Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [113]
"Ah, Old Mage?" the high constable asked awkwardly. "We're grateful for your help an' all, but we've had a bellyful of wizards ruling things."
Folk of the dale stood watchfully by, weapons ready.
Elminster blinked at him. "By the good gods, man, what would I want to rule anyplace for?"
There was another moment of silence, until Gedaern started to laugh. His guffaws set others off. In a moment the hall rang with laughter, the first light and general merriment that had been heard there for many a day.
* * * * *
Another platter of steaming fowl banged down on the table between them, and Itharr plucked a drumstick from it without looking, his eyes on Belkram and Sharantyr.
The two leaned toward each other over the table, chins almost in their wine goblets, as they strained to hear each other over the general din in the hall. All around them, dalefolk who should have been too exhausted to do more than snore were laughing, dancing, devouring with the speed of starving wolves everything that was brought in from the kitchens… and drinking as if they sat in parched desert sands instead of a mountain pass.
"Baldur's Gate?" Shar said in pleased surprise. "Really? I was born there, too!" She grinned across the table at the tall Harper, then turned to Itharr. "So where do you hail from?"'
Itharr rolled his eyes. "All the same places as him. We've walked together for some years now, in the service of the Harp. But as to my upbringing, well… I have the misfortune-in the eyes of Baldurians, at least-to have been born in Athkatla."
"We forgive you," Belkram and Sharantyr said in perfect, unplanned unison. They exchanged startled looks and started to laugh. When they had breath to talk again, Sharantyr refilled Itharr's goblet from her third wineskin of the evening and took a drumstick of her own. "So how do two men from such prosperous cities end up Harping across the backlands?"
Belkram shrugged. "My parents were crew on the Dancing Dolphin, a nao that sailed out of the Gate. They were slain by pirates during my twelfth summer. For a youngling, alone, the Gate's too pricey a place to fend for oneself, so I took to the roads."
"And I," Itharr said dryly, "grew up to hate cheating folk-"
"Commerce, my boy. 'Tis called commerce," Belkram put in, setting down a goblet that seemed to have rapidly emptied itself.
Itharr gave him a look. "Aye, commerce… what folk in Amn do. So I ran away, out of Amn, seeking something to do that was a mite more noble-and adventuresome too, if possible."
"We met at an inn… in Daggerford, wasn't it?" Belkram peered suspiciously at the barren depths of his goblet.
Itharr shrugged. "Wherever. Some house that had guests who worshiped the dead dragons."
Sharantyr raised an eyebrow. "The Cult of the Dragon?"
"Aye, and a witty old man with white hair and a wisp of a goatee slew them all, right there in the taproom, when they drew blades on him for being a Harper."
"And then," Belkram put in, "he sat down amid all the bodies and calmly played and sang for us. Osryk, his name was."
"A Master Harper who's been missing for a while now," Itharr said rather sadly.
Belkram nodded. "Aye, Osryk. Impressive, he was. We were both aflame with the idea of becoming Harpers, so he sent us to Berdusk."
"Where Obslin Minstrelwish didn't much like the look of us," Itharr added with a sigh of remembrance, waving a half-eaten drumstick, "and decided we needed some harsh adventuring experience before we'd be worthy of the Way of the Harp."
"It's the noise you made with his songhorn," Belkram explained patiently. "You shouldn't have claimed to be an expert horn player."
"How was I to know it was his favorite instrument?" Itharr protested, sliding his goblet over to Sharantyr for a refill. "After all, how many halfling horn players d'you know?"
"One is all you need," Belkram told him dryly. "And sometimes far more than you need."
Sharantyr watched Itharr answer him with a rude gesture, and looked briefly