Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters

He was gone only a short time. When he returned his face was still blank and his weapons were clean and dry, but his gliding movements now showed unease rather than anticipation.

'Did she kill him?' one of the others asked.

The man who'd just come out of the burned ruin replied, 'There's no sign of him. It's empty.' They exchanged puzzled glances, then turned as one to look back down the empty alley.

Seemingly sleepy folk stiffened all over the taproom of Cata's Pump as a black-cloaked figure strolled in from the street straight up to the bar, and gave the room at large a cold smile.

The she-drow let her cloak fall away from her bare shoulders, and lamplight flashed back from the cluster of gems she wore at her throat; wealth that marked her as no outcast or lone runaway. Tracing a symbol idly on the bar with one sharp-nailed fingertip, she asked the bartender and the two serving wenches flanking him, 'Any of you in the mood for a little trading? Homesick for any Underdark wines or fresh glowcap mushrooms?'

Folk blinked all over the room and leaned forward. 'Ah, I don't-' the bartender began, his eyes dark pits of confusion.

The she-drow facing him raised an eyebrow and purred, 'Well then, do you know someone who does? There's demand below for Calishite-or Tashlutan-silk, pitted dates, and metalwork: gates, bars, gratings, filigree. . and I've wine and 'shrooms to trade, but not much time to waste.' She shifted perfect obsidian shoulders and murmured, 'Are you sure you don't? By the looks of things, everyone here could use some real wine.'

No one smiled or looked angered; folk with blank faces drifted a little nearer as the bartender stam shy;mered, 'S-sarltan. Speak to Sarltan.'

'And where might I find …?' the she-drow murmured, watching furtive movements in the tightening crowd that marked the journeys of hands to weapons. She shrugged back her cloak still more, and from the glistening black garment she wore beneath it, four slender black-bladed knives rose slowly up into the air. There was a momentary murmur that might have been alarm, or might have been recognition, and patrons began to drift back to their seats to resume looking as sleepy as before. The knives hung in the air around the she-draw's shoulders, points menacing the floor, as the bartender pointed wordlessly out the door.

'You keep this Sarltan out in the street. .' the she-drow asked, eyebrows raised, in a voice that did not- quite-hold open sarcasm.'. . or as one of your doorswords?'

The bartender shook his head, then spread his hands in a wordless gesture of helplessness before waving again at the street.

His visitor shook her head, smiled, and said, 'Well, think on my offer. I'll be back later to see if anyone has developed a taste for the finer things of home.'

There was already astonishment in the stares of the doorswords as the she-drow in the cloak whom they'd watched striding openly down the street glided up to them and asked, 'I suppose neither of you knows the present whereabouts of Sarltan?'

The guards stiffened as if they'd been kicked in tender places, exchanged baffled glances, then silently backed away from their questioner, waving gloved hands in gestures of denial. The she-drow shrugged, smiled, and strode between them into the cluttered and dusty labyrinth of Chasper's Trading Tower.

Chasper's never closed, no matter what the hour or weather. Its lobby was crowded with the usual badly- mended array of life-sized wooden shop figurines, and the obsidian-skinned visitor passed through them without delay to push wide the inner doors and step into the warm lamplight beyond.

She was greeted by the same sight that had met the eyes of a decade of patrons: a welter of nets, ropes, boats, cartwheels, coach-harnesses, mended lances and armor hanging from the rafters, and heaps of well-used boots, belts, gloves, and scabbards on tables before her. Beyond these mountains of gear, aisles snaked away through piles of animal cages, battered traveling strongchests, and moldering books to sagging tables that stretched away into a warren of shelving whose far reaches were lost in dimness. From their crannies two startled men were hastening forward to serve this unexpected client.

'Yes, good lady?' one of them asked hesitantly, rub shy;bing nervous hands together. 'How may we serve you this fair night?'

'We can offer you the widest selection of goods in all Scornubel,' the other put in brightly, 'and at excellent prices.'

