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The room was ill lit and possessed many odours. The smoke of many burning lamps competed mainly with the smell of far too many people, though the rich scents of exotic perfumes and aromas of expensive foodstuffs made their own assaults on the nostrils of the room. Illystil Morninggold did her best to keep her true feelings hidden and her fake smile in place as she wandered about the ballroom, nodding cordially to the various minor nobles, diplomats and affluent merchants that populated this affair.

The occasion was the forty-third birthday of the Henchill Menaster, Lord Mayor of Yhaun, eastern-most port city of the nation of Sembia. Many of the guests, like Illystil, did not know the mayor and the congratulations they gave him were perfunctionary at best; they were here to indulge in his hostly generosity and to socialize with their peers. In less eloquent terms, they were here to party.

Illystil was attending this celebration for a different reason. This type of social interaction was not natural to her, and if she had possessed a choice in the matter she would have been anywhere else. By birth and by training she was a Ranger: a chosen of Mielikki, Lady of the Forest. For the majority of her twenty-eight years she had run along the leafy paths of the Cormanthor like a fleet-footed deer. Armed with sword and bow, she had protected the trees and their denizens from the enemies that were constantly threatening them. It had been a life she enjoyed; one that she wished she had still.

However, the destinies of men (and women) were not for them to decide; ultimately all of their fates were determined by the gods. Mielikki had another destiny in mind for Illystil, so at Her behest she had joined the ranks of the Harpers and so she was here.

Agents of the Gods of Light, it was the mission of Those Who Harp to ensure freedom for all of mankind-elves, halflings, gnomes and dwarves among them. Their enemies were those who would oppress and imprison man: slavers, agents of the dark gods, and those who would prevent free men from living honest lives. Belonging to the latter category was the trading company known as the Iron Throne. Their business practices were, to use the term generously, ruthless. They would go to any means to ensure that their products brought the highest prices, and that included starting wars, destroying economies and allying with dark gods.

The reason that Illystil was at this ball on this evening was that another of the personages attending was Almaric Danthiir, agent for the Iron Throne. In his possession was a signed contract, purchasing the services of a savage mercenary company known as the Chill. Earlier attempts by Harper agents to steal those orders and replace them with Harper-made forgeries had failed, and so now the task fell onto Illystil's shoulders. As a guest of Lord Mayor Menaster, Almaric kept his possessions —and his personal documents- in a locked cabinet in a private study on the second floor of the mansion. It was only during balls such as this one that the mayor's housegaurd were distractible enough to attempt skulduggery.

Illystil gritted her teeth behind her smile and shifted her weight in a vain attempt to make her gown comfortable. Her attendance at this ball had been a last minute decision, and the seamster's attempts to fit the borrowed dress to her had been less than perfect. Illystil was larger than the women hereabouts, both in height and in figure. She was only a few finger widths shy of six feet and due to her robust life style was more muscular than the local daughters of nobility. As a result, the dress she wore was both too short and too tight. While the end result was superficially pleasing —her passage captured the eyes of all men that she passed- wearing the green silken sheathe (to say nothing of trying to move about in it) was akin to being bound and tortured.

She knew that she was beautiful. She had been blessed by Sune on her birth with honey blonde hair, a lean curvaceous figure and smile that quickened men's breaths. While her normal choice of dress was usually less ... restrained, she knew that thanks to the assistance of a Harper ally who was also a noble woman's maid that she wore her borrowed clothing to its best advantage.

When Illystil had seen herself in a mirror this afternoon, she had not recognised herself. The vision before her eyes had been beautiful enough to rival Sune herself. The woman she looked at had long, blonde hair that cascaded in golden waves around a kohl-brushed face with huge brown eyes and ruby red lips. The tight dress she wore fit like a second skin and left nothing about her to the imagination, displaying her slender waist and pushing her breasts forth to a degree Illystil had not known they could achieve. She looked like a Silkwhisperer, a comparison that made her blush, and as was obvious from the looks she received, the men at the party thought so as well.

