Elfshadow

Eight

The east wind blew in strongly from the sea, carrying with it a chill drizzle. Every now and then a capricious gust extinguished one of the lanterns that lit the Trade Way to Waterdeep.

Despite the weather, the travelers waiting outside of Waterdeep’s South Gate were in a merry mood. The Feast of the Moon would begin early the next morning, and the crowd looked forward to days of revelry and commerce. For the next tenday the streets of Waterdeep would be lined with vendors and enlivened by wandering entertainers. Most of the trade would center around the Market and the adjacent Bazaar Street, but the whole city was prepared for festivity.

It was a mixed group that gathered outside the South Gate. There were the usual market caravans carrying goods from the east and from the southern land routes. Artisans brought carts and wagons laden with goods for the open air markets. Travelers from all walks of life came to Waterdeep to lay in supplies for the winter and to enjoy one last outing before the cold weather settled in and rendered them virtually housebound.

Itinerant musicians and entertainers made good use of the delay to perform, displaying their money pots prominently and taking advantage of their captive audience. A large group gathered to watch a beautiful dancer, who was garbed only in the filmy draperies of a Calimshite harem, sway sinuously to the plaintive music of a wooden horn. The crowd around her grew larger as the rain rendered her costume more and more transparent. Not far away, four male dancers from the jungle of Chult whirled and circled. Their garments were embroidered with exotic flowers, and the bells attached to their bare ankles jingled emphatically as they stamped out a counterpoint to the flowing rhythm of their tawny arms and bodies. Several paces away, a dexterous halfling juggled an assortment of small weapons. A few of the food vendors were doing a brisk, impromptu business, and the clinking of exchanged coins threatened to drown out the sound of the autumn rain.

The South Gate guard had been doubled to deal with the expected crowds, and the officials checked papers and hustled people through the gates with brisk efficiency. The rain picked up, and the chilled and weary guard began to speed up the process even further. One of them, recognizing Lord Thann’s youngest son, merely touched his forehead in respect and waved the young man through, sparing hardly a glance to the slight, dark-cloaked figure that rode beside him.

“Notoriety has its advantages,” Danilo cheerfully told his companion. If Arilyn heard him she made no sign. She followed his horse north onto the High Road, a broad, cobblestoned street that was the main thoroughfare of the South Ward. This area was the point of entry for most of Waterdeep’s inland trade, and it was lined with tidy stables and warehouses, as well as a number of inviting inns and taverns.

Waterdeep was indeed prepared to welcome an influx of travelers. Buildings blazed with light. Stablehands and porters bustled about, taking care of goods and beasts. Innkeepers welcomed their guests with cheery alacrity.

Danilo and Arilyn passed by the first few inns without stopping, for swarms of travelers were already being turned away. As they headed north the housing situation did not improve, and the storm worsened. The once-pampered mares sloshed resignedly through the puddles, their heads lowered against the driving rain. Danilo motioned for Arilyn to follow him, and he steered his mare out of the crowd and onto the first of a series of small, winding side streets.

They passed a string of warehouses, then a small trade district where tidy shops crowded companionably together on either side of the street. Dwellings had been built over most of these shops, and they jutted out into the narrow way so far that the occupants on either side of the street could lean out of their windows and shake hands if they were so inclined. The owners were obviously poor, but hardworking; the humble buildings were without exception meticulously kept. The streets were swept clean, and even in late autumn window boxes boasted gardens of kitchen herbs. A few stubborn, fragrant plants scented the falling rain.

Danilo led the way up a small hill onto a road appropriately named the Rising Way. Before them lay a sprawling building, framed with ancient timber and finished with wattle and daub. Long windows glowed with cheery light, and at them hung purple and white curtains embroidered with some guild’s mark. A huge carved sign bearing the same mark hung over the front door and proclaimed the establishment to be the House of Good Spirits.

“Let’s see to the horses,” Danilo shouted about the rising wind. Arilyn gave him a curt nod and followed him around a series of connected buildings set on a street shaped like a horseshoe. They first passed a large wooden structure whose yeasty smell suggested a small brewery. From the next building, a stone warehouse, wafted the vanilla-and-butter scent of white wine aging in fine oaken barrels. A larger building next door was apparently dedicated to the storage of zzar, the fortified wine for which Waterdeep was famed. Arilyn wrinkled her nose in distaste; nothing but that fiery orange liquid could have that distinctive almond scent. Like many elves, she heartily disdained the vulgar beverage, but zzar was considered the quintessential drink of Waterdhavian society. There was a statement there, Arilyn thought.

