The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

 

A book in The Best of the Realms series

 

A Forgotten Realms Anthology

 

by Elaine Cunningham

Proofread and formatted by BW-SciFi
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: December, 6th, 2008

CONTENTS

THE KNIGHTS OF SAMULAR

THE BARGAIN

ELMINSTER'S JEST

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

THE DIRECT APPROACH

SECRETS OF BLOOD, SPIRITS OF THE SEA
THE GREAT HUNT
SPEAKING WITH THE DEAD

STOLEN DREAMS
FIRE IS FIRE
POSSESSIONS
A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE
GAMES OF CHANCE
TRIBUTE
ANSWERED PRAYERS

Published for the first time in this volume.

THE KNIGHTS OF SAMULAR

You always learn something interesting at fantasy conventions. One year I found out there was an
ongoing audition for the last book in the Harper series. This was originally planned as a series of
stand-alone novels, but things quickly became unwieldy as books bred sequels, trilogies, and sub-
series, and occasionally crossed over to link with other trilogies or series. Any product tree drawn
under those circumstances would probably end up looking like something a toddler whipped up with
an Etch-a-Sketch. So the plan was made to end the series with a "pivot book" that would introduce
characters and plot threads to be developed through future books and game products.

It didn't work out that way. Editorial direction shifted, and Thornhold, which was written to be that
pivot book with all kinds of loose threads for other authors to pick up and develop, was published as
the last Harpers book. Period. Readers were justifiably confused. I chalked it up to a learning
experience, vowed never to write another book that was quite so open-ended, and resigned myself to
leaving a lot of unanswered questions.

Then, rather unexpectedly, I got the opportunity to revisit some of the Thornhold characters in
Reclamation, the sixth and final book in the Songs & Swords series. Another door opened when Peter
Archer suggested that I write a follow-up to Thornhold for the new short story for this anthology.

This story endeavors to tie up a few of those loose threads and to shed some light on the more
puzzling aspects of the novel. It doesn't revisit all the characters or answer all the questions, but it
puts several of the threads on a path toward resolution.

THE KNIGHTS OF SAMULAR

17 Flamerule, the Year of the
Enchanted Trail (925 DR)
Griffenwing Keep, a mountain fortress
near Ascalhorn

The demon was not at all what Renwick Caradoon had expected.

Massive bat wings, scales the color of molten lava, terror and evil incarnate—the grimoire had
hinted darkly of such things. Renwick, given his admittedly small talent for magic, would have been
content with a whiff of brimstone and a tentacle or two. To his surprise, the creature standing in a
circle of painstakingly drawn symbols looked more like a mildly disgruntled scholar than an agent of
evil.

"Have I the honor of addressing the great incubus Yamarral, Lord of Chaos and Carnality?"
Renwick inquired cautiously.

In response, the demon held up the book he'd been perusing, displaying the scene vividly painted
on night-black parchment. The illustration was moving, and a glance at the writhing figures was all
the answer Renwick required.

"You cannot summon a demon without speaking his true name," Yamarral observed as he tucked
the book into his plain brown tunic. "Do you doubt the laws of magic, or is this your notion of polite
conversation?"

Common enough words, and the clipped cadence indicated a very human state of annoyance, but
ah, the voice! Music lurked in those deep, rounded tones, and the accent, both charming and elusive,
seemed strangely enhanced by the demon's nondescript human appearance. Renwick had heard it said
that men were seduced by their eyes and women by their ears. By that measure, innocent and
impressionable little Nimra was all but damned.

No, Renwick told himself sternly. Nimra was descended from the Guardians of Ascalhorn. She
was a true scion of her illustrious forebears, and a paladin's daughter. She had grown up at her
grandsire's knee, her eyes shining with wonder as Maerstar spun tales of magical treasures the
Caradoon family had collected for generations. The old bard had staggered out of the ruins of
Ascalhorn with a single precious book, but his stories of the family legacy had set Nimra's soul
aflame. Renwick had trained her for the coming task. She was resolved to see it through; she would
survive with her virtue intact.

"I wish to strike a bargain," Renwick began.

Yamarral smirked. "And what boon do you offer me, little wizard? Perhaps you would teach me
the art of patience? Clearly you have learned it well; while you labored over the summoning spell,
Selune's crescent belly swelled with light three times, and three times did she give birth to moondark."

Actually, Renwick had been working toward this moment for much longer than three months.
Only through long, difficult striving could he cast spells other wizards tossed about with ease.
Summoning demons was a tricky business for anyone, and he was justly proud of this accomplishment.
Still, the demon's mockery stung.

Renwick reached for the framed miniature on a nearby table and thrust it toward Yamarral's
sneering face. "Save your insults for those who wish you ill, and save your pretty words for this."

"This" was Nimra, a slender, doe-eyed beauty in the first bloom of maidenhood. Thick braids of
glossy brown hair framed a sweet, sun-browned face, and her simple green gown bared her arms and
clung to budding curves. The little smile curving her lips gave her the look of a dryad caught in the
midst of some small mischief. The portrait was a true and skillfully rendered likeness, and it had the
desired effect.

Dark hunger flared in the demon's eyes. For one soul-staining moment, Renwick glimpsed the true
nature of the summoned creature. He managed with difficulty to suppress a shudder.

"My brother's daughter, the child of his dissolute youth," he said. To his relief, his voice did not
shake too badly. "My brother is the paladin Samular Caradoon. His duties often take him far from
home, so the girl looks to me for direction. She wishes to learn Mystra's Art. I have promised to find
her a suitable teacher."

"Ah." Yamarral nodded sagely. "And you would release me into your world so that I might...

school her, in exchange for magic that would set your thoughts in proper order and place the mastery

of magic within your grasp."

As summaries went, the demon's was flawless.

Renwick simply did not see things as other men did. To his eyes, symbols turned this way and that
upon the page, rearranging themselves into unintelligible patterns that required long study to decrypt.
His mind demanded that certain runes be written in certain colored inks or they would be perceived as
something altogether different. There was nothing wrong with his memory, but his spells, once
learned, were still unreliable, for he was likely to invert words and gestures. None of these troubles,
however, lessened his ambition or dimmed his conviction that he was destined for great things. The
notion of gaining mastery over his malady through a demon's magic pained him, as did the role he
must play to convince Yamarral that he was a "worthy" ally, but some paths toward the greater good
must needs pass through dark and dangerous places.

"A fair exchange, for you will not soon tire of the girl," Renwick promised. "She is as quick-witted
as she is fair. Under your tutelage, she could become a wizard of great power. Through her, your
dominion over these parts would be assured for many years to come."

"This has possibilities," Yamarral admitted. "And what form would your payment take?"

"A blood token."

The demon's brows flew upward. "Long years have passed since a mortal bound himself and his
bloodline to my service! I had thought this knowledge lost since before the Ilythiiri took to tunneling
into the dirt like badgers and calling themselves drow. But since you know something of my history, I
assume you also know what befell those who treated with me?"

"Of course."

"Of course," Yamarral echoed with mock gravity. "And you hope to avoid this... how?"

"I am twin-born."

For long moments, demon and wizard regarded each other in silence. "Either you are not quite the
fool you appear," Yamarral said softly, "or your folly exceeds all boundaries previously known to
me."

A frisson of unease ran up Renwick's spine, but he refused to entertain doubt. Some mystical force
bound the twin-born, inclining them toward a shared purpose. This was common knowledge; the
demon assumed, as Renwick had intended him to, that Renwick meant to transfer any ill effects of
this magic, as well as the legacy of demonic bondage, to Samular and his descendants. But Renwick
had made long study of the twin-born tie and was confident in his knowledge of its strengths and
weaknesses. If any man could stretch them in ways never before tested, it was he.

He cleared his throat. "You will have the traditional safeguards, naturally. Our bargain is void if
you are returned to the Abyss by me or any other. I will possess whatever magic our bargain yields
until the day you return to the Abyss, but any new spells or magical devices I might wish to create in
the future will require either your consent, or the will of your blood-bound servants."

"By which you mean the paladin's pretty daughter and the demonspawn I intend to get on her."
Yamarral lifted one brow, and his lascivious smile turned sly. "Since you know something of my
history with mortals, you are no doubt aware that I breed only twin-born sons. They will look alike,
but one will favor his sire. You won't know which one, of course. We are tossing the dice, you and I,
with much riding on the outcome."

This was the moment Renwick had dreaded. Was it possible to lie to a demon? Could Yamarral
hear the nervous quickening of his heart, smell the stench of falsehood in his sweat?

Renwick fashioned a smirk and set it firmly upon his lips. "Where it is written that the blood token
must be held by only one heir at a time? And is it not possible that kinsmen, as well as descendants,
could be bound by the blood-token pledge? Why could I not share the burden and the benefits with
two others of my blood?"

Yamarral thought it over. "The thing has never been done, but I see no reason why it could not be
as you say."

"Then let the token reside in three parts. I will claim one third of the token and derive from it the
power I need for my daily work. The three parts, wielded with the agreement of three blood-bound,
must unite to realize the token's full power. We will also divide among us the consequences of that
power." Renwick shrugged. "Hardly the legacy the good paladin might desire, but no doubt his faith
will sustain him through the dark times ahead."

Yamarral laughed delightedly. "You surprise me, Renwick Caradoon! I did not expect such vile
treachery, and I mean that as a compliment."

"Taken as such," Renwick lied. He set Nimra's portrait down and picked up the ready parchment
and quill. "Now, shall we discuss the particulars?"

29 Mirtul, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

Waterdeep

To a man whose height could be measured by a single hand-span, even a paladin's library was a
dark and dangerous place.

Algorind stood at the edge of the writing table, glumly measuring the drop to the thick Calishite
carpet. Six, perhaps seven times his current height. He could jump, but not without injury. And to
what purpose? Where would he go, and how could he defend himself against the dangers his new size
brought? The mouse that had scavenged a few stray crumbs from the floor before disappearing into
the paneled wall was, relatively speaking, the size of a dire wolf.

Algorind has been left on the table earlier that afternoon to await the arrival of his host—or
perhaps more accurately, his jailor. To occupy the time, he'd studied his surroundings with eyes that
measured familiar things in new and often disturbing fashion.

Tapestries covered the walls with scenes from famous battles, woven in realistic hues of red and
bronze. Whenever a draft rippled these hangings, the depicted figures seemed to quiver with
impatience, as if eager to resume their slaughter. Twin gargoyles crouched atop the marble fireplace,
demonic statues so skillfully carved that Algorind half expected to hear the sudden snap of unfurling
bat wings. He was not much given to grim flights of fancy, but given his current size, everything in
the luxurious study was monstrous in scale, and therefore slightly ominous.

The grim aspects, however, were less disturbing to Algorind than the opulence. The table on which
he stood was fashioned from a single plank of Halruaan bilboa. That rare and costly wood also
paneled the walls, frequently in exquisitely carved scenes. Leather-bound tomes filled tall
bookshelves. A painting depicting the rollicking afterlife to be found in Tempus's fest hall covered the
high ceiling. The silver drinking bowl on the table smelled of sugared wine and was big enough for
Algorind to bathe in. The dainty spoon next to it, even though it was large enough to serve Algorind
as a credible spade, looked ill suited to a warrior's hand. Algorind, raised and trained by the Knights
of Samular in the austere fortress known as Summit Hill, found such riches puzzling and unseemly.

But who was he, of all men, to judge?

On impulse, Algorind knelt beside the spoon and peered into its polished silver bowl. He was
slowly returning to his natural size, but did his disgrace leave a lingering stain? Was it written upon
his countenance for all men to read?

His reflection stared somberly back, a miniature version of his former self, slightly distorted by the
curve of the spoon but still the face he'd seen mirrored in the polished metal of his lost sword: a man
not yet twenty years of age, with a steady, blue-eyed gaze and close-cropped hair nearly as curly and
fair as a lamb's fleece. He was broad and strong from years of training and stern discipline, clad as
simply as any farm lad. Out of respect, Algorind had set aside the pure white tabard bearing the
Order's symbol: the scales of Tyr's justice, balanced upon the hammer of his judgment.

Tyr's judgment.

A new thought struck Algorind, one strange and powerful enough to rock him back on his heels.
By Tyr's grace, even a fledgling paladin could learn the truth of a man's nature—including, perhaps,
his own?

Algorind had never sought to weigh his own heart. He was not even sure this was possible! The
Knights of Samular were a military order, not a monastic one. Action, not introspection, was the
business of Summit Hall.

The need to know swept away all reservations. Algorind bowed his head in fervent, silent
supplication. As he prayed, a sense of peace and quiet joy settled over him, as palpable as incense in a
cloister. The troubling events of the last tenday faded into insignificance. Tyr was with him still.

As Algorind sank deeper into the healing calm, a strange image flooded his mind. Stunted fields
brooded beneath a dark and lowering sky. Briars and noxious weeds grew in profusion, slowing
choking out the last few wholesome plants. Brackish water collected in dips and hollows, and black

winged scavenger birds circled overhead in patient silence, awaiting their own grim harvest.

