Elfsong

Two

When Khelben ushered his nephew into the reception chamber of Blackstaff Tower, a young male elf rose to greet them. “This is Wyn Ashgrove. Hell be traveling with you,” the archmage said by way of introduction.

Danilo struggled to conceal his dismay as he surveyed his new partner. Fully six inches shorter than the Harper and as slender as an aspen tree, the elf had the serious mien of a scholar. He also possessed in generous measure the beauty of the gold elf people, an elegance of form and feature unmatched by any other race. Slung over Wyn’s back was a delicate silver lyre, and the crystal flute that hung from his belt was closer to hand than his long sword. All told, the elf struck Danilo as a being better suited to charming the ladies with poetry and song than to the rigors of travel.

Wyn greeted Danilo politely, then, at Khelben’s request, he seated himself and sang a ballad about the dragon Grimnoshtadrano. Danilo remained standing, arms crossed, as he listened to the music with trained detachment He noted that the song was written well, but in the style of a time several centuries past The words of the ballad were compelling, a stirring call to action, and Danilo was drawn into the story despite himself. He began to see the reason for his uncle’s concern.

As soon as the ballad ended, Danilo got down to business. “How many Harpers have answered this challenge?”

“To the best of my knowledge, none,” Khelben responded.

“Really? That seems odd.”

“Apparently, this ballad is not widely sung. Wyn has long studied ballads by and about the Harpers, and he tells me that although most bards know this ballad, they are reluctant to sing it”

Danilo nodded slowly. “Very responsible of them. If this ballad is no real threat to the Harpers, why do you think that I should answer this summons?”

“You’re armed with something the other bards did not have: your memory,” the archmage said, motioning Danilo toward a chair. “It’s time you heard the rest of Wyn Ashgrove’s tale.”

The Harper settled down and listened as Wyn related the events of Silverymoon’s Spring Faire, and the strange spell upon the bards there.

When the elf had finished, Danilo massaged his aching temples and tried to sort through the tale. “So you’re saying that this ballad is newly composed, but the finest bards in the land believe it to be nearly as old as the dragon himself.”

“That’s correct,” Wyn said.

“I don’t see the point.”

The elf looked at him strangely. “A powerful mage has devised a way to lure Harpers to their deaths.”

“With very little success,” Dan pointed out.

“True. The spellcaster works against the Harpers in another, more subtle manner. As I understand Harper philosophy, your purpose is, in part, to help preserve a knowledge of the past. By changing the Harper ballads, the spellcaster is undermining the society’s work.”

Danilo thought that over. On the surface, the elf’s evaluation of the problem seemed accurate enough. But why was the dragon ballad so little sung? There seemed to be another motive at work, one Danilo could not quite grasp. Obviously Khelben thought this as well, for the archmage was not normally one to concern himself with music. Danilo tucked this thought away for future consideration and turned his attention to more immediate concerns.

“How are we to acquire this scroll?”

“According to the ballad,” Wyn replied in a didactic tone, as if they were discussing nothing more pressing than dry theory, “you must answer a riddle, read a scroll, and sing a song. That is clear enough. When you have accomplished these tasks, you may demand from the dragon whatever treasure you wish. Obviously, you will ask for the scroll itself. Since it is mentioned in the ballad, and since the ballad first appeared when the bards were enspelled, it is reasonable to assume that the scroll was devised by the spellcaster we seek. If this is so, the archmage can use it to discern the spellcaster’s identity.”

Dan cast his gaze toward the ceiling, but he spoke patiently. “Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that after we answer the riddle the dragon will keep his word and hand over the scroll. Ignoring the unlikeliness of that possibility, ponder this: What happens if we guess wrong?”

“I imagine the beast will attack,” Wyn said, no concern at all in his voice.

“Yes, I imagine that, too,” Dan said with exaggerated patience. He turned to Khelben and said in a low tone, “Before I run screaming from this tower, perhaps I should meet that other bardic adventurer you spoke of? The fighter?”

“I left her in the kitchen,” Khelben said and sighed. “If she’s typical of her kind, she’s no doubt emptied the pantry cupboards and started in on my spell components.”

Danilo blinked. “Don’t tell me: our peerless fighter is a halfling?”

“No. She’s a dwarf.”

