Realms of Mystery

Whence the Song of Steel

In my line of work a fellow gets used to lots of things- ear-splitting screams, daggers in the shadows, leering masks, wicked smiles, wailing widows, back alleys, bodies, and blood… lots of blood. I’d just never had to endure all of them in one night.

Opera’s what the Sembites called it. The word means “works.” Still, out of a cast of thousands, I was the only one working. Everybody else primped and bickered, pranced in patti-colored silks and grease paint, and gestured to a couple fat men who bellowed. Meanwhile, I stood there in the dark lee of a stage curtain and watched and listened.

That was work. Real, hard work. It’s tough for a man of action to stand around and watch something happen that isn’t even happening. Still, something real was about to happen. Death was in the air that night-real death and real blood-I could smell it. Murder was only moments away. I edged closer to the stage. The two fat men there were my responsibility. Usually a person doesn’t become my responsibility until he’s lying facedown in an alley puddle. But these two stuffed sausages were still very much alive, and it was my job to keep them that way.

I’m Bolton Quaid, watch captain-for-hire and, lately, bodyguard. I’d landed this particular job back in Waterdeep-my stomping grounds-when the opera had toured there. No sooner had it opened than death threats had started rolling in. Understandable. If I’d paid a handful of gold to hear this, I’d’ve been in a mood for murder, too. Still, the head of the company hadn’t wanted to take chances. He’d sought out the best bodyguard in the city and ended up with me. Five cities and ten months later, I was still along for the ride… and the death threats still rolled in.

From the beginning I knew most of the threats were sent by one tenor to the other. Singers are like that, I’m told. But a few came from somebody else, somebody who could’ve been sitting in the audience even now. I looked out past the bobbing heads of the chorus, toward the dour, jewel-decked crowd. They sat in the Grand House as still as statues. The best of the best. Everything about them shone-diamond necklaces, gold earrings, silver hair, bald pates, and glassy eyes. Mostly their eyes. Boredom, resignation, sleepiness. Not the usual motives for murder. Most of the crowd couldn’t even muster up interest, let alone malice.

Still, death was in the air. I could smell it. Somebody was planning murder.

It could have been one of the singers. While the crowd had no passion, the singers had too much-roaring, stomping, wailing, collapsing, trembling, swaggering, staggering, leaping, sobbing, fighting, swooning, and, of course, bellowing, bellowing, bellowing… They were mad with passion, lunatics capering and drooling and howling at the moon.

Tonias, the younger tenor, led the bedlam. He was a stout lad with golden hair and beard standing straight out in a ring around his head. The sheen of his hair was accentuated by the crown he wore, which designated him King Orpheus, conquering lord of Distalia. He wore a fat white ruff, a tunic of bright yellow silk, a stiff brown waistcoat, an ermine-lined cloak, and a yellow stocking that showed every line of his legs. On high notes, Tonias would loft his gleaming sword, giving everyone in the front row an intimate view of the effect of his tremolo. He seemed more a puff pastry than a killer.

The older tenor, on the other hand, seemed perfectly capable of murder. In this opera he played the villain Garragius, one-time king of Distalia. Displaced and outlawed, Garragius posed as a leprous beggar in order to sneak up to Orpheus and kill him. The animosity was not all acting, though. It was jealousy, pure and simple. While Tonias got to strut center stage, V’Torres had to lurk near stage front. The old tenor wore no finery, only black rags charred from encounters with the foot candles. His lines were full of growls, barks, and guttural threats. On low notes, he sounded like a rutting bull, on high notes like a cat in heat.

That hadn’t always been the case. He’d once been a young tenor sensation, the toast of Sembia. Then, he’d had the voice of a hero-high, pure, and crystalline. Bold but tender. Powerful but tragic. Especially tragic. His career had ended at its height, turning on itself like a snake swallowing its own tail. To escape ever-present fans, V’Torres had begun to drink himself unconscious. The problem was he would invariably wake up beside one of those fans. Eventually, drink rotted his liver, and pox rotted his brain. By the time he got dry on both ends he was empty in the middle, and had no voice left. V’Torres, now, was next to nothing, and jealousy consumed him.

Perhaps murderous jealousy.

