“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she lied heartily as she tapped the page, her thoughts drifting back to a certain battle on the Marshes of Chelimber. “This ballad in particular seems quite stirring. If ever you decide to set any of your work to music, I know of a suitable bard.” She cast a quick glance at Danilo. He was busily charming a serving wench whose overstated curves strained the lacings of her bodice. Arilyn sniffed. The girl looked like a two-pound sausage stuffed into a half-pound casing.
“A ballad, you say?” The young man brightened at the perceived praise. “I had never thought of doing that,” he marveled. “Do you really think some of these poems would make songs?”
Arilyn dragged her gaze back to the young mage. “Why not? I’ve surely heard worse.”
“Hmmm.” He pondered that for a moment, then stuck out his hand in a belated gesture of introduction. “Thank you for the suggestion, my friend. My name is Coril.”
“Well met, Coril. I’m Tomas,” Arilyn replied, clasping the offered hand. She already knew the young man’s identity. As well as a terrible poet and minor mage, Coril was an agent of the Harpers. Reputed to be a shrewd observer of people, Coril was employed to gather and pass on information.
“So, Tomas, what brings you here?” Coril asked, helping himself to another mug of ale.
Arilyn waved her own mug in a nonchalant arch. “The festival, of course.”
“No, I mean what brings you here, to this table?” persisted Coril.
“Oh, I see. I need some information.”
The Harper’s face hardened almost imperceptibly. “Information? I’m not sure I can help you.”
“Oh, but surely you can,” Arilyn insisted, painting disappointment and dismay on her face. “You are a mage, are you not?”
“I am,” allowed Coril, somewhat mollified. “What do you need?”
Arilyn unbuckled her swordbelt and laid the sheathed moonblade on the table. The task she intended to place before Coril would surely fall beyond the mage’s limited abilities. “There’s some writing on this scabbard. It’s supposed to be magic. Can you read it?” Arilyn asked.
Coril bent forward and examined the marks with great interest. “No,” he admitted, “but if you wish, I can cast a comprehend language spell on them.”
Arilyn feigned relief and gratitude. “Such a thing can be done?”
“For a price, yes.”
Arilyn fished several copper coins from her pocket. The sum, although paltry, would represent a small fortune to “Tomas.” It was too little for even such a simple spell, but offering any more might raise suspicions. So she held out the money and asked eagerly, “Will this be enough?”
Coril hesitated for only a moment, then he nodded and gathered up the coins. He drew out a mysterious substance from some corner of his robes and hunkered down over the sword, muttering the words of the spell.
Arilyn waited through the spellcasting, confident that the mage would fail. Early in Arilyn’s training, Kymil Nimesin had sought to decipher the runes through both magic and scholarship. If Kymil’s powerful elven magic could not read the ancient, arcane form of Espruar, Coril’s spellcasting had no chance of success.
Her purpose in showing the rare sword to Coril was to send a message to the assassin. Since Coril was a conduit for information to the Harpers and the assassin was likely someone within the Harper ranks, word of the moonblade might reach him and put him again on Arilyn’s trail. She’d lost the assassin back at the House of Fine Spirits due to Danilo’s cowardly pretense, and now she would lure him back with a ruse of her own.
After several minutes, Coril looked up, puzzled. “I cannot read all of it,” he admitted to Arilyn.
“What?”
Coril’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the youth’s sharp tone. “There seems to be magical wards on most of these runes against such spells,” he said defensively. “Very powerful wards.”
“But you can read some of it?” Arilyn persisted.
“Just this.” With one slender finger Coril traced the lowest rune, a small mark about two-thirds down the scabbard.
“What does it say?” Arilyn demanded.
“ ‘Elfgate.’ And this one up here says ‘elfshadow.’ That’s all I can read.” He looked sharply at Arilyn. “How did you happen to come by an enspelled sword?”
“I won it in a game of dice,” Arilyn said ruefully. “The former owner swore to me that the marks on the sword would give the location of a great treasure, if only I could find a mage to read the runes for me. Are you sure there’s nothing on there about a treasure?”
“Very. Nothing I can read, at least.”
