“It is clear that you have not spent much time in taverns of late,” Dan said dryly. “I assure you, Uncle, the Ballad of Thornhold is the sort of song most frequently requested in the taverns, most eagerly sought by young bards and minstrels who make their living traveling about with news and gossip.”
“You couldn’t squelch this ballad?” Khelben demanded.
More easily than you could imagine, thought Danilo with a stab of guilt. He could simply leave it unwritten and unsung. But in truth, what would that profit? His words to Khelben painted the picture clearly enough; if he himself did not write such a ballad, someone else would, and the tale might grow dangerously larger in the telling.
“How so? Forbid a song? That would only spread it the faster. And you must admit, this has in it all the elements of a fine tale: heroism, tragedy, mystery It will strike a particular chord with retired men of the sword, in which Water-deep abounds.”
“How so?”
‘Well, other than the men who rode patrols, Thornhold was manned by aging paladins, veterans who chose to serve rather than retire. The paladins of Thornhold defied their age and infirmities. They died fighting, as heroes, long after their time. This holds much appeal.”
Danilo reached for the ladle of the soup tureen, then thought better of it. “There is more. Although listeners expect tales in which good triumphs over evil, many are surprised and secretly delighted when evil triumphs—as long as the results do not touch them personally.”
The archinage wiped his lips with a linen napkin. “That is a harsh thing to say.”
Danilo shrugged. “But true, nonetheless. Since there is much mystery about the fall of Thornhold, there will be speculation. All who listen to the ballad become storytellers themselves, as they spin tales about what might have happened.”
“But not all men are content with gossip,” the archmage said. “How long before small forces gather to throw themselves against Thornhold? The paladins at the Halls of Justice will probably make a quest of it, not to mention the knights of Summit Hall. I don’t need to tell you what a waste that would be. Only an enormous, full-scale assault of massive power could bring down those walls.”
Danilo examined his fingernails. “Thinking of trying your hand, Uncle?”
The archmage sniffed. “As to that, I have but one word: Ascalhorn.”
“An. Excellent point.”
For a time, the men fell silent, and the air was thick with the memory of dire, unforeseen results of powerful magic wrought. The fall of the fortress that Khelben had named opened the gate to darker, more deadly powers. For years Ascalhorn had been aptly known as Hellgate Keep and represented the failure of extreme magical remedies. Evoking it declared Khelben’s firm intention to keep himself free of direct involvement in the matter. Danilo often suspected that Khelben had a deep, personal stake in the matter as well, but he had never found a way to broach the subject.
“So, what do you propose that the Harpers do?” Danilo prodded.
“You are not going to like my suggestion,” the archmage warned him, “but listen to my concerns, and weigh them well. Hronulf of Tyr was one of the men slain. Lost with him was an artifact, a ring of considerable and mysterious power. We must get it back.”
“There is that ‘we’ again,” the young man said in a voice heavy with foreboding.
Khelben’s smile was grim and fleeting. “This task will not fall to you. There is one better suited for it.”
“Bronwyn, I suppose.”
“Who better? She has demonstrated great skill in searching out artifacts. And what she does not know of her heritage this day, she will soon find out. It is only prudent to bind her to the Harpers’ service in this matter.”
Danilo was more than a little unhappy about this turn of events. “This task would put her in great danger”
“Is that so different from many other assignments she has willingly taken?”
There was truth in that, yet Danilo still scoured his wits for a compelling argument against this plan. Then it occurred to him that Bronwyn might already possess this ring. If she had managed to see her father, perhaps he had passed it on to her It was a possibility that bore looking into. If that were the case, Danilo could conceive of nothing important enough to warrant taking from Bronwyn the only family treasure she had ever possessed or was ever likely to possess.
“Bronwyn will do as you direct,” Danilo said, letting a bit of anger creep into his voice. “She always has. But why is this ring so important that you consider its worth above hers?”
“I didn’t say that,” Khelben cautioned him. “Finding the rings and keeping them safely away from those who wish to use their power is the only course that will guarantee Bronwyn’s safety. As long as the rings are obtainable, any descendant of Samular is a much-desired commodity.”
