“The magic is in the music, and also in the heart of the bard. The lady dwarf got the instrument wrong,” Wyn said quietly as he pointed to the harp at Danilo’s side, “but I believe she’s right in all other particulars.”
Danilo said nothing, and after a moment the elf added, “The night grows late. You should try to get some rest, for we must leave for Waterdeep at sunrise.”
Thirteen
On the day of Midsummer Eve, Khelben Arunsun was up before the sun. The archmage paced the courtyard between Blackstaff Tower and the surrounding wall as he awaited his nephew’s return.
The day before, Danilo had reconstructed the scroll from memory and had left a copy at the tower. Khelben had studied the scroll well into the night, but finally it had been Laeral who recognized it as a variant of elven spellsong. She was one of the few humans welcome on Evermeet, and she was familiar with the ways of elves. Khelben had never paid much attention to spellsong magic, for there was no music in his hands, and far less in his voice. Laeral was not a musician, either, and neither of the wizards knew a spellsinger.
The task of casting the spell would of necessity fall to Danilo. Whether the lad was up to it, Khelben could not say. His own knowledge of music was insufficient to the challenges of the riddle, and he had no way of evaluating what Danilo and Wyn might be able to discern between them.
“Good morning, Uncle!”
The archmage spun. Danilo stood behind him, an insouciant smile on his face and a rather battered lute slung over his shoulder. With him were Wyn Ashgrove and Morgalla. Khelben noted absently that the dwarf had not taken well to magical travel: her face was set and pallid, and she gripped her staff with one white-knuckled hand and clung to the elf’s arm with the other.
“So you made it,” the archmage observed, hiding his relief behind a scowl of stern disapproval.
“As usual, you’ve got a firm grip on the obvious,” Danilo quipped lightly. “Bless you, Uncle, are those sweet rolls I smell?”
“Porridge,” Khelben said absently, heading toward the tower. “Well, come in, all of you.”
“With a welcome such as that before us?” Danilo sniffed. “I think not. Had I known that porridge was on the horizon, I would have teleported to Ackrieg’s Bakery, instead.”
“We can all discuss the spell while you eat,” Khelben said, taking no notice of the young man’s teasing.
Danilo elbowed the dwarf. “What would you say to a nice gobbet of roasted venison and a mug of ale for breakfast? There’s an inn near the tournament field that understands hospitality and serves a splendid morning feast. Raspberry pastries are a specialty, and the almond cakes are also very good.”
“Make it three mugs, and you got yerself a deal.”
“Done!”
Morgalla loosed her grip on Wyn’s arm, and she and Danilo headed toward the black granite wall. As inconspicuously as possible, the elven minstrel flexed his fingers to aid the return of feeling to his hand.
The archmage stared after the retreating Harper. “You’re not serious.”
“Actually, I am. Quite a surprise, isn’t it?” Danilo tossed the words cheerfully over his shoulder. “Wyn can tell you all about elfsong, and why we need the Morninglark harp. Since we’ve got less than two days to find it, I’m off. Hot on the trail, as they say. Right after breakfast” So saying, the Harper dragged the dwarf through the invisible door, and they both disappeared into the city.
“What now?” Khelben muttered, shaking his head.
“The scroll claims that a lord would fall on the field of triumph. The young bard is doubtless headed to the city’s tournament field to seek clues that will lead him to the elven harp,” Wyn said softly.
The archmage met the elf’s steady, green-eyed gaze. “The young bard, eh? So Morgalla’s sketch came close to the truth?”
“If anything, it fell short of the mark.”
Khelben digested this news in silence. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, that’s settled, then.”
“Whatever path is given him to walk, your nephew does you credit,” Wyn said in a quiet tone. “You have trained him well; his memory is remarkable and his discipline impressive. I assume his command of magic is equally strong.”
“It had better be,” the archmage said darkly. “Wizard or no, there’s Nine Hells of a spell to be cast And now, what is this elfsong that my boy was talking about?”