The musical sounds of yarting and harp filled the room as Illystil did her utmost to sway across it gracefully. She had been trained in matters of etiquette and bearing by Shearil Rowenmantle herself, Lady of Shadowdale, and while she did not feel confident enough to appear before the King of Cormyr, her poise was certainly enough for a ball in honour of His Lord the Mayor and ten score of his closest strangers.

An old, overweight man dressed in very expensive clothes —scion one of the city's many merchant families, not doubt- invited her to dance on the crowded ballroom floor and Illystil found no way to politely refuse him. She was glad of her natural grace here, for she had found learning the elegant dance styles of the Sembian court absurdly easy and thus could let her body perform of its own volition while she concentrated on more important matters.

Ignoring the soft, sweaty hand that rested on her hip and the ripe body odour of her dance partner, Illystil kept her attention covertly focussed on the stairway that led to the mansion's upper levels. At the moment, Almaric Danthiir of the Iron Throne was speaking privately with someone in His Lord the Mayor's study on the floor above, and there was no way Illystil could attempt to replace his document with the one hidden against her thigh until they had vacated the room.

Mercifully, the music ended, the dancers separated and everyone clapped politely for the musicians. Illystil thanked her rotund partner for the honour of his company and politely refused his offer of a private glass of wine. Unfortunately, the cooler portion of the room -the southern half where it opened onto the balcony- gave her no view of the stairs, so as she casually sipped her punch and smiled at the dozens of young suitors that seemed to appear out of the woodworking, she was forced to stay near the western walls —near the kitchen- and swelter.

It was an unseasonably warm night for only the end of spring, being in a room filled to overflowing with people made it no cooler, to say nothing of the braziers and lanterns that illuminated it. What she wouldn't have given to be rid of this torturous dress and to be out in the night's cool breezes. She would be wearing a loose fitting chemise that left her arms bare and a light skirt. If it was as warm as it was tonight, maybe she would wear nothing at all. Illystil has always felt closer to nature when she wore no more than the animals did. When she was nude she could fully feel the wind, or how the leaves on the trees blew, or the kiss of the water in a remote forest spring...

"I can say without fear of blasphemy that your beauty outshines all of the gods in the sky."

Illystil was brought out her daydream with a snap. Blinking and trying to keep her irritation hidden, she chastised herself for her lack of concentration and tried to focus on whoever was speaking to her. It took all of her effort to prevent her eyes from bugging out as she realized that the man before her was her quarry, Almaric of the Iron Throne.

Beshaba's luck. It wasn't enough for her to be so wrapped up in her fantasies that she did not watch the stairs, she had to be so completely oblivious that the man she was specifically watching for could walk right up to her unnoticed. Trapped by matters of convention, Illystil smiled demurely and offered the man she was facing her hand while she studied him covertly. He was tall and broad, with dark curly hair, not unpleasant and boring dark eyes. He could be considered handsome if he were not so smarmy. He was too ... polished. Every hair and article of clothing on him was perfect, as if he were more a statue or painting than a man. His clothes were disgustingly rich, with gemstones sewed into them and embroidered with gold thread, and obviously tailored to emphasise his physique.

Almaric took her offered hand and pressed it to his lips, then in an obviously well practiced manoeuvre gave her a low, flourishing bow. It would have been considered charming if he had not held it perhaps a few moments too long, an action that left his face only inches away from her barely restrained cleavage. Resisting an urge to drive her wine goblet through his neck, she silently endured his rather blatant inspection and waited for his gaze to return to her face.

When his eyes did finally meet with hers —and it took a good while- his expression was best described as avaricious. "May I say, my Lady, that the Goddess of Love has never has as beautiful a devotee as you." His voice was rich and filled with a combination of sincerity and distain; like he was sweet-talking a slow child. He had not yet released her hand.

Illystil's had to pull to release herself from his grip. Her smile was forced. "You are mistaken, sir," she replied to him in her throaty alto voice, trying but failing to keep her tone light. "I am not in the service of Sune."

