin

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resembled her namesake. The woman was whip-thin and sharp-featured, with black eyes that seemed not quite human, and a long slender nose that lacked only whiskers and a twitch. Remorseless, relentless, she was ferretlike in character as well.

To everyone in the guildhouse, the Ferret was a bit of a mystery. She was never seen without heavy makeup, a tightly wound turban, and gloves. Nor was she ever heard to speak above a whisper. Rumor had it that she’d been disfigured in some accident, but apart from these idiosyncracies there were no apparent flaws in her beauty, which she flaunted by dressing in scant silk garments so tight they appeared to have been painted onto her lithe form. Tonight she wore a gown patterned in jewel-like colors that echoed the resplendent plumage of a peacock. Earrings made from the eyes of a peacock’s tail feathers dangled from her earlobes, the only part of her ears that were visible beneath her cobalt-blue turban.

The Ferret folded her arms and leaned indolently against the doorjamb. “So which job strikes your fancy? The baker, the whore, or the thief?”

“Not the baker,” Arilyn said with a grim smile. Tve tasted his baking. No one should die for insulting it. I say long life to the critic, and may he do better elsewhere.”

“Ah, yes,” Ferret sneered. “The gods forbid you should take the life of an innocent man! By all means, take the second job—watching a harem girl at work could do you nothing but good.”

The Harper shrugged off the insult. It was not the first time Ferret had mocked Arilyn’s esthetics of solitude and chastity. In fact, the assassin’s favorite taunt for her half-elven colleague was “half-woman,” spoken with scathing innuendo.

Ferret, by all reports, had no such scruples. The woman was said to be omnivorous, with an appetite and skills that astonished even those wealthy and jaded

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Zazesspuran noblemen who sought to imitate the pasha by keeping extensive and exotic harems.

Ferret was also very, very good with a blade. Arilyn had wondered more than once why the Ferret had never challenged her. Of all the assassins in the guild, Arilyn thought Ferret the one most likely to successfully relieve her of her Shadow Sash. But the black-eyed woman seemed content with her rank, preferring to spend her time and energy on fee-paying assignments.

And speaking of fees, Arilyn noted that the collector was paying very well for the return of his stolen property. Her expenses had been high of late, so she ripped the third posting from the door. Ferret let out a gasp of mock astonishment. Removing a choice assignment before other assassins had a chance to bid for it was considered a severe breach of guild etiquette.

The only people here are you and I,” Arilyn pointed out, brandishing the paper under Ferret’s long nose. “Do you want this?”

“It’s a job for two, and the fee is certainly high enough to pay for both,” the woman observed coldly, “but you’re welcome to it all the same. Fd sooner take payment in the coin of the harem than partner myself to a half-elf!”

Arilyn bunked, surprised by the venom in the woman’s voice. There were quite a few half-elves in Tethyr, and for the most part they were treated well. Animosity that burned this bright was unusual.

“Suit yourself,” the Harper said as she turned to leave. She had little energy to spare the woman’s prejudices, for there was much to be done: sending a messenger to the collector with a tentative acceptance and a request for more information, finding someone who knew the floor plan of the rival’s palace and who would be willing to sell this information, planning methods of circumventing the guards and magical wards that would certainly protect the treasure. Fortunately, the requested item was small: a silver tiara studded with pale amethysts. It was not always so. Once Arilyn had been

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commissioned to steal back the stuffed and mounted head of a basilisk. That had not been her favorite assignment. On the whole, it would probably have been easier to hunt down and slay a fresh monster.

Tve no use for tiaras, but if you see some nice necklaces or pins, bring me back two or three,” Ferret called after her in a penetrating whisper. “Ill pay you half the market cost of the gems and save you the trouble of finding a fence!”

Arilyn did not answer, for she had no intention of taking anything but the requested item, and she knew from Ferret’s mocking tone that the woman suspected as much. This Arilyn found disturbing. The brief conversation with the exotic assassin had made it plain that, for whatever reason, Arilyn had yet another enemy within the School of Stealth, one who had taken the trouble to observe her closely.

