Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  Then Danilo noticed that she had layered the meat and cheese between slices of bread, and arranged the hearty snack on a platter along with pickles and small dishes of condiments. Apparently she intended to share, for the table was neatly laid with plates and mugs for four, and a foaming pitcher of ale stood ready. When the two men entered the room, Morgalla laid down the carving knife and affixed Danilo with a long solemn stare. Then she hopped down from her perch and stuck out a stubby hand in greeting.

  “Well met, bard. I be Morgalla of Clan Chistlesmith, darl of Olam Chistlesmith and Thendara Spearsinger, of the dwarves of Earthfast. It’s proud I am to be entering your service.”

  Danilo was familiar enough with dwarven custom to know himself honored by this detailed introduction. Even in cordial situations, the naturally cautious dwarves usually gave only first and sometimes clan names. If she had wished to insult him, she would have been “Morgalla of the dwarves,” delivered with a firm undertone of “Wanna make something of it?”

  He grasped the dwarf’s wrist in a brief salute and shot a venomous glance at Khelben. The young Harper had never yet refused a mission assigned him, but he resented his uncle for leaving him no choice in the matter. This evening was very like being swept downstream on a white-water flood. Even worse, the archmage had led Morgalla to believe that he, Danilo, was a bard worth following.

  “When I am called upon to describe you,” Khelben pointed out, divining the source of his nephew’s ire, “bard is not the first word that comes to mind. That title is of Morgalla’s own choosing.”

  “Aye.” The dwarf’s head bobbed in agreement “And yer more cut to the cloth than most who wear the mantle.” Dan looked at her with a question in his eyes, so she explained, “A traveling bard sang yer songs at Azoun’s court They’re better’n most. My favorite’s the tale of the magic sword.”

  “Not the Ballad of the Harper Assassin?” Dan slumped against the kitchen wall. First the damnable ballad showed up in Tethyr, and now far to the east in the courts of Cormyr?

  “That’s the one. Good story. Little on the short side, though.”

  “Short?” Danilo’s look of befuddlement deepened. “But it has nine-and-twenty stanzas!”

  “Like I said,” Morgalla agreed.

  Danilo gave up that line of inquiry and looked more closely at the dwarf. Morgalla appeared to be quite young, for she was still beardless. Large, liquid brown eyes reminded Dan of his favorite hunting hound; the earnest, doleful expressions were almost identical. Her face was broad, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a small nose with an insouciant tip. Thick russet hair was tightly plaited into two long braids, and an impressive amount of muscle and curve was packed onto her four-foot frame. Morgalla was dressed for the road in a simple brown kirtle that fell to her knees, brown leggings bound with leather thongs, and iron-tipped leather boots. A small axe was tucked into her weapon belt, and leaning against the kitchen table was a staff of battle-scarred stout oak. The latter was capped by the grinning head of a jester doll, complete with the traditional floppy cap of yellow and green motley. Danilo was no judge of dwarven beauty, but Morgalla struck him as cute and rather harmless, despite her weapons. Or, perhaps, he amended with another glance at the jester doll’s head, because of them. Dan noted that she carried no musical instruments, and that struck him as another odd note.

  “I’ve never before met a dwarven bard,” he commented lightly, hoping to draw her out.

  The comment seemed to touch a nerve, for Morgalla’s face hardened. “And you haven’t yet.”

  Khelben and Danilo exchanged glances. “If you’re not a bard, why you were sent here?” the archmage asked.

  In response, the dwarf handed him a large, folded piece of paper. Khelben smoothed out the paper on the kitchen table and studied it for a long moment. His mustache twitched, and a low chuckle escaped him. Danilo leaned in to look over his uncle’s shoulder, and he let out a long, admiring whistle. He lifted his gaze to Morgalla, and his gray eyes held both amusement and respect.

  “You drew this?” he asked.

  “I’m here, ain’t I?” she replied gruffly, folding her arms over her chest.

  Danilo nodded, understanding completely. On the paper was a deft sketch of a wizard, robed in a star-and-moon-studded gown. A tall cone hat rested on an oversized thicket of white eyebrows, and the features, although comically exaggerated, were unmistakably those of Vangerdahast. The wizard wielded a baton at an orchestra of glowing, levitating instruments. King Azoun sat in the background, enjoying the concert with a vague smile of pleasure lifting the corners of his mustache. The caption was simply, “The Musicians’ Guild.”