Finally they rounded the curved street and came to the last buildings, the stables. Arilyn was pleased to note that the stables appeared warm and clean; the horses had endured a long and difficult journey and they deserved a good rest.

The young stableboy who ran out to take their reins recognized Danilo. He greeted the nobleman with great deference and solemn promises of special treatment for the horses. By the gods, Arilyn thought with irritation, is there any tavern or official in this city who isn’t acquainted with Danilo Thann?

After leaving the horses and a generous number of coins with the grinning stableboy, Danilo grabbed Arilyn’s hand and sprinted across the small courtyard that lay between the stables and the inn’s back door, dragging her behind him. They burst into a small entrance hall, and Arilyn jerked her hand from the dandy’s grasp. Not seeming to notice anything unusual about her mood, Danilo removed his rain-drenched cape and hung it on a hook. With a gallant flourish, he helped Arilyn off with her cloak and hung it beside his.

“Nice and warm in here,” he noted. He added his broad-brimmed hat to the pegs, then smoothed his hair and alternately chafed and blew on his hands as he waited patiently for Arilyn to ready herself.

Even without the benefit of a mirror, Arilyn knew that her face was literally blue with cold. She slicked her wet black curls behind her ears and tied a blue scarf over her hair so that she would not look quite so bedraggled. Danilo pursed his lips but judiciously avoided comment. When she was ready, he placed a hand at the small of her back and ushered her through another door into the tavern.

“It’s not the Jade Jug,” Danilo apologized, naming Waterdeep’s plushest inn, “but it’s habitable, and—most important—it’s the headquarters for the Vintners, Brewers, and Distillers Guild. I’ve been here many times. It has no ambiance or style, but it boasts the best selection of spirits in all of Waterdeep.”

Arilyn bristled at Danilo’s evaluation of the inn’s merits. Perhaps the House of Good Spirits was not up to the pampered nobleman’s standards, but after many days of hard travel, she found it an inviting haven. The tavern room was warm and dimly lit, with a low ceiling and scattered small nooks that created a cozy feeling. The air was redolent of roasting meat, pleasantly bitter ales, and the pitchy scent of the northern pine logs that crackled in a huge open fireplace. Whatever the inn’s supposed limitations, it certainly did a brisk trade. Cheery barmaids and stout young men wielded large trays of drinks and simple, well-prepared food.

“I’ve seen worse,” Arilyn responded curtly.

Danilo recoiled in mock surprise. “Praise Lady Midnight! It’s a miracle! She speaks!”

Arilyn cast Danilo a withering glance and swept past him into the tavern. She’d tried unsuccessfully to ignore the fop for almost two tendays, speaking no more than necessary. Yet Danilo did not seem the least insulted by her silences, and he continued to chat and tease as if they had been friends from the cradle.

“If you’ll find a good table, I’ll get us some rooms,” offered Danilo, trailing along behind her.

Arilyn spun around to face him. “This is Waterdeep. We part company here, tonight. Your most pressing goal may be getting drunk, but I’m here to search for an assassin, remember?” she said in a low voice.

Unperturbed, Danilo gave her his most winning smile. “Do be reasonable, my dear. Just because we’ve arrived in Waterdeep, I see no cause to pretend we don’t know each other. In fact, since this is a rather small inn, such pretense might prove difficult. Look at this place.”

He gestured around the tavern room. It was full nearly to capacity, a mixed clientele made up of hardworking Waterdhavian craftspeople with a scattering of wealthy merchants and nobles—all dedicated drinkers who knew the inn’s merits. The exotic clothing and road-weary appearance of many of the guests marked them as travelers in for the festival. Conversation was low and leisurely, and the patrons savored their food and drink with an air of contentment. Judging from their mug-littered tables and blurred smiles, many of the patrons appeared to have hunkered down for a long evening of serious imbibing. Few empty seats remained in the house.

“You see?” Danilo concluded. “You’re stuck with me for one more evening. Dinner hour is nearly past, and it would be foolish for one of us to go into that storm to seek another inn, just to make a point. Truth be told, I doubt there are many rooms left in the whole of Waterdeep. Since I’m a regular and, if I may say so, a valued customer here, we’ll be well taken care of.”

