Элейн Каннингем - Elfshadow

Too bone-weary to take part in the sparring, Arilyn nevertheless kept a keen eye on the room as she ate, alert for anything that might prove a clue in her search. There was some talk of the Harper Assassin drifting about, and even in this safe haven the patrons seemed unnerved by the macabre tales.

“Branded, she was, branded right on her haunch like a prize cow …”

“They say that assassin got past the guard in Waterdeep Castle and …”

“Now me, if I was a Harper, right about now I’d be melting that pin down and recasting the metal for a chamber pot.”

Arilyn learned nothing of value from the fragments of conversation, but she noted with dismay how the tales of the Harper Assassin had grown in the telling.

A smattering of applause began in one corner, spreading until it competed with the hum of conversation. Chairs were scraped across the floor to make way in the middle of the room. Two of the waiters brought in a large harp, setting it down in the center of the makeshift stage. A tall, slender man walked diffidently to the harp and began to correct the instrument’s tuning.

“Ah, now we shall hear from a true bard,” Elaith noted pointedly.

Danilo craned his neck around, taking in the scene in the middle of the tavern. “Really? Who is he?”

“Rhys Ravenwind,” Arilyn said. She recognized the bard from one of her trips to Suzail. Although the man was young and rather shy, he was very good indeed.

“Hmm. I wonder if he might be up for a duet or two, after the—ouch!” Danilo broke off with a reproachful look at Arilyn, then he bent down to rub the spot where she had kicked his shin.

Arilyn responded by putting her finger to her lips. The gesture was hardly necessary. After the first few notes, every person in the room fell silent, held spellbound by the power of the bard’s music. Those who had come only to worship the art of the brewers listened as intently, as delightedly, as the most devoted music lover. It was customary for a visiting musician to sing at any inn or tavern, but seldom was the House of Fine Spirits graced with the presence of such a bard. Even Elaith and Danilo forgot their baiting long enough to listen to the ancient song honoring the Feast of the Moon. The applause that greeted the bard was long and loud. With a shy smile, the young man gave in to calls for another song.

During the second song, a wistful ballad of long-ago love and adventure, a newcomer drifted into the tavern. He paused in the doorway for a moment as he sought a place, then he moved noiselessly across the room and settled at a corner table near Arilyn.

The half-elf noted the man’s entrance and studied him with carefully concealed interest. Probably one of the tallest men in the room, he nonetheless moved with the silent grace of a cat. As were most travelers, the man was wrapped against the chill autumn wind. Unlike most, the man did not remove cape or cowl when he entered the warm tavern. His table sat in the shadows just beyond the fireplace’s glow, and he kept his cape closely drawn. Considering the warmth of the room, Arilyn found this behavior peculiar indeed.

A barmaid brought the newcomer a mug of mead, and, as he tipped his head up to drink it, Arilyn caught a glimpse of his face. He was a man well past middle life, obviously robust despite his years. His features were ordinary enough, except for the unusually determined set to his square jaw. It seemed to Arilyn that there was something familiar about the man, although she would swear by the whole pantheon of gods that she had never laid eyes on him before.

She watched the stranger for some time, but he did nothing to arouse suspicion. Apparently content to sit in the shadows and listen to the bard, he attended to his dinner and nursed a single mug of mead. Still, Arilyn felt a tug of relief when the bard finished singing and the man rose to leave.

I’m seeing danger in every corner, she chided herself. Soon I’ll be checking under the bed for ogres, like some frightened child. I need rest, and badly. At that moment, a yawn escaped her, stopping the recently renewed verbal match between Danilo and Elaith Craulnobur in mid-pleasantry.

“It has been a long journey,” she apologized.

Elaith raised a hand. “Say no more. It was inconsiderate of me to keep you so long. As an apology, perhaps you would allow me to settle with the innkeeper?”

“Thank you,” Arilyn said, again kicking Danilo under the table to keep him from arguing the point.

“We will meet again, I hope?” pressed Elaith.

“Yes,” she said simply. She inclined her head and spread both hands in the formal leave-taking gesture between elves. Taking Danilo by the arm, she dragged him away before he could start up again.

“So, where is this room?” she demanded in a resigned tone.

Danilo led her to a small staircase in the rear of the tavern. “It’s not best chamber in the inn—actually, it’s the only one that was left—so don’t expect luxury.”

“As long as it has a bed,” she mumbled, almost numb with weariness.

“Funny you should mention that …” Danilo’s voice trailed off as the pair climbed the stairs.

Elaith watched them go. He speculated, shrugged, then rose to leave. He briefly considered tossing some coins on the table to pay for the meal, then decided against it. Why should he bother? Skipping out on a tavern bill was the sort of thing people expected of him.

For good measure, he picked up the half-full decanter of elven spirits, firmly stoppered it, and openly tucked it into his belt. The decanter alone was probably worth more than the inn would make during the entire festival week.

With a casual nod to the innkeeper, whose ruddy face paled at the imminent loss of the Elverquisst, Elaith glided out of the tavern. Many watched him go, but no one challenged his passing.

The rain had stopped, and the wind whipped the elf’s black cloak around his legs as he strode toward the stable. He claimed his horse and mounted, riding swiftly westward toward the Way of the Dragon. There was a stone townhouse there, a particularly fine building fashioned of black granite. Tall, narrow, and elegant, the house was located on the main road between the South Ward and the Dock Ward.

Blackstone House, as it was called, was one of many properties the elf owned in Waterdeep. Elaith used the house infrequently. It was too stark and angular for his taste, but it was ideally equipped for the evening’s purposes. He dismounted at the gate of the iron fence that surrounded the property and flung the reins to the young servant who ran out to greet him.

Elaith nodded to the house servants—a pair of highly trusted moon elves—as he entered, then he sprinted up a winding spiral staircase to the chamber in the topmost floor. He shut the door, sealing it magically against any possible interruption.

The room was dark and empty save for a single pedestal. Removing a silk cloth, Elaith revealed a dark crystal globe that floated in the air several inches above the pedestal. He passed a hand over the smooth surface of the crystal, murmuring a string of arcane syllables. The globe began to shine, dimly at first, and dark mists swirled in its depths. Gradually the light increased, filling the room as the image came into focus.

“Greetings, Lord Nimesin,” Elaith said to the image, voicing the title with gentle irony.

“It is late. What do you want, gray elf?” the haughty voice demanded, speaking the word “gray” with the subtle inflection that transformed it from the Common term for a color into the Elvish word meaning “dross.” Into that one word was distilled the opinion that moon elves were no more than the waste product formed from the long-ago forging of the golden high elves.

Elaith smiled, ignoring the deadly insult. He could afford to be tolerant tonight. “You always pay a good price for information. I have some to impart that you should find most interesting.”