The guildmaster’s brow creased as he strained to catch the sounds that had distressed the lady. Finally, he made out the faint noise of voices and horsemen. “You needn’t worry. I’ll check it out and be back directly,” he said, patting her arm as if to reassure her. Her protector hastened up the narrow spiral of wooden steps that led toward the street. After a few minutes, the clunk of the heavy wooden trapdoor echoed through the basement chamber.
“Finally,” Lucia said in acid tones. When she turned back to the merman, all the softness had disappeared from her face. “What news of the goods?”
“They’ll be safely stored on Whalebones,” Hodatar said. “Minus the pirates’ share, of course.”
“I told you to take them to Orlumbor!” she protested. “I have agents on that island who can fence the goods. Whalebones is nothing but seal colonies and rock!”
The merman shrugged, unimpressed by her outburst “What I can’t sell to the Ruathym, I’ll send south in small shipments to Alaron. I have contacts with Moonshae merchants there. Your share should be at least a third of the goods’ Waterdeep market value.”
“It should be considerably more than that,” Lucia snapped. “Without the information I gave you, your pirates wouldn’t have known the trade routes and could not have overcome those ships!”
“Information is very valuable,” the merman agreed slyly. “I wonder, for example, what Zzundar might pay to learn that these ships disappeared at your command.”
Lucia’s dark eyes narrowed. “You’re very ambitious, Hodatar,” she observed softly. She took a small silk bag from her bodice and dangled it before the merman. “It is not enough that you take payment both from me and the city of Waterdeep?”
Hodatar snatched the bag from her and eagerly jerked open the purse strings. He smiled with satisfaction and fingered the rare spell components that he’d demanded as payment. “Magic is not inexpensive, and it is rare under the sea. Once I learn to use it, I’ll rule kingdoms that surpass those of your most ambitious conquerors!”
Lucia yawned delicately, patting at her parted lips with the tips of her fingers. “Don’t be tiresome, Hodatar. Future fish kings shouldn’t stoop to blackmail,” she chided him, her derision cloaked in genteel tones. “But Garnet tells me that you’ve been a good ally, and she would like to see you succeed in your study of magic. As a wizard, you’d be even more useful to our cause. I’ve a talisman that will increase the power of your spells.” She slipped a hand into a pocket of her gown, then she paused and bit her lower lip, acting if she’d spoken before thinking and was now reconsidering her action. “Of course, it might be dangerous to one who lacked knowledge,” she added hastily.
“A risk I will gladly take!” the merman said. He sank low into the water, and then with a quick thrust of his tail sprang out at the noblewoman.
Lucia Thione was ready for him. She yanked a curved dagger from her pocket and sank it deep into his underbelly, ripping downward through scales and flesh as if she were gutting a trout Hodatar fell heavily onto the wooden floor, his mouth gaping in shock and pain as he clutched at his spilling entrails.
The noblewoman watched the merman’s death throes with an impassive face. When the treacherous Hodatar lay still, she stooped by the water and splashed some of the briny liquid over her dress. Standing, she raked her fingers through her hair repeatedly, reducing the elegant ringlets to a tousled mass of chestnut curls. Finally she took her money purse and scattered a handful of coins on the floor to make it appear that the merman had tried to rob her and had died in the struggle.
When Zzundar returned, the noblewoman threw herself into his arms, babbling helplessly that she hadn’t meant to kill Hodatar. She sobbed against the guildmaster’s broad chest, allowing him to smooth her hair and murmur inane platitudes about the gods, the fates, and the right of any woman to protect herself from thieves and scoundrels. After a suitable interval she looked up at Zzundar, giving him a small grateful smile and declaring through her tears that she couldn’t bear to be alone that night.
As Lucia had anticipated, the guildmaster was too entranced by this turn of events to question her story. Nor did he think to ask how she knew that a strong undercurrent caused by the morning tides would carry the body far into the harbor.