Seeing her hesitation, he pressed on. “Come, now. We’re both cold and wet and in need of a good night’s sleep, and I for one would like to eat something for which we did not have to hunt.”

He has a point there, Arilyn admitted silently. “All right,” she conceded rather ungraciously.

“It’s decided.” Danilo’s attention drifted off to a point past Arilyn’s shoulder. “Ah! There’s the innkeeper. What ho! Simon!” he called as he headed off toward a pudgy, apron-draped man.

Will I never be rid of the fool? Arilyn stalked off toward the fireplace in search of an empty seat. A number of small tables were scattered there in the shadows, drawing her with their isolation. Perhaps one of the nooks would be unoccupied.

“Amnestria! Quefirre soora kan izzt?”

The melodious voiced stopped Arilyn in midstride, and all thoughts of weariness and hunger were washed away on a flood of memories. When was the last time she had heard that language?

She turned to find herself face to face with a tall, silver-haired moon elf. Dressed in dignified black, the elf had the graceful carriage—and the well-kept weapons—that marked him as an experienced fighter. He spoke the formal language of the moon elven court, a language that Arilyn had never quite mastered. With a pang the half-elf recalled herself as a restless child squirming at her mother’s side, impatient with Z’beryl’s efforts to school her in anything other than swordplay.

“I’m sorry,” she said with regret, “but it’s been many years since I’ve heard that dialect.”

“Of course,” the handsome quessir replied, switching smoothly to Common. “An old tongue, and spoken all too seldom. Forgive me, but there are too few of our race in these parts, and I was momentarily overcome by nostalgia.” The elf’s smile was both wistful and charming.

Arilyn accepted his explanation with a nod. “What did you call me just then?”

The elf responded with a short bow. “Again, I must apologize. For a moment, you reminded me of someone I once knew.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, I am certain you could never do that,” he swore. “Even as we speak, I’ve grown to realize how fortunate an error I made.”

Arilyn’s rarely seen dimples flashed briefly. “Are you always this gallant with chance-met strangers?”

“Always,” he responded in kind. “Seldom, however, does chance deliver me such lovely strangers. Would you do me the honor of joining me? This is one of the few places in Waterdeep were one can find Elverquisst, and I’ve just ordered a bottle. Not many can appreciate the nuances or the tradition.”

Arilyn’s face relaxed in a genuine smile. The surprise of meeting a moon elf in this place—and of hearing him speak the language Arilyn associated with her mother—had lowered her natural reserve. The elf’s avowed homesickness reminded her that it had indeed been too long since she’d been to Evereska.

“A gracious offer, most gratefully accepted,” she replied, using the formal polite response. She extended her left hand, palm up. “I am Arilyn Moonblade of Evereska.”

The quessir placed his palm over hers and bowed low over their joined hands. “Your name is known to me. I am indeed honored,” he murmured in a respectful tone.

The tread of approaching footsteps interrupted the elves.

“I’ve got good news and bad news, Arilyn,” Danilo announced gaily as he sauntered up. “Hello! Who’s your fr—” The young man stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the moon elf.

Danilo’s face darkened, and, to Arilyn’s horror, his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword in unmistakable challenge. What was the fool doing? she thought with dismay.

The patrons of the House of Good Spirits were, for the most part, hard-drinking folk, many of them veterans of countless tavern battles. They could sense a fight in the making as surely as a sea captain could smell a coming storm. Conversations trailed off, and glasses clinked busily as the patrons drained their spirits while conditions permitted.

As quickly as it came, the threat passed. Looking faintly surprised at himself, Danilo released his sword and fished an embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his fingers as if they had somehow been sullied by the touch of a weapon, and his vaguely apologetic smile took in both Arilyn and the elf. “Someone you know, I take it?” he said into the inn’s sudden silence, gazing down at the elves’ joined hands.

Self-consciously, Arilyn snatched her hand away and stuffed both balled fists into her trouser pockets. Before she could issue a scathing rejoinder, her new acquaintance spoke up.

“For a moment, I mistook the etriel for an old friend.”

Danilo’s eyebrows flew up. “By the gods, an original ploy!” he said with great admiration. “I shall have to try that myself next time I see a lady whose acquaintance I should like to make.”

