Danilo shook his head. “No one who saw her could say one way or another, but the age Vartain suggests makes it seem likely. Wyn seems to think she is, too. Why do you ask?”
“I can think of one person who might fit this pattern. Iriador Wintermist was the daughter of a famous elven minstrel and a human baron of Sespech. She was a noted mage and an up-and-coming bard. She joined forces with Finder Wyvernspur’s band and traveled with him for a time. By all reports, she fell in battle during the Harpstar Wars.”
“A half-elf, eh? What did she look like?”
“Iriador was a famed beauty with brilliant red hair and vivid blue eyes. She was very slender, not much over five feet in height, and delicate of feature. If she is alive today, even with a potion of longevity she would no doubt appear ancient Three hundred years is very old for a half-elf.”
“That’s not much to go on,” Danilo said ruefully, rising from the table. “We’ve got to alert Kriios Halambar. If we can keep this sorceress from entering the site of the barding college Ollamn, perhaps we can purchase a little more time. At the very least, we can have the shop watched for someone who fits that description. Vartain, you’re the one to handle this. Come, I’ll see you out”
The riddlemaster walked with him in silence out of the tower and onto the street. “If I may ask, why do you entrust this mission to me?” he asked.
“You see things most men miss,” Danilo said with no thought of flattery.
“In recent days, I seem to have missed a great deal,” the riddlemaster in a glum voice.
Danilo looked at him sharply, for such introspection seemed uncharacteristic of Vartain. “Actually, your accuracy is astounding. You’ve a remarkable mind. Never have I seen anyone with your breadth of knowledge or attention to detail. I’ve noticed that when you do miss something, it is because you are too involved with sorting through facts and fitting things together. If I may ask, how would you define ‘humor?”
Vartain looked puzzled by the apparent change in topic. “Levity, that which is lighthearted and amusing.”
“Well, that’s good, as far as it goes. I’ve got another definition: humor is looking at the broad picture, and then finding the incongruous detail. Humor is another word for looking at life from a slightly different angle. It means not taking yourself too seriously. In addition to all that, it adds a bit of fun to the process of living.”
“Fun?”
Danilo slapped the riddlemaster on the back. “Fun,” he repeated. “When all this is over, I suggest you look into it”
Vartain seemed unconvinced, but he bowed and hurried off in the direction of Halambar’s Lute Shop. The Harper retraced his steps into the tower’s reception hall.
“Let’s see the scroll,” Khelben demanded at once.
Danilo reached into his magic bag. His eyebrows met in a puzzled frown. “That’s odd,” he mused as he rummaged around. “It was right here on top.” The Harper began to remove one item after another from his bag, until the pile on the floor was nearly knee-deep.
“Enough!” Khelben said in exasperation. “The scroll is obviously gone.”
His nephew nodded to concede defeat. “Elaith Craulnober has struck again. I’ve no idea how he does it, but he got a ring off my finger without my noticing.”
“What does he want with the scroll?”
“He wants to keep it away from you, for fear that you’ll find the sorceress before he does. That’s why I didn’t return at once with the scroll,” Danilo admitted. “Apparently our sorceress possesses an elven artifact, a powerful magic harp known as the Morninglark, and Elaith would very much like to possess it”
The archmage received this news in silence. “So Elaith Craulnober will be searching the city, making inquiries about this magic harp.”
“Most likely. Can you have him picked up?”
“I’ll see to the elf,” Khelben said firmly. “Why don’t you go to Halambar’s and see if Vartain is coming up with any useful information.”
The Harper hurried to the guildmaster’s shop. Kriios Halambar received Danilo politely but looked puzzled when Dan asked for Vartain. “The riddlemaster has not been here since he was hired by Elaith Craulnober, many days ago. Why?”
“You answered my question, I’m afraid,” the Harper said ruefully. “Vartain is still working for Elaith.” He told Halambar an abbreviated version of the story, and asked if the shop could be closed and guarded so that the sorceress could not cast a spell at the site of the college of Ollamn.