"Really?" He paused a moment and smiled apologetically. "Oh, I'm sorry. Its just that —"

She cut him off, her voice sharp. "It's just that you think I look like a prostitute." She knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that her reply was too sharp; too sudden. It was not the response of a noble lady, but already she disliked him. Even if she had not known who he was, everything about him from how he dressed and groomed himself to how he looked at her like a piece of property would have caused her to abhor him. Knowing that he belonged to a merciless organization like the Iron throne only lowered him further in her eyes.

She smiled into her punch as Almaric just stared at her, his mouth hanging open in the wake of her blunt comment. He stood agape for a long second while he tried to think of a way to recover himself. "Ahh ... a silkwhisperer is not a common whore, my lady." As he said it his eyes began to drift downward, quite openly appraising her. He returned his eyes to hers and gave what was surely meant to be an enchanting smile. "And it only takes a single look to see that nothing about you is common."

Illystil was slow in answering, forcing herself not to cringe under his scrutiny or strike him physically. "How ... kind of you to say." Was that supposed to be a compliment? Did he think he was being charming? Surely even prostitutes were propositioned with greater flair than this.

He beamed at her, seemingly oblivious to her dislike of him. "I am Almaric Danthiir," he told her, his voice full of self-importance. "Baron of Seveleya."

"A baron. Really?" Her eyebrows rose involuntarily. If he had been born a noble than she was Sharess' handmaiden. She knew from information given to her that his family had been servants before the Tethyrian civil war. If he was claiming now to be a baron than he had either murdered or swindled his way into the title.

"Yes." He grew more enthusiastic as he talked. "Truthfully I have not stepped foot there for several years." His face was filled with insincere sadness. "My business is very important, and occupies all of my attention." His shrug was equally artificial "As a result I am very wealthy, but..." he fixed his eyes with hers, " ... lonely."

"Oh, I see." She kept her reply short to keep from laughing into his face. Was his title and money supposed to charm her into his bed? Did his suave approach actually work on some women?

He stood looking at her, waiting for her to add something to her reply. When she didn't, there was an awkward moment of silence. He flashed her his ingratiating smile again. "I'm sorry. I seem to have missed your name."

That was because until now she hadn't given it. She had hoped this conversation wouldn't have lasted this long; there were many things left for her to do on this evening. "Illystil Morninggold," she told him reluctantly, "from the Dales."

He once again captured her hand and kissed it. "I am enchanted to meet you, Illystil." She had to fight the urge to wipe her hand on her dress. "Did you arrive at this ball as someone's guest?"

Illystil gave him her best court smile, determined to end this conversation civilly before she was forced to beat him. "Yes, with Fileyna Rowenmantle. She was gracious enough to introduce me to the court."

"Ah, but not with a male companion?" His eyes grew predatory.

She sighed. "Umm, no." If he offered to act as her escort there was no way she could really refuse him -short of violence.

"So you would not object to sharing your time with a baron?" His tone was triumphant as he asked.

She hesitated, then relented. " ... no, of course not." He had trapped her neatly with civility. As a polite lady of lower station, she could not refuse him. Her eyes searched the gala, looking for someone to help her, for any excuse that would allow her to excuse herself politely so that she could continue her work.

The next five minutes were torturously long. Despite her every evasion, her every subtle attempt to disengage from the conversation, Almaric was either too dense to take a hint (which she doubted; a trade mogul like himself by necessity had to be savvy) or he believed that by sheer personality and force of will he could catch her interest. Never before had Illystil felt so debased. She was a beautiful woman and had enjoyed her share of male attention over the years, but always in those encounters and relationships there had been respect. Yes, they had been attracted to her (and occasionally she had been attracted to them as well) but always she had been treated as a person. With each of Almaric's oily smiles and none-to-subtle innuendoes, it became more and more obvious that nothing she said or did mattered to him. Beyond his politeness, she was only an object; a pretty bauble to capture and use before being thrown away.

Illystil's window of opportunity was slipping away from her. She had to act soon, while the study containing Almaric's personal papers remained unoccupied. Her information said that it was unlikely anyone other than the mayor and his houseguests would use the room but the longer she delayed the more chances there were for Beshaba to give Her 'blessing' to Illystil's scheme.