The quessir’s eyes narrowed at the implication, but Danilo’s bland, smiling face betrayed not a hint of sarcasm. For a moment the three stood, unmoving. The moon elf made a curt bow of dismissal to Danilo, then, turning his back on the dandy as if he were of no further consequence or concern, the elf took Arilyn’s arm and escorted her toward a table near the fireplace. The inn’s patrons sensed that the crisis was past, and the clink and murmur of resumed drinking and conversation filled the inn.

Still aghast at Danilo’s rude behavior, Arilyn felt a flood of relief that a fight had been avoided. In the Marsh of Chelimber Danilo had proven himself a remarkably good fighter, but Arilyn did not want to see him take his chances against this elf. As the quessir led her to his table, she shot an angry look over her shoulder mouthed Go away! at Danilo. She glared at him and silently willed him to leave well enough alone.

If Danilo understood her warning, he stupidly refused to take it. Casually the dandy followed the elves to their table. It was a corner table, big enough only for two to share a bottle and conversation, but Danilo dragged a third chair up and dropped comfortably into it. His smile was arrogantly complacent, as if his presence there had been commissioned by royalty.

“Danilo, what has come over you?” Arilyn snapped.

“What has come over you?” he countered languidly, gesturing across the table at the quessir. “Really, my dear, accepting an invitation from this, er, gentleman—or would the term be gentle elf?—without benefit of a proper introduction.” The dandy shook his head and tsk-tsked. “At this rate, how shall I ever induct you into Waterdhavian society?”

Enraged by Danilo’s presumption, Arilyn drew in a long, slow breath. Before she could expel it in a barrage of much-deserved abuse, something in Danilo’s meanderings struck home. Come to think of it, she realized, the elf had not given her his name. She turned her eyes toward the quessir. He was observing the exchange with an alert expression in his amber eyes.

“I make no secret of my identity,” the elf said, speaking only to Arilyn. “We were merely interrupted before I could complete the introduction. I am Elaith Craulnobur, at your service.”

“Well, damn my eyes!” Danilo interjected in a jovial tone. “I’ve heard of you! Aren’t you known as ‘the Serpent?’ ”

“In certain objectionable circles, yes,” the elf admitted coolly.

Elaith “the Serpent” Craulnobur. With an effort, Arilyn kept her face expressionless. She had also heard of the elven adventurer. His reputation for cruelty and treachery was legendary, and Kymil had issued strict and repeated orders for her to stay far away from the moon elf. Her mentor emphasized that Arilyn’s reputation, damaged by the unfortunate label of assassin, would be further tainted by association with such as Elaith Craulnobur.

Arilyn, however, refused to be prejudiced by the dark rumors or by Kymil’s old-lady fussing. After all, tales of some of her own exploits had come back to her, twisted beyond all recognition. It could be so with this elf. Arilyn turned to face her host, keeping her voice and face carefully neutral. She would judge for herself.

“Well met, Elaith Craulnobur. Please accept my apologies for my companion’s unfortunate remark.”

“Your companion?” Elaith regarded Danilo with the first sign of interest.

“Thank you very much, Arilyn, but I can speak for myself,” Danilo protested cheerfully.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered. “Really, Danilo, I know that seats are scarce, but would you please excuse us? I have accepted Elaith Craulnobur’s invitation for a drink. I will join you later, if you like.”

“What? You want me to leave? And miss the opportunity to meet such a legend? Not likely. What kind of amateur bard do you think me?” Danilo folded both arms on the table and leaned toward Elaith Craulnobur, smiling confidingly. “Did you know that songs are sung about your exploits?”

“I did not.” The quessir’s tone did not invite more discussion on the matter.

Danilo missed the unspoken message entirely. “You mean that you’ve never heard ‘Silent Strikes the Serpent?’ It’s quite a catchy tune. Shall I sing it for you?”

“Another time.”

“Danilo …” Arilyn warned through gritted teeth.

The dandy smiled apologetically at her. “Arilyn, my dear, I’m forgetting myself again, aren’t I? Mark of an amateur, that’s what it is: going on and on like this, when a true bard would merely listen and observe. I’ll do that, really I shall. Please, do go on with your conversation. Pretend I’m not here at all. I’ll be as silent as a snail, really.”

Stubborn fool, Arilyn thought, stifling a sigh. She knew that arguing with the dandy usually made matters worse, so she smiled ruefully at Elaith and said, “With your permission then, it would seem that we are three this evening.”

