Even Hhune’s immediate prospects were pleasant, for he was enjoying a thick oyster stew and the report of one of his best agents. The thin, furtive Amnite who was known only as Chachim always seemed to surpass expectations.
“As you ordered, the merchant named by Lady Thione as a Lord of Waterdeep is dead by my hand,” Chachim announced, predictably enough. “I followed him to the home of the wizard Maaril and slew him nearby. None saw the deed, for few venture near the Dragon Tower. I left the merchant’s body nearby in Blue Alley. If it is ever recovered, all will assume that he fell to one of the magical traps that guard the wizard’s tower.”
The agent paused and took a folded piece of paper from his sleeve. “This was taken from the merchant’s person. I thought you might find it interesting.”
Hhune unfolded the paper and burst into belly-shaking laughter. “Oh, but this is priceless! Who is the artist? I could use a hundred like this one!”
Chachim bowed. “I have anticipated your wish, Lord Hhune. There is a signmaker in the trade ward who will carve this drawing onto a block of wood for the small price of twenty gold pieces. After the block is carved, it is a simple matter to stamp as many copies as you would like.”
“Good, good!” Hhune nodded to his steward, who counted out the amount and handed it to Chachim. For good measure, Hhune handed the agent one of his own specially minted coins, commonly given as tribute to an agent who’d rendered a notable service. Chachim bowed again and left the chamber with the sketch and the gold.
The guildmaster chuckled. Although his assigned task was harrying the Lords of Waterdeep through increased criminal activity, he saw only benefit in furthering Garnet’s personal goaclass="underline" deposing the archmage Khelben Arunsun. Circulating a sketch that poked fun at the archmage and stirred controversy could only secure the favor of the powerful half-elven sorceress.
“Let us drink to Waterdeep, my friends,” the guildmaster said expansively to his cohorts as he hoisted his tankard, “and to the day when the city will become truly ours.”
Nine
Late into the night, Vartain and Danilo huddled over the scroll, holding conference amid a circle of sleeping mercenaries. Wyn sat silently nearby, listening to all that was said with an increasingly troubled expression in his large green eyes.
“The first stanza is solved,” Vartain said at last. “As we surmised, it refers to the spell placed on the bards at Silverymoon.”
“Why do you keep referring to those lines as the first stanza?” Danilo demanded. “There’s nothing else on the scroll!”
“Not yet.” The riddlemaster pointed to a faint smudge on the parchment, like the shadow of words. As the incredulous Harper watched, a second stanza began to take form beneath the first “This is not uncommon for a riddle spell of such complexity. The first line of the verse refers to one of seven. As each is solved, the next will appear. This is a device to keep the entire riddle from being solved too easily.”
“Rather like using a remote dialect of Sespechian to hide the key to the riddle,” Danilo observed.
“Precisely. All these obscure details, however, tell us something about the spellcaster. He or she—or it, for that matter—is well versed in the riddlemaster’s art The spellcaster is either a linguist or a native speaker of Sespechian. If the latter is true, that would make our foe at least three hundred years old.”
“Which makes sense, considering that the spellcaster has an interest in an elven artifact Three hundred years is not so old for an elf,” the Harper said. He squinted at the text dawning on the page. “What do you make of this?”
Vartain tipped the parchment to catch more of the dancing light of the campfire. “The answer to the first two lines is ‘mother.’ Many riddles have to do with family relationships. The mention of woodruff puzzles me,” he admitted.
“I can explain that,” Danilo said with a tight smile. “My family deals in wines, and a large part of our wealth is due to that herb. It is grown in the Moonshaes and is used to make the famous spring wine that lubricates the Midsummer festivities.”
“Fascinating. I would therefore suppose that the mother named here is the Earthmother, the goddess who is synonymous with the Moonshae Isles themselves. Where is the herb grown, precisely?”
“Where? In the ground, I would imagine. Granted, I’m no expert.… ”
“That is not what I meant,” Vartain broke in impatiently. “Where is this herb-flavored wine produced? This could be important!”
Danilo thought it over. “Now that you mention it, my teacher from MacFuirmidh spoke of the vast herb gardens and vineyards that surrounded the college. The school has fallen into decline, of course, but the wineries are a thriving business. At least, they were until this very season,” Danilo added slowly. “Nearly three moon cycles past, there were severe crop failures, and the herb gardens and vineyards were almost destroyed. I was in Tethyr at the time, working among the wine merchants there. The southern vintners were delighted by this development, as you can well imagine.”
“You know what this means, of course.” Vartain’s tone contradicted his words, and he waited for the young Harper to admit his ignorance.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Danilo said evenly, “but I’m afraid I do.” The riddlemaster’s brows flew upward in surprise, earning a half-smile from the Harper. “At the height of bardcraft, there were seven elder barding colleges, ranked in order of honor and importance. An aspiring bard would attend them all in a specific order, working his way toward the status of master bard. Our mysterious foe seems to be enacting a bizarre parody of this. The first of these barding colleges was Foclucan, which was located in Silverymoon. There a spell was cast on the bards and ballads. I have no idea how it was done. You were there, Wyn; care to hazard a guess?”
“Not quite yet,” the elf replied in a tight voice.
“The crops failed abruptly and mysteriously, not long after the events at Silverymoon’s Spring Faire. The event is described in the second stanza, which makes reference to MacFuirmidh, the second of the barding colleges.”
Danilo paused and took a deep breath. “Two is a coincidence, three forms a pattern. If the third stanza”—he paused and pointed to the spot on the blank page where the words would appear—“if this names the town of Berdusk and the barding college known as Doss, then we will know to expect a total of seven spells. We will also know the path our foe will take.”
“Well done,” Vartain said grudgingly.
“There is more,” Danilo added. “I began this quest thinking only to remove the curse on the bards. This is clearly only one part of the problem. Finally, I doubt that these curses were chosen randomly; they all probably contribute to some ultimate goal. This we must discover, so that we can find and stop the spellcaster before that goal is accomplished. It’s imperative that you solve the riddles as quickly as possible, so that we know what form the other spells take.”
The riddlemaster seemed taken aback by the command in Danilo’s tone. “I am in the employ of Elaith Craulnober,” he reminded the Harper.
“Elaith and I seem to be partners in this effort,” Danilo countered. “You work for both of us now. Think about this, before you limit your allegiance: Elaith wants to possess the artifact, but I want the person behind all this. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn’t relish the chance to match wits with the author of this riddle scroll?”
That thought flickered in the riddlemaster’s large black eyes, then caught fire. Danilo noted the gleam of dawning obsession and was satisfied. He rose to his feet and walked off to waken the camp, and to give Vartain time to assimilate the Harper’s goal as his own.
Music and Mayhem were on their way by sunrise. At Danilo’s insistence—and for the price of another gem from the dragon’s hoard—Balindar guided Vartain’s horse with a leading rein, so that the riddlemaster could devote himself to the study of the scroll as he rode.