Elaith came in through the back entrance and slipped into one of the tavern’s curtained booths. Although the servants were all dressed alike, he recognized Winnifer, a former thief and a diverting companion, by her undulating walk and tiny red mouth. He caught the woman by the wrist as she passed, and he pulled her into the booth.
Winnifer plopped onto his lap, and her lips parted in a delighted smile. “Elaith! How wonderful to see you again.” She curled up against him like a contented kitten, and her slim, black-gloved hands ran down his arms. “When you pulled me in here like that, I was afraid you were another naughty cleric!”
He captured the hand roaming his chest and gave it a warning squeeze. “I need some information, Winnifer.”
The woman pouted until she checked her hand and noted the small red gem in her palm. “I got a job offer yesterday,” she purred, stroking his face, “and this time, it was not from a cleric! Someone is trying to get a thieves’ guild going.”
It was not the first time Elaith had heard this rumor. It troubled him, as did the influx of foreign talent in the city. Imported thieves at the festival and market seasons were nothing new, but the sheer number of thieves currently in Waterdeep could not be explained by Midsummer Faire alone. Even more disturbing was the plentiful supply of assassins, and the vigor with which both these groups sought converts. Assassins as a rule were not concerned with winning friends and influencing people. They were far more likely to attempt to thin their own ranks than to deliberately enlarge them. This trend indicated the hidden hand of some powerful organization.
“Who is behind this?”
Winnifer shrugged and wriggled her fingers under the tight black leather of her knee-high boots. She dug out a large gold coin and handed it to the elf. “I want it back,” she warned as she twined her hands around his waist and began to nuzzle at his neck. Elaith blew aside a lock of her white hair and examined the coin.
“Much good may it do you,” Elaith responded. “Spend this in Waterdeep, and you’ll most likely end up hanging from the city walls. This coin bears the symbol of the Knights of the Shield.”
Winnifer swore and sat up straight. “Buy it from me, won’t you? You can pass it more easily than I could.”
“Thank you, no,” the elf responded, slipping the coin back into her boot. “You haven’t seen more of these around, have you?”
“Not me. But you know my sister, Flowna? She dances at the Three Pearls? Well, she said that coins like this one paid for a concert A lot of visiting bards sang stories about the Blackstaff and that witch wench he lives with. It was pretty funny, Flowna said.”
“Really.”
“Uh-huh. What I can’t see is what the Knights—this spy group—expect to do using a bunch of bards and thieves.”
“A temporary alliance, perhaps.” Elaith eased the woman off his lap and slipped out of the booth, promising to meet her soon.
Winnifer waited in the curtained booth for several minutes. When she felt certain that the elf was gone, she hurried to the dressing room, pulled off the drow mask and wig, and wrapped herself in a loose cloak to cover her costume. Leaving the underground tavern behind, she hurried to a nearby shop.
Magda, a dark-eyed crone who sold fanciful wooden toys and small statues, was alone in the shop. She ushered the beautiful thief into a back room, which was furnished only with a small table that held a low, round basin of water.
The old woman tossed a handful of herbs into the water and spoke the words of a spell. Winnifer stepped back as the water roiled and steamed. In minutes, the herbs had dissolved into a smooth, dark surface. Reflected in it was the face of the mage Laeral.
“Greetings, Magda Someone has located the elf for us?”
“I have Winnifer Fleetfingers with me,” the crone said, and stepped back to make room for the thief.
Winnifer leaned over the scrying bowl. “I told Elaith everything I was supposed to say,” she reported. “He identified the Knights’ mark on that coin, and from what he said, I think he believes that the Knights and your sorceress may be in alliance.”
“Good work,” Laeral said. “Elaith Craulnober knows the dark side of Waterdeep better than anyone. If the elf can’t ferret out the Knights’ agent, no one can.”
“That spell scroll you’re looking for? He doesn’t have it on him,” Winnifer added.
Laeral’s silver brows flew up. “You’re certain?”
The beautifully thief sniffed scornfully, and Laeral acceded to Winnifer’s expertise with a nod.
“All right He doesn’t have it Magda, get in touch with all those in the network and change their instructions. Elaith Craulnober is not to be stopped. He must be observed, but allowed to go wherever he will. Make note of everyone he contacts. As for the scroll, start looking for one Vartain of Calimport”
Twelve
As soon as the sun set over Waterdeep, Danilo again twisted his ring of teleportation, picturing in his mind the site he had mentioned to Wyn and the others.
He found the party camped beside the pool, in a scene of incongruous peace and beauty. The glowing sunset clouds were reflected in the still water, and in the clearing surrounding the pool, fireflies blinked in and out of view. The elven hermit was off to one side, playing tunelessly upon Wyn’s lyre of changing. Morgalla greeted Danilo with her usual nod, but Wyn rushed toward him. The elf was more excited that Danilo had ever seen him.
“I know how the spell must be undone!”
“You do?”
“Well, almost,” the elf admitted. “I made a copy of the riddle on the scroll. Vartain has been looking at it solely as a puzzle, and I thought that a musician’s eye might find something he overlooked.”
“And?” Danilo found that the elf’s excitement was contagious.
“The ballad on the scroll is a ballad indeed, and it is meant to be sung. Look at the meter: every stanza is regular despite the lack of rhyme.”
A possibility occurred to Danilo, and he sank down on a moss-covered stone. “You’re an expert in Harper lore. Does the name Iriador Wintermist mean anything to you?”
“Oh, yes. She was a Harper who traveled for some time with Finder Wyvernspur’s band. Her name, Iriador, is derived from the Elvish word for ‘ruby,’ and she was so named for her brilliant red hair. She was a notable beauty, and a gifted mage and bard.”
“According to Khelben Arunsun, this woman was half-elven, and the daughter of a famous elven musician. Is it possible that she knew the art of elfsong?”
Wyn recoiled. He stared at the Harper in dismay. “Are you saying that Iriador Wintermist is our elusive sorceress? A half-elf?”
“Yes, in my own inimitable fashion. Now, are you telling me that all this turmoil has been the result of elfsong magic?”
“I’m afraid so,” the minstrel admitted. “I have suspected it for some time, and my suspicions were confirmed when I learned that our enemy possesses the Morninglark. Only a powerful spellsinger can use the harp, so I assumed that the sorceress would be an elf.”
“What can this harp do?”
“It allows the musician to create new spellsongs. This is not an easy matter. Our foe has created a complex spell with several layers. First, as Vartain said, there is magic in the making and solving of riddles. She also drew power from place magic; the sites of the elder barding colleges are steeped in the collective magic of the music played there over the ages. At each site, she gains another power toward her ultimate goal.”
“Which is?”
“To restore the honor to bardcraft.”
“Strange way to go about it,” Danilo observed. “Her concept of honor requires a good deal of preliminary destruction. How can these spells of hers be undone?”