Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,99

dwarves lifted their flagons in toast to the memory of the gallant thief.

“He’s not dead!” a human at a nearby table protested vehemently. “He pulled a job last night, he did! Got himself a merchant on the way.” He turned to the other men at the table, who were nodding in complete agreement.

“Skewered the bloke right ’bout here,” one of them added, poking a finger into the middle of his own chest.

Oliver was not surprised by any of the outrageous claims. He had witnessed similar events back in Gascony. A thief would rise to a level of notoriety and then his legend would be perpetuated by imitators. There was more than flattery involved here; often lesser thieves could pull jobs more easily, frightening their targets by impersonating a notorious outlaw. Oliver sighed at the thought that someone had died playing the Crimson Shadow, and the possibility that he and Luthien, if caught, might now be charged with murdering a human merchant did not sit very well. Pragmatically, though, all the talk was good news. Imitators would blur the trail behind Oliver and Luthien; if the merchant-types thought the Crimson Shadow dead, they would likely relax their guard.

The contented halfling tuned out the conversations and took a look around the Dwelf, searching for a lady to court. The pickings seemed slim this night, so Oliver went back to his ale instead. He noticed Tasman then, standing a short distance down the bar, wiping out glasses and eyeing him grimly. When Oliver returned the look, the wiry barkeep eased his quiet way down to stand before the halfling.

“You came alone,” Tasman remarked.

“Young Luthien cannot control his heart,” Oliver answered. “He goes again this night to meet with his love—a moonlight tryst on a rooftop.” The halfling spoke wistfully, revealing that he was beginning to approve of the lovers. Oliver was indeed a romantic sort, and he remembered his days back in Gascony when he had left one (at least) broken heart behind him in every town.

Tasman apparently was not sharing the halfling’s cozy feelings. His expression remained grim. “He’ll be back at the apartment soon, then,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Oliver began slyly, misunderstanding Tasman’s meaning. As he continued to study the grim-faced barkeep, Oliver began to catch on.

“What do you mean?” he asked bluntly.

Tasman leaned over the bar, close to Oliver. “Siobhan, the half-elf,” the barkeep explained. “She was taken this day for trial in the morning.”

Oliver nearly fell off his stool.

“She was accused for the escape at the mines,” Tasman explained. “Her merchant master walked her into Duke Morkney’s palace this very afternoon—apparently she didn’t even know that she was to be arrested.”

Oliver tried to digest the information and to fathom its many implications. Siobhan arrested? Why now? The halfling could not help but think that the half-elf’s professional relationship with the Crimson Shadow had played a part in this. Perhaps even her personal relationship with Luthien had come into play. Was the wizard-duke onto Luthien’s true identity?

“Some are even saying that she’s the Crimson Shadow,” Tasman went on, and Oliver winced at hearing that, certain then that Siobhan’s arrest was no simple coincidence. “They’re sure to be asking about that in the Ministry tomorrow morning.”

“How do you know all this?” the halfling asked, though he realized that Tasman had keen ears and knew many things about Montfort’s underworld. There was a reason that Oliver and Luthien had enjoyed free drinks and meals for the last weeks. There was a reason that wise Tasman seemed as amused as Oliver by the many tales of phony Crimson Shadows.

“They’re making no secret of it,” the toughened barkeep replied. “Every tavern’s talking about the half-elf’s arrest. I’m surprised that you hadn’t heard of it before now.”

Suspected thieves were arrested almost every day in Montfort, Oliver knew, so why was this one being made so public?

Oliver thought he knew the answer. The word “bait” kept popping into his mind as he skittered out of the Dwelf.

Oliver lost his “little-girl” smile as soon as he and Luthien walked between the Praetorian Guards outside the Ministry’s great front doors the next morning. In the foyer, the halfling looked disdainfully at his disguise, wondering why he kept winding up in this place. Of course, Oliver had known the night before, when he had told forlorn Luthien of Siobhan’s arrest, that he would find himself in the Ministry once more.

But he didn’t have to like it.

“We might be causing her harm,” Oliver reasoned, and not for the first time,