Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

“So? It was passed to her!”

“By whom?”

“How would I know!” Caladorn slammed his sword back into its scabbard and folded his arms.

“I can tell you that,” Danilo said softly as he sheathed his own blade. “Lord Hhune, a guildmaster of Tethyr and an agent of the Knights, is now here in Waterdeep, working to establish guilds for thieves and assassins.”

“So? This has nothing to do with Lucia! She is a merchant, and she has done business with Hhune in the past. He must have given the coin to her during a business transaction. She probably never knew she had it!”

“For your sake, I hope you’re right. It’s interesting, though, that one of Lucia Thione’s servants paid for a performance at the Three Pearls theater, using some of Hhune’s marked coins.”

Caladorn’s face went very still.

“I’m sorry about this, my friend, but can you afford to dismiss all suspicion?”

The fighter shook his head in astonishment “Why are you doing this, Dan? What could you possibly know of such matters?”

“I’m a Harper, Caladorn. It’s my job to know what’s going on.”

The young lord’s laughter was harsh. “I’m still trying to absorb the concept of your bardhood! Don’t stretch my credulity to the breaking point.”

“Nevertheless, all I’ve told you is true.”

“I’ll not hear another word against Lucia.” Caladorn glared at the younger man, controlling himself with visible effort. At long last he whirled and stalked away, leaving Danilo standing alone in the middle of the arena.

“Well,” the Harper said wryly, “that went better than I expected. Things could be worse.”

His words were met by a boom of thunder. Dark purple clouds began to gather over the Field of Triumph, and a flash of lightning ripped across the livid sky.

“You’d think I’d learn not to say things like that,” Danilo muttered to himself as he sprinted through the first streaks of rain.

After Danilo left Blackstaff Tower, Khelben Arunsun strode quickly through the underground passages that led to Piergeiron’s palace. The unmasked Lord commanded the combined forces of the guard and the watch, and his command would be needed to arrest important persons such as Hhune and Lady Thione.

Hhune’s presence in Waterdeep had been noted, and he would have been carefully watched under any circumstances. As a guildmaster, Hhune was a powerful force in Tethyr. This made his connection with the Knights of the Shield all the more disturbing, for it combined two powers hostile to Waterdeep and to her Lords. But he was also a wealthy, traveling merchant, and these were always welcome in Waterdeep. By rescinding this welcome, Piergeiron risked endangering trade between Waterdeep and Tethyr. It was a delicate matter, and no decision that the First Lord made would be entirely correct.

Khelben’s entrance to the palace was hidden in a small anteroom. He strode quickly through the halls toward the council room, noting as he went that the careful eyes of Piergeiron’s guard were upon him. Even here, he noted wearily, he could not escape the burden of suspicion that the bards’ songs had placed upon him.

“I will do what I can,” Piergeiron said once Khelben had related the story, “but it’s hard to believe that Lucia Thione is connected with Knights of the Shield. We will need more proof of guilt before taking steps against someone so powerful and popular. A quick sentence by the Lords of Waterdeep could bring about a good deal of resentment and unrest. Our decision to censor the bards was notoriously unpopular, and it backfired most decisively.”

“At least have Lady Thione followed,” the archmage insisted.

Piergeiron grimaced and pointed to the arched window of the audience chamber. “That will be difficult at present I doubt that she, or anyone else for that matter, will be going anywhere until that storm passes.”

Khelben glanced toward the window. Blue lightning flared against roiling purple clouds. “Wizard weather,” he muttered. A roll of thunder punctuated his words.

“In that case, can you undo it?” the First Lord asked anxiously.

“Not without a certain elven harp.”

“Really! I didn’t know you played.”

The archmage responded with a grim smile. “I don’t, but I’m beginning to think that perhaps I should have learned.”

By midafternoon the sky was as dark as night. Rain pelted the outdoor market, sending merchants and shoppers, street performers and pickpockets scurrying for cover. Taverns, festhalls, and shops filled to capacity and beyond as the townspeople and visitors sought shelter from the violent thunderstorm. On and on the rain went, past the time of sunset and the official beginning of Midsummer. In every tavern and festhall in the city, bards and performers recited to their captive audiences tales of past evil that had been foretold by Midsummer storms.

Danilo was alone on the street as he dashed through the rain toward the Elfstone Tavern. It seemed a likely place for a half-elven bard to go. At the very least, perhaps he could get some information about the Morninglark harp. He entered the crowded taproom—for once, the tavern had opened its doors to member of all races—and handed his sodden cloak to an elven servant.

Danilo made his way through the crowds to the hearth. He was soaked to the skin, tired to the point of exhaustion, and becoming increasingly uncertain of his success. All efforts to find Vartain had met with failure. Danilo and his friends had searched every likely place and made inquiries throughout the city. It was as if the riddlemaster had been snatched into another plane of existence. Finally, Danilo had left the exhausted Wyn at his townhouse to rest Morgalla had elected to stay behind, as well, not sure of her welcome in the elven tavern. With a profound sigh, Dan stretched his hands toward the hearth fire, hoping that the heat would restore a measure of feeling to his numb fingers.

“Well met, young bard,” said a dry, ancient voice at his elbow. Danilo looked down into the thin, patrician face of the elven priest Evindal Duirsar. “I would rise to greet you, but I fear that someone would steal my place from under me,” the elf said with a touch of humor as he regarded the mixed crowd. The tavern was strictly standing room only, and few of the surly, sodden patrons would respect the patriarch’s age or position. At the elf’s invitation, Danilo upended a log of firewood and made it into an impromptu chair at the small table.

“Your fame has multiplied since last we met,” the patriarch noted.

“Not as fast as the challenges,” Danilo murmured. He remembered another of his responsibilities: the rest of Elaith’s mercenaries would be arriving in Waterdeep in a few days, and with them would be the mad elven hermit of Taskerleigh. Dan asked Evindal if the temple would accept the elf as a ward. The patriarch listened to the story with keen interest.

“By all means, the unfortunate soul is welcome in the temple. Now, tell me more about your recent journey.”

To the wise and sympathetic elf, Danilo poured out the tale of a quest gone terribly awry, from the encounter with the dragon to the partnership with Elaith to the growing outcry against his uncle the archmage. He told Evindal of his personal quest to learn the art of elfsong, and he told of the spell scroll and the plot against the city. Finally, he spoke of the Morninglark harp, its power and its challenges.

“And I have pledged to hand the harp over to Elaith Craulnober when this is done,” Danilo concluded.

“Given all that is said of him, it is reasonable for you to assume that he will put the artifact’s power to evil purpose,” the patriarch said thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, he rose from the table. “There is nothing more you can do here, and you may find some of the answers you seek at the temple. Come, let us go at once.”