“By singing the ballad in its entirety. Throughout the riddle are sprinkled hints to its performance. Many of these are hidden in other clues.”
Danilo thought this over, nodding as something occurred to him. “The key to the spell,” he repeated softly. He looked up at Wyn. “Remember the riddle that opened the scroll?
The Harper spoke the riddle quickly, and shook his head in astonishment at his own shortsightedness. “The key to the spell was the letter E, right? Answering the riddle opened the scroll, but it also gives the key in which the spell must be sung.”
“I hadn’t noticed that particular double riddle,” Wyn admitted, “but there are several others.”
“By Milil,” Danilo swore, invoking the god of music, “this bard of ours has a twisted mind. We’ll have to look at every phrase and line from three different angles just to put the pieces of this spell together.”
“That is so. But I’m afraid this puts you in a great deal of danger, my friend.”
“This whole adventure has not been lacking in danger,” Danilo observed. “But why me, specifically?”
“You probably know the legend of Heward’s Mystical Organ. If this artifact could be found, one could theoretically cast an infinite number of spells by playing tunes upon its keys.”
“If one survived the effort,” Danilo said dryly. “Also according to legend, those whose research is faulty or whose musicianship is not up to the task will end up dead or mad.”
The elven minstrel nodded gravely. “That danger is present in the casting of any powerful spell, and this one will be no exception. This spell was cast by wedding elfsong to the power of the Morninglark. The magic is therefore doubly powerful, and it must be undone by singing the entire ballad and playing upon the Morninglark itself.”
“Which only a spellsinger can do. That’s you.”
“I’m afraid not,” Wyn countered. “Remember, I do not play the harp. The task therefore falls to you.”
Danilo took a deep breath. He had no choice but to attempt the spell, yet he was not a spellsinger like Wyn, or even much of a bard! His eyes drifted toward the elven hermit, who had set aside the lyre and was now dancing to wild music only he could hear. The Harper knew that if his voice faltered or his fingers stumbled on the strings, the mad elf’s fate could be his. As soon as he trusted himself to speak, he raised his eyes to Wyn’s.
“You promised me a lesson in elfsong,” he said casually. “I believe this would be a good time to start”
Silent as a shadow, Elaith Craulnober picked his way through the debris that littered Twoflask Alley. But for the elf, the lane was deserted; local wisdom had it that no one who’d imbibed less than two flasks of something much stronger than ale would chance the dangerous passage after sunset Raised planks paved the center of the narrow throughway, allowing the foolish, the inebriated, or the intrepid to walk above most of the garbage and sewage that was tossed into the alley from the seedy taverns and storehouses on either side.
The elf’s boots made no sound on the wide boards, and beneath his feet the rats scuttled and snarled undisturbed, busily foraging before the daily sluicing washed much of the garbage—and many of the rats—into the large sewer gratings that dotted either side of the path. There were no gaslights or torches to dispel the darkness of Twoflask Alley, and the elf made his way quickly toward the back entrance of the infamous Thirsty Sailor Tavern in darkness. The patrons of this tavern favored the dark, and they tended to vanish at first light like so many vampires.
The Thirsty Sailor was a dive frequented by brawlers and heavy drinkers, and the deals made and information exchanged in its squalid upper rooms were invariably small, inept exchanges among the dregs of Waterdeep. To Elaith, however, the tavern’s owner was an excellent source of dark information. The elf had spent a long day traveling from one tavern and meeting place to another, gathering news from his vast network of informants. He had learned a great deal, but he had yet to fit all the pieces together. He hurried past the last building on the alley, a low-eaved warehouse stocked with barrels of whiskey and ale for the tavern.
The elf was a few paces from the tavern’s back door when a solid thud sounded behind him, resounding through the wooden planks that paved the alley. From the corner of his eye, Elaith caught the glint of high-held steel.
With fluid, practiced grace, he spun about and caught the assailant’s upraised arm by the wrist. He threw himself into a backward roll, using the force of the intended knife-stroke to help bring the much larger man down with him. As they fell, he planted both booted feet in the thug’s midsection, and at the precise moment, he kicked out hard. The man soared over Elaith, flipped, and landed heavily on his back.
Before the startled “Oof!” died away, the elf was on his feet, a knife in each hand. With two quick throws, the thug’s outflung arms were pinned securely to the boards by the coarse linen of his shirt cuffs.
Elaith drew a larger knife from his boot and walked slowly to stand over the man. This was a favored technique of the elf s, for he’d learned that men—and women, for that matter—were more prone to part with information under such intimidating circumstances.
“As ambushes go, that was rather clumsy,” the elf observed mildly.
Sweat beaded on the trapped man’s face, but he didn’t attempt to move or cry out. “I swear by the Mother of Mask, Craulnober, I didn’t know it was you! It was just a quick cutpurse job, nothing personal.”
The would-be thief had a familiar voice, but the elf’s memory connected the slurred, whining tones with a heavily bearded man who wore his long brown hair in three thick braids. This man was cropped and clean-shaven. Elaith peered closer.
“Is that you, Kornith? Good gods, man, what an appalling excuse for a chin! Were I you, I would grow that beard back at once. Whatever possessed you to molt in the first place?”
“Guild rules,” he muttered. “Can’t stand out in a crowd.” The thief glanced meaningfully at one of the knives that held him immobile. His elven tormenter took no notice of the hint.
“Guild rules?” Elaith’s amber eyes narrowed. There were already rules in place? “Since when is there a Loyal Order of Cutpurses in this town?”
“It’s coming,” the thief asserted. “Assassins’ guild, too. Word’s been put out.”
“By?” The elf took a step closer and stroked the blade of his knife.
“Don’t know.” Kornith licked his lips nervously. “I’d tell you if I knew. Word’s out, that’s all.”
Winnifer Fleetfingers’s revelation about the Knights of the Shield was gaining credibility by the moment, and this deeply concerned Elaith. For all its intrigue, Waterdeep had no single, truly organized crime network, and it was in the rogue elf’s interests to keep things that way.
Yet he would get no more information from Kornith, of that he was certain. Elaith hooked the toe of his boot under the hilt of one of the knives that held the thief immobile, kicking it up and easily catching it as it fell. Kornith rolled to the side and tugged the other knife free. He leaped to his feet and backed away, his face suffused with a mixture of relief and apprehension.
“Thought I was a stinkin’ corpse, Craulnober,” he said, as he continued to put distance between himself and the deadly elf. “Never supposed you’d show a man mercy, but I’m grateful and I owe you.”
Elaith froze. The very sincerity of the thief’s words stirred the confusion brewing in the elf’s heart. Kornith had every reason to fear him, for no one who had threatened Elaith Craulnober’s life still drew breath. The elf had built a fortune on his dark reputation, yet here he was, prepared to let this thug walk away. Indeed, a year earlier he would have not have been content to ruin the man’s shirtsleeves, but would rather have pinned him to the walkway through the palms of his hands. The elf’s fury turned quickly inward, and he cursed himself for the uncharacteristic lapse. At the same moment, he swung back his hand and with a deft underhand toss sent the knife he held spinning upward.