matter of knives, a - ed greenwood

7/25/2019 Matter of Knives, A - Ed Greenwood

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A Matter of Knives

by Ed Greenwood

Chapter One: In the House of Blades

"I do not waste time dealing with slaves," the citizen in the splendid red doublet informed her. "Goand fetch your master. Now."

"Come back tomorrow," the halfling said flatly, her eyes two flames of fury. She stood on the shopcounter facing him, chin thrust forward and hands on hips, as if she owned the place.

Which she didn't, of course. She was indeed a slave—and a halfling of shorter stature than mosthalflings, to boot.

The citizen looked down his nose at her, dubiously. It was unusual in splendid and sprawling Canorateto see a slave openly armed, but this one had daggers that looked like they'd serve her as swordsstrapped to her arms and legs.

Yet this was Hroalund's House of Blades, a shop that sold knives and daggers. The problem was, thisarrogant little above-herself slave looked ready, willing, and one angrily spitting moment away fromusing them.

"Yes," she hissed, as if reading his mind, her hands suddenly stroking dagger-pommels. "I hit what Ithrow these at. Every time." Her voice became a menacing purr. "Would sir care for a demonstration?"

The citizen opened his mouth to say something sneering and dismissive—and then thought better ofit. "Tomorrow, then!" he snapped, then spun on one magnificently booted heel and stormed out.

Through the shop window, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra watched the embroidered tail of the citizen's finecloak swirl in his wake, and sighed.

The Master steps out on business for the afternoon, and half of Canorate comes in here to try to bullythe shop slave into giving them things for a quarter their worth—and a sixth of the asked price. It washardly surprising—she was, after all, an outlander and a little child of a creature, no doubt untutoredand naïve.

Pah. Molthuni were such aggressively arrogant idiots.

That went double for rich Canorate citizens out adventuring beyond the walls of the gilded SweetOrchard district, to where the lungs of Canorate breathed, the real daily business of Molthune wasdone, and shops that sold useful things crowded together along busy streets.

Tantaerra plucked one of the mirror-bright sample knives from an upright fan display of them atop thepolished countertop, buffed it on her sleeve, then turned her back on the now-empty shop and strode

right off the countertop, tossing the knife casually back over her shoulder as she started to fall.



Those who judge Tantaerra based on her size are fools indeed.

It thunked into the target even before her feet sank into the heap of soft mats the Master hadaccumulated behind the counter as his gout steadily worsened.

She did not have to look to know she'd struck the target dead center. She was, after all, better atdemonstrating the throwing knives Argulk Hroalund was deservedly famous for than the Master washimself.

http://paizo.com/image/content/PathfinderTales/Tantaerra.jpg



The shop guards watched her pad across the shop and leap up to retrieve the blade, their faces asimpassive as ever, but when she sighed loudly and told the ceiling, "If one more overblown scion ofCanorate's elite comes in here before we close..." she saw the ghost of a smile pluck at the lips of oneof them, just for an instant.

As if her lament had been a cue, the singing clash of crossing swords rang out, courtesy of theenchantment on the shop door. Well, it was better than those annoying bells any day.

Tantaerra swallowed a sigh, fixed a professional smile on her face, and sprang atop the stool behindthe counter once more. After all, if the Master didn't eat, neither would she, and Canorate wasn't thecheapest of places to—

Her smile became genuine. It was the Master.

Yet the grin faded as quickly as it came, and she found herself struggling to get the professional smileback into place. The Master was worried.

And it took a lot to worry Argulk Hroalund.

He was the best maker of throwing knives in five lands, probably more, and offered the best stock ofknives of all sorts—from tiny hide-in-your-hair ladies' death-needles to joint-an-aurochs cleavers—inMolthune. And had been for fifty years, perhaps sixty. Which meant he'd dealt with a lot of Molthuni.And anyone who sold arms and armor had to be ready to defend themselves, as well as tough asmountain stone against intimidation, or...

"Braerand, Luthkul, Orrlehm—have my thanks; this day's shift is done. Be off home with you. TheHouse is closing until the day after tomorrow. So tomorrow is yours, though I'll pay you for it as if youwere here."

The guards were surprised, yet said not a word. They merely nodded and went.

