Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

The elf thought that over. “Probably,” he agreed pleasantly.

After instructing Danilo to hand the scroll over to Vartain, Elaith told Balindar to stand down. The mercenary sheathed his sword with a profound sigh of relief, and nodded apologetically to Morgalla. Wyn Ashgrove, pale with fury and outrage, drew the dwarf safely away from the fighters, then he stalked off alone into the shadows. Danilo followed, fearing what the elven spellsinger might have in mind and hoping to calm him. Morgalla took a place at the far side of the camp and began to sketch furiously.

Left alone with his men, Elaith beckoned them close. “We take no chances,” the elf said in a cold voice. “Balindar, your order is not rescinded. If Lord Thann attempts to go his own way, the dwarf dies. The Harper understands that; see that you remember it, as well. And you,” he said, pointing to another of his men, “at first opportunity, steal Thann’s magic ring and give it to me. We don’t want him grabbing his precious dwarf and blinking out of here.”

“I?” balked the man.

“Don’t be coy,” Elaith snapped. “All of us here know that you’re a skilled thief. Use your skills as I command, and there should be no reason for others to share this knowledge. You would hardly be welcomed into the salons of Waterdeep or featured at Lady Raventree’s parties if it became known that you started life as a street urchin. Am I making myself clear?”

“Quite,” his victim replied with uncharacteristic brevity.

“Good. Mange, you and Tzadick take first watch. Balindar, guard the dwarf. Vartain, you and Thann start working on that scroll. The rest of you get what rest you can. I fear we’ve a hard road ahead.”

In the privacy of his rented villa, Lord Hhune of Tethyr savored a late supper with a few of the higher-ranking agents of the Knights of the Shield. He was almost jovial this evening, delighted with the unusual turn his trip to Waterdeep had taken. His initial dislike of Garnet had been set aside, for the role the half-elven sorceress had given him to play dovetailed beautifully with his own ambitions. Hhune was a guildmaster in his own land, and this splendid northern city had real potential. It lacked guilds for thieves and assassins, and these he was busily putting in place. Waterdeep was in some ways too well run for its own good: there were few powerful crime organizations to challenge Hhune’s activities.

Even Hhune’s immediate prospects were pleasant, for he was enjoying a thick oyster stew and the report of one of his best agents. The thin, furtive Amnite who was known only as Chachim always seemed to surpass expectations.

“As you ordered, the merchant named by Lady Thione as a Lord of Waterdeep is dead by my hand,” Chachim announced, predictably enough. “I followed him to the home of the wizard Maaril and slew him nearby. None saw the deed, for few venture near the Dragon Tower. I left the merchant’s body nearby in Blue Alley. If it is ever recovered, all will assume that he fell to one of the magical traps that guard the wizard’s tower.”

The agent paused and took a folded piece of paper from his sleeve. “This was taken from the merchant’s person. I thought you might find it interesting.”

Hhune unfolded the paper and burst into belly-shaking laughter. “Oh, but this is priceless! Who is the artist? I could use a hundred like this one!”

Chachim bowed. “I have anticipated your wish, Lord Hhune. There is a signmaker in the trade ward who will carve this drawing onto a block of wood for the small price of twenty gold pieces. After the block is carved, it is a simple matter to stamp as many copies as you would like.”

“Good, good!” Hhune nodded to his steward, who counted out the amount and handed it to Chachim. For good measure, Hhune handed the agent one of his own specially minted coins, commonly given as tribute to an agent who’d rendered a notable service. Chachim bowed again and left the chamber with the sketch and the gold.

The guildmaster chuckled. Although his assigned task was harrying the Lords of Waterdeep through increased criminal activity, he saw only benefit in furthering Garnet’s personal goal: deposing the archmage Khelben Arunsun. Circulating a sketch that poked fun at the archmage and stirred controversy could only secure the favor of the powerful half-elven sorceress.

“Let us drink to Waterdeep, my friends,” the guildmaster said expansively to his cohorts as he hoisted his tankard, “and to the day when the city will become truly ours.”

Late into the night, Vartain and Danilo huddled over the scroll, holding conference amid a circle of sleeping mercenaries. Wyn sat silently nearby, listening to all that was said with an increasingly troubled expression in his large green eyes.

“The first stanza is solved,” Vartain said at last. “As we surmised, it refers to the spell placed on the bards at Silverymoon.”

“Why do you keep referring to those lines as the first stanza?” Danilo demanded. “There’s nothing else on the scroll!”

“Not yet.” The riddlemaster pointed to a faint smudge on the parchment, like the shadow of words. As the incredulous Harper watched, a second stanza began to take form beneath the first “This is not uncommon for a riddle spell of such complexity. The first line of the verse refers to one of seven. As each is solved, the next will appear. This is a device to keep the entire riddle from being solved too easily.”

“Rather like using a remote dialect of Sespechian to hide the key to the riddle,” Danilo observed.

“Precisely. All these obscure details, however, tell us something about the spellcaster. He or she—or it, for that matter—is well versed in the riddlemaster’s art The spellcaster is either a linguist or a native speaker of Sespechian. If the latter is true, that would make our foe at least three hundred years old.”

“Which makes sense, considering that the spellcaster has an interest in an elven artifact Three hundred years is not so old for an elf,” the Harper said. He squinted at the text dawning on the page. “What do you make of this?”

Vartain tipped the parchment to catch more of the dancing light of the campfire. “The answer to the first two lines is ‘mother.’ Many riddles have to do with family relationships. The mention of woodruff puzzles me,” he admitted.

“I can explain that,” Danilo said with a tight smile. “My family deals in wines, and a large part of our wealth is due to that herb. It is grown in the Moonshaes and is used to make the famous spring wine that lubricates the Midsummer festivities.”

“Fascinating. I would therefore suppose that the mother named here is the Earthmother, the goddess who is synonymous with the Moonshae Isles themselves. Where is the herb grown, precisely?”

“Where? In the ground, I would imagine. Granted, I’m no expert.… ”

“That is not what I meant,” Vartain broke in impatiently. “Where is this herb-flavored wine produced? This could be important!”

Danilo thought it over. “Now that you mention it, my teacher from MacFuirmidh spoke of the vast herb gardens and vineyards that surrounded the college. The school has fallen into decline, of course, but the wineries are a thriving business. At least, they were until this very season,” Danilo added slowly. “Nearly three moon cycles past, there were severe crop failures, and the herb gardens and vineyards were almost destroyed. I was in Tethyr at the time, working among the wine merchants there. The southern vintners were delighted by this development, as you can well imagine.”

“You know what this means, of course.” Vartain’s tone contradicted his words, and he waited for the young Harper to admit his ignorance.