"If the Black Robes want slaves, why did they massacre the Bedine at El Ma'ra?"
"I'm not sure," Lander said, shaking his head. "Perhaps the sheikh wouldn't cooperate, or perhaps they wanted an example to use in intimidating other tribes." He closed his waterskin. "The Zhentarim are usually more subtle than they've been in Anauroch-probably because it's so empty that they think brazen actions won't be noticed. In any case, the change of style makes it more difficult for me to guess their reasoning."
Bhadla furrowed his brow, then shrugged. "If you say so," he sighed. "But what concern of yours is it? What does it matter to you if the Black Robes conquer the Bedine?"
"I've come here to help the Bedine retain their freedom," Lander answered, looking at his saddle and pretending to adjust a strap. Even though he wasn't lying, he was intentionally dodging the D'tarig's question; he had often been told that his face was too honest when he was trying to hide something.
"So I have gathered," the D'tarig replied. "What I want to know is why?"
Lander opened his waterskin again and lifted it to his lips, more to hide his face than to wash the grime from his mouth. Between sips, he said, "Someone had to."
The little guide shook his head. "Not so. Only a fool strays from his path to search out another man's trouble. You may be gullible, but. you do not strike me as a fool. What is your reason for coming to the desert?"
Realizing it was useless to dodge Bhadla's inquiries, Lander tried an honest reply. "I can't tell you why I'm here."
The D'tarig's eyes sparkled, and Lander guessed that Bhadla was smiling beneath his mask of white cloth. "I think I know the reason for your discretion," the guide said.
"Oh?" Lander asked, confident that the D'tarig could not guess his secret.
Black eyes locked on Lander's, Bhadla said, "The Harpers sent you."
Lander's jaw dropped.
Bhadla's eyes shone with triumph. "You see, nothing escapes my notice."
From the guide's manner, Lander realized there was no use in denial. "How do you know?"
Bhadla pointed at Lander's left breast. "The harp and the moon."
Lander looked down and saw what had given him away. Beneath his burnoose, he wore a light tunic of cotton. On the left breast of that tunic was pinned the emblem of the Harpers, a silver harp sitting within the crescent of a silver moon. On the exterior of his burnoose, there was a vague, dirty outline of the symbol he wore over his heart.
"Very observant," Lander noted. "I'm surprised you recognized it."
"The Black Robes have told us how to identify a Harper. If I had seen your symbol before we entered the desert, it would have meant five hundred gold pieces."
"I'm glad my robe was not as dirty in your village," Lander answered, rubbing his palm over the patch of cloth that had given him away. "What else have the Zhentarim told you about the Harpers?"
"That you are a tribe of meddling fools who stand in the path of free commerce and the growth of kingdoms."
"That's wrong," Lander objected, shaking his head sternly. "We're a confederation of individuals dedicated to preserving the tales of those who have passed before us, to maintaining the balance between the wild and the civilized, and to protecting peaceful and free people everywhere in Faerun.
"The Harpers oppose the Zhentarim because they trade in slaves and because they hope to subvert the free nations of Faerun. We have nothing against peaceful commerce-as long as it doesn't involve treachery and slavery."
"Meddlers," Bhadla concluded gruffly, studying the sky with a manner of preoccupation.
"Perhaps," Lander conceded, also glancing heavenward. He was glad to see that the dusty haze had disappeared overhead, though the sky was but a turquoise imitation of its usual sapphire blue. "But we are meddlers with a purpose. Without us, all of Faerun would be slaves to the Zhentarim."
"So you say," Bhadla replied, returning his gaze to Lander's face. After a pause, he asked, "If the Harpers truly oppose the Black Robes, why didn't they send an army?"
"The Harpers don't have armies. We prefer more subtle methods."
"You mean you get others to do your work for you," Bhadla laughed.
Lander frowned. "We use our influence to guide events along the best course."
"The best course for the Harpers," the D'tarig insisted, pointing at the pin beneath the Sembian's robes with a leathery finger. "If you ask me, this time they've made a mistake. Sending one man to oppose an army is madness. No one would blame you if you deserted. They've ordered you to your death."
"I wasn't ordered to come here," Lander replied, adjusting his robe in a vain effort to cover the emblem's outline.
Looking confused, Bhadla withdrew his gaunt hand. "Did they send you or not?"
"I volunteered," Lander replied, remembering the informal meeting in which he had decided he would spy on the Zhentarim in Anauroch. It had been in Shadowdale, a wooded hamlet as different from this dismal wasteland as he could imagine. He had been sitting on the fringes of a comfortable gathering in the Old Skull Inn, staring at a roaring blaze lit to ward off the chill of an icy drizzle falling outside. Little had he known how he would come, in the months ahead, to long for just a few drops of that cold rain.
The company had been impressive. Next to the fire sat the beautiful Storm Silverhand, she of the silvery hair and the steely eyes. Beside her stood the tall man who had suggested Lander join the Harpers, Florin Falconhand. Across from Storm and Florin sat a burly, bearded man called only by his nickname, Urso, and the radiant High Lady of Silverymoon, Alustriel. There were others also-Lord Mourngrym and the ancient sage Elminster-not exactly members of the Harpers, but close enough that they felt more at ease in the distinguished company than Lander.
Over mugs of cool ale and goblets of hot spiced wine, they discussed the most recent item of concern to the Harpers. Zhentarim agents had been seen buying camels and skulking about the edges of the Anauroch, asking too many questions of D'tarig desert-walkers. There was a general consensus that the Zhentarim were making preparations for an expedition into the Great Desert and that someone should go see what they were doing. Whenever one of the elder Harpers said he would take the task upon himself, however, the others had grimly vetoed the suggestion, citing a hundred more important duties that he or she could not neglect.
It was Lander himself, sitting quietly on the edges of the crowd, who proposed the solution. He would go to Anauroch as the Harper's spy. The others protested that he did not have enough experience with the Zhentarim and that he was too young for such a dangerous assignment. Lander, tenacious and unyielding in his determination to prove his worth, insisted that he was capable of the task and pointed out that no one else could go. In the end, it was Florin's support that decided the issue. The lanky ranger simply place a hand on Lander's shoulder and nodded his head. As if at a signal, the others stopped arguing. The matter was decided.
What happened next surprised Lander. Lord Mourngrym gave him the names and locations of a half-dozen men through whom he could send messages, and Storm Silverhand gave him a sack containing a hundred gold pieces and a half-dozen vials filled with magical healing potions. Observing that the hour had grown late, the ancient Elminster rose, placed a surprisingly firm hand on Lander's shoulder, and assured him he would do well in Anauroch. The gathering broke up with as little formality as it had convened, each Harper pausing to wish their young comrade the best of luck.