Yet Imzeel found the day’s talk troubling. He reclaimed his rag from the “manticore” and resumed his endless circling as he listened in. There were the usual complaints about problems with shipping and theft, but such things seemed to be occurring on a larger scale than normal. Entire ships and the full contents of warehouses were vanishing, right under the noses of city officials. Even more distressing were the whispers suggesting that the Lords of Waterdeep were disappearing. Tavern talk made the odds-on culprit Waterdeep’s resident archmage.
It was widely accepted that Khelben Arunsun was one of the secret Lords of Waterdeep. There were some who felt the archmage had a bit too much power of his own without such a position, but most Waterdhavians had nothing against wizard rule. In fact, Ahghairon’s Tower stood nearby, a monument to the powerful mage who’d established the Lords of Waterdeep several centuries past The city had prospered under Ahghairon’s long rule, and the consensus seemed to be that, as long as the Blackstaff could do as well, may the gods be with him! Waterdhavians weren’t inclined to grease a cart until it squeaked. As trouble in the city increased, however, many feared that Khelben Arunsun was spending too much time dispatching his rival Lords, and not enough tending to the city and its concerns.
Imzeel noted with satisfaction that his own business seemed unaffected by the city’s troubles. The supper hour had just started, and already the barkeep was tapping a third keg of ale. The patrons even had music with their dinner, for the Masked Minstrel had wandered in from her customary place in Jester’s Court and was playing a plaintive tune on her lute. Usually the mysterious woman’s appearance engendered much interest and speculation, but this evening other matters took precedence. Few bothered to listen to her songs, and Imzeel was not sorry to see her put aside her lute in response to a whispered invitation. She and a young customer disappeared through the back door into Jester’s Court, no doubt bound for the privacy of the woods that covered the slopes of Waterdeep Mountain. Business as usual, Imzeel repeated silently, taking comfort from the thought.
“The wizards you ordered are here,” Ginalee announced. She plunked a tray of empty mugs down on the counter, and tossed her head in the direction of three newcomers. “Should I tell them to go ahead?”
Imzeel nodded, and relief eased his countenance into something approaching a smile. He was a prudent man of business, and like many others he had contracted the wizards’ guild to place magical wards about his establishment.
The Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors was Waterdeep’s youngest guild, and they tended to matters ranging from policing visiting sorcerers to serving on the fire watch. The guild also sought to influence and—to whatever extent they could—monitor the magical activities of powerful, independent wizards. The bizarre occurrences in the city of late suggested that magic of some sort was at work, and this created an imperative demand for the guild’s services. All over the city guild mages were busy setting up magical wards to detect and dispel magic. This gave Imzeel a sense of security, and his patrons also murmured their approval as they watched the proceedings.
As the guild mage finished the complex gestures of a spell to rid the room of magical illusions, the Masked Minstrel came back into the taproom on the arm of her latest client. A sharp blue light flared around the pair, drawing a startled scream from the woman. The room fell into silence, and every eye was drawn to the magical light As the patrons watched, the young man’s features melted and flowed together, in an instant crystallizing into a new and familiar shape.
Standing next to the mysterious masked woman was a tall, well-muscled man, clad in somber magnificence. His features were sharp, his expression grave, and his usually keen black eyes betrayed a touch of uncertainty. The wedge-shaped streak of silver in the center of his beard confirmed his identity to those who would not have known him from his face alone.
The Masked Minstrel fell away from him, one hand clasped to her painted lips. She backed off several paces, and then turned and fled toward Jester’s Court Whether she was surprised by the transformation, or just unwilling to be linked with Khelben Arunsun under such adverse circumstances, was impossible to say.
“So this is how the archmage of Waterdeep spends a summer evening,” Ginalee murmured to Imzeel. “And the city going down to Cyric in a cistern, and all.”
“Hush, girl,” the man whispered fiercely, making a warding sign to stave off the ill luck said to follow when the god of strife’s name was invoked.
One of the patrons broke the tense silence. A cleric of Tymora, perhaps trusting to the legendary luck his goddess was said to grant, rose from his dinner and faced the archmage.
“Perhaps no one in the city can stand against you and your ambitions,” the cleric said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean we have to drink with you.”
The man turned and strode from the room. One by one, chairs scraped across the wooden floor as the other patrons followed suit The taproom emptied quickly. Only Imzeel and his employees remained, eyeing the archmage with fear and uncertainty.
Khelben Arunsun came over to the bar, and his footsteps seemed to echo through the deserted room. He placed a small leather bag on the polished wood. “My apologies, Imzeel,” he said in a voice devoid of expression. “Please accept this purse; the gold within should cover your lost business.”
The next instant, he was gone.
“Well, I never,” Ginalee huffed in mock indignation, her voice slightly unsteady but her sense of fun fully intact. “He just upped and disappeared! No flash of light, no puffs of colored smoke, not even a whiff of brimstone! They’ve got more interesting wizards over in Thay, or so I hear.”
“Ginalee,” Imzeel said in a weary voice, “why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”
Ten
Danilo and his elven companions lingered in the Lusty Wench through the evening hours and long into the night. When the black night sky began to fade to indigo and the last of the stars disappeared, many patrons of the Lusty Wench festhall and tavern were still enjoying the justly famed fortified wine, the exotic entertainment, and the company of the tavern’s resident escorts. The Harper and his associates walked out into the dark and silent streets of Sundabar considerably poorer of coin, but with a good deal of information.
The freak summer storm had covered only a part of Sundabar. The trades district was hardest hit—Danilo privately noted that the site of the barding college was located in the very center of this area—with violent thunderstorms and hail. Various explanations were offered, but most of the tavern’s patrons considered the strange Midsummer weather to be an evil omen.
More important, sentries had spoken of a bard who had entered the city that morning, carrying a small dark harp and riding a snow-white asperii. No one could give details of her appearance, except that she was small and swathed in a light cloak.
“A sorceress of power could command an asperii,” Danilo mused as they walked down the dark street, “but an asperii will not willingly serve one who embraces evil. It’s hard to believe that our foe has the benefit of the Northlands in mind!”
“We’ve learned all we can here,” Wyn said impatiently. “Let’s return at once. I need to have a look at the riddle scroll.”
Danilo stopped and studied the minstrel. “What do you expect to find?”
“I’m not sure. I just feel that we may have been missing something important,” was all that the elf would say, shooting a pointed glance in Elaith’s direction. Danilo took the hint and left the matter for a later discussion.