As the Master shot the bolts in their wake and reached to swing the metal doorbar down into place,

Tantaerra set the first trap, but he turned with a frown and held up a hand to stop her.

Surprised, Tantaerra stood on the counter and watched him shuffle back to her from the door andbegin the routine of setting all the traps himself.

He was worried.

Most shops had traps against thieves, but the Master's were the best. Oh, a knife shop's traps almosthad to be, but even the Orchard-dwellers in Canorate hired Argulk Hroalund to trap their homes.

He designed the most elaborate and best hidden mechanical traps, from half a dozen for a small shopto scores of silently waiting deadlinesses in a grand mansion; elaborate mechanical traps that couldwound intruders with "knives or darts, launched or thrust." Tantaerra knew the Master's skill well;

because she was deft, supple, and small even for a halfling, she was often set to work installing hiscreations in spaces too cramped for the Master himself.

The knives were the daily soup and cheese of the House of Blades, but the trapping was big coin.

"Anything I should know?" he growled at her as usual, as he checked the day's takings. Not tooworried to entirely abandon routine.



"Two odd deliveries, both crates. The smaller from Garldrake and Sarpent, the larger from no one whowants to share his name, and who ships in crates that could double as coffins; it's labeled ‘To BeOpened By Master Hroalund Only.' So I left it. I opened the other, though. Forty-six gorgets, steel, allthe same size—and utter slop. I bent some accidentally, between two fingers, lifting them out.You can't sell them. You're being insulted. Or set up for a fall, somehow."

The Master frowned and then sighed. He looked old and tired—but not surprised. "You left them in theback?"

At Tantaerra's nod, he set off for his private rooms, pinching the lamps dark as he went. Tantaerrascampered after him. His abrupt and early closing meant she hadn't even warmed the water atop thelittle stove, but she could rub oil into his gouty feet while supper was cooking, rather than after...

"I'd like that," the Master grunted, and she froze. She must have said her thoughts aloud.

Then he turned and proved again why he was the best Master any slave could have. "And we'll talk.My worries are bothering you, and I need someone to talk to. I trust you, Little Firebrand. You've

more sense than any twenty Canorate shopkeepers—or any forty Sweet Orchard highcloaks—puttogether."

"Flatterer," she told him affectionately. "See if you can be as complimentary about my supper—and I'lltry not to burn it."

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra's stomach was both full and warm; she was finally getting the hang of hot savory pies. TheMaster belched and smiled, several times each, then stopped smiling and told her, "It seemsGarldrake and Sarpent may turn out to be difficult trading partners. At best."

"Oh? Share?"

"Nothing to share but suspicions. Yet. Let's be looking at the larger crate."

A few shuffling moments later and they were standing over it, eyeing the crate that looked very like acoffin.

To Be Opened By Master Hroalund Only . That boldly lettered label was imperious enough.

The Master looked at her.

Tantaerra sighed. "You want me to open it, don't you?"

Hroalund nodded, looking a little ashamed and a little sad.

"Not here," she said crisply. "In the cellar. Back corner, next to the big stack."

The big stack was the one fixture in the cellar of the House of Blades. Hroalund's only deadwood; asix-crate-high tower almost brushing the ceiling beams. Bigger crates than most carters made thesedays, full of shields silently rusting away—shields the Master would never be able to unload, now thatMolthune's armies used a new design. Not without scouring clean and reshaping every last one, andthey just weren't worth the time and expense.

The Master nodded and went for his cart.



One of Tantaerra's tasks was keeping its side-ramp well greased, and she did tasks thoroughly. TheMaster only grunted twice as he shoved the coffin-crate up onto the cart; its journey was swift andeasy.

Tantaerra had improved the winch on the pulley-lift so it rarely creaked, and gave off sighs ratherthan its former high, raw groans. A few pumps of the handle and cart and burden were down in thecellar.

The Master wheeled the cart to right beside the stack of crates and gave his slave a questioning look.

She nodded, and he stepped back. She pointed at the handle of the cart.

"Ah," he said, after a moment. "Take the cart away. Good thinking."

He did that, then stopped halfway across the cellar to watch. Tantaerra gave him an exasperated look,then used the prybar she'd fetched down with her to point at the ceiling, then at him, then at theceiling again. Imperiously.