Arilyn shrugged. “Well, then I guess I lost that bet after all. Next time I’ll know better than to take my winnings in magic swords.”
Her explanation seemed to satisfy Coril. The young mage looked sympathetic, although not sufficiently so to offer to return the fistful of coppers to the disappointed lad.
Still stunned by Coril’s revelation, Arilyn thanked the mage and slipped out of the tavern. Her mind reeled with questions. What was an elfgate, and what was an elfshadow? Why had Kymil not told her of either?
She circled around to the back of the inn, intending to rid herself of her disguise. A large barrel of rainwater stood by the kitchen door. Arilyn discarded her cap and work gloves, then washed the dark stain from her face with the icy water.
It was time to become an elf again. Arilyn took from her bag another tiny jar, this one filled with an iridescent cream. She spread it over her face and hands, and her skin took on the golden hue of a high elf. Her hair she shook out free and full, then tucked it back so her pointed ears would be obvious.
Gripping the moonblade, she formed a mental image of an elven cleric of Mielikki, goddess of the forest. It was a simple illusion, requiring only that her blue tunic take on the appearance of a long red and white silk tabard and the moonblade itself become a nondescript staff such as any cleric might carry. The illusion was complete in the span of a heartbeat. Arilyn adjusted the tabard so that the unicorn-head symbol of the goddess lay properly over her heart, then she returned to the tavern.
Arilyn had long ago learned that elaborate physical changes were not necessary for an effective disguise. Her regular features and an unusually mobile face made her a natural chameleon and the moonblade’s illusion power provided her with any necessary costume, but the transformation from human lad to elven cleric was achieved largely in matters of speech, stance, and movement. No one could note the cleric’s distinctive elven grace and equate her with the heavy-footed lad who had just left the inn.
So it was that Arilyn glided back into the Drunken Dragon with confidence. She seated herself at the table next to Coril, not drawing a second glance from the mage she had spoken with only minutes before. She ordered dinner and a glass of wine and made a pretense of eating.
Arilyn hadn’t long to wait. Shalar Simgulphin, a bard reputed to be a member of the Harpers, entered the tavern and joined Coril. Arilyn eagerly eavesdropped upon their conversation as she sipped her wine.
“Greetings, Coril. What brings you to the Drunken Dragon?” Shalar said, slipping into a chair and acting as if theirs was a chance meeting.
Coril shrugged. “It is a good place for watching people,” he said in a noncommittal tone.
The bard’s voice dropped. “And what have you seen?”
“Everything and nothing.” Coril again shrugged. “I see much, but I have not the means to make sense of it all.”
A small bag changed hands under the table. “Perhaps this will help,” Shalar noted, adding, “There is a little extra this month.”
“As there should be,” Coril said. “Festival expenses are high. The costs are already being tallied,” he added significantly.
Shalar sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re speaking of Rhys Ravenwind?”
“And others,” Coril added in a dark voice. “The assassin struck again, shortly after daybreak.”
“Who?”
“
The man has used many names, but most recently he was known as Elliot Graves,” responded Coril.
Arilyn’s goblet slipped from her fingers, and its contents spilled unheeded onto the table. She had brought this upon her friends. Elliot Graves’s death was on her hands, as surely as if she had killed the man with her own sword. Fighting despair, Arilyn mopped at the spilled wine with a linen napkin an attentive servant brought her, and she forced herself to attend to Coril’s next words.
“Graves was a former adventurer, now a servant in the house of—”
“Yes, yes, I know of him,” the bard broke in impatiently. “How did it happen?”
“The same as the others,” replied the mage cryptically. “There were several differences, however. The attack took place during daylight, and the man was awake. He must have known the assassin, for there was no sign of struggle.”
Shalar ran both hands through his hair. “It is as we feared. The assassin must be a Harper, one whose affiliation is widely known.”
“I agree,” said Coril. “Otherwise, how could he approach so many of the Harpers unopposed?”
Shalar nodded, then he reluctantly ventured, “Was there anyone else?”
“Possibly. Do you know an adventurer by the name of Arilyn Moonblade?”