The vision jolted Algorind from his devotions. As he leaped to his feet, an enormous hand—a
warrior's hand, gnarled with age and seamed with the scars of many battles—closed around him.

The young man instinctively reached for his sword but found only the mockery of an empty
scabbard. Defenseless, he was jerked off the table and swept up to a great height.

A moment passed before he made sense of the huge, craggy visage before him. He was staring into
the bright blue eyes of Sir Gareth Cormaeril, one of the greatest paladins of living memory.

"You were invoking Tyr."

The old knight's voice smote Algorind's ears like peals of thunder, like the judgment of Tyr
Himself. Algorind's first impulse was to confide all to the great paladin—the unorthodox prayer, the
disturbing vision that followed. But some instinct Algorind did not know he possessed urged him to
keep his own council.

"I was praying," he admitted. The suspicion on Sir Gareth's face, magnified past the possibility of
subtlety, required more, so he added, "I am deeply troubled by my recent failings."

Algorind's stern conscience rebelled at this evasion, but Sir Gareth seemed satisfied. He lowered
Algorind to the table, then pulled up a deep chair and seated himself so that they were still eye to eye.

"You will have need of the god's counsel, and mine as well, if you hope for a favorable decision
from the masters of Summit Hall," he said briskly. "We have much to discuss before your hearing,
and scant time to prepare."

Puzzlement furrowed Algorind's brow. Preparing for a trial? What strange notion was this? The
truth was told and judgment was passed; what more could there be?

"I trust in Tyr's justice."

Sir Gareth inclined his head piously, leaving Algorind to marvel at the flicker of impatience on the
old knight's face.

"So do we all, but your trial touches upon great matters, things that concern the deeper mysteries
of the Knights of Samular. You will be allowed to answer the charges brought against you, but some
things, for the sake of the Order, must remain unsaid."

"But surely nothing is secret from Master Laharin!"

"The master of Summit Hall will not be the only man at the counsel table. Harper representatives
will be present, as will witnesses from among the common folk."

Algorind nodded reluctantly. "What would you have me say?"

"Your task was to deliver Cara Doon, a child of Samular's bloodline, to the protection of the Order.
To that end, you brought her to Waterdeep. She was stolen away by a Harper known as Bronwyn,
who is sister to the child's father—a priest of Cyric who calls himself Dag Zoreth. The child was
spirited away to Thornhold, a fortress of the Order, recently taken in battle by Dag Zoreth and held by
Bronwyn and her dwarf allies."

The young man's confusion grew as he listened to this partial recitation of fact. "Bronwyn said she
rescued the child from a south-bound slave ship."

"What of it? She is a Harper, one who meddles in the affairs of her betters! She is a treasure hunter
who despoils the crypts of the ancient dead. She does business with the Zhentarim, and she handed
one of the rings of Samular over to Dag Zoreth. She professes no god, at least not openly. She is a
light-skirt who has known many men and wed none. By any measure I know, the woman is not to be
trusted."

"That may be so," Algorind said carefully, for he had seen enough of Bronwyn to suspect that the
truths Sir Gareth spoke did not tell the whole tale of the woman, "but the fifty dwarves she freed from
the slave ship will claim otherwise."

Sir Gareth's smile was grim. "We cannot keep the Harper wench from speaking at your trial. The
dwarves, however, may find themselves otherwise occupied."

A chill ran down Algorind's spine. Was it his imagination, or did those words hold an ominous
ring?

He forced himself to listen respectfully as Sir Gareth outlined the points Algorind should cover and
those he should avoid. At last the old knight nodded, satisfied with the young man's recitation of
carefully selected facts.

"All will be well, my son," he said warmly. "I am certain you will be restored to your place in
Summit Hall. I will speak for you. Nay, more than that—I will sponsor you on a new paladin quest!"

This was a generous offer, but Algorind's sense of unease deepened. The proper response would be
to draw his sword and offer it in fealty. For the first time, Algorind did not regret his empty scabbard.

Fortunately, Sir Gareth did not seem to require a response. He removed Algorind from the writing
table to "suitable quarters"—a large birdcage, outfitted with a folded linen towel for a cot and an
acorn cap for a chamber pot. A snuffbox served as a table, and on it was a thimble-full of ale and thick
slivers of cheese and bread. The cage sat upon a small, round table, one that was even higher off the
floor than the writing table.

Algorind eyed his new quarters with dismay. "Sir, am I a prisoner?"

"The cage is for your protection, nothing more. Given your size, it seemed prudent. I'll leave the
door open, if you like, and you can close it if need arises."

"May I have my sword? The Harper who brought me here said he would give it to you."

Sir Gareth plucked a long silver pin from his tabard, a gleaming broadsword, in perfect miniature.
He regarded it for a moment, his gaze shifting between the weapon and the young man.

"You have grown somewhat. The sword has not. But I suppose it will serve as a table knife."

The knight dropped the tiny weapon through the bars of the cage, so that it fell onto the folded
linen "cot."

And with that, the vaguely uneasy feelings Algorind had experienced since entering Sir Gareth's
home took sharp, disturbing focus. Surely no true paladin would treat a sword dedicated to Tyr with
such casual disregard!

It all made sense now: the vision of corrupted fields, the carefully tailored story that left out any
mention of Sir Gareth's part in the tale of little Cara Doon, even the lavishly appointed home. Sir
Gareth had long served as treasurer for the Knights of Samular. Every paladin of the order paid tithes,
and all of those funds flowed through Gareth's hands. No wonder the Harper who'd brought Algorind
here had had such difficulty finding Sir Gareth's home. Algorind had assumed the clerics of Tyr's
temple were merely protecting the old knight's privacy, but now that he considered their responses, it
seemed more likely that they themselves didn't know. And small wonder Gareth kept them away—
they would not be pleased to learn how their tithes were put to use.

Algorind schooled his face to a calm he did not feel and stood quietly through Sir Gareth's parting
advice. He listened as the door to the library was closed and locked, his host's footsteps echoed down
the hall. Once the outer door thudded shut, Algorind set to work unraveling long threads from the
loosely woven linen and plaiting them into a makeshift rope.

He worked quickly, anxious to finish before Sir Gareth returned. When he judged the length
sufficient, he tied one end of the rope to the bars of his cage and tossed the rest off the table. He
lowered himself to the floor, and then used his dagger-sized sword to cut off a length of rope. This he
coiled and tucked through his belt.

Tracking was a skill all future Knights of Samular learned in boyhood, but Algorind had never
expected to track a mouse across a Calishite carpet. It was surprisingly easy; the signs of the creature's
passage were as visible to Algorind's eye as those a deer might leave in the belly-high grass of a
meadow. He followed the trail to a small knothole in the wood panel, one made nearly invisible by the
grain of the wood and shadows cast by nearby furnishings.

Algorind crawled through the knothole and lowered himself carefully into a thick layer of dust,
wood shavings, scraps, of plaster, and other detritus. The clutter inside the wall was dimly visible in
the light that filtered down from an opening high overhead. This was a huge relief to Algorind, for he
had expected to grope his way through total darkness in search of an exit.

Even so, the way out was also a very long way up. The young paladin took a deep breath and
began to climb.

Hours passed as he pulled himself toward the light, finding handholds in the rough wood and
plaster. His fingers bled and the muscles in his shoulders sang with pain, but he dared not slow his
pace. Day was swiftly giving way to darkness, and the bit of sky visible through the opening under the
eaves was turning a dusky purple.

Finally a ledge appeared just above Algorind. He pulled himself up and rolled onto a broad, flat
board.

Standing was pure pleasure. He took a moment to stretch out sore muscles before venturing out
onto the roof. As he flung his arms out wide, his fingers brushed against soft fur.

Algorind leaped away, drawing his weapon as he spun back toward the unknown creature.

His first response was, oddly enough, surprise; he'd never considered that demons might have fur.

Soulless black eyes regarded him from the center of hideous brown face, one so malformed that
only when the fanged mouth opened did Algorind realize the creature was hanging upside down.

A keening scream burst from the "demon." Immediately the air was full of the thunder of wings
and a chorus of hellish, high-pitched shrieks.

Never had Algorind heard such a sound. It reverberated against the inside of his skull, grating
against bone like the talons of a dragon hatchling trying to claw free of its egg.

The board beneath his feet seemed to spin and tilt. He dropped to his knees for fear of falling,
hands clasped to his ears. Blood trickled through his fingers, and the pain in his head soared beyond
any he'd ever known, worse than that of being trapped in Bronwyn's siege tower and shrunk smaller
than the bat he'd just disturbed.

And not just one bat—a vast colony of them, roosting in the attic of Sir Gareth's house. For what
seemed a very long time they swept past him, their wings buffeting him as they darted out into the
gathering night, shrieking all the while.

When at last they were gone, Algorind struggled to his feet and waited for the worst of the
dizziness to pass. A high-pitched ringing was the only sound he could hear. That troubled him, but he
would deal with it later. As soon as he could walk, he made his way to the opening.

The city of Waterdeep spread out before him, in all its splendor and squalor. Fine city gardens and
ornate fences fronted the buildings in Sir Gareth's neighborhood; urchins picked through discarded
crates for scraps of food in the narrow alleys behind. The twilight sky glowed like liquid sapphires,
and streetlamps winked into life as lamplighters hurried along the streets, racing against swift-coming
night. Algorind could see the leisurely swing of bells in the high tower of a nearby temple. No sound
reached him. Except for the ringing in his ears, the city was eerily silent.

He eased through the opening, testing his weight on the narrow ledge beyond. The roof, which was
tiled in blue slate, rose in a steep angle.

About five feet away from Algorind's perch, a drain pipe carried rain water to the street below. It
appeared to be fashioned of segments of pipe, short enough for him to employ his rope and move
from one to the next. But at his current size, five feet might as well be a thousand, and the slate ledge
between Algorind and the drainpipe had worn away.

He studied the roof. Several tiles had crumbled or fallen away altogether, and moss and lichen
grew in the dirt that settled over the passage of years. A ribbon of moss started just above his perch,
growing upward and then meandering across the roof. If he could climb just a couple of feet up the
roof, he could make his way across to the drainpipe.

Algorind tugged at a handful of moss and found it surprisingly stable. He began to climb, and for
many moments the effort absorbed his entire concentration. Too late, he sensed a disturbance in the
air above him and looked up into wide yellow eyes and reaching talons.

Faster than thought, the owl snatched him up and winged away.

Algorind reached for his sword, but immediately realized the folly of attacking his captor in mid-
flight. Sooner or later, the owl would find a perch and Algorind would do whatever he could to defend
himself. He settled himself as best he could and got a grip on the owl's talons, which were as hard and
dry as the roots of a great tree.

Despite the gravity of his situation, Algorind started to enjoy the sensation of flight, the rush of
night wind. The world spread out before him, city streets reduced to ribbons and great buildings no
grander than a child's blocks. Beyond the city walls lay the lush darkness of meadow and farmlands,
and beyond that, who could tell? Anything was possible. Even the stars looked like tiny silver apples,
ripe for plucking.

Never had Algorind known such exhilaration, such wild joy! He threw back his head and let out a
great shout of laughter. He would likely die this night, but now, at this moment, he was flying! By
Tyr's Hammer, whatever came after would be a small price to pay!

27 Tarsakh, the Year of the Red Rain (927 DR)

Griffenwing Keep

Everything had gone wrong. Horribly, incomprehensibly wrong.
Renwick had been so certain Samular would applaud his plan to recover artifacts long entrusted to

the Caradoon family. Of that large and noble clan, only their father had survived. Renwick was certain
he and his brothers could recover or duplicate those lost treasures. To what other task should the three
living Caradoon men dedicate themselves, if not this?

But Renwick's attempts bind a demon to this cause had torn open a rift between him and Samular.
Their twin-born affection was all but sundered by the death of Amphail, their older brother, who had
been willing to bear one of the three rings and hold another for his firstborn son. And Nimra—

Nimra. The very thought of her nearly broke Renwick's heart. Nothing else in his whole
misbegotten scheme had gone so terrible awry.

It didn't take the demon long to realize that Renwick had deliberately misled him, that he had
intended all along for the three rings to go to the three Caradoon brothers, all of them dedicated to the
service of Tyr. But by then, it hardly mattered. The ancient spell Renwick had taught Nimra, one that
promised an innocent could bind a demon to her will in the service of good, had failed.

In a cruel twist of irony, Nimra had fulfilled all of Renwick's false promises to Yamarral, and
more. Amphail had died with Nimra's dark magic coursing through his veins, Nimra's dagger at his
throat. With his death, two of the rings passed to Nimra's twin-born sons. And upon Nimra's death—
may Tyr forgive him that grim necessity!—control of those rings passed to Renwick, their guardian.

