Silver Shadows (17 page)

Leaving his midsection conveniently unguarded.

Arilyn doubled her free hand into a fist and drove it hard into a point slightly below his rib cage. Danilo folded and went down like a felled oak.

As the winded nobleman struggled to draw breath, the half-elf stooped and twisted the ring of teleportation on his hand that would send him back to Waterdeep and safety.

He lunged for her wrist, obviously intending to drag her along, but Arilyn was already on her feet. The moon-bladej glowing the intense blue that warned of approaching battle, hissed free from her scabbard as Danilo faded from view, one hand outstretched for her and naked anguish written on his face.

Although she’d seen no other way to save her would-be lover, Arilyn’s necessary act of treachery left her feeling shaken and strangely empty. She took a long, ragged breath and turned to face the trio of Tethyrian assassins, feeling a certain grim comfort at the thought of impending battle.

That, at least, was something she understood.

Eight

The spider-silk rope swayed as Ferret worked her way down toward the Harper’s open window, cursing silently as she went.

The female assassin had encountered many frustrations during her _____ sojourn in Zazesspur, not the least of which was the odd fact that under Pasha Balik’s rule, men enjoyed social dominance. It was, in her opinion, a folly beyond comprehension. Ferret only hoped this bit of stupidity didn’t cause her to lose her quarry! Had she gone first, she’d be down already, and her task would be done. But no—the two men had to proceed her.

For a moment Ferret entertained the idea of stomping on the head of the man below her and knocking him off the rope. She would have done so gladly, but for the fact that he was unlikely to oblige her by failing to his death in silence!

Indeed, only the need for stealth had kept her from battling the two other assassins who had converged, on

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the rooftop with such inconvenient speed. All three had realized the folly of such action, and they’d agreed to cooperate for a quick kill and a share of the reward. But once they were all within Danilo Thann’s chamber, Ferret would gladly turn her blade against them to defend the man she had been hired to kill. Perhaps doing so would pique the Harper’s interest and convince him to listen to her tale and perhaps to help her.

Seeking aid from humans and Harpers! Ferret could think of no surer sign of her desperation than this.

But what else was she to do? Her skills were many and considerable, but there were things at work in Zazesspur that she simply could not comprehend. A chance-heard tavern song had sparked an idea: who better to solve this puzzle than a Harper, a member of that legendary tribe of spies, informants, and meddlers? It was unfortunate that a contract had been placed upon this particular Harper, for if Danilo Thann bred true to type, he would surely be able to find his way to the source of the problem. That was all Ferret needed. She knew what had to be done, but she needed to know who to do it to!

At last the first of the male assassins ducked in through the Harper’s window. Ferret heard his startled oath and then the first bright clash of steel on steel. She prodded the man below her with her boot.

“Hurry, or Samir will make the kill by himself and claim the full reward,” she demanded, apwkittg the words most likely to coax haste from the assassin.

Her reasoning was sound; the avaricious man slid the rest of the way down the rope and virtually dove into the room.

With her way now clear, Ferret let go of the rope and fell the last several feet. As she passed the open window, she grabbed the sill and pulled herself up to it with all her might. She tumbled through, tucked her head down, rolled into the room, and came up on her feet, a long dagger already in her hand. Ready—or so she thought—for anything.

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The sight before her stole her breath and froze her feet to the lush carpet.

An eldritch blue light filled the room, tossing the dancing shadows of three fighters against every wall of the chamber. The source of the light was a living moonblade, and it was held in the two hands of a half-elven assassin.

Like a hero from some ancient elven legend, Arilyn stood firm against her two attackers, beating back every thrust and slash of their wickedly curved scimitars. Her magical sword flashed and spun, leaving dizzy ribbons of blue light to mark its path.

A moonblade, Ferret thought dazedly. A true, living moonblade!

She knew the half-elf carried such a sword and even presumed to take her name from it, but Ferret had assumed the weapon had been dormant for centuries, and that Arilyn had purchased it from some ignorant peddler, or plundered it from some ancient elven tomb. Moonblades were hereditary swords of fearsome magic, and according to legend, none but moon elves of true blood and noble spirit could wield them. To see such a weapon in the hands of a half-elf-—and a hired killer— raised implications that staggered Ferret’s imagination.