  The sketch, Danilo knew, poked at the wizard in two vulnerable spots. Many years earlier, in his more frivolous youth, Vangerdahast had devised an enchantment that caused instruments to play alone. The spell amused Azoun, who, to his court wizard’s vast chagrin, often requested it to be cast as entertainment. Morgalla’s artwork embarrassed Vangerdahast, but it also posed a problem for his king. Many people in Cormyr and the surrounding lands were leery of Azoun’s desire to unite the heartlands of Faerun under one rule: his. To depict the king and his court wizard as sole members of the musicians’ guild was a deft reminder of the king’s drive to centralize authority. Morgalla’s work teetered dangerously on the line between satire and sedition. To make matters worse, the sketch had been stamped onto the paper, which indicated that many more copies could be in circulation.

  “I can see why Vangy sent her on a dragon hunt,” Danilo murmured to his uncle. He glanced over at Morgalla, who was tactfully giving the two men room to discuss the drawing. Again seated at the table, she was busily sketching. Her stubby fist flew over the paper, and her brow was creased with concentration.

  “On the other hand, he may have taken a sudden dislike to dragons,” Khelben commented, staring with narrowed eyes at the dwarf’s artwork.

  The Harper leaned in for a closer look. Rapidly taking shape on the page was Khelben himself, standing before an easel and painting stick-figures on a canvas. A circle of black-robed, helmed Lords of Waterdeep stood obediently near, holding his palettes and brushes for him.

  Danilo chuckled. On the most basic level, the sketch deftly skewered the archmage’s artistic pretensions. It also captured perfectly the commonly held belief that the archmage was a power—perhaps the power—behind the secret Lords of Waterdeep. The sketch provided Danilo with yet another explanation for Morgalla’s presence. “As I recall, Vangy doesn’t care much for the Harpers, either.”

  “Now yer catching on, bard,” said Morgalla. She looked up from her work. “Vangerdahast ast me to draw yer likeness, Lord Khelben. I mean no offense.”

  “I should hate to be around when you do,” Danilo said, his gray eyes dancing.

  The dwarf beamed, taking Dan’s teasing as a high compliment “If’n you like this, it’s yers.” She folded the sketch and handed it to Danilo.

  He thanked her and absently stuck it into his money pouch. “But what of Vangerdahast? If he commissioned this, I imagine he expects to receive it”

  “Nah,” Morgalla said with a demure smile. “He’s got plenty o’ his own, believe you me.”

  “I can see that you two will get along fine,” Khelben noted dryly.

  “Indeed we shall,” his nephew agreed. “But if I might speak frankly, Morgalla, why do you consider yourself my apprentice? I am no artist”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Bards tell stories. I just come at the task from a different tunnel. You tell good tales, and I’m here to learn. And to fight, if it comes to that I’m looking to do plenty o’ both.” She grabbed her oaken staff and waggled it as if to emphasize the point. The jester doll’s green and yellow motley cap flopped about The effect did not exactly inspire fear.

  Danilo drew a steadying breath. Despite her fighting credentials and her quirky charm, Morgalla seemed little more prepared for the task ahead than did the elven scholar waiting in the reception chamber. “I don’t sup
pose the Harpers would like to diverge from common practice just this once and hire a small regiment?” Danilo asked the archmage. “No, I thought not Then I suppose we’d better bring a riddlemaster along. That might improve our chances considerably.”

  Khelben nodded thoughtfully. “Good thinking. You handle that and get your own mount; Wyn and I will see to the other horses and the supplies.”

  Morgalla hopped down from her perch. “I’m comin’ with you, bard,” she announced eagerly. “Too much magic in this place for my comfort”

  Danilo raised one eyebrow. “Do you have any objection to music shops?”

  The gleam in the dwarf’s brown eyes faded. She climbed back onto the stool and gave Danilo a long, considering look. “Tell you what, bard; I’ll draw yer likeness while yer gone.” She took out a new piece of paper and immediately began to sketch.

