Elaith was silent for a long moment. He studied Danilo with a measuring gaze. “You are truly a Harper? This is not some ridiculous game of the sort you Waterdhavian nobles like to play?”
“A game? If I start having fun on this quest,” Danilo assured the elf gravely, “I’ll certainly let you know.”
“And your pretensions to bardcraft? They are genuine as well?”
The nobleman sighed. “You’ve got me there. It’s hard to say yes or no. I’ve trained, certainly, but not in the traditional or even conventional ways. I haven’t attended the barding schools, obviously—they closed before my time—nor apprenticed to a bard of note. But my mother, the Lady Cassandra, is a gifted musician, and she insisted on the best teachers. They were all private, of course. I was much given to mischief as a lad, and several of Waterdeep’s finest schools repented of their decision to accept me as a scholar. In despair, Lady Cassandra took it upon herself to hire an army of tutors, including bards trained in the styles of each of the seven elder barding colleges. None of them stayed long, but I managed to learn a bit here and there.”
Danilo smiled engagingly. “And now that you know my life story, perhaps you’ll tell me more about this elven artifact you seek. I’d love to hear that tale.”
“After your life story? Hardly! It is said that there are some acts one should never attempt to follow. Dogs, children, jesters, and the like.” The moon elf’s amber eyes revealed nothing but a touch of mocking amusement
“Not going to admit to anything, eh? Well, I can understand that. You’ve got to preserve the elven mystique, and so forth. What puzzles me, though,” the young man added thoughtfully, “is what place your moonblade has in all of this.”
Elaith’s pleasant expression evaporated. “That is not your concern.”
“It is if we’re going to be partners.”
“We are partners. I require the services of a mage and a bard. You are not altogether without credentials.” Elaith’s lips thinned in a smile. “As a bard, you are no immediate threat to Storm Silverhand. You are, however, the best we can come up with under the circumstances.”
“The story of my life,” Danilo murmured.
“You’ve shown yourself capable of wielding a considerable amount of magic. A dragon has a powerful resistance to charm spells, yet you held him.”
“So?”
“The scroll is a riddle of sorts. Vartain can no doubt decipher it, but I have reason to believe that a knowledge of both magic and music might prove helpful to my search. I will spell out the terms of our partnership so that there is no further misunderstanding. We will combine our resources and talents until the scroll is deciphered and the spellcaster found. You may have whatever is necessary to undo the spell upon the bards, but I will take possession of the artifact. When that is accomplished, we part ways. This seems more than reasonable.”
It didn’t, but Danilo considered his options. He could see no other way to achieve his purpose, yet agreeing meant putting a powerful artifact in the evil elf’s hands. He had no idea what Elaith would do with it, except perhaps …
The moonblade. Somehow, the elf had learned of a way to restore the dormant magic of his elven sword! That had to be the answer; Danilo could see no other connection. This prospect was daunting, for he knew that each moonblade had unique and formidable powers. If this was indeed Elaith’s motive, one mystery remained: why would the elf go to such trouble to restore a sword he could never wield? He was the last of his line, and the sword would simply return to dormancy in his hand. What did the elf possibly have to gain? Of one thing Danilo was quite certain: Elaith had far too much power already without the added threat of either a restored moonblade or this mysterious elven artifact.
“Unfortunately, I have a previous commitment. The archmage of Waterdeep is expecting me, and he’s not one to be put off. So if you’ll excuse me?”
“No. We have an agreement.” The elf’s amber eyes narrowed. “I’m holding you to your word and your honor.”
Danilo paused, and the struggle of conflicting pledges was clearly written on his face.
“I’ll make it easier for you,” Elaith offered, and he turned to Balindar. “You seem fond of the dwarf’s company, so I’m placing her in your charge. If Lord Thann proves treacherous, kill her.” The black-bearded mercenary hesitated, then gave a terse nod.
“This is how you honor your agreements?” Danilo protested.
“My agreement is with you, not her. If you like, I will swear by whatever oath you choose that I will not raise a hand or weapon against you personally.”
“That’s vastly comforting.”
“Whatever else might be said of me, my word is still a pledge of honor,” the moon elf said with quiet dignity.
Danilo glanced toward Morgalla. She stood with arms crossed, glaring up at the huge mercenary who guarded her. Balindar had a rather sheepish expression on his black-bearded face, but he held a sword on the dwarf and would probably not hesitate to use it The Harper had little choice.
“Well?” the elf prompted. One silvery eyebrow quirked at a sardonic angle. “Have we a deal?”
“Agreed. I suppose.”
Elaith chuckled. “Such enthusiasm! Perhaps you are the sort who listens to rumors, that you fear to share the supposed fate of my former partners?” he taunted.
“A bard, listen to rumors? What a notion,” Dan marveled. “But now that you mention it, partner, should I be concerned?”
The elf thought that over. “Probably,” he agreed pleasantly.
After instructing Danilo to hand the scroll over to Vartain, Elaith told Balindar to stand down. The mercenary sheathed his sword with a profound sigh of relief, and nodded apologetically to Morgalla. Wyn Ashgrove, pale with fury and outrage, drew the dwarf safely away from the fighters, then he stalked off alone into the shadows. Danilo followed, fearing what the elven spellsinger might have in mind and hoping to calm him. Morgalla took a place at the far side of the camp and began to sketch furiously.
Left alone with his men, Elaith beckoned them close. “We take no chances,” the elf said in a cold voice. “Balindar, your order is not rescinded. If Lord Thann attempts to go his own way, the dwarf dies. The Harper understands that; see that you remember it, as well. And you,” he said, pointing to another of his men, “at first opportunity, steal Thann’s magic ring and give it to me. We don’t want him grabbing his precious dwarf and blinking out of here.”
“I?” balked the man.
“Don’t be coy,” Elaith snapped. “All of us here know that you’re a skilled thief. Use your skills as I command, and there should be no reason for others to share this knowledge. You would hardly be welcomed into the salons of Waterdeep or featured at Lady Raventree’s parties if it became known that you started life as a street urchin. Am I making myself clear?”
“Quite,” his victim replied with uncharacteristic brevity.
“Good. Mange, you and Tzadick take first watch. Balindar, guard the dwarf. Vartain, you and Thann start working on that scroll. The rest of you get what rest you can. I fear we’ve a hard road ahead.”
In the privacy of his rented villa, Lord Hhune of Tethyr savored a late supper with a few of the higher-ranking agents of the Knights of the Shield. He was almost jovial this evening, delighted with the unusual turn his trip to Waterdeep had taken. His initial dislike of Garnet had been set aside, for the role the half-elven sorceress had given him to play dovetailed beautifully with his own ambitions. Hhune was a guildmaster in his own land, and this splendid northern city had real potential. It lacked guilds for thieves and assassins, and these he was busily putting in place. Waterdeep was in some ways too well run for its own good: there were few powerful crime organizations to challenge Hhune’s activities.