If Finder hadn’t been feverish with poison, he might have chalked the dream up to memories brought on by the attempt to visit the scene of his failure. He might also have scoffed at the idea that the gods took any interest in him whatsoever. Finder, however, was feverish with poison, and his vivid imagination found other reasons for the dream. He thought it must be the gods’ way of telling him he would die no matter what. “Why should I die?” he muttered to the sky. “Elminster hasn’t. Morala hasn’t.”
The bard wondered what was taking Olive so long. He estimated she’d been gone over an hour. He had no doubt the halfling could handle the locks and the traps, and he grinned with pride at the memory of how easily she’d mastered the melody for the door lock. There was nothing in the workshop that could give her any trouble, he reassured himself. He dismissed the dream as having no basis in reality. After all, according to Olive, Flattery was dead.
Of course, he could have been wrong about the orcs. They may have decided to post a guard after all, and were lying in wait to grab Olive when she passed the tunnel that led to their lair. The longer the shadows lengthened, the more uneasy Finder grew. She’d saved his life twice already today, yet he’d had the nerve to convince her to go past an orc warren alone to save his life a third time. Here he was, a master bard, a Harper, a full-grown human male, relying on a tiny halfling female to pull his fat out of the fire. Female! Sweet Selûne! He hadn’t even considered what the orcs would do to her if they captured her.
Finder caught sight of the sun and the moon just as they were equally distant from the horizon, like Tyr’s scales, balanced in the sky. Then the sun sank lower and the moon rose higher. The bard sighed. If Olive didn’t return with a neutralize poison potion soon, he would die anyway. With a deep sense of shame, he realized there was no sense in letting her die, too. He twisted his tunic into a sling for his injured arm and forced himself to his feet. His head spun, and glittering dots danced before his eyes, but he did not change his mind. As the sun sank, the bard climbed down the stairs into the underground passages in search of the halfling.
After Olive had cried herself out, she stared for a while at the wall of the brightly lit workshop, blinking like an owl in daylight. Part of her kept telling her to hurry back to Finder. If she couldn’t get him to the road, she could at least be with him when he died. Another part of her didn’t want to watch him die. That part must have been stronger, because she didn’t move until something heavy thumped against the door.
Olive started and nearly tumbled from the bench. She padded over to the enchanted steel door and pressed her ear against it. From the hallway on the other side came harsh, unintelligible cries. The orcs had returned and discovered the unlocked gate, Olive realized.
Fortunately there was a second door out of the workshop, but if she used it, she’d have to find her way through strange tunnels and dig her way through Tymora knew how many more cave-ins. Then it occurred to Olive that the other door might also lead to a T-trap guarded by orcs. The thought paralyzed her with fear.
From near the door, she heard another cry—an unmistakably haughty voice demanding the orcs back away.
“Finder?” Olive whispered to herself, confused by the bard’s presence. Why hadn’t he stayed put?
From the hallway, Finder shouted, “You have no business here. This is my home. Leave now or face the consequences.”
Has he gone mad? the halfling wondered. There was a slurred sound to his speech and a tremor in his deep voice. That’s just great. He’s delirious, she thought wearily.
The orcs in the tunnel outside shouted and screamed. There was another thump at the door, like a spear or a crossbow hitting against it. Then suddenly there was silence. A new voice, sharp and high-pitched, spoke in the common tongue. “Release him,” the voice ordered calmly, in the manner of a being accustomed to being obeyed. Olive couldn’t tell if it was male or female.
Someone else was out there, someone who ordered orcs around. Someone, Olive suspected, who had the power to disintegrate ceilings and other things.
“Don’t try anything foolish. I can kill you in an instant. You are the Nameless Bard?” the voice asked.
“Yes,” Finder replied with a croaking sound in his voice.
Olive bit her lip, wondering what she could do to rescue her friend.
“I’m pleased you returned,” the sharp voice said. “I was sorry to have missed you the first time. The orcs were sure you’d fled for good. It seems that I came to investigate this tunnel in the nick of time. Now that you’ve gone to all the trouble to pick the lock on the gates, you might as well open the door to your workshop for me,” the voice demanded.
“Why should I?” Finder replied. His tone was haughty, but Olive could hear him wheezing even through the workshop door.
“Because if you don’t, these orcs will kill you,” the voice explained.
“I’m already dying,” Finder said. “I was caught by the poison needle trap in this gate.”
“Show me,” the sharp voice ordered.
There was a short silence, then the sharp voice said, “My, my. How inconvenient for you, nameless one. You can hardly play an instrument with that hand. Corx, the antidote!”
“He’s not dying yet,” an orc replied in common. “Let him open the door first.”
“I need this hand to open the door,” Finder lied.
“Corx, obey me!” the sharp voice insisted.
There was the sound of grumbling among the orcs, and a moment later, Olive heard Finder say, “A good year for antidotes. A youthful bouquet, fruity and light.” His voice still sounded weak.
“My name is Xaran,” the sharp voice announced, “and I have just saved your life. I think that deserves some consideration, don’t you?”
“Consideration, certainly,” Finder replied, “but not license to loot my workshop.”
“I can still kill you without blinking an eye,” Xaran pointed out.
“But then you’ll never get into my workshop,” Finder replied. “you’ve gone to such trouble to set up a trap to capture me before I got inside. What is it you’re after? Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement.”
“Well, naturally my associates, these orcs, are interested in whatever wealth you might have been hoarding in there for the past two centuries,” Xaran said.
“I’m flattered,” Finder replied.
“I doubt it. Your monstrous ego is well known. Perhaps, though, your pride is justified. Certainly I can think of many uses for your renowned skills.”
“You won’t get much out of me if all you intend to offer me is my life,” Finder said.
“But suppose I were to offer you immortality?”
“I already have that,” Finder boasted, “through my music.”
“But does that truly satisfy you?” Xaran asked. “Think of all the adventures you could yet experience, all the tales still untold, all the songs unfinished. People not even born could one day benefit from your wisdom and tutelage—singers and musicians, adventurers and Harpers, wizards and kings. You haven’t even lived as long as Elminster the Sage. He has yet to surrender to death. Why should you?”
Listening behind the enchanted steel door, Olive tapped her foot nervously. This Xaran knows Finder too well, she thought. Who is he, anyway? How did he learn the bard’s weaknesses? And most importantly, what in the Nine Hells does he want? The outline of a plan came to Olive, and she began pulling light stones out of the wall as she listened to the voices filtering through the door.
“Were you thinking of offering me an unlimited supply of elixirs of youth?” the bard asked. “Or did you have something more devious in mind, like depositing me in a magic jar or turning me into a lich?”