Silver Shadows (10 page)

A tight touch on his shoulder tore Foxfire from his grim thoughts. He turned to face the hunter, who handed him a blackened arrow shaft.

Took it from between two naked ribs. Look at the mark,” Korrigash advised him.

The elf glanced at the shaft. The mark on it was familiar: three curved tines, combining to make a stylized foxfire, the bright flower from which he had taken his name. The arrow was unmistakably his, yet how had he lost it? He hadn’t missed a chosen target since boyhood!

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He lifted incredulous eyes to his friend’s face. “But how?”

“The humans.” Korrigash pointed to the shaft. “Note the length.”

Foxfire nodded, understanding at once. The arrow shaft was shorter than it should have been by a width of perhaps two fingers. It had been broken off, the jagged edge trimmed smooth, and the arrowhead reaffixed. Since the forest elves retrieved and reused all arrow’s used in hunting, this one could only have been torn from the body of an enemy. It was possible that this arrow had been plucked from a wounded ogre or bugbear, but such creatures lacked the wit to plant it here for others to find. This was the work of the elves’ human foe.

Tribe against tribe,” the hunter commented grimly.

Again Foxfire nodded in agreement. The marks of the best elven hunters and warriors were well known in the forest, and not every elf who stumbled upon the razed elven settlement would see the ploy for what it was. While it was possible that someone was attempting to turn the elven tribes against each other, the purpose behind this grim act was utterly beyond Foxfire’s ken.

There was one human, however, who might well have the answers. Foxfire remembered his conversation with Bunlap, and suddenly he knew where he might find the human.

He walked up to Tamsin and put a hand on the young elfs shoulder. A surge of guilt filled Foxfire as he noted the haunted look on the fighter’s face. Tamsin was fey, even for a green elf. It was likely the youth was seeing the carnage as clearly as if it was happening before him. Such gifts were as much torment as blessing, but Tamsin’s was needed. The elf was twin-born, and he had a bond with his equally fey sister that enabled them to speak mind-to-mind.

“You must send word to Talltrees at once,” Foxfire told him. “The tribe must send a war band with all possible speed to the border trees south of Mosstone. “Shirty

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elves, armed with unmarked green arrows.”

This last command was unprecedented, for the elf arrows known as “black lightning” were crafted through a long and mystic process. Green arrows were raw and unfinished by elven standards, deadly enough when launched from elven bows, but lacking the rites that imbued the weapons with forest magic and linked the elven hunter-warriors to their home in ways that no human—and few elves—could fully understand. Yet Foxfire knew his request would be honored, and he understood that this was a measure of the high regard his tribe had for his leadership and judgment. He only hoped that with this decision he would not betray his people’s trust.

“If there were no elven raids before, there will be soon,” he added softly. “We will attack the farm where the elves are held as slaves.”

At these words the haunted look faded from Tamsin’s eyes, burned away like morning mist by the rising sun of his hatred. “In that case, I will send your words to Tamara with pleasure,” he said grimly. “And I will tell her to urge the warriors to hurry!”

“So how’s the farming going?” Arilyn inquired casually.

Her words seemed to irritate her young host, as they were intended to do. Prince Hasheth cast her a baleful look, then quickly composed his hawklike features into a lofty, lordly expression so studied that Arilyn was certain he’d practiced it before a mirror.

It seemed that Hasheth, a younger son of the ruling pasha, was having a great deal of difficulty finding a life-path suited to his ambitions and his exalted sense of self. Arilyn had met the young man several months before, during his attempt to gain fame and wealth as an assassin. He had been charged with killing another assassin, namely Arilyn. She and Danilo had managed,

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just barely, to convince the proud youth that this assignment was actually a death sentence handed down by guildmasters who wanted Batik’s son out of the assassins’ guild. Since then, Hasheth had become an ally, helping to insinuate Arilyn into the assassins’ guild and sponsoring Danilo in the social life of the palace. And in doing so, he had finally found an activity that suited him. The role of Harper informant appealed to, the young man, for intrigue was a skill highly valued in Tethyr. Yet his Harper activities did not bring him the overt wealth and status he craved. Since he’d left the assassins’ guild, he had tasted of a dozen occupations. The latest, apparently, was no more to his liking than any of his previous choices.