“If it pleases you,” the elf agreed mildly. He regarded Danilo as one would an overgrown and badly trained puppy. “I don’t believe we have met.”

“This is Danilo Thann,” Arilyn supplied quickly, before the young man could say something more to risk the elf’s ire.

“Ah, yes.” Elaith smiled with gentle amusement. “Young Master Thann. Your reputation precedes you, as well.”

The elf left that remark for Danilo to take as he would, turning his attention to the ceremony of the Elverquisst. With a flick of his long-fingered hands, he tossed a tiny magical fireball toward the candle at the table’s center. Arilyn winced as the candle caught flame. At that moment she caught Danilo’s curious gaze upon her, and she gravely shook her head to warn him not to interrupt. The nobleman subsided and watched the ceremony in growing fascination.

Elaith Craulnobur cupped his hands first over the candle, then over the decanter of elven spirits on the table before him. The bottle was a marvel, made of transparent crystal that sparkled from thousands of tiny facets. The elf took the decanter in both hands, turning it slowly before the candle, and the bottle grew ever brighter as it absorbed the light. Finally the quessir spoke a phrase in Elvish, and the stored light coalesced into thirteen distinct points that glowed like stars against the sudden darkness of the crystal decanter

Arilyn’s throat tightened, as it always did, before the sight of the autumn constellation Correlian. To the moon elves, the appearance of this star formation marked the final demise of summer. Elaith and Arilyn joined softly in a chant of farewell, and the light faded from the decanter with the final words of the ritual.

Gently Elaith poured some of the liquid into a goblet, swirling it in a complex pattern that set in motion a play of fairy lights and color. His graceful hands moved through the steps of the ritual with practiced ease. The ceremony’s resonant magic had been forged through centuries of repetition, as untold generations of elves celebrated the spiral dance of the seasons.

As she watched, Arilyn almost forgot about Danilo’s foolishness and Elaith’s reputation, and for a moment or two she allowed herself to be transported back to her childhood in Evereska. The last time Arilyn had shared the Elverquisst ritual had been in her fifteenth year, just before the death of Z’beryl.

Elverquisst itself was a ruby-colored liquor magically distilled from sunshine and rare summer fruits. Utterly smooth, the liquor was nonetheless flecked with gold and had an iridescence of both color and flavor. It was highly prized at all times, but in the autumn rituals it was savored as if it were the gift of one final, perfect summer day.

Elaith completed the ceremony and handed the goblet to Arilyn. She drank it slowly, with proper respect, then inclined her head to the quessir in a ritual bow of thanks that completed the ceremony.

With an imperious gesture, Elaith summoned a waiter. “Another goblet, if you please,” he instructed the young man. As an afterthought, Elaith turned back to Danilo. “Or perhaps two more? Will you have some Elverquisst as well?”

“Thank you, I prefer zzar,” Danilo said.

“Of course you do,” Elaith said smoothly. “A goblet of that ubiquitous beverage for our young friend, then, and dinner for three,” he instructed the nervous waiter, who nodded and escaped to the safety of the kitchen.

“Now,” Elaith said to Arilyn, “what brings you to Waterdeep? The Feast of the Moon, I would suppose? You’re here to enjoy the festival?”

“Yes, the festival,” she agreed, thinking it the most harmless response.

“An interesting affair. Raucous, gaudy, but undeniably colorful enough to draw a crowd. Like this inn, the city is already full of visitors. Too full for my taste, although the influx of travelers is good for business. I trust you have found a suitable place to stay?”

Arilyn looked to Danilo for an answer. “Were you able to get rooms here?”

“Room,” Danilo corrected a bit sheepishly. “One room. The place is full up.”

One room, Arilyn thought with dismay. Another night with Danilo Thann. She leaned back in her chair with a faint groan. Her reaction was not lost on Elaith.

“That would be the bad news of which you spoke, I imagine,” the elf observed wryly.

“Strange you should find it so,” Danilo countered mildly, apparently misunderstanding the gibe. “Sharing a room with a beautiful woman doesn’t strike me as a hardship.”

“The etriel,” Elaith corrected pointedly, observing Arilyn’s silent fury over Danilo’s suggestive remark, “does not seem to share your enthusiasm.”

“Oh, but she does. It’s just that, you know, Arilyn is the very soul of discretion,” Danilo confided, man-to-man.