Unfortunately, there was more to do than simply approach the study and walk in. Both the entry and the private cabinet were locked, and Illystil possessed neither keys nor the expertise to simulate them. Even if she did possess that specialized knowledge, there was no way she could have knelt in plain sight in front of a door off limits to the party guests for the time it would have taken her to gain entrance. No, in the tradition of many Harpers before her, she had to perform a difficult act in an impossible manner: she would have to walk through walls.

Sembia, like many nations, had a solid tradition in intrigue. Spying and information gathering was as hallowed a profession in this nation as usury or trading. Thus when the mayor had constructed his mansion, he had riddled it with secret doors and hidden passageways. While he had done his utmost to keep the knowledge of his hidden passages from the populace of Yhaun, the ears of the Harpers were close to the ground and heard many illicit things. One of the things they had heard was that Menaster's rivals had done him one further: they had created secrets passages within his secret passages. One of the hidden hallways that passed behind the mayor's study contained a false stone in one wall. It was situated directly behind the mayor's personal cabinet, and in the rear of that cabinet a false backing had been constructed. That was Illystil's destination tonight.

She had been told by her sources which passage to access (behind the curtain in an alcove on the north end of the west wall) and the route to take within the hall network to reach the study. Unfortunately, she was unable to do so until she could find a way to escape the unbearable company of Almaric Danthiir.

Almaric's monotonous blather and constant leering was thankfully interrupted by the arrival of two men, one older and taller with a beard, the other younger and clean-shaven. Both were quite handsome in separate ways, dressed in high quality Cormyrian doublets and hose. As they neared, the 'baron' paused in his speech and for the briefest of moments his mask of civility was replaced by open hatred; though for which of the two men —the elder or the younger-Illystil could not determine. Within a heartbeat Almaric's facade of gentility had returned so convincingly that one would never know it had not been there.

The elder of the two men spoke first, sketching a light bow over his wine goblet. He was very handsome with striking features, a trim beard and brown hair worn long behind his back. He was quite tall and towered over Almaric -who was not a small man- by more than a hand width.

"Baron Danthiir." His voice, Illystil noticed, was rich and sonorous; it carried great weight even with that simple greeting. "Are you enjoying the ball?" His eyes were deep blue and met hers briefly. His words, in combination with contacting her eyes, sent a shock through Illystil down to her toes. Her throat was suddenly dry and she hurriedly sipped at her punch.

"Sir Quinlan, Logan." Almaric nodded coolly but politely to the taller man and his younger companion. "I suppose this ball is ... adequate."

A knight! This dark, absorbing man-Sir Quinlan, his name was?- was a noble warrior and defender of the realm. Looking at his quiet authority and control of his environment, she thought that there was nothing else this man could be. Who, then, was his companion?

"Only adequate?" Quinlan raised an eloquent eyebrow. "I think you do Mayor Menaster a disservice."

Almaric gave a small shrug. "It is as fine as a ball as there can be in Sembia, I suppose." He looked down his nose at the room and its inhabitants. "A Tethyrian market festival would outshine this."

"That is a sentiment that would not be well received in these parts," Quinlan chided the baron. "You should have a care to whom you speak it." He said it politely and neutrally, but obviously as a man would speak to a subordinate. Illystil could not tell if it was meant as a warning or a rebuke. She guessed that Almaric had no love for these men, but she did not know if that ill sentiment was returned.

It was obvious how Almaric interpreted the comment and his irritation was evident as he glowered at the larger man. Focussed on a lesser person, the trade baron's ire may have been an imposing thing, but when fixed on the knight, the effect was closer to a housedog fending off a griffon. Unperturbed by Almaric's anger, Quinlan continued with a voice as smooth as a morning pool. "You have not introduced me to your companion, Baron." His eyes met with Illystil's once more and again a lightning-like shock coursed through her.