Just then Arilyn’s blazing eyes settled on the new intruder. Instinctively Ferret lifted her dagger into a defensive position.

Just in time. With the speed of a striking snake, the half-elf whirled on the nearest man and feinted high. As he lifted his blade, she spun away in a quick, tight circle and then ducked in under her opponent’s defensive parry. She lunged past him toward the female assassin, her glowing sword leading with deadly intent.

The elven sword struck Ferret’s parrying dagger with a force that sent bright sparks of pain dancing up her arm to explode in her head like festival fireworks. The half-elf s intent was apparent: in a battle against greater odds, it was wise to eliminate the most danger—

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ous opponent first, and quickly. In some corner of her mind, Ferret reminded herself that a moonblade could not shed innocent blood. She was not, however, convinced of her safety. The path she had taken was a need-j ed thing, but it may have tarnished her in the sentient ‘ sword’s perception.

Fortunately for her, the two men recovered from their surprise and closed in on the half-elf. They charged at her, scimitars aloft, fueling their attack with yells of bloodlust. Without turning, Arilyn lifted her moonblade high overhead and met the first downward strike. At the same time she kicked forward; her booted foot caught Ferret in the gut with a force that folded the smaller female over and sent her staggering back into a table. In the next heartbeat the half-elf pivoted, using the momentum of her turn to press the joined blades toward the second attacker. The three swords met with a ringing clash. Arilyn pulled hers free of the tangle and danced back. Her gaze again settled upon the female.

Ferret saw her own death in the half-elf s eyes and knew that her next action would either be brilliant, or it would be her last.

The ache in the assassin’s lower ribs gave her inspiration: she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood.

Pressing one hand against her rib cage, Ferret let out a groan. As she did, bloody foam spilled onto her lips. She wiped it off, regarded her hand with dawning horror, and then fixed a venomous glare upon the half-elf. Slowly, she slid down, the table’s edge scraping her back, until she lay crumpled on the floor, clutching her ribs and moaning softly. Seeing that the female was down for good, Arilyn turned away to face the other assassins.

Ferret was not surprised that the half-elf accepted her performance as genuine. In her time as an assassin, Ferret had seen enough men die, in enough ways, to know exactly what the process looked like. A kick like that could have broken a rib, which in turn could have

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pierced a lung. Death by drowning was the inevitable, albeit slow, result of such an injury. But what did surprise Ferret was the flash of compassion that came into Arilyn Moonblade’s eyes as she realized the manner of death she had dealt. It was just as well for Ferret that the half-elf was otherwise engaged, or she might well have granted her fallen adversary a quick and merciful end.

Better die quickly, Ferret admonished herself with a touch of grim humor.

Lying as still as she could, the assassin closed her eyes to mere slits and watched the battle from beneath the thick curtain of her lashes.

Ferret had to admit that her half-elven enemy was brilliant in battle. She had never seen anyone who possessed a surer knowledge of the sword. Yet much of what Arilyn did seemed to be pure instinct. She seemed to sense when and how the next strike would come, and she was quick enough to keep a step ahead of both her opponents.

In fact, the speed and force of her strike seemed all out of proportion with her size. Granted, the half-elf was tall, and her slender form had an elf s surprising resilience and strength, but those things could not account for the power of her fighting. Ferret wondered what secrets lay behind the glowing aura of the half-elf s moonblade.

Just then Arilyn’s sword dove in past Samir’s guard and buried itself in his throat. She pulled the moonblade down hard, thrusting deeper as she went, sweeping through bone and sinew with terrifying ease. Ferret suppressed a wince as the elven blade cleaved the man from gizzard to groin.

Seeing an opportunity in his comrade’s death, the other man grinned wolfishly and raised his scimitar high overhead for the killing strike. To add force to the blow—and perhaps in unconscious imitation of his half-elven foe—he gripped the blade with both hands and began the downward slash. ^

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But his intended victim had other plans. Arilyn tore the blade free of the assassin’s body and continued its downward cut. The sword gained momentum as she traced a sweeping circle back and around. As the elven sword reached the zenith of its swing, Arilyn spun to face the surviving assassin and stepped hard into the attack.