^ have scraped the dung and the mud from my boots and left the manor house in the hands of a steward,” Hasheth announced with disdain. The life of a country lord is deadly dull. What need have I of lands or title, I who am the son of a pasha?”

Actually, Arilyn observed silently, lands and title would be a big improvement over Hasheth’s current lot. As a younger, harem-born son, his status was roughly that of a skilled tradesman, and his prospects were considerably less promising. At last count Batik had seven sons from his legal wives; his harem had produced an additional thirteen or fourteen. Hasheth had at least a dozen older brothers. Even if he had perfected the assassin’s art, it would have taken him many years to work his way up to the head of the tine.

The half-elf nodded sympathetically. “Land is important, but Zazesspur’s wealth comes largely from trade. Have you considered becoming a merchant?”

The prince sniffed. “A greengrocer? A camel salesman? I think not.”

“How about apprentice to the head of the shipping guild, a man who also sits on the Lords’ Council?” the Harper countered. “Trade and politics work together tike a paired dagger and sword. In no place is this more

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true than in Zazesspur. You could learn much and gather the tools needed to carve out a place for yourself. Those who control trade will always have a powerful hold upon the rulers. And Inselm Hhune is an ambitious man. You might to do well to hitch your cart to his star.”

Hasheth nodded, his black eyes regarding her thoughtfully. “And the Harpers—they endorse this Lord Hhuner

His tone was casual, but Arilyn could almost hear the gears of Gond churning in his mind. Clearly, he understood that she had some purpose other than his career advancement in mind. The Harper suppressed a rueful smile. Hasheth was good and getting better.

“No, of course not,” she said bluntly. “As I’ve said before, Hhune is ambitious. It would be wise for the Harpers to keep an eye on such a man. But there is no reason why you cannot do this for us and advance yourself at the same time.”

This notion seemed to please the young man. Picking up a jewel-encrusted bottle, he leaned forward and added a bit more wine to Arilyn’s goblet. She obligingly drank deeply, noting as she did so the glint that entered Hasheth’s eyes. It was a common ploy, one he had used time and again in the hope that a quantity of potent Catishite wine would lower the half-elfs formidable reserve and deliver her to his bed. Arilyn knew without vanity that she was considered beautiful, and she was well accustomed to masculine attention. Hasheth’s both amused and exasperated her, for the young man always expressed his admiration in a manner that suggested he was conferring upon her a great honor. Arilyn was an expert at saying no—her repertoire ranged from gracefully feigned regret to a disemboweling backstroke—but it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to turn down Hasheth’s advances while keeping a straight face.

Fortunately for Arilyn, the young man seemed to be more interested in his future prospects than his

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immediate libidinous impulses. “I will ask my father to place me in Lord Hhune’s service,” he agreed.

“You do that, but first you should know that Hhune was probably involved in the plot against your father,” she cautioned him. “It is even possible that he had something to do with the guilds’ attempt to have you killed. Even now, you’d do well to watch your back.”

Hasheth shrugged as if these past offenses were unworthy of consideration. “If Lord Hhune is truly an ambitious man, he will take whatever path he must,” he observed. His unspoken words, And so will I, rang sharply in Arilyn’s ears.

The young man’s attitude did nothing to reassure Arilyn. At best, Hasheth was overly pragmatic. He would do whatever needed to be done to advance his ambitions. As long as Ms interests lay along the same path as those of the Harpers, all would be well. Arilyn was not certain it would always be so. Yet honor demanded that she give the young man one more warning.

“I hope I am wrong, Hasheth, but from what I have seen and heard, it seems likely that the end of your father’s rule draws near. It cannot be otherwise, when he slights so many ambitious Tethyrians in favor of southern courtiers.”

The prince received this dire prediction with yet another shrug. “What is that to me? I stand too far from the throne to mourn its loss and have long known that I must seek my fortune elsewhere. But I thank you for your words. Now, on to other, more pleasant matters. More wine?”