  “I’ve never had a portrait done,” Danilo mused. The dark humor in Morgalla’s art appealed to him, and since he’d developed a remarkable tolerance for mockery, he rather looked forward to seeing how she might depict him. “I’m sure I’ll be delighted with it,” he concluded with a smile.

  “Maybe, but you’d be the first,” Morgalla announced.

  Khelben shrugged and led the way back to the front hall. “Do you have a riddlemaster in mind?” he asked the Harper.

  “Vartain of Calimport,” Danilo said firmly. “He’s quite astounding. His services are as much in demand by adventuring parties as they are by those desiring an entertainer. He was in Waterdeep when I left the city several months ago. I’ll check the register at Halambar’s to see if he’s available.”

  “Good thinking,” Khelben conceded. Kriios Halambar, widely and secretly known as “Old Leatherlungs,” was the head of Waterdeep’s musicians’ guild. Entertainers of all kinds registered at his shop, and employers in need of these services usually began their search there. If Vartain was available for hire, he would be listed, and if he were already employed, the name of his employer would be there as well. Either way, Danilo could seek the riddlemaster out.

  The archmage walked out into the courtyard with Danilo. After a moment’s silence, he placed a hand briefly on the young man’s shoulder. “I know all this has come upon you suddenly, and I realize what you have left behind. I’m sorry that I have to ask this of you.”

  For a moment, the two men stood in silence. Although he was touched by his uncle’s concern, Danilo could not bear to acknowledge Khelben’s oblique reference to Arilyn. He sidestepped his own raw pain by deliberately misreading the archmage. “As usual, your confidence sustains and inspires me,” Danilo quipped.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” Khelben snapped. “You can handle this assignment well enough. What you lack as a bard, you more than make up for as a mage.” He withdrew a small, slender volume from a pocket of his coat. “This book is for you. I’ve copied in it spells that will hold you in good stead, should the dragon prove less than cooperative.”

  Danilo took the book gratefully and slipped it into the magic bag at his belt. The spellbook disappeared without adding a lump or wrinkle. Promising to return before sunrise, Danilo slipped through the invisible door in the tower’s outer wall and disappeared into the night

  * * * * *

  Like most of Waterdeep, the affluent district known as the Castle Ward stayed awake throughout most of the night The Street of Swords was crowded with well-to-do Waterdhavians on their way to private parties, or seeking out the taverns, festhalls, and shops that made the city famous throughout Faerun.

  It was often said that one could buy virtually anything in Waterdeep. While this was true, shopping was also a form of entertainment Musicians performed in the streets and courtyards, setting a festive mood. The warmly lit shops and bazaars offered every comfort and inducement. Servants circulated trays laden with delicacies and tiny wine goblets. Beautiful shop attendants, wearing samples of the clothing and jewels available, mingled with the customers, offering advice and flattery. These were skilled in the art of making patrons believe that similar beauty could be theirs, for the price of a few gold coins.

  In one of these shops, Rebeleigh’s Elegant Headwear, a tall, silver-haired woman stood before a mirror and considered her reflection with a mixture of wry humor and resignation. As Lady Arunsun, Laeral faced a number of social obligations. With the Midsummer festivities right around the corner, these seemed as persistent and endless as the heads of a hydra.

  “This will be perfect for Lady Raventree’s masquerade ball,” gushed the shopkeeper, standing on tiptoe to adjust Laeral’s headdress of delicate links and tiny coral beads. “It’s authentic, you know. It once belonged to a Moonshae princess who died more than two hundred years ago.”

  “I can see why,” Laeral quipped. “If she could afford decent chain mail, she’d probably still be alive.”

  “Oh, yes, quite,” Rebeleigh said agreeably, whisking off the headdress. The shopkeeper was a slight, middle-aged woman, a weather vane for the winds of fashion and a walking calendar of social events. She knew nothing of Laeral’s years of adventure, intrigue, and combat. All that Rebeleigh gleaned from her customer’s comment was that the headdress was not pleasing, and that was enough. She snatched up a fanciful confection of ice-blue velvet and silver ribbon. “This would suit you well, my lady. Stoop down a bit, if you please.”

  Laeral did as she was bid. She glanced at her reflection and burst out laughing.

  “You seem to have singularly bad luck with headwear,” commented a sweetly venomous voice to her side.