At that moment the waiter returned with their drinks. Arilyn snatched the goblet of zzar from his tray and thunked it down in front of Danilo.

“Drink this,” she suggested sweetly, “and several others. I’m buying.”

Taking up the other goblet, Arilyn plunged into the half-remembered ceremony of pouring and offering the Elverquisst. If Elaith found anything amiss in her rendering of the ritual, he did not speak of it. The ritual brought a much-needed change of direction to the conversation, which turned to local gossip, politics and—this being Waterdeep, after all-commerce.

Despite his promise to remain a bardic observer, Danilo continued to verbally spar with the quessir. The nobleman scored a good number of hits, any one of which, coming from any other man, could have been considered grounds for a challenge. Elaith let the gibes pass without comment. He really could not do otherwise, for Danilo’s barbs, if such they were, were issued with such friendly delicacy that responding with anger would seem as ludicrous as swatting at soap bubbles.

Arilyn sipped her drink, silently taking the measure of her strange dinner companion. Elaith was charming to her, unfailingly polite even in the face of Danilo’s foolishness. For someone reputed to be a savage, ruthless killer, he showed remarkable restraint and good humor. Perhaps the rumors are exaggerated, after all, Arilyn mused.

“Ah, dinner at last,” Elaith announced. Two waiters appeared, one bearing a well-laden platter, the other a small serving table to augment the overly cozy corner table.

The waiters lay several dishes on the tables: roasted meat, several small fowl still sizzling on a spit, turnips, boiled greens, and small loaves warm from the oven.

The moon elf studied the simple fare with patrician distaste. “I’m afraid this is the best the inn has to offer. Some other time I will offer you more suitable hospitality.”

“It is fine. After the rigors of travel, simple food is the best,” Arilyn assured him.

She and Danilo tucked in. The meal seemed to improve Danilo’s mood even more. Disgustingly cheerful, he again engaged Elaith Craulnobur in conversation, relishing the verbal give and take in the same way a swordsman enjoys a good match.

Too bone-weary to take part in the sparring, Arilyn nevertheless kept a keen eye on the room as she ate, alert for anything that might prove a clue in her search. There was some talk of the Harper Assassin drifting about, and even in this safe haven the patrons seemed unnerved by the macabre tales.

“Branded, she was, branded right on her haunch like a prize cow …”

“They say that assassin got past the guard in Waterdeep Castle and …”

“Now me, if I was a Harper, right about now I’d be melting that pin down and recasting the metal for a chamber pot.”

Arilyn learned nothing of value from the fragments of conversation, but she noted with dismay how the tales of the Harper Assassin had grown in the telling.

A smattering of applause began in one corner, spreading until it competed with the hum of conversation. Chairs were scraped across the floor to make way in the middle of the room. Two of the waiters brought in a large harp, setting it down in the center of the makeshift stage. A tall, slender man walked diffidently to the harp and began to correct the instrument’s tuning.

“Ah, now we shall hear from a true bard,” Elaith noted pointedly.

Danilo craned his neck around, taking in the scene in the middle of the tavern. “Really? Who is he?”

“Rhys Ravenwind,” Arilyn said. She recognized the bard from one of her trips to Suzail. Although the man was young and rather shy, he was very good indeed.

“Hmm. I wonder if he might be up for a duet or two, after the—ouch!” Danilo broke off with a reproachful look at Arilyn, then he bent down to rub the spot where she had kicked his shin.

Arilyn responded by putting her finger to her lips. The gesture was hardly necessary. After the first few notes, every person in the room fell silent, held spellbound by the power of the bard’s music. Those who had come only to worship the art of the brewers listened as intently, as delightedly, as the most devoted music lover. It was customary for a visiting musician to sing at any inn or tavern, but seldom was the House of Fine Spirits graced with the presence of such a bard. Even Elaith and Danilo forgot their baiting long enough to listen to the ancient song honoring the Feast of the Moon. The applause that greeted the bard was long and loud. With a shy smile, the young man gave in to calls for another song.

During the second song, a wistful ballad of long-ago love and adventure, a newcomer drifted into the tavern. He paused in the doorway for a moment as he sought a place, then he moved noiselessly across the room and settled at a corner table near Arilyn.