Hroalund nodded reluctantly and set off up the stairs. She made sure he wasn't halting to turn and

come back down before she hastily downed breeches and emptied her bladder all over the polishing-rag she'd brought with her.

She tied the damp result over her nose. A feeble defense against poison gas, but better than nothing.She was still tightening its knot behind her ears when the Master reappeared. He had a long length ofcord in his hands.

"What're you—?"

He tied it securely around her waist. "In case I need to drag you to safety."

He'd brought the long reaching-pole from the shop with him, and used its jaws to thrust the free endof the rope up through the open pulley-lift hatch in the ceiling. When he started for the stairs again,

Tantaerra caught hold of the reaching-pole. "Leave it."

The Master looked surprised, but relinquished it readily enough.

Tantaerra positioned it against the wall behind the stack of crates. When she returned from behindthem, Hroalund was upstairs and peering down at her through the hatch, the cord tied to her waisthanging from it.

She waved cheerily and set to work with her prybar.

The nails were few but secure. Tantaerra hauled and heaved, and it went swiftly enough; this waswork she did every day. As she finished one side and started around the end of the crate—it did looklike a coffin, to be sure—she caught sight of her master watching her. He looked anxious.

When every nail was out, she levered the lid up and hauled it back, keeping behind it as if it was ashield.

Silence. Stillness.

And then, as she'd expected, something erupted up out of the crate with a clatter and clang of ringingsteel. The Master shouted in alarm.



The thing emerging looked like a man's skeleton sheathed in a metal cage-work—if, that is, humanskeletons came with eight arms, each of them ending in wicked-looking sword blades.

It stepped out of the box and toward her, blades reaching...

Chapter Two: When Someone Wants You Dead

Tantaerra hastily transferred her hands to just the bottom edge of the crate-lid as she backed away—and the first slashing blows fell on it, numbingly hard.

A few splinters flew, but the swift dark swords were sharp, and the arms that drove them very strong.Steel sliced deep and caught, binding in the wood.

The silent slayer shook its swords to free them. Tantaerra let go of the lid before she was shaken dizzyand darted around behind the huge stack of crates. Time to enact her clever plan.

She ran right up the reaching pole and kicked out hard against the cellar wall, slamming her backagainst the big stack of shield crates. She hit hard, readying herself to leap clear of the avalanche asthe crates overbalanced and came down on top of her attacker.

Yet the big stack of shield-crates wavered not an inch.

Tantaerra cursed foully, then cursed even harder as she felt swords biting into the far sides of thecrates she was now clinging to. The manyswords thing was hacking and hewing crates as high as itcould reach, cleaving wood that was a lot older and damper than the lid it had just flung aside; itsblades were through one crate-side already.

Tantaerra climbed wood that shuddered and groaned at each sword-blow, and was a crate higherwhen a sudden cacophony of sliding metal announced the riven crate was abruptly spilling all of itsshields.

Spilling them right onto the head of the manyswords monster, or automaton, or golem, or whatever itwas. The thing came staggering into view around the edge of the stack. By then, Tantaerra was atop

the uppermost crate and holding onto one of the cellar ceiling beams, sneezing out dust.

The manyswords thing regained its balance and determination, and charged back at the stack, hewingat the next crate down.

Sparks and shrieks flew as metal struck metal, and all too soon the deluge of rusting shields emptying

out of a half-destroyed crate rang out again—but this time, the weight of two full crates stacked atopthe two now-empty ones was too much, and Tantaerra's perch groaned, toppled, and came down onthe thing of swords with a thunderous roar.

Tantaerra rode the ponderous fall almost to the cellar floor, but sprang free at the last moment to landin a dead run up the stairs.

She halted halfway up, listening as the crash rebounded off the walls, ready to continue running at theslightest stirring in the shield pile. Yet no new sounds interrupted the fading echoes.

She turned and moved cautiously down again, halting two steps from the bottom, peering into thecellar's half-light.

Nothing was moving but eddying dust. Swords lay still here and there on the floor, and a few cornersof the cage-like apparition that had been their wielder could be seen protruding from under a greatheap of shattered crates and flakes of rust.



Stairs creaked as the Master moved down into the basement. "Is it dead?" he asked.

"Well and truly crushed," she responded.

