Songs & Swords 2 (19 page)

When the spell was complete, Garnet picked up her harp and hurried into the back alley. Impatient to test her new power, she set down the harp on the cobblestones and with her right hand plucked a single string. Her left hand she flung upward, lightning sizzled upward, disappearing into a low-hanging bank of clouds.

The rain began immediately. Garnet closed her eyes and raised her face to the soft shower, smiling as she imagined the reaction another such storm would cause in Waterdeep. Rain on Midsummer’s Day was such a rare event that it was considered a dire omen. She would use this superstition to fuel the growing discontent in Waterdeep, and she would spread rumors that the freak weather was due to the twisted wizardry of Khelben Arunsun. A small thing, perhaps, but Garnet knew that rulers had lost favor for less than this.

A stinging blow slapped Garnet’s cheek, and then another. Her eyes snapped open, then widened in disbelief. The rain had turned to hail! She ducked back into the doorway of the warehouse, out of the way of increasingly larger pieces of ice. As the appalled half-elf watched, the sky darkened to the color of slate and hail began to accumulate on the stone-paved alley.

Garnet hurried through the warehouse to the front post where she had left her asperii. She quickly untied the frightened, battered horse and drew it into the building, soothing it as best she could with soft words and projected mental assurances. The asperii quieted, and it fixed its liquid brown eyes on its mistress. For an instant the veil that the asperii had cast up between their two minds parted, and Garnet caught a glimpse of the horse’s fear and indecision.

For the first time, Garnet understood the significance of the asperii’s withdrawal; each magical horse only formed its telepathic, lifelong bond with a mage or priest of great power, and the asperii would not serve anyone whose goals or motives were evil. Garnet had never before doubted the rightness of her plan, and the quiet accusation in the asperii’s eyes struck her hire a physical blow. Pain flashed in the half-elf’s chest and down her arm, and she sank gasping onto a nearby crate.

“I seek justice, not vengeance,” Garnet whispered to herself when the waves of pain had subsided. She looked up into the asperii’s eyes, and saw her twin reflections there as if in a dark mirror. “In all things, there must be a balance,” she said earnestly.

The horse merely blinked and turned its gaze toward the open door. After a moment Garnet also looked out at the plummeting hail. The silence between them was complete as they waited for the storm to play itself out.

It was uncanny, mused Jannaxil Serpentil, but sooner or later every scrap of stolen paper in Waterdeep seemed to come across his desk. The proprietor of Serpentil Books and Folios sold everything from spellbooks to love letters, but this latest find was something quite new

Deftly sketched on the paper was a picture of Khelben Arunsun. The archmage stood before an easel, dabbing at the canvas with an oversized brush while the faceless, black-robed Lords of Waterdeep stood by, holding his palettes and brushes. By Deneir, it was clever! The artist had caught perfectly the mood and fears of the city-folk, condensing much gossip and speculation into a single, vivid image.

Jannaxil scratched his thin black beard thoughtfully. The first secret of being a good fence—and he was very good indeed—was to have a buyer for nearly anything. No one in Waterdeep would be so foolish as to attempt to blackmail the archmage, but the fence could think of several people who might have an interest in this sketch.

He affixed the would-be seller, an apprentice instrument builder whose gambling debts far outstripped his earnings, with his most intimidating scowl. “Where did you find this?”

The young man licked his lips nervously. “One of Halambar’s patrons dropped it in the shop. I thought that, perhaps—”

“I doubt that you thought at all!” Jannaxil glanced at the sketch again and sniffed disdainfully. The second secret of success was knowing the value of an object, and then convincing the seller to accept far less. “Who would have a use for such a thing? I can give you three copper pieces, no more.”

Jannaxil pushed the coins toward the young man. “You have brought me a few interesting pieces in the past. These coppers are an investment, for I hope that you might do better in the future.”

“Yes, sir.” Halambar’s apprentice looked disappointed, but he gathered up the coins and left the shop.

Alone is his dusty, book-lined kingdom, Jannaxil finally gave vent to a dry chuckle. He was tempted to keep the sketch himself, although he was certain that the sorcerer Maaril would be delighted by the satirical jab at his more powerful colleague, and that the wizard would pay many pieces of silver to possess it.

