Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [90]
She quickly dressed in her working clothes-dark green breeches and shirt, warm cloak and boots, bags to hold her picks and loot-and strapped on the despoiled sword. She strode out of Blackstaff Tower, setting a relaxed but purposeful pace.
It was late afternoon, and most of high society would be gathering in festhalls and taverns for tea, a meal usually eaten away from home while their servants prepared for the evening meal and entertainments. Most thieves preferred to work under cover of darkness; Sharlarra had better luck at teatime. Anyone caught sneaking around at night would be stopped and questioned, but those who went about their business openly and without fanfare were usually given the benefit of the doubt. Especially in Shar-larra's case. People saw her pretty elf face and red-gold curls and immediately concluded that she was on the side of angels and paladins.
In Sharlarra's opinion, people that shallow and stupid deserved to be robbed.
Within the hour she had completed her work and was leaning over the dwarf jewelsmith's shoulder.
"The new ruby is a considerable smaller," the dwarf observed, his eyes shifting from Sharlarra's newly acquired gem to the damaged necklace, "and the prongs were dinged up something fierce. One of 'em's twisted so bad the metal thinned out some. Might not hold. Go to the kitchen and pour yourself some ale, and I'll have these sparklers in a new setting before you see the bottom of the mug."
"And the sword?"
"Easy job. Off with you, then."
As it turned out, the ale was surprisingly good. Sharlarra downed two dwarf-sized mugs before the job was finished and she was on her way. Perhaps as a result she was less attentive than she might otherwise have been.
She noted the long, black-draped carriage sweep toward her, the four matched horses setting a brisk pace toward the City of the Dead. It did not occur to her that the horses' trot was unseemly, given the usual somber pace afforded this last journey. Nor did she notice that the carter drove rather too close to the flagstone walk. None of these thoughts entered her mind until the curtained door swung open and burly arms reached out to seize her.
Rough hands dragged her into the hearse and threw her to the floor. Sharlarra's head struck the edge of an open coffin. She lay where she fell, too stunned to scream or struggle.
Two men, rough-bearded rogues whose dark garments were too coarse for any self-respecting member of the undertakers' guild, regarded her with sneering satisfaction. One of them seized her wrist and tugged her to her feet.
Her first impulse was to cast a spell. As the first word of the chant spilled from her lips, the other ruffian balled his fist and slammed it into her stomach.
The elf folded. Every whisper of air wheezed from her chest, leaving her too empty to draw more.
Dimly she felt rough hands paw aside her hair and rip the necklace from her.
"Got it!" exulted the smaller of the two. He nodded to the wooden coffin that stood empty and waiting. "Kill her, and have done with it."
"Not yet," the other replied. His voice hitched, sounding as breathless as if he, and not the horses, had been drawing the hearse.
A sick knowledge filled Sharlarra. She forced herself to focus on the man's face, and there she read the confirmation of her fears. His teeth were bared in a leer, and in his eyes was a terrible hungry gleam.
The man roughly lifted the elf and tossed her into the coffin. The sudden jolt forced a bit of air into her lungs, and the vise that gripped her chest relaxed just a bit. She could breathe now. She could live-at least for a little while.
Sharlarra did not breathe. Instead, the proud elf closed her eyes and willed herself to die.
Chadrik clambered out of the coffin, still fully clad and as pale as chalk. He tripped over the side in his haste and stumbled to the floor. The notion of taking the elf wench in her own coffin appealed to