Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  Lucia shook her head adamantly. “I know Danilo. He is a bit of a fool, but there is no malice in him. He will not stand by to see his uncle discredited. Neither can I picture him as a master bard, and I’m sure many others suffer from a similar lack of imagination.”

  Garnet tucked a loose strand of graying brown hair behind one slightly pointed ear. “Fair concerns, both of them, but I assure you that neither will be a problem. The young ‘bard’s’ fame has become well established, and it will continue to grow—posthumously. Now, have we an agreement?”

  It was clear to Lucia that she had little choice in the matter, but she saw that the scheme could redound to her own benefit If they succeeded in removing Khelben Arunsun from power, she could name her reward, and the Knights would be delighted to grant it. As for her own deepest secret, she would handle Garnet the same way she had dealt with her superiors for years: pretend to be a Lord of Waterdeep, and pass along as privileged information things she garnered through business deals, social gossip, and her network of spies. And perhaps, if her suspicions were correct, her liaison with Caladorn might prove useful, as well as entertaining. The young man was besotted with her and trusted her completely. If he had any secrets, they were hers for the taking.

  “I believe we can work together,” Lucia agreed. “Now, tell me a little more about your plan.”

  “That is not necessary. We shall proceed one step at a time. When I require your services, I will detail what is expected.”

  That was more than a descendant of royalty could abide. Lucia rose slowly to her feet. Trembling with anger, she glared down at the half-elf. “I am servant to no one. Remember, you need my political power.”

  “Less than you need the magic I wield through music,” Garnet returned. For a long moment their eyes held in silent challenge. Lucia was the first to look away.

  “Then it is settled,” Garnet said with a smile. “Bardcraft and politics will join forces once again, and that is as it should be. Now, let us show Khelben Arunsun what can be done when there is a proper balance between the two.”

  * * * * *

  Now that he was face-to-face with Elaith Craulnober, Danilo began to doubt the wisdom of his decision to confront the elf and bargain for Vartain’s services. When they’d first met, some two years earlier, Elaith had taken an instant dislike to Danilo and, for that reason alone, had ordered his death. Judging from the vexation on Elaith’s handsome, angular face, Danilo supposed that the elf was regretting his decision to rescind that order.

  A wild giggle shattered the tense silence, and a ragged elf capered through the garden. The setting sun cast a long, emaciated shadow behind him as he whirled and leaped. Danilo watched the elf disappear around a corner, then turned a bland smile toward Elaith. “Friend of yours?”

  The moon elf ignored Danilo’s needling and pointed to the Harper pin. “How did you come by one of those? I know many who would pay dearly to obtain it, should you choose to sell.”

  “One must earn a Harper pin,” Danilo said quietly.

  The elf chuckled. “And you have?”

  “Let’s just say that if I haven’t already, I’m about to.”

  Elaith folded his arms and cocked a silver eyebrow. “You have my attention.”

  “The Harpers require the services of a bard. Since most of these have fallen under a spell that affects their music and memories, I was drafted to help.”

  “Really! Thank you for sharing such welcome news,” the elf said with a cordial smile. “Many of my associates will be delighted to learn that the Harpers have fallen to such depths. I shall dine out on this tale for months to come.”

  “So glad to be of service. Now, if I may present my companions: Morgalla the Mirthful, a bard of astounding talents, and Wyn Ashgrove, a minstrel from Evermeet. Perhaps you’ve met him before?” Danilo’s choice of words was not entirely without malice; he knew of Elaith’s self-imposed exile from the island homeland of the elves.

  Wyn greeted the moon elf with a polite ritual bow, which Elaith simply ignored. He shot an incredulous glance at the stout, short, brown-clad woman who’d come to stand at Danilo’s side. “A dwarf, Lord Thann? Your taste in traveling companions has sadly deteriorated. Where is Arilyn these days?”

  “Elsewhere,” Danilo said curtly. “Now, if we’ve exhausted our present supply of verbal stilettos, I have a business proposal for you.”

