Kitten, a sell-sword whose hair was a tousled brown mop and whose leathers were cut to reveal abundant cleavage, leaned forward to poke playfully at Mirt’s vast midsection. “So say you, Sir Beer-Belly. Those of us with more refined tastes—” here she paused to cast a coy, hooded glance around the table “—we know this news bodes ill for Waterdeep in more ways than Elminster has pipes.” She began to tick off concerns on her red-taloned fingers. “First, the famous herb gardens near the old college. The woodruff there goes to make the Moonshae spring wine that sells so well at our Summer Faire. No woodruff, no wine, eh? Our finest wools come from those parts, too, and the spring shearing will be scant if the sheep lack grazing. You just try to tell Waterdeep’s weavers, tailors, and cloak-makers that that isn’t any of our concern. And what of the merchant guilds? You can’t empty a chamber pot in the Moonshaes without hitting a handful of petty royals, and all of them strive to outdo each other buying our fancier goods. If they have the money, mind. With crops failing, they won’t.” She raised one painted eyebrow. “I could go on.”
“And you usually do,” grumbled Mirt, but he softened his words with a good-natured wink.
“Problems in the South Ward, too,” said Brian quietly, folding his callused hands on the table. Brian the Swordmaster was the only one of their number who lived and labored among Waterdeep’s working folk, and his practical voice and keen eye made him the most down-to-earth of the secret Lords of Waterdeep. “Caravans are losing goods to brigands. Outside the city walls, travelers and whole farm families have been found torn to bits with never a sword drawn in their own defense. Looks like monsters at work, and monsters with magic. Game has fled the woods to the south, and there’s too many empty stew pots. The fisherfolk have troubles, too: nets slashed, catches looted, trap lines cut. What say you about that, Blackstaff? Are the merfolk falling off the job, and letting those murdering sahuagin too close to the harbor?”
All eyes turned to Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, the most powerful—and the least secret—of the Lords of Waterdeep. His age was impossible to guess, but his black hair and full dark beard were shot through with silver, and his hairline was definitely in retreat There was a distinctive streak of gray in the middle of his beard that emphasized his learned, distinguished air. Tall and heavily muscled, he was an imposing man, even seated. Tonight the archmage seemed oddly preoccupied. His goblet sat untouched before him, and he gave scant attention to the concerns of his fellow Lords. “Sahuagin? Not to my knowledge, Brian. No sahuagin have been reported,” Khelben replied in a distracted voice.
“What’s stuck in your craw tonight, wizard?” demanded Mirt. “We’ve troubles enough already, but you might as well put yours on the table along with the rest.”
“I have a most disturbing story,” Khelben began slowly. “A young elven minstrel stumbled upon a mystery at the Silverymoon Spring Faire, and he has been traveling these three months trying to find someone who would listen to his tale. It seems that the ancient ballads performed at the Spring Faire, especially those written by or about Harpers, have all been changed.”
Larissa let out a peal of silvery laughter. “Now, there’s news indeed! Every street and tavern singer changes a story, adapting the tune and words to suit his own whim and the tastes of the listeners.”
“That is so,” the archmage agreed. “At least, that is the custom of street and tavern performers. True bards are another matter entirely. Part of a bard’s training is memorizing the traditions and lore, which are passed down, precise and immutable, for generations. That’s why so many Harpers are bards: to preserve a knowledge of our past.”
“I don’t often disagree with you, Blackstaff.” Durnan, a retired adventurer and the owner of the tavern in which they met, spoke for the first time. “Seems like we’ve got enough to concern ourselves with in the here and today. Let the past take care of itself.” The other Lords of Waterdeep murmured agreement.
“Would that it were so simple,” Khelben said. “It appears that the bards themselves have fallen under some sort of powerful enchantment Magic that far-reaching can only mean trouble to come. We need to know who cast the spell, why, and to what end.”
“That’s your end of the ox, wizard,” Mirt pointed out. “The rest of us know little enough about magic.”
“Magic can’t provide the answer,” Khelben admitted. “I’ve examined several afflicted bards. They are telling the truth as they know it, and magical inquiry yields no answers. As far as the bards are concerned, the ballads are as they’ve always been.”
Kitten yawned widely. “So? The bards are the only ones who care about such things, and as long as they’re happy, what’s the harm in it?”
“Many bards may die happy,” Khelben said. “Not only have the old ballads been changed, but new ones have somehow been grafted into the bards’ memories. The elf minstrel brought to my attention a new ballad that could lure many Harpers to their deaths. It urges Harper bards to seek out Grimnoshtadrano for some insane riddle challenge.”
“Old Grimnosh? The green dragon?” Mirt grimaced. “So this is more than a fancy prank; it’s a fancy trap. Any idea who’s behind it?”
“I’m afraid not,” the archmage admitted. “But the ballad mentions a scroll. If a bard can retrieve it from the dragon, I may be able to trace the spell’s creator.”
“Well, there you go,” Kitten said. “Bards are easy enough to come by.”
Khelben shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Every available Harper bard in the Northlands seems to be afflicted, and therefore any one of them could be an unwitting tool of the spellcaster. Therein lies the problem. Who’s to say that an enspelled bard won’t take the scroll to his hidden master? No, we need a bard whose wits and memories are his own.”
“What of the elf, the one who brought you this tale?” Larissa suggested.
“For one thing, he’s not a Harper,” the archmage said. “But more important, to succeed in this quest, a bard must understand both music and magic. The scroll mentioned in the ballad is most likely a spell scroll, and if that is so, reading the scroll means casting a spell. The elven minstrel has had no wizard training. And you know what would likely occur if I sent an elf to face a green dragon.”
“Breakfast, lunch, or dinner would occur,” Kitten said flatly, “depending on the time of day. So what are you going to do?”
“I’ve sent out inquiries, hoping to find someone farther afield whose gifts are unchanged.” The archmage’s frustration was almost palpable.
The friends sat in silence for a long moment. Brian stroked his chin thoughtfully before he spoke. “Seems to me you’ll have to do like the rest of us, Blackstaff; make do with what you can get. Maybe there’s a mage among the Harpers who could pass as a bard. Know you anyone like that?”
Khelben Arunsun stared at the swordmaster for a long moment. Then he dropped his head into his hands, slowly shaking his head as if in denial. “Lady Mystra preserve us, I’m afraid I do.”
Far to the south of Waterdeep, a young man strode whistling into the entrance hall of the Purple Minotaur, the finest inn in Tethyr’s royal city. He nodded to the beaming innkeeper and made his way through the crowded gaming hall on the inn’s opulent first floor.
Many pairs of dark eyes marked his passing, for Danilo Thann was something of an oddity in the insular and sometimes xenophobic southern city. His manner and appearance clearly proclaimed his northern heritage: he was tall and lean, and his blond hair fell in thick waves to his shoulders. Mischief lurked in his gray eyes, and his face wore a perpetual smile and an expression of open friendship and guileless youth. Despite his callow appearance, Danilo had recently established himself as a successful and popular member of the wine merchants’ guild. He was also vastly wealthy, and not at all loathe to spend money. Many of the regular patrons glanced up from their cards or dice and greeted him with genuine pleasure, and a few called out invitations to join in the gaining. But this evening Danilo’s arms were piled high with neatly wrapped packages, and he seemed particularly eager to examine his newly acquired treasures. Tossing back greetings and banter as he went, he hurried toward the curving marble staircase near the back of the gaming hall, and he bounded up the stairs three at a time.