To Danilo, this new revelation was as great a surprise as any other of the evening’s oddities. Dwarf females were but rarely encountered away from clan and hearth, and those who did travel often let their beards grow so that they might pass as males. “A dwarven bard,” he mused, shaking his head. “What brings this most unusual person to us?”

Khelben stood and took a piece of rolled parchment from his belt He handed it to Danilo. “This is all I know. Come; I’ll introduce you.”

The archmage asked Wyn to wait for their return, then he opened the door leading into a chamber that served double duty for dining and giving audience. Danilo rose and followed the archmage, scanning the parchment as he went. It was a letter from the wizard Vangerdahast, court advisor to King Azoun of Cormyr.

“Vangerdahast says that he located a bard of sorts whose gifts, such as they are, remained unchanged by this mysterious spell.” Danilo sniffed. “Well, that’s a rousing endorsement if ever I heard one.”

He turned back to the parchment and read aloud. “ ‘A dwarven entertainer, known as Morgalla the Mirthful, she is a veteran of the Alliance War and a native of the Earthfast Mountains, where she met and befriended the Princess Alusair. The dwarf has been plying her trade in Cormyr for nearly three years. In King Azoun’s name, I request that you show his daughter’s friend all courtesy, and add the dwarf to your number for this most appropriate quest. Morgalla is, in my opinion, precisely what the Harpers require.’ ”

Danilo raised skeptical eyes to his uncle. “Isn’t it nice of Vangerdahast to be so helpful. At the risk of sounding petty, I have to say the good wizard’s motives strike me as being just a bit suspect.”

“For once we agree.” Khelben paused, his hand on the latch of the kitchen door. “I haven’t had much time to speak with the dwarf. Let’s see what my colleague has sent us.”

Khelben swung open the door. His kitchen was as unique as the rest of Blackstaff Tower. One side of the room was taken up by several shelves of rare potted herbs. These were bathed by a faint green light that came from no apparent source, and they filled the room with a woody, pungent aroma. Some of the cupboards held the usual array of dishes and pans, but a few doors were gates into far places. As a boy, Danilo had been especially fond of the cupboard that brought an everbearing pomegranate tree within easy reach, but he admitted that the door that led into a small ice cave was the more practical device. At the moment, however, his attention was focused on the dwarf seated behind the kitchen table.

Morgalla the Mirthful perched on a stool, swinging her small, booted feet and wielding a hunting knife as she intently carved the last of the meat from a roasted chicken. The well-picked bones on the serving platter before her attested to a typically dwarven appetite, as did the thick wedge missing from a wheel of cheese and the crumbled remains of a barley loaf.

Then Danilo noticed that she had layered the meat and cheese between slices of bread, and arranged the hearty snack on a platter along with pickles and small dishes of condiments. Apparently she intended to share, for the table was neatly laid with plates and mugs for four, and a foaming pitcher of ale stood ready. When the two men entered the room, Morgalla laid down the carving knife and affixed Danilo with a long solemn stare. Then she hopped down from her perch and stuck out a stubby hand in greeting.

“Well met, bard. I be Morgalla of Clan Chistlesmith, darl of Olam Chistlesmith and Thendara Spearsinger, of the dwarves of Earthfast. It’s proud I am to be entering your service.”

Danilo was familiar enough with dwarven custom to know himself honored by this detailed introduction. Even in cordial situations, the naturally cautious dwarves usually gave only first and sometimes clan names. If she had wished to insult him, she would have been “Morgalla of the dwarves,” delivered with a firm undertone of “Wanna make something of it?”

He grasped the dwarf’s wrist in a brief salute and shot a venomous glance at Khelben. The young Harper had never yet refused a mission assigned him, but he resented his uncle for leaving him no choice in the matter. This evening was very like being swept downstream on a white-water flood. Even worse, the archmage had led Morgalla to believe that he, Danilo, was a bard worth following.

“When I am called upon to describe you,” Khelben pointed out, divining the source of his nephew’s ire, “bard is not the first word that comes to mind. That title is of Morgalla’s own choosing.”

“Aye.” The dwarf’s head bobbed in agreement “And yer more cut to the cloth than most who wear the mantle.” Dan looked at her with a question in his eyes, so she explained, “A traveling bard sang yer songs at Azoun’s court They’re better’n most. My favorite’s the tale of the magic sword.”