  Elaith looked intrigued. “A deal that brought the son of a Waterdeep merchant this far afield might prove interesting.”

  “It’s unusual, at the very least,” the Harper said. “Sing him the ballad, Wyn.”

  The minstrel took his silver lyre from its shoulder strap and sang the Ballad of Grimnoshtadrano. Elaith seemed irritated by this development and gave the gold elf scant attention, but as Wyn sang, Vartain came to stand at his employer’s side. The riddlemaster listened with deep interest, and his prominent black eyes were lively with intelligence and curiosity.

  “I believe I see this path’s destination,” Vartain said when the song was done. “These three wish to answer the dragon’s challenge, which means they must answer a riddle, read a scroll, and sing a song. Since the words ‘reading a scroll’ most likely indicate the casting of a spell, this young man is probably a mage. He travels with two bards. What he yet lacks is the talents of a riddlemaster, and he has come here to bid for my services. With all three skills, they have a chance at success, or, at the very least, survival.”

  “Well, you’re not going,” Elaith said flatly. “You signed on for the duration of this hunt, and you will remain in my service.”

  Vartain nodded, but he pulled Elaith aside. Turning his back to the newcomers, he began to spell out his argument in the silent hand language of thieves’ cant “As a riddlemaster, I collect lore of many kinds. Recently I’ve noted that ballads by and about Harpers have changed. When I questioned the bards who sang them, they all insisted that the songs were as they had always been. It is likely that what this young man says is true. No available Harper bards were unaffected by this spell, yet the dragon’s challenge specifies that a Harper must come. This would explain why the young man so openly touts his affiliation with this usually secret organization. Perhaps the Harpers are undergoing difficult times, but they are generally quite effective. If they have given assent to this quest, I believe it is because it has a fair chance of success.”

  “So?” Elaith asked aloud.

  “So you can make his success your own,” Vartain spelled out, his bony fingers gesticulating with fluid, practiced ease. “You were not listening to the ballad, but it stated that those who successfully challenge Grimnoshtadrano can choose their reward from the dragon’s hoard.”

  Elaith glared at the riddlemaster for a moment, then a strange glint entered his amber eyes. He affixed Danilo and his bardic companions with a measuring, speculative gaze.

  “Of course, I will recompense you for the loss of Vartain’s services,” Danilo said hastily, seeing the expression on the elf’s face and eager to press any advantage. “You’ve little need for money, but rumor has it you’ve a fondness for magical items.”

  Danilo pushed up the full sleeve of his shirt, revealing a jeweled knife in an elaborately tooled leather wrist sheath. Turning away so that pulling the blade could not be construed as a threat, Danilo flicked the knife toward the peppergum tree. It quivered in the soft bark for five heartbeats. Then, suddenly, it was gone. Danilo held out his wrist for the elf’s inspection. The knife had returned to the sheath.

  “A very handy toy,” Elaith agreed. “Very well, you may have Vartain and welcome. I will take the knife, as well as fifty pieces of platinum, standard trade weight The former I will collect now; the latter is payable by you or your estate upon my return to Waterdeep. There is one other condition: my men and I will join forces with your formidable army.” He paused and made an ironic bow to Wyn and Morgalla, then turned back to Dan with a small, tight smile. “From this day until the completion of the search, you and I w
ill be partners.”

  Danilo stared at the elf, utterly dumbfounded. At length he found his tongue and said in a dazed tone, “Partners?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Buggering Beshaba!” Danilo swore fervently, evoking the goddess of bad luck. “I had not anticipated this turn of events!”

  “Nor I,” said Elaith dryly. “I can see that you’re as pleased with the prospect as I am. Regardless, have we a deal?”

  “I suppose we do,” Dan agreed slowly. His eyed the elf dubiously, but he unstrapped the leather sheath and handed it to him. Elaith removed the magic knife from the sheath and examined it closely, tested its weight and balance, and then tossed it high into the air. He caught the descending knife by the tip and hurled it, all in one smooth movement, at the peppergum tree. The jeweled knife found the same spot Danilo had struck.