Acting on impulse, the Harper turned and strode from the complex. She had intended to go straight to the women’s guildhouse and make an early night of it. The tasks ahead of her were many and difficult, and she had slept far too little of late. Yet she doubted she’d get any rest this night if she stayed in the Ferret’s den. There were enough coins in her pockets to buy her a room in a modest tavern, and a night’s sleep would be worth every one of them.

“Soon 111 be seeing ogres under every bed and drow in every shadow,” Arilyn observed as she walked, softly repeating the self-mocking phrase she’d used in Tinkersdam’s lair. But she found little comfort in the exercise, for the once-jesting words now held the ring of presentiment and the resonance of a well-timed warning.

The wary Harper took her own advice to heart. As she walked through the lamplit streets of Zazesspur, she weighed every shadow and kept a sword’s reach between herself and each passerby.

It was a lonely and exhausting way to live, perhaps, but Arilyn vastly preferred it to the alternative^Death

was the constant companion of any adventurer. She had danced with it for nearly thirty years without surrendering the lead. Survival was a straightforward matter: one merely had to call the tune, know the floor, and never miss a step.

The analogy brought a faint smile to Arilyn’s lips. She would have to remember that and pass it on to Danilo upon their next meeting. He would seize upon the inadvertent poetry and fashion it into one of his wistful ballads—a song that would never be heard by his frivolous peers. The young man was a prolific amateur composer with two distinct portfolios: a collection of humorous, often bawdy ballads that he performed in the salons and festhalls of Waterdeep, and the thoughtful songs and airs that were his gift to himself. And of himself. Arilyn was not unaware that she was the only person with whom he shared these deeply felt songs. They had spent many evenings beside wilderness campfires, Danilo singing to his lute while Arilyn contemplated the stars, receiving both starlight and music with silent, elven joy.

The measured tread behind her snatched Arilyn from her memories and returned her to the streets of Zazesspur. The cadence of it matched her own quick and long-legged stride, which was usually a sure sign that she was being stalked. Not an assassin this time—a cutpurse, probably, for the man was making no attempt at silence. The best thieves strove to blend with the crowd, depending upon cunning and quickness of hand for success.

Arilyn glanced to her left. Sure enough, a scruffy and ill-dressed man reeled along, holding a half-full bottle of rivengut and muttering thickly to himself. But for all this drunken meanderings, he managed to keep pace with her.

It was a common enough ploy: a pair of cutpurses chose a mark; then one jostled the victim to distract her while the actual theft occurred from behind The counter-strategy was also simple. When the “drunk” reeled toward her, Arilyn

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seized his jerkin and spun him around, then hurled him into the outstretched hands of his cutpurse partner. Both went down heavily, the first man cursing with an articulate fervor that belied his inebriated state.

This “attack” earned Arilyn some dark looks from the other passersby, but no one bothered to challenge or berate her for it. She also noticed that no one made any effort to help the fallen men up, or to inquire after their well-being.

The half-elf continued on her way, and as she walked she tried without success to recapture the dream of the wilderness, the starlight, and the shared solitude. Such moments were becoming harder to grasp with each day she spent among these lawless humans. Soon, she feared, they would be gone past recall, and with them, the meager remnants of her elven soul.

Four

Days passed, and yet Arilyn was no closer to fulfilling her latest contract than she’d been the night she ripped the notice from the council hall door. As luck would have it, the man from whom she was hired to steal was one Abrum Assante, a member of her own alleged profession. Once a master assassin, he had retired from the School of Stealth a few years back to enjoy his hard-earned wealth.

So far the preparations had been far more difficult than Arilyn had anticipated. Not that looting palaces was ever easy—most rich men learned prudence somewhere along the line. A wealthy assassin could be expected to exercise even more caution. Assante had cocooned himself with enough layers of intrigue, might, and magic to discourage all but the most persistent. In her quest to infiltrate the man’s stronghold, Arilyn found herself stretching her previous notions of perseverance beyond recognition.