“Visiting bards come here to sign the register, but the actual college stood on the site of the guildhall,” Halambar corrected him. He reflected on that possibility. “It would be unprecedented to close the guildhall during the Midsummer festivities. Many visiting bards take lodgings there.”
“But it could be done?”
“Oh, yes. I admit to having placed magical wards around the hall. In addition to normal precautions, events in Waterdeep have made such seem prudent”
“Our bard packs a good deal of magical muscle,” Danilo said, and reached into his bag for the dragon’s cask. It held fewer jewels that he remembered, but he selected several nice gems and handed them to Halambar. “Augment the guard on your shop and the guildhall with as much magic and steel as these stones will purchase. Have the place watched for anyone who fits the description I gave you.”
The guildmaster bowed. “All will be done as you say. Lift the curse on the bards, Lord Thann, and your name will be remembered as foremost among us.”
Danilo had reason to believe otherwise. Once the magical delusion was lifted, he would again be regarded as an amusing and inept dabbler, a typical idle nobleman of great wealth and little substance. At the moment, Danilo truly regretted the role he had lived for years. If he had not played the fool, if he had taken Khelben’s advice and served openly as a mage of promise, he would have been able to share his vision of elfsong’s importance. As Khelben’s acknowledged apprentice, he could have accomplished much. But who would listen seriously to Danilo Thann, dandy and dilettante? Now knowing what else to do, the Harper politely returned Halambar’s respectful bow.
* * * * *
Even during the bright summer afternoon, in the basement tavern known as the Crawling Spider it was dark as night The plaster walls had been molded to look like the hewn stone of underground tunnels, and glowing mosses and lichen gave a faint green light to the room. Stuffed spiders hung from the ceiling, and realistic sculptures of more frightening deep-dwelling beasts decorated the odd taproom. In one corner stood a wooden illithid, holding the hat some waggish customer had hung on a purple tentacle. The tavern catered to those who missed their subterranean homes—mostly dwarves, half-orcs, and a few gnomes—as well as clerics who enjoyed an occasional respite from respectability. The servants were dressed to resemble drow elves, wearing tight black leggings topped with the briefest of chain mail, black masks with pointed ears, and flowing white wigs. These servants were exclusively beautiful human women. No elf, Elaith Craulnober noted with disdain, would submit to such an indignity. The moon elf found this tavern abhorrent, but one of the serving wenches was a former employee and a reliable source of information.
Elaith came in through the back entrance and slipped into one of the tavern’s curtained booths. Although the servants were all dressed alike, he recognized Winnifer, a former thief and a diverting companion, by her undulating walk and tiny red mouth. He caught the woman by the wrist as she passed, and he pulled her into the booth.
Winnifer plopped onto his lap, and her lips parted in a delighted smile. “Elaith! How wonderful to see you again.” She curled up against him like a contented kitten, and her slim, black-gloved hands ran down his arms. “When you pulled me in here like that, I was afraid you were another naughty cleric!”
He captured the hand roaming his chest and gave it a warning squeeze. “I need some information, Winnifer.”
The woman pouted until she checked her hand and noted the small red gem in her pa
lm. “I got a job offer yesterday,” she purred, stroking his face, “and this time, it was not from a cleric! Someone is trying to get a thieves’ guild going.”
It was not the first time Elaith had heard this rumor. It troubled him, as did the influx of foreign talent in the city. Imported thieves at the festival and market seasons were nothing new, but the sheer number of thieves currently in Waterdeep could not be explained by Midsummer Faire alone. Even more disturbing was the plentiful supply of assassins, and the vigor with which both these groups sought converts. Assassins as a rule were not concerned with winning friends and influencing people. They were far more likely to attempt to thin their own ranks than to deliberately enlarge them. This trend indicated the hidden hand of some powerful organization.
“Who is behind this?”
Winnifer shrugged and wriggled her fingers under the tight black leather of her knee-high boots. She dug out a large gold coin and handed it to the elf. “I want it back,” she warned as she twined her hands around his waist and began to nuzzle at his neck. Elaith blew aside a lock of her white hair and examined the coin.