The half-elf noted the man’s entrance and studied him with carefully concealed interest. Probably one of the tallest men in the room, he nonetheless moved with the silent grace of a cat. As were most travelers, the man was wrapped against the chill autumn wind. Unlike most, the man did not remove cape or cowl when he entered the warm tavern. His table sat in the shadows just beyond the fireplace’s glow, and he kept his cape closely drawn. Considering the warmth of the room, Arilyn found this behavior peculiar indeed.

A barmaid brought the newcomer a mug of mead, and, as he tipped his head up to drink it, Arilyn caught a glimpse of his face. He was a man well past middle life, obviously robust despite his years. His features were ordinary enough, except for the unusually determined set to his square jaw. It seemed to Arilyn that there was something familiar about the man, although she would swear by the whole pantheon of gods that she had never laid eyes on him before.

She watched the stranger for some time, but he did nothing to arouse suspicion. Apparently content to sit in the shadows and listen to the bard, he attended to his dinner and nursed a single mug of mead. Still, Arilyn felt a tug of relief when the bard finished singing and the man rose to leave.

I’m seeing danger in every corner, she chided herself. Soon I’ll be checking under the bed for ogres, like some frightened child. I need rest, and badly. At that moment, a yawn escaped her, stopping the recently renewed verbal match between Danilo and Elaith Craulnobur in mid-pleasantry.

“It has been a long journey,” she apologized.

Elaith raised a hand. “Say no more. It was inconsiderate of me to keep you so long. As an apology, perhaps you would allow me to settle with the innkeeper?”

“Thank you,” Arilyn said, again kicking Danilo under the table to keep him from arguing the point.

“We will meet again, I hope?” pressed Elaith.

“Yes,” she said simply. She inclined her head and spread both hands in the formal leave-taking gesture between elves. Taking Danilo by the arm, she dragged him away before he could start up again.

“So, where is this room?” she demanded in a resigned tone.

Danilo led her to a small staircase in the rear of the tavern. “It’s not best chamber in the inn—actually, it’s the only one that was left—so don’t expect luxury.”

“As long as it has a bed,” she mumbled, almost numb with weariness.

“Funny you should mention that …” Danilo’s voice trailed off as the pair climbed the stairs.

Elaith watched them go. He speculated, shrugged, then rose to leave. He briefly considered tossing some coins on the table to pay for the meal, then decided against it. Why should he bother? Skipping out on a tavern bill was the sort of thing people expected of him.

For good measure, he picked up the half-full decanter of elven spirits, firmly stoppered it, and openly tucked it into his belt. The decanter alone was probably worth more than the inn would make during the entire festival week.

With a casual nod to the innkeeper, whose ruddy face paled at the imminent loss of the Elverquisst, Elaith glided out of the tavern. Many watched him go, but no one challenged his passing.

The rain had stopped, and the wind whipped the elf’s black cloak around his legs as he strode toward the stable. He claimed his horse and mounted, riding swiftly westward toward the Way of the Dragon. There was a stone townhouse there, a particularly fine building fashioned of black granite. Tall, narrow, and elegant, the house was located on the main road between the South Ward and the Dock Ward.

Blackstone House, as it was called, was one of many properties the elf owned in Waterdeep. Elaith used the house infrequently. It was too stark and angular for his taste, but it was ideally equipped for the evening’s purposes. He dismounted at the gate of the iron fence that surrounded the property and flung the reins to the young servant who ran out to greet him.

Elaith nodded to the house servants—a pair of highly trusted moon elves—as he entered, then he sprinted up a winding spiral staircase to the chamber in the topmost floor. He shut the door, sealing it magically against any possible interruption.

The room was dark and empty save for a single pedestal. Removing a silk cloth, Elaith revealed a dark crystal globe that floated in the air several inches above the pedestal. He passed a hand over the smooth surface of the crystal, murmuring a string of arcane syllables. The globe began to shine, dimly at first, and dark mists swirled in its depths. Gradually the light increased, filling the room as the image came into focus.

“Greetings, Lord Nimesin,” Elaith said to the image, voicing the title with gentle irony.

“It is late. What do you want, gray elf?” the haughty voice demanded, speaking the word “gray” with the subtle inflection that transformed it from the Common term for a color into the Elvish word meaning “dross.” Into that one word was distilled the opinion that moon elves were no more than the waste product formed from the long-ago forging of the golden high elves.

Elaith smiled, ignoring the deadly insult. He could afford to be tolerant tonight. “You always pay a good price for information. I have some to impart that you should find most interesting.”

