“Or ye shale regret it,” Danilo murmured, hoping to break the tension building between the two fighters. Neither Morgalla nor Elaith paid him any heed.
“Very pretty,” Elaith said, nodding at Morgalla’s axe. His tone dismissed both the weapon and the wielder.
The dwarf’s eyes hardened. “First and last pretty thing a lot o’ orcs ever seed, if’n you get my meaning.”
“Actually, I find that dwarven subtlety usually eludes me,” the elf returned with knife-edged sarcasm.
Danilo dropped a hand on the angry woman’s shoulder. “Chopping the elf into fish bait is a tempting notion—I’d be the first to admit that Here’s a better idea: draw his picture, instead.”
Morgalla nodded slowly, staring at Elaith for a long moment A glint entered her brown eyes, and she reached for her other weapon: her charcoal pencils. The dwarf plunked herself down on a log several paces away and began to sketch.
“Becoming quite the diplomat, aren’t you?” Elaith said coldly. “If you’re waiting for me to thank you for diverting a fight, you’re in for a long, quiet evening. I need no protection from a mere dwarf.”
Danilo’s answering smile held a touch of irony. “Morgalla is more than mere, but we’ll let that slide for the moment. Your fighting prowess is legendary; I have too much regard for you to see you waste your talents against such an unworthy weapon as Morgalla’s axe.” After a few moments, the Harper walked over to Morgalla and extended his hand. She gave him the paper.
On it was a quickly sketched design that suggested the art of an ancient Moonshae people, in which circles were entwined in such a way that no beginning or end could be discerned. Morgalla’s design, however, was different from any Dan had ever seen in an illuminated text Intrinsically woven together in interlocking circles were two things: a long, slender serpent with elven ears and Elaith’s features, and a lifeless, flaccid sword with a dull moonstone in its hilt.
The Harper lifted his eyes from the paper, gazing at the dwarf in pure astonishment. Once again, she had seen more than her eyes could possibly have told her. Danilo handed the sketch to Elaith without comment.
The elf regarded it in silence, his expressionless face as pale as death.
“As you can see,” Dan said quietly, “her art has a keener edge than her axe.”
“Eh?” piped in Morgalla, clearly miffed at the suggestion. She pulled the maligned weapon from her belt and brandished it “You could shave with this axe, bard!”
In response, Danilo stroked the nearly invisible red down on her cheek. “So could you, lady dwarf, so could you.”
“Hee, hee,” she chortled, as pleased as any adolescent human lad contemplating his first beard.
In the shared laughter that rippled through the company, no one but Danilo noticed Elaith slip away from the campfire. Although the Harper had won this round, his gray eyes held not triumph, but puzzlement
Stars sprinkled the sky above Lady Thione’s villa, and in the fully enclosed courtyard, rare, night-blooming flowers scented the warm summer night A fountain played softly in the center of the courtyard, the secluded arch of a grape arbor suggested a stolen kiss, and the soft-pillowed gazebo invited longer trysts. The music of a harp filled the air. Yet the woman bent over the strings had no room in her heart for romance. The one passion left to her was for justice.
Pain cramped her hands, and Garnet broke off the song with a frustrated oath. Since the day she had acquired the Morninglark harp from the dragon, she had struggled to harness its powers. She was an accomplished mage, and she could wield magic through both spells and song. An artifact such as the elven harp possessed much magic of its own, and she had devised a spell that would grant her up to seven powers. So far, she had been able to gain only four, and those four she wielded with uncertainty. The fault was not in her sorcery, but in her faded musicianship.
Once again she cursed the Harpers for what they had become, for what she had become in their service, and Khelben Arunsun for his part in both. No longer were the Heralds, the far-traveling keepers of history and tradition, part of the Harper organization. They had split away many years ago, not wishing to compromise their neutrality by pursuing the Harpers’ increasingly political objectives. Then the barding colleges, once bastions of excellence, had fallen into decline and faded into memory. The Harpers had done little to reverse this course. They were kept busy by Elminster and Khelben, fighting wars and guarding trade routes.
Yes, many Harpers were bards still, but these bards were for the most part fighters and informants who happened to play or sing. The once-honored title of “bard” was given to any dolt who could warble a tavern song. The prestige and power of bardcraft had declined, and many people considered bards to be little more than traveling rogues. Bards, once counselors to kings and queens, were likely to be treated like servants who took their dinner in the kitchen between dance sets. This Garnet could not forgive.
Nor could she forget it, not when her own hands had been stiffened by years of fighting and spellcasting in the name of the Harpers. Her final battle for the Harpers had been in the Harpstar Wars against creatures from another plane. Gravely wounded and left for dead in the confusion of battle, she’d been found and nursed to health by an elderly druid. When Garnet recovered and began once again to sing and play, the druid recognized her gift for spellsong and introduced her to a small band of wood elves. Even though she was a half-elf, the forest elves had taken her in and trained her gift. For almost two hundred years Garnet had lived among them, and as her power increased, so did her determination to prove to the Harpers that music was not a force to be lightly regarded.
The whisper of silk interrupted the sorceress’s dark thoughts. Garnet looked up. Lady Thione was poised in the arch of a trellis. This evening the noblewoman was clad in a gown of clinging violet silk, covered with an overdress of quilted satin. Her hair was bound with a velvet snood, and her delicate aquiline features were composed and self-satisfied.
“How does the city?” Garnet demanded, massaging her aching hands.
“Poorly, thanks to you,” Lucia Thione responded cheerfully. “Your musically inclined monsters have been preying on farmerfolk and travelers. The merchants’ guilds have hired mercenary bands to go out against these monsters, as have the Lords of Waterdeep. Even with these precautions, a smaller crowd is expected for the Midsummer Faire. This is matter of much speculation and discontent among the tradespeople and merchants. The crop failures have created a hardship, but for those who can afford the high prices, produce and goods are coming in by sea”
“A hardship?” the half-elf repeated. “What then would constitute a catastrophe?”
Lucia hesitated. “A disruption of commerce.”
“Ah, Waterdeep.” Garnet’s smile was hard. “Well then, see to it”
“Have a care how you speak,” the noblewoman said in a tight voice. “I do not take orders like some serving wench.”
“Of course you do. You serve the Knights of the Shield, and they have assured me that you will cooperate in my plan to remove Khelben Arunsun from power.”
“So you have said. How do I know this to be true?” Lucia demanded.
Garnet spoke a name, and the woman paled. The sorceress had named a Knight of high position and dark power, the man to whom Lucia herself reported. “He sends his regards,” Garnet added casually.
“We will increase our activities against the city,” she continued. “I have some influence with the local merfolk—you’d be amazed at how much music and discontent lies under the sea. We will also remove more of the Lords of Waterdeep to increase the demands on Khelben Arunsun and his powerful associates. Give Lord Hhune the names of three lesser-known Lords. Although Hhune’s methods are crude, he has the resources needed to handle the matter quickly.”