“Much good may it do you,” Elaith responded. “Spend this in Waterdeep, and you’ll most likely end up hanging from the city walls. This coin bears the symbol of the Knights of the Shield.”
Winnifer swore and sat up straight. “Buy it from me, won’t you? You can pass it more easily than I could.”
“Thank you, no,” the elf responded, slipping the coin back into her boot. “You haven’t seen more of these around, have you?”
“Not me. But you know my sister, Flowna? She dances at the Three Pearls? Well, she said that coins like this one paid for a concert A lot of visiting bards sang stories about the Blackstaff and that witch wench he lives with. It was pretty funny, Flowna said.”
“Really.”
“Uh-huh. What I can’t see is what the Knights—this spy group—expect to do using a bunch of bards and thieves.”
“A temporary alliance, perhaps.” Elaith eased the woman off his lap and slipped out of the booth, promising to meet her soon.
Winnifer waited in the curtained booth for several minutes. When she felt certain that the elf was gone, she hurried to the dressing room, pulled off the drow mask and wig, and wrapped herself in a loose cloak to cover her costume. Leaving the underground tavern behind, she hurried to a nearby shop.
Magda, a dark-eyed crone who sold fanciful wooden toys and small statues, was alone in the shop. She ushered the beautiful thief into a back room, which was furnished only with a small table that held a low, round basin of water.
The old woman tossed a handful of herbs into the water and spoke the words of a spell. Winnifer stepped back as the water roiled and steamed. In minutes, the herbs had dissolved into a smooth, dark surface. Reflected in it was the face of the mage Laeral.
“Greetings, Magda Someone has located the elf for us?”
“I have Winnifer Fleetfingers with me,” the crone said, and stepped back to make room for the thief.
Winnifer leaned over the scrying bowl. “I told Elaith everything I was supposed to say,” she reported. “He identified the Knights’ mark on that coin, and from what he said, I think he believes that the Knights and your sorceress may be in alliance.”
“Good work,” Laeral said. “Elaith Craulnober knows the dark side of Waterdeep better than anyone. If the elf can’t ferret out the Knights’ agent, no one can.”
“That spell scroll you’re looking for? He doesn’t have it on him,” Winnifer added.
Laeral’s silver brows flew up. “You’re certain?”
The beautifully thief sniffed scornfully, and Laeral acceded to Winnifer’s expertise with a nod.
“All right He doesn’t have it Magda, get in touch with all those in the network and change their instructions. Elaith Craulnober is not to be stopped. He must be observed, but allowed to go wherever he will. Make note of everyone he contacts. As for the scroll, start looking for one Vartain of Calimport”
Twelve
As soon as the sun set over Waterdeep, Danilo again twisted his ring of teleportation, picturing in his mind the site he had mentioned to Wyn and the others.
He found the party camped beside the pool, in a scene of incongruous peace and beauty. The glowing sunset clouds were reflected in the still water, and in the clearing surrounding the pool, fireflies blinked in and out of view. The elven hermit was off to one side, playing tunelessly upon Wyn’s lyre of changing. Morgalla greeted Danilo with her usual nod, but Wyn rushed toward him. The elf was more excited that Danilo had ever seen him.
“I know how the spell must be undone!”
“You do?”
“Well, almost,” the elf admitted. “I made a copy of the riddle on the scroll. Vartain has been looking at it solely as a puzzle, and I thought that a musician’s eye might find something he overlooked.”
“And?” Danilo found that the elf’s excitement was contagious.
“The ballad on the scroll is a ballad indeed, and it is meant to be sung. Look at the meter: every stanza is regular despite the lack of rhyme.”
A possibility occurred to Danilo, and he sank down on a moss-covered stone. “You’re an expert in Harper lore. Does the name Iriador Wintermist mean anything to you?”
“Oh, yes. She was a Harper who traveled for some time with Finder Wyvernspur’s band. Her name, Iriador, is derived from the Elvish word for ‘ruby,’ and she was so named for her brilliant red hair. She was a notable beauty, and a gifted mage and bard.”