He shook his head, and they crossed the cellar together to peer at the fallen swords and shields, thenexamined the coffin-like crate lying open and unscathed. The lid had borne the "Hroalund Only"

directive; the solid box was well used and empty, and bore no other markings save the usual chalkedstreet-carters' mark that meant "delivery fee paid."

Tantaerra looked again at the label on the lid. Although its lettering was different than the label on thecrate of gorgets they'd received from Galdrake and Sarpent, the labels and glue were the same.

"Someone wants you dead," she told her master grimly, tugging the rag from her face.

He looked angry, but said only, "I believe we both know who."

"So what happens now?"

"I go and do the work they've hired me for," the Master told her, his words flat and hard. "Argulk

Hroalund doesn't run from threats."

"Argulk Hroalund can't run, these days," Tantaerra replied. "From anything."

The Master of the House of Blades gave her a scowl that lightened slowly into a chuckle and a nod."You have the right of it, little one. And I see from your face that you have an idea." He started for thestairs, and added over his shoulder, "Your ideas have never led me astray thus far, so..."

When she reached the head of the stair, he was holding out his belt-flask.

"Drink," he ordered. "You've earned it. Then talk."

∗∗∗



Loryn Garldrake is a snake of a man —making him an excellent merchant.

It was hot and cramped inside the box, even wearing only light gauzy silks. Tantaerra had taken the

hood off, and resolved to stay that way until Hroalund was actually opening the catches. She wore asmoke suit: tight-fitting breeches, slippers, a jerkin, and a full-head hood, all mottled gray to makethe wearer hard to see in mist, shadow, or dim surroundings. It was identical to the sort favored byMolthuni scouts and sneak-thieves of all lands, and she was surprised they'd been able to find one

small enough to fit her—once the arms and legs were doubled back on themselves, that is. Sometimesit proved useful to work in a shop that sold war-gear.

Useful, but not precisely comfortable. She was bumping and rumbling along on the House of Blades'freight cart, in a box that had only two tiny air-holes where nails had gone "missing" (thanks to theMaster's prybar), and huddled on a bed of coiled cords inside a frame that held a tray of the Master'ssmaller tools just above her nose. Her carrybag was across her legs, reassuringly heavy. The trapsMaster Argulk Hroalund installed were almost always activated by trip-cords or wires, and his workinggear also included many pulleys, hooks, ring-catches, hinged treadles, and the like. So the cart heldno less than six boxes—because Garldrake and Sarpent could afford the best, and wanted it.

The holes were too small for Tantaerra to see the splendid carved sign that proclaimed "Garldrake andSarpent/Arms and Armor For All," but as she was carried through its doors—double doors!—she could

tell that it was brighter and roomier than the House of Blades.

She did catch a glimpse of the fabled polished copper ceiling. The Master had spoken scornfully of thatparticular addition to the main showroom of what was increasingly his chief rival in Canorate. Sheetsof copper that were polished nightly, there to make everything grander and brighter, reflectingeverything on display and showing the counter staff what patrons were up to in every back corner andaisle. Ornamental pillars and moldings had been added everywhere, and doors turned into tallarchways, to make the premises appear much grander.

http://paizo.com/image/content/PathfinderTales/PZO8500LorynGarldrake.jpg

http://paizo.com/image/content/PathfinderTales/PZO8500LorynGarldrake.jpg



The prices had soared, of course, but unlike the Master, Garldrake and Sarpent were happy to chargeextra for their fancy show room. And it had worked—not only had they retained most of their patrons,they had gained some new ones; foolish nobles who judged a smith on the beauty of his store ratherthan the quality of his steel.

Where the House of Blades was crammed with knives, knives, and more knives, Garldrake andSarpent had lots of empty space, and lone suits of armor standing on their own in gleaming displays.The shop still carried far more wares than the Master did, but most of them were on shelves fillingroom after room opening off the showroom.

You could do that, the Master had said a trifle enviously, if you'd taken over the next-door shops onboth sides, and had coin enough to swallow more. Over the last eight years, Garldrake and Sarpenthad gone from strength to strength, buying out many—no, most, by now—competitors. Theywere the purveyors of armor and weaponry to Molthuni of wealth and discernment.

