"We would like Pasha Balik to remain in power," Danilo began.
The young man smiled. "Already you have my interest. That is my wish as well."
Hasheth listened politely as Danilo spoke, but the boy's face darkened with shock and outrage as the mage related the guilds' plot against the pasha. He sat in silence for many moments after the story had ended.
"What's wrong, Hasheth?" Arilyn prodded.
The young man shifted uneasily. "Clearly I must withdraw from the School of Stealth if I wish to stay alive, but doing so would be regarded as a failure. The guild would not hesitate to spread false tales of my cowardice, which would bring great dishonor to me and to my father. This is more than a matter of pride," Hasheth added quietly. "I wish to aid my father, but will he regard the words of a man without honor?"
"You might be able to leave the School of Stealth without dishonor," Danilo said thoughtfully.
"I do not see how," the boy replied, his face glum.
The nobleman grinned. "Barter much, Hasheth?"
"That is generally a task for merchants and servants, but I am familiar with its principles. One begins by suggesting an impossibly high price, which is countered by a equally absurd low figure. Eventually both parties settle somewhere in the middle."
"Precisely," Danilo said. 'This is what you do: You and a servant will take this man's body to the assassins' guildhall. If I understand the rules, his death earns not only the sash rank, but guild membership and a position at the School of Stealth. Demand all three. That's the high bid."
"But I did not kill him," Hasheth protested.
"This is barter, remember? What place does honesty have in making a bargain?"
A touch of humor lit the boy's eyes. "Go on."
"The guildmasters will counter with a low bid, perhaps offer to pay you this man's bloodprice. You merely sneer and toy with that priceless scarab of yours," Danilo suggested, casting a covetous glance at the boy's ring. "Then, after a suitable pause, you suggest that you might be willing to give up the position at the School of Stealth."
"The guildmasters won't be satisfied with that," Hasheth protested. "It is true that they will not willingly make a man of my years a master assassin, but if they indeed plot against my father, they cannot allow me into the guild."
"Exactly," Danilo said patiently. "Guild membership is the main issue, and most of their attention will be focused on it. When they release you from your commitment to the School of Stealth, they'll be thinking of you in terms of a potential master assassin, not a failed student."
"Go on," urged Hasheth, a crafty smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
"They'll release you from the school and make a counteroffer. Since they can't have you poking around in guild business, all they can offer is the shadow sash itself. You pretend to think it over, then casually observe that an assassin of such high rank must be allowed into the guild, so that her activities can be monitored and her fees properly tithed. Emphasize 'her' subtly."
"Ahhh." A slow, admiring smile crept across Hasheth's face. "That will befuddle them."
Danilo grinned. "That's right. You'll change the direction of negotiations abruptly, gaining an advantage through surprise. Introduce your 'servant'-that's you, Arilyn-as the woman who overcame the shadow sash. Repeat your demand for rank and guild membership for her-and imply you were speaking for Arilyn all along. Chances are they'll be so relieved to be rid of you that they'll embrace Arilyn. Figuratively speaking, my dear," Danilo hastily assured the half-elf.
"But what of my assignment? I can hardly champion a woman I was ordered to kill," the boy pointed out.
The nobleman raised one eyebrow. "If the guildmasters bring that up, remind them that you were released from the school. Barter met is bargain sealed, as they say hereabouts. You'll have gotten the better of them, and they'll probably admire you for it."
Hasheth threw back his head and let out a peal of delighted laughter. "You think like a southerner: devious and subtle. It would seem that I have misjudged you."
"Everyone does," Arilyn said dryly. "That's why he's such an effective agent."
"Lord Thann is a Harper, as well?" The young man's brow furrowed as he thought this over. "A nobleman can join such a group?"
"Even a pasha's son," Arilyn said with a smile. "In time."
Hasheth nodded thoughtfully. "I might like that."
Danilo folded his arms and smiled broadly. "Then perhaps it is time for you and me to barter. Tell your father all that has happened. Tell him that Arilyn and I will seek proof that the guilds threaten his power. Ask him to hear what we say and judge for himself."
"That is your high bid?" scoffed Hasheth.
"You interrupted me too soon," the nobleman said plaintively. "I was going to ask for that ring of yours, as well."
The boy's dark eyes flashed. "That is absurd! This ring is a mark of royalty. Here is my offer: as you ask, I will deliver your warning to my father. You may not have the ring, but I will be your ears and eyes in Tethyr. From this day, I will pass to the Harpers whatever information reaches the pasha's court."
"Throw in a couple of camels, and you have a deal," Danilo offered.
"Done."
The young man concluded the bargain in such solemn fashion that neither Harper had the heart to explain that Danilo had been joking.
"Congratulations, Danilo," Arilyn murmured, struggling to keep the laughter from her voice. "We've done our duty to the Harpers and you finally got your two camels."
Patronage
David Cook
"Master Koja, have you forgotten? Tonight is Duke Piniago's dinner. You are going, aren't you?"
The pricking scratch of my quill ends as my secretary's shadow falls across the parchment sheet on which I am toiling. Light is precious in this dim tower closet the priests have granted me, and now my aide, granted by those selfsame clerics of Denier, has managed to position his broad self in front of the only window.
Looking up, I blink as his girth is swathed in the glow of daylight beyond. I am annoyed by his presence, since it is an interruption of my solitude, but I cannot ignore his question. Besides, my secretary is a good priest, so I curb my temper, pushing back the stack of parchment before me, and considering.
"I am undecided, Firstborn Foxe." I cannot manage the accents of his honest family name, foreign to me though common enough in this city, so I call him Firstborn in honor of his birth. "I have heard your gossip about his table, all the magnificent dishes he serves-the finest in Procampur. What if it were to overtax my humble stomach? Besides, I am not learned in the ways of your western courts and might offend him. After all, I am only a simple lama."
Foxe will not relent as he gathers up the sheets and fusses in a bass voice that matches his size. "Simple lama, indeed," he mutters, once again assuming because of my weatherbeaten and shaved looks that I am old and therefore hard of hearing. "You are a famous historian. You were a guest of the king of Cormyr and wrote a history of the Tuigan wars for him." From one of the book-crowded shelves, he takes a bundle of blotting paper and cuts the twine.
"It was not a history, Firstborn Foxe, only a few incomplete notes on the customs of the Tuigan-nothing at all compared to Goodman Reaverson's complete account of the wars." I recall the bard Reaverson's patient translation and guidance with those notes. For the time he put in, my work had been as much his as mine.
"The duke has money and he likes the arts," Foxe reminds me with an irritated glare. He thrusts my manuscript into the hands of waiting scribe. The boy nods and slowly backs down the stairs, apparently reluctant to miss any of our words. I wave him away. It is clear I will write no more today.
"The duke has all the manners of a foreigner." My insult, the worst to any born in the East as I have been, is lost on Foxe. "He is less than pleasant," I explain. "I am a poor ambassador, Foxe. I will say something foolish to anger him. There must be some other way to raise the money to pay the scriveners and binders or some cheaper way to have a book copied. Perhaps a wizard could conjure duplicates." I barely glance at my secretary. Perhaps he will disappear if I do not look at him, the way the epistemological Brother Ulin claims everything should-what we do not observe does not exist.