Chapter 5 - Part 2

The elf stepped daintily down the streets of Eston, the fur collar of her cloak turned up against the wind. She wore fine clothing, but walked without a retainer or servant. Her brisk, purposeful stride took her past all of the shops, where she dawdled at the windows briefly before resuming her walk. By all appearances she was a moderately wealthy merchant’s child, perhaps a daughter of one of the finer elven families of Metrol.

Had she worn something that revealed her flat, athletic stomach, and the dragonmark that rested next to her navel – which in fact she did when exercising in one of the Shadow Network’s secret enclaves, no one would have thought her a merchant’s daughter.

Merci Non d’Thuranni stepped around a frozen puddle, and noted the careful pattern scratched onto its surface. He would meet with her today after all. She spun with a giggle and walked down an alleyway, apparently unaware of her surroundings.

Two quick turns were made to make sure she wasn’t being followed, and then she walked up to a disguised door. She knocked twice, and then without waiting for a response focused her mind. The mark on her belly tingled, and a globe of darkness surrounded her.

The door opened, and the tall figure in the cloak and hood stepped back. “What do you think you are doing, flaunting that?” the warforged demanded as the elven woman walked in.

“Shut the door and I can dispel it,” she told him. He did so, somewhat stiffly, and she dispelled the darkness on the other side of the door. “Anyone watching will think I teleported away or something,” she said calmly, looking around. The interior of the warehouse was dimly lit with hanging lanterns amongst the crates, but her elven eyes saw everything perfectly.

“You were to be sure no one followed you,” the warforged told her angrily, putting a bar across the door. It turned and slowly walked down between two rows of crates, its adamantine plating forcing what seemed to her to be an interminably a slow pace.

“And I was pretty sure,” she laughed, aware of the adamantine knife in her sleeve. She had no intention of fighting this thing, but she was prepared to be able to hurt it if she had to. “But what if someone was invisible, or flying, or something?”

“I don’t like surprises,” it told her, stopping at a particular crate and opening the side. The crate was large, and it held a writing desk, an active sunrod, a map of Eston, and a small chest.

“All of the predictable agents stayed with Phiarlan,” she told him. “That’s why we are better.”

“Enough,” he answered. “You can spoil things with too much convincing, you know.”

She shrugged, still wary. “So how did it go?”

“They attacked him with the weapons you provided. He was badly hurt, and he only lived because one of our own came through a secret door and took them out. We don’t want him dead, why did you supply those two with all of those scrolls?”

“You wanted it to look real,” she told him. “Remember? One of the dead men was Bertram Holos, a wanted criminal from Metrol. He works for anyone and everyone, and he likes those little scrolls. He may not be a wizard but he’s spent enough time around them to use their devices. It was a risk I took hiring him.”

“And if he and his companion had succeeded?” the warforged pressed. “That was a construct bane bolt they fired.”

“Then I would have lost out on a generous payment,” she retorted. “Besides, you wanted this to look like an inside job, so I provided them with a Cannith-made bolt I ‘borrowed’ from a Thrane infantry unit.”

“Can this be traced back to me?”

“It can’t be traced back to me. Look, you wanted this to be untraceable and untraceable was what I got you. Like I said, back when I thought you were listening, Bertram worked for everyone. He has – well, he had – seven different contact men who did not know each other. My contact met his contact and the hit was arranged. His contact is now at the bottom of a river, and mine is out of the country. Stop worrying.”

“Fine,” it responded, opening the chest. The pile of coin within gleamed.

Merci pulled a folded garment bag out from under her puffy skirts. She then activated the linked belt that she wore, which she had purchased from an artificer friend, and the strength to carry far beyond her normal abilities flooded her limbs. She picked up the chest easily and slid it smoothly inside the garment bag.

“And the lady finishes her shopping,” she giggled. “You know how to contact us if you need us again.”

It stared at her coldly while she headed out the front door of the warehouse and stepped back into the streets of Eston. Once the door was shut the warforged touched its chest and pulled a slim piece of metal out of itself. The metal piece unfolded fine, filigree wings, and then quickly flew upwards through a small ventilation hole, heading for the Cannith enclave.