Elfsong

Nine

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 “This 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 Faire. 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, then caught fire. Danilo noted the gleam of dawning obsession and was satisfied. He rose to his feet and walked off to waken 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.

Wyn and Morgalla rode side by side, as was becoming their custom. It was clear to Danilo that the dwarf had found in Wyn the musical mentor she craved, but, as much as he hated to disturb their camaraderie, he needed time to convince Wyn to share elfsong magic. So soon after his conversation with Vartain, broaching this subject made Danilo feel as if he were a juggler trying to keep a few too many balls in the air.

“Ride with me a while,” he requested of the elf. Morgalla took the hint and reined her stout pony over to Balindar’s side. The mercenary looked a bit sheepish when the dwarf approached, but she made some comment that got him laughing and seemed to ease his conscience.

Danilo reached into the magic bag at his belt and withdrew the spellbook Khelben had prepared for him. “This is the spell I used on Grimnosh. Be careful not to look at the runes—that can be dangerous to the untrained. It’s a charm spell, very like the one you cast in the marshlands. It suggests that wizard magic and elven spellsong are compatible.”

“After what occurred in the High Forest, I cannot deny that,” the elf said with obvious reluctance. “Morgalla told me all that happened. She sang me the melody you used, and it is identical to a powerful elven charm spell. This is what you were trying to tell me last night an elven spellsong had been written in arcane notation.”

“Actually, no. I had no idea it was an elfsong spell. I’d never seen anything like this, and I had no idea what it was or even, for that matter, whether it would work. Khelben gave me this spellbook, but I’ve never heard him cast such magic.” Danilo paused, and his brow furrowed. “Come to think of it, I can see why. Uncle Khelben has a voice reminiscent of an amorous cat on an alley fence.

“But I’m wandering from the point,” he continued, giving himself a little shake. “As the good archmage often admonishes me, I ought not to let my mind wander, as it’s too small to go off by itself.”

“You were saying?” Wyn prodded politely.

“Indeed I was. The point is, I’m not an elf, yet I was able to cast magic through music. Consider the possibilities!” Danilo waited for the elf to reply, but Wyn kept his eyes on the path ahead. “Don’t you see what this could mean for the Harpers? After the Time of Trouble passed and the gods returned to their own planes, magic was changed in many important ways. Bardic magic was stolen from humans. If some bards could learn the magic of elfsong, think what we could become!”

“I have considered that”

“And?”

The elven minstrel rode in silence for several moments before he turned to the Harper. “Please listen to my explanation before you pass judgment. Keep in mind that I mean no offense, and that my hesitation does not reflect upon you personally.”

“I think I’ve heard this speech before, from at least a dozen Waterdhavian maidens,” Danilo said warily.

Wyn’s answering smile was faint “Elfsong, as you have so aptly named the spellsong magic, is a power that when learned is easily accessed. But consider this: power is more easily acquired than wisdom. The elven people live for many human lifetimes, and this gives us a different perspective and a patience that humans tend to lack. We are guided by rich and ancient traditions, and we are prone to consider many solutions before resorting to the use of magic. If humans could resolve their difficulties by the singing of a song, the temptation to abuse—or at least overuse—this power would surely be too great to bear.”

“That argument can be made for any kind of magic,” Danilo countered. “Yet many humans wield magic with honor.”

“And there are many who do not. At least with wizard magic, one must take the time to study and memorize a spell before each casting. That guarantees time for deliberation and reflection, and surely keeps many mages from acting in haste. Elfsong lacks any such safeguard; once a spellsong is learned, it can be cast at will.” Wyn shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I have spent many years among human musicians, and there are none I would entrust with such a power. Your ways and elven ways are simply too different.”

“I have the next two stanzas!” announced Vartain.

The riddlemaster’s words forestalled the protest Danilo had ready. “Can we discuss this at a later time?” he asked the elf.

“It would do no good,” Wyn said with quiet finality.

Although he was deeply disappointed, Danilo saw no option but to accept the elf’s decision. He inclined his head in a small, formal bow and rode to Vartain’s side.

“You were correct,” the riddlemaster said, and his voice was less patronizing than usual. “The third and fourth sites were also barding colleges. The riddles name Doss in Berdusk, and Canaith, located near Zazesspur in the land of Tethyr.”

