Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  Caladorn’s stern expression melted, and he drew the tiny noblewoman away from the crowds. “Lucia, you are safe in Waterdeep, and with me.”

  “You’re right, of course,” she said, and cast a rueful smile up at him. “I suppose I’m being foolish.”

  “Your concern is easy to understand,” the young man said, and he bent and kissed her forehead. “Now, let’s leave Hhune to the city’s Lords. You can be sure they know of his activities.”

  They do now, Lucia thought with dark satisfaction.

  * * * * *

  As soon as Caladorn had seen his lady safely to her villa, he hurried to the palace of Piergeiron, Waterdeep’s only acknowledged ruler. The young man was not particularly surprised to find Khelben Arunsun in council with Piergeiron. The Lords of Waterdeep met often these days, in full council and in small groups, to deal with the city’s seemingly unending problems.

  “Did you enjoy the performance at the Three Pearls?” the archmage asked with a touch of wry amusement

  “I didn’t stay,” the young Lord responded. He had long ago ceased to be surprised at the extent of Khelben’s knowledge; among the Lords of Waterdeep, it was often said that no one could sneeze in his bedchamber but that the archmage inquired after his health the following morning.

  “I have some information about a merchant from Tethyr,” Caladorn continued.

  “That would be Lord Hhune,” Piergeiron said, glancing at Khelben.

  “You two know of him?”

  “Oh, yes,” the archmage said dryly. He handed Caladorn a piece of paper. “This is an example of Hhune’s brand of diplomacy. He has papered the city with these.”

  Caladorn glanced at a satirical sketch of Khelben Arunsun painting stick figures, while the disguised Lords of Waterdeep looked on. He shook his head in deep puzzlement and handed it back. “What does this Hhune want?”

  “That is not entirely clear. He is a guildmaster in his native Tethyr, the head of the merchant shipping guild. To all appearances, he came to Waterdeep with goods for the Midsummer Faire. His crew, however, seem to have unusual talents. Some of them have been busy in the Dock Ward, recruiting thieves and assassins in an attempt to organize secret guilds in Waterdeep,” Piergeiron said, rubbing one red-rimmed eye as he spoke. The strain of the last few weeks showed plainly on the First Lord’s face.

  “We believe that Hhune may be a member of the Knights of the Shield,” Khelben continued, and he handed the young Lord a large, gold coin. “These are tokens given to Knights who have performed notable services. Several of these have been recovered from Hhune’s men, including some who entered the city before Hhune showed up. That suggests a larger problem,” the archmage said. “While Hhune is not exactly subtle, the influx of agents prior to his arrival suggests that he has another, more canny partner in Waterdeep.”

  “None of our sources has been able to discern the identity of this agent,” Piergeiron added. “But it seems clear that the Knights of the Shield have become extremely active in Waterdeep. You know that three merchant ships were recently lost.”

  “Yes,” Caladorn said quietly. “I knew the captain on one of them, and a better sailor I never met It struck me as odd that she would fall to a pirate ambush.”

  “The ships sailed from Baldur’s Gate. Harper agents there are investigating the situation. It appears that the harbormaster is an agent of the Knights of the Shield, and he has been passing information on shipping routes and schedules to an unknown source in Waterdeep. This is not the Knights’ first attempt at disrupting shipping,” Piergeiron concluded with a sigh. “It just comes at a particularly inopportune time.”

  “What are you doing about Hhune?” Caladorn pressed.

  “Frankly, Hhune is small fish. He is being watched in the hope that he will lead us to the Waterdeep agent.”

  Caladorn seemed less than happy with that conclusion, but he bowed and hurried away to his duties at the arena.

  When they were alone, Piergeiron nodded at the paper in Khelben’s hand.

  “Subtle or not, Hhune’s tactics are taking a toll, my friend. I am beginning to understand your concern about the changed ballads, for they are also proving to be highly effective. Many of them seem to be aimed at you personally. Does it seem likely that the Knights of the Shield are also responsible for the spell on the bards?”

  “If not, they are certainly exploiting it,” Khelben said in a weary voice. “I have a contact who may yield some information. I’ll seek her out at once.”