The she-drow in the black cloak eyed him. 'I come not to buy,' she purred, 'but to trade. Have you any interest in exchanging bolts of woven silk-Calishite, if you have such-pitted dates, and metalwork for wines and mushrooms from below?'

The shop attendants reared back from her as if she'd thrust a viper into their faces. One of them dropped a hand to the knife at his belt, and the other stammered, 'W-we don't usually barter here at Chasper's, good lady-and certainly not in bulk. Perhaps you should meet with Sarltan.'

'Ah, yes,' the lady drow agreed with the faintest of smiles. 'That's a name I've heard before. Yet no one in all Scornubel tonight seems to know where Sarltan can be found. You wouldn't have him under one of these tables, would you? Or in another room, per shy;haps?'

The doorswords appeared behind her then, having taken the unprecedented step of leaving their posts. The she-drow had her back to them, and gave no indication that she knew of their approach, but as they approached her, four long black knives rose in unison from among her garments. The knives came to a halt, hanging in a cluster in the air above her. The two guards eyed them, frozen with their hands gripping the hilts of their swords, and came no closer to the unexpected visitor. One of them reached up to a bellpull on the wall and tugged it in a careful rhythm. No resulting bell or chime could be heard.

The eyes of the older and larger of the shop atten shy;dants flicked to the doorsword's work with the bellpull, then came quickly back to the faintly smiling drow in front of him.

He tried a smile of his own, licked his lips, and said, 'Ah, no, good lady. I don't think there's a shop in all the city that could help you there, but if you'd care to step into the back our owner might be able to help you. . ah, in regards to what you seek.'

He motioned down one of the corridors as reverently as if he'd been conducting a queen or priestess of power, and the lady drow in the cloak flashed him a dazzling smile and glided forward whence he'd indicated, her knives keeping station above her shoulders.

The back room proved to contain a once grand carpet, paneled walls almost completely hidden behind stacked and dusty rows of bulging ledgers, and a sharp-eyed, wrinkled old woman behind a desk who gave her visitor a sharp look as the lady drow entered, and said crisply, 'Close the door and sit down, dear.'

In smooth silence the lady drow did as she was bid, taking the only chair in the room that wasn't heaped with bundles of papers. It offered her behind a fresh, dust free cushion that hissed and settled under her weight as she sat upon it. If she noticed the wisps of greenish gas that curled up out of it to drift around her, she gave no sign of this.

The old woman behind the desk sat in frozen silence for the space of a long breath, as if waiting for some shy;thing, and at length her visitor leaned forward and said pleasantly, 'Greetings this night, and prosperity upon this house of commerce. I've come to Scornubel to do a little trade, but find folk here curiously reluctant to do business with me. I represent interests from below who have a strong assortment of wines to offer, and many barrels of fresh glowcap mushrooms, which they desire to exchange for Calishite silks, pitted dates, and metal gates, bars, gratings, and filigree of superior quality. Whenever I speak of this to anyone in this city, they seem ill at ease, and direct me to 'Sarltan.' Your helpful young men out front believe you can help me. Can you, or is this a notion we should both disabuse them of?'

The old woman's fingers moved in a few quick, crawl shy;ing patterns above the parchments on her desk; her visitor responded with a gesture of her own.

The old woman sighed, then, and sat back. 'I don't deal with the nameless,' she said quietly. 'Give.'

'Iylinvyx,' the lady drow replied, 'of House Nrel'tabra. I'm also called'-she gestured at the knives hanging above her shoulders-' 'Pretty Teeth.' '

'And in what city does House Nrel'tabra flourish?' the old woman asked, her eyes two black flames.

'Telnarquel,' Iylinvyx replied, gracefully crossing two black-booted legs and lounging back in her chair.

'Ah, yes, the Hidden City-sought by many, and found by none. Many of our wisest explorers refuse to believe that it even exists.'

' 'Our'?' the she-drow asked softly.