“Not the Ballad of the Harper Assassin?” Dan slumped against the kitchen wall. First the damnable ballad showed up in Tethyr, and now far to the east in the courts of Cormyr?

“That’s the one. Good story. Little on the short side, though.”

“Short?” Danilo’s look of befuddlement deepened. “But it has nine-and-twenty stanzas!”

“Like I said,” Morgalla agreed.

Danilo gave up that line of inquiry and looked more closely at the dwarf. Morgalla appeared to be quite young, for she was still beardless. Large, liquid brown eyes reminded Dan of his favorite hunting hound; the earnest, doleful expressions were almost identical. Her face was broad, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a small nose with an insouciant tip. Thick russet hair was tightly plaited into two long braids, and an impressive amount of muscle and curve was packed onto her four-foot frame. Morgalla was dressed for the road in a simple brown kirtle that fell to her knees, brown leggings bound with leather thongs, and iron-tipped leather boots. A small axe was tucked into her weapon belt, and leaning against the kitchen table was a staff of battle-scarred stout oak. The latter was capped by the grinning head of a jester doll, complete with the traditional floppy cap of yellow and green motley. Danilo was no judge of dwarven beauty, but Morgalla struck him as cute and rather harmless, despite her weapons. Or, perhaps, he amended with another glance at the jester doll’s head, because of them. Dan noted that she carried no musical instruments, and that struck him as another odd note.

“I’ve never before met a dwarven bard,” he commented lightly, hoping to draw her out.

The comment seemed to touch a nerve, for Morgalla’s face hardened. “And you haven’t yet.”

Khelben and Danilo exchanged glances. “If you’re not a bard, why you were sent here?” the archmage asked.

In response, the dwarf handed him a large, folded piece of paper. Khelben smoothed out the paper on the kitchen table and studied it for a long moment. His mustache twitched, and a low chuckle escaped him. Danilo leaned in to look over his uncle’s shoulder, and he let out a long, admiring whistle. He lifted his gaze to Morgalla, and his gray eyes held both amusement and respect.

“You drew this?” he asked.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” she replied gruffly, folding her arms over her chest.

Danilo nodded, understanding completely. On the paper was a deft sketch of a wizard, robed in a star-and-moon-studded gown. A tall cone hat rested on an oversized thicket of white eyebrows, and the features, although comically exaggerated, were unmistakably those of Vangerdahast. The wizard wielded a baton at an orchestra of glowing, levitating instruments. King Azoun sat in the background, enjoying the concert with a vague smile of pleasure lifting the corners of his mustache. The caption was simply, “The Musicians’ Guild.”

The sketch, Danilo knew, poked at the wizard in two vulnerable spots. Many years earlier, in his more frivolous youth, Vangerdahast had devised an enchantment that caused instruments to play alone. The spell amused Azoun, who, to his court wizard’s vast chagrin, often requested it to be cast as entertainment. Morgalla’s artwork embarrassed Vangerdahast, but it also posed a problem for his king. Many people in Cormyr and the surrounding lands were leery of Azoun’s desire to unite the heartlands of Faerûn under one rule: his. To depict the king and his court wizard as sole members of the musicians’ guild was a deft reminder of the king’s drive to centralize authority. Morgalla’s work teetered dangerously on the line between satire and sedition. To make matters worse, the sketch had been stamped onto the paper, which indicated that many more copies could be in circulation.

“I can see why Vangy sent her on a dragon hunt,” Danilo murmured to his uncle. He glanced over at Morgalla, who was tactfully giving the two men room to discuss the drawing. Again seated at the table, she was busily sketching. Her stubby fist flew over the paper, and her brow was creased with concentration.

“On the other hand, he may have taken a sudden dislike to dragons,” Khelben commented, staring with narrowed eyes at the dwarf’s artwork.

The Harper leaned in for a closer look. Rapidly taking shape on the page was Khelben himself, standing before an easel and painting stick-figures on a canvas. A circle of black-robed, helmed Lords of Waterdeep stood obediently near, holding his palettes and brushes for him.

Danilo chuckled. On the most basic level, the sketch deftly skewered the archmage’s artistic pretensions. It also captured perfectly the commonly held belief that the archmage was a power—perhaps the power—behind the secret Lords of Waterdeep. The sketch provided Danilo with yet another explanation for Morgalla’s presence. “As I recall, Vangy doesn’t care much for the Harpers, either.”