The challenge in this transaction, Jannaxil mused, was finding a carrier foolhardy enough to take the drawing to the Dragon Tower. Maaril’s tower was actually shaped like a dragon, standing upright on its haunches with its mouth flung open as if ready to attack. Although the odd tower was a landmark that held great appeal for children and visitors—especially at night when the light within made the dragon’s eyes and mouth glow with a crimson fire—only the most intrepid ventured close enough for more than a peek. The tower was steeped in sinister magic, and even the streets surrounding it were dangerous.

Jannaial pondered the matter for a long moment, then he smiled. A certain thief of his acquaintance had recently married into a clan of wealthy North End merchants. This family was newly come to wealth and were very conscious of their social position. Jannaxil knew the clan matriarch; she prized respectability above all and would not be accepting of her son-in-law’s colorful past. Jannaxil was certain the erstwhile thief would do him this little favor, in exchange for continued discretion.

As Jannaxil had noted before, the secret to a fence’s success was knowing the right price of everything.

Music and Mayhem rode hard throughout the rest of the day, for they wanted to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the High Forest The afternoon fled, and by sunset they had left the marshlands behind.

The moon was high before they found a campsite that Elaith considered reasonably safe and defensible. While the elf and Balindar directed the care of horses and the making of camp, Danilo settled down by the campfire and removed the hard-won scroll of parchment from his magic bag. When Wyn Ashgrove saw what was in the Harper’s hands, he hurried over, with Morgalla close on his heels.

“Open it!” the elf urged, impatience and excitement in his dark green eyes. “Perhaps it will reveal who enspelled the bards!”

Danilo shook his head and pointed to the blob of dark red wax sealing the scroll. “Many spell scrolls are protected. Breaking this seal could set off something lethal a fireball, a mind-blank spell, an irate redhead

” Danilo illustrated the last possibility by tugging at one of the dwarfs long auburn braids, teasing the fierce warrior as if she were a favorite younger sister. Morgalla rolled her eyes skyward and tried not to look pleased.

“So now what, bard?” she asked.

“There are tiny runes pressed into the wax,” Danilo said, holding the scroll close and squinting at it. “The writing itself isn’t arcane, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a spell of some sort I don’t recognize the language.”

“Let me see.” Vartain strode over, extending one hand in a peremptory fashion. “Riddlemasters are of necessity students of linguistics and lore.”

Danilo gave him the scroll. “Read it if you can, but don’t disturb the seal,” he said firmly. “I like to limit myself to one explosion a day”

The riddlemaster glanced at the runes. “This is a contrived dialect of middle Sespechian, a court language developed some three centuries past but long since fallen into disuse,” he announced in dry, didactic tones. “Upon the death of the ruling Baron of Sespech, the baroness took a young consort from Turmish. The man was reputed to be handsome beyond compare, but lacking facility in language. This bastardized dialect of Sespechian, which every member of court was required to learn, was the queen’s attempt to draw her new consort into the social and diplomatic concerns of court life.”

“The nice thing about dwarves and elves,” Morgalla interrupted plaintively, “is that generally we come to the point after an hour or two.”

“The words on this seal appear to be a riddle, and its title suggests that it is the key to the scroll,” Vartain continued in a stiff tone. “Translated into the Common tongue, making the necessary allowances for rhyme and meter, it would read something like this:

“The beginning of eternity. The end of time and space. The start of every end, and the end of every place.”

Wyn and Danilo exchanged puzzled glances. “Riddle-solving can be yet another form of magic,” Vartain informed them. “Solve the riddle, and you will very likely unseal the scroll.”

“By all means,” the Harper urged him.

“The answer,” Vartain said without hesitation, “is the letter E.”

Even as the riddlemaster spoke, the wax dissolved into red mist and disappeared. Vartain unrolled the scroll. After a moment’s study, he laid it out before the Harper.

The scroll contained only a few lines, written in the Common trade language. Danilo scanned the words. “This seems to be a single stanza of an unrhymed tale or ballad,” the Harper noted. “The meter has a definite pattern. I have absolutely no idea what the words mean.”

“The meaning has been carefully obscured,” Vartain said. “These lines contain several small riddles, woven warp and weft like a cloth. If I am not mistaken, this verse is but a part of the entire puzzle.” He read aloud several of the lines:

‘First of seven now begins:

Tread anew the forgotten path. Silent strings send out silvery webs To the music all will bend.’