The two blades met with a shriek of metal. Arilyn ducked aside instinctively as jagged shards flew from the man’s ruined scimitar.

With a hiss of rage, the assassin lunged at her with the ragged stub of blade that remained to him, apparently hoping to catch her while she was still off-balance.

The half-elf nimbly sidestepped the attack. She pivoted in a quick circle and brought the flat of her sword down hard on the man’s outstretched arm, striking him just below the elbow. Immediately she dropped to one knee, using the moonblade as a lever and forcing the man’s elbow to bend down. The jagged end of his blade turned upward; the momentum of his charge did the rest. The assassin stumbled forward as the broken scimitar plunged through his own throat.

Arilyn rose, sliding the bloody moonblade from the crook of the dead man’s arm. The sword’s magical blue fire slowly faded away, apparently quenched by the blood it had shed. The half-elf stooped and wiped the blade clean on the fallen assassin’s shirt, then slid the sword firmly into its ancient scabbard.

Without a backward glance, she turned and strode to the open window. She climbed up the rope, hand over hand, and disappeared into the night sky.

For several silent moments Ferret lay where she had fallen, busily sorting through all she had seen. Very little of it made sense to her.

Arilyn was half-elven, yet she possessed a moonblade. She had taken an assassin’s path, yet the sword continued to do her bidding. Was it possible the sword’s magic had somehow been perverted to evil? Or was Arilyn,

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like Ferret herself, something very different from what she appeared to be?

And what of Danilo Thann? According to the intelligence Ferret had gathered, the nobleman was in the Purple Minotaur. Minutes before, she herself had heard his voice lifted in song. Where, then, had he gone? And what part did Arilyn play in this mystery?

Of one thing Ferret was certain: she needed the Harper, and if he was still within her reach she would find him-It grated on the proud female that the key to her success seemed to be in the hands of the half-breed fighter.

When she judged the time to be right, Ferret rose and crept silently to the window. The rope was gone, of course, and so was the half-elf.

No matter. Ferret was no stranger to climbing, and her slender, nimble fingers could find a hold in nearly any surface. She was also a hunter who could track a hare through the densest thicket or follow a squirrel’s path through the forest canopy. No mere half-elf could elude her, not even in the relatively unfamiliar terrain of this crowded human city.

Setting her jaw in a determined angle, the female slipped from the window and followed Arilyn out into the night.

“A dream,” muttered Prince Hasheth, trying to dismiss the faint, insistent thumping that roused him from slumber. He rolled over and buried deeper into his pillows, imperiously willing sleep to return and the annoying dream to vanish.

But no, there was that sound again, and it was coming from the secret door that led into his chamber. Hasheth listened and recognized the rhythm of an agreed-upon signal.

Grumbling and still drowsy, he batted aside the fi]my

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curtains surrounding his bed. He stumbled over to the hearth and pressed the latch hidden among the stones. As he expected, the half-elven Harper burst into the room as the heavy door swung open. Judging from the look in her eyes and the grim set of her face, Hasheth doubted that she had come to take him up on his offer of an evening’s entertainment.

“If s time,” Arilyn said. “I leave Zazesspur now.”

“First thing in the morning,” Hasheth agreed, responding to the urgency in her voice.

“No. Now.”

The prince threw both hands into the air and cast an exasperated glare skyward, but he knew better than to argue with Arilyn Moonblade. Young though he might be, he was quickly learning how to measure the men— and the women—around aim. Hasheth would no sooner try to reason with this headstrong woman than he would attempt to discuss philosophy with a camel.

And he had agreed to help her—he’d even seen to most of the preparations. Honoring his word was important. Hasheth knew that the measure of a man was not necessarily the sharpness of his blade or his wit, not the sum of the wealth he possessed or the rank he could claim. The true measure of a man was the weight his word carried. Someday, Hasheth planned to wield enough power to send men into frenzied compliance to his every command. For the present, and with this woman, he wished to be known as a man of honor, a trusted and important part of her interesting, clandestine plans. And besides, Lord Hhune had bid him to gain the trust of the Harpers.