“Now yer catching on, bard,” said Morgalla. She looked up from her work. “Vangerdahast ast me to draw yer likeness, Lord Khelben. I mean no offense.”

“I should hate to be around when you do,” Danilo said, his gray eyes dancing.

The dwarf beamed, taking Dan’s teasing as a high compliment “If’n you like this, it’s yers.” She folded the sketch and handed it to Danilo.

He thanked her and absently stuck it into his money pouch. “But what of Vangerdahast? If he commissioned this, I imagine he expects to receive it”

“Nah,” Morgalla said with a demure smile. “He’s got plenty o’ his own, believe you me.”

“I can see that you two will get along fine,” Khelben noted dryly.

“Indeed we shall,” his nephew agreed. “But if I might speak frankly, Morgalla, why do you consider yourself my apprentice? I am no artist”

The dwarf shrugged. “Bards tell stories. I just come at the task from a different tunnel. You tell good tales, and I’m here to learn. And to fight, if it comes to that I’m looking to do plenty o’ both.” She grabbed her oaken staff and waggled it as if to emphasize the point. The jester doll’s green and yellow motley cap flopped about The effect did not exactly inspire fear.

Danilo drew a steadying breath. Despite her fighting credentials and her quirky charm, Morgalla seemed little more prepared for the task ahead than did the elven scholar waiting in the reception chamber. “I don’t suppose the Harpers would like to diverge from common practice just this once and hire a small regiment?” Danilo asked the archmage. “No, I thought not Then I suppose we’d better bring a riddlemaster along. That might improve our chances considerably.”

Khelben nodded thoughtfully. “Good thinking. You handle that and get your own mount; Wyn and I will see to the other horses and the supplies.”

Morgalla hopped down from her perch. “I’m comin’ with you, bard,” she announced eagerly. “Too much magic in this place for my comfort”

Danilo raised one eyebrow. “Do you have any objection to music shops?”

The gleam in the dwarf’s brown eyes faded. She climbed back onto the stool and gave Danilo a long, considering look. “Tell you what, bard; I’ll draw yer likeness while yer gone.” She took out a new piece of paper and immediately began to sketch.

“I’ve never had a portrait done,” Danilo mused. The dark humor in Morgalla’s art appealed to him, and since he’d developed a remarkable tolerance for mockery, he rather looked forward to seeing how she might depict him. “I’m sure I’ll be delighted with it,” he concluded with a smile.

“Maybe, but you’d be the first,” Morgalla announced.

Khelben shrugged and led the way back to the front hall. “Do you have a riddlemaster in mind?” he asked the Harper.

“Vartain of Calimport,” Danilo said firmly. “He’s quite astounding. His services are as much in demand by adventuring parties as they are by those desiring an entertainer. He was in Waterdeep when I left the city several months ago. I’ll check the register at Halambar’s to see if he’s available.”

“Good thinking,” Khelben conceded. Kriios Halambar, widely and secretly known as “Old Leatherlungs,” was the head of Waterdeep’s musicians’ guild. Entertainers of all kinds registered at his shop, and employers in need of these services usually began their search there. If Vartain was available for hire, he would be listed, and if he were already employed, the name of his employer would be there as well. Either way, Danilo could seek the riddlemaster out.

The archmage walked out into the courtyard with Danilo. After a moment’s silence, he placed a hand briefly on the young man’s shoulder. “I know all this has come upon you suddenly, and I realize what you have left behind. I’m sorry that I have to ask this of you.”

For a moment, the two men stood in silence. Although he was touched by his uncle’s concern, Danilo could not bear to acknowledge Khelben’s oblique reference to Arilyn. He sidestepped his own raw pain by deliberately misreading the archmage. “As usual, your confidence sustains and inspires me,” Danilo quipped.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” Khelben snapped. “You can handle this assignment well enough. What you lack as a bard, you more than make up for as a mage.” He withdrew a small, slender volume from a pocket of his coat. “This book is for you. I’ve copied in it spells that will hold you in good stead, should the dragon prove less than cooperative.”

