Songs & Swords 2 (20 page)

“Not going to admit to anything, eh? Well, I can understand that You’ve got to preserve the elven mystique, and so forth. What puzzles me, though,” the young man added thoughtfully, “is what place your moonblade has in all of this.”

Elaith’s pleasant expression evaporated. “That is not your concern.”

“It is if we’re going to be partners.”

“We are partners. I require the services of a mage and a bard. You are not altogether without credentials.” Elaith’s lips thinned in a smile. “As a bard, you are no immediate threat to Storm Silverhand. You are, however, the best we can come up with under the circumstances.”

“The story of my life,” Danilo murmured.

“You’ve shown yourself capable of wielding a considerable amount of magic. A dragon has a powerful resistance to charm spells, yet you held him.”

“So?”

“The scroll is a riddle of sorts. Vartain can no doubt decipher it, but I have reason to believe that knowledge of both magic and music might prove helpful to my search. I will spell out the terms of our partnership so that there is no further misunderstanding. We will combine our resources and talents until the scroll is deciphered and the spellcaster found. You may have whatever is necessary to undo the spell upon the bards, but I will take possession of the artifact. When that is accomplished, we part ways. This seems more than reasonable.”

It didn’t, but Danilo considered his options. He could see no other way to achieve his purpose, yet agreeing meant putting a powerful artifact in the evil elf’s hands. He had no idea what Elaith would do with it, except perhaps …

The moonblade. Somehow, the elf had learned of a way to restore the dormant magic of his elven sword! That had to be the answer; Danilo could see no other connection. This prospect was daunting, for he knew that each moonblade had unique and formidable powers. If this was indeed Elaith’s motive, one mystery remained: why would the elf go to such trouble to restore a sword he could never wield? He was the last of his line, and the sword would simply return to dormancy in his hand. What did the elf possibly have to gain? Of one thing Danilo was quite certain: Elaith had far too much power already without the added threat of either a restored moonblade or this mysterious elven artifact.

“Unfortunately, I have a previous commitment. The archmage of Waterdeep is expecting me, and he’s not one to be put off. So if you’ll excuse me?”

“No. We have an agreement? The elf’s amber eyes narrowed. “I’m holding you to your word and your honor.”

Danilo paused, and the struggle of conflicting pledges was clearly written on his face.

“I’ll make it easier for you,” Elaith offered, and he turned to Balindar. “You seem fond of the dwarfs company, so I’m placing her in your charge. If Lord Thann proves treacherous, kill her.” The black-bearded mercenary hesitated, and then gave a terse nod.

“This is how you honor your agreements?” Danilo protested.

“My agreement is with you, not her. If you like, I will swear by whatever oath you choose that I will not raise a hand or weapon against you personally?

“That’s vastly comforting.”

“Whatever else might be said of me, my word is still a pledge of honor,” the moon elf said with quiet dignity.

Danilo glanced toward Morgalla. She stood with arms crossed, glaring up at the huge mercenary who guarded her. Balindar had a rather sheepish expression on his black-bearded face, but he held a sword on the dwarf and would probably not hesitate to use it The Harper had little choice.

“Well?” the elf prompted. One silvery eyebrow quirked at a sardonic angle. “Have we a deal?”

“Agreed. I suppose.”

Elaith chuckled. “Such enthusiasm! Perhaps you are the sort who listens to rumors, that you fear to share the supposed fate of my former partners?” he taunted.

“A bard, listen to rumors? What a notion,” Dan marveled. “But now that you mention it, partner, should I be concerned?”

The elf thought that over. “Probably,” he agreed pleasantly.

After instructing Danilo to hand the scroll over to Vartain, Elaith told Balindar to stand down. The mercenary sheathed his sword with a profound sigh of relief, and nodded apologetically to Morgalla. Wyn Ashgrove, pale with fury and outrage, drew the dwarf safely away from the fighters, then he stalked off alone into the shadows. Danilo followed, fearing what the elven spellsinger might have in mind and hoping to calm him. Morgalla took a place at the far side of the camp and began to sketch furiously.

