'Busy?' the old woman asked. 'I hear no chains, and see no young things lined up for inspection. How can a slaver be busy with no slaves in his house? If you were burying money in the garden, I'd expect to see a shovel and a little sweat.'
Blaskar glared at her and opened his mouth to say something-but only shut it with a snap.
'Well?' the old woman asked, eyeing him right back. 'Wouldn't you?'
The slaver mastered his temper with visible effort and said shortly, 'You know me, and my habits, and yet say you must cast a spell on me to be sure of me! You refuse to give your own name, and sit here insulting me rather than getting to the reason for this social call… and so far as I can tell, I've never seen you before in my life! I refuse to have spells cast on me'-he aimed his cane at her again, and the old woman saw that he had a row of identical ones in a rack behind his stool- 'without knowing who is to cast them, and why. This city is becoming too dangerous for me to extend such trust.'
'That,' his visitor said in dry tones, 'is what I've come to talk to you about. Scornubel seems to be undergoing some changes-or rather, a lot of its citizens are … aren't they? Something a slaver would know about, hey?'
Blaskar Toldovar went pale and said tightly, 'I won't listen to this much longer, whoever you are.' The cane trembled in his hand. 'I'll warn you once more …'
'Blaskar,' the old woman said gently, 'be at ease.' She reached with her cane under the chair she was sit shy;ting in, fished around, and dragged out something that clanked: two sets of manacles. 'Would you feel more comfortable if I put these on?'
Blaskar stared at her, open mouthed, then said slowly, 'Yes. Yes, I would. Are you an escaped slave, come back to me for revenge?'
'I'm not here for revenge,' the old woman told him, calmly snapping one set of manacles around her ankles. 'I'm here for information.' She settled the cuffs of the second set around her wrists after propping her cane against one bony knee, and snapped them closed witn a clack. 'But I won't tell you my name.'
The old slaver's eyes narrowed, 'Your brand?' he asked.
The old woman nodded, and rolled onto one hip with surprising ease, extending her legs toward the low foot shy;stool beside the one Blaskar was sitting on. He kicked it under her feet out of long habit, got up, and extended his cane to her filthy skirts, lifting them up past a green and mottled map of veins until he could see the back of her left knee. He peered, but could see no mark there.
'Is this some sort of game?' he snapped.
'Look again,' the old woman said calmly. 'The light in here is not good.'
The slaver wiped his eyes, then his monocle, and peered again … and as he stared down at surprisingly clean and milk-white flesh, something faded slowly into view. A familiar mark, and a number. .
All the color drained from Blaskar Toldovar's face, and he whispered, 'Sweet Mystra forfend! You're D-'
'Hush!' the old woman said sharply. 'No names!' She rolled over again and Blaskar retreated from her as he would from a rearing viper.
'B-but what's happened to you?' he asked, backing away behind a chair and feeling for the shelf that held his most precious warding magic. 'Why are you here?' The old woman held up her manacled wrists and shook them so the chain rattled. 'Be at ease, Blaskar, I'm not here to harm you, or take revenge for what you did to a young girl all those years ago. Besides, the master you sold me to was kind and I was his slave for only about two days. I've actually been back here to check on you a dozen times since then … you just didn't recognize me.'
'Spell-shapes,' the slaver murmured. 'False bodies, like the one you're wearing now.'
'Like the ones a lot of folk seem to be wearing in Scornubel these days,' the old woman said sharply. 'Mind if I cast a spell or two, Blaskar?'
He come beside the chair, and sat on it carefully. Their knees almost touched. 'If one of them will shield us from all spying,' he said firmly, 'I do not mind. We need to talk freely.'
'Now we're getting somewhere,' the old woman said, shifting forward so that their knees did touch. 'That'll be my first spell.'
'And the second?'
'The truth telling. I know I'm talking to Blaskar, but I don't know if Blaskar's wits have been played about with, magically.'