Danilo took the book gratefully and slipped it into the magic bag at his belt. The spellbook disappeared without adding a lump or wrinkle. Promising to return before sunrise, Danilo slipped through the invisible door in the tower’s outer wall and disappeared into the night

Like most of Waterdeep, the affluent district known as the Castle Ward stayed awake throughout most of the night The Street of Swords was crowded with well-to-do Waterdhavians on their way to private parties, or seeking out the taverns, festhalls, and shops that made the city famous throughout Faerûn.

It was often said that one could buy virtually anything in Waterdeep. While this was true, shopping was also a form of entertainment Musicians performed in the streets and courtyards, setting a festive mood. The warmly lit shops and bazaars offered every comfort and inducement. Servants circulated trays laden with delicacies and tiny wine goblets. Beautiful shop attendants, wearing samples of the clothing and jewels available, mingled with the customers, offering advice and flattery. These were skilled in the art of making patrons believe that similar beauty could be theirs, for the price of a few gold coins.

In one of these shops, Rebeleigh’s Elegant Headwear, a tall, silver-haired woman stood before a mirror and considered her reflection with a mixture of wry humor and resignation. As Lady Arunsun, Laeral faced a number of social obligations. With the Midsummer festivities right around the corner, these seemed as persistent and endless as the heads of a hydra.

“This will be perfect for Lady Raventree’s masquerade ball,” gushed the shopkeeper, standing on tiptoe to adjust Laeral’s headdress of delicate links and tiny coral beads. “It’s authentic, you know. It once belonged to a Moonshae princess who died more than two hundred years ago.”

“I can see why,” Laeral quipped. “If she could afford decent chain mail, she’d probably still be alive.”

“Oh, yes, quite,” Rebeleigh said agreeably, whisking off the headdress. The shopkeeper was a slight, middle-aged woman, a weather vane for the winds of fashion and a walking calendar of social events. She knew nothing of Laeral’s years of adventure, intrigue, and combat. All that Rebeleigh gleaned from her customer’s comment was that the headdress was not pleasing, and that was enough. She snatched up a fanciful confection of ice-blue velvet and silver ribbon. “This would suit you well, my lady. Stoop down a bit, if you please.”

Laeral did as she was bid. She glanced at her reflection and burst out laughing.

“You seem to have singularly bad luck with headwear,” commented a sweetly venomous voice to her side.

Laeral turned and look down into the lovely, insincerely smiling face of Lucia Thione. A scion of Tethyrian royalty, Lady Thione was a powerful figure in Waterdeep society. She was a popular hostess and a much-sought-after beauty, and she was widely acclaimed for her business acumen and her charm. She never wasted this charm on Laeral, much to the mage’s secret amusement.

Lucia Thione bristled at the glint of humor in Laeral’s silver eyes. Lady Thione despised the mage, whose birth and early life were swathed in mystery, and she envied her role as Lady Arunsun, a position to which she herself had unsuccessfully applied. The diminutive noblewoman also felt insubstantial next to the six-foot mage and completely eclipsed by Laeral’s unearthly beauty.

“At least that hat is not enchanted,” Lady Thione continued, since Laeral was apparently too dense to recognize a well-bred insult She smiled again. “I suppose you’d hate to go through all that unpleasantness again.”

The noblewoman was finally rewarded with a reaction: Laeral’s face became very still.

“A street musician was just singing about you. Come, hear for yourself,” Lucia said softly. “I’m sure you’ll find it fascinating.”

Without waiting for a response, she glided out of the shop and rejoined the small crowd clustered around a street singer. The minstrel was a jolly-looking man of middle years, and although his voice was mellow and pleasant, the people shifted uneasily as they listened. Lucia made her way over to Caladorn and gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze.

“He is singing that dreadful ballad again?”

“Yes,” Caladorn said through gritted teeth. “I thought all the bards in town had been officially cautioned against singing it.”

Lucia looked sharply at her young lover. Handsome and entertaining he undoubtedly was, but she had never known him to take an interest in political matters. More importantly, this warning had come down from the Lords of Waterdeep just this morning. Lucia knew about such things because she made it her business to know, but how had Caladorn learned of it? She drew him away from the crowd so that they might talk privately. “Surely there is no truth in this ballad?”

“I’m afraid there is. Lady Laeral once traveled with an adventuring group known as the Nine. She discovered a powerful artifact, a crown of some sort, and it twisted her into a madwoman and a menace.”

