Elaine Cunningham: Elfshadow

"No," Arilyn said quickly. The lecherous expression on the man's loathsome face raised her bile. After his comment about her lineage, she wouldn't have had anything do to with him even if he'd been as handsome and virtuous as the elflord Erlan Duirsar.

"Your loss." He shrugged, then held up the piwafwi again. "Do you want the cape, or not?"

Arilyn hesitated. She had assumed many identities in her career, and on one occasion she'd had to disguise herself as a dark elf to join a renegade band of drow mercenaries. It was not a pleasant memory. The drow, if possible, were worse than the Zhentarim. Once the assignment was over, it had taken her hours to wash the ebony stain from her skin and days to banish the pervasive sense of evil from her soul.

"Squeamish?" he taunted.

"Not really. I'm just wondering how you can part with such a sentimental token," she said coldly.

The Zhentishman responded with a grin. "Why not? I've got some real interesting battle scars to remember her by."

"Ten gold pieces for the cape?" Arilyn asked, cutting off the old man before he could regale her with more of his vile anecdotes. The mention of money brought him right around.

"Ten? Huh! Not likely. Twenty pieces, and make it platinum."

"Five platinum," Arilyn counteroffered.

"Ten."

"Done." The money and the cape changed hands, and Arilyn quickly tucked the garment into her bag before the lantern's light could further erode it. She noted that the piwafwi's luster had already dimmed in the short time it had been out of the dark trunk. The cape would probably disintegrate completely with the coming of dawn, and its magic had waned long before the death of the dark elf who once wore it. Arilyn had learned that drow magical items faded outside of the Underdark, their subterranean world. She suspected that the informant knew this as well, judging from his small sly smile as he pocketed the ten platinum coins. He looked immensely pleased with himself, probably picturing the look her face would likely hold when the expensive cape dissolved into gray smoke.

Arilyn intentionally allowed the old man this small triumph. He took pride in the quality of the information he sold, but he also felt a compulsion to cheat his clients.

"By the way," he said expansively, "how do you plan to get into the fortress?" Arilyn raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he cackled again and waved a wizened hand. "You're right, you're right. If I were you, I wouldn't tell me, either. I suppose that concludes our business, unless, of course…" He let his words trail off suggestively.

Arilyn ignored him and pointed to one of the maps. "I need more information about this area. Can you list all the ways out of the basement level?"

"Sure, but why bother? I doubt you'll get that far."

Arilyn held her temper with difficulty. "Any secret doors? Passages? Or do I have to swim out through the midden?"

The Zhentishman scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, I believe there is something that could be of use. It will cost you extra, of course." He picked up a pile of parchment and rifled through it until something caught his eye. He scanned a few pages of his manuscript, then nodded in satisfaction. "Ah, good. Very few people know about this door. I'd almost forgotten about it, myself."

"Well?"

He handed her a page of manuscript, and after she'd scanned it they discussed the escape route in detail. When she was satisfied, she handed him a few more coins and stood to leave. "Remember, you won't get the second half of your original fee until I return from Darkhold. Are you still confident of your advice?"

"I'll stand by my information," he proclaimed stoutly. He gave his last word a slight emphasis, barely stifling a grin as he glanced at the bag holding the doomed piwafwi.

He believes he's bested me, Arilyn noted, though she was pleased with that. Such a belief would enable him to save face in the light of her next move. She drew a rolled parchment from her belt and tossed it onto the table. "This is a letter describing our deal. My associates hold copies. If you sell me out, you die."

The Zhentishman laughed, albeit uneasily. "Harpers don't work that way."

Arilyn placed both hands on the writing table and leaned forward. "Remember, I'm not really a Harper," she said.

The threat was a bluff, but the old man appeared to give her words serious consideration. He picked up the bag of gold again, balancing it in his hand as if he were weighing the risk along with the promise of future payment.

In truth, Arilyn was an independent adventurer. She had been an oft-used agent for the Harpers for several years, but she had never been invited to join the Harpers' ranks. Many of her assignments came to her secondhand, through her mentor, Kymil Nimesin, for there were those in the secret organization who looked askance at the half-elf and her deadly reputation. As both Harper-friend and assassin she was an odd hybrid, but in encounters like the one in which she was presently involved, the combination gave her an edge. The informant eyed her warily, completely convinced that she would carry out her threat against him.

Finally he glanced again at the bag holding the drow cape, and broke into a grin. "Half-elf, half-Harper, eh? Nice title for a chapter of my memoirs."

The comment stung Arilyn, even coming from such as he. "If you keep our bargain, you just might live long enough to finish that chapter," she said. Not wanting to cast any shadow upon the Harpers, she clarified her original threat. "If I die through my own error, you merely lose your fee. If I am betrayed, copies of the letter will be sent to Cherbill Nimmt as well as the elven mage who rules as Darkhold's second-in-command. I understand that Lady Ashemmi is no friend of yours, and I imagine that neither she nor Nimmt will be amused to learn of this transaction."

The informant shook his head and wheezed out another chuckle. "Not bad, not bad," he admitted. "With a mind like that, you might just make it through Darkhold after all. I must say it's refreshing to see the Harpers develop a devious streak."

"The cause is the Harpers', but my methods are my own," Arilyn said firmly.

"Whatever." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry about the information I gave you. It's good. Go along, and have fun infiltrating the fortress."

Since Arilyn could think of no appropriate response, she gathered up the maps and with a deep sense of relief left the old Zhentish spider alone in his lair.

The informant gazed after her for a long silent moment. "Half-elf, half-Harper," he murmured into the empty room, enjoying the sound of his phrase. He nibbled reflectively on a hangnail for several moments, then with a flourish he drew his quill from the ink pot and began to write. This would be one of the finest chapters in his memoirs, even if he did have to improvise a bit to come up with a satisfying ending.

Deep into the night the old man wrote, caught up in his own salacious imaginings. His lantern ran out of oil, but he lit the first of many candles and kept writing. It was nearly daybreak when his door swung open, noiselessly and unexpectedly. He looked up, startled, then his face relaxed into a leer. He lay down his quill and flexed his stiff fingers in anticipation.

"Welcome, welcome," he said to the approaching figure. "Changed your mind, I suppose? Well, that's fine. Come right on over to old Sratish, and I'll-"

The old man's invitation ended in a strangled gulp as two slender feminine hands closed around his neck. Frantically he tried to pry the hands loose, but his attacker was inhumanly strong. He threw himself back and forth, but the intruder hung on, her grip tightening. Within moments the informant's rheumy eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and closed like that of a fish gasping on the sand. Finally his spidery body slumped, lifeless, onto piles of parchment.