The weight of so much magic had burned years from Renwick's life in a matter of months, turning
his hair prematurely white and etching deep furrows in his face. No one mistook him for Samular's
twin now; indeed, most people thought him the eldest of the three Caradoon brothers. He had ceased
correcting them, for what was that to him? All that mattered was setting right what had gone so
wrong.

Renwick stole a sidelong glance at the man who walked at his side. His companion was tall, dark-
haired, and bearded. His age was impossible to tell; he walked with the easy stride of youth, but his
eyes held the weight of centuries.

At the moment, those eyes were fixed upon the fortress ahead. Griffenwing Keep was ancient;
Caradoon ancestors had built it upon the site of an even earlier stronghold. The original earthwork
mounds were still visible around the wall of grey stone. Towers loomed above the tall outer wall. The
overall aspect was craggy and rough, as if the mountain had taken this form of its own choice. The
gardens surrounding the wall, however, showed the touch of Art. Some dark whimsy caused the
fountains to run red and filled the garden with blood red flowers. This was Nimra's work, a symbol of
what she had become in two short years. To Renwick's eye, the garden was more disturbing than a
monster-infested moat.

"I am grateful for your assistance in this matter," he told his companion.

The wizard sometimes known as Khelben Arunsun responded with a curt nod. "You did well to
send for me. Ascalhorn is trouble enough. How did demons come to command this stronghold?"

"A prideful wizard, a summoning gone awry," Renwick said, genuine sorrow and regret painting
his tones. "But before her death, my niece gave me the means to banish the demon."

Khelben gave him a searching look, and Renwick felt the subtle tug of truth-test magic. It slid off
him easily; few spells recognized a lie fashioned by placing two truths next to each other. Let Khelben
think Nimra was the prideful wizard who had summoned the demon. It was better so.

Renwick slipped one hand into the bag at his belt, stroking one of the tiny hands hidden within—
another grim necessity, for the blood token required the rings to be worn by three of Samular's blood.
Still pink and perfect, the little fingers curled and flexed in the grasping movements common to
healthy babes. His young wards lay at Caradoon Keep, where they would sleep peacefully until his
return, knowing neither pain nor loss. He was not, after all, a cruel man.

Deals with demons were notoriously tricky, but a canny wizard could find his own out-gates. The
blood token required the rings to be worn by three of Samular's blood, and wielded by combined will.
Yamarral had neglected to specify that "blood" and "will" had to come from the same individuals.
Combined will was necessary, of course, and the infants had no opinions of their own. Fortunately,
Khelben Arunsun had no shortage in that regard.

Renwick surreptitiously slipped the rings from the two tiny, living thumbs. The rings expanded in
his grasp to fit his much-larger fingers. With a flourish, he presented the trio to Khelben.

The wizard glanced at the rings and raised his gaze to Renwick's face. He looked unimpressed,
even slightly impatient.

Piqued, Renwick snapped, "These are more powerful than you could know! United, the three rings

form a rare and mighty artifact known as a blood token."

"The demon has offspring?" Khelben demanded. Understanding swept over his faced, followed by
a mixture of sorrow and revulsion. "So that is the measure of Nimra Caradoon's alliance with this
demon."

Renwick silently cursed himself for this lapse. But how could he have known Khelben would be
familiar with magic so ancient and obscure? It had been vigorously suppressed; there were perhaps
five written references yet in existence, and Renwick owned three of them.

He quickly gathered himself. "Then you know I hold the means to banish this demon. I am heir to
Nimra's folly and guardian of her sons, but I lack the magical strength to accomplish the banishment
alone. Bind your will to mine with the spell I will teach you, and thus will all be done."

The wizard asked Renwick many pointed questions. Fortunately, his knowledge of blood tokens
was not as complete as Renwick had feared. When at last Khelben was satisfied with the carefully
prepared half-truths, he turned his attention to the spell. This he learned with demoralizing speed and
ease.

Their shared casting was more successful than Renwick had dared hope. The entire keep, including
the blood red gardens, simply faded away.

For a long moment Khelben stared in stunned silence at the mountain meadow. He turned to
Renwick, and whatever he saw in the younger wizard's face seemed to deliver a second blow.
Khelben steadied himself against an oak and took a long breath. "The rings you used in the casting.
What else can they do?"

"Why do you ask? Was this day's work not enough for you?"

Temper blazed in Khelben's eyes. Before Renwick could respond, the wizard seized him by the
cloak, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him against the tree.

"There were people in that keep, you lying orc-whelp!" he roared. "A blood token would have
dispelled the demon, nothing more. Tell me where you found those three rings, and the nature of their
power!"

Renwick summoned a smile and a lie. "What they were meant to be, I do not know." He couldn't
resist adding, "What use I have made of them... you will not know."

Khelben released him and stepped back, his face set with grim purpose. "You know you cannot
stand against me in spell battle."

"I do not intend to." Renwick lifted both hands to show that the rings had disappeared from his
fingers. "The rings, and a partial knowledge of the power they wield, are in the hands of an adversary
you cannot defeat."

The disbelief on Khelben Arunsun's face was priceless. Renwick had heard tell the wizard was elf-
blooded. Khelben didn't particularly resemble his elven forebears in physical matters, but apparently
he was as convinced of his own superiority as any high elf noble.

"You do not ask me of whom I speak. Pride forbids it, I suppose," Renwick observed. "I will tell
you nonetheless. Samular will hold the rings, as will his descendants after him."

"The paladin?"

"Samular is not just any paladin. He is destined for legend. With my help, of course."

Khelben nodded slowly as he came to understand just how far out of reach the rings had been
placed.

"A paladin's way is righteous and good," Renwick said, finding an unexpected pleasure in rubbing
salt into the wizard's wounds. "If you do not stand with him, many men will assume you stand against
him."

"That may be so, but that much power cannot be easily contained," Khelben warned. "You will not
be able to keep the rings secret forever. Some day they will fall into other hands, and be used for other
purposes."

Renwick smiled. "Then it is in your best interest to make certain this does not occur. After all, you
helped send nearly two hundred innocent souls to an unknown fate. Once the tale begins to be told,
who knows where it will end?"

Khelben did not react well to threats—or perhaps he resented the implication that his conscience
could be silenced. He lunged at Renwick, eyes blazing with wrath. This time Renwick was ready for
him. He dropped a portable hole onto the ground and stepped into it.

The mountain wind rose to a wail as Renwick swept along the magic pathway. He emerged safely

inside the grey fastness of Caradoon Keep, and not a moment too soon. The shouts of the guards and
hostlers in the keep's courtyard announced his brother's eminent return.

Renwick gathered up his robes and took the stairs two at a time. If he hurried, he'd have just
enough time to reassemble Nimra's babies before their grandsire arrived.

29 Mirtul, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

Waterdeep

A sharp, staccato tapping dragged Danilo Thann's attention from his studies. He glanced up from a
particularly thick, dusty tome and noted the shadows playing against one of the multi-paned windows
placed high on the opposite wall. He shaped a cantrip with a quick, one-handed gesture. The latch
opened and the window swung inward. A silver owl swooped in, dropped its burden on Danilo's desk,
and flapped up to perch on a high shelf.

Danilo was not particularly surprised to note the identity of his small visitor. Algorind had been a
thorn in Bronwyn's side, and therefore his own, for the better part of a month. Since no reasonable
man would expect the paladin's nature to change along with his size, Danilo had set up certain
safeguards against Algorind's escape.

"Thank you, Vichart," Danilo said, addressing the owl before turning to the rather windblown
Algorind. "And you, sir; did you tire so quickly of Sir Gareth's hospitality?"

The tiny paladin shook his head and pointed to his ears.

Upon closer scrutiny, Danilo noted the faint smear of blood on the young man's neck and in his
pale hair.

"Can't hear me, eh? No fear, I've a healing potion hereabouts that should turn the page on that
chapter."

Danilo unlocked a drawer, rummaged, and withdrew a small glass vial. He eyed Algorind and
considered the dosage. Perhaps just a drop ... No, there was no telling how much would cure and how
much would kill.

"I suppose there's no help for it," he murmured as he reached for a book covered with dark green
leather. "I'll have to put you back to rights. A waste of magic, in my opinion, but there it is.
Fortunately for you, I've done little but study the history of your order since this business began. The
size-changing magic of the siege tower was not particularly complex. Devising a spell to reverse it
was surprisingly simple."

Devising it might have been an easy matter, but judging from the set of Algorind's jaw and the
beads of sweat on his too-white forehead, his rapid return to normal size was far from painless. When
he regained his former height, Danilo handed over the vial and pantomimed drinking.

After a moment's hesitation, the young man did as he was bid. Color flooded back into his face,
and he rolled his shoulders like a man who'd just put down a great burden.

"The ringing is gone." His face brightened. "I can hear myself speak!"

"Well, there's a down side to everything, isn't there?"

Algorind nodded absently. "You restored me."

"Yes, and imagine my surprise! I was actually trying to shrink a goblet down to your former size,
for hospitality's sake."

The young man continued to regard him, his expression uncomprehending. Danilo sighed.

"That was a small jest. Very small, apparently."

Algorind inclined his head in a small bow. "I am grateful for the restoration." A surprisingly
boyish grin lit his face. "And for the flight, as well!"

"Really? I was about to apologize for that. Owls are so seldom a preferred mode of conveyance.
Will you have wine?"

"Thank you. I am very thirsty."

Danilo walked over to his serving cabinet. He poured a small measure of wine into a large goblet
and added chilled water and a spoonful of sugar. A child's drink, but it would be more appropriate to
Algorind's thirst, and, Danilo suspected, to his experience.

The young man nodded his thanks and took a polite sip. His face brightened. "It is more pleasant
than I expected, and far more refreshing."

"Drink as much as you need," Danilo instructed. "It's mostly water, and will do you no harm."

Once Algorind had emptied his goblet and another like it, Danilo indicated a chair. "We have
much to talk about, so much I hardly know where to begin."

The paladin took a seat and turned a puzzled expression upon his host, who was pouring himself a
goblet of unwatered wine. "What is a light-skirt?"

Danilo let out of a burst of startled laughter. He set down the decanter and leaned back against the
serving cupboard. "Not exactly how I expected to begin, but very well, let's start there. It's a rather
prim way to insult a woman's virtue by insinuating that her skirts, being light, are easily lifted."

"Oh."

He noted the crimson creeping into Algorind's face. "May I ask where you heard that term?"

"Sir Gareth said it of Bronwyn."

Danilo's smile disappeared. "Indeed," he said coldly. "Since we're exchanging gossip like a couple
of fishwives, why don't you tell me what else Sir Gareth had to say?"

"He said that Bronwyn does business with the Zhentarim."

That was true, but it was hardly common knowledge. Danilo shrugged lightly. "No doubt he
referred to her brother, the priest Dag Zoreth."

Algorind shook his head adamantly. "No, Sir Gareth mentioned this priest, but as a separate
matter."

The intensity of the young man's manner was beginning to make sense to Danilo. So were a great
many other things, and all of these insights suggested that he had vastly misjudged the young paladin.

He settled into his chair before responding to Algorind's unasked question. "You're quite right—
those are two separate issues. Bronwyn does indeed have dealings with the Zhentarim. Or more
precisely, she did. Now that rumors of her Harper alliance are being bruited about by the good men of
your order, I imagine several people of Zhentish persuasion are busily disposing of the treasures and
forgetting the information she sold them. But other than the people involved in these business dealings,
only Bronwyn, her gnome assistant, the archmage of Waterdeep, and I know of her Zhent
contacts, and I can guarantee you that Sir Gareth did not receive this information from any of us.
Make of that what you will."

A sorrowful sigh escaped the paladin and his shoulders slumped as if under a heavy weight. "It is
as I feared, then." He glanced up at Danilo, his expression rueful. "It must be difficult for you to
believe a man such as Gareth Cormaeril could be in league with the Zhentarim."

"Actually, it doesn't task my powers of imagination."

The young man's gaze sharpened. "Forgive me if I misspeak, but you don't seem to hold paladins
in high regard."

Danilo shrugged. "I'm not an admirer of your order, that much is true, but that opinion doesn't
indicate a general disregard for the religious life. As you know, my uncle, Khelben Arunsun, has long
been at odds with Samular's knights."

"I am not aware of that history."

The Harper choked on a sip of wine. He carefully set the goblet down. "How is that possible?
Their disagreement is central to the order's reason for existence."

"Perhaps the order exists for other purposes, as well," Algorind suggested.

"Perhaps? Do you mean to tell me you have devoted your life to a cause you do not understand?"

Algorind returned his gaze without faltering. "My life is dedicated to Tyr's service. I understand
that well enough."

"If you were merely a paladin of Tyr, I would agree with you, but you are allied with the Knights
of Samular, a military order with a particular mission."

He reached for a large blue gem lying amidst a heap of books and scrolls. "This is a kiiri, an elven
memory stone. The elf who carried it was a bard and a scribe. He left it as an aid to those who wished
to study his work. He was present at the taking of the fortress Thornhold by Samular Caradoon, your
order's founder. Would you like to see that event through the eyes of the bard who witnessed it?"