Left alone with his men, Elaith beckoned them close. “We take no chances,” the elf said in a cold voice. “Balindar, your order is not rescinded. If Lord Thann attempts to go his own way, the dwarf dies. The Harper understands that see that you remember it, as well. And you,” he said, pointing to another of his men, “at first opportunity, steal Thann’s magic ring and give it to me. We don’t want him grabbing his precious dwarf and blinking out of here.”

“I?” balked the man.

“Don’t be coy,” Elaith snapped. “All of us here know that you’re a skilled thief. Use your skills as I command, and there should be no reason for others to share this knowledge. You would hardly be welcomed into the salons of Waterdeep or featured at Lady Raventree’s parties if it became known that you started life as a street urchin. Am I making myself clear?”

“Quite,” his victim replied with uncharacteristic brevity

“Good. Mange, you and Tzadick take first watch. Balindar, guard the dwarf. Vartain, you and Thann start working on that scroll. The rest of you get what rest you can. I fear we’ve a hard road ahead.”

In the privacy of his rented villa, Lord Hhune of Tethyr savored a late supper with a few of the higher-ranking agents of the Knights of the Shield. He was almost jovial this evening, delighted with the unusual turn his trip, to Waterdeep had taken. His initial dislike of Garnet had been set aside, for the role the half-elven sorceress had given him to play dovetailed beautifully with his own ambitions. Hhune was a guildmaster in his own land, and this splendid northern city had real potential. It lacked guilds for thieves and assassins, and these he was busily putting in place. Waterdeep was in some ways too well run for its own good: there were few powerful crime organizations to challenge Hhune’s activities.

Even Hhune’s immediate prospects were pleasant, for he was enjoying a thick oyster stew and the report of one of his best agents. The thin, furtive Aconite who was known only as Chachim always seemed to surpass expectations.

“As you ordered, the merchant named by Lady Thione as a Lord of Waterdeep is dead by my hand,” Chachim announced, predictably enough. “I followed him to the home of the wizard Maaril and slew him nearby. None saw the deed, for few venture near the Dragon Tower. I left the merchant’s body nearby in Blue Alley. If it is ever recovered, all will assume that he fell to one of the magical traps that guard the wizard’s tower.”

The agent paused and took a folded piece of paper from his sleeve. ‘This was taken from the merchant’s person. I thought you might find it interesting.”

Hhune unfolded the paper and burst into belly-shaking laughter. “Oh, but this is priceless! Who is the artist? I could use a hundred like this one!”

Chachim bowed. “I have anticipated your wish, Lord Hhune. There is a sign-maker in the trade ward who will carve this drawing onto a block of wood for the small price of twenty gold pieces. After the block is carved, it is a simple matter to stamp as many copies as you would like.”

“Good, good!” Hhune nodded to his steward, who counted out the amount and handed it to Chachim. For good measure, Hhune handed the agent one of his own specially minted coins, commonly given as tribute to an agent who’d rendered a notable service. Chachim bowed again and left the chamber with the sketch and the gold.

The guildmaster chuckled. Although his assigned task was harrying the Lords of Waterdeep through increased criminal activity, he saw only benefit in furthering Garnet’s personal goal: deposing the archmage Khelben Arunsun. Circulating a sketch that poked fun at the archmage and stirred controversy could only secure the favor of the powerful half-elven sorceress.

“Let us drink to Waterdeep, my friends,” the guildmaster said expansively to his cohorts as he hoisted his tanlcard, “and to the day when the city will become truly ours.”

Late into the night, Vartain and Danilo huddled over the scroll, holding conference amid a circle of sleeping mercenaries. Wyn sat silently nearby, listening to all that was said with an increasingly troubled expression in his large green eyes.

“The first stanza is solved,” Vartain said at last “As we surmised, it refers to the spell placed on the bards at Silverymoon.”

“Why do you keep referring to those lines as the first stanza?” Danilo demanded. ‘There’s nothing else on the scroll!”

“Not yet” The riddlemaster pointed to a faint smudge on the parchment, like the shadow of words. As the incredulous Harper watched, a second stanza began to take form beneath the first “Ibis is not uncommon for a riddle spell of such complexity. The first line of the verse refers to one of seven. As each is solved, the next will appear. This is a device to keep the entire riddle from being solved too easily”

“Rather like using a remote dialect of Sespechian to hide the key to the riddle,” Danilo observed.