Tonias was worthy of it. Occasionally, he would stop bellowing and actually sing something soaring and sweet. Then, even I could tell he was good. In those moments his voice held all of hope and fear, desire and devotion. The sound struck me in the breastbone and moved in waves through my ribs, into my spine, and up to buzz in the base of my brain. It was like my ears heard only the smallest part of that sound, most of it resounding directly in my bones. Even now he sang such a passage. Among a rapt and adoring throng of choristers, King Orpheus stood, belly thrust outward, head thrown back, and battle sword lifted high:

“I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Distalia,

Like pollen in the teaming air of Spring.

I rise. I rise as all life rises, green and soft

Through iron-hard ground to daylight gleam.

I rise. I rise from roots that turn your dark decay

To golden finery, turn grave soil to wind-borne seed.

I rise, as all of life, I rise!”

While King Orpheus sang, Garragius growled out a counterpoint. Tattered black rags swayed around his twisted frame. Within the cloth, a wickedly curved dagger glinted with little flame teeth from the foot candles. Clutching the blade, Garragius made his way toward the king.

“Death also rises,

Or didn’t you know?

In every blossom, every fruit,

The worm will also grow.

The worm that eats away the home.

The worm that winnows flesh from bone.

The worm, implacable, alone

Eternal, worm. Eternal worm!”

Garragius groveled his way to the foot of the singing king and lifted the dagger in tremulous hands. King Orpheus sang on, oblivious, as his foe rose from the shadows to slay him. Giving a final shriek of animal fury, Garragius rammed the curved dagger into the King’s bulging gut. A gout of blood sprayed forth.

I was impressed with this bit of stage magic, more realistic than in the fifty-some last performances. The blood even steamed in the cool air.

Tonias’s song turned into a shriek of agony and he stared in horror and shock at the knife jutting from his stomach. “He’s killed me!” Tonias cried out unmusically. The pit orchestra ground to a halt. The lead rebec player-a thin, pale woman-rose to stare, aghast.

Tonias lifted a crimson hand from his belly. “V’Torres has killed me!”

V’Torres? I flung back the curtain and rushed onstage. Too late. Tonias’s whole body shuddered. His sword arm went limp and dropped, blade still in hand. The steel flashed in an orange arc and struck V’Torres in the neck, bringing an instant spray of gore.

V’Torres’s scream was taken up by many members of the crowd. The audience recoiled from the stage, clambering over seats and bustles and miles of satin to get away from the blood. I was drawn to it. I reached the scene in time to catch Tonias, slumping unconscious to the floor. The dead weight of the man bore me down in a heap beneath him. Next moment, V’Torres added his body to the pile, hand falling from his spurting neck.

That’s when I began bellowing. Hot blood soaked my clothes, and three hundred pounds of tenor crushed me. But mainly I bellowed because the men I’d been hired to protect had, in front of thousands of elite witnesses, killed each other dead.

Well, not exactly dead, thanks to the priests of Lathander in the front row. I commandeered the healers, who accompanied body-bearing guardsmen to separate dressing rooms where ministrations began. After issuing orders for crowd control, I got the blood cleaned off me and headed for Tonias’s dressing room.

I knocked on the door. The lead rebec player answered. She blinked big moon eyes at me. Her hair bristled in a brown, unkempt mat and her mannish tunic and trousers were stained in blood. “What?”

“I’m Bolton Quaid, the bodyguard.”

“A little late, aren’t you?” she asked caustically. She stepped back and let me in.

The room was as sumptuous as it was crowded-wool rugs, glazed windows, silvered mirrors, embroidered chairs… Tonias lay, huge and sweating, on a too-small fainting couch, midsection covered by a rumpled yellow shirt. At his head stood one gray-garbed guardsman. Another stood at his foot. The rebec player drifted quickly in to kneel beside the couch on a lush Shou Lung carpet. Her knees settled just beside the bloody sword that had almost killed V’Torres. I made my way past red-and yellow-robed priests and stood over the tenor.

Tonias groaned to see me. “There’s the man. There’s the man whom I was told would ensure my safety, my very life. There he is, Waterdhavian sewer rat, keeping track of his pay but not his responsibilities…“

“That’s why I’m here, actually,” I said, dragging a notebook and a fat-nibbed hunk of lead from my pocket, “my responsibility. It’s not just guarding you. It’s also convicting anybody that attacks you-or V’Torres.”

Tonias’s face grew a fiery red beneath his crown of gold hair. “Why aren’t you questioning him?”