"Such a thing is possible?" Algorind marveled.

Taking the question for assent, Danilo went to a large cupboard and removed from it a metal stand,
an ornate device that looked a bit like a sundial. He placed it near Algorind's chair and then fitted the
kiiri into an impression in the flat surface. A round mirrored glass fitted into the frame above it.

"Look into the glass," he instructed. "You will see and hear everything the bard witnessed. After
the first few moments, you might forget you are not actually present."

Algorind leaned forward, his face avid with curiosity. As the ancient scene played out, the Harper
watched the shifting emotions on the younger man's face with something akin to pity. Danilo had
delved into the kiiri's storehouses and found the memories disturbing, but the reality behind the
Knights of Samular was sure to have a far more profound effect on the young paladin.

* * * * *

When at last the vision faded away, Algorind sat back in his chair. His heart raced as if he had
been among the followers of the great Samular, fighting to oust a warlord from his fortress. And the
Fenrisbane—or Kezefbane, as the order's scholars would have it—the size-shifting siege tower that
had featured in Algorind's recent humiliation, had been a mighty weapon used for the glory of Tyr.
And yet___

There had been something profoundly wrong with the Kezefbane. Evil clung to it like mist rising
from a swamp. Apparently Algorind had not been the only one to sense this. The twin-born grandsons
of Samular, identical unbearded lads clad in the white and blue of Tyr's sworn warriors, wore identical
expressions of horror as they regarded the white-haired, white-cloaked wizard who commanded the
siege tower.

What might have come of that, Algorind would never know. An arrow shot by one of Thornhold's
defenders brought down the wizard. And while Samular's followers swarmed over the walls, the
wizard died in the arms of his paladin brother. There could be no mistaking the resemblance, though
Samular was broader and his brown hair was untouched by age, and the paladin had wept as he
referred to the wizard as his twin, his other-self.

Strange. None of the stories Algorind had learned at Summit Hall mentioned Samular as twinborn,
or spoke of his wizard brother. Of Wurthar and Dorlion, the twin-born paladins who built the
Holy Order of the Knights of Samular, he had heard much. Tales of their mighty exploits and virtuous
lives had been the mainstay of his early training.

He lifted his gaze to the Harper's watchful, sympathetic face. "Tell me of Samular's brother."

"That's Renwick Caradoon." Danilo quickly told the story he'd been piecing together.

"It would appear," he concluded, "that Renwick tricked Khelben Arunsun—a wizard who is
commonly thought to be the current archmage's ancestor—into helping him banish the demon
Yamarral, along with the inhabitants of an entire keep, to a small plane, one from which the demon
cannot escape of his own power. The conditions of the original blood token agreement probably stated
that Renwick's power would continue until the demon was returned to the Abyss. By banishing him,
Renwick made sure this couldn't happen. Rather clever, keeping a demon exile by his own magic."

Algorind shook his head sadly. "All those people sacrificed to one man's ambition! I suppose it is a
blessing Renwick Caradoon died before those ambitions could be fully realized."

In response, Danilo handed over an ancient book, which was opened to a sketch of a tall, round
tower. "That is Caradoon Keep, which Renwick used as his lair during his life, and to which he
retreated after death."

"But how could he retreat after he—"

Danilo cut him off with a gesture of one hand. "Turn the page."

The paladin did so, and immediately recoiled in surprise. The old tower now stood just outside a
vast fortress of sand-colored stone. He knew this place very well, for he had been raised and trained
there.

"Have you never wondered why that tower was outside the walls of Summit Hall?" the Harper
asked softly.

Algorind nodded. "The masters said only that it contained a great and powerful magic that the
Knights of Samular must safeguard. Renwick Caradoon?"

"I'm afraid so. Renwick intended to hold his power for a very long time, either as a living man or a
lich. I thought at first that Samular imprisoned him, but have come to suspect that Renwick imposed
exile upon himself as a means of penance."

"And the Knights of Samular distrust Khelben Arunsun, Waterdeep's archmage, because his
ancestor and namesake took unwitting part in Renwick's plan?"

A fleeting smile touched the Harper's lips. "Let's just say my esteemed uncle is more than capable
of making his own enemies."

"Indeed. There is much distrust between the Harpers and my order."

"And with good reason. The Kezefbane was only one of the magical items Renwick created or
recovered from Ascalhorn. To this day, men seek those items—and not all of them belong to your
order. In fact, there is a secret society in Amn dedicated to this purpose. Under Khelben's direction,
the Harpers have been opposing them for years. Since the society and your order share certain goals,
the Harpers' efforts sometimes conflict with the activities of Samular's knights, especially where the
bloodline of Samular is concerned. For obvious reasons, the society in Amn has an interest in
Samular's descendants. It is my belief that Bronwyn was bound there when she was stolen as a child."

A disturbing possibility occurred to Algorind. "And Cara Doon, as well? Bronwyn's niece?"

"Most likely. Cara is going to be particularly attractive to these people. Not only does she possess
one of the rings of Samular, but she has prodigious magical talent. Her mother was Ashemmi, an elf
with enormous ambitions, a black heart, and the morals of a cat. In fact, I would not be surprised to
learn she was recruited to seduce Dag Zoreth in hope of breeding a magically gifted child of Samular's
bloodline."

"That is ... monstrous," Algorind whispered. "And Sir Gareth traffics with these people? How
could he keep such evil hidden for so long?"

"I can think of several reasons," Danilo observed, "foremost among them Sir Gareth's fame.
People, even paladins, usually see what they expect to see. Consider also the wound that withered his
arm and ended his active career. Well-mannered people avert their eyes from lamed men so as not to
appear indelicate. Every Dock Ward pickpocket knows this trick, and some use it to good effect, for
good folk are disinclined to gawk at people who have obviously suffered some injury."

"Men who rise above their disabilities are admired, and Sir Gareth continued his work on behalf of
the order, working as a treasurer," added Algorind.

"And that, too, has helped him, for such work is mostly solitary, and kept him from day to day
contact with the men of his order. Familiarity might have dulled the sheen of his reputation and
allowed men to see how dark his soul had become."

"There is much wisdom in your words," Algorind conceded. He looked up at Danilo, his
expression uncertain. "What should I do now, sir? I seek your council."

That seemed to amuse the Harper. "Shall I list the reasons why you shouldn't? In the interest of
saving time, why don't you tell me what you think must be done."

"My order needs to know about Sir Gareth."

"Indeed," he said slowly. "It is possible that his facade will shatter when it is closely examined.
But it is also possible that he has been magically protected from such inquiry. Did you pray for insight
into his nature?"

"No, sir; it was my own heart I sought to know. I caught a glimpse of Sir Gareth's, almost like
something seen from the corner of my eye."

"Interesting. But it might be difficult to persuade your elders to try this method, or convince them
that what you saw was the truth of Sir Gareth."

"Then what should we do?"

Danilo considered this. "If Sir Gareth put Cara on that south-bound ship, there will be records
somewhere. As luck would have it, I have friends in low places. In time, I should be able to gather
enough information to support your accusations. But a witness would be better."

"But what good man has been witness to Sir Gareth's misdeeds?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Danilo mused. He shook himself and sent his guest a rueful smile. "I
have been remiss. You are hurt and in need of healing."

Algorind frowned. "You restored my size and my hearing."

"Yes, but the healing potion I gave you was specific to that hurt. Your hands are nearly raw."

Danilo rummaged among his collection of potions and took out a tear-shaped bottle filled with
dark fluid in which swam tiny motes of light. He regarded it for a long moment before handing it
over. "This should solve the problem."

The young paladin nodded his thanks and tipped back the bottle. A feeling of wonder suffused him
as he regarded his unblemished hands. "They were healed almost before I swallowed. Even the old
scars are gone!"

"It's an unusually powerful potion," Danilo said evenly as he reached for the empty vial. "Now,
about Sir Gareth..."

Yes, what about Sir Gareth? To Algorind's surprise, he was no longer certain what to think of the
old knight. His doubts and fears, so firmly held just moments before, felt as insubstantial as wisps of
morning fog.

"Sir Gareth is a hero of our order," he mused. "If the vision I saw was truly a glimpse of Sir
Gareth's heart—and I am no longer so certain that it was—perhaps the darkness described the pain
from his wounds, or perhaps he is suffering through a time of discouragement. If he had given himself
over to evil, if he had truly done the things you suspect, surely my elders would have known!"

"I'm not surprised you think so," Danilo said, idly turning over the empty potion vial in his hand.
"And what do you intend to do next?"

"I will go whithersoever Tyr and you deem fit to send me."

Again the Harper laughed, but it seemed to Algorind that the sound lacked any real mirth.

"Tyr and me, is it? Now there are two vintages I never expected to see in a single goblet!" He
abruptly sobered, looking more serious than Algorind would have thought possible. "For the nonce,
forget about my opinion. Forget about the Order. What do you think you should do?"

After a moment's consideration, Algorind said, "I would warn the dwarves of Thornhold. Sir
Gareth mentioned that they might be prevented from speaking at Summit Hall."

"Indeed. Did he say how, or by whom?"

"He did not. But no doubt Sir Gareth has knowledge he did not see fit to share with me."

"No doubt," the Harper murmured. "If a dwarf's got something on his mind and the desire to share
it, he's not easily silenced, but I'll send word to Bronwyn at Thornhold." Danilo lifted one brow.
"Unless you prefer to go yourself?"

"I would like nothing better, as I would beg her pardon and little Cara's for wrongs unwittingly
done. And yet," he added wonderingly, "I feel compelled to return to Sir Gareth. It may be that he will
need an aide in the years to come, someone he can trust to help him with all of his many duties."

The Harper's smile seemed a bit sad. "I thought you might feel that way."

The silver owl chose that moment to flap over to the window and out into the night. Algorind
watched it go, a wistful smile on his face.

"If you're to aid Sir Gareth, you'll need a horse and a new sword," the Harper observed. "I know a
fine sword smith who doesn't mind doing business at this hour. As for a mount, well, it just so
happens that I have friends at the Pegasus aerie."

Algorind was on his feet at once. "A winged horse would consent to carry me?"

"They're less particular than you might have heard," Danilo said in a droll tone. "Before we leave,
there is one question my study was unable to answer. Of the twin knights, Wurthar and Dorlion,
which inherited his sire's dark nature?"

"It matters not at all," Algorind said, marveling at the truth of his own words. "The light of Tyr's
grace shines equally upon all men. What we are, we chose to become. What we do, we choose to do."

Danilo nodded, but his gray eyes looked troubled. "So you are not dismayed to learn the founders
of your order were demon-spawned? You will hold nothing against Bronwyn and Cara, who share this
heritage?"

"As long as neither of them shrinks me again," Algorind said fervently, "I will be content."

* * * * *

Later that night, Danilo let himself back into his town-house with a muttered spell and an impatient
wave of one hand. He was too tired and dispirited to be bothered with keys.

His commendable halfling steward had left a lamp burning in the entrance hall, but the study
beyond was deep in shadows. Even so, he could make out the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man
seated near the softly glowing embers of the hearth fire.

"You should bolster your wards," instructed a deep voice, slightly burred with the accent he
occasionally neglected to hide. "As you have just demonstrated, they are far too easy to breach."

With a sigh, Danilo entered the room and flopped down into a chair opposite Waterdeep's
archmage. "I thought you might drop by. No doubt the smell of magical meddling drew you like
strong cheese does mice."

"You seem heavy of heart," the great wizard observed. He held up the empty vial, the second
potion Danilo had given the young paladin. "It is no small thing, to magically control a man's will."

"No small thing?" Danilo echoed incredulously. "It's wrong. It's evil. It's no better than rape!"

"And yet... "

"And yet," Danilo echoed softly. He rubbed his hands over his face and sent Khelben a rueful look.
"I have condemned you for far less. In truth, I have judged you harshly over the years."

"That is what young men do."

They sat together in silence, sharing the solitude that comes from great power and difficult choices.
At long last, Danilo asked, "Can any good come of this night's work?"

"No man can see all possible outcomes," Khelben said, "and on the whole, this is a good thing. The
multiplicity of possible truths would drive one mad. So can too much power. And since there is
nothing you fear so much as madness, you have fought against me these many years, shying away
from realizing your full magical potential and rejecting any suggestion that you might be my
successor at Blackstaff Tower."

Danilo stared at him. "I didn't think you knew."

"You might be surprised how well I understand you," Khelben said. He nodded to the untidy pile
of books and scrolls on Danilo's study table. "You have a wizard's talent, a bard's passion for history,
and a sense of duty that demands you employ both in service to others. This is your path, and it is
good and right that you follow it."

Moved beyond words, Danilo merely nodded his thanks.

Khelben cleared his throat. "So you will be leaving for Tethyr soon?"