* * * * *
The early morning sun sent slanting rays across the farmlands east of Waterdeep, making the scattered whitewashed buildings gleam like so many nesting doves. It was the day before Midsummer, and the fields and orchards should have been lush with fruit and jeweled in the deepest green of the year. From her perch on the asperii, high above the farmlands, Garnet could see that vegetation was sparse. Yet some crops grew, despite her spells and as if in testament to the stubborn resilience necessary to survival in the Northlands. A few farmers were headed toward Waterdeep, their carts laden with produce for sale in the markets there.
Garnet guided her wind steed toward the River Gate, the eastern entrance to Waterdeep’s trade district. They landed out of sight of the city-bound travelers and the wall sentries, then joined the other early morning arrivals on the road to the city. She felt more secure once the asperii was on firm ground. The magical horse was becoming increasingly skittish, and Garnet feared that the horse would soon go into open revolt This would result in the asperii’s death, for the creature was bound to Garnet for life. She did not wish to go through the trouble of obtaining and training another mount, for asperii were hard to come by. She brushed aside the niggling doubt that no other asperii would accept her as master.
The Trade Ward bustled with activity as Garnet rode down the streets. A stout dairy farmer dipped a large pewter ladle into a barrel of foaming milk, filling the pitchers and jugs held out to him by a small crowd, while a bright-cheeked lass cut wedges to order from wheels of cheese. Nearby, a potter, bare to the waist against the glowing heat and already daubed with the red-brown clay from his morning’s work, fired up a kiln. Vendors set up shop at street corners, and tradespeople readied their wares in preparation for the merchants who came to purchase goods for the shops located in the city’s vast, open-air market. Those who sold their wares themselves were loading carts bound for the marketplace. Taverns dealt a brisk business in morning ale and oatcakes. As Garnet took in scene after scene, she began to wonder if the much-touted Lady Thione had done her part. Commerce seemed to be going on apace.
Yet closer scrutiny showed the signs of distress. The wares displayed were of quality far below the usual standards of the proud Waterdhavians. There were shortages; in particular she noted that the produce sold by fruit or flower vendors was sparse and dearly priced. Inns served small portions, and the breakfast customers were almost universally clad in the simple homespun of local tradespeople. The early morning bustle soon flagged, and Garnet realized that what she had taken to be business as usual was merely the local residents going about their daily routine as dictated by a lifetime of industrious habits. They soon settled down to tend their businesses, their faces showing varying degrees of resignation and hopeful expectancy. Garnet encountered a few meandering customers and merchant buyers, but on the whole the streets and shops were far too quiet.
This state of affairs changed as Garnet turned onto Rivon Street. She saw a crowd of people gathered around the House of Song, a large complex that served as guild headquarters for the Council of Musicians, Instrument-makers, and Choristers. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, and she absently tucked a strand of drab brown hair behind one slightly pointed ear.
Garnet urged her magic steed closer. There was an inn across the way, and she tied the asperii’s reins to the rail outside so that she might pass on foot through the crowd that surrounded the guildhall.
This proved to be more difficult than the bard had anticipated, for what she first took to be a crowd was in effect a small army. The distinctive green and black uniforms of the c
ity guard first caught her eye. She estimated nearly a full battalion. The guard was augmented by several dozen sell-swords, including a detachment of lizard men—very rare in the city and highly regarded as fierce mercenaries. One of the creatures, a seven-foot lizard armed with a spiked mace, returned her glare with incurious golden eyes. Its tongue flicked out as if to taste her scent, and she turned away with a shudder. There were several men and women garbed in street clothes, unarmed but for the occasional staff or wand. Wizards! The guild hall was well and thoroughly guarded. Someone had funded an impressive amount of magic and muscle. Well, so be it. She was not without resources of her own.
Head held high, she marched toward the broad double doors of the guildhouse entrance. A pair of crossed pikes barred the way.
“The guild hall is closed.”
“On Midsummer Eve? I highly doubt that.” She sniffed and walked around the two guards. Again her path was blocked, this time by a well-muscled, ruddy woman who wore the insignia of a guard captain.