“I have recently come from Tethyr,” Danilo said thoughtfully, remembering the ballad that had driven him north. He’d tried to put that night from his mind, but he quickly reviewed the event now in search of something that might yield a clue. He wished he had asked Arilyn for more details about the bard who had spread this ballad. Perhaps such information would help them now.

“What powers did the caster gain?” Danilo asked, returning to the matter at hand.

“In Berdusk, the ability to call up or control monsters who use music as a weapon. That would perhaps explain the frog pipers we met in the marshlands near the High Forest It is interesting to note that there has recently been a marked increase of monster attacks on travelers and farmers to the south of Waterdeep. In many cases, the victims were slain before they could raise weapons in their own defense. These incidents seem to fall along a path between Berdusk and Waterdeep.” The riddlemaster paused and considered. “For that matter, the failure of crops around Waterdeep has been profound this year, and unmatched elsewhere in the Northlands but for that one area in the Moonshaes.”

“Marvelous,” Danilo muttered. “And what happened at Canaith?”

“The caster regained the power to influence crowds through song. Once a common type of bardic magic, it fell dormant during the Time of Trouble.”

Danilo fell silent, moving the pieces of this puzzle around in his mind and trying to fit them into a pattern. After a moment he abandoned the exercise. “What’s going to happen in Sundabar? The old college Anstruth was there.”

“I’ve haven’t gotten that far.”

The Harper scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It is possible that the sorcerer hasn’t, either. Our foe can obviously travel fast, but we might yet precede him.”

Danilo kicked his horse into a trot and rode to the front of the group. The moon elf was riding point guard, as usual, and his silvery hair gleamed in the bright morning light “You’ll have to live without me for a short time,” the Harper announced. “I’m leaving for Sundabar at once. Upon my honor, I will return at daybreak.”

“Upon the dwarf’s life, I believe you,” Elaith said pointedly, then he smiled at the Harper. “I shall strive to withhold my tears during your absence. What benevolent god should I thank for this turn of events?”

“Khelben Arunsun, but don’t refer to him as such. As deities go, he isn’t much for ceremony. Now, all jesting aside. The archmage gave me a ring of teleportation that can transport up to three persons to a site of my choice. I’m going to Sundabar, for there may be a chance of catching up with our spellcaster there.”

“Then let us be off at once,” Elaith said.

“Us? As in, you and me?”

“Of course.” The elf smiled pleasantly and produced a plain silver ring from a pouch at his belt “Your magic ring, I believe.”

Danilo’s jaw dropped. He glanced down at his hands. Sure enough, one of his rings was missing. “How?”

“Let us tend to more important matters,” the elf said, returning the ring to its owner. “If it would make you feel more comfortable, by all means bring someone else along with us.”

The Harper nodded reluctant agreement as he slid the ring back onto his finger. “It’s either Wyn or Morgalla. The others are in your employ, and I trust none of them.” He raised his voice to hail the dwarf. “Morgalla, how would you like to teleport to Sundabar with me?”

“How’d you like to kiss an orc?” the dwarf responded sweetly. Dwarves were notoriously leery of magical travel, and Morgalla was no exception.

“Wyn it is,” Danilo said in a matter-of-fact tone. “One problem: I can use the ring but once in any given day or night We will not be able to return until after sunset, and I can only teleport to a place I have been before. We’re about a day’s travel from Taskerleigh: we could meet up with the others there tomorrow morning.”

Elaith agreed. He called a halt and quickly explained the plan to the others, putting Balindar in charge and giving them strict orders to make camp at the nearby creek, away from both the ruins of Taskerleigh and the harpy-infested hills.

When all was in readiness, Danilo twisted the ring. The white whirl of the teleportation spell began to encompass him, and he grasped each of the elves by the wrist to bring them along. There was a long moment of nothing but swirling wind and white light, and then they were in Sundabar.

They were also ankle-deep in slush. Danilo stared agape at the devastation around them. The air was warm, but melting ice flooded the streets, and water flowed in rivulets down the gutters. He stooped and fished a chunk of ice from the slush, partly melted but still nearly the size of a hen’s egg. It must have been quite a hailstorm, he noted, watching the industrious cityfolk as they set about righting the damage. A small army of workers replaced shattered glass windows, physicians and healers scurried about with herbs and amulets, and city workers dragged off dead and battered animals. Only the children seemed pleased by the novelty, and they darted about, shrieking and tossing balls of hard-packed slush.

