Элейн Каннингем - Silver Shadows

Moonblade , she corrected him, spelling out the word with emphatic deliberation, but the elf had already turned away and was gesturing excitedly to his partner, a female distinguished by her close-cropped green curls and the gleaming trident she carried. The two carried on a brief discussion, their fingers flashing with a speed Arilyn could not follow. Then the elves gestured that she should follow them.

The Harper sighed, sending a rift of bubbles floating upward, and then began to swim after the sea folk. Arilyn was a strong swimmer, but there was no possible way she could keep pace with these elves. Time and again her escort forgot her limitations and left her behind, only to circle back.

Fortunately, Mist-Walker had not gone far into the bay. By moonrise the trio had the ship in sight. The sea elves bid farewell to their charge and disappeared into the black waters, leaving Arilyn to approach the human vessel alone.

To Arilyn’s surprise, the ship had dropped anchor. That was risky, for even so close to Zazesspur piracy was far from uncommon. She climbed the anchor’s rope and quietly pulled herself over the side of the vessel. As she shook the water from her ears, she heard behind her the unmistakable hiss of steel sliding free of a scabbard.

Her own sword fairly leaped from its sheath. Moonblade held firmly in her two-handed grip, Arilyn whirled to face the challenger.

The swordsman was young—a son of one of the western Moonshae Isles, if his bright red hair and broad, blunt-nosed countenance spoke truth—and he was armed with a two-edged blade and matched dagger common to that area. Arilyn adjusted her grip slightly to prepare for the expected attack. Sure enough, the man feinted low, a common move that would no doubt be followed by a dagger feint and a sweeping overhead sword cut. There were many styles of swordplay among the humans of Faerûn; Arilyn was acquainted with them all.

She parried his sword feint with a hard downward swing that forced the point of his blade to the deck. Before he could bring his dagger into play, she swept the moonblade up and to her right with a force that sent the smaller weapon spinning. At the same time, she stomped down hard on the man’s down-turned blade, wrenching the sword from his hand. The whole exercise took perhaps ten seconds.

For a moment the youth merely stood there, unarmed, too stunned by the pace of the battle to assimilate its results. Then understanding of his fate dawned in his eyes, and he drew breath to shout an alarm before he died.

Arilyn slammed the moonblade back into its sheath and plunged both of her hands into the young man’s bright hair. She yanked him forward, drove her head hard into his forehead, then thrust him away as she pivoted hard to her left. Up came her right knee, slamming hard into his gut. As he folded with a soft “oof!” of surprise and pain, Arilyn changed directions and spun again, bringing her right forearm down hard on the back of his neck. Down he went—senseless, but with no lasting damage.

“A shame,” observed a deep, faintly amused voice behind her. “And me having such high hopes for the lad. He hasn’t his father’s luck with the ladies, that’s for sure and certain.”

Arilyn spun and looked up into the bewhiskered face of the captain. “Oh, no. Not your son?”

“Maiden voyage,” agreed Macumail with a wry grin, “and you should pardon the expression. Don’t look so worried. The lad is well enough, though he’ll have Umberlee’s own tempest raging in his head come morning. Let him sleep it off, while we speak of other matters. My cabin?”

Arilyn nodded and allowed the captain to lead her into an usually large and luxurious cabin furnished with an enormous bed sufficient to Macumail’s size and girth, a brass-bound chest, a small writing table, and a pair of chairs. As Arilyn took a seat, she was suddenly conscious of the puddle her dripping clothes left on Macumail’s Turmish carpet.

“Drink this. It’ll help stave off the chill,” the captain said cheerfully as he handed her a goblet of wine.

She accepted it and sipped, then placed the goblet on the sea chest. “I’ve reconsidered your offer.”

“I was hoping you might,” he said with equal candor and then grinned. “You charmed word of my whereabouts from our little friend Suldusk, I take it?”

Arilyn shrugged away his teasing. Her methods had been abrupt, even by her standards, but the stakes in her quest were too high, and too personal, to allow room for regrets or time for diplomacy.

“Would you carry my answer—and my terms—to Amlaruil of Evermeet? And can you duplicate her commission? I’m in a hurry, but I’ll need as good a forgery as you can manage.”

“No need for that,” Macumail said. He took a sheet of parchment from the pile on his writing table and handed it to her. Arilyn scanned the Elvish script; it seemed to be a duplicate of the document she had destroyed.

“The genuine article,” the captain avowed. “Lady Laeral insisted that I carry a spare copy or two. And as for terms, the queen has authorized me to promise, on her behalf, any payment you might request.”

“Such wisdom and foresight,” Arilyn murmured dryly, still studying the parchment in her hands. “I’m seldom paid with blank promissory notes, though the benefits of time saved should be apparent to all.”

When she was satisfied that the elven queen’s offer was genuine and that all was in order, Arilyn put the parchment on the table and lifted her eyes to her host. “Can you take me back to Zazesspur? At once?”

In response, Macumail rose from his chair and tugged at the bellpull hanging against one polished wall. “My dear lady, I am entirely at your service. You know, of course, that the docks are chained off until dawn.”

“Dawn’s good,” Arilyn agreed.

“There is a cabin next to mine. It is empty this voyage, and you are more than welcome to rest there. You might find some dry garments in the large sea chest that will do until morning. If you need anything else, you’ve only to ask.”

Arilyn’s face relaxed into a grateful smile, one that transformed her face and brought an answering—and familiar—spark to the captain’s blue eyes.

The half-elf suppressed a sigh. Perhaps the captain was acting at the behest of the elven queen, but by all reports his fondness for elf women did not begin and end with Amlaruil. It did not surprise Arilyn to hear that the guest cabin boasted a feminine wardrobe, and she did not doubt that she would find a number of garments that would fit her elven frame. Rumors suggested that the green elf druid was not the only elf woman who had found a place in Macumail’s heart. Furthermore, the glint in his eyes suggested he would not be averse to adding a half-elf to his collection of fondly held memories. Not wishing to pursue this path, Arilyn thanked her host and rose to follow the cabin boy who came promptly to the ring of Macumail’s bell.

The captain watched her go and waited until he heard the bolt of her cabin door slide shut. Then he seated himself at his writing table and took up the parchment Arilyn had left there. Slowly, laboriously, he read the Elvish script to the place where the queen’s ambassador was named.

Macumail opened a small drawer beneath his table and took from it a tiny bottle of ink. It was of elven make, a rare deep-purple hue fashioned from a mixture of berries and flowers that grew only on Evermeet. Carefully he unstoppered the bottle and dipped a quill into the precious fluid. With painstaking care, he added a few tiny curves and lines to the Elvish script.

It was fortunate, Macumail thought as he sprinkled the parchment with drying powder, that the Elvish words for Moonblade and Moonflower were so similar in appearance.