“No one may pass,” she said firmly. “We have our orders.”
“Oh? From whence came these ‘orders’?” Garnet’s noble birth and her upbringing in the courts of Sespech lent her tones and her face a degree of patronizing disdain that could not be learned under lesser circumstances.
The captain was not suitably quelled, although she did bow before answering. “By order of the guildmaster, Kriios Halambar, and the Lords of Waterdeep.”
Anger coursed through Garnet like a dark tide. She spun and stalked back to her asperii. Mounting the horse, she sped toward the west.
“A bard down on her luck, looking for a free place to stay,” opined the guard captain. “Crazy, maybe, but no harm in her.” A murmur of agreement came from the other guards.
From the vantage point of his window in the inn across from the guild hall, Vartain had to disagree with this assessment of the matter. In many ways, the woman did not fit the template he had fashioned, yet he had little doubt that she was indeed the author of the scroll he carried.
The riddlemaster’s fingers sought the parchment roll tucked into his belt. He had stolen it from Danilo just before he’d left the Harper outside Blackstaff Tower. Vartain did not like to remember his ignoble past, and he was loathe to use the skills he’d learned as a child on the streets of Calimport. It was, however, the only way he could think of to ensure that no one found the sorceress but himself.
This plot had been formulating in his mind for some time. He’d deliberately disavowed knowledge of the barding college in Waterdeep, and Danilo Thann apparently held the popular misconception that Halambar’s Lute Shop stood on the original site. No doubt the Harper had learned differently by now and had probably sought Vartain around the musicians’ guild hall. Vartain had come to this inn directly from the archmage’s tower, and he felt secure that his presence there would be kept secret. Discretion was the watchword at this inn, and the proprietor would not stay in business long if he started to reveal his patrons’ secrets.
Vartain pulled the embroidered sash that hung over the bed, ringing the bell that summoned the chamber servant. When the young man appeared, Vartain requested that a private, closed coach be sent to the back alley immediately. The matter was tended to swiftly, for some of Lord Thann’s pilfered emeralds had gone to ensure that Vartain’s every desire would be tended.
The riddlemaster made his way to the rear of the inn. He climbed into the coach and instructed the driver to take him to Halambar’s Lute Shop. He also suggested a route that, if not the most direct, would be sure to take them to their destination in the least possible time, should certain anticipated conditions exist. The driver listened to Vartain’s precise, detailed instructions and then, to the riddlemaster’s utter bewilderment, he burst out laughing.
Vartain flopped back against the plushly padded seat of the coach, and for some reason he recalled young Thann’s definition of humor: looking at a situation from a new and different perspective. But was that not what he himself did? Was not his art the consideration of all possibilities, and the combination of observed facts into a logical whole? Yet Vartain often found himself puzzled while others laughed, and he took no pleasure in the telling of amusing tales for the sake of levity alone. Nor, apparently, did he tell them well. “Great material, but your delivery could stink up a stockyard,” a jester of casual acquaintance had once advised him. These thoughts presented a paradox to the riddlemaster.
As Vartain predicted, his coach did arrive at the music shop in short order. Even so, they were too late; Vartain saw the flick of a dove-white tail as the bard’s horse rounded a corner at a brisk trot. He was not overly concerned; there was much he could garner from the bard’s registration. Vartain climbed down from the coach and entered the shop.
He made a perfunctory bow to the haughty guildmaster and then went immediately to the table upon which the register was displayed. Ignoring the stool placed there for the comfort of the shop’s patrons, he opened the book and thumbed through to the last entry. It read simply:
Garnet, a bard.
Entered Waterdeep the final day of Flamerule.
That was today, Vartain noted.
The riddlemaster sank slowly down on the stool, staring with unseeing eyes at a display of unique magical instruments. Khelben Arunsun’s suspicions about the sorceress’s true name and nature were almost certainly correct The name Iriador was derived from the Elvish word for “ruby,” and it seemed fitting that the proud woman would take another precious stone as her name.
