Silver Shadows - Elaine Cunningham [19]
The measured tread behind her snatched Arilyn from her memories and returned her to the streets of Zazesspur. The cadence of it matched her own quick and long-legged stride, which was usually a sure sign that she was being stalked. Not an assassin this time-a cutpurse, probably, for the man was making no attempt at silence. The best thieves strove to blend with the crowd, depending upon cunning and quickness of hand for success.
Arilyn glanced to her left. Sure enough, a scruffy and ill-dressed man reeled along, holding a half-full bottle of rivengut and muttering thickly to himself. But for all this drunken meanderings, he managed to keep pace with her.
It was a common enough ploy: a pair of cutpurses chose a mark; then one jostled the victim to distract her while the actual theft occurred from behind The counter-strategy was also simple. When the "drunk" reeled toward her, Arilyn seized his jerkin and spun him around, then hurled him into the outstretched hands of his cutpurse partner. Both went down heavily, the first man cursing with an articulate fervor that belied his inebriated state.
This "attack" earned Arilyn some dark looks from the other passersby, but no one bothered to challenge or berate her for it. She also noticed that no one made any effort to help the fallen men up, or to inquire after their well-being.
The half-elf continued on her way, and as she walked she tried without success to recapture the dream of the wilderness, the starlight, and the shared solitude. Such moments were becoming harder to grasp with each day she spent among these lawless humans. Soon, she feared, they would be gone past recall, and with them, the meager remnants of her elven soul.
Four
Days passed, and yet Arilyn was no closer to fulfilling her latest contract than she'd been the night she ripped the notice from the council hall door. As luck would have it, the man from whom she was hired to steal was one Abrum Assante, a member of her own alleged profession. Once a master assassin, he had retired from the School of Stealth a few years back to enjoy his hard-earned wealth.
So far the preparations had been far more difficult than Arilyn had anticipated. Not that looting palaces was ever easy-most rich men learned prudence somewhere along the line. A wealthy assassin could be expected to exercise even more caution. Assante had cocooned himself with enough layers of intrigue, might, and magic to discourage all but the most persistent. In her quest to infiltrate the man's stronghold, Arilyn found herself stretching her previous notions of perseverance beyond recognition.
Except for Assante's personal servants-all of whom were carefully sequestered-there was no man or woman alive who knew the palace's secrets. Arilyn went so far as to search for a few dead servants, for dead men do tell tales, provided one could afford the services of a cleric powerful enough to summon their spirits. The Harper had never before considered such tactics-elves were loath to disturb those who had passed from this life-but there was little information to be found among the living.
A few well-placed bribes gave Arilyn access to the records of various slave traders, which she checked for sales made to Assante over the last twenty years or so. She laboriously compared these names to the records listing those interred in the low-budget crypts reserved for slaves. But none of this paperwork-a task Arilyn