"I've been sent," the dark figure before him replied calmly, from within its cowl, "and would fain pass within-unless you can tell me another way to find Sarltan."
"Uh," the gigantic guard replied, in tones devoid of emotion, and extended one hand as he drew steel-a fearsome, much-scarred cleaver whose blade was thrice as broad as most swords-with the other. "I'll have yer sword-hilt first, mind."
"And if not?"
The guard shrugged. "Turn about and leave, or die. No exceptions."
The figure before him slowly opened its cloak and let it fall away. A shapely female drow stood before him, jewels glittering at her throat. Below their fire she wore a tight black leather tunic that left her shoulders bare, and thigh-high spike heeled boots.
"Not even for the likes of me?" she asked softly.
There was a stirring around the courtyard as guards at other doors shifted their positions to get a better look at this newcomer. The guard hefted his weapon as he let his eyes travel slowly from the crown of her head to her toes, then back again.
"I'll be having the sword and all of those daggers I see," he rumbled flatly. "Toss yer cloak down, and lay all yer steel in it-and I mean all yer steel. Now."
Their eyes met-black flames flaring into two chips of stone-and held in a long silence that was broken only by the softest of sounds from behind Iylinvyx Nrel'tabra. The various folk who'd been following her drifted out of the Draw and into the courtyard, one by one, and the doorswords turned alertly to face them. Silence had fallen again before the slender dark elf slowly cast down her cloak, laid her needle-slim short sword atop it, then followed it with a pair of daggers from her belt, another pair from her boot tops, and one from each wrist.
She paused then, buckling sheath straps, and the mountainous guard gestured with his drawn blade at the sheaths sewn into her tunic. "Them, too," he said. "Especially them-all four of them."
He'd never moved to see the two knives that rode below her shoulder blades, so tongues must have trav shy;eled across Scornubel faster than the route she'd been sent on. After holding his eyes for another long, cold time, the drow trader plucked out the black bladed quar shy;tet of daggers and casually let them fall onto the heap of edged steel. They landed without making a sound.
"Turn around," the guard rumbled, "and stand still." After Iylinvyx had-slowly-complied, he added, "Bend over forward and cast yer hair down. I need to see the back of yer neck."
The drow trader complied. As she stood bent over in the lamplight, her magesight awake, she felt the quiver she'd been expecting. Someone had cast a dispel upon her, stripping away the shielding spell she'd thoughtfully added. Most mages would now be defenseless, but her Shield of Azuth-a spell of her own creation-had nulli shy;fied the dispel with its own death-leaving her aroused protective spells untouched beneath it. She straightened up after two long breaths and turned to face the guard with a challenge in her eyes.
"See enough of my behind?" she asked lightly.
The guard said nothing, and kept his face impassive and his eyes hard and cold. He wordlessly threw back a bolt in the top of the doorframe, too high for Iylinvyx or most humans to reach, and swung the door wide to let her pass within.
The drow trader strolled past him as if he wasn't there, and did not break stride when she heard the door close solidly behind her and the bolt slide back into place. She was in a lightless passage between two high rows of crates in a dank, lofty-ceilinged warehouse. The passage came to a dead end entirely walled in with stacked crates.
Iylinvyx Nrel'tabra looked calmly around, before asking the empty air, "And now, Sarltan?"
A voice that held a dry chuckle answered from some shy;where atop the crates above her, "Not quite yet. That large crate to your right with the dragon's head label has a front that can be swung open."
Iylinvyx let silence fall, but her unseen informant did not seem inclined to be more talkative, so she did as she was asked. The crate proved to have no back. She looked through the little room it shaped, into an open, dark area beyond. On the floor of the crate was a snake. It hissed at her as she stepped unhesitatingly over it and out into what lay beyond: the back of the warehouse, in which two hard-eyed men stood, drawn swords in their hands. Their arms and shoulders bulged with the corded muscles built by hefting crates, kegs, and heavy coffers for years. They stepped for shy;ward in practiced unison as she emerged from the crate, so that she came to an abrupt halt with one sword point at her throat and the other almost touch shy;ing her breast.
The drow trader looked coolly along each blade in turn. The one with his steel at her throat snarled, "Who sent you?"
"I think," Iylinvyx Nrel’tabra replied calmly, "you already know that. I also think that the fresh mush shy;rooms I want to trade will have withered to dust before I even get to speak to Sarltan, if you delay me much longer. I did not come to Scornubel for a tour, or to play passwords-and-daggers-in-the-dark games. Conduct me to Sarltan, or let me return below-to dispense full descriptions of your attentive hospitality."
Her voice had remained soft and mild, but the two guards stiffened as if she'd snarled her words. They exchanged swift glances, and the one with his steel to the trader's breast jerked his head back over his shoul shy;der in a clear signal.
In unison again, they stepped back from Iylinvyx, and waved with their swords at another door.
She nodded pleasant thanks and farewell to them, walked across dark and echoing emptiness, and opened the door wide.
Light flooded out. She was looking into a huge cham shy;ber built onto the warehouse, and well lit by a dozen hanging braziers. A balcony ran around its walls, sup shy;ported by stout pillars to which were tacked many ship shy;ping orders. Burly loaders were striding about the room gathering small coffers and bundles into large travel crates and strongchests battered from much use.
In the center of this bustle stood a desk. A semicircle of armed men gathered behind it raised their heads to stare at her, but the fat and unlovely man seated at the desk kept his attention on the documents he was sign shy;ing and tossing aside, or handing to a clerk with mur shy;mured comments.
Iylinvyx did not tarry at the door for another con shy;frontation, but strode calmly across the room, shifting her hips smoothly to avoid hurrying loaders-several of whom stiffened, stared at her, then hastily dropped their gazes and resumed their work-until she came up to the desk. She ignored the stares of the armsmen (beyond noticing that several gave her gems more attention than her body) as she bent over the desk, planting both palms firmly atop the parchment the fat man was reading.
"Might you be Sarltan?" she asked pleasantly. "At last?"
Without looking up, the man replied heavily, "I might be-and I might also be the man who'll have your hands off at the wrists in a breath or two if you don't get them off my papers right now."
Iylinvyx Nrel'tabra left her hands right where they were. "Perhaps you can tell me when this Sarltan ascended the throne of Scornubel-and when, for that matter, our people conquered this city from the humans who still think they rule it."
The fat man raised his eyes to meet hers for the first time. "I am Sarltan. Who are you?"
"Iylinvyx, of House Nrel’tabra," she replied, "of the city of Telnarquel."
"And the head of your house is?"
"Anonymous by choice," the trader replied coolly.
Sarltan's eyes flickered and he asked, "What house rules in Telnarquel?"
"House Imbaraede."
"And when you kneel at altars, Iylinvyx Nrel'tabra, whom do you kneel to?"