"... sell the elf gem right out from under him, I will," boasted the merchant.
Elaith's attention snapped back to bis captor. "The elf gem," he prompted.
"Big thing," the man said, beaming at this sign of interest. "A ruby, full of magic." He leaned in and elbowed the elf's ribs sharply. "Getting fuller by the day, too, eh? Eh?"
Elaith grimly added the presumptuous lout to the list of those whose funerals he would dearly love to attend. A list, he added, that was growing nearly as fast as Danilo's skyflower bush. It was so much tidier to kill people as you went along and have done with it. Isabeau Thione might be beyond Elaith's blade, but this man was shielded only by a bit of unlearned information.
"I am remiss," Elaith said in cordial tones. "Your name has escaped me."
The merchant drew himself up, weaving only slightly. "Mizzen Doar of Silverymoon. Purveyor of fine gems and crystals."
"Of course. And the gentlemen who is the target of your clever plan?"
Elaith's questions had an unforeseen effect. As the merchant gathered himself in an effort to form an answer, his vague smile wavered, and his bleary eyes focused and then went bright with fear. "I know you," he said in a clearer tone than he had used thus far. "Damn me for a fool! You're That Elf."
The man spun and reeled off with indecent haste. This garnered Elaith a number of suspicious glances and set a good many tongues wagging.
The unfortunate result, he noted wryly, of a long and misspent life. For decades he had cloaked his misdeeds with his handsome elven features and abundant charm. Eventually, deeds had a way of growing into reputation.
All things considered, he was not very surprised when a servant discreetly handed him a folded note along with a goblet of wine. Probably a request from his redoubtable hostess that he remove himself. Or, just as likely, a summons from one of the apparently staid and proper members of the merchant nobility, who wished to make a deal beyond the gleam of this gilded circle.
A glance told the whole tale. On the paper was a maze of tiny lines—undoubtedly a map. Interesting. It was unlikely that any of the merchant nobility would risk contact with the rogue elf unless the matter held considerable urgency. Most likely, it was a summons from a member of the Thann family or one of their retainers, judging from the complexity of the map. He could always deal with Mizzen later.
With a faint smile, Elaith slipped the note into his pocket. He finished the wine and then drifted out into the gardens, and toward the meeting to which he had been summoned.
* * * * *
Alone in the alcove, Danilo slumped against the wall and considered his predicament. Isabeau had robbed more than a dozen guests. Lady Cassandra would be mortified and shamed if it became known that a thief had been working her party. Danilo, for all his disagreements with his mother, had no wish to see her suffer such humiliation.
Neither could he hold her entirely blameless. He had warned Lady Cassandra that such a thing might occur. Isabeau Thione had been trouble from the day he'd met her, and he had told Cassandra so. But no—his mother had been too taken with the Thione name, too determined to have a member of the restored Royal House of Tethyr at her harvest festival.
Well, he had done his part. The choice had been Lady Cassandra's, and she would have to find a way to deal with the consequences.
A probable solution occurred to him, one so obvious and yet so chilling that it slammed into his mind like an icy fist. "If there's any trouble, Elaith will be blamed," he muttered. "Damnation! Why didn't I think of this sooner?"
Danilo dug a handful of Isabeau's booty from his bag and regarded the glittering baubles balefully. The markings on the ring caught his eye. Engraved into the rosy stone was a leaping flame surrounded by seven tiny tears: the symbol of Mystra, goddess of magic.
He groaned aloud. Isabeau, either in ignorance or in supreme arrogance, had robbed a mage!
He lifted the ring for closer examination. Tiny hinges were cunningly concealed in the setting, indicating a hidden compartment. He found and released the clasp, then lifted the cover. On the inside lid was etched the tall, old-fashioned wizard's cap—the Eltorchul family crest. The cavity was filled with powder the color of old ivory.
Dan sniffed cautiously at the powder. Pulverized bone, most likely, no doubt a component for one of the Eltorchul's shapeshifting spells.
"Have a care," advised a stiff, patronizing voice. "You could find yourself turned into a jackass."
He glanced up into Oth Eltorchul's narrow, esthetic face. With great effort, he mustered up a good-natured smile. "Some might argue that such a transformation would be redundant. This ring is yours, I take it?"
The Eltorchul mage strode forward. He was too well-bred to snatch the ring from Danilo's hand, but he came as close as proprieties allowed. "I must have left it on the privacy washbasin. How did it come to your possession?"
"A lady picked it up and gave it to me so that I might find the owner," Danilo said, truthfully enough. "I must say, it is a fortunate coincidence that you happened by just now."
"No coincidence at all. I sought you out to ask of you a question."
It did not escape Danilo that this admission seemed to pain Oth. "Oh?"
"The blue rose. The elven swordswoman."
Danilo wasn't sure where this was going, but he doubted he would like the destination. His curt nod held scant encouragement.
The mage hesitated, clearly loath to find himself in the position of supplicant. "I have heard stories claiming that you can cast the elven magic known as spellsong. Such magic is beyond my grasp. If you have this knowledge, I desire you to teach it to me."
That was not the question Danilo had expected to hear and the last he intended to answer.
He had indeed learned and cast a uniquely elven spell on an enchanted elven harp, but he had never since been able to recapture the elusive spirit of elven spellsong. At the time, he had not realized that the magic of Arilyn's moonblade had bound his destiny to that of the elves in deep and mystical ways. When the connection was severed, his fragile link with elven magic had vanished. He had told this to no man, and did not intend to begin by confiding in this one.
"You know how rumors grow in the telling," he said lightly.
"So you cannot cast spellsong?"
Dan wasn't sure whether Oth looked disappointed or vindicated. "No, I cannot."
"Ah. Well, it is no real surprise. Elves are notoriously close-pursed when it comes to such matters."
The man's mixture of arrogance and ignorance floored Dan, though he knew that it should not. After all, Oth sustained his family fortune by creating and selling new magical spells. He had probably approached an elven sage, prepared to barter like a camel trader for magic that elves held dearer than family heirlooms or crown jewels. That image, and the inevitable reaction, brought a quick, wicked smile to Danilo's face. He quickly squelched it, not wishing to insult the mage.
However, Oth's attention had settled elsewhere. He was regarding Isabeau with speculation.
"Lovely woman," Danilo said, hoping that this was the only inspiration for Oth's interest. It was entirely possible that Oth could have tracked the path taken by his lost ring and that his stated interest in spellsong was a story to cover his true intent. There was no trace of anger on Oth's face, though, as he regarded the beautiful thief.
"Very lovely," the mage agreed. "If you will excuse me, I shall attempt to claim a last dance." He slanted a glance back at Danilo. "You might do well, young man, to do likewise. There are many ladies of good family at this affair."