And welcome to it, she'd often heard the Master say, but from time to time he'd sounded wistful whilesaying it. The rest of the time, he sounded merely bitter.

"Well, well, Master Hroalund! I am most pleased to see you!"

To Tantaerra, Loryn Garldrake sounded more astonished than pleased. That confirmed her suspicions:that the manyswords thing in the coffin had been expected to kill him, and this prearranged hiring tooutfit their store with traps was an alibi—for who would kill the best trap-fitter before he did his workfor you?

"Welcome, welcome!" Garldrake went on, more heartily. "And you've brought all your, ah, fixings andfittings, I see! Can you have it all done today, d'you think?"

Loryn Garldrake was one of those who could melt butter on his tongue, jovially and heartily. Probablyuntil the instant he thought you were crossing him, and then—watch out.

"I fear not," the Master replied gently. "I could if you closed your doors, but your partner was mostfirm that the shop—"

"Establishment , please!"

"Ah, pray pardon—the establishment should stay open, and that one room at a time would becurtained off as I worked. Here's the chart we agreed upon; please let me know if there are anychanges you'd like, or..."

"No, no," Garldrake spoke slowly, his voice sharp and shrewd. No doubt he was studying the chart."No, this is all in order. You're the best, Master Hroalund, and the best is what we want. You'll start atthe back, then?"

"Yes."

"My lads will carry your boxes through. Six, aren't there?"

"Six and my little satchel, here," the Master replied agreeably. "My thanks. The curtains? Ah, good,good..."

A few bumpy moments later, Tantaerra felt her box being set down. With care, thank the gods.



"No, leave them closed, thank you," the Master said firmly. "I'll open them as I need them. Until then,less clutter, and easier to move if a patron needs something I'm in front of. Thank you."

There were murmurs from Garldrake's shop workers, booted feet shuffling away, and then the familiarclinks and clanks of the Master getting out tools and starting to hum softly to himself.

Though Garldrake and Sarpent ran to nothing so common as a shop-bell to announce the front doorsopening, Tantaerra didn't have to see to know the shop was busy. The hubbub of many voices neverstopped, not a few of the nearest inquiring what was behind the curtains. Hastening feet fetchedthings from nearby shelves on more occasions than she could count. It made the pace in the House ofBlades seem one step from the grave, by comparison.

Abruptly the catches on her hiding place were thrown back. She only just had time to tug on her hoodbefore the Master was dragging her out by an elbow and murmuring, "Now ."

After the dimness of the box, the light even in this back room seemed nigh-blinding, but she was outin it for barely long enough to snatch two quick breaths before being plunged into darkness again—dustier and faintly moldy darkness this time, with a cool draft.

The Master had bundled her into the Garldrake and Sarpent dumbwaiter—or rather, atop the box thattraveled up and down the shaft on furry-with-dust but well-oiled cables. Easily done by hauling oncables and thrusting a foot down into the box, when all one needed was enough space for a lithehalfling to pop through. Tantaerra checked that her carrybag was leashed securely to her wrist; it washeavy with trap-guns, triplines, and cork-guarded darts coated with poison that brought swift anddeep slumber to those they stung.

She was here to spend the night, peering and hearing as she stayed unseen. Riding the top of thedumbwaiter, or climbing its ropes to get higher, the better to spy.

Being discovered would bring almost certain death, because the Master had a pretty fair idea of whatGarldrake and Sarpent were up to: cheating the rulers of Molthune by providing inferior armor andweaponry—like those gorgets—and undercutting competitors' prices, driving said rivals into businessfailure or forcing them to sell out to Garldrake and Sarpent. No doubt they knew that Master Hroalund

would never willingly hand over his shop, and had decided it would be easier to acquire his share ofthe market after his untimely death.

They had to know they'd be found out eventually, but obviously planned to make their fortunes first,and probably buy merchant ships and buildings in the heart of bustling cities in other lands, so theycould leave Molthune in haste and still keep some wealth. Or perhaps they'd simply quietly pay off theinjured parties whenever their shoddy quality was discovered—and in the meantime, grow todominate Molthune's arms and armor trade, and heap up coins as high as they could.

A fine plan in theory. Yet if Tantaerra could discover evidence of it, Hroalund could easily use thatknowledge to expose them—or perhaps simply hold it over them, using it to secure his own safety.