  Laeral turned and look down into the lovely, insincerely smiling face of Lucia Thione. A scion of Tethyrian royalty, Lady Thione was a powerful figure in Waterdeep society. She was a popular hostess and a much-sought-after beauty, and she was widely acclaimed for her business acumen and her charm. She never wasted this charm on Laeral, much to the mage’s secret amusement.

  Lucia Thione bristled at the glint of humor in Laeral’s silver eyes. Lady Thione despised the mage, whose birth and early life were swathed in mystery, and she envied her role as Lady Arunsun, a position to which she herself had unsuccessfully applied. The diminutive noblewoman also felt insubstantial next to the six-foot mage and completely eclipsed by Laeral’s unearthly beauty.

  “At least that hat is not enchanted,” Lady Thione continued, since Laeral was apparently too dense to recognize a well-bred insult She smiled again. “I suppose you’d hate to go through all that unpleasantness again.”

  The noblewoman was finally rewarded with a reaction: Laeral’s face became very still.

  “A street musician was just singing about you. Come, hear for yourself,” Lucia said softly. “I’m sure you’ll find it fascinating.”

  Without waiting for a response, she glided out of the shop and rejoined the small crowd clustered around a street singer. The minstrel was a jolly-looking man of middle years, and although his voice was mellow and pleasant, the people shifted uneasily as they listened. Lucia made her way over to Caladorn and gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze.

  “He is singing that dreadful ballad again?”

  “Yes,” Caladorn said through gritted teeth. “I thought all the bards in town had been officially cautioned against singing it.”

  Lucia looked sharply at her young lover. Handsome and entertaining he undoubtedly was, but she had never known him to take an interest in political matters. More importantly, this warning had come down from the Lords of Waterdeep just this morning. Lucia knew about such things because she made it her business to know, but how had Caladorn learned of it? She drew him away from the crowd so that they might talk privately. “Surely there is no truth in this ballad?”

  “I’m afraid there is. Lady Laeral once traveled with an adventuring group known as the Nine. She discovered a powerful artifact, a crown of some sort, and it twisted her into a madwoman and a menace.”

  “This was not widely known, I take it,” she prodded gently, taking great care to hide both her curiosity
and her delight

  “Until now,” he agreed. “Such things should not be sung on every street corner, for the entertainment of the common people. Laeral’s fall and the intercession of Khelben Arunsun are matters for lords and wizards of power.”

  Lucia’s dark eyes narrowed with speculation. That was a strange sentiment for Caladorn, who at a young age had severed ties with his noble family to live a life of adventure. “I agree, my love, but what could you or I do to stop it?”

  “Nothing. You’re right.” Caladorn forced a smile onto his face, but his eyes kept drifting back to the gathering crowd. He shifted restlessly, and he absently twisted the silver ring on his left hand. Lucia watched in fascination.

  “You know, I’m not really in the mood to sit through a performance at the Three Pearls tonight,” she said in a casual tone. “The party at my Sea Ward villa is just days away, and I have so much shopping yet to do. Would you mind if I finish it now, love?”

  “Not at all,” Caladorn replied, just a bit too quickly. He kissed his lady and hurried off through the crowds.

  After she checked the hat shop and ascertained that Laeral was nowhere to be found, Lucia crossed the street to an elegant little tavern. She took a seat near the open window, ordered spiced wine, and waited.

  She hadn’t long to wait A watch patrol hurried into the crowd, sending the people on their way by order of the Lords of Waterdeep. Lucia leaned back in her chair, her smile one of supreme satisfaction. Caladorn, her handsome and chivalrous love, might be the connection she had long sought! Of course, the timing of the watch’s intervention could well be a coincidence. She glanced over at the Neverwinter water clock on the tavern’s wall. No, the watch was not due on this street for almost ten more minutes. Lucia had made a study of patrol routes, and she knew how much time elapsed between patrols in any given area of Waterdeep. Not, of course, that she would boast of this knowledge in most social circles. She leaned forward and watched the scene eagerly. If Caladorn truly was behind this, he had a great deal to learn about the people he governed. He was a dear, but he was too pure of heart and blue of blood to realize how his actions would appear to most of the people in the crowd. Waterdhavians were an independent lot, and she doubted they would take kindly to this type of meddling.