“Yes. At least, I know of her. Is she dead, as well?” the bard asked in a resigned tone.
“I don’t know for sure,” Coril admitted, “but I think I saw her sword earlier this evening. An ancient sword, set with a large golden stone? It was in the possession of a young man who claimed he’d won it in a game of chance.”
Relief flooded Shalar Simgulphin’s face. “I would lay odds that the lad you saw was actually Arilyn Moonblade. She is known for her skill in disguises.”
“Really.” Coril thought that over. “Well, that is good. She is wise to travel in disguise, especially if she plans to stay here at the Drunken Dragon.”
“Oh?”
“I believe there is to be a secret meeting tomorrow concerning this assassin, in this inn’s council room?”
“That is so.”
“Several Harpers have taken rooms here for the evening,” Coril explained. “If the assassin were to strike tonight, this would be a likely place.”
Shalar nodded in agreement. “It is late to notify the watch of this possibility, but I shall try. At the very least, the Harpers must be warned and alert.” He looked around the room.
“I see the druid Suzonia, Finola of Callidyrr, some ranger from the Dales—I think his name is Partrin—and his partner Cal, who is not a Harper, I believe. There are others?”
Arilyn listened with growing horror as Coril added to the list. There were at least six members of the Harpers at the inn. It was rare to find so many in one place. Goldfish in a mug of ale would present a more challenging target.
What a fool she had been! Laying hints for the assassin when he was probably as close as her own shadow, laughing at her pitiful efforts. Arilyn had believed that she’d taken enough precautions to protect Loene and her household, yet Elliot Graves was dead. If the assassin could follow her while she was invisible, he could surely see through her simple disguises. Would he also taunt her with the deaths of all the Harpers in the Drunken Dragon?
With a quick, jerky movement Arilyn rose from the table. If she could not yet confront the assassin, at least she could lead him away. As she neared the door, Danilo seized the hem of her tabard.
“Excuse me, Lady of Mielikki. Is your business here completed?”
Arilyn focused with difficulty upon the dandy. He was working on his second cup of zzar, and the overripe barmaid was seated on his lap.
“I’m leaving,” Arilyn announced abruptly. “You might as well stay here and enjoy yourself.”
Danilo gently eased the girl off his lap and rose. “I don’t want to enjoy myself. I’m coming with you.” He made a face. “Oh dear. That did sound dreadful, didn’t it? What I meant to say was—”
“Never mind,” she said distractedly. “I’m leaving Waterdeep. Tonight. Now. If you plan to come with me, you’d better hurry.”
Danilo observed her keenly. “You’re not talking to me alone, are you?” he asked in a soft voice.
She shot him a warning look and pushed open the door of the Drunken Dragon, dimly aware that Danilo was close behind her. On the street outside the tavern lamplighters were tending to the street lanterns. In a circle of light stood two men in the black-and-gray uniforms of the Waterdeep Watch. One of the men, whose unicorn pendent proclaimed him a worshiper of Mielikki, respectfully greeted Arilyn. She nodded an acknowledgement, then stopped, her hand frozen mid-way through the gestures of a clerical blessing.
She recognized both men: Clion was a charming red-headed rogue, as light of finger as he was of tongue, and the other man was his constant shadow, Raymid of Voonlar. Almost fifteen years ago, when the men were lads just starting out, she had traveled with them in a company of adventurers. Impressed by their talents, after a time Arilyn had introduced them to Kymil Nimesin. Both men had trained with the elf at the Waterdeep Academy of Arms.
Their presence brought a measure of relief to the troubled half-elf. “It is well that the watch is here,” she said to Clion. “Several members of the Harpers have taken lodgings at this inn, and I fear that they might be endangered.”
The watchmen exchanged worried glances. “You speak of the Harper Assassin?” asked Raymid. The “cleric” nodded.
“We’ll let our watch commander know of your fears,” Clion said. “A guard will be sent.”
“Sent? You two are not at liberty to stay?” Arilyn asked.
“We can’t. The funeral of Rhys Ravenwind is this evening. We are part of the honor guard,” said Clion.