"Yes, before the tenday's end, and I will not be going alone. My lady Arilyn has rights to redress;
Elaith Craulnober has people to kill." Danilo shrugged. "Business as usual, only this time my ill-
assorted elven friends find themselves in rare accord."

"Indeed! Should I be relieved to hear that, or worried?"

"A little of both, I daresay."

Khelben chuckled and rose to leave, which brought Danilo politely to his feet. The archmage
regarded the younger man for a long moment.

"Mystra's blessing upon you, son."

Danilo smiled at him. "I won't be gone forever—a few years at most. To a man of your long years,
that's a mere eye blink. I'll see you upon my return."

A strange expression crossed the archmage's face, a flicker of emotion, quickly mastered. Khelben
lifted a hand in farewell and disappeared into mist.

6 Eleint, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Summit Hall

Laharin Goldbeard, the Master of Summit Hall, studied the papers spread out before him. His face
paled as he read the bills of lading and shipping records linking Sir Gareth to the Zhentarim and,
worse, to the Collectors Guild, the wicked treasure-hunters of Amn whose collective purpose was an
evil twin to that of the Knights of Samular. Finally he fingered the scrying ring that, moments before,
had revealed the face of Dag Zoreth, a priest of Cyric and member of the Zhentarim, who had
impatiently answered "Sir Gareth" in a manner suggesting long acquaintance.

The paladin glanced up at one of the tall, fair-haired men standing before him. "How is it,
Algorind, that you spent more than five years gathering this information? I won't deny that you've
done a great service to the order, but subterfuge is difficult for a paladin whose heart is true."

"But not impossible," interjected his companion, a well-dressed nobleman a few years older than
Algorind. "I placed him under a magical compulsion that caused him to set his doubts aside until such
time as he had collected proof your order could not ignore. I coerced his will to this purpose."

Laharin regarded the man sternly. "You freely admit to this?"

"I do," Danilo Thann said evenly; "furthermore, I would take upon myself any blame that might
fall upon Algorind, and I submit myself to your judgment."

"You do not fall under our jurisdiction."

"Nevertheless."

The master nodded and turned to the elderly man seated nearby, an armored guard standing on
either side. "What say you to these accusations, Sir Gareth?"

"Papers can be forged and well you know it!" Gareth said sternly. "A wizard who would force

another man's will could easily create an illusion such as the device before you. And Lord Thann was

once a Harper, kinsman to Khelben Arunsun—and as such, an enemy to our order."

Laharin listened gravely, then turned to Algorind. "What response would you give to this?"

"Sir Gareth has spoken long about the faults of other men." The young paladin glanced at Danilo
Thann. "But it seems to me that a good man will own his errors. I would consider warily any man who
does not."

"Well said." Laharin rose and addressed the old knight. "Sir Gareth, in view of your long service to
the Knights of Samular, and in concern for the reputation of our order, you will not stand a public
trial, but go into quiet confinement."

Gareth looked relieved. "The sentence is just. Whatever might have come of my past actions, I
never had any intention of doing evil."

"Neither did Renwick Caradoon. I trust you will find his company instructive."

Sir Gareth paled. "Sure you don't mean—"

"As you yourself observed, the sentence is just." Laharin glanced at the guards. "Take him to the
Founder's Keep."

To his credit, Sir Gareth left without protest, carrying himself with the dignity that recalled his
heroic youth. Once the room was cleared of armed paladins, Laharin sank back into his chair and
wearily regarded the two young men standing before him.

"What penance would you place upon yourself, Algorind? Lest you judge too harshly, let me
remind you that this man has offered to take your punishment upon himself."

The young paladin did not need to consider. "Let me serve the Knights of Samular by seeking out
the artifacts Renwick Caradoon created or recovered from Ascalhorn, and return them safely to the
order."

"I see," Laharin said slowly. His gaze flicked to the small, brown-haired woman sitting quietly in
the corner. "And you could do this work better than the Collectors Guild? You could retrieve from
Amn those devices these villains have already claimed?"

"Not alone, sir." Algorind's face flushed, but he held the master's eyes. "Bronwyn Caradoon knows
the work of collecting antiquities. She speaks the languages of Amn and other southern lands, and she
has had dealings with some of the men in the Guild."

"And you, Bronwyn? Would you share this task?"

The woman rose, her pretty face set in determined lines. "Those whoresons killed my family to get
to me. They kidnapped my niece Cara once and they've made three more attempts since. Give me a
quill and tell me where to sign up."

A smile spread across the Laharin's face. "A fitting task for a daughter of Samular! Welcome
home, child. And you, Lord Thann; are you content to let Algorind take the full consequences of this
penance on this own shoulders?"

Something in his tone brought bought a look of alert inquiry to the young noble's face. He glanced
from Bronwyn to Algorind, and understanding dawned. Since Bronwyn had no kinsman present,
Laharin was granting Danilo, her friend and sponsor, the honor of giving consent to the proposed
partnership. Danilo noted how the mismatched pair stood together, hands joined in common purpose...
and watched as their hands slid apart, slowly. Reluctantly. He turned back to Laharin with a wry,
knowing smile.

"I daresay this 'penance' will repay Algorind's debt in full, as well as fees and penalties beyond the
dreams of the greediest moneylender."

"I knew Bronwyn's mother," the master observed, his eyes twinkling, "and the memory of that
acquaintance, while fond, does nothing to contradict your observation. Your lady is Arilyn
Moonblade, the half-elf Harper?"

"Yes."

Laharin nodded, a wry smile on his bearded face. "That suffices, as well."

Algorind listened to this exchange with obvious puzzlement. "I don't understand."

The master of Summit Hall and the nobleman exchanged a look of rare and total accord. "You
will," they said in unison.

Originally published in Realms of Valor
Edited by James Lowder, February 1993

THE BARGAIN

This story takes place shortly after the events of Elfshadow, my first FORGOTTEN REALMS book. It
was also my first published short story, and it sets the tone for many tales to come in at least one
aspect—irony. You'll find a lot of that in these pages.

Arilyn Moonblade, a half-elf fighter and Harper agent, has just been cleared of suspicion in the
case of the Harper Assassin. She has nearly shed her much-hated nickname—again, "the Harper
assassin," this time as a grim honorific recognizing the fact that people she fought usually ended up
dead. She and Danilo Thann, a nobleman from a wealthy merchant family of Waterdeep, are sent to
Tethyr on a mission for the Harpers, a mission that requires Arilyn to—wait for it—infiltrate the
assassins' guild.

Some half-elves just can't buy a break.

THE BARGAIN

The one thing Arilyn Moonblade hated above all else was being followed.

"But how do you know someone's trailing you?" demanded Arilyn's companion, a nattily attired
nobleman who picked his way delicately along the littered docks of Port Kir. "If you haven't actually
seen or heard anything suspicious, how can you be so sure?"

With a frustrated sigh, Arilyn tucked a handful of her dark curls behind one pointed ear. How
could she explain to Danilo Thann something that, to her, was both art and instinct? She just knew.
There was a silent rhythm to stalking, a rhythm known only to the best hunters and rangers—and
assassins.

"A wizard can sniff out magic," she said slowly, absently waving away an overeager merchant
attempting to spray her with jasmine perfume. "And I believe a paladin can often sense when evil is
near."

"Ah." Danilo's gray eyes warmed with understanding as he studied the distracted half-elf at his
side. "I take it that patience, for lack of a better word, has an aura of its own."

Arilyn smiled without humor. "Something like that."

"Has this been going on long?"

She shrugged. "Since Imnescar."

"Since—" The nobleman broke off abruptly, then let out a long hiss of exasperation. "Arilyn, my
dear, someone's been stalking us through two kingdoms, and you don't see fit to mention it? Never
came up in conversation, is that it?"

"This is the first time we've been alone," Arilyn said, a trifle defensively.

Danilo glanced pointedly around the teeming marketplace. Beyond the docks the Sea of Swords
gleamed silver in the waning light, the horizon touched with the last faint pink of sunset. Most of the
merchants were busily folding their bright silk tents and rolling up the mats that had displayed pottery,
crafts, and exotic produce. The crowds had not diminished, but evening shoppers generally had goods
of a different nature in mind.

"We're alone, you say? How odd," Danilo mused. "I've often been alone with beautiful women,
and things were never quite so hectic and noisy. Not initially, at any rate."

"You know what I mean," the half-elf said curtly. For many days, she'd had little opportunity to
speak to Danilo in private. They'd arranged to travel with a merchant caravan en route from the
northern trade city of Waterdeep to Calimport, its counterpart in the South. Merchants were the only
northerners welcome in parts of Tethyr, and, swept along on the tide of commerce, Arilyn and Danilo
had moved unquestioned through the southern lands.

Today they were to begin their true mission.

Arilyn and Danilo had been sent by the Harpers—the self-appointed guardians of freedom and
justice in Faerun—to bring a warning to Tethyr's ruling pasha. This was not an easy task, for Pasha
Balik wanted nothing to do with "meddling northern barbarians." Repeatedly he'd refused Harper
messengers or missives, and attempts to gain the ear of someone in his inner circle had also proved
futile. Danilo had been charged with finding or creating a back door into the pasha's court; Arilyn's
task was to keep the young nobleman alive during the process. Knowing Danilo as she did, Arilyn felt
that her mission was sufficiently challenging without the aggravation of an extra shadow.

Even so, the half-elf had developed a certain grudging respect for her pursuer. Tracking a merchant
caravan along the major north-south trade road was no test of skill; avoiding detection for so long was
another matter. No other member of the company had realized they were being stalked, not even the
powerful Harper mage at her side.

Arilyn cast a sidelong glance at Danilo, who was idly whistling the melody of an off-color ballad.
Few who knew the young man might guess that he was either Harper or wizard. Danilo Thann was
known as a dandy, an amateur mage whose spells comically misfired, a foppish dilettante with
amusing pretensions toward bardhood. His self-satisfied smirk and extravagant attire bespoke wealth,
ease, and privilege. In truth, Danilo cultivated that image. Prominently displayed on the amethyst silk
of his jacket was the crest of a noble merchant family of the Northlands. His billowing trousers were
tucked into impractical suede boots, and the voluminous sleeves of his silk shirt were embroidered
with tiny runes in gold and violet threads. The nobleman's garments were loose and flowing, cut to

mask his lean, powerful build, just as the sparkle of jewels on his sword's hilt distracted the eye from
its keen and well-used edge. Danilo's facade made him an effective Harper agent, but it annoyed the
Nine Hells out of Arilyn.

"It's getting late," she said abruptly. "Let's find a quiet place to plan our next move. Some food
wouldn't hurt, either."

The nobleman's face lit up at the suggestion. "I know the very spot. Local color, and all that." He
took Arilyn's arm and led her down a maze of alleys to a low wooden building that possessed all the
charm of an abandoned warehouse.

"Local color, just as promised," Danilo said with enthusiasm as he swung open the door. He
removed his plumed hat and tucked it under one arm, then patted his blond hair carefully into place as
he beamed down at her. "Isn't this splendid?"

"This" was a tavern of sorts, a vast sprawling taproom that was anything but splendid. If the room
were thoroughly swept and aired, it might qualify as squalid.

The taproom was crowded with tables and booths, most of them filled. It was a local haunt,
judging from the swarthy faces and the distinctive blue-purple robes of Tethyr's natives. The crowd
comprised men of all ages and social classes. Only men, Arilyn noted, though a row of doors lining
the north wall of the taproom suggested that women were not entirely absent from the establishment.

Danilo ushered Arilyn into the room. The patrons nearest the door studied the new arrivals, their
faces betraying a mixture of interest and hostility. At one table, however, three well-dressed locals
eyed Arilyn with speculation and began to argue.

"Ah, Lord Thann!" proclaimed a nasal voice. Arilyn turned to see a squat, dark-robed man
waddling toward them, his pudgy hands outstretched in welcome.

Danilo greeted the innkeeper by name, inquired after the health of his wives and children, and
requested his customary table. The man ushered them to a corner table—which was already
occupied—and dismissed the lesser patrons with a few curt words in the local dialect. Beaming
widely, the innkeeper wiped the table with the sleeve of his robe, promised them a wine fit for Pasha
Balik himself, and hurried off.

"Is there one tavern in the world where you're a stranger?" Arilyn asked with a touch of asperity.

Danilo pursed his lips and considered the matter. Before he could speak, a blue-robed man
approached their table.

"I am the servant of Akim Nadir," the man told Danilo, and he gestured toward one of the three
men Arilyn had noted earlier. "My master wishes to purchase your woman."

Danilo placed a restraining hand on Arilyn's arm. "Let me handle this," he said. Turning to the
servant, he asked, "How much does your master offer?"

"Twenty gold."

"Danilo, this is no time for foolishness—"

"I quite agree," Danilo broke in. He reached across the table and patted her sword hand as if
consoling her. "You're worth several times that amount, I should say."

"Let go of my wrist and get rid of this man," she said through clenched teeth.

