Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [78]
Imzeel noted with satisfaction that his own business seemed unaffected by the city's troubles. The supper hour had just started, and already the barkeep was tapping a third keg of ale. The patrons even had music with their dinner, for the Masked Minstrel had wandered in from her customary place in Jester's Court and was playing a plaintive tune on her lute. Usually the mysterious woman's appearance engendered much interest and speculation, but this evening other matters took precedence. Few bothered to listen to her songs, and Imzeel was not sorry to see her put aside her lute in response to a whispered invitation. She and a young customer disappeared through the back door into Jester's Court no doubt bound for the privacy of the woods that covered the slopes of Waterdeep Mountain. Business as usual, Imzeel repeated silently, taking comfort from the thought.
"The wizards you ordered are here," Ginalee announced. She plunked a tray of empty mugs down on the counter, and tossed her head in the direction of three newcomers. "Should I tell them to go ahead?"
Imzeel nodded, and relief eased his countenance into something approaching a smile. He was a prudent man of business, and like many others he had contracted the wizards' guild to place magical wards about his establishment.
The Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors was Waterdeep's youngest guild, and they tended to matters ranging from policing visiting sorcerers to serving on the fire watch. The guild also sought to influence and-to whatever extent they could-monitor the magical activities of powerful, independent wizards. The bizarre occurrences in the city of late suggested that magic of some sort was at work, and this created an imperative demand for the guild's services. All over the city guild mages were busy setting up magical wards to detect and dispel magic. This gave Imzeel a sense of security, and his patrons also murmured their approval as they watched the proceedings.
As the guild mage finished the complex gestures of a spell to rid the room of magical illusions, the Masked Minstrel came back into the taproom on the arm of her latest client. A sharp blue light flared around the pair, drawing a startled scream from the woman. The room fell into silence, and every eye was drawn to the magical light. As the patrons watched, the young man's features melted and flowed together, in an instant crystallizing into a new and familiar shape.
Standing next to the mysterious masked woman was a tall, well-muscled man, clad in somber magnificence. His features were sharp, his expression grave, and his usually keen black eyes betrayed a touch of uncertainty. The wedge-shaped streak of silver in the center of his beard confirmed his identity to those who would not have known him from his face alone.
The Masked Minstrel fell away from him, one hand clasped to her painted lips. She backed off several paces, and then turned and fled toward Jester's Court. Whether she was surprised by the transformation, or just unwilling to be linked with Khelben Arunsun under such adverse circumstances, was impossible to say.
"So this is how the archmage of Waterdeep spends a summer evening," Ginalee murmured to Imzeel "And the city going down to Cyric in a cistern, and all."
"Hush, girl," the man whispered fiercely, making a warding sign to stave off the ill luck said to follow when the god of strife's name was invoked.
One of the patrons broke the tense silence. A cleric of Tymora, perhaps trusting to the legendary luck his goddess was said to grant, rose from his dinner and faced the archmage.
"Perhaps no one in the city can stand against you and your ambitions," the cleric said quietly, "but that doesn't mean we have to drink with you."
The man turned