Elfshadow - Elaine Cunningham [92]
"Ah. What should I do?"
The young mage slipped into a tavern by the name of the Drunken Dragon, Arilyn and Danilo close on his heels. "Have dinner," the half-elf suggested. Obligingly, Danilo found a table near the front door and dropped into a seat.
While pretending to watch an ongoing game of darts, Arilyn observed the black-robed mage as he settled himself at a table. He pulled a bottle of ink and a quill from his bag, then opened his book and began to write. Every now and then he would look up, staring into space and absently chewing the end of his quill, then again take to scribbling.
Arilyn pushed through the crowded room toward the young man's table. On the way, she relieved a passing serving wench of her tray, slipping the servant the price of the ale plus an extra silver coin. The girl pocketed the money, dimpling flirtatiously at the handsome lad Arilyn appeared to be. Having become accustomed to such responses to this particular disguise, Arilyn merely gave the girl a roguish wink and continued on her way.
"May I join you?" she asked the mage, holding out the ale-laden tray.
"Why not? Good company and free ale are always welcome," came the response. He took a mug from the tray Arilyn offered him, drained it, and then gestured toward the book that was prominently displayed before him. "I welcome a diversion from my work. It's not going well tonight."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Arilyn replied, sitting down and taking the cue that the young man so obviously supplied. "What are you working on? Is that a spellbook?"
Beaming with the pride of a father displaying his firstborn son, the young man pushed the tome toward Arilyn. "No. It's a collection of my poetry."
The half-elf opened the book and leafed through it. Written on its pages in slanted, spidery script was some of the most execrable verse she had ever encountered.
"Not my best work," the youth disclaimed modestly.
Even without seeing his best efforts, Arilyn was inclined to believe him. She had read more edifying poetry on the walls of public conveniences.
"Oh, I don't know about that," she lied heartily as she tapped the page, her thoughts drifting back to a certain battle on the Marshes of Chelimber. "This ballad in particular seems quite stirring. If ever you decide to set any of your work to music, I know of a suitable bard." She cast a quick glance at Danilo. He was busily charming a serving wench whose overstated curves strained the lacings of her bodice. Arilyn sniffed. The girl looked like a two-pound sausage stuffed into a half-pound casing.
"A ballad, you say?" The young man brightened at the perceived praise. "I had never thought of doing that," he marveled. "Do you really think some of these poems would make songs?"
Arilyn dragged her gaze back to the young mage. "Why not? I've surely heard worse."
"Hmmm." He pondered that for a moment, then stuck out his hand in a belated gesture of introduction. "Thank you for the suggestion, my friend. My name is Coril."
"Well met, Coril. I'm Tomas," Arilyn replied, clasping the offered hand. She already knew the young man's identity. As well as a terrible poet and minor mage, Coril was an agent of the Harpers. Reputed to be a shrewd observer of people, Coril was employed to gather and pass on information.
"So, Tomas, what brings you here?" Coril asked, helping himself to another mug of ale.
Arilyn waved her own mug in a nonchalant arch. "The festival, of course."
"No, I mean what brings you here, to this table?" persisted Coril.
"Oh, I see. I need some information."
The Harper's face hardened almost imperceptibly. "Information? I'm not sure I can help you."
"Oh, but surely you can," Arilyn insisted, painting disappointment and dismay on her face. "You are a mage, are you not?"
"I am," allowed Coril, somewhat mollified. "What do you need?"
Arilyn unbuckled her swordbelt and laid the sheathed moonblade on the table. The task she intended to place before Coril would surely fall beyond the mage's limited abilities. "There's some writing on this scabbard. It's supposed to