"And miss a chance to hone my bargaining skills?"

"Twenty-five?" the servant suggested.

Danilo shook his head, his face alight with mischief. "Eyes that shame the desert sky," he noted in
a wheedling tone.

"Thirty gold. No more."

"Look at her," Danilo persisted, deftly swiveling in his chair to move his shins beyond the reach of
the half-elf's booted feet. "Have you ever seen such skin? Moonlight upon pearls! A hundred gold
would be a bargain."

"Perhaps fifty," the servant allowed. "Has she any special talents?"

"Well, she's rather good with that sword of hers," Danilo said thoughtfully, "though I doubt that's
what you had in mind."

"That's it." Arilyn jerked her hand free of Danilo's grasp. Rising to her feet, she glared down at the
servant. "Take your business elsewhere."

The man blinked, not comprehending. A woman unveiled in such a place was surely for sale. "To
whom should I make an offer?" he asked, his eyes darting about the room.

Arilyn drew her sword. "Talk to this."

Light glinted off the ancient moonblade, pooling in the elven runes carved down its length. The
man's black eyes widened and he stepped backward so abruptly that he stumbled over the hem of his
robe. The matter settled to her satisfaction, Arilyn sheathed her sword and resumed her seat.

Danilo shook his head. "Your bartering technique could use a little work."

"Didn't it occur to you that he was serious?" Arilyn demanded, stabbing a finger in the direction of
the retreating servant. "The saying here is 'Barter met is bargain sealed.' What would you have done if
he'd met your price?"

"I'd've asked him to throw a couple of camels into the deal."

"Cam—" Arilyn broke off, dropping her head forward. "All right, I'll play: why camels?"

"For my mother, of course. The redoubtable Lady Cassandra bid me acquire something interesting
for her stables," Danilo replied mildly.

Arilyn fought against laughter, but the mental image of the elegant Waterdhavian noblewoman
astride a camel was too much for her.

"You really ought to laugh more often. It becomes you. Ah, thank you," Danilo said as the
innkeeper appeared at their table with two large goblets. The nobleman sipped at his wine and praised
it extravagantly.

"The grapes are grown on my own lands," the innkeeper said modestly. "I'm honored that you are
pleased."

"More than pleased," Danilo said. "My family deals in fine wines, you know. Perhaps if I were to
join your guild, I could carry your wine—and your fame—to the North."

The innkeeper's smile faded abruptly. "I would like that very much, Lord Thann, but I doubt it will
be possible. You will excuse me." He bowed quickly and scurried away.

"What was all that about?" Arilyn asked warily.

Danilo picked a bit of cork out of his wine. "You may have noticed that this establishment is not
the sort of place I usually frequent. It is, however, a meeting place for guildmasters. Didn't you see the
sign outside? The Guilded Dagger? Terrible pun, but there you have it."

"Yes? So?"

"The guilds control every aspect of trade in Tethyr, which makes them rather influential. If Pasha
Balik refuses to give the Harpers an audience, perhaps he'd listen to a representative from one of the
local guilds." Danilo took another sip of wine. "Namely, me."

Arilyn choked on her wine and set down her goblet with a thunk. "Danilo, the guilds are plotting to
overthrow Pasha Balik. We're here to warn him, not join the other side."

"Guild membership would give me access to the pasha's court," Danilo argued. "Moreover, as a
guild insider, I could find evidence that would force Balik to listen to us."

It wasn't a bad plan, but Arilyn was in no mood to be generous. "Which guild would you join? The
procurers?" she asked in an acid tone.

"Now, there's a thought," Danilo said with a grin. "Come now, Arilyn. Don't tell me you're upset
over a little harmless bartering. My asking price was too low—is that it?"

"It's not easy to get into the guilds here," the half-elf said, ignoring his teasing. "Membership is
passed down from father to son, or earned through apprenticeship. You could buy your way in, I
suppose, but these people are more likely to be impressed by a clever bargain than by a pile of gold
and jewels. Do you have a plan?"

"Not yet," Danilo admitted. "I'll think of something, though."

"Another thing." Arilyn leaned in closer and spoke with quiet urgency. "If the guilds learn you're a
Harper, they'll assume you're here to meddle—"

"A reasonable assumption," he broke in.

"And you'll be as good as dead. I say keep away from them."

"Guild rule was attempted once in Waterdeep," Danilo reminded her, his voice suddenly serious.
"It was, to put it mildly, a disaster. Pasha Balik might have his faults, but he's the strongest leader in
Tethyr and the best hedge against political chaos in the area. If I have to go through the guilds to get
the pasha's ear, I'll do it."

As Arilyn nodded reluctant agreement to Danilo's plan, a grim possibility occurred to her. Perhaps
guilds allied against Balik—which would include the powerful Assassins Guild—had already
discovered their Harper identity. That would explain the mysterious pursuer and his skill at stalking;
southern assassins were peerless killers trained at a secret college known as the School of Stealth. It

also meant that the Guilded Dagger was the most dangerous spot in Port Kir for them to be lingering
over a glass of wine.

"Let's get out of here," she murmured, and quickly explained her fears. The nobleman was silent
for a moment, then reached across the table and covered one of her hands with his.

"Arilyn, we're not known as Harpers. If someone is indeed watching you, it's undoubtedly due to
your unfortunate reputation as—"

"Point taken," interrupted the half-elf quietly.

Although she had worked for the Harpers for years, she had just recently joined their ranks and
few who knew of her would suspect her affiliation. She was known as a sword-for-hire. Given the
political unrest in the area, the sudden appearance of a known assassin would be cause for concern.
Any number of beleaguered rulers might want her watched.

Danilo gave her hand a quick, sympathetic squeeze and then nodded toward the entrance. "Who do
you suppose that man is?"

Grateful for the change of subject, Arilyn glanced at the front door in time to see the innkeeper
fold himself into a deep bow. The recipient of this courtesy was a lone man whose dark purple robes
were drawn close against the sudden chill of the night. Light glinted off a golden ring on his
outstretched hand.

"I wouldn't know. Does it matter?" she asked.

"It might. Look where he's being seated."

The half-elf watched as the newcomer was escorted to the taproom's finest curtained booth. Just
before the innkeeper drew the gaudy drapes, Arilyn caught sight of the newcomer's face. He was a
beardless lad, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen, and he returned Arilyn's scrutiny with
intensity remarkable for a boy his age.

"Here we go again," Danilo observed calmly. Arilyn followed the line of his gaze and immediately
forgot about the youth. An enormous bearded man approached their table, his black mustache twisted
with a sneer of challenge.

"You wish to barter with your sword, eh?" taunted the man. He drew a scimitar and leered down at
Arilyn. "Let us make a bargain, elf woman."

"You know the ordinances, Farig!" the innkeeper scolded, rushing up to the table. He flapped his
hands at the brute as if he were shooing chickens. "Outside, outside."

As Arilyn rose from the table, she murmured to Danilo, "You're the one who likes to barter. Do
you want to take this one?"

Danilo brightened. "In a manner of speaking, yes. You handle the sword end of the deal, though."
The nobleman removed a large gold-and-amethyst ring from his finger and held it aloft. "I'll wager
this that the elfwoman wins," he said loudly. There was a rumble of laughter, and soon a small crowd
circled Danilo's table, arguing odds and laying bets.

The half-elf suppressed a smile as she followed the tavern bully out into the street. She knew what
Danilo would bet against his ring and her skill: full guild membership.

The Guilded Dagger emptied as its patrons followed the combatants outside. Arilyn noted that the
strange, intense lad was among the crowd. To her eyes, he looked troubled and oddly disappointed.

But other, more pressing matters demanded her attention, so Arilyn turned back to her opponent.
Drawing her sword, she held it before her in a defensive stance. If at all possible, she wouldn't harm
more than the man's pride.

The big man shrugged off his outer robe, baring massive arms and a thick torso gone soft around
the middle. "What price does your sword require?" he asked, clearly enjoying himself. "Do I let it
draw first blood?" The crowd laughed at his jest.

"Offer the sword a new scabbard and get on with it, Farig!" one man called. "Why tire the
elfwoman in battle?"

The answering chorus of bawdy laughter abruptly faded when the fighters crossed swords. For
several moments Arilyn simply parried the blows, giving Danilo the chance to raise the stakes on his
wager. It proved to be good strategy; before long a sheen of perspiration glistened on the man's dark
skin, and his breathing grew labored. When his confident sneer wavered and disappeared, a murmur
began to ripple through the crowd.

The game forgotten, Farig put his full strength behind each slash of the scimitar. The bloodlust in
his eyes proclaimed that Arilyn was no longer a prize to be won, but an enemy who must die. With a

fierce yell, the southerner delivered a backhanded blow, striking Arilyn's forearm with the dull edge
of the scimitar. The force of the blow jarred her to the bone and knocked her sword from her numbed
hand. Farig shouted again, this time in triumph, as he raised the scimitar aloft for a final strike.

The half-elf ducked and rolled clear of the descending blade. Drawing a dagger from her boot, she
threw herself upward. Her knife drove hard under her opponent's ribs and found his heart. Arilyn felt
more than heard the faint metallic click as her steel met another blade. With a puzzled frown, she
yanked her knife free. The huge man fell face forward into the street.

From the corner of her eye, Arilyn noted that Danilo had become the center of an arguing,
gesticulating crowd. Unnoticed by the tavern patrons, Arilyn stooped over Farig's body. As she had
suspected, a knife protruded from between his third and fourth ribs. She pulled it out, and her eyes
widened. Carved on the handle was a curving Calishite rune. Arilyn had seen the symbol before. It
was a badge of pride, carved into each weapon owned by an assassin trained at the School of Stealth.
And as she turned the knife over, she found many smaller markings scored into the handle, one for
each person the knife's owner had killed.

Arilyn tucked the weapon away in her boot, and her eyes scanned the dark streets. Although there
was no sign of her mysterious "rescuer," she could sense that he was near. Determined to catch him,
Arilyn hurried to Danilo's side and grabbed his arm.

"Let's go."

"Soon," he said in a smug tone. "I'm bartering for guild membership. Given time, I might even get
them to throw in those camels for Lady Cassandra."

"Now," she insisted, giving him a sharp tug.

His lazy smile never faltered as he shook his head and peeled her fingers from his arm. Holding
her hand in both of his own, he kissed her palm then briefly rested it against his heart. The courtly
gesture was a pointed one; through the fabric of the dandy's jacket, Arilyn felt the outline of his
concealed Harper pin.

"Remember why we're here," he murmured.

By the time Danilo had been sworn into the Wine Merchants Guild of Tethyr and had brought
several rounds of drinks for his fellow businessmen, a frustrated Arilyn had discarded any thought of
pursuing the mysterious man who had stalked her, then tried to save her. Not until the Guilded
Dagger's last patron staggered out into the night did she have the chance to tell her story. Danilo
agreed that they should try to catch her pursuer with as much discretion as possible, to avoid
compromising their larger task. The best way to do that, assuming the skilled tracker would still be on
Arilyn's trail, would be to draw him away from the crowds of Port Kir.

The Harpers quickly retraced their steps to the camp their caravan had made on the city's outskirts.
They made their excuses to the caravan leader, claimed their horses, and set off south through the
Forest of Tethir.

The night was dark, and the pale sliver of moon did little to dispel the deep gloom of the forest
trail. Even though the road was wide enough to allow merchant wagons to pass, ancient trees met
overhead in a thick canopy. On either side of the trail grew a tangle of vines and underbrush.
Merchant caravans usually braved the Forest of Tethir only by day, to avoid the bandits and wild
beasts that prowled the forest after nightfall. Knowing this, the Harpers rode without speaking and
kept alert for the smallest signs of danger.

Daybreak was near when the half-elf finally caught sight of her pursuer. Feeling secure behind his
leafy screen, the assassin had ventured close enough for Arilyn to get a look at him.

A human might not have seen him at all, but the half-elf's keen night vision perceived the well-
hidden horse and rider. The assassin was lithe and slender, and even in the saddle gave the impression
of proud, almost regal bearing. His stallion—Amnian, by the looks of him—seemed to share his
rider's haughtiness as he moved on cloth-wrapped hooves through the shadowy forest. The man was
wrapped in a dark cloak, so there was no telling what weapons he carried, save for the long throwing
knife he had clenched in one hand.

The knife puzzled Arilyn. Why would this man try to save her at the tavern, only to attack her
now? Determined to snare the elusive stranger and get some answers, she reached into a saddlebag
and withdrew a small throwing knife attached to a coil of unbreakable spider-silk thread. At one end
of the thin rope was a small noose; this she slipped over the pommel of her saddle. A quick tug
secured the rope.

The tethered knife at the ready, Arilyn unpacked a small, round iron disk no bigger than the palm
of her hand. After adjusting the tiny shield's strap over her left hand, she hefted the small throwing
knife to remind her muscles of its weight and balance. Her movements were so small and unobtrusive
that even Danilo did not note her preparations.