Almaric's irritation vanished and in ingratiating smile took its place. "Forgive me." He took Illystil's arm and gripped it possessively, a gesture easy to interpret and surely as old as man. "It was not my intention to insult..." The corner of his mouth curled up minutely. " ... her." Quinlan showed no reaction to the obvious insult, but she could see his companion begin to bristle until the knight placed a calming grip on the man's arm. Almaric continued. "It is my pleasure, sirs, to introduce Lady Illystil Morninggold." His grip tightened further and Illystil fought off the urge to drive her elbow into his shortribs. "She is the ward of Fileyna Rowenmantle, just introduced to this court."

The tall, charismatic knight stepped close to her and took her hand in his own. "Lady Morninggold, it is a pleasure to meet you." His eyes met hers and he smiled as he touched her hand to his lips. The combination of his touch and smile made her breath quicken. She barely heard his next words. "You look radiant."

She barely managed to find a response. "You are too kind, sir..." Her mind blanked. His name? What was his name?

"Quinlan Truesilver, knight of Cormyr." He supplied adroitly. If he noticed her gaff he was polite enough not to make mention of it. The knight gestured towards his companion. "This is my squire, Anarion."

The younger man plucked her hand from Quinlan's grip and brought it to his lips. "Enchanted, my lady." He was handsome, she noticed. If he had not been standing next to Quinlan, perhaps she would have said very handsome. He was perhaps a finger width taller than her, with broad shoulders and a muscular build. His hair dark blonde, and shorter than the elder knights.

With difficulty, Illystil brought her whirling mind under a semblance of control. Ignoring Almaric, who was still gripping her arm, she retrieved her hand from Anarion. "A pleasure to meet both of you." The smile she gave this time was genuine.

Truesilver. When he had said his family name aloud it had rang familiarly in her ears. She had heard it recently, but where it had been eluded her. It had been during one of her dull conversations earlier. He had been called something. Some strange title...

It came to her suddenly. "You're the King's Hand!" She said it loudly and without thinking. By unfortunate coincidence, the musicians had finished their piece of music that very moment, and her abrupt exclamation echoed throughout the suddenly quiet room. It seemed as if the head of every single person turned towards her. Her companions, who had been glaring silently at one another, now focused their attentions solely on Illystil. She began to blush furiously.

In the deafening silence, Quinlan raised his eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

The musicians resumed their playing and the hubbub of conversation throughout the room sprung up once more. Illystil struggled to explain her outburst. "I was speaking with Lady Fileyna earlier." Words flew from her lips as fast as she could form them. The fact that she was babbling before such a cultured man embarrassed her further. "She was speaking of you. She called you the Hand of the King." She found it hard to meet his eyes.

"I am occasionally known as that, yes," the knight quietly admitted.

"It-it is not a title I have heard before," Illystil replied. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable in this conversation, but was committed now to finish it. "What does a King's Hand do?"

Quinlan seemed embarrassed and answered quietly into his wine. "It is merely the name given to the king's advisor."

Beside Illystil, Almaric chuckled. "Sir Quinlan is far too modest." There was an edge to his voice. "He is far more than merely an advisor." Illystil turned to him and saw a dangerous smile on Almaric's face. "As the King's Hand, he personally oversees the affairs of the crown, including I believe those that would be inappropriate for the royal family to deal with themselves." His smile became a ritcus-like grin. "Is that not so, Sir Quinlan?"

Quinlan's face became hard as stone. His voice was still quiet, but now full of intensity. "Any action beneath his majesty is equally inappropriate for his knights or any other citizen of the realm."

The two men's gazes locked once more, but this time it was Quinlan who looked away. "What a stirring display of chivalry," Almaric sneered, "I'm speechless." He turned to Illystil. "My lady, this man standing before you without doubt is in possession of Cormyr's most embarrassing secrets."

Quinlan's eyes were blazing, but his words remained cool and conversational. "In Cormyr, Baron, such slander against the crown would be punishable by stoning." He smiled tightly. "It would be good for you to watch your words."

Almaric seemed unfazed and continued his verbal assault. "How fortunate for me then that we are in Sembia." He pulled Illystil closer to him. She wasn't enjoying being used as a combination of weapon and prize between the two men. "I would think the mayor would object to people hurling rocks at his guests, especially a man of my station."

