Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [94]
The Thirsty Sailor was a dive frequented by brawlers and heavy drinkers, and the deals made and information exchanged in its squalid upper rooms were invariably small, inept exchanges among the dregs of Waterdeep. To Elaith, however, the tavern's owner was an excellent source of dark information. The elf had spent a long day traveling from one tavern and meeting place to another, gathering news from his vast network of informants. He had learned a great deal, but he had yet to fit all the pieces together. He hurried past the last building on the alley, a low-eaved warehouse stocked with barrels of whiskey and ale for the tavern.
The elf was a few paces from the tavern's back door when a solid thud sounded behind him, resounding through the wooden planks that paved the alley. From the corner of his eye, Elaith caught the glint of high-held steel.
With fluid, practiced grace, he spun about and caught the assailant's upraised arm by the wrist. He threw himself into a backward roll, using the force of the intended knife-stroke to help bring the much larger man down with him. As they fell, he planted both booted feet in the thug's midsection, and at the precise moment, he kicked out hard. The man soared over Elaith, flipped, and landed heavily on his back.
Before the startled "Oof!" died away, the elf was on his feet, a knife in each hand. With two quick throws, the thug's outflung arms were pinned securely to the boards by the coarse linen of his shirt cuffs.
Elaith drew a larger knife from his boot and walked slowly to stand over the man. This was a favored technique of the elf's, for he'd learned that men-and women, for that matter-were more prone to part with information under such intimidating circumstances.
"As ambushes go, that was rather clumsy," the elf observed mildly.
Sweat beaded on the trapped man's face, but he didn't attempt to move or cry out. "I swear by the Mother of Mask, Craulnober, I didn't know it was you! It was just a quick cutpurse job, nothing personal."
The would-be thief had a familiar voice, but the elf's memory connected the slurred, whining tones with a heavily bearded man who wore his long brown hair in three thick braids. This man was cropped and cleanshaven. Elaith peered closer.
"Is that you, Kornhh? Good gods, man, what an appalling excuse for a chin! Were I you, I would grow that beard back at once. Whatever possessed you to molt in the first place?"
"Guild rules," he muttered. "Can't stand out in a crowd." The thief glanced meaningfully at one of the knives that held him immobile. His elven tormenter took no notice of the hint.
"Guild rules?" Elaith's amber eyes narrowed. There were already rules in place? "Since when is there a Loyal Order of Cutpurses in this town?"
"It's coming," the thief asserted. "Assassins' guild, too. Word's been put out."
"By?" The elf took a step closer and stroked the blade of his knife.
"Don't know." Kornith licked his lips nervously. "I'd tell you if I knew. Word's out that's all."
Winnifer Fleetfingers's revelation about the Knights of the Shield was gaining credibility by the moment, and this deeply concerned Elaith. For all its intrigue, Waterdeep had no single, truly organized crime network, and it was in the rogue elf's interests to keep things that way.
Yet he would get no more information from Kornith, of that he was certain. Elaith hooked the toe of his boot under the hilt of one of the knives that held the thief immobile, kicking it up and easily catching it as it fell. Kornith rolled to the side and tugged the other knife free. He leaped to his feet and backed away, his face suffused with a mixture of relief and apprehension.
"Thought I was a stinkin' corpse, Craulnober," he said, as he continued to put distance between himself and the deadly elf. "Never supposed you'd show a man mercy, but I'm grateful and I owe you."
Elaith froze. The very sincerity of the thief's words stirred the confusion brewing in the elf's heart. Kornith had every reason to fear him, for no one who had threatened Elaith