Safety—and more than a little gold, if Tantaerra had her way. For anything that threatened Master

Hroalund also threatened his slave. And no one threatened Tantaerra and got away cheaply...

Chapter Three: An End to All Skulking Games

"Helms don't have feelings," a sultry female voice announced sharply. "They really don't care if youleave them in those crates. Now go. Bendrar and I need to confer."

Boots went, hastily.



From her hiding place behind a stack of shipping crates, Tantaerra leaned forward, trying to get asclose to the conversation as possible without being seen. Bendrar was Loryn Garldrake's son, and thewoman giving orders had to be Semdeira Sarpent.

"Ah, good, good, you're both here," said a hearty voice; Loryn Garldrake. "Ben, we were hoping toleave you out of this, but things have changed, and we need you to be able to say and do just theright things if you're questioned by the guard. This is all happening rather fast, but... uh..."

Semdeira is just l ike the b lades she sel ls —hard and sh arp.

http://paizo.com/image/content/PathfinderTales/PZO8500Semdeira.jpg



"Let me," Sarpent interrupted firmly. "Our plan has always been to find a scapegoat for when theGeneral Lords send for us, someone we can blame for tricking us—supplying us with inferior weaponsand armor. A scapegoat who promptly gets killed, the body too damaged for any priest to work with.The dead defend themselves poorly. He takes the blame, we pay whatever fines the Lords want to

levy, and if need be we depart Molthune. The problem is, a certain official here in Canorate issuspicious of us already. Too soon."

"We intended to frame Alsaerdus," Bendrar's father put in, "and rid ourselves of a big creditor, buthe's out of the country. So we need someone else. Right now."

"Hence Master Hroalund," Sarpent purred. "Knife-hurler and trap-spinner. Who insists on providing hisown knives for his traps, and has many suppliers, some Drumish—and high Molthuni officials dislikethose who have too much to do with foreigners. What we sent to kill him the fastest, tidiest wayfailed, but our cleverness at engaging him has brought him right here, and we have his demise inhand right now. When he's dead, we'll claim to have killed him and his assistants in a desperate fight,because they tried to murder us when we confronted Hroalund about shoddy knives he'd provided tous."

"You're going to, ah, kill him here? Now?" Bendrar sounded nervous.

"No." Sarpent's voice was crisp. "At his shop. If the bloodcoats want to search and pry, we want themto be confiscating and rummaging his stock, not ours."

"Never you mind where and when yet, son. For now, get out to the front counter before Indur andYelhar do anything foolish, and run things until closeup. Make certain no patron gets near Hroalund orsees his work. A trap someone's seen is useless to us."

Tantaerra heard Bendrar hurry away.

"Tonight," Garldrake muttered. "Velar will come at nightfall. Shall I tell him to bring Urling andTaethur?"

"No. Too apt to be clumsily over-enthusiastic. We need far quieter, during and after. I know who toget."

In her hiding place, Tantaerra grit her teeth. That was it, then. Garldrake and Sarpent had to die, orthe lives lost would be hers and the Master's. The rest of the staff she could take down with hersleeping darts–without their masters, the underlings would be no problem when they awoke, if indeedthey even knew of the plan. For Sarpent and Garldrake, though...

Well, mercy was just one of many things a humble slave couldn't afford.

∗∗∗

Nine darts were gone, all well sped, and the Master long since headed home by the time Bendrar

Garldrake met the tenth—and dropped a decanter as he slumped.

The crash brought Loryn Garldrake around the corner at a run. He had a decanter of his own. Uponseeing a dark-swathed assassin—even a half-sized one—standing above his unmoving son, he howledand threw the glass carafe without hesitation.

It shattered just above Tantaerra's head, drenching her with something reeking and sticky.



She ran, but Garldrake snatched a long horse-lance down from a wall-rack and used it more wiselythan she expected. Instead of trying to spit her, he swung it like a club, raking her feet out from underher.

Tantaerra landed groaningly hard on her hip against a wardrobe—and then he lowered the lance torun her through.

"Hah! Roast halfling on a spit tonight!"

Tantaerra promptly grabbed the wardrobe doors and toppled the massive thing over on top of herself.