“Hard to question an unconscious man.” I shoved a couple music scores off a chair, drew it up beside the bed, and straddled it. “Besides, he’s looks guilty enough. Everybody saw him stab you. That was no accident. That was attempted murder. The real question is, what happened with this sword of yours? Was that an accident, or…”

The flush of Tonias’s face waned the moment I’d pronounced V’Torres’s guilt, but his eyes still blazed as he said, “I wish to the gods I’d killed him. I wish to the gods the sword had cut his head clear off. I assure you, if I’d done it on purpose, it would have killed him. I hate the man. But the blow of my sword was completely accidental.”

I made a line of nonsense scribbles on my pad of paper. I never write real notes, but scribbling keeps people off balance. “That’s a funny kind of argument. You’re saying you had motive, means, and opportunity, and yet you didn’t try to kill him? That’ll be hard to prove.”

He glanced down. His jowls rippled as he chewed over a decision. At last, he said, “It’s easy to prove. It’s the easiest thing in the world to prove, only I won’t do it with all these people here.”

I glanced up. The priests of Lathander returned my questioning gaze, most of them young, clean-shaven, and naпve.

I gestured toward the man’s belly. “What’s the prognosis? He well enough for you folks to step outside?”

The chief healer nodded and smiled-even his eyes smiled. “The Morninglord has been generous, indeed. The wound closed with the first prayers uttered, and the patient is resting comfortably-”

“That’ll be the day,” sniped Tonias.

“…so I suppose we could step outside and see how V’Torres is doing.”

“Fine,” I said, dismissing them.

The priests filtered out, robes rustling in the stale air, and I closed the door behind them. Tonias glanced meaningfully at the guards at the head and foot of his bed.

“Not a chance,” I said. “They’re working with me.”

Grimacing reluctantly, Tonias said, “I had the motive and opportunity, but not the means. I would have loved to kill V’Torres, but I never would have tried to kill him with that sword.” He nodded down to the blood-crusted blade beside the couch.

I reached down and lifted the thing, amazed at its heft. This was no mere stage sword. The blade was broad and balanced, its hilt expertly wound.

“Look at it, Quaid. This is the real murder victim tonight,” said Tonias cryptically. The blade certainly was bloody enough to be a murder victim. V’Torres’s gore was drying all across its fine etching. “Do you have any idea what… whom you hold in your hand?”

“Whom?”

“That is… was Ranjir, an ancient elven singing sword. An intelligent weapon,” said Tonias sadly. “It was forged before the time of Myth Drannor. It fought in thousands of battles, many for the elven homelands they still hold today. It has changed the course of Faeruin. And now, it is dead.”

“Dead?” I glanced up and down the blade. “How can you tell?”

“Look at the ruby in its hilt. It once shone with an inner light. Now look at it,” he urged. “Look at it!”

I turned the sword over, gazing into an eye-sized gemstone set in the silver filigree of the basket handle. The stone was cracked, shot through with sooty blackness. I tried to keep the humor from my voice as I asked, “How did it die?”

“Blood,” Tonias responded, miserable. He folded his arms over his chest. “The sword was forged so that if ever in battle it was touched with blood, it would be slain.”

I was still studying the blown-out stone. “How did the sword fight in thousands of battles and change the face of Faerвn if it never drew blood?”

“By singing, it could create mass hallucinations, make a small force seem like an army, make enemies think they were wounded, make them faint, unconscious, believing themselves slain. It won its wars by singing, not by slaying… not by blood.”

“A singing sword,” I said, admiring the weapon. “Perhaps even an operatic sword? This would be quite an item for a person such as you to have. A wonderful prop that could turn a fine actor into a magnificent tenor.”

“He is a magnificent tenor,” the rebec player protested. “He has a beautiful voice. Sing for him, Tonias. Sing for him!”

Tonias patted her hand, defensiveness melting as he comforted her. “It’s no use. He’ll know soon enough.” He lifted his eyes to me, and the fire and irritation were gone, leaving only the red, wounded look of a lost child. “I am a good tenor, yes, but not a great tenor. Not the great tenor Tonias of Selgaunt. That was all an act. It was the sword singing, not me. So, you can see, Ranjir was my career, my life. I’d never have drawn blood with it.”

I nodded, sliding my notebook away. He was telling the truth, I was sure. Otherwise, he was throwing his career away for nothing. “So, you’re finished then, yes?”

Thnias snorted. “I’ll say the belly wound stole my breath. I’ll say I can’t sing four bars straight through. I’ll say something and retire from opera forever.”