From the corner of her eye, Arilyn saw her pursuer slip down from his horse. Bent low, he crept
silently toward her through the thick, night-shrouded underbrush. When only a thin strip of foliage
separated him from the path, he straightened to his full height and readied his own blade for the
attack.

The assassin's throw went wide, spinning toward the flank of Danilo's horse. Arilyn flung out her
left hand, and the knife glanced harmlessly off the tiny shield in her palm. In the same instant, she
hurled her own blade. It whizzed toward its target, the thin cord streaming after it. The half-elf's keen
ears heard the silken whisper of the uncoiling thread, the rustle of leaves parted by the missile, and
then nothing.

"I say! What's going—"

Danilo's startled outburst was cut short by the fierce expression on his companion's face. Arilyn
motioned for the nobleman to stay put, then swung down from her horse.

The half-elf was certain her knife had hit its target, yet her victim had not cried out. Considering
the weapon she'd used, that was strange indeed. The knife was cunningly designed so that the tip
would spread upon impact into four barbed prongs. The resulting wound was shallow, but it was
painful and exceedingly messy. Nearly impossible to withdraw, the knife was an effective way to stop
and snare someone at close range.

Arilyn silently parted the curtain of vines and took a look at her attacker. He stood in a small
clearing, his back toward her. His head was turned in profile as he tugged at the weapon embedded in
his hip. From the wound's location, Arilyn could guess why his throw had gone wide; he must have
spun around too far on his follow-through. He'd have to learn not to do that, if he intended to hit
anything.

As Arilyn watched, the assassin abandoned his attempt to withdraw the pronged blade. Drawing a
small hunting knife, he began sawing frantically at the spider-silk cord. Her gaze shifted upward to his
face, and she recoiled in surprise. Her captive was the lad she'd seen back at the tavern.

The boy had the deep black eyes, prominent hooked nose, and swarthy skin common to natives of
neighboring Calimshan. Since leaving the Gilded Dagger, he'd discarded his robes. Now he was clad
in loose-fitting silk garments of a dull, indeterminate color, clothes that struck Arilyn as being a
uniform of sorts. If the young assassin was a student at the School of Stealth, his skillful stalking and
his stoic acceptance of pain would be a credit to his masters. His aim could use work, though.

Arilyn slipped silently into the small clearing. Moving directly behind the boy, she tapped him on
the shoulder. Startled, he whirled toward her, dropping the knife in his surprise. A flick of Arilyn's
booted foot sent the weapon flying into the underbrush. Shock claimed the boy's face for only an
instant, then his young features firmed into a grim mask and he raised his fists to do battle against the
armed half elf.

Something almost like admiration stirred in Arilyn's heart. Apparently she'd snared a small hawk.

"Do you have a name?" she asked

Her question took the boy by surprise. "Hasheth," he answered, before he could think the better of
it.

"That blade has to come out," she said. Even in the faint moonlight, she could see Hasheth blanch.
A sympathetic smile curved her lips. "It's not as bad as you'd think. A hidden device on the handle
releases the barbs, and they fold up as the knife withdraws. There is no more pain than any other
shallow wound would cause." She paused and raised one eyebrow. "They do teach you to withstand
pain at the School of Stealth?"

"Of course," he responded indignantly.

So she was right about the boy—he was a student assassin.

"If you want that knife out, you'll have to turn around."

"No man turns his back on an enemy," Hasheth proclaimed.

"Really." Arilyn folded her arms. "In that case you'd better prepare to walk back to the School of
Stealth. You'll never sit on a horse with a knife in your—"

"Enough!" The lad silenced her with an imperious gesture. Pride and pain fought for dominance of

his dark face. Finally he turned, averting his eyes. "Quickly," he muttered from between gritted teeth.
"I have not all night to waste."

"Have a few other assassinations lined up, do you?" Danilo asked cheerfully as he strode into the
clearing.

"Didn't I tell you to wait?" Arilyn asked.

"Sorry," Danilo responded without a touch of repentance. "I would have died of curiosity, and
cheated this lad out of his fee. Let's have a look at your would-be assassin, shall we?" The nobleman
drew a bit of flint from the bag that hung at his waist and muttered an arcane phrase. His spell was
rewarded with a flash of light, and a small camp-fire appeared in the clearing's center.

"I say, that must have stung," Danilo said as he eyed the boy's messy wound.

Hasheth's black eyes swept over the nobleman's silken attire and expression of prissy dismay. The
lad sniffed and he turned aside, dismissing Danilo as one unworthy of notice or comment.

"The knife?" he reminded Arilyn.

The half-elf selected a slender pick from the small tool pouch at her belt. She slid it into a hidden
opening on the knife's elaborate handle. When she heard the tiny click, she pulled the blade free. The
boy's only response was a quick intake of breath.

Danilo made an exaggerated show of sympathy, then took a vial from his leather bag and handed it
to the boy. "A healing potion," the nobleman explained in response to Hasheth's suspicious glare.

"I have no use for your barbarian sorcery," the would-be assassin said with contempt.

"Ordinarily I'd consider that a mark in your favor," Arilyn told the boy. She eyed him sternly and
ordered him to drink up. After one final suspicious glance at Danilo, the young assassin complied.
The bleeding slowed, and color began to return to his face.

Arilyn folded her arms across her chest. "You've been following me since Imnescar. Why?"

"I do not know what you're talking about."

She drew the assassin's blade from her boot and held it out. "Maybe you'd like to explain why you
killed that thug at the tavern."

"You speak nonsense," Hasheth said with scorn. "That is the knife I threw at you just now."

"No, it isn't," Danilo said, producing an identical knife from the bag at his waist. "I picked up your
knife before I strolled over. By the way, have you any idea how close you came to skewering my
horse?"

Arilyn took the knife from the mage and studied the blades. Both were carved with the School of
Stealth's mark, but the weapons differed subtly in weight and balance. She flipped the knives over.
The one that had killed the tavern fighter was scored with dozens of small carvings, while Hasheth's
was smooth and unblemished. If the unmarked knife told a true story, the young assassin had not
killed before.

The half-elf looked up at Danilo. "There are two assassins."

"Only two? Given the fees you charge for your services as a bodyguard, I would expect no fewer
than seven."

She ignored him and turned to Hasheth. "Where's your partner?"

"I have none," he said. "If you met another assassin this night, what of it? Assassins are common
enough around taverns."

"But knives like this are not," Arilyn persisted. "Someone from the School of Stealth wanted to
keep me alive back at the tavern. Why?"

"That I cannot tell you, but I owe him a debt," Hasheth said bluntly. "If you had died at the hands
of that drunken oaf, I would have been cheated of my sand-hue sash."

Danilo noted the flash of pain in Arilyn's eyes. She'd worked long and hard to rise above her dark
past, only to be confronted with it time and time again. In Tethyr, members of the Assassins Guild
advertised their skills with different colored sashes. To advance in rank, one had to stalk and slay an
assassin of the next level. Now would-be assassins were challenging her for the right to lay claim to
her dark reputation.

The Harper clasped his hands behind his back, a casual stance that disguised his nearly
overwhelming impulse to throttle the lad with the sand-hue sash he coveted.

"No offense, Hasheth, but did it ever occur to you that you might have skipped over a few levels
here?"

"That is absurd," Hasheth said haughtily. "The school's masters would not dare mock me in that

manner."

"They wouldn't dare, eh?" A reflective look crossed Arilyn's face. "Where do you hail from,
Hasheth?"

"My home is in Zazesspur, if that is what you mean."

"But you have the look of a Calishite," she noted. "Perhaps your mother was from Calimport?"

"Is this a state dinner, that we make polite conversation?" Hasheth demanded. "I am your prisoner.
Kill me if you will, but don't trouble me with your woman's chatter."

"Charming lad," Danilo murmured. "Nice of him to suggest such an attractive option. Can we take
him up on it?"

Arilyn shook her head. "We'll take him back to Zazesspur. Sorry, Hasheth, but you'll have to find
some other way to earn your sash."

"A wise man knows when the battle is lost," the boy agreed.

Danilo regarded their captive warily, noting the sly twist to his lips and the smooth insincerity of
his tone. His gaze shifted back to Arilyn. Her lovely face was inscrutable, but she was obviously up to
something.

"Marvelous," he muttered, just loud enough for Arilyn's elven ears to pick up. "I've always wanted
a pet adder."

She sent him a sidelong glance. "We need to keep riding. We'll be out of the forest and into the
Starspire Mountains soon. That road is best traveled in the early morning hours."

Hasheth nodded. "The mountain pass is a wasteland as hot and barren as any desert. In the heat of
day your northern skin would peel like that of a molting snake," he said with relish.

"Charming lad," Danilo repeated.

"Still, he's got a point," Arilyn commented. "The sun will rise within the hour. If we press on we
should get through the pass before highsun."

The dandy sighed deeply. "Can't we at least stop here long enough for some breakfast? I'll cook."

Arilyn agreed reluctantly, and the trio settled down around Danilo's fire. The nobleman began to
rummage in his bag, drawing forth a small cookpot, a tightly covered dish of salted fish, a package of
dried mushrooms, a package of herbs, a large silver flask of water, and another containing a dry
cooking wine. Hasheth watched, his mouth agape, as each item appeared from the small sack.

"It's magic," Danilo explained as he deftly combined the ingredients. "The bag holds much more
than appearances would indicate."

The young assassin quickly masked his astonishment. "No porcelain? No linens, no candelabra?
You have adapted well to the rigors of travel, I see," he noted with keen sarcasm.

"I try to keep a civilized touch," Danilo said. "Under the circumstances, that might not be easy."

Arilyn caught the underlying warning in her companion's voice. "Do you still have any of that
goldleaf tea, Dan?"

Hasheth brightened. "I would be happy to prepare it. No northerner has the ability to brew a decent
cup."

"Who could refuse such a gracious offer?" Danilo rummaged in his bag again, found an oddly
shaped covered pot and a package of tea leaves, then tossed them to the boy. Hasheth took up the
water flask and busied himself with the task.

When the tea was ready, Hasheth filled Arilyn's mug and handed it to her with a courtly bow.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he poured another cup for Danilo. Before sipping, Arilyn inhaled
deeply, and her sharp elven senses picked up a foreign note in the fragrant steam. She caught Danilo's
eye, glanced down at his mug, and gave a subtle shake of her head. The mage raised his eyebrows and
painted an "I told you so" smirk on his countenance.

"Would you be offended if I didn't drink first?" she asked Hasheth.

"Of course not. Only the prudent live to old age," the lad replied graciously. He reached for her
cup, offering, "I myself shall taste it for you."

The half-elf had anticipated that response, and the faint gleam in Hasheth's eyes confirmed her
suspicions. Without doubt, he had an immunity to whatever poison he'd slipped into the tea. It was a
common trick in an assassin's repertoire.

"I would not dishonor you with such a task," Arilyn said with grave formality. "Actually, I'd
thought of feeding the tea to your horse."

Hasheth's smug expression melted into the slack frustration of defeat, and he pounded the ground

with balled fists. "Why have the gods sent you to torment me?"

The half-elf waited until the boy's rage was spent. "Why would your masters want you dead,
Hasheth?"

"Apart from the obvious reasons, of course," Danilo added.

Hasheth turned furious eyes on his captors. "Can you not hear? My masters decreed that you must
die, elf-woman. Then I can advance to the next sash level."

"Let's step into reality for a moment, shall we?" Danilo suggested. "Our home is many days to the
north. Didn't it occur to you that an assassin whose reputation had traveled so far might prove a bit of
a handful to someone your age?"

Before the young man could respond, Arilyn broke in. "How old do you think I am?"

Hasheth blinked, clearly puzzled by her question. His eyes traveled over her delicate features,
curly raven hair, and slender form. "Three-and-twenty rains," he guessed.

Arilyn shook her head. "Try three-and-forty."

"It is not possible," Hasheth protested, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "You are young and most
beautiful."

She brushed back her thick curls to display pointed ears. "I'm a half-elf, remember? I'll probably
outlive your grandchildren. When I started sword training, your mother was no doubt an infant. How
old was she when she came to your father's harem?"

"Fourteen," he answered absently.

"For as many years as you and your mother have lived, I've been a hired warrior. I fought for the
Alliance in the war against the Tuigan barbarians. I have earned a place of honor among the Harpers.
Knowing this, do you still think you were sent to fight an equal?"

Arilyn softened her harsh words with a smile. "In a few years, this may change. You have much
talent, Hasheth, and one day we may well meet on an even field. But that day has not yet come." She
paused, and her expression hardened. "No one uses me or my sword against my will. I don't intend to
be the instrument of your death, despite your masters' best-laid plans."

"You lie," Hasheth said, but his face betrayed a touch of uncertainty.

"Someone wants you dead," Arilyn repeated. "That's easy enough to prove. Since I won't take the
job, it will go to another."

Hasheth stared at her for a long moment. "I will think about your words."

