'Then it's ready.'
Liriel chuckled at the expression on the servant's face, and the speed with which she beat a retreat to the kitchen. Thorn's appetite was prodigious and not entirely civilized. Small wonder, considering that she spent much of her time running about on four legs.
And speaking of appetites, Sharlarra was not far behind, albeit in other matters. The star elf was surveying the other patrons with interest, boldly meeting their accessing stares with a friendly, open smile-not quite invitation, but not far from it, either.
Liriel didn't fault Sharlarra for her fun-loving nature, for she understood it well. Her years in the Underdark had been brightened by many a handsome drow playmate. Mutual prejudice made alliance with a surface elf unlikely, but from time to time, a human man caught her eye. Even so, there had been no one for her since Fyodor of Rashemen. Sometimes she wondered if there ever could be.
Her hand went to the symbol of Mystra hanging over her heart. Shortly after Fyodor's death, Liriel had found her true calling. Magic had always been her passion, but she felt the call of a cleric's path, as well. When she learned of Mystra, Lady of Magic and Mysteries, everything fell into place. Liriel's dedication to the goddess of magic had been as single-minded and her ambition as great as any priestess of Lolth. She pursued the goddess's favor and sought power with a focus and fervor that would have had her grandmother, the dreaded Matron Baenre, nodding in approval. But only recently had Liriel recognized the reason driving her rapid rise in Mystra's service:
Powerful clerics could resurrect the dead.
Thorn broke the drow's reverie by swatting Sharlarra on the shoulder. 'No courtship behavior, not here,' she warned her. 'We eat, we leave. That was the agreement.'
'Too late.' The star elf tipped her golden head toward the man swaggering over to their table.
Sharlarra's would-be suitor was a large man, too young for his girth. He had the slightly melted look some big-muscled adventurers get when days of hard riding give way to long nights devoted to dice and drink. Even so, his confident smirk bespoke a comfortable opinion of himself, and his garments and gear were flamboyant in the extreme. Huge roc plumes dyed a vivid purple swept down from the brim of an indigo blue hat. His tunic and breeches encompassed the color spectrum with multiple stripes in blues, greens, yellows, and oranges-a progression that ended with the brilliant red of his dragonhide boots. He was, in short, a walking rainbow, the sort of silly fop most people dismissed with a smirk and a shrug.
Liriel took this in with a glance before her eyes went to the man's weapons. They were decorative, yes, but the sword on his hip was well maintained and the grip showed the wear of frequent use. He had other weapons, too; daggers and knives which he probably thought were cleverly hidden, including a pair of daggers tucked into his oversized boot cuffs. His coin purse was heavy, and the red riding whip tucked into his belt matched the harness on the fine black stallion waiting in the attached stable. Liriel glanced at the table he'd just left, noting the half dozen men seated there. They, unlike the walking rainbow, made no pretense of being anything but what they were: well-seasoned fighters. And hunters, too, judging from the full quivers under their seats and the longbows propped against the wall. All of them wore belts of bright red dragon hide-a livery of sorts, proclaiming their hired allegiance.
Wonderful, Liriel thought glumly. The fool could fight, and he had men to back him up.
And then he surprised her by ignoring Sharlarra and walking directly over to Thorn.
'I know what you are,' he said bluntly. 'You might be able to hoodwink everyone else, but I know a lythari when I see one.'
Thorn shrugged. 'Then you are not quite the fool you appear.'
'This is a most fortuitous meeting, if not without irony,' he went on, ignoring her insult. 'I am hunting exotic wolf pelts for my trophy hall, and rumors of werewolves in the Gray Forest brought me to Impiltur. But none would take me into those woods, so I settled for hunting of a different sort in a dockside brothel. And here we both are.'
The lythari woman looked him up and down. Her lip curled. 'Are you even allowed to mate?'
He fell back a step, brow furrowed in puzzlement. 'Allowed? Whatever are you talking about?'