Arilyn declined with a delicate wave of her hand and a small, hard-edged smile. Hhune and Hasheth were well matched, and she wished them the joy of each other’s company! “I would, Hasheth,” she purred in a courtesan’s creamy tones, “but in company such as yours, I dare not drink too freely. I couldn’t trust myself to behave!”

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The shops of Zazesspur closed at twilight, but in the back room of Garvanell’s Fine Ointments business continued apace. Behind the lavish shop that offered scented oils and spurious potions to the city’s wealthy, behind the counting room where the clerks labored to tally the day’s wealth, Garvanell kept a small private room where he received payment of another, more personal sort.

Garvanell had been born to farmhands who labored in the distant reaches of the Purple Hills. But from a very early age it was apparent that he would not remain in such remote and humble surroundings. The gods had gifted him with a handsome face and a certain smarmy charm. He had done well with these modest attributes, trading them for the benefits that came along with the favor of older, wealthy women. Step by step, he worked his way up in society, until at last he married a well-to-do widow of Zazesspur.

His wife was a good twenty years older than he, as well as stout and exceedingly homely. Yet all things in life had compensations. The woman possessed a thriving business and an ever-increasing passion for playing at cards. Since she won more often than she lost, Garvanell was pleased she’d found something other than him to occupy her time. He took over the perfume shop and did a thriving business. Although less than half of his earnings were paid in coin, he still managed to turn enough of a profit to maintain appearances.

A soft tap at Garvanell’s door, then a whispered password, announced that his latest payment had arrived. His aging wife had her indulgences; he had his.

The perfume merchant opened the door and surveyed the young woman his favorite client had sent him. He’d often expressed a preference for novelty. This woman was more exotic than most—her almond-shaped black eyes and bright silk turban suggested a far-eastern heritage— but he doubted the client would have gone to such trouble. Granted, Oil of Minotaur Musk was not an easy

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commodity to come by, not even the imitations fashioned by unscrupulous Lantanna alchemists.

Then the woman stepped into the c-oom, and the lamplight glistened upon pale skin, the rare color of Shou porcelain. The merchant’s pulse quickened. This was the genuine article! For a moment, Garvanell almost wished the same could be said for the Oil of Minotaur Musk that had purchased her!
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As Garvanell bolted the door, the bells of flmater’s temple began to ring out the midnight hour. The merchant grimaced. The temple was but a block away, and at night the bells seemed deafening. He turned to the woman, intending to pantomime an apology. He froze, and his eyes widened with astonishment and fear.

The woman had removed her turban and gloves. Slowly, deliberately, she raised a slender finger to her cheek and wiped a bit of the ivory-colored ointment from her skin, revealing the ruddy color beneath. Before Garvanell could move, she pulled a dagger from the folds of her gown and leaped at him.

Small and slender though she was, the speed and fury of her attack sent the merchant tumbling backward. The woman straddled his chest, her knees pinning his arms to the floor. She buried one hand in his hair and jerked back his head, then slid the edge of her dagger against his throat. She leaned down to press her lips directly to his ear.

“You should be flattered,” she said. “I bought all my ointments and cosmetics at your shop. They rub off on the bed linens, I find, but so far no man has lived to complain of it!”

At last the paralysing fear that gripped Garvanell gave way, and he began to scream for help.

Ferret let him scream, for the bells of Umater’s temple more than drowned out his cries. Mockingly she counted off the chimes of midnight into his ear. When the final peal came, she rolled aside, dragging the dagger down and across as she went. ,

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The assassin rose to her feet and stared down at the dead merchant. She felt no elation and no regret. Another tattling tongue had been silenced. It was a needed thing, as necessary as the hunt that provided food. This kill had been easy, but then, so were most. In this soft and decadent city, Ferret was like a hawk among doves.

Passions ran hot among her people, yet few who knew of Ferret’s mission and methods approved. Regardless, she did what she could. Yet as time passed and matters grew increasingly troubled, she’d begun to realize the futility of her chosen path. Ferret’s skills were considerable, but they were not equal to the layers of intrigue, nor was her mind fashioned to comprehend the complexity of plot and counterplot that was Tethyr. If she was ever to find and destroy the one she sought, she needed help.