I got up to go, still carrying the sword, but turned with one final question. “You said Ranjir was a murder victim. If you didn’t murder the sword, who did?”

The heat returned to his eyes. “V’Torres. He must have found out about the sword, that it sang for me. He must have found out how to kill it, and stabbed me to provoke me into using it on him. He may have attempted to murder me, Quaid, but he succeeded in murdering Ranjir.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why kill the sword?”

“Jealousy, pure and simple. He wanted to destroy my career just like he destroyed his own.”

It all seemed to be falling into place. I headed toward the door. “I’m confiscating the sword till this thing gets cleared up.”

Tonias waved the blade away. “It’s worthless to me, now. Do whatever you want with it.”

“I’d like to show it to V’Torres and see what he has to say.” I motioned to the two city guardsmen. “And I’m going to ask these fellows to stick with you until we’ve got this whole mess sorted out.”

“I understand,” Tonias said snidely, patting his girlfriend’s hand. “After all, somebody’s got to guard me.”

The other tenor’s dressing room was down in the bowels of the opera house-no windows, no silver mirrors, no fainting couch, no Shou Lung carpets. It was a cramped space of drippy brick. Flanked by guards, V’Torres lay on a moldy pallet on the floor. He wore black rags and clutched a metal flask in his hand. His face was grimy with stage makeup, his black hair a tangled mass above dissipated eyes.

The yet-smiling priest met me at the door. “We’ve been doubly blessed today. The Morninglord saw fit to heal this man, as well. He’s lost much blood, but is no longer in danger.”

I raked the bloody sword out toward V’Torres. “We’ll see how long that remains the case. Thanks for your help,” I said by way of dismissal. The priest made a shallow bow and ducked from the mildewy place.

I considered the wounded man, real-life equivalent of the leprous, murderous Garragius. “So, what do you have to say for yourself, stabbing your rival onstage, before thousands of witnesses?”

“I didn’t do it,” he rasped out miserably, and took another bitter swallow.

I nodded. Every man in the dungeons was innocent. “So, your dagger just slipped. Maybe you’d been drinking and started to lose your balance. Maybe the blade couldn’t help hitting the biggest thing around.”

“Not even that,” the man said darkly, coughing as the rot-gut brought tears to his eyes. “I stuck the dagger in the space under his left arm, just as I always do.”

“When you’re seeing double, it’s hard to know which left arm-”

“I’d had nothing to drink before the performance. It was only after… everything that I…”

“Then where did all the blood come from? And how did ten priests get a look at Tonias’s bowel? And why am I here having to talk to you?”

“I didn’t stab him.”

I towered over the supine man. “Tonias thinks you did. Tonias, and me, and the rest of Selgaunt. Not only do I think that, but also that you killed his sword, too… this sword.” I held out the bloody blade.

V’Torres blinked at the gory steel, then screwed his eyes closed in torment. “Ranjir was mine, Quaid. Why would I murder my own sword?”

I was incredulous. I crouched down atop my heels and held the blade on my knees. “Your sword? Then why was it in your rival’s hand?”

“Why, indeed?” V’Torres nodded, eyes still closed. “Back in my heyday, it had been mine. I’d used it just like Tonias did. It was the voice behind my career. But then it got stolen. I was ruined. I refused to perform. Drank heavily. Woke up in a lot of odd places. People came to their own conclusions. But the real end of my career was losing Ranjir.” He took a shuddering breath. “May I see the blade?”

I handed him the blood-stained sword, and V’Torres positioned it on his body, point down like a weapon laid on a corpse. V’Torres’s nostrils flared as he drew in the scent of the metal. Eyes closing tight once again, he smiled in pain. “In my hands again, at last.”

Tonias’s blade? V’Torres’s blade? It made sense. Two great tenors, one great voice. “If it’s yours, why didn’t you try to hunt it down?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last five years? I suspected Tonias at his debut, but couldn’t get close enough to find out. I’d been banned from concert halls, you know. Offstage he kept the sword in a triple-locked iron trunk. I knew for certain it was Ranjir only when we began rehearsals for Terra Incognita. Since then, I’ve been trying to take it back. I even went to the Guild of Thespians, Bards, and Choristers-”

“Why would they help you? You’re a fraud. Tonias is a fraud.”

