Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

Lucia turned to her client and gave him her most dazzling smile.

“If’n I knowed yer friend would be late abed, I’d’ve had me another mug of that ale,” Morgalla said wistfully.

Danilo grinned, not taking the dwarf at all seriously. They’d been waiting for Caladorn at the Field of Triumph for well over an hour, and Danilo noticed that Morgalla watched the morning’s practice with an interested and critical eye. A fighter to the core, she was having a fine time appraising the styles and skills displayed on the practice fields.

The Harper also made good use of the time. He noted the poor turnout, the dispirited air of the contestants, and the number of clerics on hand to heal injuries. The horses in the arena’s stables—supposedly the best horses in all the Northlands—looked dull and lethargic. A number of them had suffered injuries, and for the price of a silver coin one of the grooms confided that several horses had been hurt so badly that they’d been put down.

Danilo also learned that many of the renowned fighters who’d expected to be in the contests had suffered injury or met with troubles of one sort or another. Most of the contestants who trained this morning were youths and visitors, eager for the fame that victory at the Midsummer Games would bring them and willing to take the all-too-apparent risks involved.

“If this be the best fighters you got in Waterdeep, I can’t figger out why the city ain’t overrun with trolls,” Morgalla commented. With the jester-head of her staff, she pointed toward two young men battling with staffs. Even to Danilo, it seemed a clumsy and halfhearted meet

“Jarun hurt his shoulder yesterday,” explained a deep voice behind them. “He’s favoring one side too much.”

Morgalla snorted, not bothering to turn around. “He’d do both sides a favor if’n he put down his staff and took up tapestry.”

Danilo turned at the familiar, hearty laughter that the dwarf’s comment evoked. Behind them stood Caladorn, dressed for the practice field in leggings and a linen shirt, which was unlaced nearly to the waist The short red curls on his head and on his well-muscled chest glistened in the bright midday sun.

“Sweet Sune!” Danilo exclaimed, casting an arch glance at Caladorn’s state of half-dress. “What sort of events are you preparing for, and where can I sign up?”

Caladorn laughed again and patted the sword at his hip. “It’s hot work, Dan, swinging seven pounds of steel in the midday sun.”

When Danilo responded with a delicate shudder, the swordsman chuckled and clapped him on the back. “You’ll not take me in with that act, lad! If I recall aright, you had the same swordmaster as did your brother Randor, and he’s a fine hand with a sword. Would you care for a match? I could use a bit of a challenge.”

“If you would for one moment consider me a challenge, things here must be in a sorry state,” Danilo said lightly.

Caladorn’s handsome face turned grim, and he raised a hand in the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit “I’ll tell you all about it some time over a few tankards.”

“How about now?”

“I wish I could, but I had to stop by the palace on tournament business, and I can’t afford to take any more time from the training. The games are tomorrow, and there remains much to do. I’ve got to put these boys and girls through their paces,” Caladorn said, eyeing the field with a resigned expression.

The firm manner in which Caladorn spoke, not to mention the indisputable evidence in the contestants around them, gave Danilo little hope of changing the fighter’s mind. He was about to take his leave when Caladorn spoke again.

“The stableboy said you’ve been waiting for me an hour and more. I’m sorry for that, Dan, but I ran into Khelben on my way to the field, and he kept me talking for some time. You know how the good archmage can run on.”

“Only too well,” Danilo replied with a rueful grin. In truth, he thought Caladorn’s comment rather odd. His Uncle Khelben was not given to idle, social chitchat. The Harper decided to probe for a bit more information. “Don’t tell me, Caladorn: you tried to talk the archmage into giving you a love potion to slip into Lady Thione’s wine!”

The fighter good-naturedly shrugged away Danilo’s teasing.

“I knew it!” Danilo crowed. “I’ve been wondering how a pitiful specimen such as yourself managed to hold the lovely lady’s interest”

A wistful expression crossed Caladorn’s face. “To tell you the truth, there is little I wouldn’t do to win the lady’s heart, barring that,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “I have asked Lucia for her hand, but she is not yet ready to entrust it. When that day comes, I am determined to be worthy of the honor.”

The words were put forth simply, with a dignity and an old-fashioned courtliness that reminded Danilo of the knights of an earlier time. The love and reverence in Caladorn’s eyes when he spoke of his lady made Danilo feel vaguely ashamed of his earlier jest After promising Caladorn a match at a later time, he and Morgalla left the tournament field.

“Where to?” the dwarf asked.

“We’re to meet the others at the Broken Lance, a tavern not far from here,” Danilo said, leading the way down a side street “Let’s hope that one of them has fared better than we have!”

While her troublesome houseguest took a midday nap, Lucia Thione slipped away from her villa and hurried to Caladorn’s townhouse in the Castle Ward. To her dismay, she found all the cupboards locked. Her young lover was not at home. His manservant did not have the keys, but he informed her that Caladorn had left early, and that he’d had business with the archmage.

Although society deemed the hour far too early to be making calls, the noblewoman went at once to Blackstaff Tower. She was greeted at the wall by the Lady Arunsun and graciously received. Lucia felt uneasy in the beautiful mage’s presence—the noblewoman often had the feeling that those wicked silver eyes saw far too much—but she entered the tower with Laeral and accepted a goblet of iced pomegranate nectar. After the usual exchange of social amenities, Lucia asked for the archmage.

“He is not here, I’m afraid,” Laeral said, and her bare shoulders—at this time of the day!—lifted in a graceful, apologetic shrug.

Despite the mage’s polite words, Lucia got the distinct impression that Laeral was not at all displeased with the situation. The noblewoman’s tiny chin firmed and lifted to an imperious angle. “Would you be so good as to tell me where I might find him? Or Caladorn, for that matter?”

Silver eyes twinkled, and a dimple flashed briefly on the mage’s face. “I regret that such goodness is beyond me,” Laeral murmured. “Khelben left the tower early this morning, and he did not mention his destination.”

Before the frustrated noblewoman could respond, a young gold elf entered the reception hall, a silver lyre in his arms. He paused when he noted Lady Thione and made her a deep bow. The irrepressible Laeral dimpled and winked at the newcomer.

“Lady Thione, may I present Wyn Ashgrove. He is a minstrel and our guest at the tower. Wyn, Lady Thione is of the old royal family of Tethyr. Perhaps you might honor her with a song from her homeland?”

The elf agreed. He promptly seated himself and began to play a familiar melody on his silver lyre. His voice was high and sweet, and his skill remarkable, yet Lucia Thione had difficulty sitting through the elf’s well-meaning performance. For one thing, she’d had entirely too much to do with bards of late! Even more exasperating was the amused gleam in Laeral’s silver eyes. The mage was clearly aware of Lucia’s eagerness to be off, and she was deliberately detaining her guest in a fashion that the noblewoman could not dismiss without displaying an appalling lack of breeding. Angry at being toyed with in such a fashion, Lucia Thione seethed throughout the elf’s song. Despite Laeral’s power, beauty, charm, and social position as Khelben Arunsun’s lady, the mage remained somewhat of a rogue. With such a base trick, Lucia thought with a touch of malice, Laeral revealed herself as the common wench that she was!