Niam looked up, eyes wide. Yarold’s face darkened in anger.
“Who are you working for?” the undertaker demanded. “Have you been spying on us?”
“I just pay attention,” Zed said. “Be calm. Maybe I can help.”
“How dare you presume to speak to me in such a fashion,” Yarold said. “We do not need your assistance, cur. If not for my brother, you would already be dead.”
Zed gave a soothing smile again and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry,” he said. “Not trying to cause trouble.”
“Bah,” said an irritated voice from the darkness. “This is a waste of time.”
One of Yarold’s guards fell forward, eyes bulging as he clutched his throat. Blood gushed between his fingers. A thin elf in black silk materialized from the shadows behind the dying man, a long dagger in each hand. With a flick of his wrist, a second guard fell across the room, blade lodged in his forehead.
“Khyber,” Zed swore.
“Kill them both!” Yarold shrieked, drawing a shortsword from within his cloak.
The closest guard brought his sword up and charged Zed. Zed flicked his pipe at the man, scattering hot ashes in his face. The man screamed and faltered. Zed stomped on a loose floorboard while the guard was distracted. Zed’s sword, carefully balanced on the other end, catapulted into his hand. By the time the guard had recovered his senses, Zed had unsheathed the heavy blade and brought it down across the man’s chest. He turned to meet another guard’s charge with a heavy kick, followed by a punch to the bridge of the nose. The guard rolled to his feet in time to meet the next heavy cleave of Zed’s sword.
Across the room, the two remaining guards charged the elf. The intruder seized the closer man’s wrist with his free hand and twisted, diverting his momentum and driving the thug’s sword into his comrade’s path, impaling him. With a backhand slice, the elf brought his dagger neatly across the first man’s throat and let them both fall at his feet. The elf looked at Zed with a mischievous smile.
“Your mode of investigation is far too time-consuming, Arthen,” the elf said.
Yarold had not moved. He still stood clutching his sword inexpertly in both trembling hands. Niam had taken several steps back and looked from Zed to the newcomer in terror. Zed held his bloody sword, point low, eyes on the elven assassin.
“You bastard, Arthen,” Niam said. “You’d planned to kill us all.”
“I won’t deny that I’m a bastard,” Zed said, watching everyone carefully. He slowly circled away from the elf, toward the nearest window, “but I don’t even know who this elf is.
“If you’re of a mind to signal your paladin accomplice, feel free,” the elf said with a cheerful grin. “I won’t interfere.”
“Who are you?” Zed demanded.
“I think you know,” the elf said, laughing. “Don’t worry; I’m here as an ally. You’re far too interesting to kill for free, Arthen.”
Zed stopped dead. “Shaimin d’Thuranni?” he said.
The elf smiled broadly, pleased to be recognized.
“You have terrible handwriting,” Zed observed.
Shaimin’s smile became a confused grimace.
Zed lifted pulled up the shade over the nearest window and waved frantically. The window faced the alley where Eraina was waiting. Hopefully she would see and help him figure out how to deal with this.
Shaimin ignored Zed and faced the undertakers. “Now, Kenricksons. What to do with you?” Shaimin said, flipping his daggers in his hands.
“The sons of Cyre will never yield,” Niam said, voice quavering.
“Spare us,” Yarold said, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands. “I’m no match for a Thuranni assassin. We’ll tell you what you want to know. I don’t want to die!”
Shaimin looked at Zed, mildly surprised. “A strange reversal. Amazing what happens to people when they feel their death is imminent.”
Niam glared at his brother in disgust. He snatched the shortsword from the floor and buried it Yarold’s back. Yarold gasped in pain and surprise, feebly reaching over his shoulder to try to dislodge the weapon as he crumpled to the floor.
“For Captain Marth and Cyre!” Niam roared, charging at Zed.
Startled, Zed readied his sword to defend himself. Niam flung himself onto the blade. The shortsword fell from his hands with a clatter. He sneered at Zed with a look of satisfied defiance as he died.
“I suppose interrogating them is out,” Shaimin said dryly.
The door burst open behind them. Eraina entered with sword and spear in hand. She looked at the body impaled on Zed’s sword.
“Diplomacy?” she asked.
“I tried to talk to them,” Zed said, pushing the undertaker’s corpse off his blade with one boot. “These people are crazy.”
“The fault is mine, Marshal,” Shaimin said, gesturing calmly with his daggers. “Violence was an inevitable outcome, but I fear I accelerated matters.”
“Get rid of your knives, whoever you are,” Eraina ordered, looking at him warily.
Shaimin flicked his wrists and the blades disappeared. He held up his empty hands and smirked. Eraina’s hands tightened on her weapons. Her eyes took a stubborn gleam that warned Zed a quick intervention was in order.
“Eraina, be careful,” Zed said. “This is Shaimin d’Thuranni.”
“The assassin who attacked Tristam?” Eraina asked. “Did you follow us here?”
“Follow you?” Shaimin chuckled. “Absolutely not. I’ve been here watching these ghouls for nearly a week. It was about time you arrived.”
“Come then, assassin,” she said, beckoning with her sword. “We are ready for you.”
Shaimin rolled his eyes. “I’m not here to kill you,” he said. “I just saved Zed’s life. Pay attention. Shall we call it even?”
“It’s true,” Zed said. “I think. It didn’t turn violent till he started killing people, but he was trying to help.” Zed shifted uncertainly. “Probably.”
Shaimin sighed. “I’m not talking about the orgy of death,” he said. “These men were nothing you couldn’t handle alone, Arthen. I killed them because I was bored. I refer to this.” He reached into his vest and drew out a folded scrap of parchment, throwing it at Zed’s feet.
Zed looked at Shaimin suspiciously.
“Oh, yes, by all means be cautious,” the elf said, growing more annoyed. “It’s a dangerous letter, covered with invisible scorpions. They’re trained to bite everyone but me. It’s my weapon of choice.” He rolled his eyes and tapped his foot impatiently.
Feeling foolish, Zed sheathed his massive sword, knelt and picked up the letter. It bore a broken wax seal decorated with the modified Cyran crest that Marth’s soldiers wore. He unfolded it and read the contents.
Kenricksons,
The man in question is an Inquisitive in service to our most dangerous enemies, House Cannith. Reports indicate he is a former paladin and an expert swordsman. Zed Arthen must be approached with utmost caution. If he can be taken alive, interrogate him and determine the location of the airship Mourning Dawn. If he poses any difficulty, kill him without hesitation. He must be kept away from Fort Ash at all costs.
“You’re fortunate the undertakers never received that,” the assassin said. “They might have roused enough thugs to actually kill you.”
Zed looked at Shaimin sharply. “Where did you find this?” he demanded, passing it to Eraina.
“Yarold Kenrickson was a distrustful man,” Shaimin said. “The moment his brother returned with news of your meeting, he dispatched a messenger to this Fort Ash to determine whether you were a threat. He became paranoid when the messenger never returned.”
“When you murdered the messenger, you mean,” Eraina said.
“His death was mercy,” Shaimin said with a wicked smile. “He wouldn’t have lived long, the way he was bleeding after I found him.”
“Wait,” Arthen said. “You took this letter from a messenger on his way back here. After the messenger reported. So Marth’s soldiers know I’m in Nathyrr?”