“Ranjir was just an instrument, like a cittern-that’s what I told them. They turned me down flat. Guild or no guild, I was determined get the sword back. As long as I was alive I wouldn’t give it up. Tonias knew that. He just didn’t know what my blood would do to the sword.”

“He’s the one that told me how the blade died.”

“He’d tried it once before… took a swipe at me. I’d warned him then, but he scoffed. Now he knows the truth.”

Tonias might have known the truth, but I didn’t. The stories of both men were plausible enough, but still stories, still lies.

“You’d stop at nothing to get the sword back,” I said. “I’m sending you off with the city watch, suggesting you be charged with attempted murder.” I took the sword from the tenor and glanced up at the guardsmen. “Shackle him and take him to the dungeons. I’ll be by shortly to explain.”

Even as the men set to work, rolling V’Torres on his side, the tenor said, “And what about Tonias?”

“He’ll be charged with attempted murder, too.”

“And what about Ranjir? Who killed Ranjirr

I turned the crimson blade slowly in my hand. “That, I still don’t know.”

I delivered the bad news to Tonias and his girlfriend and endured a whole new opera of bluster and threats. That was enough. I’d had a bellyful of singers and silk, hubris and hoi polloi. I wanted dark streets and smoking chimneys, stray dogs and the smell of old fish. I wanted some good honest dirt, dirt that called itself dirt and looked dirty. In the end, even gold and diamonds were just dressed-up dirt.

I took Ranjir with me and headed out alone to the city garrison. On the way, I stopped to get a breath, to get my bearings.

I stood in a small circular courtyard, a cobbled alley surrounded by fieldstone towithouses. The crescent moon was a bright scar on the belly of the night. Thin clouds wrapped the sky in torn gauze. The roof line of the city rankled below. Black tiles, seeping shakes, and shaggy humps of thatch. Widow’s walks bristled like vulgar crowns. Water whispered in gutters and glinted in the distant cup of the sea.

Selgaunt. A quarter the size of Waterdeep, but still embroiled in nastiness. Fakery. Mendacity. Rich fat prima donnas attacking rich fat prima donnas. All that I could’ve stood-I was used to it-but caught in the center of this fight was something fine, something noble and beautiful.

I hefted the sanguine blade before me. Ranjir, ancient singing sword of elven kings, forged for battle, hero of a hundred wars, shaper of continents… and forevermore dead. Killed as an evening’s entertainment. That wasn’t even the worst of it. Before all that, the sword had been enslaved to two stupid, petty men. They’d made it sing for applause, perform like a trick monkey, and spend the rest of its time in triple-locked darkness. It might as well have been used to slice watermelons and pry open stuck doors.

Standing there under gauze clouds and frightened little stars, I knew with a sudden certainty that Tonias and V’Torres hadn’t been the sword’s first taskmasters. How many of the other great tenors of Semmite opera had used this blade? For how many hundreds of years had the singing sword of elven kings been enslaved by puffed up blowfish like Tonias and V’Torres?

Suddenly, there it was again. The smell of death.

I was no longer alone in the cobbled courtyard. From beneath crumbling arched alleyways they came. They emerged from behind ragged wooden tool sheds, abandoned flower boxes, a pile of rotten barrels. Lean, black-suited fighters with eyes like candle flames. They were all around me, blocking all exits.

I crouched, holding out the sword before me, and noticed that not a single one wore any armor over their body stockings.

An eloquent and dramatic voice came from one of my attackers, “It would seem, Agent Quaid, that you are at our mercy, and mercy is perhaps the rarest coin in our realm.” Not assassins. Thespians. “Surrender the sword to us, Quaid, for we have taken your mettle, and our taste is for a much finer alloy.” Bad thespians. There was a bit of whispered protest after that line, and a small slap fight to determine who would get to address me in the future.

“This sword is at the center of this investigation,” I said flatly. “You can’t have it. Besides, it’s dead. What would the Guild of Thespians, Bards, and Choristers want with a dead sword?”

That brought more nervous whispers. Someone argued they should make a run for it. In the end, a new voice won out. “Believe what you will about who surrounds you, Quaid. We will believe what we will about the sword. Now, hand it over or taste our own tongues of steel.” That speech was the most popular so far. Heads nodded in the darkness.

Thespians or no, there were twenty of them. They could kill me with prop swords. Still, Ranjir had been through too much already. I wasn’t about to surrender it to another batch of simpering fops. “Come, take it.”