The three travelers turned their attention to Danilo's fragrant stew. Hasheth scorned the offer of a
spoon, instead using pieces of flat, hard travel bread to scoop up bits of fish and mushrooms. The lad
ate hungrily, but with a nimble delicacy that struck Danilo as oddly familiar. He resolved to mention
his suspicious to Arilyn as soon they could speak privately.

After their meal, at Danilo's insistence, Arilyn tied a length of rope around Hasheth's ankle and
secured the end to her own saddle. The boy submitted to the indignity calmly, and not until they left
the forest behind them did he speak to her again.

"I have heard of the Harpers," Hasheth stated casually, but his tone clearly implied that he had
heard nothing good. He wheeled his horse aside and placed as much distance between himself and his
captors as the tether rope allowed.

Danilo reined his horse close to the half-elf's mare. "Mind if I borrow your bow? I've never had an
urge to shoot someone before, so I don't have one of my own."

Arilyn smirked. "I can see the temptation, but try to resist."

"Why? You'd be surprised how much time I save by giving in to temptation immediately."

"Ease off, Dan. He's just a boy."

"Perhaps so, but he is not your average student assassin. Noblemen in Tethyr seldom use forks or
spoons. It's supposed to be uncouth. Another of the pasha's notions about northern barbarities, I
believe. Then there's the matter of that horse he's riding. I'm an excellent judge of horseflesh, and I
can assure that only the very wealthy could afford such a mount. And have you noticed the boy's
ring?"

"I was wondering when you'd get around to that ring," Arilyn murmured. "So Hasheth has money."

"He's clearly both noble and wealthy, but he disdains such things in others. He positively despises
what he sees in me—"

"For that he needs a reason?"

Danilo reached over and took Arilyn's chin between his fingers, turning her face to his. "You're

enjoying this far too much," he observed.

"Get used to Hasheth, Dan," she said as she eased her horse away. "He's our contact at Pasha
Balik's court."

Danilo squinted at the sun, which had crested the top of the Starspire Mountains. Already it glared
at them like an angry red eye. "My dear, I'm afraid this desert heat is addling you."

"Why? You've concluded that Hasheth is noble. He names Zazesspur as his home, but his face is
that of a Calishite. Pasha Balik's palace is in Zazesspur. The pasha is a native of Tethyr, but he's
known to stock his harem with the women of the South. Hasheth admitted to being born in a harem,
and very few men in Zazesspur keep harems. And does his dislike of northerners remind you of
someone?"

"All right, it's possible that he's the pasha's son," Danilo conceded. "Possible. We can't be sure."

"We could ask him."

"I like it," Danilo mused. "Simple, direct. The youngster likes to talk, so it just might work." He
cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, "Tell me, Hasheth, how does Pasha Balik feel about
having an assassin in the family?"

"Your father would disown you sooner than mine would me," the boy responded curtly. "Better an
assassin than a fool."

Arilyn chuckled. "That answer your question?"

"It'll do. But what makes you think that Hasheth will work with us?"

"He will if we can convince him his life is in danger."

The nobleman's face suffused with unholy glee. "I can think of several ways to accomplish that
feat."

"Don't bother. The second assassin will strike soon. He has to, if they plan to blame Hasheth's
death on a northern barbarian."

"Ah." Danilo drew in a long breath. "I think I've got it. Hasheth's masters send him after you, fully
expecting you to kill him. It was a chance to be rid of him and remain guiltless. And knowing how
Pasha Balik feels about 'northern barbarians,' they're probably expecting Hasheth's death to put the old
boy right over the edge."

"That's my guess," Arilyn agreed. "His son's death might prompt Balik to limit trade with the
North—making the people of Tethyr turn against him. The way would be clear for the guild alliance
to make its move."

"Devious," the nobleman muttered. "And the other assassin—the one who's been following us
since Imnescar—was supposed to make certain you and Hasheth met up, I suppose."

"Probably. If I don't kill Hasheth, he will. You can bet I'll still be blamed, though."

Danilo was silent for a long moment. "So what do we do now?"

"We keep Hasheth alive."

As the three travelers rode deeper into the pass, the day grew oppressively hot and the landscape
more barren and forbidding. Heat rose in wavering lines from the sand and from the scattered clusters
of rock. The only signs of life were the colonies of lizards sunning themselves on rocky ledges. The
creatures seemed to be everywhere, and Danilo marveled that anything could enjoy the punishing
heat.

"Look at that large rock formation," the half-elf said quietly. The pass narrowed up ahead, with a
flat ledge to the left side of the trail and a huge, jagged pile of boulders blocking escape to the right.

"Is our assassin lying in wait there?" the nobleman asked.

"Could you choose a better place? Once I move, you keep an eye on Hasheth."

They rode until they were almost level with the rock. Suddenly Arilyn threw herself from her
horse, tugging violently at the line that bound their young captive. Caught unaware, Hasheth fell
heavily to the rocky ground.

Arilyn was back up in a heartbeat, moonblade in hand, rushing toward something Danilo had yet to
see. A tall, dark-bearded man sprang up from behind the rocks, a pair of scimitars flashing in the
sunlight. Danilo noted that the attacker's dark, close-fitting attire was identical to the garments worn
by Hasheth.

The young assassin staggered painfully to his feet, cursing the rocky trail and the woman who had
caused his fall. As he watched the battle raging before him, fierce joy filled his heart. The accursed
woman would die, and at the hands of a brother assassin! Hasheth's eyes narrowed at that thought, and

he stooped to pick up a shard of stone, wedge-shaped and sharp. Perhaps this was a gods-granted
chance to fulfill the duty assigned him...

"I wouldn't recommend it," said a voice edged with steel. A blade bit into the base of Hasheth's
neck. "Turn around slowly."

Hasheth did as he was bid, silently cursing himself for being bested by the barbarian peacock. He'd
forgotten about Danilo, so accustomed had he become to ignoring the fool.

"Look over at the rock ledge," the northerner ordered, lowering his blade until it was level with the
young man's heart. "It could change your outlook considerably."

Puzzled, Hasheth looked—and recoiled from the sight before him. All but one of the sun-loving
lizards had fled. The lone remaining creature writhed and twisted, impaled by a slender, familiar
knife. The blade, which was deeply wedged in a rocky crevice, flashed in the bright sunlight as the
lizard flopped about. The creature gave one final, convulsive shudder and lay still.

Only moments before, Hasheth had been directly between the dead reptile and the former hiding
place of his "brother assassin."

"Arilyn cut that a bit close, wouldn't you say?" Danilo observed in his irritating drawl.

"The elfwoman spoke the truth," Hasheth said softly. He turned and met Danilo Thann's eyes
squarely. "Return my knife," he commanded. "She spoke truth, and she saved my life. I would come
to her aid."

The nobleman chuckled and lowered his sword. "Not if you value your skin, you won't." He
motioned toward the ledge. "Have a seat. This shouldn't take long."

"But—"

"Sit."

Absorbed in the battle before him, Hasheth could only nod. He clambered onto the rock, barely
registering the dead lizard beside him, or the northerner's comic grimaces as he fastidiously removed
the creature.

Arilyn Moonblade fought like no other Hasheth had seen. She held her ancient sword with both
hands, yet her strike was as quick as a desert snake. Easily she engaged both of the Calishite's flashing
scimitars. Within moments the man fell backward, clutching at his slashed throat.

The half-elf stooped and cleaned her sword in the sand. Like one asleep, Hasheth slid from the
rocky ledge and drifted forward, his eyes fixed in horrified fascination on the dead man.

Danilo came to stand beside Arilyn. "I'd wager my entire gem collection that the boy had never
seen death close at hand—until now, that is."

"He's lived a sheltered life," Arilyn responded softly. "Few men die in a harem."

"And those who do, die happy."

Oblivious to the Harpers' conversation, Hasheth dropped to his knees beside the body. His hands
reached toward the man's outer shirt, hesitated, then parted the dark folds. A quilted sash of pale silver
silk girded the dead man's undertunic. Hasheth looked up at Arilyn.

"This man wore a shadow sash," he whispered, "and you killed him with ease."

The half-elf pushed a handful of black curls off her damp forehead and shrugged. "He was better at
stealth than at honest combat."

"Even so, the gray sash marks its wearer as an assassin of the highest rank and skill," the lad said
quietly, never taking his eyes from the corpse.

"Oh-oh," Danilo murmured, suddenly realizing what was coming.

Hasheth drew in a steadying breath and quickly unknotted the sash, tugging it free of the dead
man's body. He rose and presented it to Arilyn with grave formality. "This belt and rank are now
yours."

Arilyn eyed the proffered sash and swallowed hard. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Wear it with pride," Hasheth responded earnestly. "The sash will bring you much respect in these
lands, and many offers from men of wealth and power. The shadow sash also grants you entrance into
the Assassins Guild, and even a position in the ruling body of the School of Stealth, should you desire
it."

"Two guilds," Danilo said softly. "Between the Assassins Guild and the Wine Merchants Guild, we
could surely get the information we need."

Arilyn glanced at Danilo's sympathetic face and gave a curt nod of agreement. She gingerly
plucked the sash from Hasheth's outstretched hands and tied it quickly around her waist.

"I was not ready to listen to your words," Hasheth said, an apology in his tones. "Will you now tell
me what brings the Harpers to our lands?"

"We would like Pasha Balik to remain in power," Danilo began.

The young man smiled. "Already you have my interest. That is my wish as well."

Hasheth listened politely as Danilo spoke, but the boy's face darkened with shock and outrage as
the mage related the guilds' plot against the pasha. He sat in silence for many moments after the story
had ended.

"What's wrong, Hasheth?" Arilyn prodded.

The young man shifted uneasily. "Clearly I must withdraw from the School of Stealth if I wish to
stay alive, but doing so would be regarded as a failure. The guild would not hesitate to spread false
tales of my cowardice, which would bring great dishonor to me and to my father. This is more than a
matter of pride," Hasheth added quietly. "I wish to aid my father, but will he regard the words of a
man without honor?"

"You might be able to leave the School of Stealth without dishonor," Danilo said thoughtfully.

"I do not see how," the boy replied, his face glum.

The nobleman grinned. "Barter much, Hasheth?"

"That is generally a task for merchants and servants, but I am familiar with its principles. One
begins by suggesting an impossibly high price, which is countered by an equally absurd low figure.
Eventually both parties settle somewhere in the middle."

"Precisely," Danilo said. "This is what you do: you and a servant will take this man's body to the
assassins' guildhall. If I understand the rules, his death earns not only the sash rank, but guild
membership and a position at the School of Stealth. Demand all three. That's the high bid."

"But I did not kill him," Hasheth protested.

"This is barter, remember? What place does honesty have in making a bargain?"

A touch of humor lit the boy's eyes. "Go on."

"The guildmasters will counter with a low bid, perhaps offer to pay you this man's bloodprice. You
merely sneer and toy with that priceless scarab of yours," Danilo suggested, casting a covetous glance
at the boy's ring. "Then, after a suitable pause, you suggest that you might be willing to give up the
position at the School of Stealth."

"The guildmasters won't be satisfied with that," Hasheth protested. "It is true that they will not
willingly make a man of my years a master assassin, but if they indeed plot against my father, they
cannot allow me into the guild."

"Exactly," Danilo said patiently. "Guild membership is the main issue, and most of their attention
will be focused on it. When they release you from your commitment to the School of Stealth, they'll
be thinking of you in terms of a potential master assassin, not a failed student."

"Go on," urged Hasheth, a crafty smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"They'll release you from the school and make a counter-offer. Since they can't have you poking
around in guild business, all they can offer is the shadow sash itself. You pretend to think it over, then
casually observe that an assassin of such high rank must be allowed into the guild, so that her
activities can be monitored and her fees properly tithed. Emphasize 'her' subtly."

"Ahhh." A slow, admiring smile crept across Hasheth's face. "That will befuddle them."

Danilo grinned. "That's right. You'll change the direction of negotiations abruptly, gaining an
advantage through surprise. Introduce your 'servant'—that's you, Arilyn—as the woman who
overcame the shadow sash. Repeat your demand for rank and guild membership for her—and imply
you were speaking for Arilyn all along. Chances are they'll be so relieved to be rid of you that they'll
embrace Arilyn. Figuratively speaking, my dear," Danilo assured the half-elf.

"But what of my assignment? I can hardly champion a woman I was ordered to kill," the boy
pointed out.

The nobleman raised one eyebrow. "If the guildmasters bring that up, remind them that you were
released from the school, and therefore, from any assignments. Barter met is bargain sealed, as they
say hereabouts. You'll have gotten the better of them, and they'll probably admire you for it."

Hasheth's delighted laughter rang out over the wasteland. "You think like a southerner: devious
and subtle. It would seem that I have misjudged you."

"Everyone does," Arilyn said. "That's why he's such an effective agent."

"Lord Thann is a Harper, as well?" The young man's brow furrowed as he thought this over. "A