For a moment, Danilo wondered if his transportation spell had misfired and taken them to a city farther to the north: perhaps Sossal or some other cold land.

Elaith apparently harbored similar misgivings. “Where the Nine Hells are we?” he demanded.

The Harper turned to the building behind them and squinted up at the heavy wooden sign. The Lusty Wench. Yes, that was the name of the inn he’d patronized on several occasions, and it was the site he had chosen as the destination for his teleportation spell.

“This is definitely Sundabar,” he said.

“In that case,” Elaith said smoothly, “I think it’s safe to assume that we’re a bit too late.”

When Garnet awoke that morning, the sun was already well into the sky above Sundabar. Exhausted from her long flight and drained by the miscast spell, she had taken a room at an inn not far from the warehouse. Her asperii needed rest as well, for the return trip to Waterdeep would take two days of almost constant flight.

The sorceress dragged herself to the window of her bedchamber and looked down at the street Almost a day had passed since the freak hailstorm, but the streets were still clogged with slush. Garnet heaved a profound sigh and glanced at the elven harp. It was proving more difficult to control than she had imagined.

She quickly dressed and made her way down to the taproom. As she ate a breakfast of fruit and oatcakes, she noted absently that the other patrons could speak of nothing but the storm. It was widely regarded as a portent of disaster, coming so close to Midsummer. Garnet observed this with satisfaction. At least her spell had succeeded at that much!

Three of the inn’s patrons seemed unusually curious about the storm. Two of them were elves, the third a tall young man with long blond hair and an engaging smile. This he turned upon a servant girl, flirting extravagantly while he gently extracted information about the freak storm.

“Try to remember why we’re here, Lord Thann!” grumbled the silver-haired elf when the girl left to fetch their order. His voice was soft, but Garnet’s sharp elven hearing picked up the words. “While you waste your charm on a serving wench, our sorcerer is long gone.”

Thann! Could it be? Garnet studied the young man with growing trepidation, noting the lute on his shoulder and the travel-worn state of his clothes. If this was Khelben Arunsun’s nephew, what was he doing in Sundabar? Even such a fool as Danilo Thann was reputed to be should have found his way to Grimnoshtadrano by now. The possibility that he could have survived the dragon encounter was too ludicrous to consider. After all, Garnet had studied and altered Danilo’s songs, and she knew what the young “bard” was capable of doing. He was hardly the musician and mage needed to outwit wily Grimnosh.

“Tavern servants hear a great deal,” the young man told his elven companion. “Many people speak freely in front of them, as if they were invisible or deaf, or at the very least of no consequence. You would be surprised, my dear Elaith, at how much information they usually possess.”

“Spoken like a true Harper,” Elaith replied, and the moon elf’s tone made clear that this was not a compliment

“What do you propose we do now, Danilo?” asked the gold elf.

Garnet caught her breath. It was indeed Danilo Thann, and he was counted among Those Who Harped! Somehow the young man she had thought to use as a tool had become an adversary. She leaned forward and listened intently.

The young Harper paused to consider. “We cannot return to Ganstar’s Creek until after sunset, and the others will not reach that site until well after dark, anyway. I propose that we spend the day and most of the night in Sundabar and return just before daybreak. That will give Vartain time to work on old Grimnosh’s scroll, and us time to glean some information from the townspeople. Our sorcerer struck recently, and perhaps we can get some idea of his identity. Perhaps he is still in the city.”

Not for long, Garnet added silently. She rose from the chair and tossed some coins onto the table. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she moved through the taproom.

Vartain, the young Harper had said. That could only be Vartain of Calimport, a riddlemaster of well-deserved fame. And he had in his possession her riddle scroll! Her situation could only be worse if one of Danilo Thann’s elven companions was a spellsinger.

The sorceress hurried up to her room. She snatched up the Morninglark harp and took the back stairs out of the inn, then she ran across the courtyard to the stables. Her asperii looked up with a question in its sleepy eyes as Garnet cinched on the saddle with shaking hands.

“We’re leaving at once. We fly to Ganstar’s Creek with all haste, throughout the whole night if we must. It is imperative that we make it there before tomorrow’s dawn!”