'Neither,' the slaver whispered, his face white again, 'do I.'
The woman in chains looked into Blaskar's eyes and asked softly, 'Would you like me to take you far from here, old Toldove? To a house in Neverwinter where the neighbors have never even seen a dark elf?'
The slaver looked at her with a sudden, fierce hope kindling in his eyes. 'Yes!' he cried, and burst into tears. 'Oh, yes!'
With a rattle of chain, the old woman put her arms around him in a gentle embrace. 'You'd have to give up slaving,' she murmured, 'forever.'
'Lady,' he said, sniveling, 'I'm too old for it anymore. Bold young men with no fear and sharp knives were giving me troubles long before. . before this shadow fell on us here.'
He sobbed then and she rocked him in her arms, stroking his neck and murmuring wordless comfort.
When at last he mastered his voice again, Blaskar asked roughly, 'Lady? What must I do for this rescue to happen?'
'Tell me all you can about the drow here,' she said. 'That's all.'
'I cast it,' she said gently, 'when first you touched me. Be at ease, Blaskar.'
The slaver drew in a deep breath, let it out in a shud shy;dering sigh, then gave her a weak smile. 'In your arms, I almost think I can do that. My mother used to hold me like that.'
He swallowed, and asked, his face very pale, 'B-but you're a Harper, aren't you? I thought-I thought you people killed slavers, or made us slaves.'
'We do, more often than not,' Dove Falconhand replied calmly. 'Consider yourself an exception.'
'But-oh, gods, I know this is stupid of me, but- why?'
Keen eyes seemed to blaze right through the slaver, and he caught his breath with a fearful gasp.
'Blaskar,' the woman he'd once enslaved said qui shy;etly, 'I've spent most of my life being a hearty, capable lady of the blade. Harder than steel, colder than stone, more merrily rough and foul-mouthed and ruthless than men who live by the sword. I've done it because I've had to. I haven't the magic my sisters can boast, to do my fighting for me. I need time to be soft, to surren shy;der myself… to be with someone I don't have to fear. You showed me such times, more than once. As I said, I've been back to check on you. You've no idea how much I value tenderness and kindness in a man.'
They stared into each other's eyes, and all the color slowly ran out of the slaver's face.
'Yes,' Dove told him grimly, 'I've magic enough to change my own body. I was Emmera, and Sesilde. Callathrae, too, and the little dancer from Tharsult whose name you never learned, who liked to oil herself and dance in a ring of candles. I know your true meas shy;ure, Blaskar. Slaver you are, yes, and a little too leering for most tastes, though kind in that, too. The cruel and the cold and the slayers you sent in chains to hard-handed buyers in Calimport and like places. The gentle ones you treated gently.'
She tilted her head to one side, and seemed to see right through him as she added, 'All this time you've been looking for a woman who will cook for you and sleep with you and worship you with her eyes-and not thinking yourself worthy of anyone who passed through your hands that you liked the look of. It took you too long to learn not to judge females by their looks, but you learned it at last, old dog. Almost too late, but you learned it, and the one you had your heart set on grow shy;ing old with turned out to be a dark elf one night, didn't she? You killed her, didn't you? Just as she must have slain your real beloved-quick, then getting rid of the body in a panic. Since then, you've cowered here waiting for all the other drow to show up and cut a bloody revenge out of your hide.'
The slaver was looking at her like a small boy who'd been caught doing something clever but forbidden and doesn't yet know if he'll be punished or laughed at. He opened his mouth, but said nothing. He didn't have to speak for her to know she was right.
'How many matches did you make, down the years?' Dove asked. 'A little coin to the right passing merchant here, after you'd judged him suitable, and off with the chains and another partnership.. how many times? I know of twelve, but your neck is still within easy reach, Blaskar; how many more?'
The slaver swallowed, held up a hand to buy himself some thinking time, then said slowly, 'Twenty-three. I