“This was not widely known, I take it,” she prodded gently, taking great care to hide both her curiosity and her delight

“Until now,” he agreed. “Such things should not be sung on every street corner, for the entertainment of the common people. Laeral’s fall and the intercession of Khelben Arunsun are matters for lords and wizards of power.”

Lucia’s dark eyes narrowed with speculation. That was a strange sentiment for Caladorn, who at a young age had severed ties with his noble family to live a life of adventure. “I agree, my love, but what could you or I do to stop it?”

“Nothing. You’re right.” Caladorn forced a smile onto his face, but his eyes kept drifting back to the gathering crowd. He shifted restlessly, and he absently twisted the silver ring on his left hand. Lucia watched in fascination.

“You know, I’m not really in the mood to sit through a performance at the Three Pearls tonight,” she said in a casual tone. “The party at my Sea Ward villa is just days away, and I have so much shopping yet to do. Would you mind if I finish it now, love?”

“Not at all,” Caladorn replied, just a bit too quickly. He kissed his lady and hurried off through the crowds.

After she checked the hat shop and ascertained that Laeral was nowhere to be found, Lucia crossed the street to an elegant little tavern. She took a seat near the open window, ordered spiced wine, and waited.

She hadn’t long to wait A watch patrol hurried into the crowd, sending the people on their way by order of the Lords of Waterdeep. Lucia leaned back in her chair, her smile one of supreme satisfaction. Caladorn, her handsome and chivalrous love, might be the connection she had long sought! Of course, the timing of the watch’s intervention could well be a coincidence. She glanced over at the Neverwinter water clock on the tavern’s wall. No, the watch was not due on this street for almost ten more minutes. Lucia had made a study of patrol routes, and she knew how much time elapsed between patrols in any given area of Waterdeep. Not, of course, that she would boast of this knowledge in most social circles. She leaned forward and watched the scene eagerly. If Caladorn truly was behind this, he had a great deal to learn about the people he governed. He was a dear, but he was too pure of heart and blue of blood to realize how his actions would appear to most of the people in the crowd. Waterdhavians were an independent lot, and she doubted they would take kindly to this type of meddling.

Lucia’s instincts proved impeccable. The minstrel took loud exception to the order and began to argue the matter with the watch captain. He turned to the dispersing crowd and ordered the people to protest such tyranny, demanding that truth be heard unhindered. It was a far better show than his songs had been, Lucia noted cynically, and the rapidly growing crowd indicated that she was not alone in this opinion.

She watched with amusement as the minstrel leaped onto a bench, the better to vilify the presumptuous behavior of the watch and the Lords of Waterdeep. He even produced a short sword, which he brandished as a counterpoint to his expostulation. He was not sufficiently power-drunk to challenge the watch captain directly, Lucia noticed. Yet the ridiculous gesture galvanized the crowd and a few people began to pelt the watch patrol first with insults and then with goods from nearby shops. Others ran for cover, knocking over vendors’ booths and trampling merchandise underfoot.

The guard, Waterdeep’s more heavily armed militia, arrived promptly to aid the watch patrol. The street was soon cleared of troublemakers and order restored. Lady Thione chuckled as the minstrel was dragged off by two of the guard, singing lusty protests all the while. Shopkeepers and vendors began sorting through the debris, salvaging what had not been trampled or stolen by the thieves and pickpockets who thrived even in the best-run cities.

Lady Thione was ever one to grasp an opportunity. She slipped out of the tavern and quietly approached an elderly woman who stood weeping among her crushed and scattered flowers. Lucia commiserated with the flower vendor for a few moments and then handed her a small purse. Laying a finger to her lips, Lucia Thione slipped away. As subtly as she could, she worked her way down the street, passing out silver coins along with a subtle mixture of sympathy and sedition.

Danilo hurried toward Halambar’s Lute Shop, absently noting that the shopping district on the Street of Swords seemed rather quiet for the hour. Perhaps it was the weather. The night was cool, for a stiff sea breeze set the street lanterns swaying and flickering. Danilo’s purple finery, although well-suited to the hot, dry climate of Tethyr, left him shivering in the damp chill. He ducked into a shop that offered ready-made clothing, and purchased a traveling cloak in deep forest green, a full change of clothing, and a pair of practical leather boots. He gave the shopkeeper an extra coin and bade him burn the discarded purple garments.

