The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

by Elaine Cunningham

  He explained his intentions to Gellana Mirrorshade. The gnomish priestess was not happy with his request, but she had pledged her aid to his quest for justice. She sent Garith Hunterstock to the dungeon to retrieve Elaith.

  "The accused has a right to tell his story," Danilo said, "but he does not wish to do so before so many witnesses. The elf is weaponless and bound; I can confidently ensure the priestess's safety."

  Gellana shrugged and spoke a few gnomish words to her fellow clerics. All left the temple. When the only sound was the steady dripping of the large Neveren water clock that stood like a monument in the courtyard, Danilo bid the priestess to summon Bentley Mirrorshade. When the ghostly gnome stood before them, Danilo turned to Elaith.

  "You were late to the tavern last night. Did you have dinner?"

  The elf looked at Danilo as if he had lost his mind. "I ordered, but did not eat. The gnome's murder was discovered before my meal arrived, and the tavern closed."

  "Ah. And what did you order?"

  "Medallions of veal, I believe, with capers and cream. Why?"

  Danilo ignored the question. "You were also subjected to a peace bond, of the sort given to mages. Is your magical skill widely known?"

  "It is not," the elf replied. "I find that the best weapon is often the one you keep hidden."

  "Well said. So it would appear the gnomes knew more of you than is commonly told. Who tied your thumb in a peace bond?"

  The elf shrugged. "A human wench, overblown and under-clad. Dark hair. I did not ask her name."

  "That sounds like Sophie. Is peace bonding her task?" Danilo asked Gellana. The gnomish priestess responded with a cautious nod. The Harper held up a small sack of green-dyed leather. "Is it also her task to relieve guests of their valuables? This coin purse is mine. I lost it in the tavern and found it this morning in Sophie's chest. But Sophie herself, I could not find. A marvel, considering that the fortress is sealed."

  Gellana scowled. "You had me summon my husband to listen to this nonsense? If you have questions for Bentley Mirrorshade, ask them!"

  Danilo nodded agreeably and turned to the specter. "Is Bentley Mirrorshade dead?"

  "What kind of question is that?" snapped Gellana.

  "A very good one, I should think," the Harper replied. "It is the one question that no one thought to ask. When presented with a body, everyone's instinct was to look for the killer. But Bentley Mirrorshade is an illusionist of some skill, and considerable sophistry. Looking back, it strikes me that your questions at the summoning, dear lady, were rather oddly worded. You referred to the spirit by name, but never the body. The elf was responsible for 'the death,' and his weapon struck the killing blow-that is all that was said. Elaith would be responsible indeed, if the death in question was that of the veal calf he ordered for his dinner."

  Danilo held out his hands, his palms open and empty. "Shall I cast the needed spell?" he asked the priestess. "One that can dispel the effects of others' spells?"

  "Don't bother," said a gruff voice from the vicinity of the clock. A door on the pedestal cabinet flew open, and Bentley Mirrorshade, very much alive, strode toward his bier. He snatched the illusionary specter from the air and crumpled it as a frustrated scribe might treat a sheet of blotched parchment. On the bier, as Danilo expected, lay the body of a brindle calf.

  The gnome illusionist folded his stubby arms and glared up at the Harper. "All right, then, you got me. What now?"

  "That depends upon you." Dan said. "Tell me, why did you stage your own death?"

  Bentley rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Had a responsibility to the girl. She's trouble, and no mistake about that, but she don't deserve the likes of this elf sniffing around. I got no use for those who would use the girl to stir up rebellion, and even less for those who would hunt her down to enrich themselves." He glared at the elf.

  "And by leaving behind your own illusionary corpse, you created a diversion that allowed the girl to escape unnoticed, and that condemned Elaith Craulnober to death. Masterfully done," Danilo complimented him. "But how did you intend to explain your eventual return from the grave? I have my suspicions, mind you, but I'd like to hear you tell the tale."

