Liriel took this in with a glance before her eyes went to the man's weapons. They were decorative, yes, but the sword on his hip was well maintained and the grip showed the wear of frequent use. He had other weapons, too; daggers and knives which he probably thought were cleverly hidden, including a pair of daggers tucked into his oversized boot cuffs. His coin purse was heavy, and the red riding whip tucked into his belt matched the harness on the fine black stallion waiting in the attached stable. Liriel glanced at the table he'd just left, noting the half dozen men seated there. They, unlike the walking rainbow, made no pretense of being anything but what they were: well-seasoned fighters. And hunters, too, judging from the full quivers under their seats and the longbows propped against the wall. All of them wore belts of bright red dragon hide-a livery of sorts, proclaiming their hired allegiance.
Wonderful, Liriel thought glumly. The fool could fight, and he had men to back him up.
And then he surprised her by ignoring Sharlarra and walking directly over to Thorn.
"I know what you are," he said bluntly. "You might be able to hoodwink everyone else, but I know a lythari when I see one."
Thorn shrugged. "Then you are not quite the fool you appear."
"This is a most fortuitous meeting, if not without irony," he went on, ignoring her insult. "I am hunting exotic wolf pelts for my trophy hall, and rumors of werewolves in the Gray Forest brought me to Impiltur. But none would take me into those woods, so I settled for hunting of a different sort in a dockside brothel. And here we both are."
The lythari woman looked him up and down. Her lip curled. "Are you even allowed to mate?"
He fell back a step, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Allowed? Whatever are you talking about?"
Thorn shook her head in disgust and turned back to her companions. "I keep forgetting that humans don't follow pack law. Among my people, the right to breed is earned."
"Or bought?" he wheedled, holding up a large gold coin.
Thorn sniffed. "No self-respecting bitch would lift her tail for the likes of you, not for all the coins in Impiltur."
The man's pleasant expression never faltered. "Then it's back to blood sport. No matter-it's all hunting, and all the same to me. At the moment, I alone know your true nature. But at a word from me, six hunters start competing for the bounty your wolf's hide will bring them."
"A word from me," Liriel said in equally pleasant tones, "and six hunters will be hit by a fireball big enough to leave nothing but a stinking grease spot on the tavern floor."
Finally the man's facade slipped, and he cast a slyly malevolent glance in Liriel's direction. "If you cast killing magic, drow, you will never leave the city alive. But of course, you know this full well."
And so she did. Her acceptance in Impiltur was a tenuous thing, despite the valuable services she provided. Her familiarity with the deep ways made her an asset to the bands of Warswords who patrolled the tunnels under the Earthspurs. The recent discovery of a temple of Laduguer, the evil god of the duegar, raised the possibility of trade with gray dwarf settlements. Liriel's ability to speak Undercommon was in great demand among enterprising merchants. Even so, the officials of Impiltur made it clear that she would be closely scrutinized. She would be permitted to use healing spells and other beneficial clerical magic, but no "drowlike" behavior would be tolerated.
And that, Liriel noted, was a conundrum. If ever a man merited the full attention of her darker nature, it was this smirking fool.
Well, a drow had other weapons than magic and steel, and not the least of them was reputation. Drow females learned certain skills along with word-weaning: how to wrap knife-bladed sarcasm in silky words, how to project malice and evil as naturally as oil lamps cast light, how to promise death without drawing a weapon.
Liriel willed a malevolent gleam into her eyes and curved her lips into a cold, cruel smile. "You seem well versed in Impiltur law," she said in a clear, ringing voice. "You don't look like much of a hunter, but the council might hire you as a clerk or scribe."
The man's smirk faded away. "I'll have you know that these boots are a trophy."
"A red dragon. Impressive," Liriel purred. "Tell me, did you kill the roc, as well? Or did one obligingly molt a few feathers in your general direction?"
By now the tavern had grown dangerously quiet, and the wary expressions on the patrons' faces indicated that their pleasantly dark fantasies concerning Liriel had given way to even darker thoughts-stories they'd heard told of the drow.
The proprietor hurried over to the table, all but wringing his hands in dismay. "I want no trouble here."
"Who does?" Thorn replied coolly. She glanced at Liriel, taking in the slim black fingers curved around the clerical emblem. She tapped Liriel's boot with her foot. The drow responded with a thin, wicked smile. Thorn sealed their unspoken agreement with a nod and turned back to the tavern keeper.
"I paid for this meal, and I intend to finish it. After, this man and I can settle our differences outside."
The fop's smirk returned, and his sword hand closed around the hilt of his weapon. "A duel is yet another kind of hunt. Your terms are quite acceptable. I await your pleasure." He gave the lythari a mocking little bow and walked back to his table.
Sharlarra's worried gaze went from Liriel to Thorn. "You're planning something. Do I want to know what it is?"
The lythari ignored her. "How long do you need to work your spell, drow?"
"No more than a quarter bell." Liriel glanced toward the moon. The fat crescent had already begun its descent, and appeared to be in danger of impaling itself upon the mast of a large ship. That was good fortune-the ship would serve as a reference point and help her chart time's passage. Thorn didn't need such aids, but Liriel had yet to master the art of measuring time by the movement of the moon and stars.
By the time Thorn polished off the last crumb of her bread bowl and devoured a slab of very rare mutton, the moon was almost touching the ship's boom. Liriel figured this delay was due to design as well as hunger; by the time Thorn had finished feeding, the streets were nearly deserted.
Finally Thorn rose to leave. The garishly clad hunter almost beat her to the door in his eagerness.
They strode to the middle of the street, faced each other, and drew swords. The first clash echoed down the nearly empty street. Steel hissed as the blades slid free, then sang out again in three quick, ringing notes.
The opponents circled each other, testing with short feints, quick lunges and deft parries. They were much the same height, so neither had the advantage of reach. Thorn was faster, the human was stronger. The two appeared well matched, and certainly presented a vivid contrast. Thorn had removed her sea-blue tabard to signify that this fight was not of an official nature, so there remained little color about her. Thorn preferred to dress in unrelieved black, for that was the color of her pelt in wolf form. Long black hair framed her pale face, unbound but for the single streak of white-the mark of Eilistraee's favor-woven into a thin braid.