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Except for Assante’s personal servants—all of whom were carefully sequestered—there was no man or woman alive who knew the palace’s secrets. Arilyn went so far as to search for a few dead servants, for dead men do tell tales, provided one could afford the services of a cleric powerful enough to summon their spirits. The Harper had never before considered such tactics—elves were loath to disturb those who had passed from this life—but there was little information to be found among the living.

A few well-placed bribes gave Arilyn access to the records of various slave traders, which she checked for sales made to Assante over the last twenty years or so. She laboriously compared these names to the records listing those interred in the low-budget crypts reserved for slaves. But none of this paperwork—a task Arilyn despised nearly as much as she disliked the notion of disturbing the dead—yielded much insight. It seemed that none of Abrum Assante’s servants had ever been buried in or around Zazesspur. Either they had somehow achieved immortality, or their bodies had been disposed of inside the palace grounds.

The latter explanation struck Arilyn as a distinct possibility. Assante’s palace, a wonder of pink marble and clever illusions, was a testament to its owner’s wealth and wariness, an enormous vault that held a thousand secrets. The extensive grounds were surrounded by a very high, thick wall that looked relatively easy to scale. This, however, was the first illusion. The wall, near the top, curved gently outward, then jutted straight up in a broad, steeply slanted lip. There was absolutely no handhold, no secure hold beyond for a grappling hook. Arilyn learned that would-be thieves often fell to their deaths on the stone walkways below.

Nor did matters improve inside the courtyard, which was all that most of Assante’s guests ever saw of the complex. After seeking out and questioning many of these visitors—assuming a different disguise fqr each

interview—Arilyn pieced together the disheartening details. Just inside the walls, lining all four sides of the courtyard, were long, shallow reflecting pools. Rumor had it that the placid-looking pools were filled not with water, but a highly corrosive acid. Several visitors, however, reported seeing gliding swans and flowering water plants in the supposedly deadly moat. After considering all the available evidence, Arilyn was betting on the acid.

On one thing all agreed. Four graceful bridges, one on each side of the courtyard, spanned the pools, and beyond each was a glowing azure cloud that dispelled any magical illusions. No one could enter the courtyard without either wading the pools or passing through the mist. This alone was enough to convince the half-elf that the pools were deadly. And after a few mugs of ale, one of Assante’s visitors had confided that he’d seen one of the swans waddle into the mist and disappear. The swan, apparently, was itself no more than an illusion.

Nor were the water plants and swans the courtyard’s only surprise. Most of the garden’s statues and gargoyles came in matched pairs. It was rumored that one of each was either an animated construct or a living creature. No one was certain which was which. The bridges, too, were each flankecl by a pair of identical Calishite guards. This was another small ploy, meant to lull would-be challengers into believing there was but one guard and a magical reflection. In reality, each pair of guards consisted of twin-born brothers, carefully chosen and trained to mirror each other’s movements with uncanny precision—until the moment when it suited them to strike individually and unexpectedly. Assante, as Arilyn had come to know, possessed a very dark and convoluted mind.

The palace itself was a massive, smooth oval: no corners to hide lurkers, no cover of decorative plants around its base, no vines climbing upon its pink walls. Several stories high, it was fashioned after an ancient

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ziggurat—a stepped pyramid of successively receding, oval-shaped stories. Towers and crenelations there were in plenty, but only on the uppermost level. A high, central tower rose from the top floor. The sentries posted there had an unobstructed view of the grounds, the walls, and several blocks of the city that lay beyond. It was one of the strangest, yet one of the most defensible, fortresses Arilyn had ever encountered.

None of the usual assassin’s tricks would work, for Assante knew them all and had no doubt taken every precaution. Magical disguises were useless, for all who crossed the bridges had to pass through the glowing mist that negated magical illusions. There was no way over, around, or through. That, Arilyn surmised, left under.