Elminster Must Die

unhooded the faint, cracked glowstone fragment that lived on the table beside the window. Its light was barely brighter than the darkness, and no wonder; it had been broken when she’d stolen it, and that had been long, long before.

In the days when she’d had far more coins than she did at the moment, but cared nothing for how many days more she might live to spend them in.

She shook that thought aside and lifted the iron bars that held the shutters closed.

“In,” she commanded, the pull cords of her two ready crossbows in her hand. Ruthgul had always been honest with her, but his first lie might well be her last surprise, as the saying went.

The scarred and grizzled old man outside handed her his knife, hilt first, then held out empty hands for her inspection. She caught hold of one and hauled him half into the room, then stopped, pinning him across the sill, to make sure he was alone and not readying some hidden weapon.

The knotted cord he’d climbed swung freely in the night air outside; she could see there was no other weight on it. Nor, so far as she could see, was anyone lurking above-and Ruthgul always worked alone. Nearby rooftops seemed empty of lurking figures, and every window she could see was dark and tightly shuttered, as was both prudent and usual.

Under her firm hand, Ruthgul kept still. There was a satchel covered with short planks strapped to his back, to protect the documents he’d told her about, and though he almost certainly had a blade in either boot and probably a strangling cord somewhere, she could see nothing ready to menace her.

“In,” she commanded tersely, and plucked up one shutter bar, holding it ready to brain him with. Ruthgul landed on the floor, grunted, then got up and took hold of the other shutter bar, moving slowly to reassure her.

He turned, drew her shutters closed, put the bar in its place, and did up the catches. Then he held out his hand for the other bar.

Amarune gave it to him, holding the spear steady at his throat. He sighed, mumbled something about trust being rarer and rarer these days, and finished bolting her shutters.

Then he kneeled down, spreading his hands again to show he wasn’t reaching for any weapon. Slowly worming his way out of the satchel straps, he slid his burden off his back.

“The contract,” he muttered, “is an agreement-”

“I don’t want to know.”

Their usual phrases. Ruthgul uncovered just the signature of one document and let her look at it long and hard. An ordinary ink, as far as she could tell. She lit her last precious candle to check its hue closely.

“Four lions,” she decreed flatly.

Ruthgul knew better than to haggle. He fished out a purse from somewhere amid his filthy rags and leathers- it wasn’t the one riding his belt-and slowly set forth four gold coins in an arc around her candle lamp, each one sticking to his middle finger until he set it down soundlessly and twisted firmly.

Then he used the purse and her glowstone to hold open the document bearing the signature, and uncovered the contract for her to sign.

Or rather, to peer closely at the rush paper it was written on. Then again at the signature.

Amarune fetched several bottles of ink, the right quills, and some scraps of paper, to practice a few swashes. Ruthgul waited in patient silence. His hands had once been young and strong and unsmashed enough to do such work himself; he knew what was necessary, and he knew the true measure of her skill, too.

She caught up the edge of her robe and wiped her forehead. She’d be sweating before she was done.

Then she sat back to breathe slowly, as if falling asleep in her chair, and let her hand mimic the signature again and again, until it flowed.

Ruthgul nodded approvingly and waited.

She signed it with a smooth, swift flourish, then sat back to mop away sweat again.

Perfect, or so it seemed to her eye-and she judged such things as critically as any miser of a coinlender.

The grizzled old man sat still as stone, waiting for the ink to dry. He let Amarune decide when the contract was ready to be covered again, and let her restore both documents to the wrappings he’d brought them in, too, and return them to the satchel.

“Thanks, lass,” he said, sitting back and away from her.

“You are welcome,” she said firmly.

“Better I go,” Ruthgul said. “I’ll be needing the rest of my falcons …”

The blade that thrust into the room through the shutters at that moment was much longer than Ruthgul’s knife, and gleamed very brightly.

“Not this night, thank you,” Amarune said firmly in its direction, raising her voice a trifle. “I have business unfolding in here already.”

“Will it have unfolded completely and be done, if I return in two hours?” The speaker was female, sharp- tongued, and unfamiliar.

Amarune rolled her eyes. “What price my slumber, this night?”

“I’ll pay double. Just a little copying.”

“Two hours,” Amarune agreed and heard the voice outside echo those words in confirmation, already sounding fainter and more distant.

Only then did she notice that Ruthgul was cowering on the floor, both hands over his mouth.

She joined him down there, close enough to whisper in his ear, “What?”

“ ’Tis her!” he said fiercely, eyes wide with fear.

“Which her? She and I aren’t the only females in Suzail this night, look you.”

“She whose name you just …” Ruthgul gestured frantically at the satchel then looked wildly around what little he could see of her dimly lit room. “I’ve got to get out and away-!”

“Oh, Ruthgul,” Amarune sighed into his ear, her exasperation as quiet as she could make it. “Let me get some boots on and lead you out through the cellars. It links up behind the cobbler’s, with Tathlin’s-the message runner’s-two doors down. He’ll probably charge you a lion, though, to wear one of his caps and capes and go out with one of his lads. So you will be needing the rest of your falcons.”

“Farruk,” he snarled.

“No, you haven’t brought enough for that,” she replied brightly, crawling quickly out of his reach.

He glared at her. Then, slowly, face twisting as wry humor won out over angry fear, he managed a grin.

A grin that wavered into confused disbelief as Amarune calmly took off the cloth belt of her robe and let the garment fall open.

“I’m going to blindfold you,” she murmured, stepping past him, and did so, tying her worn and raveled belt securely over his eyes. He offered no resistance as she gently guided him up to his knees.

“Try to remove that, and die,” she added, as softly as any lover.

The grizzled old man nodded carefully.

“Crawl forward,” Amarune murmured into his ear then. “Straight as an arrow and slowly, so as not to blunder into me. Without my guidance, there are several places ahead on our journey where you could easily meet your death. Very easily.”

“Understood,” he muttered. Then, satchel carefully clutched close, he started crawling cautiously after her.

Amarune swallowed again. Fear was making her throat very dry.

She hoped her face was as impassive as she was trying to keep it. Her rooms had never seemed smaller or more tawdry.

She hated and feared her newest client and suspected the woman knew that-and was amused.

Only two lions gleamed on her desk between them.

On the other side of it stood the woman who’d put them there. Someone Amarune knew she’d never seen before; someone lean, lithe, and clad in black leathers that covered her from head to the pointed tips of her boots, hooding her face in a mask that left only her mouth and large, lion-bright yellow eyes visible. Someone who’d given her name as Talane and held a drawn sword in her hand.

It was a blade that drank all light, reflecting back not the slightest gleam, and emanated a silent something that made Amarune feel ill even from across the desk.