Элейн Каннингем - Silver Shadows

“How is this done? Magic?”

Tinkersdam responded with a derisive sniff. This was an attitude Arilyn could appreciate. She herself had more faith in the alchemist’s inventions than in the caprices of magic. Besides, the forest elves would sense a magical illusion more quickly than a mechanical one. Arilyn had not yet decided whether or not to attempt the mission into the forest, but of one thing she was certain: if she succeeded, it would be in no small part due to Tinkersdam’s devices.

Posing as an elf was no problem for Arilyn—at least, not for short periods of time. In many ways she favored her mother’s race, from her distinctively elven eyes to the preternatural speed of her sword play. Her pearly skin and raven-black hair were common to moon elves, and her slender form was that of an elf—although at three inches short of six feet she was far taller than most. The constant stress and struggle of her tenure in Zazesspur’s assassins’ guild had left her as finely drawn as any moon elf alive. While elven faces tended to be quite angular, hers was a smooth oval, but her ears were nearly as pointed as those of a full-blooded elf, and her features were delicate and sharp. There were little things, however, that could give her away. Not the least of these was the fact that she slept. Elves, as a rule, did not.

Most of Toril’s elves found repose in a deep, meditative state known as reverie. Arilyn had never been able to enter reverie, and when passing as an elf she had to go to extreme lengths to get the necessary rest. This mask was such a ploy. Since no elf would approach another elf in reverie except in the direst of emergencies, she could put on the mask and sleep beneath it, undisturbed.

A sharp pop interrupted her thoughts. Arilyn spun to see a tendril of black smoke wafting toward the top of the cave. Tinkersdam was neither hurt nor perturbed by this development. He regarded the smoking contents of his skillet with satisfaction, then seized a funnel and carefully poured the liquid into a glass vial.

“That should do the trick,” he said happily. At last raising his eyes to Arilyn, he inquired, “Do you sing?”

The Harper blinked. “I don’t make a habit of it.”

“A pity.” Tinkersdam stroked his bald chin and mused. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. Reaching confidently into the general debris of the table behind him, he pulled from the pile the lid of a large pot. He poured a single drop of the still-steaming fluid onto the metal and then lifted the lid into a shield-guard position.

“Be so kind as to strike,” he requested. When she hesitated, he pointed out, “The potion did no damage to a tin lid. It is unlikely to harm an elven sword!”

Seeing the logic in this, Arilyn drew her moonblade and obligingly smacked the flat of it against the makeshift shield. Immediately a deep, ringing sound rolled through the cavern, like the tolling of a giant bell might sound to someone who stood in the bell tower directly below it.

The Harper swore and clapped both hands to her sensitive ears. Tinkersdam, however, merely beamed, even though the vibrations from the “shield” ran up his arms and set his pair of chins aquiver.

“Oh, excellent! A fine result,” he shouted happily.

Still smiling broadly, Tinkersdam tossed aside the lid, then stoppered the vial with a cork and handed it to Arilyn. “You might find a use for this in your travels. Don’t drink it,” he cautioned her loudly. “At least, not on an empty stomach. Rumblings, you know.”

Since the rejoinder that came to Arilyn’s mind paled before this latest absurdity, she merely took the vial and gingerly tucked it into her pack. “The other things?” she requested, shouting to be heard above the ringing in her ears.

“Most of them,” the alchemist agreed in kind. He bustled over to the far side of the cavern and took a large, paper-wrapped bundle from a pile of similar packages. “This one is yours. I added a few new devices for you to test. Do tell me how they turn out.”

Arilyn noted the insignia of Balik—the family name of Zazesspur’s ruling pasha—adorning several of the packages. “Hasheth has been here, I see.”

“Yes, indeed. Fine lad,” the alchemist commented.

The Harper was not so sure she agreed with that assessment. Granted, the young Prince Hasheth had proven to be a valuable contact. Through him Danilo had gained access to the palace, and she herself had received much useful information about Zazesspur. It was Hasheth who had helped her set up Tinkersdam in a wondrous workshop hidden in the mountains overlooking the city, and who continued to supply the alchemist with needed ingredients, often at his own expense. Yet Arilyn could not forget the particulars of their first meeting: Hasheth had been a student assassin, and she had been his assigned prey. Although the young prince had opened a door for her into the closely held assassins’ guild and had since moved on to sample several other professional endeavors, the half-elf did not miss the predatory gleam in his black eyes whenever he regarded her.

Or perhaps she was simply becoming too accustomed to expecting the worst wherever she looked. “Soon I’ll be seeing ogres under every bed and drow in every shadow,” she muttered.

“That happened to me once,” Tinkersdam commiserated. Apparently, his hearing slipped back into the normal range with amazing speed. “Fumes, you know. I was swatting at invisible stirges for days.”

Arilyn sighed and shouldered her package. “I was offered another assignment. I might be going away for a while.”

“Oh? We’re moving again?”

It was not an unreasonable question. An explosion in Suzail a few years back had destroyed a hefty portion of a castle belonging to an influential nobleman and forced Tinkersdam into hiding. Rather than hunt him down whenever she needed him, Arilyn found it worth her while to locate the alchemist near her current base of operations. She paid most of his expenses through the fees she earned adventuring for the Harpers and considered every copper well spent.

“You can stay here until I return. If you need anything, contact Hasheth.”

“Fine lad,” Tinkersdam repeated. “Although I do hope he stays close to Zazesspur. I’m not precisely welcome in Saradush, Ithmong, or Myratma,” he confided, naming the rest of Tethyr’s major cities.

Arilyn sighed again. “Tell me, Tinkersdam, is there any city on Toril that you haven’t blown up at least a portion of?”

“Zhentil Keep,” the alchemist responded without a moment’s hesitation. “But of course, that would take a far braver man than I.”

The comment surprised a chuckle from the Harper. “Almost sorry to hear it,” she said with a wry grin. “If any city needs a bit of forceful housecleaning, it’s that one.”

“Well, someone will get around to it sooner or later,” Tinkersdam said absently, his large green eyes roving to the glowing substance popping and bubbling in a large caldron. “Now, if you will excuse me …”

Taking the hint, Arilyn left the cavern and began the ride back to the city. She pressed her mare hard, for she wished to be in the School of Stealth’s council hall before moonrise. With the coming of night, new commissions were posted, and assassins came to bid on choice jobs. At no other time did Arilyn receive so much useful information on the underside of Zazesspurian politics.

She rode through the main gate of the complex at dusk. Tossing her reins to the stableboy who ran to greet her, she hurried to the council hall and scanned the bits of parchment nailed to the door. There was nothing of great interest: some baker wished to avenge an insult dealt to his pastry; a harem girl was willing to pay in trade for the death of a self-avowed and apparently spurious eunuch; a wealthy collector wanted a piece of stolen property retrieved from the treasure house of a rival.