But oddly enough, the shadow of Zoastria did not appear to be nearly as solid as Arilyn's double. She was ghostly, insubstantial-not at ah* the heroic figure needed to lead the elves to victory.

"What do you want of me, half-elf, and how is it that you command the sword of Zoastria?" the elfshadow demanded in a tone of voice that Arilyn knew all too well. She had not expected to confront such scorn from her own ancestor, nor would she yield to it.

Arilyn squared her shoulders and faced down the misty image. "You are Zoastria, who bore the sword before me. Are you also the moon fighter known as Soora Thea?"

"Once. Thus did the forest folk say my name, for the language of Evermeet was beyond their grasp."

"You are needed again," Arilyn said softly. "Their descendants need the return of their hero."

But the image of Zoastria shook her head. "You know so little of the sword you carry. I cannot; I can only appear as you see me. Of all the sword's powers, the ability to call forth the elfshadow essence is the weakest. You should know that, to your sorrow," she added sharply.

Arilyn's cheeks burned, but she did not respond. For as long as she drew breath, she would grieve for the evil use made of her elfshadow by her former mentor and friend. The gold elf Kymil Nimesin had wrested control of the elfshadow from the sword and turned it-and therefore, Arilyn-onto an assassin's path. *

"Why not? Why are you different from the others?" the half-elf demanded.

"Because unlike most of the moon fighters, I did not die," Zoastria said. "It is possible to pass on the sword to a blade heir without tasting death. This is not a choice lightly made, but I made a pledge to return and this is how it is honored. There are others who have done this. Doubtless, you have heard legends."

The half-elf nodded. Stories of a sleeping hero who would return in a time of great need were told from the Moonshaes to Rashemen. And now she understood why all these stories had in common an ancient, mystic sword.

"But there is a way for me to honor my pledge," Zoastria continued. "Elfshadow and mistress must again become one. This cannot be while that which I once was sleeps in a rich man's vault. Unite the two, and I will be as alive as ever I was."

The half-elf nodded slowly. "Is this your wish?"

*What question is this? Better to ask, is this my duty? If there is no other way, then call me forth. I will come."

And with that, the ghostly image dissipated and flowed into the sword. Arilyn's own shadow disappeared with it.

Arilyn slid the moonblade back into its sheath and considered what she had learned. To retrieve the slumbering Zoastria would be no easy task and was not one she could attempt anytime soon. As her ancestor advised, she must try to find another way.

Hasheth left his horse at the public stables and set off down the docks of Port Kir on foot. The dock area was not the safest place to be, not even during daylight, but Hasheth walked alone with his confidence utterly intact. Had he not spent time among the assassins of Zazesspur? Though his apprenticeship might have been brief and ill-fated, he had learned enough to be awarded his sand-hue sash. He might not have notches on his blade to mark successful kills, but he could throw the unblooded knife hard and straight.

He had another weapon as well, one keener still, which he was honing with each day that passed. Hasheth had little doubt that his wits were equal to anything the docks of Port Kir might serve up.

His surroundings grew increasingly rougher as he made his way toward the sea. Small shops offering oddities of every description gave way to rough-and-tumble taverns. Before long the wooden walkways grew narrow, and between the boards he could see the dark water of Firedrake Bay lapping at the shore. As he neared his destination, the stench offish became overwhelming. In open warehouses on either side of the dock, men and women went about processing the day's catch, seemingly oblivious to the piles of discarded shells and shrimp heads and fish innards that were heaped around their boots.

Hasheth lifted one hand to his nose and picked up his pace. At the end of this dock was the Berringer Shipyard. It was here that all his work had led him. For days he had examined Lord Hhune's many books and ledgers, carefully piecing together bits of information and innuendo-even finding and deciphering some outright code. It had been a wondrous puzzle that led him at last to this place. All that remained for Hasheth to accomplish was to discern the purpose of Hhune's scheme, and then to find some way to turn it to his own benefit!

Berringer Shipyard was a bustling, noisy, smelly place, not at all what the young man had expected. He bought his way in at the gate by using a copy of the credentials that Hhune had supplied to one of the many merchant companies that purchased ships for him.

Hasheth wandered about, taking note of all. Deckhands by the dozen grunted and sweated as they rolled immense logs from flat-bottomed barges onto a large dock. These logs were then handhewn, the outer wood fashioned into

Silver Shadows

planks and beams and the heart of each shaped and smoothed into a strong, tall mast. Some planks, previously cut, soaked in an enormous vat of seawater mixed with some unspeakably vile-smelling concoction. Well-softened planks had been clamped onto curved frames so that they might take on the needed shape as they hardened and dried. A half-built ship rested on enormous trestles, looking for all the world like a well-picked skeleton. Three finished ships stood in dry dock.

The quality of work at all stages was well within the high standards expected of Tethyrian craftsmen. The ships were trim and sleek and showed every promise of remarkable speed. But it was the ironworks that impressed and enlightened Hasheth.

He stood and gazed at the trio of ships, to which several smiths were adding fittings and weaponry. These were to sail with an impressive arsenal: baltistae and catapults provided a considerable amount of firepower. Rows of iron-tipped bolts stood ready by each ballista, and piles of grapeshot-spiked iron balls linked with chain-would prove deadly when hurled from the catapult.

This, then, was it-the answer Hasheth had been seeking. These three ships were surely destined to become part of a private fleet of fast, heavily armed ships that could escort merchant vessels safely through pirate-infested waters or blockade a harbor.

Hasheth would have applauded either use. As head of the shipping guild, Lord Hhune had responsibilities and, perhaps, higher ambitions. And so did he. It was a shame that one of these ships must be sacrificed, but a man must be prepared to pay for his ambitions. The fact that he was using another man's coin would make it considerably easier.

His questions answered, the young man hurried back to the inn where he had rented a room. From his pack he took a new suit of clothing. The finely made dark garments of a prosperous merchant had been fashioned by the tailor who made all of Lord Hhune's clothing, as well as that of his boot-licking scribe, Achnib.

Hasheth pasted a thick mustache onto his lip and slicked back his hair with scented oil. He even swathed his middle with rolls of cloth to help approximate the scribe's spreading midsection and stuffed a bit of resinous gum between teeth and cheeks to pad his face a bit. When all was in readiness, he slipped from the inn and made his way back to the docks-and to a dark and dangerous tavern at the very edge of the black water.

This drinking hole suited his purpose perfectly. The crudely lettered sign outside labeled it The Race," a name taken from the channel of swift winds and dangerous waters that led into Firedrake Bay. Those ships that entered Port Kir ran a gauntlet of Nelanther pirates, a few of whom were bold enough to come ashore. Rumor had it that they drank here.