Hodatar himself had told this to Garnet, and Lucia had tested the theory with the body of Larissa Neathal’s maid. Zzundar was not the only guildmember enchanted by Lucia’s elegant beauty, and it had been a small matter to arrange access to the merdock for two agents of the Knights of the Shield. Of course, she had paid that man in a coin far less personal than that she was using to purchase Zzundar.
She cast a sidelong glance at the guildmaster and repressed a sigh. She was not adverse to using her charm and beauty to serve her own ends, but she bitterly resented doing so to further Garnet’s vendetta against Khelben Arunsun. As she accompanied Zzundar out of the guildhall, Lucia wondered what more the half-elven sorceress might demand of her.
Eight
Astride her magical asperii, Garnet sped through the sunrise clouds on her swift journey northward. Far below, she could see the spires of Silverymoon gleaming in the soft pink light, and the sight filled her with dark satisfaction. More than three moons had passed since she had last visited the wondrous city and cast the spell that bound the bards to her will. They had done their part admirably, and would soon prove the power of bardcraft.
From the vantage point of her wind-riding mount, Garnet spotted a narrow brown ribbon, the main trade route leading east from Silverymoon to Sundabar. She sent a silent command to her horse. The asperii followed the command without comment or complaint, but the telepathic creature’s thoughts were tightly closed to her. For a moment this irritated Garnet, but she had far too much on her mind to concern herself overmuch with her surly steed’s mood.
Before highsun the bard saw below her the stout gray walls that surrounded Sundabar. The city had been built long ago by dwarves and was still a heavily armed fortress. Once the site of the barding college known as Anstruth, it was still renowned for the fine wooden instruments crafted there. The city sat at the crossroad of the River Rauvin and the trade road, and beyond it were the thick forests that yielded lumber for the city’s craftspeople. More exotic woods were carried on the barges that traveled the busy river. From Garnet’s height, the cargo boats looked to be about the size of water bugs.
Another command from the bard sent the asperii into a spiraling descent Garnet landed openly on the trade road and entered the city without challenge, for bards were welcomed almost anywhere for their music and the news they carried.
As she traveled down the narrow cobblestone roads past the homes and shops of busy tradespeople, she found that Sundabar was greatly changed since she had last walked its streets, almost three hundred years before. As a very young noblewoman she had studied at Anstruth on her path toward the degree of Magnum Alumnus, the highest honor afforded a bard. Her years of study did not bring her to that goal, however, for a charismatic young bard had persuaded her to join the Harpers. While she ran about the Northlands doing the bidding of politicians such as Khelben, the barding colleges began their final slide into decline.
That Garnet could never forgive. The Harpers had originally been created, at least in part, to sustain tradition and preserve history, yet their efforts were ever directed to this or that political end. She would repay the lords and rulers in their own coin. Let Khelben and his ilk see what happened when music and history no longer served them and furthered their political games!
Finding her way through Sundabar was more difficult than Garnet had anticipated. The city through which she rode was now more concerned with commerce than art, and to her dismay she found that only one of Anstruth’s original buildings still stood: a concert hall whose stone walls had survived the passage of time. Rage coursed through the bard when she realized that the once-beautiful building had been gutted and turned into a common warehouse.
Nevertheless, she tied h
er horse outside and made her way to a door at the back of the building. Within she found stacks of lumber, and at one end of the vast room was a workshop equipped with lathes and bores that transformed wood into the fine musical instruments for which Sundabar was famed. A number of unfinished recorders, shawms, and wooden flutes lay on various work tables, but she was alone in the vast room.
The workers had just left, probably to take a highsun meal. Garnet’s sharp eyes—part of her inheritance from her elven mother—perceived the blurred and quickly fading shadows of warmth they had left behind. She had little time to complete her task. Garnet pulled up a low stool and seated herself in the midst of the workshop. Once again, she began to play the melody that bound magic and music together, singing the interwoven riddles that formed the words of the spell.
