Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

The Thirsty Sailor was a dive frequented by brawlers and heavy drinkers, and the deals made and information exchanged in its squalid upper rooms were invariably small, inept exchanges among the dregs of Waterdeep. To Elaith, however, the tavern’s owner was an excellent source of dark information. The elf had spent a long day traveling from one tavern and meeting place to another, gathering news from his vast network of informants. He had learned a great deal, but he had yet to fit all the pieces together. He hurried past the last building on the alley, a low-eaved warehouse stocked with barrels of whiskey and ale for the tavern.

The elf was a few paces from the tavern’s back door when a solid thud sounded behind him, resounding through the wooden planks that paved the alley. From the corner of his eye, Elaith caught the glint of high-held steel.

With fluid, practiced grace, he spun about and caught the assailant’s upraised arm by the wrist. He threw himself into a backward roll, using the force of the intended knife-stroke to help bring the much larger man down with him. As they fell, he planted both booted feet in the thug’s midsection, and at the precise moment, he kicked out hard. The man soared over Elaith, flipped, and landed heavily on his back.

Before the startled “Oof!” died away, the elf was on his feet, a knife in each hand. With two quick throws, the thug’s outflung arms were pinned securely to the boards by the coarse linen of his shirt cuffs.

Elaith drew a larger knife from his boot and walked slowly to stand over the man. This was a favored technique of the elf s, for he’d learned that men—and women, for that matter—were more prone to part with information under such intimidating circumstances.

“As ambushes go, that was rather clumsy,” the elf observed mildly.

Sweat beaded on the trapped man’s face, but he didn’t attempt to move or cry out. “I swear by the Mother of Mask, Craulnober, I didn’t know it was you! It was just a quick cutpurse job, nothing personal.”

The would-be thief had a familiar voice, but the elf’s memory connected the slurred, whining tones with a heavily bearded man who wore his long brown hair in three thick braids. This man was cropped and clean-shaven. Elaith peered closer.

“Is that you, Kornith? Good gods, man, what an appalling excuse for a chin! Were I you, I would grow that beard back at once. Whatever possessed you to molt in the first place?”

“Guild rules,” he muttered. “Can’t stand out in a crowd.” The thief glanced meaningfully at one of the knives that held him immobile. His elven tormenter took no notice of the hint.

“ Guild rules?” Elaith’s amber eyes narrowed. There were already rules in place? “Since when is there a Loyal Order of Cutpurses in this town?”

“It’s coming,” the thief asserted. “Assassins’ guild, too. Word’s been put out.”

“By?” The elf took a step closer and stroked the blade of his knife.

“Don’t know.” Kornith licked his lips nervously. “I’d tell you if I knew. Word’s out, that’s all.”

Winnifer Fleetfingers’s revelation about the Knights of the Shield was gaining credibility by the moment, and this deeply concerned Elaith. For all its intrigue, Waterdeep had no single, truly organized crime network, and it was in the rogue elf’s interests to keep things that way.

Yet he would get no more information from Kornith, of that he was certain. Elaith hooked the toe of his boot under the hilt of one of the knives that held the thief immobile, kicking it up and easily catching it as it fell. Kornith rolled to the side and tugged the other knife free. He leaped to his feet and backed away, his face suffused with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

“Thought I was a stinkin’ corpse, Craulnober,” he said, as he continued to put distance between himself and the deadly elf. “Never supposed you’d show a man mercy, but I’m grateful and I owe you.”

Elaith froze. The very sincerity of the thief’s words stirred the confusion brewing in the elf’s heart. Kornith had every reason to fear him, for no one who had threatened Elaith Craulnober’s life still drew breath. The elf had built a fortune on his dark reputation, yet here he was, prepared to let this thug walk away. Indeed, a year earlier he would have not have been content to ruin the man’s shirtsleeves, but would rather have pinned him to the walkway through the palms of his hands. The elf’s fury turned quickly inward, and he cursed himself for the uncharacteristic lapse. At the same moment, he swung back his hand and with a deft underhand toss sent the knife he held spinning upward.

The weapon sank deep, just below Kornith’s rib cage. The thief slumped against the wall of the warehouse, grasping the hilt with both hands. Bubbles of blood formed at the corner of his mouth, and he slid slowly to the filthy walkway. His lips twisted into an expression of self-contempt, and he sought the elf’s face with eyes that were rapidly glazing over. “I shoulda run. Forgot what … you was,” he gasped out.

Elaith stepped closer, and with a vicious kick he drove the knife still deeper. Kornith’s last breath was swallowed in a blood-drenched gurgle.

The elf stood over the fallen man, eyeing his handiwork in silence. “For a moment,” he said softly, “so did I.”

At Morgalla’s request, Balindar, Mange, and Cory dragged a log into the circle of light cast by a roaring campfire. Bribing the burly mercenary captain had put a considerable dent in Danilo’s supply of gems, and the Harper had learned it was more economical to channel his requests through Morgalla. Balindar had grown so fond of the dwarf—and he was so guilt-ridden over Elaith’s order to hold her hostage to ensure Danilo’s cooperation—that Dan had little doubt that the mercenary would dive into the pond and catch fish with his teeth if Morgalla expressed a desire for seafood. For her part, Morgalla lingered with the three surviving sell-swords, repaying the favor with a tale of battle waged against a horde of orc invaders. Left alone, Danilo and Wyn studied the copy of the ballad by the dancing firelight

“The final stanza gives more hints about the song’s performance,” the elf noted. “Here, for example. ‘First the harp, then the singer circles twice.’ Does that make sense to you?”

“I think so,” Danilo said thoughtfully. “That would indicate that the ballad must be sung as a round, with the harp beginning the melody. The entire song must be sung twice.”

“What’s a round?” Morgalla put in, coming to sit beside Wyn.

“It’s a type of simple harmony,” Wyn told her. “One person begins a song, the second begins at a certain point, and so on. Dwarven music is not much given to such devices, as I understand.”

“So how d’you know where to join in?”

“I can answer that one,” Danilo broke in. “The melody determines that, but usually the round begins after the first line of verse. For example.” Danilo cleared his throat and began to sing:

The Harper paused. “Then the second time through, you would join in after I sing the first line. Now then, altogether!”

The dwarf eyed him with a dour expression. “Yer gittin’ a mite punchy, bard.”

Wyn nodded in agreement. “This discussion does raise a valid point, though. We must know the melody to which these words were set”

“I think the riddle gives that, as well,” Danilo said, getting back to the scroll with reluctance. “Look at the final line of the ballad. It says the song must be sung to the armed man of Canaith.”