He pulled the scroll from his belt and unrolled it, looking over the possibilities and fitting together the pieces in a way that reflected this understanding. As he read, the details of her plot became clear to him. He knew exactly where Garnet would strike, who would be the target of her harp-given power, and what weapons she would employ.
Vartain scratched his chin, troubled by the dilemma this presented. By all accounts, he should hurry to the designated meeting place and tell his employers, Elaith Craulnober and Danilo Thann, all that he had learned. He was bound in honor to serve them with all his powers. That the two clearly had different goals in mind was of no concern to Vartain and did not enter into his internal debate. Something more basic and compelling guided the riddlemaster’s hesitation.
Once before on this quest he had failed. In missing the dragon’s riddle, he for the first time had fallen short of expectations. As Danilo Thann had so intuitively noted, Vartain longed for the chance to match wits with the person who had devised the riddle spell. Not only would it exonerate him of this failure, but it presented a challenge such that he might never again encounter. Could he bear to cast aside such an opportunity? Confiding in his employers would be doing precisely that: Danilo Thann was determined to overcome the sorceress with magic, and Elaith Craulnober would certainly attempt to kill her, that he might obtain the valuable artifact needed to purchase his child’s inheritance. No, this opportunity Vartain must have for himself.
Then doubt, an emotion almost unknown to the riddlemaster, edged into his mind. In many ways, he and this Garnet were much alike: she was a riddlemaster, a master of lore and language, a traveler and a teller of tales. Yet she was also a mage, and she wielded an artifact of great power. In addition, she had lived more than six of his lifetimes, and although he had learned and accomplished much, he could not be sure that it would be enough. If he kept the knowledge of her identity to himself, and met the bard Garnet on the field of intellectual combat, what was to say he would fare better against her than he had against the wily Grimnoshtadrano?
A notion entered Vartain’s mind, an idea so unexpected and droll that he blinked in astonishment He would overcome Garnet the same way that the dragon had deceived him! If he and Garnet were as much alike as he suspected, she would also be hampered by an abundance of intellectual pride and a dearth of humor.
A chuckle escaped him, a rusty and experimental sound that drew stares from the shop’s other patrons. Then, for the first time
in his adult life, Vartain burst into unrestrained laughter.
By the glyphs of Deneir, it was worth a try! thought Vartain as he laughed, holding his sides against the unaccustomed twinge in his shaking ribs.
* * * * *
Garnet rode up to Lady Thione’s Sea Ward villa and threw the reins of her horse to a servant Unannounced, she walked into the parlor where the noblewoman held conference with several merchants.
Lucia looked up at the interruption, imperious anger in her dark eyes. When she saw Garnet, however, her face instantly become a calm, expressionless mask. She rose and politely greeted the sorceress. She drew her out of the room, carefully closing the heavy oak door behind them.
“Get rid of them,” demanded Garnet “We have much to discuss.” She thrust a handful of papers at the noblewoman.
Lucia glanced at the top page and grimaced. She quickly leafed through the papers: all were identical. “Lord Hhune’s work. He was acting on his own initiative, I assure you.”
“Good.” The sorceress nodded. “I would not want this traced back to you. On the other hand, I am glad he did this. This drawing of the archmage is another type of bardcraft, a new way of telling a story. It is fitting that such a weapon be brought against Khelben Arunsun. Hhune will most likely be found out, but he is expendable. Now, we must move on to other things.
“Midsummer Day will be a disaster,” Garnet continued. “You have played your part well in the disruption of commerce. Other agents of the Knights of the Shield have ensured that the traditional tournament games will go badly. Above all this, there will be a violent storm of rain—and possibly hail—on Midsummer Day. These northern barbarians will take the storm as an evil omen.”
“But the weather has been fine all week,” Lucia said, a question in her voice.
“All the better! The wizard weather will be blamed on the archmage, and when Shieldmeet begins, the people will be ready to listen to your suggestion.”
“My suggestion?” Lucia hedged.
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