The early show at the Three Pearls theater opened to a large crowd. Outside the large stone and mud-brick building, a queue of people stretched down Pearl Alley. Several troupe members strolled along the narrow street, entertaining those who waited. Vendors hawked oranges and sweets, and there was a hum of curious anticipation.

“Lucia, I really haven’t time for this,” Caladorn told his lady, an uncustomary touch of impatience in his voice as they edged closer to the entrance. “The Midsummer Festival is almost upon us, and the practice sessions have been plagued by mishaps and injuries. I should be at the arena”

“I would not keep you from your work, but for something important,” Lady Thione said in soft tones. “You know that guilds or other groups sometimes hire the theater for private performances. A private party is paying for this show, yet the performance is open to all who care to come.”

“So?”

“The person behind this performance is Lord Hhune, a merchant visiting from Tethyr. The city’s bards are unhappy about attempts to censor their songs, and Hhune is paying them to air their discontent at a concert satirizing the Lords of Waterdeep, particularly the archmage.”

Caladorn stared at Lucia. “How did you come to know of this?”

The noblewoman shrugged. “Some of my servants understand the language of Tethyr. I have done business with Hhune in the past, and I trust him not, so I had him followed and watched. My servant overheard Hhune talking to one of his men. What Hhune hopes to gain from this, I cannot begin to imagine.” She lifted enormous, haunted dark eyes to her lover’s face and whispered, “You know what became of the royal family when men such as Hhune took power in Tethyr. There are many in the south who would see me dead, although my connection to the royal family is admittedly distant. Now that Hhune seeks to influence affairs in Waterdeep, I cannot help but fear.”

Caladorn’s stern expression melted, and he drew the tiny noblewoman away from the crowds. “Lucia, you are safe in Waterdeep, and with me.”

“You’re right, of course,” she said, and cast a rueful smile up at him. “I suppose I’m being foolish.”

“Your concern is easy to understand,” the young man said, and he bent and kissed her forehead. “Now, let’s leave Hhune to the city’s Lords. You can be sure they know of his activities.”

They do now, Lucia thought with dark satisfaction.

As soon as Caladorn had seen his lady safely to her villa, he hurried to the palace of Piergeiron, Waterdeep’s only acknowledged ruler. The young man was not particularly surprised to find Khelben Arunsun in council with Piergeiron. The Lords of Waterdeep met often these days, in full council and in small groups, to deal with the city’s seemingly unending problems.

“Did you enjoy the performance at the Three Pearls?” the archmage asked with a touch of wry amusement

“I didn’t stay,” the young Lord responded. He had long ago ceased to be surprised at the extent of Khelben’s knowledge; among the Lords of Waterdeep, it was often said that no one could sneeze in his bedchamber but that the archmage inquired after his health the following morning.

“I have some information about a merchant from Tethyr,” Caladorn continued.

“That would be Lord Hhune,” Piergeiron said, glancing at Khelben.

“You two know of him?”

“Oh, yes,” the archmage said dryly. He handed Caladorn a piece of paper. “This is an example of Hhune’s brand of diplomacy. He has papered the city with these.”

Caladorn glanced at a satirical sketch of Khelben Arunsun painting stick figures, while the disguised Lords of Waterdeep looked on. He shook his head in deep puzzlement and handed it back. “What does this Hhune want?”

“That is not entirely clear. He is a guildmaster in his native Tethyr, the head of the merchant shipping guild. To all appearances, he came to Waterdeep with goods for the Midsummer Faire. His crew, however, seem to have unusual talents. Some of them have been busy in the Dock Ward, recruiting thieves and assassins in an attempt to organize secret guilds in Waterdeep,” Piergeiron said, rubbing one red-rimmed eye as he spoke. The strain of the last few weeks showed plainly on the First Lord’s face.

“We believe that Hhune may be a member of the Knights of the Shield,” Khelben continued, and he handed the young Lord a large, gold coin. “These are tokens given to Knights who have performed notable services. Several of these have been recovered from Hhune’s men, including some who entered the city before Hhune showed up. That suggests a larger problem,” the archmage said. “While Hhune is not exactly subtle, the influx of agents prior to his arrival suggests that he has another, more canny partner in Waterdeep.”

“None of our sources has been able to discern the identity of this agent,” Piergeiron added. “But it seems clear that the Knights of the Shield have become extremely active in Waterdeep. You know that three merchant ships were recently lost.”