"It is not my wish to upset his lord, the mayor." Quinlan's eyes flicked disapprovingly at Almaric's arm around Illystil's waist. When the Baron saw that, his grip tightened further. "I am merely making conversation."

"So there is no business that you wish to conduct with me, Sir Quinlan?" He grinned wolfishly. "To what, then, do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

The verbal sparring continued. "I only wish to pay my respects, Baron." Quinlan glanced at Almaric's arm wrapped possessively around Illystil. "Did you and Lady Morninggold not wish to be disturbed?" The edge of his lips quirked up momentarily. "My apologies if I have interrupted you."

Illystil was tiring of being used. The longer these two men continued their lanceless jousting match, the greater chance that they would create a scene -well, a larger scene than she had already. "You have interrupted nothing, sir knight," she assured the tall man, glaring at Almaric out of the side of her vision. "I am delighted to meet both and your squire." As she spoke she twisted and slithered her way free of Almaric's grip. "May I ask what brings you to Sembia?"

"Please, call me Quinlan, my lady. I am in Yhaun on business of the king." When he glanced at her and smiled, it was if Almaric, the ball and all her obligations disappeared. She could not help but smile back...

Their exchange of looks was not lost on Almaric. "Anything you care to share, Sir Quinlan?" he asked cruelly, his eyes glinting, "or is it another of Cormyr's deep secrets?"

The glance Quinlan sent the man was lethal. "Not a deep secret, baron," he told Almaric flatly, "but certainly none of your business." Having said that, the knight turned his attention away from the man as if he did not exist and looked to Illystil. "I am afraid you have me at a loss, my lady."

"In what way, Sir Quinlan?" Illystil blinked at the sudden change of subject. "And please, call me Illystil."

He continued to ignore Almaric, which seemed to have a greater effect on the man than Quinlan's verbal barbs. "As you wish, Lady Illystil." She thrilled when he said her name. With his deep, resonant voice is was like he was caressing her verbally. He sketched another small bow. "Well, you see, I am cousin to the Rowenmantles," as he spoke alarm bells began to ring in her head, "and I have never heard your name mentioned." His eyes seemed guileless, but she couldn't tell. There was much about this man that was hidden.

Mind spinning, trying with difficulty not to let her attraction to him trip her up, she tried to remember her cover story. "In truth, I have known Lady Fileyna less than a tenday." She didn't think it sounded like a lie, but Quinlan did not seem the type to miss much. "I am recently arrived here from Shadowdale." He gave the impression he believed her, but would he really tell her if he thought her a liar? "Her cousin, Shaeril," she continued, "begged her to introduce me to gentile society."

"My lady, sirs." Behind Almaric's oily charm, he was seething with anger. "I am afraid that I have pressing business elsewhere." He gave Quinlan a cruel smile. "Also, were I to stay longer, I fear that I would end up gravely insulting some aspect of Cormyrian lifestyle." He waited smirking for Quinlan's reaction, but there was none. After a moment the grin faltered and he turned towards Illystil. "Lady Illystil, I will see you later." He looked straight into her eyes as he said it. He gave an insincere smile at the two other men. "If you will excuse me."

"Of course, Baron." Quinlan nodded to the man politely, but his civility only seemed to fuel the baron's rage.

As Almaric began to stalk off, the up-to-now silent Anarion spoke. "When next your business takes you to Cormyr, Baron, you must come to Suzail." His voice was mocking.

Illystil had no idea what the significance of the comment Anarion made was, but Almaric seemed to. The trade baron stopped abruptly and spun to face the younger man, his face livid with rage. After a moment in which Illystil thought the man would launch himself at the young warrior, Almaric turned on his heel and stalked angrily away. In the aftermath of the departed baron's anger, there was only silence.

Quinlan gave Anarion an angry, hard look and the young squire, while he appeared slightly embarrassed, met the elder knight's stare defiantly. The two held their gazes in silent conversation for a heartbeat, then Anarion looked away, his face flushed.