The riddlemaster stopped and looked up from the scroll. “The phrase “first of seven’ suggests that this stanza is but a part of a larger puzzle. “Silent strings’ is, I believe, another way of referring to a Harper pin, is it not?”

“Yes,” Danilo agreed quietly. “That is not widely known.”

“Indeed. I would therefore surmise that the author of this is either a scholar, such as myself, or more likely a Harper. Or, perhaps both, although that combination is exceedingly rare.”

“No offense intended, of course,” Morgalla said pleasantly.

The riddlemaster pointed to the third line of text and continued with his explanation, showing a remarkable immunity to sarcasm. “Magic is oft referred to as a weave or a web. Perhaps the author is also a mage of some sort.”

Danilo reclaimed the scroll and rolled it up. “I agree. I’m taking this to Khelben Arunsun at once, so that he can trace the spellcaster. Wyn, Morgalla, lees be off.”

“The horses need rest,” the dwarf pointed out, “and it’s a mite far to walk.”

The Harper touched a plain silver ring on his left hand. “This can magically transport up to three people and their mounts—quickly and painlessly, I assure you—to the courtyard of Blackstaff Tower.”

Morgalla blanched. “Did I say it was too far to walk?” “Take ease, dwarf. You’re not leaving yet.” Elaith’s cold voice cut short Morgalla’s protest.

Danilo turned, recoiling at the sight of the armed and ready mercenaries who had formed a close ring around them. Firelight glinted from their bared weapons. The Harper stood and confronted the grim-faced moon elf. “What is this about?”

“You and I had an agreement,” Elaith said. “Until the end of the search, we are partners and will work together.”

“But my search is complete; we have the scroll we sought”

“Maybe so. But our original agreement was that I would get a share of the dragon’s hoard. According to Vartain, the author of that scroll possesses the treasure I seek.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?” Wyn demanded.

“I think I can tell you that,” Dan said slowly. “When we challenged Grimnosh, Vartain requested that the dragon turn over an elven artifact he’d taken from Taskerleigh. Grimnosh said that he’d already traded the item ‘for a song,’ and commented that we were the first to respond to it. Vartain has evidently concluded that the song the dragon mentioned was the Ballad of Grimnoshtadrano, the one that brought us to the High Forest. Since this ballad

first appeared after the Silverymoon Spring Faire, I assume it was the handiwork of the spellcaster we seek.”

“That is the logic behind my assumption,” Vartain agreed.

“Obviously,” Danilo continued, nodding toward Elaith, “our well-armed partner here does not wish us to take the scroll to Waterdeep. If Khelben tracks down the spellcaster, Elaith would not be likely to retrieve this mysterious treasure. He no doubt wishes to find the spellcaster himself.” Danilo turned to the watchful moon elf. “My question is this: why do you need us? You needed a Harper to get the scroll from the dragon, but why now?”

Elaith was silent for a long moment. He studied Danilo with a measuring gaze. “You are truly a Harper? This is not some ridiculous game of the sort you Waterdhavian nobles like to play?”

“A game? If I start having fun on this quest,” Danilo assured the elf gravely, “I’ll certainly let you know.”

“And your pretensions to bardcraft? They are genuine as well?”

The nobleman sighed. “You’ve got me there. It’s hard to say yes or no. I’ve trained, certainly, but not in the traditional or even conventional ways. I haven’t attended the barding schools, obviously—they closed before my time—nor apprenticed to a bard of note. But my mother, the Lady Cassandra, is a gifted musician, and she insisted on the best teachers. They were all private, of course. I was much given to mischief as a lad, and several of Waterdeep’s finest schools repented of their decision to accept me as a scholar. In despair, Lady Cassandra took it upon herself to hire an army of tutors, including bards trained in the styles of each of the seven elder barding colleges. None of them” stayed long, but I managed to learn a bit here and there.”

Danilo smiled engagingly. “And now that you know my life story, perhaps you’ll tell me more about this elven artifact you seek. I’d love to hear that tale.”

“After your life story? Hardly! It is said that there are some acts one should never attempt to follow. Dogs, children, jesters, and the like.” The moon elf’s amber eyes revealed nothing but a touch of mocking amusement