“Well?”

“I met Arilyn Moonblade this evening. She is staying in Waterdeep, at the House of Good Spirits,” Elaith began. “She is very beautiful and strangely familiar.”

“What?” The gold elf’s face was livid. “I told you to keep away from her.”

“It was a chance meeting,” Elaith said smoothly. “Under the circumstances, I could hardly avoid her.”

“I won’t have her associated with such as you!” Kymil spat out. “I won’t have her reputation tainted.”

“Oh, come now,” Elaith chided him. “Tainted? Gifted she may be, beautiful she certainly is, but there is no denying that Arilyn Moonblade is thought by many to be an assassin.”

“She was an assassin.”

“Have it your way. Oh, yes. She has a companion, a particularly foolish whelp of one of the Waterdhavian noblemen. Danilo Thann. Why she travels with him is not clear. To all appearances, he’s something of a pet.”

“Yes, yes,” Kymil Nimesin said impatiently. “I know all this already.”

Elaith continued, undisturbed by the interruption. “But appearances, as we both know so well, can be deceiving. The etriel’s companion, I’m convinced, is something more than the fool he appears to be. Were you aware that Danilo Thann is related to Khelben Arunsun? A nephew, I believe.”

“Blackstaff’s nephew?” For the first time, Kymil’s face showed a flicker of interest. Just as quickly, the interest was gone. “What of it?”

“Perhaps nothing,” Elaith allowed. “But Arilyn Moonblade is reputed to be skilled at concealing her identity and purpose. Is it inconceivable that her companion is similarly gifted?”

The face in the globe twisted in annoyance. “Your effrontery is inconceivable. You forget, gray elf, that I can observe Arilyn Moonblade myself. The conversation at your table tonight was noted. The Thann twit challenged you to a battle of words—notice that I did not say wits—and the match was a draw.”

“But he is Blackstaff’s nephew.”

“So you’ve said. I see no significance.”

“He is well placed and more clever than he pretends to be,” Elaith said. “Given her background, surely the Harpers suspect Arilyn of the recent spate of murders. Perhaps this Thann boy is a spy, sent to ascertain her guilt or innocence.”

“Ha!” Kymil broke in scornfully. “Danilo Thann is no more a Harper than you or I.”

“Perhaps not, but if he were, wouldn’t it be amusing if he were to fall victim to the Harper Assassin?”

“You have a peculiar sense of humor.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told,” Elaith agreed. “Now, what about Danilo Thann?”

“If you want the fool dead, see to it. One human more or less is of no consequence to me.”

The face in the globe began to fade into mist. “I also saw Bran Skorlsun,” said Elaith casually.

Instantly the image snapped into sharp focus. “Yes, I thought that might get your attention,” Elaith murmured, a malicious glint lighting his amber eyes. “Imagine my surprise to see our mutual friend again after all these years. Of course, I did not recognize him at first. Humans can age appallingly in—what has it been? Almost forty years?”

Kymil brushed aside the question. “Bran Skorlsun was there? At the House of Good Spirits?”

“Fascinating coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” Elaith said casually.

Lost in thought, Kymil again failed to comment. After a pause, he said, “You did well to contact me. I will send you your usual fee.”

Elaith had contacted Kymil Nimesin merely to annoy him, but now the moon elf’s curiosity was piqued. Any plot involving Bran Skorlsun smelled of adventure, and where there was adventure there was potential profit. He decided to ignore the gold elf’s patronizing attitude for now and press for details. Retribution for tonight’s insults would come later.

“Is there something further with which I can help you?” Elaith offered.

“Nothing,” Kymil said curtly. “Wait. Yes, there is.”

“At your service,” Elaith replied.

“You can stay away from Arilyn Moonblade.”

“Of course. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

Kymil’s tone held the ring of finality. Elaith was not impressed. He was accustomed to having the last word himself, in his own time and in his own fashion. “As you wish. There is, however, the little matter of my fee,” the moon elf pointed out. “The terms have changed. I prefer payment in, shall we say, a less direct form of currency.”

“Yes? Well?”

“Danilo Thann,” Elaith said flatly.

“Done,” snapped Kymil Nimesin. “As I said, it matters not to me whether he lives or dies. Considering the gold you’re giving up, your pride has a high price.”

As you will learn, Elaith Craulnobur thought, my pride has a very high price indeed.