Songs & Swords 2 (29 page)

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 guild-house 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, Khios 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.

The riddlemaster’s fingers sought the parchment roll tucked into his belt. He had stolen it from Danilo just before he’d left the Harper outside Blackstaff Tower. Vartain did not like to remember his ignoble past, and he was loathe to use the skills he’d learned as a child on the streets of Calimport. It was, however, the only way he could think of to ensure that no one found the sorceress but himself.

This plot had been formulating in his mind for some time. He’d deliberately disavowed knowledge of the lauding college in Waterdeep, and Danilo Thann apparently held the popular misconception that Halambar’s Lute Shop stood on the original site. No doubt the Harper had learned differently by now and had probably sought Vartain around the musicians’ guild hall. Vartain had come to this inn directly from the archmage’s tower, and he felt secure that his presence there would be kept secret. Discretion was the watchword at this inn, and the proprietor would not stay in business long if he started to reveal his patrons’ secrets.

Vartain pulled the embroidered sash that hung over the bed, ringing the bell that summoned the chamber servant. When the young man appeared, Vartain requested that a private, closed coach be sent to the back alley immediately. The matter was tended to swiftly, for some of Lord Thann’s pilfered emeralds had gone to ensure that Vartain’s every desire would be tended.

The riddlemaster made his way to the rear of the inn. He climbed into the coach and instructed the driver to take him to Halambar’s Lute Shop. He also suggested a route that, if not the most direct, would be sure to take them to their destination in the least possible time, should certain anticipated conditions exist The driver listened to Vartain’s precise, detailed instructions and then, to the riddlemaster’s utter bewilderment, he burst out laughing.

Vartain flopped back against the richly padded seat of the coach, and for some reason he recalled young Thann’s definition of humor looking at a situation from a new and different perspective. But was that not what he himself did? Was not his art the consideration of all possibilities, and the combination of observed facts into a logical whole? Yet Vartain often found himself puzzled while others laughed, and he took no pleasure in the telling of amusing tales for the sake of levity alone. Nor, apparently, did he tell them well. “Great material, but your delivery could stink up a stockyard,” a jester of casual acquaintance had once advised him. These thoughts presented a paradox to the riddlemaster.

As Vartain predicted, his coach did arrive at the music shop in short order. Even so, they were too late; Vartain saw the flick of a dove-white tail as the bard’s horse rounded a corner at a brisk trot. He was not overly concerned; there was much he could garner from the bard’s registration. Vartain climbed down from the coach and entered the shop.

He made a perfunctory bow to the haughty guildmaster and then went immediately to the table upon which the register was displayed. Ignoring the stool placed there for the comfort of the shop’s patrons, he opened the book and thumbed through to the last entry. It read simply:

Garnet, a bard.

Entered Waterdeep the final day of Flamentle.

That was today, Vartain noted.

The riddlemaster sank slowly down on the stool, staring with unseeing eyes at a display of unique magical instruments. Khelben Arunsun’s suspicions about the sorceress’s true name and nature were almost certainly correct. The name Iriador was derived from the Elvish word for “ruby,” and it seemed fitting that the proud woman would take another precious stone as her name.

He pulled the scroll from his belt and unrolled it, looking over the possibilities and fitting together the pieces in a way that reflected this understanding. As he read, the details of her plot became clear to him. He knew exactly where Garnet would strike, who would be the target of her harp-given power, and what weapons she would employ.

Vartain scratched his chin, troubled by the dilemma this presented. By all accounts, he should hurry to the designated meeting place and tell his employers, Elaith Craulnober and Danilo Thann, all that he had learned. He was bound in honor to serve them with all his powers. That the two clearly had different goals in mind was of no concern to Vartain and did not enter into his internal debate. Something more basic and compelling guided the riddlemaster’s hesitation.

Once before on this quest he had failed. In missing the dragon’s riddle, he for the first time had fallen short of expectations. As Danilo Thann had so intuitively noted, Vartain longed for the chance to match wits with the person who had devised the riddle spell. Not only would it exonerate him of this failure, but it presented a challenge such that he might never again encounter. Could he bear to cast aside such an opportunity? Confiding in his employers would be doing precisely that: Danilo Thann was determined to overcome the sorceress with magic, and Elaith Craulnober would certainly attempt to kill her, that he might obtain the valuable artifact needed to purchase his child’s inheritance. No, this opportunity Vartain must have for himself.

Then doubt, an emotion almost unknown to the riddlemaster, edged into his mind. In many ways, he and this Garnet were much alike: she was a riddlemaster, a master of lore and language, a traveler and a teller of tales. Yet she was also a mage, and she wielded an artifact of great power. In addition, she had lived more than six of his lifetimes, and although he had learned and accomplished much, he could not be sure that it would be enough. If he kept the knowledge of her identity to himself, and met the bard Garnet on the field of intellectual combat, what was to say he would fare better against her than he had against the wily Grimnoshtadrano?

A notion entered Vartain’s mind; an idea so unexpected and droll that he blinked in astonishment He would overcome Garnet the same way that the dragon had deceived him! If he and Garnet were as much alike as he suspected, she would also be hampered by an abundance of intellectual pride and a dearth of humor.