“Precisely. All these obscure details, however, tell us something about the spellcaster. He or she—or it, for that matter—is well versed in the riddlemaster’s art. The spellcaster is either a linguist or a native speaker of Sespechian. If the latter is true, that would make our foe at least three hundred years old.”

“Which makes sense, considering that the spellcaster has an interest in an elven artifact Three hundred years is not so old for an elf,” the Harper said. He squinted at the text dawning on the page. “What do you make of this?”

Vartain tipped the parchment to catch more of the dancing light of the campfire. “The answer to the first two lines is “mother.’ Many riddles have to do with family relationships. The mention of woodruff puzzles me,” he admitted.

“I can explain that,” Danilo said with a tight smile. “My family deals in wines, and a large part of our wealth is due to that herb. It is grown in the Moonshaes and is used to make the famous spring wine that lubricates the Midsummer festivities.”

“Fascinating. I would therefore suppose that the mother named here is the Earthmother, the goddess who is synonymous with the Moonshae Isles themselves. Where is the herb grown, precisely?”

“Where? In the ground, I would imagine. Granted, I’m no expert… .”

`That is not what I meant,” Vartain broke in impatiently. “Where is this herb-flavored wine produced? This could be important!”

Danilo thought it over. “Now that you mention it, my teacher from MacFuirmidh spoke of the vast herb gardens and vineyards that surrounded the college. The school has fallen into decline, of course, but the wineries are a thriving business. At least, they were until this very season,”

Danilo added slowly. “Nearly three moon cycles past, there were severe crop failures, and the herb gardens and vineyards were almost destroyed. I was in Tethyr at the time, working among the wine merchants there. The southern vintners were delighted by this development, as you can well imagine.”

“You know what this means, of course.” Vartain’s tone contradicted his words, and he waited for the young Harper to admit his ignorance.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Danilo said evenly, “but I’m afraid I do.” The riddlemaster’s brows flew upward in surprise, earning a half-smile from the Harper. “At the height of bardcraft, there were seven elder barding colleges, ranked in order of honor and importance. An aspiring bard would attend them all in a specific order, working his way toward the status of master bard. Our mysterious foe seems to be enacting a bizarre parody of this. The first of these barding colleges was Foclucan, which was located in Silverymoon. There a spell was cast on the bards and ballads. I have no idea how it was done. You were there, Wyn; care to hazard a guess?”

“Not quite yet,” the elf replied in a tight voice.

“The crops failed abruptly and mysteriously, not long after the events at Silverymoon’s Spring Fake. The event is described in the second stanza, which makes reference to MacFuirmidh, the second of the barding colleges.”

Danilo paused and took a deep breath. “Two is a coincidence, three forms a pattern. If the third stanza”—he paused and pointed to the spot on the blank page where the words would appear—”if this names the town of Berdusk and the barding college known as Doss, then we will know to expect a total of seven spells. We will also know the path our foe will take.”

“Well done,” Vartain said grudgingly

“There is more,” Danilo added. “I began this quest thinking only to remove the curse on the bards. This is clearly only one part of the problem. Finally, I doubt that these curses were chosen randomly; they all probably contribute to some ultimate goal. This we must discover, so that we can find and stop the spellcaster before that goal is accomplished. It’s imperative that you solve the riddles as quickly as possible, so that we know what form the other spells take.”

The riddlemaster seemed taken aback by the command in Danilo’s tone. “I am in the employ of Elaith Craulnober,” he reminded the Harper.

“Elaith and I seem to be partners in this effort,” Danilo countered. “You work for both of us now. Think about this, before you limit your allegiance: Elaith wants to possess the artifact, but I want the person behind all this. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn’t relish the chance to match wits with the author of this riddle scroll?”

That thought flickered in the riddlemaster’s large black eyes, and then caught fire. Danilo noted the gleam of dawning obsession and was satisfied. He rose to his feet and walked off to awaken the camp, and to give Vartain time to assimilate the Harper’s goal as his own.

Music and Mayhem were on their way by sunrise. At Danilo’s insistence—and for the price of another gem from the dragon’s hoard—Balindar guided Vartain’s horse with a leading rein, so that the riddlemaster could devote himself to the study of the scroll as he rode.