  The gnome had the grace to look sheepish. "I've been known to go off fishing now and again. Gives me time alone, time to think. I thought to come back when this was over, act surprised by this rogue's fate. And you're right in what you're thinking, Harper; I thought to pin the blame for the illusion on you. You're known for pranks, and for spells gone awry."

  Danilo took note of the remarkable change which came over Elaith during this confession. Understanding, then profound relief, then chilling anger played over his elven features. Danilo sent him a warning look.

  "I must say, this leaves me with something of a dilemma," the Harper said. "Elaith has been found to be without guilt in this case, but to make public your scheme would upset the balance in the Friendly Arm, and would alert others who seek the Thione heiress."

  "True enough," the gnome agreed. "What's your thinking, then?"

  Danilo sighed. "I see no real choice. I shall take the blame for the illusion, as you intended. If asked, I can cite old and very real enmities between myself and Elaith." He turned to the elf. "In return for this, I expect your word that you will not hinder Arilyn and me in our task. We intend to take Isabeau Thione-better known as Sophie the pickpocket-to safety in the north."

  Bentley snorted. "You're gonna take the word of such a one as this?"

  "In your position, I would not be too quick to cast aspersions on the honesty of another," Elaith said, his voice bubbling with barely controlled wrath. "I am what I am, but the Harper knows that my word, once given, is as good as that of any elf alive, and better than that of any gnome. And so you may believe me when I swear that if ever I meet you beyond these walls, I will kill you in the slowest and most painful manner known to me."

  The gnome shrugged. "Fair enough. But mind you, take care who you're calling a liar. I never said a single thing wasn't Garl's honest truth. An illusion ain't never a lie- people just got a bad habit of believing what they see."

  Danilo took Elaith's arm and led the furious elf from the temple. "I will keep my oath to you, bard," the elf hissed from between clenched teeth, "but there is another I long to break! Like any other elf I believe disturbing the dead is a terrible thing. But I would give fifty years off my life to continue this discussion-with that wretched gnome's real spirit!"

  The Harper shrugged. "We are neither of us quite what we seem, are we? Why, then, should you expect anything else to be what it seems?"

  Elaith glared at him. After a moment a smile, slow and rueful, softened the elf's face. "If a moon elf of noble family commands half the illegal trade in Waterdeep, and if a foolish minstrel from that same city displays insight that an elven sage might envy, why should we make foolish assumptions about speaking with the dead?"

  He extended his hand. A simple gesture, but for once, the Harper felt no need to seek for hidden meanings or illusionary truths. He knew the elf for what he was, but there were some absolutes that Danilo took when and where he found them. Friendship was one of them.

  Without hesitation, he clasped Elaith's wrist in a comrade's salute.

  STOLEN DREAMS

  The bustle of an arriving caravan filled the courtyard of the Friendly Arms tavern. Inside the tavern's great hall, a tiny brown woman-short even by the standards of the gnomes who ran the fortified travelers' rest-scrambled onto one of the smooth-planked tables and clapped her small hands for attention.

  "Caravan from Waterdeep coming through! Step lively, now." Her voice boomed through the vast room, surprising in its depth and resonance. In response, a small army of gnomes began to scurry about in frenzied last-moment preparation, like roaches scattering before the light of an unexpected lantern.

  Or so they seemed to Sophie. She'd lived among these small folk for all of her twenty-odd years, and never had she been so heartily sick of them as she was this night. Al
though she was only a serving wench, she dreamed of grander folk, better places, and opportunities only the wide world could offer. Some odd quirk of fate had left her a foundling babe, and a second, darker turn had landed her on the doorstep of gnomes who insisted that she stay until she worked off the cost of her early keep.

  The other girls-there were seven of them-had similar tales. Indentured servants all, they occasionally bemoaned their ill luck but seemed content to accept their fate. Not Sophie. Let other fools toss their coins into the alms pots at Tymora's temples and pray for Lady Fortune's favor. Sophie had noticed that the harder she worked, the better her luck seemed to be. Tonight she would work very hard indeed.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and tugged at the hem of her tightly-laced bodice, pulling the crimson garment as low as she dared. It was easier to steal from the travelers who frequented the Friendly Arms once their attention was fixed upon something interesting.

  "You're selling ale and stew," observed a gruff voice behind her, "but you're advertising other wares. We don't sell that here, girl, so stop teasing the customers."

  Sophie hissed a sigh from between gritted teeth and turned to glare down at the gnome who called himself her guardian and employer. Her jailer, more like it!

  Bentley Mirrorshade was stout and brown-skinned and much weathered by the passing of years and the use of magic. To Sophie's eyes, he had little in common with the magic-users who passed through on their way to better places. Not for him the embroidered spell bags, the studied grace of gesture, and the trained resonance of tone. No fine robes draped his squat form, and no potions of longevity smoothed the wrinkles that seamed and whorled his face like the patterns in wood. Indeed, except for the rosy hue of his bulbous nose and the slightly darker crimson of his jerkin, he might well have been carved from wood.

  "My fingers tingle," she informed him. "I can't smell the stew over the scent of money. Listen to the din out there! Look at the fine weapons the merchant's guards carry. Tonight is the night, I feel it!"

  The gnome sighed. He had long ago become resigned to the larcenous streak in Sophie's nature and had worked out a compromise that served both his reputation and her sanity. But he could not resist wagging a stubby brown finger in admonition.

  "Remember the Mirrorshade Cipher, wench."

  Sophie rolled her eyes and held her hands out to her sides, palms up, pantomiming a scale see-sawing in a fruitless quest for balance.

  "The treasure worth keeping, the risk worth taking," she recited in a mocking singsong. "But what risk could there be this night? Waterdeep merchants are fat and smug and lazy."

  "There are wizards in Waterdeep," the gnome reminded her. "Play your games if you must, don't get caught lifting some silly trifle. That sort of thing ruins an inn's name, and what would you be without the Friendly Arms?"

  Sophie tossed her head. "Free," she retorted.

  Bentley Mirrorshade sent her a look that was both dour and long-suffering. He fell silent as a small group of the travelers came into the hall, and his small, shrewd blue eyes scrutinized each one in turn.

  As she waited the gnome's verdict, Sophie reached into her pocket for a handful of long, thin leather thongs. One of her favorite tasks was peace-binding the left thumb of visiting mages to their belts. On the surface of things, it was a foolish convention-most spells could be cast one-handed-but it had its purposes. For one thing, it left the visiting magic-users smug, certain their gnomish hosts were ignorant of magic and awed by those who practiced it. Bentley Mirrorshade was in truth a highly skilled illusionist, but he was not above using simple, mundane ploys to distract the eye and create a desired effect. Peace-binding also gave Sophie a decided edge. The pressure of the thong, the awkward position of the hand-this was enough to nudge the senses off balance. Men thus distracted were less likely to notice a sudden lightening of their purses.

  "This caravan carries more magic-users than a bugbear has ticks," the gnome observed. "Peace-bind that fat man wearing purple, and the woman in leather armor. And those two over there, the young skinny ones tripping over their robes. And be looking for a tall elf with silver hair. When he comes in, bind him tight, but otherwise leave him be." A new swirl of wind drew the gnome's gaze back to the door, and he sucked in a sharp, startled breath.

  "Danilo Thann," he said flatly. "Better wizard than he wants you to think. Bind him well, or there'll be trouble later, sure as kobolds are ugly."

  Sophie's eyes lit up with pure avarice. The newcomer handing his coat to the doorkeeper was the most promising pigeon she'd seen in a month of tendays. A young man, tall and fair, splendidly attired and wearing more jewels than any sensible traveler would dare display. He wore two fine swords, which he handed to the gnomes who collected weapons at the door. Sophie slid a measuring eye over him. A nobleman, judging from the heraldic crest embroidered onto one shoulder of his tabard and the easy, innate arrogance of his stance and manner. The green leather bag at his belt was too big to lift without risk, but the coin purse hanging over his left hip, the small silver knife tucked into his boot, his emerald pendant-these were as good as hers.

  Sophie pushed past the gnome, ignoring his protests as she eased her way through the growing crowd. With practiced calculation, she stepped into the path of a thick-bodied merchant. They collided, and she bounced off him and all but fell into the young nobleman's arms.

  She pulled away with a laughing apology, running her hands through her abundant dark hair as if to smooth it into place. It was an artful move, one she'd practiced and perfected, designed to lift her bosom to impressive heights and draw an admirer's eyes slowly up to her equally remarkable face.

  "And what can I get you, my lord?" she said meaningfully.

  The nobleman took note of her performance, but did not seem inclined to applaud. "Killed, most likely," he said mildly. "Or severely wounded at the very least."

  Her puzzled look earned her nothing but a smile and a request for expensive wine. A cold fish, this one! Sophie took off in a huff with his coin purse tucked into her pocket. When Bentley sent her back a few moments later to peace-bind the nobleman, she tied the thong more tightly than necessity demanded.

  The night wore on without further incident. Sophie collected coins, bangles, even a few travel cups and personal table knives. The cups and knives would be easily returned to their owners when the night's sport was through, explained as a wench's error in clearing the tables. The other things would be more difficult, but only slightly so. Sophie was as adept at returning the stolen items as she was in acquiring them. And return them she would. So far, she had collected nothing worth keeping. According to Bentley, never had she done so.

  It was beginning to dawn on Sophie that, as far as Bentley Mirrorshade was concerned, she would never find a treasure whose value outweighed the risk. They were playing a game that only one could win, and the winner was the gnome who made the rules. If she desired to be completely honest, Sophie would have to admit that she'd realized the truth of Bentley's ploy long ago. She had pretended otherwise, for the game amused her and gave her an opportunity to hone her skills. More importantly, it allowed her to hope that someday she could win free of this place.

  A false hope, of course-one of Bentley's small illusions, no more convincing than the little farce of peace-binding.

  Her disgruntlement grew as the night wore on. Other than the coin purse she'd lifted from the young nobleman, most of her "treasure" was of little worth. Most of the knives were lead or bone, the bracers and bangles either brass or copper and devoid of either valuable carving or precious stone. But this caravan was from Waterdeep! Where were the gems, the gold and silver?

  A glint of lamplight on silver-at last! — drew her eye to the door. There stood a tall, slender moon elf, frowning slightly as he unburdened himself of weapons. Surely this was the elf of whom Bentley had spoken. A small, delighted smile curved Sophie's lips as her appraising eyes settled upon the elf's belt. Though he had given up a half dozen weapons, he was p
ermitted carry such tools as were used at table, as well as small items deemed too valuable to entrust to another. The elf retained several such items, including a dagger fashioned of silvery metal the same hue as the elf's hair-a color so pale it was nearly white. That marked it as elven steel, priceless even without the elaborate carving and lavish jewels that graced the hilt.

  Revelation jolted through Sophie. This was it! This had to be the treasure whose worth out-measured the risk of stealing it! The elf carried so many fine things that he would not miss that single small knife. Surely Bentley would acknowledge this, and concede that the game they played had at last been won! She could buy free of this place tonight!

  Exultation swept through her, quickly chased by a sense of betrayal and then cold, furious rage. Bentley knew this elf carried treasures. Of course he did, and that was why he warned her clear of him.

  Bentley Mirrorshade, whatever his other faults might be, was a gnome of his word. Once the priceless dagger was hers, the gnome would have no choice but to honor the bargain they'd made years ago, and that would mean the loss of his most popular tavern wench.

  Sophie tamped down her wrath and forced an inviting smile onto her face. She elbowed one of her fellow wenches aside and undulated over to the silver-haired elf.

  "And what can I get you, my lord?" she purred as her fingers reached toward freedom.

  Bentley Mirrorshade stared with horror at the glittering hoard laid out before him. Several long moments passed before he lifted his eyes to Sophie's face. The depth of emotion in them set her back on her heels, for she could not begin to fathom the mingled sorrow and fear in the gnome's small blue eyes. She had expected either the anger or the resignation of a gambler who knew himself beaten.