  He murmured the words of a spell. In a moment, the tall archmage was gone, and in his place stood a young man of medium height and build. His features were pleasant, and shaded by a broad-brimmed hat Simple, well-made clothing of dark gray linen would be deemed equally at home in the marketplace or a North Ward parlor. In short, he was unremarkable and could pass unnoticed through most of the city. Thus disguised, Khelben took his leave of Piergeiron and headed toward the nearby Jester’s Court It was time for the archmage of Waterdeep to pay a call on a certain lady of the evening.

  * * * * *

  Imzeel Coopercan had heard too much in the last several days for his peace of mind. Yet the half-dwarven proprietor of the Mighty Manticore listened carefully to the talk of the early supper crowd, picking out bits from the hum of conversation as he endlessly polished the bar with a rag.

  “At the rate you’re going, you’ll wear clear through the wood before moonrise,” teased Ginalee, a plump, merry lass who’d been Imzeel’s barmaid long enough for him to permit such familiarity. She was more than passing fond of her employer, despite his dour personality and barrel-shaped torso, and therefore she tried to distract him from whatever woes now absorbed his attention. Resting her elbows on the shining wood of the bar, she propped her head in her hands and dimpled up at him. This posture yielded Imzeel a view of cleavage that should have rallied a dying man; he gave Ginalee a mere glance and went back to polishing the bar.

  The offended barmaid snatched the rag away and draped it from the fang of the stuffed and mounted lion head that hung over the bar. That trophy, with a little creative taxidermy and a great deal of wishful thinking, had inspired the tavern’s imposing name. For a moment, Ginalee toyed with the idea of telling Imzeel his establishment was more commonly known as “the Mangy Manticore.” With a sigh, she decided that it wouldn’t matter to him, as long as business continued to thrive.

  And thrive it did. The Mighty Manticore was located in the heart of the Castle Ward, at the busy crossroads of Selduth and Silver streets. Those who spent their days in commerce and diplomacy often stopped by the tavern to share news and to make deals over a no-nonsense supper of thick, flavorful stew, sharp cheese, fresh black bread, and hearty ale. Just as important, the back of the tavern opened into Jester’s Court Something interesting always seemed to be happening there, and therefore those whose business was best conducted in shadows also found their way into the tavern through the back door. The result was a nice blend of information and intrigue that Imzeel found to be as satisfying as profit; the proprietor sought and hoarded knowledge as avidly as his dwarven forebears had mined for mithril.

  Yet Imzeel found the day’s talk troubling. He reclaimed his rag from the “manticore” and resumed his endless circling as he listened in. There were the usual complaints about problems with shipping and theft, but such things seemed to be occurring on a larger scale than normal. Entire ships and the full contents of warehouses were vanishing, right under the noses of city officials. Even more distressing were the whispers suggesting that the Lords of Waterdeep were disappearing. Tavern talk made the odds-on culprit Waterdeep’s resident archmage.

  It was widely accepted that Khelben Arunsun was one of the secret Lords of Waterdeep. There were some who felt the archmage had a bit too much power of his own without such a position, but most Waterdhavians had nothing against wizard rule. In fact, Ahghairon’s Tower stood nearby, a monument to the powerful mage who’d established the Lords of Waterdeep several centuries pas
t The city had prospered under Ahghairon’s long rule, and the consensus seemed to be that, as long as the Blackstaff could do as well, may the gods be with him! Waterdhavians weren’t inclined to grease a cart until it squeaked. As trouble in the city increased, however, many feared that Khelben Arunsun was spending too much time dispatching his rival Lords, and not enough tending to the city and its concerns.

  Imzeel noted with satisfaction that his own business seemed unaffected by the city’s troubles. The supper hour had just started, and already the barkeep was tapping a third keg of ale. The patrons even had music with their dinner, for the Masked Minstrel had wandered in from her customary place in Jester’s Court and was playing a plaintive tune on her lute. Usually the mysterious woman’s appearance engendered much interest and speculation, but this evening other matters took precedence. Few bothered to listen to her songs, and Imzeel was not sorry to see her put aside her lute in response to a whispered invitation. She and a young customer disappeared through the back door into Jester’s Court, no doubt bound for the privacy of the woods that covered the slopes of Waterdeep Mountain. Business as usual, Imzeel repeated silently, taking comfort from the thought.