When the spell was complete, Garnet picked up her harp and hurried into the back alley. Impatient to test her new power, she set down the harp on the cobblestones and with her right hand plucked a single string. Her left hand she flung upward, lightning sizzled upward, disappearing into a low-hanging bank of clouds.
The rain began immediately. Garnet closed her eyes and raised her face to the soft shower, smiling as she imagined the reaction another such storm would cause in Waterdeep. Rain on Midsummer’s Day was such a rare event that it was considered a dire omen. She would use this superstition to fuel the growing discontent in Waterdeep, and she would spread rumors that the freak weather was due to the twisted wizardry of Khelben Arunsun. A small thing, perhaps, but Garnet knew that rulers had lost favor for less than this.
A stinging blow slapped Garnet’s cheek, and then another. Her eyes snapped open, then widened in disbelief. The rain had turned to hail! She ducked back into the doorway of the warehouse, out of the way of increasingly larger pieces of ice. As the appalled half-elf watched, the sky darkened to the color of slate and hail began to accumulate on the stone-paved alley.
Garnet hurried through the warehouse to the front post where she had left her asperii. She quickly untied the frightened, battered horse and drew it into the building, soothing it as best she could with soft words and projected mental assurances. The asperii quieted, and it fixed its liquid brown eyes on its mistress. For an instant the veil that the asperii had cast up between their two minds parted, and Garnet caught a glimpse of the horse’s fear and indecision.
For the first time, Garnet understood the significance of the asperii’s withdrawal; each magical horse only formed its telepathic, lifelong bond with a mage or priest of great power, and the asperii would not serve anyone whose goals or motives were evil. Garnet had never before doubted the rightness of her plan, and the quiet accusation in the asperii’s eyes struck her like a physical blow. Pain flashed in the half-elf’s chest and down her arm, and she sank gasping onto a nearby crate.
“I seek justice, not vengeance,” Garnet whispered to herself when the waves of pain had subsided. She looked up into the asperii’s eyes, and saw her twin reflections there as if in a dark mirror. “In all things, there must be a balance,” she said earnestly.
The horse merely blinked and turned its gaze toward the open door. After a moment Garnet also looked out at the plummeting hail. The silence between them was complete as they waited for the storm to play itself out.
* * * * *
It was uncanny, mused Jannaxil Serpentil, but sooner or later every scrap of stolen paper in Waterdeep seemed to come across his desk. The proprietor of Serpentil Books and Folios sold everything from spellbooks to love letters, but this latest find was something quite new.
Deftly sketched on the paper was a picture of Khelben Arunsun. The archmage stood before an easel, dabbing at the canvas with an oversized brush while the faceless, black-robed Lords of Waterdeep stood by, holding his palettes and brushes. By Deneir, it was clever! The artist had caught perfectly the mood and fears of the cityfolk, condensing much gossip and speculation into a single, vivid image.
Jannaxil scratched his thin black beard thoughtfully. The first secret of being a good fence—and he was very good indeed—was to have a buyer for nearly anything. No one in Waterdeep would be so foolish as to attempt to blackmail the archmage, but the fence could think of several people who might have an interest in this sketch.
He affixed the would-be seller, an apprentice instrument builder whose gambling debts far outstripped his earnings, with his most intimidating scowl. “Where did you find this?”
The young man licked his lips nervously. “One of Halambar’s patrons dropped it in the shop. I thought that, perhaps—”
“I doubt that you thought at all!” Jannaxil glanced at the sketch again and sniffed disdainfully. The second secret of success was knowing the value of an object, and then convincing the seller to accept far less. “Who would have a use for such a thing? I can give you three copper pieces, no more.”
Jannaxil pushed the coins toward the young man. “You have brought me a few interesting pieces in the past. These coppers are an investment, for I hope that you might do better in the future.”
“Yes, sir.” Halambar’s apprentice looked disappointed, but he gathered up the coins and left the shop.