Danilo reached for the pitcher of ale and poured himself a mug. “Uncle, do not send me out blind. There has been too much of that, and I won’t be party to it any longer Tell me plainly what these rings do.”
“Some old tales say—”
“Let us dispense with prevarication,” the bard cut in impatiently. “What do they do?”
Khelben tugged at the silver hoop in his ear, a sure sign that he was ill at ease. “I do not know,” he admitted. “When the three rings are combined, they produce a powerful effect that is, unfortunately, unknown to me. The wizard who created them on behalf of Samular and his knights was not inclined to share his secrets.”
Aha, Danilo thought. Some of Khelben’s earlier comments took on more meaning, when considered by this light. “An old rivalry, perhaps?”
The archmage merely shrugged. “Find the ring,” he repeated.
Danilo leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the ale. The beverage was flat and bitter He grimaced and set the mug down.
“That might prove difficult,” he said. “As I reported earlier this tenday, Bronwyn is away on business. My scouts have not found word of her in Daggersford, so it is possible that she had this story put about as a blind. My guess would be that she had another, deeper destination in mind.”
He spoke those words with heavy portent, deliberately misleading the archmage. Khelben scowled. “Skullport, again, eh? Well, check it out. Help her complete her business, so we can move on to the matter at hand.”
Danilo smiled, relieved to be able to speak whole truth at least once. “On that, Uncle, you may depend.”
* * * * *
Ebenezer waited impatiently as Bronwyn held council with the aging human who kept the inn. The Yawning Portal, it was called. The yawning customer was more like it. He was beginning to nod off over his third mug of ale when the young woman strode over to his table, an expression of grim triumph on her face.
“Durnam will let us in,” she said softly. “This is not the only entrance to Skullport, but it’s the quickest. It’s like being a bucket in a well. He ties a rope around you and lowers you down.”
“A well, eh? A dry one, I’m hoping.”
“At first.” She grinned fleetingly, fiercely. “Skuilport is neither dull nor dry not by any measure.”
The dwarf perked up at this news. He’d been doing too much sitting around for his liking and was about ready for a rowdy hour or two. He hopped up from the chair. “Well then, let’s get to it.”
Ebenezer followed Bronwyn back to the locked room and watched as the old man slid the cover from a gaping hole in the floor. The dwarf insisted on going first, figuring he’d be the better one to look around for danger, seeing as he could see in the dark and she couldn’t. She agreed and told him briefly what to look for
It was a good thing he’d chosen to go first, for the ride down was far longer than Ebenezer had expected. If he had had to sit and twiddle his thumbs while they cranked Bronwyn down, he might have changed his mind and demanded they take another route. It was hard to rethink the matter in the middle of a dark, narrow well shaft.
Finally he caught sight of the opening Bronwyn had told him would be there. He swung back and forth on the rope a bit to get some momentum, then seized the first of several iron handholds set into the stone wall. He hauled himself into the side tunnel, then wriggled out of the leather harness and gave the rope a couple of good tugs.
Instinct prompted him not to holler up a got-here-just-fine. Darkness and silence surrounded him, but there was a watchful quality to the place. Ebenezer wasn’t keen to alert who-knows-what of his arrival.
The dwarf waited impatiently, hand never far from the handle of his hammer, until Bronwyn came into view. He grabbed her by the belt and hauled her into the tunnel. She touched down with a whisper of soft-soled leather. She shrugged off the harness and gestured to Ebenezer to follow her—a bold gesture, considering that she herself could not see in the utter blackness of the hole.
Ebenezer fell into step beside her, moving comfortably though the darkness. His eyes, like those of all dwarves, slipped easily past the range of light and color to perceive subtle patterns of heat. Humans had no such abilities, but Bronwyn moved along well enough, finding her way by running the fingertips of one hand along the wall.
They passed two passages before Bronwyn turned off into a side tunnel. This one sloped down swiftly in a tight, curving spiral, widening as it went. Slowly, the heat patterns faded from the dwarf’s vision to be replaced by a faint, phosphoric light. Glowing lichen clung to the damp stone walls, and globs of luminous, mobile fungi inched along the walkways.
Ebenezer booted one out of the way. It splatted against the wall in a smear of weirdly glowing green, then oozed down to meld with a passing fungus.