Songs & Swords 2 (27 page)

“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 heat 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 Two-flask 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.

The elf’s boots made no sound on the wide boards, and beneath his feet the rats scuffled and snarled undisturbed, busily foraging before the daily sluicing washed much of the garbage—and many of the rats—into the large sewer gratings that dotted either side of the path. There were no gaslights or torches to dispel the darkness of Two-flask Alley, and the elf made his way quickly toward the back entrance of the infamous Thirsty Sailor Tavern in darkness. The patrons of this tavern favored the dark, and they tended to vanish at first light like so many vampires.

The Thirsty Sailor was a dive frequented by brawlers and heavy drinkers, and the deals made and information exchanged in its squalid upper rooms were invariably small, inept exchanges among the dregs of Waterdeep. To Elaith, however, the tavern’s owner was an excellent source of dark information. The elf had spent a long day traveling from one tavern and meeting place to another, gathering news from his vast network of informants. He had learned a great deal, but he had yet to fit all the pieces together. He hurried past the last building on the alley, a low-eaved warehouse stocked with barrels of whiskey and ale for the tavern.

The elf was a few paces from the tavern’s back door when a solid thud sounded behind him, resounding through the wooden planks that paved the alley. From the corner of his eye, Elaith caught the glint of high-held steel.

With fluid, practiced grace, he spun about and caught the assailant’s upraised arm by the wrist. He threw himself into a backward roll, using the force of the intended knife-stroke to help bring the much larger man down with him. As they fell, he planted both booted feet in the thug’s midsection, and at the precise moment, he kicked out hard. The man soared over Elaith, flipped, and landed heavily on his back.

Before the startled “Oofl” died away, the elf was on his feet, a knife in each hand. With two quick throws, the thug’s outflung arms were pinned securely to the boards by the coarse linen of his shirt cuffs.

Elaith drew a larger knife from his boot and walked slowly to stand over the man. This was a favored technique of the elf’s, for he’d learned that men—and women, for that matter—were more prone to part with information under such intimidating circumstances.

“As ambushes go, that was rather clumsy,” the elf observed mildly.

Sweat beaded on the trapped man’s face, but he didn’t attempt to move or cry out. “I swear by the Mother of Mask, Craulnober, I didn’t know it was you! It was just a quick cutpurse job, nothing personal.”

The would-be thief had a familiar voice, but the elf’s memory connected the slurred, whining tones with a heavily bearded man who wore his long brown hair in three thick braids. This man was cropped and clean-shaven. Elaith peered closer.

“Is that you, Kornith? Good gods, man, what an appalling excuse for a chin! Were I you, I would grow that beard back at once. Whatever possessed you to molt in the first place?”

“Guild rules,” he muttered. “Can’t stand out in a crowd.” The thief glanced meaningfully at one of the knives that held him immobile. His elven tormenter took no notice of the hint

“Guild rules?” Elaith’s amber eyes narrowed. There were already rules in place? “Since when is there a Loyal Order of Cutpurses in this town?”

“It’s coming,” the thief asserted. “Assassins’ guild, too.

Word’s been put out”

“By?” The elf took a step closer and stroked the blade of his knife.

“Don’t know.” Kornith licked his lips nervously “I’d tell you if I knew. Word’s out, that’s all.”

Winnifer Fleetfingers’s revelation about the Knights of the Shield was gaining credibility by the moment, and this deeply concerned Elaith. For all its intrigue, Waterdeep had no single, truly organized crime network, and it was in the rogue elf’s interests to keep things that way.

Yet he would get no more information from Kornith, of that he was certain. Elaith hooked the toe of his boot under the hilt of one of the knives that held the thief immobile, kicking it up and easily catching it as it fell. Kornith rolled to the side and tugged the other knife free. He leaped to his feet and backed away, his face suffused with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

‘Thought I was a stinkin’ corpse, Craulnober,” he said, as he continued to put distance between himself and the deadly elf. “Never supposed you’d show a man mercy, but I’m grateful and I owe you.”

Elaith froze. The very sincerity of the thief’s words stirred the confusion brewing in the elf’s heart. Kornith had every reason to fear him, for no one who had threatened Elaith Craulnober’s life still drew breath. The elf had built a fortune on his dark reputation, yet here he was, prepared to let this thug walk away. Indeed, a year earlier he would have not have been content to ruin the man’s shirtsleeves, but would rather have pinned him to the walkway through the palms of his hands. The elf’s fury turned quickly inward, and he cursed himself for the uncharacteristic lapse. At the same moment, he swung back his hand and with a deft underhand toss sent the knife he held spinning upward.

The weapon sank deep, just below Kornith’s rib cage.

The thief slumped against the wall of the warehouse, grasping the hilt with both hands. Bubbles of blood formed at the corner of his mouth, and he slid slowly to the filthy walkway. His lips twisted into an expression of self-contempt, and he sought the elf’s face with eyes that were rapidly glazing over. “I should’ve run. Forgot what … you was,” he gasped out.

Elaith stepped closer, and with a vicious kick he drove the knife still deeper. Kornith’s last breath was swallowed in a blood-drenched gurgle.

