The guard looked at him. 'You a wizard?'
'Nay, nay,' Elminster said with a regretful sigh. 'Fascinated by the stuff. See as much of it as I can, and trade in it when Lady Luck has it so, but I can't call up even a spark, even when lowly apprentices take too many gold pieces from me for showing me how to. It's just not something the gods meant for me, it seems.'
The warrior chuckled. 'Aye, you and me both, old man.' He jerked his head. 'Go on, then,' he told them. 'We'd better see to Lord High-and-Mighty.' He stared over at the chair with long-suffering good humor, and Elminster chuckled in the easy fellowship of one downtrodden jack to another.
'My thanks, goodsir,' the Old Mage told him and trudged eastward into the High Dale, with Sharantyr in tow.
Elminster waited until they were safely screened from any curious eyes on Westkeep's battlements, then stopped and extended a hand.
Sharantyr calmly loosened the lacings of her leathers, looked swiftly about, and slid his wands out and returned them to him, somewhat warmer.
Elminster stowed them away as smoothly and said, 'My thanks, Shar. We do work well together.'
Sharantyr smiled at him. 'Well, Mysterious One? What happened back there?'
The Old Mage shrugged. 'Magic is going awry all over the Realms. We've just been treated to more evidence of that.' He looked at her rather sadly.
'I must warn ye: Rely not overmuch on the magic we're carrying, either.'
Sharantyr nodded slowly and took his arm. They walked on.
'Tell me,' she said in low tones as they went over a little rise and houses began to appear before them, 'why you had no fear of being found out, if that mage could read minds? Did you know his spell would fail?'
Elminster shook his head. 'If I could predict its working, 'twouldn't be 'wild magic,' now, would it?'
Sharantyr nodded. 'Mystra's burden, again?' she asked softly.
'Aye,' Elminster said briefly, his gaze leaping here and there ahead of them as alertly as any battle scout.
'That sounds very useful to a Harper-or a courtier, I suppose,' Sharantyr said almost wistfully. 'No enemy can read your thoughts or twist your will. Why do they call it Mystra's burden?'
'Think, if ye will,' he replied, 'of the loneliness ye would feel were ye to outlive all thy friends except fellow bearers of the burden. Ye'd see kingdoms fall, not once but again and again, and favorite places changed or swept away in the passing years. Think on this and ask me again why we call it Mystra's burden.'
Sharantyr was silent beside him as they walked a long way. Then she asked almost timidly, 'What, then, will we do now, Old Mage?'
Elminster looked at her in surprise. 'Why, go and defeat this Longspear, of course.'
Jatham almost fled out of his dark room, breathing heavily. The spells had worked, aye, but he'd never before had Art curl away from his control with almost contemptuous ease. Ye gods, what was happening to him?
He paused out in the shop to wipe cold sweat from his brow and restore his usual lazy smile before he threw back the bolt. The smile took a lot more effort than usual.
Rogue magic! What could have caused it? Was Stormcloak an even greater danger than he'd thought?
Or was it the mysterious enemies? What Art did they wield?
What dark creatures were they?
Belkram looked around at rolling fields, trees clustered along little streams that babbled down from the ever-present watching gray walls of stone above, and drew a deep breath.
'Ready?' he asked, loosening his blade in its sheath.
Itharr nodded. 'As ever,' he replied, adding a wry smile. 'Harpers rush in'-he quoted an odd saying Elminster of Shadowdale had uttered just last summer, but which was already well known across the North-'where even fools fear to tread.'
'Aye,' Belkram agreed dryly. 'So let it begin.' He pushed open the door and they went in. Above their heads, the worn signboard told all passersby that they were looking at 'A Good Inn: The Shepherds' Rest.' The sign creaked slightly in a gathering breeze, but there wasn't anyone looking at it any longer, so it soon fell quiet again.
At about the same time, tumult wild and royal broke out with a roar inside the inn.
11
' 'A Good Inn,' eh?' Itharr murmured as they shouldered their way through dark, heavy windcurtains-old hides, by the look of them-into smoky, lamplit dimness beyond. 'Well, mayhap it was, once.'
'Long ago,' Belkram agreed and made for a small table against a wall. The sizzling of bacon and the smell of buttered frybread was strong in the crowded, low-beamed common room.
A few old men and withered goodwives were huddled in silence at the smaller tables. Most of the room held hard-eyed, arrogant fighting men in a variety of ragged leathers. All sported black armbands, some edged in purple. Off-duty Wolves, no doubt.
The serving man was old, grizzled, and weary. He shuffled over to the two Harpers with a simple, 'Dawnfry? Drink? Right, what'll it be?'
'Reddarn wine' Itharr replied with an eager smile. The hot spiced drink was brought quickly. It was saltier and thicker than in better houses but went well down their thirsty throats. Dawnfry was even better, and the two Harpers fell on platter after platter like starving men.
Or, one might say, like Wolves. One of the armsmen strode to their table. His armband had a purple border denoting rank; he was probably a Sword. Belkram looked unconcernedly up at him over a handful of hot, crumbling frybread.
The burly man's thumbs were hooked under the guards of a dagger at his belt. He met Belkram's eyes with a gaze as cold and as hard as a stone wall, and stood over them silently, waiting for Itharr to notice him.
Itharr finished his reddarn and said, 'More, please,' without looking up. Belkram kept his face straight.
Itharr winked with the eye nearest the wall, so only Belkram could see, as he waved his flagon. 'More reddarn,' he explained, 'when you can. I'm enjoying this excellent bacon.'
'I'm not,' the man said flatly, 'a servant.'
Itharr turned his head, raised his eyes lazily from the man's belt to his face, and said, 'Aye, I can see that. You a hiresword?'
The man frowned. 'I'll ask questions and you'll answer, see?'
Belkram emptied his own flagon. 'Get us more reddarn while you're asking, will you?'
A few chuckles came from the nearest tables of Wolves as the man turned cold eyes on him. 'I serve the Lord of the High Dale,' he said heavily, 'and I don't recall any armed adventurers being allowed into the dale this last seven days or so. How long've you two been here?'
'Not long,' Belkram told him. 'We're wandering minstrels, come to pay a call on friends.'
'You have friends in the dale?'
'Many-or at least, on our last visit there were many folk here we count our friends,' Itharr said smoothly. 'We haven't seen them this time around. Could something have happened in the High Dale these last two winters?'
Silence fell. The armsman scowled at Itharr, leaned a little closer, and asked loudly, 'What brings you here this time?'
'We're trying to find a friend who might have come here,' Belkram told him truthfully.
'Elminster of Shadowdale,' Itharr added helpfully. 'Have you seen him?'
The Sword stiffened and swiftly drew back. The room fell so silent that faint sizzlings could be heard from the