  “I’m curious,” Elaith said casually. “Say that I were to throw this knife at an enemy. The wound wouldn’t heal once the knife magically withdrew, would it? The damage would remain?”

  “That’s right”

  The elf held Danilo’s eyes as he strapped the sheath onto his forearm, and his smile was not a pleasant one. “Splendid,” he said.

  * * * * *

  The morning was still young when Larissa Neathal pulled herself from her bed. Sitting at a dressing table before a large triple mirror, she assessed her face for evidence of the all-night party. The laughter and music still echoed through her head, leaving it throbbing with dull pain, yet her gray eyes were clear and her white skin flawless. She pressed her fingertips delicately to the tiny puffs under her eyes, and with a shrug she reached for a jar of tinted unguent. Larissa disliked cosmetics and did not often resort to their use, but she had an appointment within the hour, and in her business she could ill afford to look less than her best.

  Last night had been especially profitable for the beautiful courtesan. The socially prominent Lady Thione had opened the Midsummer season with an extravagant costume affair. During the long hours of revelry Larissa’s legendary capacity for dancing and drinking had been stretched to the limit From a courtesan’s point of view—particularly a courtesan who also served as a Lord of Waterdeep—the party could hardly have been better. She had charmed some business secrets from a smitten Cormyrian merchant, gleaned some interesting news from a far-traveled bard named Garnet, and met a merchant nobleman visiting from Tethyr. Lord Hhune—a fat, black-haired man with small, unreadable eyes, thick black brows, and an abundant mustache—had engaged her to show him the city’s sights. She did not like the man, but, since Tethyr was a constantly simmering caldron of political trouble, she would skim what knowledge she could from him.

  Despite all these successes, Larissa had felt vaguely ill for most of the evening and had been glad to see the party end. Perhaps she had caught a chill, she mused, glancing at the costume she’d tossed over a velvet settee near the door, just before she’d fallen into bed. The form-fitting, richly embroidered gown of a Shou princess had attracted much admiration, but thin red satin offered little protection from the chill night winds that buffeted the Sea Ward. Or perhaps she had simply been working too hard. In recent weeks, the Lords of Waterdeep had been stretched to the limits of their various abilities. Larissa’s talent was gathering information, and her sphere was the whirl of social events and court functions. She could not remember the last time she’d slept for more than two or three hours, and she was beginning to feel a kinship with the walking dead.

  Whatever the case, Larissa was in no mood to play the part of a simpering courtesan, dancing to some stranger’s whims. Usually she played her role with real pride and genuine enjoyment, but she had no heart for it today.

  Well, there was no help for it Larissa stifled a yawn and continued her preparations. First she unbraided her red hair. Since her luxuriant tresses were too long for her to brush herself, she rang the small brass bell that would summon her maid. She stripped off her rings and massaged scented ointment into her hands. Then she rose from the dressing table and glided over to a vast oak wardrobe. Her pale green nightgown, a marvel of translucent silk, swirled and floated about her legs as she moved. Throwing open the wardrobe door, she began to debate which gown her latest client might fancy.

  Behind her, the bedchamber door creaked open. “Come in, Marta, and hurry. I must be dressed in an hour,” Larissa said without turning.

  “You need not bother, dear lady,” said a deep, heavily accented voice. “That green gown you are almost wearing pleases me well.”

  Startled, Larissa whirled in a cloud of floating silk. Lord Hhune of Tethyr was seated on the settee, insolently fingering the red satin of her Shou costume. In the doorway stood two dark-clad men, wielding curved daggers and holding captive between them a terrified Marta.

  Larissa’s right hand went instinctively to her left pinkie, reaching for the enspelled ring given to all Waterdeep’s Lords. Her heart plummeted when she realized she’d inadvertently taken it off with her other rings and left it on the dressing table. The ring not only granted her immunity to poisons, but it would have allowed her to summon her powerful comrades. Her mind raced over other options. Screaming for help would be futile. She had several skilled and trusted fighters among her servants; if they were not already here defending her, they were dead. All her gowns were equipped with cunningly hidden stilettos, but her nearly transparent nightgowns afforded her no such protection. Larissa had but one weapon at hand—the art of a courtesan—and her maid’s life depended upon her skill in wielding it.

