Songs & Swords 2 (3 page)

“Old Grimnosh? The green dragon?” Mirt grimaced. “So this is more than a fancy prank; it’s a fancy trap. Any idea who’s behind it?”

“I’m afraid not,” the archmage admitted. “But the ballad mentions a scroll. If a bard can retrieve it from the dragon, I maybe able to trace the spell’s creator.”

“Well, there you go,” Kitten said. “Bards are easy enough to come by.”

Khelben shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Every available Harper bard in the Northlands seems to be afflicted, and therefore any one of them could be an unwitting tool of the spellcaster. Therein lies the problem. Who’s to say that an enspelled bard won’t take the scroll to his hidden master? No, we need a bard whose wits and memories are his own.”

“What of the elf, the one who brought you this tale?” Larissa suggested.

“For one thing, he’s not a Harper,” the archmage said. “But more important, to succeed in this quest, a bard must understand both music and magic. The scroll mentioned in the ballad is most likely a spell scroll, and if that is so, reading the scroll means casting a spell. The elven minstrel has had no wizard training. And you know what would likely occur if I sent an elf to face a green dragon.”

“Breakfast, lunch, or dinner would occur,” Kitten said flatly, “depending on the time of day. So what are you going to do?”

“I’ve sent out inquiries, hoping to find someone farther afield whose gifts are unchanged.” The archmage’s frustration was almost palpable.

The friends sat in silence for a long moment. Brian stroked his chin thoughtfully before he spoke. “Seems to me you’ll have to do like the rest of us, Blackstaff; make do with what you can get. Maybe there’s a mage among the Harpers who could pass as a bard. Know you anyone like that?”

Khelben Arunsun stared at the swordmaster for a long moment. Then he dropped his head into his hands, slowly shaking his head as if in denial. “Lady Mystra preserve us, Pm afraid I do.”

Far to the south of Waterdeep, a young man strode whistling into the entrance hall of the Purple Minotaur, the finest inn in Tethyr’s royal city. He nodded to the beaming innkeeper and made his way through the crowded gaming hall on the inn’s opulent first floor.

Many pairs of dark eyes marked his passing, for Danilo Thann was something of an oddity in the insular and sometimes xenophobic southern city. His Manner and appearance clearly proclaimed his northern heritage: he was tall and lean, and his blond hair fell in thick waves to his shoulders Mischief lurked in his gray eyes and his face wore a perpetual smile and an expression of open friendship and guileless youth. Despite his callow appearance, Danilo had recently established himself as a successful and popular member of the wine merchants’ guild. He was also vastly wealthy, and not at all loathe to spend money. Many of the regular patrons glanced up from their cards or dice and greeted him with genuine pleasure, and a few called out invitations to join in the gaming. But this evening Danilo’s arms were piled high with neatly wrapped packages, and he seemed particularly eager to examine his newly acquired treasures. Tossing back greetings and banter as he went, he hurried toward the curving marble staircase near the back of the gaming hall, and he bounded up the stairs three at a time.

When Danilo reached his bedchamber, he tossed his purchases onto the embroidered pillows that were heaped on the Calimshan carpet. He snatched up a long, slender package and unwrapped it, revealing a gleaming sword. After admiring the sheen and workmanship for a moment, he snapped into a guard stance and made a few flamboyant lunges at an invisible adversary. A nasal, droning voice immediately filled the room as the magic sword broke into a Turmish battle song. The young man dropped the sword as if it had burned his fingers.

“Egad! I pay two thousand gold pieces for a singing sword, and it has a voice like Deneies donkey! Or should that be Milil’s mother-in-law?” he mused, scratching his chin as he considered which bardic god might best be invoked under such circumstances. After a moment, he shrugged.

“Well, you get the general idea,” he said, whimsically addressing the discarded sword. “So. What am I to do with you?”

The sword had no opinion on the matter. It had been fashioned to sing when wielded, inspiring fighters to new levels of courage and ferocity It also warded off the magic of creatures that do mischief through music, such as sirens and harpies. Conversation was not among the sword’s talents.