Within minutes Danilo could see the elegant townhouse he sought. Like many buildings on the street, it was three stories tall, with whitewashed plaster gleaming between thick dark beams. The large windows on either side of the door had many tiny diamond-shaped panes of leaded glass, and the door itself was constructed of thick, broad-planked oak. The brass hinges and locks on the doors and window shutters were fashioned like small harps—a bit of whimsy with a purpose: any attempt to disturb the locks triggered a powerful magical ward. The nature of this guardian was not widely known, since none of the thieves who’d challenged it had lived to discuss the details.

As Danilo swung open the door, his arrival was announced by the gentle plinking of the door harp. He stepped in, handing his cloak to the servant who greeted him.

The shop was a single room that took up the entire lower floor of the building. To Danilo’s right were displayed an array of instruments for sale, ranging from the justly famed lutes made by the proprietor, to the inexpensive tin whistles of the western Moonshaes. To the left of the entrance was the workshop area, where master instrument builders and apprentices fashioned and repaired the finest instruments in Waterdeep. Kriios Halambar himself was there this evening, bent over a large bass lute known as a theorbo and patiently fitting it with newly carved tuning pegs. Halambar raised heavy-lidded eyes to the door, and his thin face lit up in what Dan took to be a smile. The guildmaster gently laid the theorbo aside and rose to his feet.

“Welcome, Lord Thann! You’ve returned to Waterdeep at last. You of course are here to register, but may we serve you in some other way?”

Danilo blinked. He’d been in Halambar’s shop two dozen times at least, but never had he been invited to add his name to the registry of bards. Nor had he—or anyone else, for that matter—been greeted so effusively by the usually haughty guildmaster.

“I require a new lute,” Dan said. “In my recent travels, I was forced to leave mine behind.”

The guildmaster shook his head in silent commiseration over such a loss. “You play a seven-course lute, if I recall. I’ve one you might find suitable.” He strode to the far side of the room and took an instrument of exceptional beauty down from its hook on the wall.

The lute was fashioned of cream-colored maple wood. An intricate rosette of inlaid rosewood, teak, and ebony surrounded the sound hole. Danilo took the instrument, stripped off his gloves, and seated himself on the stool provided. He played a few notes. The sound carried well, and the action of the strings felt about right.

He looked up with a smile. “The tone and workmanship mark this as one of your own, Master Halambar. The sale is made, but for naming the price.”

Halambar bowed. “For you, twelve hundred silver pieces.”

The lute was worth that and more, but Danilo shook his head and reluctantly held the lute out to the guildmaster. “I’m afraid I haven’t that amount with me, and I need to purchase a lute tonight Have you a lesser instrument?”

“Please don’t consider such a thing. I’d be pleased to extend credit”

That was a first, but Dan was not inclined to debate his good fortune. He also purchased extra strings, a weatherproof leather covering for the lute, and a sheaf of tablature paper on which to scribble new songs. If the Harpers required him to play the role of a bard, Danilo supposed he ought to oblige with a few original works.

While Halambar’s clerk tallied the purchase, Danilo strode over to the register and began to flip through the pages, with a solicitous Halambar at his heels. “Do you know the whereabouts of a riddlemaster by the name of Vartain? He was in Waterdeep when I left several months past.”

Halambar harumphed. “Vartain has been here and gone more times than a lyre has strings. His services are prized, yet his employers tire of him quickly.”

“Oh?”

“Vartain has a most annoying habit,” the guildmaster explained. “It would seem that he is always right.”

“I can see how that could become exasperating, but that is precisely what I need. If he is not available, can you recommend someone else as good?”

“I wish I could,” Halambar replied, leafing through the book. “Riddlemasters are few these days, and fewer still can match Vartain’s skill or knowledge. Certainly, there’s none in Waterdeep right now. Perhaps you might seek out Vartain’s current employer and bid for the riddlemaster’s services. There is an excellent chance that the employer has repented of the hire and will welcome the chance to rid himself of Vartain. Ah, here is the entry.”

A grim smile touched Halambar’s lips, and he tapped the page with one finger. “Perhaps there is justice in the world, after all. If anyone deserves Vartain, it’s this rogue!”

Danilo glanced over the guildmaster’s shoulder and groaned. In slanted, spidery writing were the words: