“With a welcome such as that before us?” Danilo sniffed. “I think not. Had I known that porridge was on the horizon, I would have teleported to Ackrieg’s Bakery, instead.”
“We can all discuss the spell while you eat,” Khelben said, taking no notice of the young man’s teasing.
Danilo elbowed the dwarf. “What would you say to a nice gobbet of roasted venison and a mug of ale for breakfast? There’s an inn near the tournament field that understands hospitality and serves a splendid morning feast. Raspberry pastries are a specialty, and the almond cakes are also very good.”
“Make it three mugs, and you got yerself a deal.”
“Done!”
Morgalla loosed her grip on Wyn’s arm, and she and Danilo headed toward the black granite wall. As inconspicuously as possible, the elven minstrel flexed his fingers to aid the return of feeling to his hand.
The archmage stared after the retreating Harper. “You’re not serious.”
“Actually, I am. Quite a surprise, isn’t it?” Danilo tossed the words cheerfully over his shoulder. “Wyn can tell you all about elfsong, and why we need the Morninglark harp. Since we’ve got less than two days to find it, I’m off. Hot on the trail, as they say. Right after breakfast” So saying, the Harper dragged the dwarf through the invisible door, and they both disappeared into the city.
“What now?” Khelben muttered, shaking his head.
“The scroll claims that a lord would fall on the field of triumph. The young bard is doubtless headed to the city’s tournament field to seek clues that will lead him to the elven harp,” Wyn said softly.
The archmage met the elf’s steady, green-eyed gaze. “The young bard, eh? So Morgalla’s sketch came close to the truth?”
“If anything, it fell short of the mark.”
Khelben digested this news in silence. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, that’s settled, then.”
“Whatever path is given him to walk, your nephew does you credit,” Wyn said in a quiet tone. “You have trained him well; his memory is remarkable and his discipline impressive. I assume his command of magic is equally strong.”
“It had better be,” the archmage said darkly. “Wizard or no, there’s Nine Hells of a spell to be cast And now, what is this elfsong that my boy was talking about?”
The early morning sun sent slanting rays across the farmlands east of Waterdeep, making the scattered whitewashed buildings gleam like so many nesting doves. It was the day before Midsummer, and the fields and orchards should have been lush with fruit and jeweled in the deepest green of the year. From her perch on the asperii, high above the farmlands, Garnet could see that vegetation was sparse. Yet some crops grew, despite her spells and as if in testament to the stubborn resilience necessary to survival in the Northlands. A few farmers were headed toward Waterdeep, their carts laden with produce for sale in the markets there.
Garnet guided her wind steed toward the River Gate, the eastern entrance to Waterdeep’s trade district. They landed out of sight of the city-bound travelers and the wall sentries, then joined the other early morning arrivals on the road to the city. She felt more secure once the asperii was on firm ground. The magical horse was becoming increasingly skittish, and Garnet feared that the horse would soon go into open revolt This would result in the asperii’s death, for the creature was bound to Garnet for life. She did not wish to go through the trouble of obtaining and training another mount, for asperii were hard to come by. She brushed aside the niggling doubt that no other asperii would accept her as master.
The Trade Ward bustled with activity as Garnet rode down the streets. A stout dairy farmer dipped a large pewter ladle into a barrel of foaming milk, filling the pitchers and jugs held out to him by a small crowd, while a bright-cheeked lass cut wedges to order from wheels of cheese. Nearby, a potter, bare to the waist against the glowing heat and already daubed with the red-brown clay from his morning’s work, fired up a kiln. Vendors set up shop at street corners, and tradespeople readied their wares in preparation for the merchants who came to purchase goods for the shops located in the city’s vast, open-air market. Those who sold their wares themselves were loading carts bound for the marketplace. Taverns dealt a brisk business in morning ale and oatcakes. As Garnet took in scene after scene, she began to wonder if the much-touted Lady Thione had done her part. Commerce seemed to be going on apace.
Yet closer scrutiny showed the signs of distress. The wares displayed were of quality far below the usual standards of the proud Waterdhavians. There were shortages; in particular she noted that the produce sold by fruit or flower vendors was sparse and dearly priced. Inns served small portions, and the breakfast customers were almost universally clad in the simple homespun of local tradespeople. The early morning bustle soon flagged, and Garnet realized that what she had taken to be business as usual was merely the local residents going about their daily routine as dictated by a lifetime of industrious habits. They soon settled down to tend their businesses, their faces showing varying degrees of resignation and hopeful expectancy. Garnet encountered a few meandering customers and merchant buyers, but on the whole the streets and shops were far too quiet.
This state of affairs changed as Garnet turned onto Rivon Street. She saw a crowd of people gathered around the House of Song, a large complex that served as guild headquarters for the Council of Musicians, Instrument-makers, and Choristers. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, and she absently tucked a strand of drab brown hair behind one slightly pointed ear.
Garnet urged her magic steed closer. There was an inn across the way, and she tied the asperii’s reins to the rail outside so that she might pass on foot through the crowd that surrounded the guildhall.
This proved to be more difficult than the bard had anticipated, for what she first took to be a crowd was in effect a small army. The distinctive green and black uniforms of the city guard first caught her eye. She estimated nearly a full battalion. The guard was augmented by several dozen sell-swords, including a detachment of lizard men—very rare in the city and highly regarded as fierce mercenaries. One of the creatures, a seven-foot lizard armed with a spiked mace, returned her glare with incurious golden eyes. Its tongue flicked out as if to taste her scent, and she turned away with a shudder. There were several men and women garbed in street clothes, unarmed but for the occasional staff or wand. Wizards! The guild hall was well and thoroughly guarded. Someone had funded an impressive amount of magic and muscle. Well, so be it. She was not without resources of her own.
Head held high, she marched toward the broad double doors of the guildhouse entrance. A pair of crossed pikes barred the way.
“The guild hall is closed.”
“On Midsummer Eve? I highly doubt that.” She sniffed and walked around the two guards. Again her path was blocked, this time by a well-muscled, ruddy woman who wore the insignia of a guard captain.
“No one may pass,” she said firmly. “We have our orders.”
“Oh? From whence came these ‘orders’?” Garnet’s noble birth and her upbringing in the courts of Sespech lent her tones and her face a degree of patronizing disdain that could not be learned under lesser circumstances.
The captain was not suitably quelled, although she did bow before answering. “By order of the guildmaster, Kriios Halambar, and the Lords of Waterdeep.”
Anger coursed through Garnet like a dark tide. She spun and stalked back to her asperii. Mounting the horse, she sped toward the west.
“A bard down on her luck, looking for a free place to stay,” opined the guard captain. “Crazy, maybe, but no harm in her.” A murmur of agreement came from the other guards.
From the vantage point of his window in the inn across from the guild hall, Vartain had to disagree with this assessment of the matter. In many ways, the woman did not fit the template he had fashioned, yet he had little doubt that she was indeed the author of the scroll he carried.