Thorn shook her head in disgust and turned back to her companions. 'I keep forgetting that humans don't follow pack law. Among my people, the right to breed is earned.'
'Or bought?' he wheedled, holding up a large gold coin.
Thorn sniffed. 'No self-respecting bitch would lift her tail for the likes of you, not for all the coins in Impiltur.'
The man's pleasant expression never faltered. 'Then it's back to blood sport. No matter-it's all hunting, and all the same to me. At the moment, I alone know your true nature. But at a word from me, six hunters start competing for the bounty your wolf's hide will bring them.'
'A word from me,' Liriel said in equally pleasant tones, 'and six hunters will be hit by a fireball big enough to leave nothing but a stinking grease spot on the tavern floor.'
Finally the man's facade slipped, and he cast a slyly malevolent glance in Liriel's direction. 'If you cast killing magic, drow, you will never leave the city alive. But of course, you know this full well.'
And so she did. Her acceptance in Impiltur was a tenuous thing, despite the valuable services she provided. Her familiarity with the deep ways made her an asset to the bands of Warswords who patrolled the tunnels under the Earthspurs. The recent discovery of a temple of Laduguer, the evil god of the duegar, raised the possibility of trade with gray dwarf settlements. Liriel's ability to speak Undercommon was in great demand among enterprising merchants. Even so, the officials of Impiltur made it clear that she would be closely scrutinized. She would be permitted to use healing spells and other beneficial clerical magic, but no 'drowlike' behavior would be tolerated.
And that, Liriel noted, was a conundrum. If ever a man merited the full attention of her darker nature, it was this smirking fool.
Well, a drow had other weapons than magic and steel, and not the least of them was reputation. Drow females learned certain skills along with word-weaning: how to wrap knife-bladed sarcasm in silky words, how to project malice and evil as naturally as oil lamps cast light, how to promise death without drawing a weapon.
Liriel willed a malevolent gleam into her eyes and curved her lips into a cold, cruel smile. 'You seem well versed in Impiltur law,' she said in a clear, ringing voice. 'You don't look like much of a hunter, but the council might hire you as a clerk or scribe.'
The man's smirk faded away. 'I'll have you know that these boots are a trophy.'
'A red dragon. Impressive,' Liriel purred. 'Tell me, did you kill the roc, as well? Or did one obligingly molt a few feathers in your general direction?'
By now the tavern had grown dangerously quiet, and the wary expressions on the patrons' faces indicated that their pleasantly dark fantasies concerning Liriel had given way to even darker thoughts-stories they'd heard told of the drow.
The proprietor hurried over to the table, all but wringing his hands in dismay. 'I want no trouble here.'
'Who does?' Thorn replied coolly. She glanced at Liriel, taking in the slim black fingers curved around the clerical emblem. She tapped Liriel's boot with her foot. The drow responded with a thin, wicked smile. Thorn sealed their unspoken agreement with a nod and turned back to the tavern keeper.
'I paid for this meal, and I intend to finish it. After, this man and I can settle our differences outside.'
The fop's smirk returned, and his sword hand closed around the hilt of his weapon. 'A duel is yet another kind of hunt. Your terms are quite acceptable. I await your pleasure.' He gave the lythari a mocking little bow and walked back to his table.
Sharlarra's worried gaze went from Liriel to Thorn. 'You're planning something. Do I want to know what it is?'
The lythari ignored her. 'How long do you need to work your spell, drow?'
'No more than a quarter bell.' Liriel glanced toward the moon. The fat crescent had already begun its descent, and appeared to be in danger of impaling itself upon the mast of a large ship. That was good fortune-the ship would serve as a reference point and help her chart time's passage. Thorn didn't need such aids, but Liriel had yet to master the art of measuring time by the movement of the moon and stars.
By the time Thorn polished off the last crumb of her bread bowl and devoured a slab of very rare mutton, the moon was almost touching the ship's boom. Liriel figured this delay was due to design as well as hunger; by the time Thorn had finished feeding, the streets were nearly deserted.
