The Hand kept his answers short and to the point. He promised he’d work as hard as any of them, and then made it plain that he wanted to be left alone. The others went back to their boning and dicing; they’d lose the bonus to each other a hundred times before they had it in their pockets. Hugh felt to make certain the Cursed Blade, as he had dubbed it, was in his knapsack; then he lay down on the deck beneath his harness and pretended to sleep. The wingmen didn’t earn their bonus that trip. They didn’t even come close. There were times when Hugh the Hand guessed that Trian must be sorry he hadn’t offered more for simply setting him down on Drevlin alive. Hugh needn’t have worried about Trian recognizing him, for the Hand saw nothing of the wizard during the voyage, until the ship finally came to a shuddering landing. The Liftalofts[19] were located in the eye of the perpetual storm that swept over Drevlin. The Liftalofts were the one place on the continent where the storms would swirl away, let Solarus beam through the scudding clouds. Elven ships had learned to wait to land until such times—the only safe times. They set down in relative calm and during this brief period (another storm was already massing on the horizon) swiftly offloaded the passengers. Trian appeared. His face was partly muffled, but the wizard looked decidedly green. Leaning weakly on the arm of a comely young woman who was aiding his faltering steps, Trian stumbled down the gangplank. Either the wizard had no magical cure for airsickness or he was playing on the young woman’s sympathy. Whatever the case, he glanced neither right nor left, but departed from the vicinity as if he couldn’t leave the ship fast enough. Once on the ground, he was met by a contingent of dwarves and fellow humans, who—seeing the coming storm—cut short the speeches and whisked the wizard away to a place of dryness and safety.[20]
Hugh knew how Trian felt. Every muscle in the assassin’s body ached and burned. His hands were raw and bleeding; his jaw was swollen and bruised—one of the straps controlling the wings had snapped loose in the storm and struck him across the face. For long moments after the ship had landed, Hugh lay on the deck and wondered that they weren’t all dead.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on his misery. And as for the swollen face, he couldn’t have paid money for a better addition to his disguise. With luck, the ache in his head and the ringing in his ears would go away in a few hours. He gave himself that amount of time to rest, wait for a lull in the storm, and rehearse his next course of action.
The crew would not be allowed ashore. Nor, after having sailed through the horrific storm, would they be at all eager to venture out into it. Most had dropped from exhaustion; one—who’d been hit in the head by a broken beam—was unconscious.
In the old days, before the alliance, the elves would have chained up the galley slaves when the ship landed—despite the storm. Humans were known for being reckless, foolhardy, and lacking in common sense. Hugh wouldn’t have been much surprised to see the guards descending into the belly anyway—old habits die hard. He waited tensely for them to show up; their presence would have been an extreme inconvenience to him. But they didn’t. Hugh thought it over, decided it made sense—from the captain’s viewpoint at least. Why put a guard over men who are costing you a barl a day (payable at the end of the voyage)? If one wants to jump ship without collecting his pay, fine. Every captain carried spare wingmen, the mortality rate among them being high.
The captain might well cause a furor when he discovered one of his crew missing, but Hugh doubted it. The captain would have to report the matter to a superior officer on shore, who would have his hands full with the dignitaries and would be highly annoyed at being bothered over such a minor problem. Likely the ship’s captain himself would be the one reamed out.
“Why in the name of the ancestors can’t you hang on to your humans, sir? High Command’ll have your ears for this when you get back to Paxaria!” No, Hugh’s disappearance would probably not even be reported. Or if it was, it would be conveniently forgotten soon after.
The storm winds were dropping; the thunder was rumbling in the distance. Hugh didn’t have much time. He dragged himself to his feet, grabbed his knapsack, and staggered off to the head. The few elves he passed never gave him a second glance. Most were too exhausted by the rigors of the flight even to open their eyes.
In the head, he made most convincing retching sounds. Groaning occasionally, he pulled from the knapsack a lump that looked like nothing so much as the insides of the knapsack. Once Hugh brought the cloth out, however, it began immediately to change color and texture, perfectly matching the wooden hull of the ship. Anyone looking at him would think he was acting very strangely, seemingly dressing himself in nothing. And then he would, to the observer’s eyes, disappear altogether.
Much against their will, the Kenkari had provided him with the magical chameleon-like clothing of the Unseen. They didn’t have much choice except to accede to Hugh’s demands. After all, they were the ones who wanted him to kill Haplo. The clothes had the magical power to blend in with their background, rendering those who wore them practically invisible. Hugh wondered if they were the same clothes he’d worn into the palace that ill-fated night when he and Iridal had stumbled into Bane’s trap. He couldn’t be sure, and the Kenkari wouldn’t tell. Not that it mattered.
Hugh discarded his own clothes—crude homespun that befitted a sailor—and dressed himself in the long, flowing pants and tunic of the Unseen. The clothes, made for elves, were a tight fit. A hood covered his head, but his hands remained bare; he could not hope to fit human hands into elven gloves. But he had learned, the last time he wore the garments, to keep his hands hidden in the folds of the tunic until time to use them. By then, if anyone saw him, it would be too late.
Hugh retrieved his knapsack, which held one more disguise and his pipe, though he would not dare use the latter. Few people smoked stregno, and both Trian and Haplo were likely to notice someone who did, recall Hugh the Hand to mind. The Cursed Blade, safely tucked into its sheath, he wore slung over his shoulder, concealed beneath his clothing.
Moving slowly, allowing the magical fabric time to adjust itself to its surroundings, the assassin glided past the elven guards, who had come up on deck during the lull in the storm to take advantage of the brief moment of sunshine and fresh air. Talking among themselves about the marvels soon to be witnessed when the great machine came on, they once looked straight at Hugh and saw nothing. He glided from the elven ship with as much ease as the freshening wind glided over it.
Hugh the Hand had been on Drevlin before, with Alfred and Bane.[21] He knew his way around as he knew his way around any place he’d ever been and more than a few he hadn’t. The nine gigantic brass and golden arms thrusting up from the ground were known as the Liftalofts. The elven ship had landed right in the center of a circle formed by the arms. Near the circle’s perimeter stood another arm, this one shorter than the rest, known as the Short Arm. Inside this arm was a circular staircase that led up to the nine drooping and lifeless hands atop the nine arms.
Darting inside the stairwell, Hugh cast a quick glance around, ascertained that the place was empty and he was alone. He shed the clothes of the Unseen, made what would be his final change of costume.
He had ample time; another storm had crashed down on Drevlin, and he dressed with care. Examining himself in the polished metal interior wall of the staircase, he decided he was too dry to be believable, and stepped outside. In an instant he was drenched to the rich fur lining of his embroidered cape. Satisfied, he returned to the safety of the Short Arm and waited with the patience that all successful assassins know is the true foundation of their craft.
19
“Nine gigantic arms made of brass and steel thrust up out of the coralite—some of them soaring several menka into the air. Atop each arm was an enormous hand whose thumb and fingers were made of gold with brass hinges at each of the joints and at the wrist. The hands were... large enough to have grasped one of the enormous waterships and held it in a golden palm....” Thus Haplo describes the Liftalofts in
20
It appears from this text that the ship has landed on the ground. Those who read Haplo’s first account of an elven ship arriving at the Liftalofts will recall that the dragon ship remained in the air. These early waterships were accustomed to leaving before the next storm hit, and while Haplo provides no explanation for the difference, it is logical to assume that elven ships intending to stay for long periods were forced to set down on the ground to ride out the storm.