  “The wizards you ordered are here,” Ginalee announced. She plunked a tray of empty mugs down on the counter, and tossed her head in the direction of three newcomers. “Should I tell them to go ahead?”

  Imzeel nodded, and relief eased his countenance into something approaching a smile. He was a prudent man of business, and like many others he had contracted the wizards’ guild to place magical wards about his establishment.

  The Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors was Waterdeep’s youngest guild, and they tended to matters ranging from policing visiting sorcerers to serving on the fire watch. The guild also sought to influence and—to whatever extent they could—monitor the magical activities of powerful, independent wizards. The bizarre occurrences in the city of late suggested that magic of some sort was at work, and this created an imperative demand for the guild’s services. All over the city guild mages were busy setting up magical wards to detect and dispel magic. This gave Imzeel a sense of security, and his patrons also murmured their approval as they watched the proceedings.

  As the guild mage finished the complex gestures of a spell to rid the room of magical illusions, the Masked Minstrel came back into the taproom on the arm of her latest client. A sharp blue light flared around the pair, drawing a startled scream from the woman. The room fell into silence, and every eye was drawn to the magical light As the patrons watched, the young man’s features melted and flowed together, in an instant crystallizing into a new and familiar shape.

  Standing next to the mysterious masked woman was a tall, well-muscled man, clad in somber magnificence. His features were sharp, his expression grave, and his usually keen black eyes betrayed a touch of uncertainty. The wedge-shaped streak of silver in the center of his beard confirmed his identity to those who would not have known him from his face alone.

  The Masked Minstrel fell away from him, one hand clasped to her painted lips. She backed off several paces, and then turned and fled toward Jester’s Court Whether she was surprised by the transformation, or just unwilling to be linked with Khelben Arunsun under such adverse circumstances, was impossible to say.

  “So this is how the archmage of Waterdeep spends a summer evening,” Ginalee murmured to Imzeel. “And the city going down to Cyric in a cistern, and all.”

  “Hush, girl,” the man whispered fiercely, making a warding sign to stave off the ill luck said to follow when the god of strife’s name was invoked.

  One of the patrons broke the tense silence. A cleric of Tymora, perhaps trusting to the legendary luck his goddess was said to grant, rose from his dinner and faced the archmage.

  “Perhaps no one in the city can stand against you and your ambitions,” the cleric said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean we have to drink with you.”

  The man turned and strode from the room. One by one, chairs scraped across the wooden floor as the other patrons followed suit The taproom emptied quickly. Only Imzeel and his employees remained, eyeing the archmage with fear and uncertainty.

  Khelben Arunsun came over to the bar, and his footsteps seemed to echo through the deserted room. He placed a small leather bag on the polished wood. “My apologies, Imzeel,” he said in a voice devoid of expression. “Please accept this purse; the gold within should cover your lost business.”

  The next instant, he was gone.

  “Well, I never,” Ginalee huffed in mock indignation, her voice slightly unsteady but her sense of fun fully intact. “He just upped and disappeared! No flash of light, no puffs of colored smoke, not even a whiff of brimstone! They’ve got more interesting wizards over in Thay, or so I hear.”

  “Ginalee,” Imzeel said in a weary voice, “why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”

  Ten

  Danilo and his elven companions lingered in the Lusty Wench through the evening hours and long into the night. When the black night sky began to fade to indigo and the last of the stars disappeared, many patrons of the Lusty Wench festhall and tavern were still enjoying the justly famed fortified wine, the exotic entertainment, and the company of the tavern’s resident escorts. The Harper and his associates walked out into the dark and silent streets of Sundabar considerably poorer of coin, but with a good deal of information.

  The freak summer storm had covered only a part of Sundabar. The trades district was hardest hit—Danilo privately noted that the site of the barding college was located in the very center of this area—with violent thunderstorms and hail. Various explanations were offered, but most of the tavern’s patrons considered the strange Midsummer weather to be an evil omen.

