The entire transformation had taken place within minutes. Ready to go, Arilyn glanced up at Kymil. For once, his inscrutable demeanor had slipped, and a look of obvious distaste twisted his features. Early in Arilyn’s training, Kymil had discovered the moonblade’s ability to create disguises for its wielder. Arilyn and the moonblade had developed a repertoire of several practical facades, but Kymil had never become reconciled to what he considered an undignified manner of doing business.
“Dressed this way, I can leave without attracting notice,” she explained a trifle defensively. Even after all the years she’d known Kymil, she was stung by any sign of disapproval from her mentor.
Kymil recovered his composure and harumphed. “Hardly. Dressed in that manner, you cannot possibly escape notice. A courtesan without a patron? It is unusual, and you will be a matter of much speculation. Many will remember you.”
“True,” Arilyn agreed. “They will see and remember a human courtesan. An illusion.”
The noise of the approaching ruffians came closer, cutting short any argument Kymil might have had. “Your methods are highly successful,” he conceded. “Go then, and the gods speed your quest. Sweet water and light laughter until next,” he concluded, in the traditional elven form of leave-taking.
Having dismissed Arilyn, Kymil’s eyes became distant as he focused on some faraway destination. He murmured, “Silver path. Evereska College of Magic.”
His body became translucent, then the outline of his form wavered and filled with golden pinpricks of light. These in turn flickered briefly, then disappeared.
Arilyn shuddered. As the wielder of a moonblade, she had of necessity become reconciled to using magic, although she still bore a fighter’s distrust of the art. Magic fire and dimensional travel appalled her. Her earliest experiences with teleportation at Kymil’s side had left her sick and shaken, and her strong bias against magical travel had been strengthened during the Time of Trouble; she’d seen one mage too many teleport himself into a solid wall. Kymil might not like her attitude, but she simply couldn’t change the way she felt. With the elf gone, Arilyn returned her thoughts to the matter at hand. Again she drew the curtain aside, searching for the final piece of her disguise.
She needed a man.
Kymil was right about that much: a courtesan needed a patron. So accustomed was she to traveling alone that she had forgotten this. To properly play her sultry role, she needed to borrow a man as a prop. Arilyn scanned the tavern for a likely prospect. A burst of laughter drew her eye toward the front door.
Several merchants slouched around a table littered with empty ale mugs. One of their number, a young man in bright green finery, was openly flirting with an elven barmaid. Arilyn couldn’t hear his words, but they brought a roar of approving, tipsy laughter from his comrades and made the smiling young moon elf blush a bright shade of blue.
Perfect, Arilyn thought, her mouth twisting in a faint smile of derision. She could not have produced a better prospect if she had been capable of conjuring one from thin air. The man was young, less than thirty winters. His flaxen hair was meticulously styled, his richly embroidered cloak was draped over his shoulders with consummate artistry. He lounged indolently in his chair as he ogled the swaying walk of the departing barmaid. His clothes and lazy elegance bespoke wealth and privilege, and his smile indicated supreme self-satisfaction. By all appearances, he was spoiled and shallow and selfish. In short, he was perfect.
She disliked his type, those who were content with a path of ease and luxury. On the other hand, the services of a Sembian courtesan didn’t come cheap, and of all the men in the tavern he seemed the most credible—and the most receptive—target for her advances.
Blissfully unaware of Arilyn’s scrutiny, the young man made another, presumably witty observation. One of his companions, a rough-looking man in the garb of a mercenary, roared with laughter and swatted the humorist’s shoulder with a large, grimy paw. The young man did not seem affronted by the mercenary’s familiarity; rather, he winced and clutched at his shoulder, making another remark that set the table to laughter.
Probably not a nobleman, Arilyn concluded, but a wealthy merchant. The men at the table did not appear drunk enough to take such liberties with a noble. The pale-haired dandy did not seem to have been drinking heavily, which was also good. He appeared to have his wits about him.
Arilyn rose and slipped quietly into the room. The back half of the tavern was kept deliberately dark, and she hugged the wall and stayed within the convenient shadows. She wanted no one to connect the airy courtesan with the travel-worn etriel who had entered the tavern earlier. A sudden lull in the various conversations about the room greeted her as she moved into the lighted area. Men and women alike cast speculative glances at Arilyn. She tilted her head at a coquettish angle and moved purposely toward her target.
One of the fop’s companions stopped gaping at Arilyn long enough to elbow her intended quarry in his ribs. The young dandy looked up at her, his eyebrows raising in a lazy expression of appreciation. He rose politely as she reached his table, and Arilyn was surprised to note that he was taller than she by several inches.
“Well met, indeed. I must be living right,” he marveled, claiming her hand and bowing low over it.
Arilyn doubted it, but she answered him only with a soft smite. The fool could take that as he would.
“Would you care to join me? I’m Danilo, by the way. Danilo Thann.”
With effort, Arilyn held back a groan. She knew that name: the Thann family had far-flung merchant concerns, as well as vast lands north of Waterdeep. The dandy was a Waterdhavian nobleman. It was too late to withdraw, so she held her seductive smile in place as Danilo Thann elbowed aside a comrade and ushered her into the vacant seat. He slid comfortably into the chair next to her.
“And you are …?” His voice trailed off, inviting her to finish.
“Drinking Elquesstria, please,” she purred, deliberately misunderstanding him.
His eyes lit up. “Ah! No name. A lady of mystery. And drinking elven spirits. That makes you a lady of taste, as well.” He smirked around the table at his audience. “Although your choice in companions has already established that fact beyond question.” His cronies chuckled in agreement, apparently sharing young Thann’s comfortable opinion of himself.
The clank of an ill-kept chain mail shell interrupted the groups’ merriment, and Arilyn stiffened involuntarily. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Harvid Beornigarth himself. Arilyn’s hands itched to grab the moonblade and cleave the pesky human crustacean in two, but she willed herself to maintain the languid posture of a courtesan.
“Pardon, my lord, but have you seen this elf-wench about?”
Harvid thrust a roughly-drawn sketch of Arilyn at the young noble. Danilo took it, gave it a quick glance, and handed it back.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“You’re sure?”
Danilo draped an arm around Arilyn’s shoulders, smiling up at Harvid Beornigarth as if he and the adventurer were old friends. “Frankly, no. If you were in my position,” he drawled, squeezing the woman beside him, “would you have eyes for another?”
The lout’s approving leer swept over Arilyn, and in response she forced herself to raise her eyes to his face. Harvid showed no sign of recognizing her. He grinned, revealing several rotting teeth.
“I wouldn’t be looking, either,” he admitted. He moved on to the next table, where he began to question the patrons with considerably less courtesy.
Arilyn relaxed. Now to get out of the inn and away. She would definitely have to take Danilo with her; the respect Harvid had shown the young noblemen indicated that she would probably not be approached by any of the other thugs as long as she was in the dandy’s presence. Resisting the urge to peel the noble’s arm from her shoulder, she glanced up at her future hostage.