Danilo crossed the room to a reading table piled with books. He took up a slender volume bound in crimson leather and leafed through it. “This one is worth a try,” he murmured, scanning a spell he had devised to add additional tunes to the repertoire of an enspelled music box. With a brisk nod, he set down the book and his hands flashed through the gestures of the spell. That done, he fetched his lute down from its wall peg and settled down cross-legged on the carpet near the sword. He began to play and sing a ribald ballad. After a few minutes of silence, the sword began to hum along. When it joined in, it imitated not only the words and tune, but the ringing, resonant tones of Danilo’s well-trained tenor.

“You’re a baritone, but I suppose that can’t be helped,” the young mage commented, but he was vastly pleased with the success of his spell. Danilo had studied magic since the age of twelve, under the stern eye of his uncle Khelben Arunsun. At first Dan studied in secret to avoid a public outcry—his early attempts to learn the craft had resulted in a number of colorful mishaps—but he showed remarkable talent, and Khelben soon wished to make the apprenticeship official. Danilo had demurred. Even then, he’d had the notion that he might accomplish more if the full extent of his abilities were kept secret His wealth and social position—the Thann family was among the merchant nobility of Waterdeep—gave him access to places denied most Harpers. Few suspected that he was anything more than what he appeared to be: a dilettante and dandy, an amusing dabbler in music and magic, a fop and a bit of a fool.

Seated on the intricate carpet amid heaps of embroidered pillows, Danilo Thann looked the part he had chosen to play, and quite at home in his luxurious surroundings. He was even dressed to match the rich purple shades that filled the chamber. His leggings, silk shirt, and velvet jerkin were all a deep shade of violet, and his knee-high suede boots had been dyed to match. The outfit, according to his Harper companion, made him look like a walking grape, but Danilo was well satisfied. Upon joining the guild of wine merchants, he had ordered an entire new wardrobe made up in shades of purple, for this was the favored color of the land. Wearing purple was a sign of goodwill, and it pleased the many tailors, cobblers, and jewelers Danilo patronized. All told, a new wardrobe and a small hoard of amethyst jewelry was a small price to pay for the popularity he enjoyed in Tethyr.

Danilo sang until the sliver of new moon rose high into the sky. After the magical sword had learned the ballad to Danilo’s satisfaction, the mage returned the weapon to its scabbard, which he attached to his weapon belt. That done, Danilo again picked up the lute and began to play and sing. He was known among the Waterdhavian nobility for the amusing songs he composed, but since no one was around to hear and wonder, he played the music that pleased him best: airs and ballads by the great bards of ages Past-A magical alarm sent an insistent pulse sounding through the room, shattering Danilo’s reverie and drowning out his song. The shrill warning of danger seemed strangely out of place, but Danilo immediately set aside his lute and rose to his feet. One of the magical wards he’d placed around the inn had been triggered by an intruder. He strode to a table near the open window and picked up the small globe. At his touch, the alarm stilled and a picture formed in the heart of the crystal. The scene it showed him brought an involuntary smile to the young mage’s face.

A slender, feminine form stalked the roof two stories above him, a length of rope in her hands. She made no sound and was barely discernible against the dark sky; only the crystal’s magic enabled him to see his potential assailant. With his free hand, Danilo reached for the decanter of elverquisst he kept for just such occasions.

He poured generous portions of the ruby-colored elven Liqueur into two goblets, keeping his eyes on the magical crystal. As he watched, the tiny figure reflected therein leaped far out into the night. The rope she held snapped taut, and she swung like a pendulum toward his open window. Danilo set down the alarm and picked up the full goblets.

A half-elven woman landed before him in a crouch, quiet and nimble as a cat. Her blue eyes swept the room, and a ready dagger flashed in one slender hand. Satisfied that all was safe, she tucked the dagger in her boot and rose to her full height, just three inches shorter than Danilo’s six feet.

Arilyn Moonblade had been his friend and partner for almost three years now, yet Danilo never ceased to marvel at her talents—or her effortless beauty Her raven curls had been tossed by the night wind, and she was dressed for concealment: her pale oval face had been darkened with ointment, and she wore leggings and a loose shirt of an indistinct dark hue that seemed to absorb shadow. To Danilo’s eyes, though, the half-elf outshone every overdressed Waterdhavian noblewoman he’d ever met. Once again Danilo had to remind himself of the importance of their working relationship.

