'Of course it did,' Elaith Craulnober readily admitted, either missing or choosing to ignore the typically ironic Lantanna insult. 'If the snuffbox had been magical, it would already be in my possession.'
This second admission of wrongdoing set Oltennius back on his heels. Lantannas valued honesty, and an accusation of falsehood was a deadly insult. The only worse charge, short of murder, was theft, and this singular elf had just casually admitted to both!
'May I see the snuffbox?' Elaith asked.
Oltennius hesitated long enough to earn a rib-bruising nudge from a guard's elbow. 'Have a care,' he cautioned as he handed it over. 'It is exceedingly delicate.'
The elf flipped open the lid and gave close study to the contents. 'I have never seen such tiny or intricate gear-works. Impressive, but not particularly fragrant. Might I then inquire why you felt compelled to sniff it so frequently?'
Oltennius sidestepped the guard's prompting jab and folded his arms in silent defiance.
After a moment, the elf set the box carefully on the floor, straightened, and casually rested one boot on the lid. One silvery brow arched in unmistakable emphasis.
Panic leaped up like bright flame from somewhere deep in Oltennius's gut. 'Don't!' he shrieked. 'I will tell you all, only give me the box! It represents my life's sole work, and that of my father before me, and his mother before him, and so on, back to a time before the raising of the Dale Stone!'
The elf studied him in silence, no doubt wondering what sort of work might absorb the full attention of Gond- fearing artisans for over thirteen centuries.
As well he might.
'My ancestor, the first Gondblessed, was so named for his astonishing skill,' Oltennius said, almost babbling in his haste. 'He undertook a great challenge: an understanding of magic enabling one to detect, alter, and eventually to produce magical effects through mechanical means.'
'Impossible,' snapped the guard with sharp elbows. He brushed down the hood of his cape, revealing a narrow, angular face covered by tiny silvery scales.
A half-dragon! Oltennius snapped his gaping jaw shut and averted his goggle-eyed gaze, drawing in a long, unsteady breath as he gathered his wits. For some reason, the sight of this fearful minion brought to mind all the improbable stories he'd heard of Elaith Craulnober, and made them seem suddenly, disturbingly credible.
'The human is lying, or he is mad,' the half-dragon stated.
'No doubt you're right, Tincheron, but as we've nothing more entertaining to do at present, we might as well hear him out.'
Oltennius swallowed the lump in his throat and hastened to obey. 'Gondblessed Manor, my ancestral home, stands on fertile lands. The income from our tenants has long provided a comfortable living for my family.'
'And how much of that land remains to you?' the elf asked, his eyes skimming Oltennius's ancient, ill-fitting garb.
'Little,' he admitted, 'and attacks from sea creatures last year wreaked havoc among my remaining tenants. This device offered me a chance to rebuild my fortunes.'
'By cheating at games of chance?'
'By altering magic,' he corrected firmly, and launched into a long and highly detailed explanation of the mechanisms involved.
The elf held up one hand to cut him off. 'Enough,' he said flatly, and there was something in his voice that chilled Oltennius far more than the sight of a man-shaped dragon. 'This is madman's prattle, nothing more.'
Oltennius tried another path. 'Can lighting change to fire?'
'Certainly, if it strikes dry brush or a thatch roof,' Elaith said impatiently.
'So one type of power can be transmuted into another, if the conditions are right. Is it possible to know that lightning has struck, even if your eyes don't perceive it nor your ears hear the thunder?'
'Of course. There are subtle changes in the air.'
'Deviations on a constant!' Oltennius exclaimed. 'The Weave is a constant source of power. Are we agreed upon that?'
The elf conceded with a curt nod.
'Just as your senses can perceive lightning, fluctuations in the Weave-magical items and spells, if you will- can be perceived by a device of sufficient sensitivity.'
'Impossible,' the half-dragon repeated.
'Why so?' argued Oltennius. 'A simple spell can detect the presence of magic.'
'Let us say, for argument's sake, that it's possible to detect magic with a gear-works device. What then?'
'When magic is present, the device can absorb some of that power and change it to another form. Compare it to spellfire, if you will.'
'So it perceives and alters magic. To what end?'
'Whatever I choose,' Oltennius said proudly. 'It is my belief that the mind works in a manner very similar to lightning, but with thousands upon thousands of tiny flashes, flaring rapidly and constantly. A device of sufficient complexity can mimic, at least in part, these events. To put it in simplistic magical terms, I can 'speak' to this transmuting device like a wizard to his familiar, mind to mind, and tell it how to alter the magic it perceives.'
Elaith considered him for a long, silent moment. 'How many people know of this new magic?'
The man huffed in exasperation. 'It's not magic. Only few gnomes of great age and high clerical rank know of the Gondblessed quest. I am the only living person to know its workings.'
The elf glanced at half-dragon, who promptly pulled up his hood and glided back into the festhall.
The probable meaning of this crept over Oltennius like a winter frost. He clutched the box to his chest. 'It is worthless to you! Kill me, and you have nothing but… but…'
'An ugly corpse to dispose of?' Elaith suggested. 'That's hardly an appealing prospect. Tell me: If you were provided with sufficient materials and funds, a pleasant place to work and nothing to distract you, could you make one of these devices for me?'
'You… you would be my patron?' faltered Oltennius.
'A very generous one,' the elf assured him.
Pride warred with practicality, but the battle was brief and the victory never in question.
Oltennius dropped awkwardly to one knee and gave the traditional pledge. 'My hands, your house,' he said stiffly. 'May my work glorify Gond Wonderbringer and benefit my patron.'
The third bell after midnight sounded before Elaith had opportunity to open his safe box. It held the usual assortment of oddities-trinkets and trifles from far corners of Faerun. Elaith tossed them aside to get to the weapon he'd stolen from young Lord Melshimber. That, at least, had real value. The scabbard Melshimber had been waving around was of elfish design, and even the simplest elven blade was a joy to wield.
The weapon was a long sword, very old but well kept. Elaith lifted it and took a few practice cuts, pleased with the weapon's exceptional balance. The new leather wrappings on the hilt were clumsy, but those were easily removed-
Elaith froze, and the leather wrappings fell to the floor unheeded as he stared at the smooth, milky gem set into the sword's hilt. A mixture of wonder and sorrow suffused him as he realized that, for the second time in his life, he held a dormant moonblade.
He turned the blade over and studied the seven runes marking the shining length. He stroked them with tentative fingers, noting that they did not mar the smoothness of the blade; they were not carved into the metal, but seemed to gleam forth from the heart of the sword. He had not taken time to closely examine the Craulnober blade, so stunned had he been by the sword's rejection.
The elf set the moonblade carefully aside. Come morning, he would make arrangements for it to be sent to Evermeet. The swords that had a part in choosing the royal family were not for such as Elaith Craulnober.
Nor for likes of Camaroon Melshimber.
A wave of rage, pure and primal, swiftly followed this thought. The elf tossed aside his best sword and thrust the moonblade into its sheath. Snatching up his cloak, he stalked out into the cold autumn night.
It didn't take him long to find the Melshimber manor, and less time to bypass the magical wards on the ornate iron fence. Determining which bedchamber housed the drunken, snoring lordling needed only the sort of spell