  With a delicate laugh, Larissa glided over to Hhune. “I am flattered by your impatience,” she said in sultry tones. Looking up into his face, she gave him her most winsome smile and began to toy with the buttons on his coat.

  “But my maid has little skill in such games as you and I might enjoy. Surely, your men would be better served at any one of our city’s festhalls. Perhaps you could give them a day’s holiday to taste the city’s pleasures, so that we might spend the afternoon in … privacy?”

  Larissa swayed closer, and Hhune’s eyes darkened with an expression the courtesan knew well. She began to allow herself a bit of hope.

  “You are most beautiful,” the nobleman said in a thick voice. He gathered up a handful of her gleaming red hair. “I almost regret what must come to pass.”

  Hhune gave Larissa’s hair a brutal yank, jerking her head back. With the edge of his free hand, he struck her hard on the throat Dazed by the pain, the courtesan fell to her knees. A word from Hhune brought three more men from the hall beyond. Two of the ruffians held her while the third man caught her flailing hands. The man systematically broke her fingers, one by one. When the task was completed, Hhune nodded and his men fell back. Still on her knees, Larissa rocked back and forth, cupping ruined hands to her breast as sobs bubbled from her shattered voice box.

  “Now, Larissa, Lord of Waterdeep, you will not be able to communicate by voice or quill for many days to come,” Hhune said coldly. “Do not fear for your life, dear lady. Far from it This city reeks of barbarian magic, and too many could speak with your spirit. My men are too skilled to allow you to die, so you will live, lingering for many days as if in enchanted slumber. After that,” he paused and shrugged, “you may awaken. Perhaps potions and prayers may restore your voice, your hands, and your beauty. Or perhaps not.”

  He turned to the waiting men. “See to it,” he commanded. “As for the maid, kill her and remove her from this place. Our Waterdeep agent will see that the body disappears deep into the harbor.”

  Hhune whirled and stalked from the bedchamber, faintly repulsed by the eager gleam in the men’s eyes as they closed on the sobbing courtesan. Torture was not an uncommon weapon for the Knights of the Shield, and these men been chosen for their skill in the art. Hhune had little taste for such things, but he supposed that a man should enjoy his work.

  He nearly bumped into Garnet, who awaited him in the hall. The look of blatant disapproval she sent him made Hhune feel
defensive of his methods.

  “The courtesan is being dealt with,” Hhune said, nodding toward the closed door. “Since you did not succeed in poisoning her last night, we felt another approach was indicated.”

  The half-elf’s eyes blazed. “Lady Thione neglected to tell me that all Lords of Waterdeep are immune to poison. Had I known such methods would fail, I would not have wasted the night chatting with her and performing at the party like some common minstrel.”

  “Thione said nothing of that, eh? This is most interesting,” Hhune said thoughtfully.

  Garnet noted that the southern nobleman was far from displeased to learn of Lady Thione’s omission. Since she had little interest in the internal politics of the Knights of the Shield, she merely shrugged and turned away. She hurried down the hall to an arched doorway and stepped out onto a balcony.

  Hhune watched her, his black brows knit together in puzzlement. What did the half-elf expect to do: fly? Curiosity got the better of him, and he crept down the hall with as much stealth as his bulk could manage. He peered around the edge of the drapery, and recoiled in surprise.

  A milk-white horse stood on the balcony, two stories above the quiet street As Hhune watched, Garnet hoisted herself onto the animal’s back and gathered up the reins, slapping them sharply against her steed’s neck. The horse hesitated, and Garnet’s face hardened into a mask of concentration and anger. As if in response, the horse dipped its head in a gesture that spoke eloquently of both sadness and resignation. It lifted straight into the air, as lightly as a hummingbird. Then, as quickly as that delicate bird, the horse darted away into the clouds.