Arilyn knew it was not a common practice to send the city watch to a funeral. If the watch was engaged in a search for the assassin, perhaps old comrades could give her some information that would aid her own search.
“A sad night,” she commented. “Waterdeep does well to honor such a bard. I trust the murderer has been brought to justice?”
“We are not at liberty to discuss this, my lady,” responded Clion in a stiff, official voice.
Arilyn stifled a sigh. She had no time to waste on such formalities. She would probably learn more if they knew who she was, still more if she caught them slightly off guard.
“I am surprised, Clion, to find that you have so soon forgotten me,” she chided him, tilting her head to one side and painting a coy smile on her lips. “You who once professed such great admiration for my charms.”
The shock on the man’s face was almost comical. “My lady?” he stammered.
“Ah, but I am presumptuous,” she said with a heavy sigh. “A man whose life is as filled with women as yours! You cannot be expected to remember every one.”
Arilyn turned to the other man, who appeared to be enjoying his companion’s chagrin. “Surely you remember me, Raymid.”
The man’s grin disappeared, and he studied her for a long moment before shaking his head. “You look familiar.…”
“We have a friend in common,” she hinted. “A master of arms?”
Realization dawned on Clion’s face. “Arilyn!”
“The same,” she said, adding teasingly, “Really, my friend, I thought you had forgotten me entirely.”
“Not likely,” responded Clion, grinning as he traced a finger along a knife scar on the back of his hand. “I have this to remember you by.” He sobered quickly, adding, “It also serves as a reminder to keep my hands out of places where they do not belong.”
“Then I do not regret giving the lesson,” Arilyn said. “Few former thieves are admitted to the watch. You have done well.”
“What brings you here and in such a guise?” asked Raymid, ever one to attend to the business at hand. “Or have you truly become a cleric?” Both men grinned broadly at the jest.
“And changed my race as well? Hardly.” Her voice took on a grim tone. “I seek the Ha
rper Assassin, as do you. Perhaps, once again, we can work together?”
Clion shook his head. “Believe me, Arilyn, I wish we had something to tell you. All we know is that we’re to go to the funeral and stand guard. No one seems to know for whom or what we’re supposed to watch.”
A long shadow fell upon the cobblestone street, unannounced by the sound of footsteps. Raymid looked up. “Ah, good. Here comes our watch commander now.”
Arilyn’s sharp intake of breath drew a curious stare from Danilo. He had listened to the conversation with great interest, which he now focused upon the newcomer.
The watch commander was a young male elf, probably near the end of his first century of life. The elf’s skin was a golden hue, and his hair was a darker shade of gold and bound around the forehead by a band decorated with elven script. His face was narrow, with prominent cheekbones and an aquiline nose, and his long, slender form appeared as graceful and supple as a reed. Danilo noted how human Arilyn, and even the full moon elf Elaith Craulnobur, seemed in comparison with the exotic golden elf. The elven commander held himself apart through bearing that was haughty in the extreme. His black eyes held naked contempt for the three humans.
The elf’s obsidian gaze softened somewhat as it fell upon Arilyn’s gold skin and red silk tabard. Many elves as well as humans revered the goddess of the forest, and the elf bowed deeply to the cleric.
“Greetings, Lady of Mielikki,” he said.
The red-haired man whom Arilyn had called Clion chuckled at the elf’s remark. “That’ll be the day. Captain, I’d like you to meet an old friend of ours. This is Arilyn Moonblade, one of the best adventurers Raymid and I ever traveled with. Arilyn, Tintagel Ni’Tessine.”
With a sudden start, Danilo remembered where he’d heard that name. Tintagel Ni’Tessine was the elf who had tormented Arilyn during her years in the Academy of Arms. He looked at the half-elf. Her face was composed and she met Tintagel’s furious gaze squarely, but there was a wariness about her eyes and a taut set to her mouth. “We’ve met,” she said in an even voice.
The gold elf was the picture of outrage. “This is blasphemous! How do you dare impersonate a cleric of Mielikki, not to mention trying to pass as Tel’Quessir.” His scornful gaze swept over her. “I can understand your wish to cloak your true origins, but gilding dross cannot create gold.”
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