“Yes,” Caladorn said quietly. “I knew the captain on one of them, and a better sailor I never met It struck me as odd that she would fall to a pirate ambush.”

“The ships sailed from Baldur’s Gate. Harper agents there are investigating the situation. It appears that the harbormaster is an agent of the Knights of the Shield, and he has been passing information on shipping routes and schedules to an unknown source in Waterdeep. This is not the Knights’ first attempt at disrupting shipping,” Piergeiron concluded with a sigh. “It just comes at a particularly inopportune time.”

“What are you doing about Hhune?” Caladorn pressed.

“Frankly, Hhune is small fish. He is being watched in the hope that he will lead us to the Waterdeep agent.”

Caladorn seemed less than happy with that conclusion, but he bowed and hurried away to his duties at the arena.

When they were alone, Piergeiron nodded at the paper in Khelben’s hand.

“Subtle or not, Hhune’s tactics are taking a toll, my friend. I am beginning to understand your concern about the changed ballads, for they are also proving to be highly effective. Many of them seem to be aimed at you personally. Does it seem likely that the Knights of the Shield are also responsible for the spell on the bards?”

“If not, they are certainly exploiting it,” Khelben said in a weary voice. “I have a contact who may yield some information. I’ll seek her out at once.”

He murmured the words of a spell. In a moment, the tall archmage was gone, and in his place stood a young man of medium height and build. His features were pleasant, and shaded by a broad-brimmed hat Simple, well-made clothing of dark gray linen would be deemed equally at home in the marketplace or a North Ward parlor. In short, he was unremarkable and could pass unnoticed through most of the city. Thus disguised, Khelben took his leave of Piergeiron and headed toward the nearby Jester’s Court It was time for the archmage of Waterdeep to pay a call on a certain lady of the evening.

Imzeel Coopercan had heard too much in the last several days for his peace of mind. Yet the half-dwarven proprietor of the Mighty Manticore listened carefully to the talk of the early supper crowd, picking out bits from the hum of conversation as he endlessly polished the bar with a rag.

“At the rate you’re going, you’ll wear clear through the wood before moonrise,” teased Ginalee, a plump, merry lass who’d been Imzeel’s barmaid long enough for him to permit such familiarity. She was more than passing fond of her employer, despite his dour personality and barrel-shaped torso, and therefore she tried to distract him from whatever woes now absorbed his attention. Resting her elbows on the shining wood of the bar, she propped her head in her hands and dimpled up at him. This posture yielded Imzeel a view of cleavage that should have rallied a dying man; he gave Ginalee a mere glance and went back to polishing the bar.

The offended barmaid snatched the rag away and draped it from the fang of the stuffed and mounted lion head that hung over the bar. That trophy, with a little creative taxidermy and a great deal of wishful thinking, had inspired the tavern’s imposing name. For a moment, Ginalee toyed with the idea of telling Imzeel his establishment was more commonly known as “the Mangy Manticore.” With a sigh, she decided that it wouldn’t matter to him, as long as business continued to thrive.

And thrive it did. The Mighty Manticore was located in the heart of the Castle Ward, at the busy crossroads of Selduth and Silver streets. Those who spent their days in commerce and diplomacy often stopped by the tavern to share news and to make deals over a no-nonsense supper of thick, flavorful stew, sharp cheese, fresh black bread, and hearty ale. Just as important, the back of the tavern opened into Jester’s Court Something interesting always seemed to be happening there, and therefore those whose business was best conducted in shadows also found their way into the tavern through the back door. The result was a nice blend of information and intrigue that Imzeel found to be as satisfying as profit; the proprietor sought and hoarded knowledge as avidly as his dwarven forebears had mined for mithril.

Yet Imzeel found the day’s talk troubling. He reclaimed his rag from the “manticore” and resumed his endless circling as he listened in. There were the usual complaints about problems with shipping and theft, but such things seemed to be occurring on a larger scale than normal. Entire ships and the full contents of warehouses were vanishing, right under the noses of city officials. Even more distressing were the whispers suggesting that the Lords of Waterdeep were disappearing. Tavern talk made the odds-on culprit Waterdeep’s resident archmage.

