Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [28]
"Eaten," the hermit broke in, speaking in sepulchral tones. Once again he broke into shrill laughter. This time his giggle held an edge of hysteria, and he hurled himself into a wild dance, spinning and leaping amid the corpses that littered the ruined garden.
Elaith turned away, his face unreadable. "Collect the survivors. We're moving out."
"What of these men?" Vartain asked, pointed to those who were frozen by the harpies' musical charm. Three were unharmed, but the Northman, if he lived, would no doubt be blinded. The fifth man bled profusely from four long, ragged gashes where claws had raked his upraised sword arm His immobile features showed no acknowledgment of the wound, but his skin was pallid, and he would surely die if not treated soon. "We lost three fighters to the harpies and cannot reasonably afford the loss of five more."
The elf closed his eyes, rubbing his aching temples. "Tie them to their horses, if you must, but we're leaving this place!" he said, raising his voice to be heard over the hermit's insane giggling.
"We caught these three trying to sneak up on us," Mange's reedy voice announced from behind Elaith. "Bring 'em over, men!"
"More harpies?" the elf asked wearily, not bothering to turn around.
"Almost, but not quite," announced a familiar, irritating drawl. "And you know what they say-whoever the Nine Hells they are-almost only counts when you're throwing horseshoes or magic fireballs."
Disbelieving horror flooded Elaith's face. "No," the elf whispered, silently cursing the gods for rewarding his misspent life in this manner. He turned around slowly. Sure enough, there stood Danilo Thann, wearing an indolent grin and apparently too foolish to be frightened by the four mercenaries who'd escorted him to their feared elven employer. The man flipped aside his tabard and waggled the harp-and-moon pin affixed to the shirt beneath.
"Not harpies," Danilo Thann amended cheerfully. "Harpers. Quite a difference, when you think about it."
"That may be so." The elf's eyes narrowed into amber slits. "My situation, however, has not noticeably improved."
Four
Lucia Thione gazed with great satisfaction at the ballroom of her Sea Ward villa. All was in readiness for the party, a lavish affair that would open the Midsummer season. Never had planning a party been so difficult, and she felt a sense of accomplishment as she viewed what weeks of toil had yielded.
Vases of fresh roses filled every alcove and graced the small tables. That in itself was a triumph, for a strange blight had fallen upon the crops and gardens of Waterdeep this year. Perhaps the working people experienced this as a hardship, but to Lucia it was merely an inconvenience that could be circumvented, provided one possessed the money and creativity. As a buyer for merchant caravans, Lucia knew where almost anything could be found. Roses had been rushed from Rassalantar, and vats of raspberries from the Korinn Archipelago north of the Moonshaes. Venison, quail, and partridges had been brought from the Misty Forest a day's ride to the south. Lucia's steward had laid in a supply of smoked salmon from Gundarlun and barrels of Neverwinter's famed icewine. A small army of servants would be on hand to tend to the guests' needs, and in an hour the musicians would arrive for a final rehearsal under the critical eye of Faunadine, Master of Festivities. Faunadine was a plump, graying halfling whose skills were much in demand. Her attention to detail made the best and most elaborate parties seem effortless, and Lucia considered hiring the halfling away from Lady Raventree a personal and political triumph.
The silvery notes of a harp interrupted Lucia's complacent thoughts and filled her with indignation. Surely, her well-trained servants had not admitted a musician before the appointed time! She followed the sound to a window alcove, her purple velvet slippers whispering across the polished marble of the floor.
In the curve of a bay window, under a trellis covered with flowering vines, sat a drab half-elf