“According to Khelben Arunsun, this woman was half-elven, and the daughter of a famous elven musician. Is it possible that she knew the art of elfsong?”
Wyn recoiled. He stared at the Harper in dismay. “Are you saying that Iriador Wintermist is our elusive sorceress? A half-elf?”
“Yes, in my own inimitable fashion. Now, are you telling me that all this turmoil has been the result of elfsong magic?”
“I’m afraid so,” the minstrel admitted. “I have suspected it for some time, and my suspicions were confirmed when I learned that our enemy possesses the Morninglark. Only a powerful spellsinger can use the harp, so I assumed that the sorceress would be an elf.”
“What can this harp do?”
“It allows the musician to create new spellsongs. This is not an easy matter. Our foe has created a complex spell with several layers. First, as Vartain said, there is magic in the making and solving of riddles. She also drew power from place magic; the sites of the elder barding colleges are steeped in the collective magic of the music played there over the ages. At each site, she gains another power toward her ultimate goal.”
“Which is?”
“To restore the honor to bardcraft.”
“Strange way to go about it,” Danilo observed. “Her concept of honor requires a good deal of preliminary destruction. How can these spells of hers be undone?”
“By singing the ballad in its entirety. Throughout the riddle are sprinkled hints to its performance. Many of these are hidden in other clues.”
Danilo thought this over, nodding as something occurred to him. “The key to the spell,” he repeated softly. He looked up at Wyn. “Remember the riddle that opened the scroll?
“The beginning of eternity,
The end of time and space,
It is the start of every end
And the end of every place.”
The Harper spoke the riddle quickly, and shook his head in astonishment at his own shortsightedness. “The key to the spell was the letter E, right? Answering the riddle opened the scroll, but it also gives the key in which the spell must be sung.”
“I hadn’t noticed that particular double riddle,” Wyn admitted, “but there are several others.”
“By Milil,” Danilo swore, invoking the god of music, “this bard of ours has a twisted mind. We’ll have to look at every phrase and line from three different angles just to put the pieces of this spell together.”
“That is so. But I�
�m afraid this puts you in a great deal of danger, my friend.”
“This whole adventure has not been lacking in danger,” Danilo observed. “But why me, specifically?”
“You probably know the legend of Heward’s Mystical Organ. If this artifact could be found, one could theoretically cast an infinite number of spells by playing tunes upon its keys.”
“If one survived the effort,” Danilo said dryly. “Also according to legend, those whose research is faulty or whose musicianship is not up to the task will end up dead or mad.”
The elven minstrel nodded gravely. “That danger is present in the casting of any powerful spell, and this one will be no exception. This spell was cast by wedding elfsong to the power of the Morninglark. The magic is therefore doubly powerful, and it must be undone by singing the entire ballad and playing upon the Morninglark itself.”
“Which only a spellsinger can do. That’s you.”
“I’m afraid not,” Wyn countered. “Remember, I do not play the harp. The task therefore falls to you.”
Danilo took a deep breath. He had no choice but to attempt the spell, yet he was not a spellsinger like Wyn, or even much of a bard! His eyes drifted toward the elven hermit, who had set aside the lyre and was now dancing to wild music only he could hear. The Harper knew that if his voice faltered or his fingers stumbled on the strings, the mad elf’s fate could be his. As soon as he trusted himself to speak, he raised his eyes to Wyn’s.
“You promised me a lesson in elfsong,” he said casually. “I believe this would be a good time to start”
* * * * *
Silent as a shadow, Elaith Craulnober picked his way through the debris that littered Twoflask Alley. But for the elf, the lane was deserted; local wisdom had it that no one who’d imbibed less than two flasks of something much stronger than ale would chance the dangerous passage after sunset Raised planks paved the center of the narrow throughway, allowing the foolish, the inebriated, or the intrepid to walk above most of the garbage and sewage that was tossed into the alley from the seedy taverns and storehouses on either side.
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