The falling furniture caught the lance-tip and bore it down. It shrieked along, digging a deep gougeout of the polished floor, before breaking—but held up more than long enough for a hurrying halflingto hurl herself out from under the wardrobe.

And turn to race right up the lance-shaft at its wielder.

Garldrake got his belt-dagger out and slashed at her viciously, forcing her to leap aside, but her nextleap slammed her headfirst into his crotch.

Garldrake shrieked and went down, and Tantaerra jumped up and down on his nearest ankle,repeatedly, until something broke under her.

He shrieked—and suddenly Semdeira Sarpent and three ruthless-looking men were in the room,drawn daggers gleaming in every hand.

Tantaerra used her next dart to stab Garldrake, and fled.

The rooms were dark, and there were many of them, but after three she saw the curtains and

remembered the chart. The Master never seemed to hurry, but his work was swift, and she wasshorter than the height his trap-bows would be set to fire at in here, so one of them should be just... here.

It was. Not loaded, but cocked and with its trip-line in position. Ready to demonstrate to Garldrakeand Sarpent when—

Well, why not now?

Tantaerra dropped a dart into the little launcher's maw as she passed, then ducked around behind thenext shelf. Deliberately jostled armor clattered.

One of the killers chasing her went for the bait, but Tantaerra was already two shelves away, loading

trap-bows for all she was worth. She heard his heavy fall, grinned, and went right on scurrying,keeping low.

Before she slipped out of that room, a second of Sarpent's professional slayers had gone down.

Whereupon a tense, straining silence fell. Sarpent and her last slayer were closing in far more warily,and Tantaerra was running low on darts.

If she didn't move fast, they'd—

Too late. A door closed, and she was shut in an end room full of stock shelves.



She could hear her pursuers hastily moving things on the other side of the door. Blocking aisles, nodoubt. Those display frames of spears and lances, set on their sides, would make deadly walls ofsharp points. And a cargo net from their back room draped over the shelves could entrap a climbing orleaping halfling.

Then came a sound she knew well. Twice. Thrice. Three crossbows cocked, and no doubt loaded andlaid ready.

Bright light flared under the closed door. Then the door slid open, and Tantaerra saw the last assassinstanding ready with a crossbow.

The light came from an unshuttered storm lantern Sarpent was carrying into the room with astepstool. All menacing catlike grace, she hung it on a ceiling-hook, lighting the room brightly.

"Let there be an end to all skulking games," she purred smugly, retreated to the doorway, and took upa loaded crossbow of her own.

Then she and her hired killer waited.

Tantaerra, comfortably flat on the floor under a shelf, smiled coldly, and resolved to wait them out.

Time unfolded.

∗∗∗

A lot of tense silence stretched before Sarpent and the assassin grew restless enough to enter theroom and explore.

Which was Tantaerra's cue.

She heaved herself up off the floor, shoulders against one side of the shelf above her, and toppled ittoward the doorway.

It crashed into the shelf next to it, and both shelves groaned, leaned, and started to fall. The swearingassassin got clear just in time—and the lantern fell, bounced clangingly amid falling stock, and endedup on the floor, half-crushed but alight. Tantaerra tossed her hood into its blazing interior.

Flames flared up, spreading swiftly across the polished floor, and Semdeira Sarpent spat somethingless than ladylike. Tantaerra scuttled along that aisle, back into darkness, straining to see where herfoes were.

As it turned out, they were both in the room with her and staring at the open doorway, waiting for herto try to dart through it. Tantaerra found something suitable on a shelf and threw it through theopening—and two crossbow bolts chased it.

The flames spread merrily, and she repeated the gambit. Just one bolt, this time. Neither of themwent for her next throw, but a distant shout told her someone had smelled smoke, and when she flungsomething much larger—a shield—two bolts rang off it.

Tantaerra knew how long it took to recock a crossbow. Line and trap ready through her belt, sherisked a run.

There was Sarpent. Throwing a knife at her.



Tantaerra sneered. She'd demonstrate knife-hurling—and did, her own spinning blade striking asidethe one coming at her.

The last hired assassin came charging out of the darkness. He avoided the little trap she was draggingalong with contemptuous ease, but Tantaerra slowed, then sprinted again and tugged on the tripline.The little trap-bow sprang through the air and landed under the man's boots. He stumbled, staggered,clawed at her—and Tantaerra stabbed him through that reaching hand with one of her sleep-poisoneddarts.

