Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

He looked up with a smile. “The tone and workmanship mark this as one of your own, Master Halambar. The sale is made, but for naming the price.”

Halambar bowed. “For you, twelve hundred silver pieces.”

The lute was worth that and more, but Danilo shook his head and reluctantly held the lute out to the guildmaster. “I’m afraid I haven’t that amount with me, and I need to purchase a lute tonight Have you a lesser instrument?”

“Please don’t consider such a thing. I’d be pleased to extend credit”

That was a first, but Dan was not inclined to debate his good fortune. He also purchased extra strings, a weatherproof leather covering for the lute, and a sheaf of tablature paper on which to scribble new songs. If the Harpers required him to play the role of a bard, Danilo supposed he ought to oblige with a few original works.

While Halambar’s clerk tallied the purchase, Danilo strode over to the register and began to flip through the pages, with a solicitous Halambar at his heels. “Do you know the whereabouts of a riddlemaster by the name of Vartain? He was in Waterdeep when I left several months past.”

Halambar harumphed. “Vartain has been here and gone more times than a lyre has strings. His services are prized, yet his employers tire of him quickly.”

“Oh?”

“Vartain has a most annoying habit,” the guildmaster explained. “It would seem that he is always right.”

“I can see how that could become exasperating, but that is precisely what I need. If he is not available, can you recommend someone else as good?”

“I wish I could,” Halambar replied, leafing through the book. “Riddlemasters are few these days, and fewer still can match Vartain’s skill or knowledge. Certainly, there’s none in Waterdeep right now. Perhaps you might seek out Vartain’s current employer and bid for the riddlemaster’s services. There is an excellent chance that the employer has repented of the hire and will welcome the chance to rid himself of Vartain. Ah, here is the entry.”

A grim smile touched Halambar’s lips, and he tapped the page with one finger. “Perhaps there is justice in the world, after all. If anyone deserves Vartain, it’s this rogue!”

Danilo glanced over the guildmaster’s shoulder and groaned. In slanted, spidery writing were the words:

Vartain of Calimport, Riddlemaster.

Hired this twenty-eighth day of Mirtul.

Employer: Elaith Craulnober.

Elaith Craulnober’s black cape flowed behind him like an angry shadow as he stalked through the village once known as Taskerleigh, a small cluster of buildings in the midst of fields and forest. The town was completely deserted, but for a few old corpses rotting in some of the houses. Strangely enough, only one building, a small cottage by the edge of the forest, showed any damage whatsoever. There was no sign of a fight, no evidence of a plague, and so far, no sign of the treasure.

Elaith hurried to the ruined cottage and began to kick through the rubble. Behind him strolled a middle-aged man, bronze of skin and completely bald, whose slightly protruding eyes took in the scene with an expression of detached interest The elf’s hired men, a dozen hard and tested mercenaries, muttered and made surreptitious warding signs as they wandered through the ghost town. They were careful to hide their discomfort from their elven employer, who had little tolerance for superstition and even less for cowardice.

A glint of silver caught Elaith’s eye, and he hurled aside a fallen timber to get at the object He stooped and picked up a curling length of silver wire. His fist clenched around the wire in pure frustration.

“It was here,” muttered the elf. For almost a year, he had searched for a rare and priceless treasure, and he had spent a small fortune tracing it to this remote village. He rose slowly to his feet and turned to face Vartain of Calimport.

“We’re too late,” he said, showing Vartain what he had found.

The riddlemaster nodded calmly, as if he had anticipated this turn of events. “Let us hope that does not occur again today.” He turned and walked toward the overgrown garden of a nearby farmhouse.

Elaith gritted his teeth and followed. He recognized Vartain’s worth: the riddlemaster was brilliant and resourceful, an asset to any quest. Vartain was always thinking, watching, weighing the facts, considering and calculating the odds. When questioned, he shared his observations freely and expressed his opinions honestly, and he never seemed to be wrong about anything. In short, he was a colossal pain.

The elf’s irritation shifted focus abruptly when he got to the garden’s wall. His amber eyes narrowed at the frivolous scene before him. Two of his highly paid men were digging at a peppergum tree with their daggers. The tree was commonly cultivated in the Northlands for its summer shade and brilliant autumn foliage, and each spring it yielded thick, pliant sap that tasted faintly of peppermint One of the malingerers, a black-bearded bear of a man named Balindar, had worked for Elaith before and should have known better than to risk his ire. It was the elf’s custom to purchase his mercenaries’ efforts with generous payment in gold, and to ensure their loyalty with cold steel.

Elaith drew a throwing knife from his sleeve and flicked it at the tree. The blade bit deep into the soft wood, just inches from Balindar’s head. The mercenary spun about, a hand on his blade and a startled oath on his lips. His eyes widened at the sight of his employer’s cold face. He eased his hand away from his weapon and raised it slowly in a conciliatory gesture. Although more than a handsbreadth taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than the elf, Balindar was clearly not interested in fighting his employer.

“This is your concept of treasure?” Elaith asked in tones of silky menace as he leaped nimbly over the garden wall.

“This? A child’s treat?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Balindar grumbled. “The riddlemaster told Mange and me to gather peppergum sap.” The other mercenary—a whip-thin archer whose mottled blend of naked scalp and short-cropped brown fuzz gave birth to his apt nickname—bobbed his head in nervous agreement.

His temper near to burning, Elaith rounded on the man behind him. Vartain had just finished his laborious climb over the garden wall. He stood eyeing the distant hills, his hands resting on his paunch in a meditative pose. Something about the man’s bulging black eyes, large hooked nose, and bald pate reminded Elaith of a buzzard. Vartain looked over, as if drawn by the heat of the elf’s glare.

“The terrain about a league to the northwest suggests the presence of caves,” Vartain said mildly, pointing toward the rock-strewn hills beyond the village. “Considering the proximity of potential lairs, prudence demands that we have earplugs available.”

Elaith stared at the riddlemaster for a moment, waiting for the man to come to the point. Vartain, however, seldom explained what seemed obvious to him unless he was asked direct, specific questions. It was the riddlemaster’s custom to put forth a fact or two, then allow others the opportunity to work their way to the logical conclusion. The elf was in no mood to appreciate such generosity, and in three quick strides he had the riddlemaster by the throat

“Save your games for Lady Raventree’s parties,” Elaith hissed from between clenched teeth. He gave the man a sharp shake. “A straight answer. Now!”

Vartain gurgled and pointed a finger toward the hills in the northwest Elaith glanced, and immediately released the riddlemaster’s throat.

On the horizon, several winged, gray creatures were emerging from a rocky outcrop. The avian beasts rose into the sky with the distinctive looping flight of vultures, but the elf’s sharp eyes noted the human torsos and the hair streaming behind the heads. They were harpies, monsters whose song was a magical weapon that could charm a listener into immobility, allowing the evil beasts leisure for torture and feasting.