Elfshadow - Elaine Cunningham [10]
"Innocent lives or not, this isn't the type of pie Harpers generally poke their fingers into," the Zhentishman pointed out with sarcasm of his own. "Recovering stolen property? Come on, now. It's not lofty enough by half."
That much was true, Arilyn agreed silently. The Harpers sponsored noble causes seemingly at random, chosen through some mysterious process to which Arilyn was not privy. This time, however, she knew exactly what the Harpers' purpose was. The previous year, the kingdoms of the Heartlands had united in a crusade to stop a barbarian invasion. This crusade, although successful, had left the Heartlands politically unsettled and had, ironically, strengthened the position of the Zhentarim stationed at Darkhold, their mountain fortress. To these issues the Harpers now addressed themselves.
"As you no doubt know, the Zhentarim has a one-year treaty with the local government. The year's almost up, but for a time Darkhold's raiding parties can strike without fear of harassment or reprisal. Fortunately," Arilyn said wryly, "the Harpers don't answer to the local government. The Church of Sune has no recourse through the usual channels, so like many other victims of the raids, they turned to the Harpers for help."
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