Then she was through the door into the next room, with Sarpent hard on her heels.

Time to play the agile little monkey. Tantaerra swarmed the nearest shelf to get out of reach.

There were the lance-barriers, and there was the netting overhead, just as she'd suspected. Sarpent jumped and grabbed at it, trying to pin Tantaerra atop the shelf —and succeeded.

She was stuck, but not helpless. Tantaerra snatched up pieces of armor from the shelf and flung themat Sarpent's face, one after another, until she saw blood on that enraged but hitherto unmarredvisage.

"Who are you, you little rat ?"

"A concerned citizen," Tantaerra panted, not slowing her armor-flinging.

The arms-dealer tried to fend off the rain of sharp metal and get closer.

"Citizen? You're a halfling! Slave, more like!"

"You want my Master dead—my master who's done no ill to you!"

"So you're Hroalund's wench, then? I should have known. But well enough—showing the guards howyou attacked us in our own shop can only help us when we explain how we were forced to kill you

both in self-defense!"

Then Semdeira Sarpent was close enough, with a needle-rapier in hand. She stabbed at Tantaerra.

Who kicked out at it, desperately—and shrieked as her foot got skewered.

Sarpent snarled and pressed the advantage, stabbing again and again.

Tantaerra twisted and arched and flung stock frantically, emptying the shelf and getting free of thenetting. Sometime during all of that, the rapier skidded along her side, slicing open smoke suit andskin beneath.

She felt icy, and there was a lot of blood on her and all over the shelf.

She flung herself at Sarpent and managed to scissor her legs around the woman's sword arm, clingingto the blade's ornate knuckle guard and bearing the rapier down. Sarpent slapped at her, andTantaerra clawed right back, the room a whirl around them as the arms-dealer tried to shake her offthe blade. Sarpent tore at her ear and hair—and Tantaerra slapped her fingers across her foe's face,smearing her own sticky spilled blood into those glaring eyes.

The shriek was impressive.



When it sank into words again, they were a strangled, "Get off me, slave!"

"Certainly," Tantaerra snapped—and drove the second to last of her poison-tipped darts through thepalm of Sarpent's descending hand.

Sarpent shrieked again, going wild.

"Oh, be quiet ," Tantaerra snarled, driving the last of her darts deep into Sarpent's throat—and kickedher way free.

The arms-dealer went down, staring at Tantaerra in horror and disbelief as she choked and gurgled onher own blood. Yet already the poison was closing those terrified eyes.

Tantaerra was more interested in what she could see of the end room. It was now an inferno of ragingflame.

"Ah," she panted, turning to burrow through the stock on the nearest shelf behind her and so get clearof the barriers and netting, "that has become useful."

Sarpent dead, Garldrake and the hired slayers all too asleep to escape the flames, their splendidbusiness burning down. Satisfactory work, indeed.

Of course, those weren't the only people in the building. The ordinary staff she'd put to sleep were

going to need to be woken up. Fortunately, Tantaerra never used poison without also bringing alongthe antidote, and there was a wide variety of sharp instruments with which to deliver it.

Already the smoke was hiding the high ceilings from view. Tantaerra sighed and sprinted for thestairs.

She was two rooms away before she wondered which useful tools the Master might have left, that sheshould fetch before the entire building burned down.

She settled for stuffing a helm full of coins to pay for them, instead. Better to save the people—butnobody said heroes had to work for free.

∗∗∗

When Master Argulk Hroalund cautiously opened the door, three throwing knives at the ready in hisfree hand, an exhausted and bloody halfling stood on his back doorstep.

Through the blood, she gave him a triumphant grin. "Your traps worked well."

Then she reeled and toppled.

Before his frantic grab could catch her, Tantaerra put a hand down to the cobbles and flung herselfinto a somersault that brought her unsteadily to her feet again.

Limping and wincing, Tantaerra handed her master the coin-filled helm, and gave him a harder grin.

"Bath," she said. "Something to drink."

They were not requests.



Her Master smiled down at her. "Of course."

She smiled back, and fell into oblivion.

matter of knives, a - ed greenwood

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