The elf stood over the fallen man, eyeing his handiwork in silence. “For a moment” he said softly, “so did I.”

At Morgalla’s request, Balindar, Mange, and Cory dragged a log into the circle of light cast by a roaring campfire. Bribing the burly mercenary captain had put a considerable dent in Danilo’s supply of gems, and the Harper had learned it was more economical to channel his requests through Morgalla. Balindar had grown so fond of the dwarf—and he was so guilt-ridden over Elaith’s order to hold her hostage to ensure Danilo’s cooperation—that Dan had little doubt that the mercenary would dive into the pond and catch fish with his teeth if Morgalla expressed a desire for seafood. For her part, Morgalla lingered with the three surviving sell-swords, repaying the favor with a tale of battle waged against a horde of orc invaders. Left alone, Danilo and Wyn studied the copy of the ballad by the dancing firelight

“The final stanza gives more hints about the song’s performance,” the elf noted. “Here, for example. ‘First the harp, then the singer circles twice.’ Does that make sense to you?”

“I think so,” Danilo said thoughtfully. “That would indicate that the ballad must be sung as a round, with the harp beginning the melody. The entire song must be sung twice.”

“What’s a round?” Morgalla put in, coming to sit beside Wyn.

“It’s a type of simple harmony,” Wyn told her. “One person begins a song, the second begins at a certain point, and so on. Dwarven music is not much given to such devices, as I understand.”

“So how d’you know where to join in?”

“I can answer that one,” Danilo broke in. “The melody determines that, but usually the round begins after the first line of verse. For example.” Danilo cleared his throat and began to sing:

alle who would an alehouse keep Must have three things in store: A chamber with &feather bed,

A pillow and a… hey-nony-nony, Hey-nony-nony, hey-xony-nony nay

The Harper paused. “Then the second time through, you would join in after I sing the first line. Now then, altogether!”

The dwarf eyed him with a dour expression. “Yer gittin’ a mite punchy, bard.”

Wyn nodded in agreement “This discussion does raise a valid point, though. We must know the melody to which these words were set”

“I think the riddle gives that, as well,” Danilo said, getting back to the scroll with reluctance. “Look at the final line of the ballad. It says the song must be sung to the armed man of Canaith.”

“Who’s that?” Morgalla demanded.

“That is not a who. That’s a what If I’m not mistaken,

this refers to an old song, L’homme arme—the armed man—which is attributed to-Finder Wyvernspur He was sentenced by his fellow Harpers to centuries of isolation on another plane of existence, and his music was wiped from the land by powerful spells. Our bardic foe used this particular melody as another safeguard.”

“That fits everything we suspect to be true,” Wyn said. “Iriador Wintermist traveled with Finder Wyvernspur and would be familiar with his fate. In fact, his sentence probably gave our foe the inspiration for her own spell against the bards! But how is it, Danilo, that you know this song?”

“In my travels, I ran into Olive Ruskettle, a halfling bard and fellow Harper. Don’t call her that to her face, though, as she has mixed feelings toward the Harpers. When Finder returned to Faerun, they became friends. Now that the sentence against him has been lifted, she is making a point of singing his music everywhere she goes.”

“And the reference to Canaith?”

“The barding college, of course. The tune was quite popular and was often borrowed as the foundation for other music. I’m assuming that the spell is set to whatever version was popular at Canaith.”

“And you’re sure the halfling sang that particular version?” Wyn asked.

Wouldn’t that be nice! I’ll be sure after I attempt to cast the spell,” Danilo said with a grim smile. He studied the words of the ballad, humming as he read. He nodded slowly. “The meter fits the melody, that much we know. Apparently I’m to play the first line of the song on the harp, then start to sing in harmony with the harp’s continuing melody.”

“Hmmph. Sounds like yer trying to dig one tunnel east and another west, hopin’ to meet in the middle.”

“Indeed it does, lady dwarf. If I might borrow your lyre of changing, Wyn, I suppose I ought to start practicing,”

Danilo said with no discernible enthusiasm as he rose to leave the campfire.

“Hold on, bard. I’ll walk with you a bit,” Morgalla said, hopping down from her perch beside Wyn.

Danilo turned, ready to decline her offer. Something in the set of her face held him back, and he motioned for her to join him. They left the campfire and walked in silence for several minutes. A small path cut through a wooded area on its way toward the travel route, and here Morgalla paused.

“I’ve got a story to tell you,” the dwarf began, keeping her • eyes averted. “I come from the Earthfast Mountains, far to the east o’ here. Since my great-grandske’s time, orc wars have whittled my clan down to so much kindling. My mother was Thendara Spearsinger, a captain in the hearth guard and as fierce a fighter as ever you’d see. Soon as I was old enough to stand up on my own, she put a staff in my hand and teached me to use it. My clan is Chistlesmith, an’ I learnt the clan trade of carving wood into useful stuff. That was my life: I fought an’ I carved, like folks expected, but in me was a wantin’ for more. Had me a taste for adventure, and for the learning of new tales and songs. Dwarves like these things well, but with troubles like ours, there wasn’t much daylight to spare to ‘em.