Alone is his dusty, book-lined kingdom, Jannaxil finally gave vent to a dry chuckle. He was tempted to keep the sketch himself, although he was certain that the sorcerer Maaril would be delighted by the satirical jab at his more powerful colleague, and that the wizard would pay many pieces of silver to possess it.
The challenge in this transaction, Jannaxil mused, was finding a carrier foolhardy enough to take the drawing to the Dragon Tower. Maaril’s tower was actually shaped like a dragon, standing upright on its haunches with its mouth flung open as if ready to attack. Although the odd tower was a landmark that held great appeal for children and visitors—especially at night when the light within made the dragon’s eyes and mouth glow with a crimson fire—only the most intrepid ventured close enough for more than a peek. The tower was steeped in sinister magic, and even the streets surrounding it were dangerous.
Jannaxil pondered the matter for a long moment, then he smiled. A certain thief of his acquaintance had recently married into a clan of wealthy North End merchants. This family was newly come to wealth and were very conscious of their social position. Jannaxil knew the clan matriarch; she prized respectability above all and would not be accepting of her son-in-law’s colorful past Jannaxil was certain the erstwhile thief would do him this little favor, in exchange for continued discretion.
As Jannaxil had noted before, the secret to a fence’s success was knowing the right price of everything.
* * * * *
Music and Mayhem rode hard throughout the rest of the day, for they wanted to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the High Forest The afternoon fled, and by sunset they had left the marshlands behind.
The moon was high before they found a campsite that Elaith considered reasonably safe and defensible. While the elf and Balindar directed the care of horses and the making of camp, Danilo settled down by the campfire and removed the hard-won scroll of parchment from his magic bag. When Wyn Ashgrove saw what was in the Harper’s hands, he hurried over, with Morgalla close on his heels.
“Open it!” the elf urged, impatience and excitement in his dark green eyes. “Perhaps it will reveal who enspelled the bards!”
Danilo shook his head and pointed to the blob of dark red wax sealing the scroll. “Many spell scrolls are protected. Breaking this seal could set off something lethal: a fireball, a mind-blank spell, an irate redhead.…” Danilo illustrated the last possibility by tugging at one of the dwarf’s long auburn braids, teasing the fierce warrior as if she were a favorite younger sister. Morgalla rolled her eyes skyward and tried not to look pleased.
“So now what, bard?” she asked.
“There are tiny runes pressed into the wax,” Danilo said, holding the scroll close and squinting at it “The writing itself isn’t arcane, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a spell of some sort I don’t
recognize the language.”
“Let me see.” Vartain strode over, extending one hand in a peremptory fashion. “Riddlemasters are of necessity students of linguistics and lore.”
Danilo gave him the scroll. “Read it if you can, but don’t disturb the seal,” he said firmly. “I like to limit myself to one explosion a day.”
The riddlemaster glanced at the runes. “This is a contrived dialect of middle Sespechian, a court language developed some three centuries past but long since fallen into disuse,” he announced in dry, didactic tones. “Upon the death of the ruling Baron of Sespech, the baroness took a young consort from Turmish. The man was reputed to be handsome beyond compare, but lacking facility in language. This bastardized dialect of Sespechian, which every member of court was required to learn, was the queen’s attempt to draw her new consort into the social and diplomatic concerns of court life.”
“The nice thing about dwarves and elves,” Morgalla interrupted plaintively, “is that generally we come to the point after an hour or two.”
“The words on this seal appear to be a riddle, and its title suggests that it is the key to the scroll,” Vartain continued in a stiff tone. “Translated into the Common tongue, making the necessary allowances for rhyme and meter, it would read something like this:
“The beginning of eternity.
The end of time and space.
The start of every end,
And the end of every place.”
Wyn and Danilo exchanged puzzled glances. “Unriddling can be yet another form of magic,” Vartain informed them. “Solve the riddle, and you will very likely unseal the scroll.”
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