It was widely accepted that Khelben Arunsun was one of the secret Lords of Waterdeep. There were some who felt the archmage had a bit too much power of his own without such a position, but most Waterdhavians had nothing against wizard rule. In fact, Ahghairon’s Tower stood nearby, a monument to the powerful mage who’d established the Lords of Waterdeep several centuries past The city had prospered under Ahghairon’s long rule, and the consensus seemed to be that, as long as the Blackstaff could do as well, may the gods be with him! Waterdhavians weren’t inclined to grease a cart until it squeaked. As trouble in the city increased, however, many feared that Khelben Arunsun was spending too much time dispatching his rival Lords, and not enough tending to the city and its concerns.

Imzeel noted with satisfaction that his own business seemed unaffected by the city’s troubles. The supper hour had just started, and already the barkeep was tapping a third keg of ale. The patrons even had music with their dinner, for the Masked Minstrel had wandered in from her customary place in Jester’s Court and was playing a plaintive tune on her lute. Usually the mysterious woman’s appearance engendered much interest and speculation, but this evening other matters took precedence. Few bothered to listen to her songs, and Imzeel was not sorry to see her put aside her lute in response to a whispered invitation. She and a young customer disappeared through the back door into Jester’s Court, no doubt bound for the privacy of the woods that covered the slopes of Waterdeep Mountain. Business as usual, Imzeel repeated silently, taking comfort from the thought.

“The wizards you ordered are here,” Ginalee announced. She plunked a tray of empty mugs down on the counter, and tossed her head in the direction of three newcomers. “Should I tell them to go ahead?”

Imzeel nodded, and relief eased his countenance into something approaching a smile. He was a prudent man of business, and like many others he had contracted the wizards’ guild to place magical wards about his establishment.

The Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors was Waterdeep’s youngest guild, and they tended to matters ranging from policing visiting sorcerers to serving on the fire watch. The guild also sought to influence and—to whatever extent they could—monitor the magical activities of powerful, independent wizards. The bizarre occurrences in the city of late suggested that magic of some sort was at work, and this created an imperative demand for the guild’s services. All over the city guild mages were busy setting up magical wards to detect and dispel magic. This gave Imzeel a sense of security, and his patrons also murmured their approval as they watched the proceedings.

As the guild mage finished the complex gestures of a spell to rid the room of magical illusions, the Masked Minstrel came back into the taproom on the arm of her latest client. A sharp blue light flared around the pair, drawing a startled scream from the woman. The room fell into silence, and every eye was drawn to the magical light As the patrons watched, the young man’s features melted and flowed together, in an instant crystallizing into a new and familiar shape.

Standing next to the mysterious masked woman was a tall, well-muscled man, clad in somber magnificence. His features were sharp, his expression grave, and his usually keen black eyes betrayed a touch of uncertainty. The wedge-shaped streak of silver in the center of his beard confirmed his identity to those who would not have known him from his face alone.

The Masked Minstrel fell away from him, one hand clasped to her painted lips. She backed off several paces, and then turned and fled toward Jester’s Court Whether she was surprised by the transformation, or just unwilling to be linked with Khelben Arunsun under such adverse circumstances, was impossible to say.

“So this is how the archmage of Waterdeep spends a summer evening,” Ginalee murmured to Imzeel. “And the city going down to Cyric in a cistern, and all.”

“Hush, girl,” the man whispered fiercely, making a warding sign to stave off the ill luck said to follow when the god of strife’s name was invoked.

One of the patrons broke the tense silence. A cleric of Tymora, perhaps trusting to the legendary luck his goddess was said to grant, rose from his dinner and faced the archmage.

“Perhaps no one in the city can stand against you and your ambitions,” the cleric said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean we have to drink with you.”

The man turned and strode from the room. One by one, chairs scraped across the wooden floor as the other patrons followed suit The taproom emptied quickly. Only Imzeel and his employees remained, eyeing the archmage with fear and uncertainty.

Khelben Arunsun came over to the bar, and his footsteps seemed to echo through the deserted room. He placed a small leather bag on the polished wood. “My apologies, Imzeel,” he said in a voice devoid of expression. “Please accept this purse; the gold within should cover your lost business.”

The next instant, he was gone.

“Well, I never,” Ginalee huffed in mock indignation, her voice slightly unsteady but her sense of fun fully intact. “He just upped and disappeared! No flash of light, no puffs of colored smoke, not even a whiff of brimstone! They’ve got more interesting wizards over in Thay, or so I hear.”

“Ginalee,” Imzeel said in a weary voice, “why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”