  More important, sentries had spoken of a bard who had entered the city that morning, carrying a small dark harp and riding a snow-white asperii. No one could give details of her appearance, except that she was small and swathed in a light cloak.

  “A sorceress of power could command an asperii,” Danilo mused as they walked down the dark street, “but an asperii will not willingly serve one who embraces evil. It’s hard to believe that our foe has the benefit of the Northlands in mind!”

  “We’ve learned all we can here,” Wyn said impatiently. “Let’s return at once. I need to have a look at the riddle scroll.”

  Danilo stopped and studied the minstrel. “What do you expect to find?”

  “I’m not sure. I just feel that we may have been missing something important,” was all that the elf would say, shooting a pointed glance in Elaith’s direction. Danilo took the hint and left the matter for a later discussion.

  The Harper led the elves into a nearby alley and again called upon the magic of his ring. When the whirling light faded, they found themselves in the ruined garden where they’d met up days before.

  The signs of battle were still visible in the faint light that preceded dawn. Three mounds of soft earth marked the places where they’d buried the fallen mercenaries, and at the far corner of the garden a bonfire had reduced the dead harpies to a pile of foul-smelling bones and ashes.

  “Why have you brought us here?” Elaith snarled, taking in the scene with distaste. “We were supposed to meet the others near Ganstar’s Creek!”

  “Magical travel is reliable only if the destination is known. I could have tried for the creek, but at the risk of ending up being a permanent part of the landscape. Imagine a tree wearing your ears for knotholes, and you’ve got the general idea.”

  The elf hissed with exasperation and turned to leave.

  “Wait!” shrieked a voice behind them, edged with hysteria. The elven hermit came loping from an abandoned building, his tattered rags fluttering around him. “Coming along I be,” he said, casting a pleading look at Elaith. “You be seeking the Morninglark, and dance to the harp I do.”

  Wyn Ashgrove looked sharply at the disheveled elf. “The Morninglark! What have you do to with the Harp of Ingrival?”


  The hermit’s ravaged face suddenly appeared very sane, and his violet eyes held a lifetime of sadness. “I have nothing more to do with the harp, but it has everything to do with me. Hayed it I did.”

  Wyn looked closer. His lips moved in a silent oath, and his eyes widened in awe. “You are Ingrival, are you not?” he asked the hermit in a tone of great respect

  “It may be that I am. I remember not my name,” came the sad response.

  “What’s going on, Wyn?” Danilo asked softly.

  “The Morninglark is an ancient elven harp, an artifact crafted in the early days of Myth Drannor,” the elf said in an aside. “It is considered too powerful to be played by any but the most skilled spellsingers. For centuries it has been safe in the possession of Ingrival, a famous musician. He went into seclusion and has not been heard from for many years. The harp was thought to be lost”

  Wyn turned to Elaith, who had been standing by listening impassively. “This is what you seek, isn’t it? The Morninglark?” he demanded in an accusing voice.

  “What is that to you?”

  “The harp is sacred to the People. It is not a treasure, and it is not a tool. Its power is not to be used for gain!”

  “My motives are not your concern,” Elaith said with icy finality.

  “But your actions are.” Shaking with indignation, Wyn faced down the moon elf. “You knew, or at least suspected, the identity of this elf. He is exiled not by choice, but by misfortune. That you would abandon anyone—especially a fellow elf—to a life of solitude and madness! That is vile enough, but you turned away from a hero of the People!”

  The minstrel spun away from Elaith and spoke to Danilo. “We must take this unfortunate elf with us to Waterdeep. The priests at the pantheon temple will care for him, and perhaps bring him a measure of healing. They are holy elves, and they take in the infirm and the outcast”

  From the corner of his eye, Danilo saw Elaith recoil at Wyn’s words. For an instant the rogue elf looked deeply stricken, then his usual expression of mocking humor came down over his pained face like a curtain. Danilo tucked this strange reaction away for future reflection, and he nodded his approval of Wyn’s plan.