“Lovely night for second-story work,” he observed in a casual tone, and handed her a goblet “That jump was most impressive. But tell Ole, have you ever miscalculated the rope’s length?”

Arilyn shook her head, and then absently tossed back the contents of the goblet Danilo’s eyes widened. The elven spirits had a kick more powerful than that of a paladin’s mount, but his delicate-looking companion might as well have been drinking water.

“We’re leaving Tethyr,” she stated, plunking her empty goblet on Danilo’s table.

The Harper mage placed his own goblet beside hers. “Oh?” he asked warily.

“Someone has placed a bounty on your head,” she said in a grim tone, giving him a heavy gold coin. ‘These were given to any assassin willing to take on the job. One hundred more to whoever makes the kill.”

Danilo hefted the coin in a practiced hand and then let out a long, low whistle. The coin felt to be about three times the normal trade weight; the amount Arilyn named was a substantial sum. He glanced at the markings on the coin’s face; it was artfully embossed with an unfamiliar pattern of runes and symbols. “It would seem I’m attracting a better class of enemies these days,” he observed wryly

“Listen to me!” Arilyn clasped both his forearms and gave him a little shake. The intensity in her blue eyes drove the last bit of mirth from the young man’s face. “I heard someone singing your ballad about the Harper assassin.”

“Merciful Milil,” he swore softly, at last understanding the situation. He’d written the ballad—an appalling bit of doggerel—about their first adventure together. The facts were well and truly disguised, and although it did not identify either Arilyn or him as Harpers, the very mention of that society of “meddling Northern barbarians” could create a good deal of resentment in the troubled land of Tethyr. For months he and Arilyn had worked to undermine a plot to replace the ruling pasha with a guild alliance, he from within the wine merchants’ guild, and she in the dark underworld of the assassins’ guild. All this he had undone with an ill-considered ballad. Danilo silently cursed his own stupidity, but out of habit he hid his emotions behind a frivolous quip.

“The locals express their musical preferences rather forcefully, wouldn’t you say?” He cut off Arilyn’s exasperated rejoinder with an upraised hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. Force of habit. You’re right, of course. We must ride north at once.”

“No.” She reached out and touched one of his rings—a Magical gift from Danilo’s uncle, Khelben Arunsun, that could teleport up to three people back to the safety of Blackstaff Tower, or elsewhere if the wielder so chose.

Danilo knew from experience how much Arilyn hated magical travel. If she was willing to resort to it, the situation must be grave indeed. He snatched up his swordbelt and affixed to it the magic bag that held his wardrobe and travel supplies, and he quickly thrust his three spellbooks into the bag. He absently dropped in the assassin’s coin and then reached for her hand.

The half-elf took a step backward and shook her head. “I’m not coming with you.”

“Arilyn, this is no time to be squeamish!”

“Ws not that” She took a deep breath as if to steady herself. “Word came from Waterdeep today. I’ve been assigned another mission. I leave in the morning.” The magical alarm began to pulse again. Arilyn snatched up the magical globe and peered into it. Three shadowy figures moved toward the edge of the roof, just two stories above them. Arilyn tossed the alarm aside and cast a glance toward the open window. “There’s no time to explain. Go!’

“And leave you to face them alone? Not bloody likely.”

Her answering smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she touched the gray silk sash at her waist that proclaimed her rank in Tethyr’s assassin& guild. “I’m one of them, remember? I’ll say you were gone. No one will challenge me.”

“Of course they will,” he snapped. Assassins in Tethyr rose through the ranks by killing someone with a higher ranked sash. Arilyn had been forced to defend her reluctantly worn sash more than once.

The rope she’d left hanging outside his window began to sway as someone inched down it toward his room. “Go,” Arilyn Pleaded.

“Come with me,” he demanded. She shook her head, implacable. Danilo snatched the stubborn half elf into his arms. “If you think I’d leave you, you’re a bigger fool than I am,” he said, his words racing against the approaching danger. “This is hardly the moment I’d have chosen to mention this, but damn it, woman, I love you.”

“I know,” she replied softly, clinging to him in turn and searching his face for an intense second, as if to commit it to memory.

Arilyn eased out of his arms and lifted one slender hand to stroke his cheek. Then she doubled her other fist and drove it into his midsection. Danilo went down like a felled oak.