“When I am called upon to describe you,” Khelben pointed out, divining the source of his nephew’s ire, “bard is not the first word that comes to mind. That title is of Morgalla’s own choosing.”
“Aye.” The dwarf’s head bobbed in agreement “And yer more cut to the cloth than most who wear the mantle.” Dan looked at her with a question in his eyes, so she explained, “A traveling bard sang yer songs at Azoun’s court They’re better’n most. My favorite’s the tale of the magic sword.”
“Not the Ballad of the Harper Assassin?” Dan slumped against the kitchen wall. First the damnable ballad showed up in Tethyr, and now far to the east in the courts of Cormyr?
“That’s the one. Good story. Little on the short side, though.”
“Short?” Danilo’s look of befuddlement deepened. “But it has nine-and-twenty stanzas!”
“Like I said,” Morgalla agreed.
Danilo gave up that line of inquiry and looked more closely at the dwarf. Morgalla appeared to be quite young, for she was still beardless. Large, liquid brown eyes reminded Dan of his favorite hunting hound; the earnest, doleful expressions were almost identical. Her face was broad, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a small nose with an insouciant tip. Thick russet hair was tightly plaited into two long braids, and an impressive amount of muscle and curve was packed onto her four-foot frame. Morgalla was dressed for the road in a simple brown kirtle that fell to her knees, brown leggings bound with leather thongs, and iron-tipped leather boots. A small axe was tucked into her weapon belt, and leaning against the kitchen table was a staff of battle-scarred stout oak. The latter was capped by the grinning head of a jester doll, complete with the traditional floppy cap of yellow and green motley. Danilo was no judge of dwarven beauty, but Morgalla struck him as cute and rather harmless, despite her weapons. Or, perhaps, he amended with another glance at the jester doll’s head, because of them. Dan noted that she carried no musical instruments, and that struck him as another odd note.
“I’ve never before met a dwarven bard,” he commented lightly, hoping to draw her out.
The comment seemed to touch a nerve, for Morgalla’s face hardened. “And you haven’t yet.”
Khelben and Danilo exchanged glances. “If you’re not a bard, why you were sent here?” the archmage asked.
In response, the dwarf handed him a large, folded piece of paper. Khelben smoothed out the paper on the kitchen table and studied it for a long moment. His mustache twitched, and a low chuckle escaped him. Danilo leaned in to look over his uncle’s shoulder, and he let out a long, admiring whistle. He lifted his gaze to Morgalla, and his gray eyes held both amusement and respect.
“You drew this?” he asked.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” she replied gruffly, folding her arms over her chest.
Danilo nodded, understanding completely. On the paper was a deft sketch of a wizard, robed in a star-and-moon-studded gown. A tall cone hat rested on an oversized thicket of white eyebrows, and the features, although comically exaggerated, were unmistakably those of Vangerdahast. The wizard wielded a baton at an orchestra of glowing, levitating instruments. King Azoun sat in the background, enjoying the concert with a vague smile of pleasure lifting the corners of his mustache. The caption was simply, “The Musicians’ Guild.”
The sketch, Danilo knew, poked at the wizard in two vulnerable spots. Many years earlier, in his more frivolous youth, Vangerdahast had devised an enchantment that caused instruments to play alone. The spell amused Azoun, who, to his court wizard’s vast chagrin, often requested it to be cast as entertainment. Morgalla’s artwork embarrassed Vangerdahast, but it also posed a problem for his king. Many people in Cormyr and the surrounding lands were leery of Azoun’s desire to unite the heartlands of Faerûn under one rule: his. To depict the king and his court wizard as sole members of the musicians’ guild was a deft reminder of the king’s drive to centralize authority. Morgalla’s work teetered dangerously on the line between satire and sedition. To make matters worse, the sketch had been stamped onto the paper, which indicated that many more copies could be in circulation.
“I can see why Vangy sent her on a dragon hunt,” Danilo murmured to his uncle. He glanced over at Morgalla, who was tactfully giving the two men room to discuss the drawing. Again seated at the table, she was busily sketching. Her stubby fist flew over the paper, and her brow was creased with concentration.
“On the other hand, he may have taken a sudden dislike to dragons,” Khelben commented, staring with narrowed eyes at the dwarf’s artwork.
The Harper leaned in for a closer look. Rapidly taking shape on the page was Khelben himself, standing before an easel and painting stick-figures on a canvas. A circle of black-robed, helmed Lords of Waterdeep stood obediently near, holding his palettes and brushes for him.
Danilo chuckled. On the most basic level, the sketch deftly skewered the archmage’s artistic pretensions. It also captured perfectly the commonly held belief that the archmage was a power—perhaps the power—behind the secret Lords of Waterdeep. The sketch provided Danilo with yet another explanation for Morgalla’s presence. “As I recall, Vangy doesn’t care much for the Harpers, either.”
“Now yer catching on, bard,” said Morgalla. She looked up from her work. “Vangerdahast ast me to draw yer likeness, Lord Khelben. I mean no offense.”
“I should hate to be around when you do,” Danilo said, his gray eyes dancing.
The dwarf beamed, taking Dan’s teasing as a high compliment “If’n you like this, it’s yers.” She folded the sketch and handed it to Danilo.
He thanked her and absently stuck it into his money pouch. “But what of Vangerdahast? If he commissioned this, I imagine he expects to receive it”
“Nah,” Morgalla said with a demure smile. “He’s got plenty o’ his own, believe you me.”
“I can see that you two will get along fine,” Khelben noted dryly.
“Indeed we shall,” his nephew agreed. “But if I might speak frankly, Morgalla, why do you consider yourself my apprentice? I am no artist”
The dwarf shrugged. “Bards tell stories. I just come at the task from a different tunnel. You tell good tales, and I’m here to learn. And to fight, if it comes to that I’m looking to do plenty o’ both.” She grabbed her oaken staff and waggled it as if to emphasize the point. The jester doll’s green and yellow motley cap flopped about The effect did not exactly inspire fear.
Danilo drew a steadying breath. Despite her fighting credentials and her quirky charm, Morgalla seemed little more prepared for the task ahead than did the elven scholar waiting in the reception chamber. “I don’t suppose the Harpers would like to diverge from common practice just this once and hire a small regiment?” Danilo asked the archmage. “No, I thought not Then I suppose we’d better bring a riddlemaster along. That might improve our chances considerably.”
Khelben nodded thoughtfully. “Good thinking. You handle that and get your own mount; Wyn and I will see to the other horses and the supplies.”
Morgalla hopped down from her perch. “I’m comin’ with you, bard,” she announced eagerly. “Too much magic in this place for my comfort”
Danilo raised one eyebrow. “Do you have any objection to music shops?”
The gleam in the dwarf’s brown eyes faded. She climbed back onto the stool and gave Danilo a long, considering look. “Tell you what, bard; I’ll draw yer likeness while yer gone.” She took out a new piece of paper and immediately began to sketch.
“I’ve never had a portrait done,” Danilo mused. The dark humor in Morgalla’s art appealed to him, and since he’d developed a remarkable tolerance for mockery, he rather looked forward to seeing how she might depict him. “I’m sure I’ll be delighted with it,” he concluded with a smile.