The old Zhentishman grinned and leaned back in his chair. He tapped out a jaunty rhythm on his table with knotted, ink-stained fingers. “Of course. So the Harpers are sending a highly skilled assassin to infiltrate Darkhold, politely ask for Sune’s property back, stay to share afternoon tea with the locals, and sneak back out. That sound about right?”
“I generally don’t drink tea,” Arilyn said with a touch of grim humor, “but you’ve got the basic idea.”
“Aha. Now that the formalities are out of the way, why don’t you tell me what you’re really planning.”
“To retrieve the stolen artifacts.”
Another rheumy chuckle grated from the old man. “Stubborn wench, aren’t you? All right, we’ll play it your way. What unlucky bastard has these artifacts?”
Arilyn hesitated for a long moment before answering. There were rumors of bad blood between this man and the person she sought, and she’d been advised that this informant would relish an opportunity to even the score. Selling out a former comrade was inconceivable to her, yet she knew that it was a fairly routine practice among the Zhentarim. Indeed, the man before her looked as though he would gladly sell his own mother to an Ulgarthian harem.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Cherbill Nimmt,” she said grudgingly.
The Zhentishman let out a slow whistle. “Now I’m beginning to see what’s what. We used to run together some, Nimmt and me, when he was just starting out. If ever a man needed killing, it’s him. Nasty piece of work. And coming from me, that’s saying something,” he noted with a perverse pride. The old assassin reflected for a moment on the pleasant prospect of his former friend’s death before he concluded with a touch of regret, “Still and all, I don’t suppose killing Nimmt’s worth dying over.”
“I don’t intend to do either. I have been instructed to barter with him for the stolen items, no more.”
The sarcastic look that the man threw Arilyn clearly stated that he didn’t consider her denial worthy of comment. “Clerics of Sune are chosen for their beauty, aren’t they? I imagine Nimmt and his men had a good time before they wiped out the envoy.” A nostalgic look oozed onto the man’s face. “Nimmt could be good company on a raid. I remember the time we—”
Arilyn raised her hand, cutting the man off before he could journey too deeply into the swamp of his memories. “You were about to sell me some information about the fortress.”
“For the right price, I’ll sell anything.”
Arilyn took the cue. She produced a bag of gold from the folds of her cloak and tossed it to him. The informant caught the bag with amazing dexterity and hefted it in a practiced hand. “This is about half the agreed-upon price,” he noted.
“It’s exactly half,” she told him. “You’ll get the rest upon my safe return.”
“Safe,” he repeated with scathing emphasis. “Sneaking into Darkhold and facing down a man like Nimmt is no way to insure your old age. No, I want the rest of the gold upon the conclusion of your mission, whether you’re dead or alive.”
“If I agree, what will stop you from contacting your old friends at Darkhold?” Arilyn shook her head. “No, the original deal stands. I risk my life on your information, and you risk half your fee on my chance of success.”
The old Zhentish assassin considered this, then shrugged. “All right. There’s not much call for this information, so I might as well take what I can get for it. Let’s get down to work.” He fumbled through a stack of papers on his desk and drew out several hand-drawn maps.
Maps! Arilyn leaned closer for a better look, taking care to keep her face impassive. Any sign of excitement would surely raise the man’s price. She had not expected to find maps of the fortress. Her secret elation mounted as the man talked. She could see why he commanded such enormous fees. Carefully and in great detail he discussed the layout of the fortress, outlined its defenses, discussed the habits and the timetables of the various factions and leaders. As he talked, Arilyn began to formulate a plan. After an hour with the old man, all that remained to her was figuring a way into the keep’s parameters.
As if he read her mind, the informant stopped talking and looked up at her. “Here’s your first big problem,” he said, tracing a broad oval around the edge of the map with one gnarled finger. “This line here represents the cliffs that surround the Vale of Darkhold. Solid granite, anywhere from sixty to one hundred feet high, and sheer as a city wall. Not an easy climb. To make it worse, slaves keep the cliffs completely clear of bushes, grass, you name it. There’s no cover at all.
“Now this,” he continued, pointing to a straight line at the western end of the cliffs, “is the perimeter wall, and this mark here is the gate. It’s the only safe way into the valley, but don’t even bother thinking about it. It’s too well-guarded. No one comes over or through that wall unless Sememmon, Master of Darkhold, wants them to. Got that?” He looked at her expectantly.
Arilyn nodded. “Go on.”
“The fortress itself sits in the middle of this valley. Nothing much on the valley floor except a few acres of trees over here. There’s a stream, but it’s full of rocks and none too deep. Can’t swim up without getting shredded or spotted. It’s not going to be easy to sneak up to the castle.” He paused to let his words sink in, then added slyly, “As it turns out, though, I have just the thing. For the right price, of course.”
Without waiting for her reply, he hauled himself out of his chair and hunched over a brass-banded chest. He flipped open the lid and, after a few moments of rummaging, he pulled out a glittering black cape. Arilyn caught her breath. It was a piwafwi, a magic cape of invisibility created by the evil drow elves. How did this man get hold of such a rare and ferociously guarded treasure?
“Nice, isn’t it?” he said, turning the cape this way and that to catch and reflect the dim lamplight. “Wear this, and you’ll have clear sailing right up to the fortress.”
“Isn’t Darkhold protected by spells that alert the guards to such magic?” she hedged, eyeing the dark cape with a mixture of fascination and repugnance.
The old assassin resumed his seat, draping the cape over his lap. “They have some wards, but nothing that’ll spot this. Lord Sememmon doesn’t expect any trouble from the drow. This beauty here will get you into the fortress.” He smiled evilly. “It got the original owner in, right enough. A drow female. The cape’s magic doesn’t seem to work inside Darkhold, though. I caught her sneaking around in the arsenal. Whether she was a spy or a thief I didn’t bother to ask, but I kept her around for a bit. Hard to kill, those drow. I like an elf, now and then, and this one had real spice to her.”
He paused, reflected, then reached across the table for his lantern and turned up the flame to get a better look at his visitor. Twenty five years of adventuring lay lightly upon the half-elven woman, and her lack of battle scars gave testament to her uncanny skill with a sword. Arilyn Moonblade possessed the fresh beauty of a woman still south of her twentieth winter, but the informant knew her age to be almost twice that. Her angular elven features were softened by her human blood, and her slender form looked deceptively fragile. Delicate and deadly, she was; a combination that would make her a favorite in any brothel in Faerûn. His familiarity with such establishments lent authority to his judgment. Old as he was, his gaze swept over Arilyn and took in every detail with lascivious precision.
“Hmmm. You’re a gray, aren’t you?” he asked, noting that her pale, almost white skin was touched with blue along her high sharp cheekbones and pointed ears.
“I am a moon elf, yes,” Arilyn corrected.
“Gray elf” was a derogatory term when used by a human or a dwarf, and a deadly insult from the lips of another elf. Oblivious to the slight he had just given her, the man continued to examine Arilyn. “A half-gray at that. Oh, well. Half an elf is better than none, I always say,” he noted with a leer. “After we’re done here, maybe you’d like to—”