“We will!” someone improvised, though the group seemed anything but keen on charging me.

The circle slowly tightened. I shifted my feet, turning to keep them all in view. Quick footsteps came behind me. I whirled. Ranjir whistled into the space. Steel struck steel and sparks flashed before a black goatee. With another swipe, I drove the attacker back.

And whirled. Two more swords darted toward my back. Ranjir cracked against them, one, two… I charged after the swordsmen, needing more room. They staggered back, fashionable berets outlined against the starry night, and foundered on a pile of barrels. Staves popped and rusty hoops groaned as they tumbled.

I’d gotten room enough to breathe but wanted to keep it. I swung Ranjir in a wide arc to my right and let the weight of the blade spin me around. With an audible gasp, the black body-suits fell back.

I assumed a fighting stance and growled out, “The damned blade is dead. Give it up, or you may be as well.”

They seemed impressed by this speech-literarily, not literally. One shouted back, “Give it up, or you may be as well.” That pleased the crowd even more, and hardened my resolve. Dead or alive, Ranjir would not end up in the hands of more theatrical taskinasters.

I took the battle to them, rushing a pair of men outlined by an alleyway. If I could bash past them.

Swords rang angrily on each other. The attackers’ blades sounded tinny mixed with the bell-tones of Ranjir. Even dead, it was a beautifully turned blade. I lunged. The tip of Ranjir catching in the basket hilt of a foe’s sword. As I struggled to wrench the blade away, something lashed my sword arm. My shoulder felt suddenly hot and achy. I won free and backed up, carving space around me.

Blood was creeping down my arm, dousing the sleeve of my shirt. One of the leotard crew had gotten in a lucky strike. The blow was superficial. It stung, but I could still wag Ranjir well enough. Then one of the actors was counting to three in an ominous stage whisper, and they all rushed me. I shouted in surprise, but there was no time for threats or words or even breath.

A thicket of blades surrounded me, jabbing in, nicking my side, my back, my neck. Ranjir danced with a will all its own, seeming to drag my wounded arm behind. All the while my blood crept down from shoulder to elbow to forearm to wrist. I was losing, and I knew it.

Ranjir knew it, too.

Light suddenly flashed through the courtyard. Thirty-some lanterns were unhooded at once, surrounding us in glare. Lances of light sliced through the circle of thespians. They shrank back, muttering about watchmen and dungeons and the fact that the world never recognizes true genius. Then they bolted, scrambling away through the shadows like so many rats. I expected to hear sounds of struggle and eloquent protests as the watchmen collared them.

But there were no watchmen, no lanterns. The light, in fact, radiated from the ancient elven sword I bore. The ruby blazed with light and life. The sword sang sadly:

“Lift me, if you please. The blood on your hand Could kill me.”

I complied, raising the blade overhead and watching the trickle of blood on my hand reverse, flowing back down my wrist. And there I stood, sword lifted high, a shabby, common version of King Orpheus. And, as in the play, the sword sang:

“I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Distalia, Like pollen in the teaming air of Spring.

I rise. I rise as all life rises, green and soft Through iron-hard ground to daylight gleam. I rise. I rise from roots that turn your dark decay To golden finery, turn grave soil to wind-borne seed. I rise, as all of life, I rise”

“So,” I interrupted wryly, “it was you all along. You used your mass hallucination powers to fake your own death?”

“How else could I get shut

Of simpering, bellowing fools?

They wouldn’t let me go

Except in death.

Death also rises,

Or didn’t you know?”

“And you faked the stab wounds, too. No wonder they healed so easily. I was surprised even the Morninglord was so solicitous. I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if you somehow sent some of those death threats, too.”

“Yes, I’ve been waiting these centuries

To find a hand such as yours,

The hand of a real warrior.

I’ve been pining for real battles again,

No more snake-oil stage shows.”

“Oh, no,” I said, fetching up the edge of my shirt and wiping the blood from my hand. “I work alone. I can’t be seen singing whenever I get in a fight.” Once the blood was well stanched, I lowered Ranjir and looked it square in the ruby. “Still, I wouldn’t mind some company on the way back to Waterdeep. And I know a certain weaponsmith who supplies fine swords to real warriors. I imagine I could enlist his aid to find you a fist headed for battle.”

The sword seemed almost to laugh as it sang out again:

“I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Waterdeep, like buds and flowers from wintry sleep. I rise!”