A chuckle escaped him, a rusty and experimental sound that drew stares from the shop’s other patrons. Then, for the first time in his adult life, Vartain burst into unrestrained laughter.

By the glyphs of Deneir, it was worth a try! thought Vartain as he laughed, holding his sides against the unaccustomed twinge in his shaking ribs.

Garnet rode up to Lady Thione’s Sea Ward villa and threw the reins of her horse to a servant. Unannounced, she walked into the parlor where the noblewoman held conference with several merchants.

Lucia looked up at the interruption, imperious anger in her dark eyes. When she saw Garnet, however, her face instantly become a calm, expressionless mask. She rose and politely greeted the sorceress. She drew her out of the room, carefully closing the heavy oak door behind them.

“Get rid of them,” demanded Garnet, “We have much to discuss.” She thrust a handful of papers at the noblewoman.

Lucia glanced at the top page and grimaced. She quickly leafed through the papers: all were identical. “Lord Hhune’s work. He was acting on his own initiative, I assure you.”

“Good.” The sorceress nodded. “I would not want this traced back to you. On the other hand, I am glad he did this. This drawing of the archmage is another type of bardcraft, a new way of telling a story. It is fitting that such a weapon be brought against Khelben Arunsun. Hhune will most likely be found out, but he is expendable. Now, we must move on to other things.

“Midsummer Day will be a disaster,” Garnet continued. “You have played your part well in the disruption of commerce. Other agents of the Knights of the Shield have ensured that the traditional tournament games will go badly. Above all this, there will be a violent storm of rain— and possibly hail—on Midsummer Day. These northern barbarians will take the storm as an evil omen.”

“But the weather has been fine all week,” Lucia said, a question in her voice.

“All the better! The wizard weather will be blamed on the archmage, and when Shieldmeet begins, the people will be ready to listen to your suggestion.”

“My suggestion?” Lucia hedged.

“Oh, yes. Shieldmeet begins at sunset with a vast meet-

…

Lords of Waterdeep are reaffirmed by popular acclamation. When the meeting begins, you will reveal yourself as one of the Lords, argue that the city’s woes are due to the ambitions of Khelben Arunsun, and demand that he resign from the Council of Lords.”

Lucia paled.

“You are well connected with the guilds, popular with the nobility, and beloved of the trades-people. The only major faction in Waterdeep that is not in your pocket is the collective clergy” Garnet paused for a hard smile. “How fortunate for us that Waterdeep is not a deeply devout city”

Lucia Thione stared at the sorceress, her eyes enormous with shock. She licked her lips nervously and tried to speak, but the words would not come.

The half-elf noted this with growing suspicion. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes! That is, you realize of course that Lord Piergeiron will deny that I am one of the Lords of Waterdeep. This is standard practice whenever a Lord is unmasked, much as the Knights of the Shield .disavow any of our members who are caught.”

Garnet did not look convinced. “I wonder,” she said softly, her sapphire eyes searching the noblewoman’s pale Lace. She smiled suddenly. “You know, I have always been curious about the magical properties of those helms that you Lords of Waterdeep wear in public. Might I examine yours?”

Lucia’s heart thudded painfully, and she struggled to keep her panic from her face. “I do not keep it in my Sea Ward villa. It is safely locked away, but I will be happy to retrieve it for you later in the day.”

“You do that,” Garnet said, pushing past Lucia and making her way up the stairs. “I will be staying here until Shieldmeet is past. Kindly send some of your servants to attend me,” she called over her shoulder.

The noblewoman slumped against the wall. Her worse fears had come to fruition. Garnet’s demands had placed her in an impossible situation. She could not openly claim to be a Lord of Waterdeep, for the penalty for impersonating a Lord was death. Yet if she refused, Garnet would make sure that the Knights of the Shield learned of Lucia’s deception. The best she could do was stall for time and hope that a solution would come to her. Always before, Lucia had been able to untie the Gordian knots that came with her life of intrigue, but this time there seemed to be no way out.

“Lady Thione? Are you ill, madam?”

The question snapped her back into the present. She recognized the deep, charmingly accented voice of Bergand, a merchant lord of the faraway island of Nimbral. A possible solution presented itself to Lucia. Nimbral lay southwest of the Jungle of Chult, and it was far beyond the reach of the Knights of the Shield. The land was rich, and trade was busy and diverse. Bergand himself had vast holdings and a thriving business, and he was riot immune to her charm.

Lucia turned to her client and gave him her most dazzling smile.

“If’n I knowed yer friend would be late abed, I’d’ve had me another mug of that ale,” Morgalla said wistfully.

Danilo grinned, not taking the dwarf at all seriously. They’d been waiting for

Caladorn at the Field of Triumph for well over an hour, and Danilo noticed that Morgalla watched the morning’s practice with an interested and critical eye. A fighter to the core, she was having a fine time appraising the styles and skills displayed on the practice fields.

The Harper also made good use of the time. He noted the poor turnout, the dispirited air of the contestants, and the number of clerics on hand to heal injuries. The horses in the arena’s stables—supposedly the best horses in all the Northlands—looked dull and lethargic. A number of them had suffered injuries, and for the price of a silver coin one of the grooms confided that several horses had been hurt so badly that they’d been put down.