He led them around the side of the weird mansion to a bridge crossing the center of the hillock. Bruenor and Wulfgar felt ridiculous carrying their mounts, but Drizzt accepted it with a smile and Regis thoroughly enjoyed the whole outrageous spectacle, having learned on his first visit that Longsaddle was a place to be taken lightly, appreciating the idiosyncrasies and unique ways of the Harpells purely for the sake of amusement.
The high-arcing bridge before them, Regis knew, would serve as yet another example. Though its span across the small stream was not great, it was apparently unsupported, and its narrow planks were completely unadorned, even without handrails.
Another robed Harpell, this one incredibly old, sat on a stool, his chin in his hand, mumbling to himself and seemingly taking no notice of the strangers whatsoever.
When Wulfgar, in the front beside Harkle, neared the bank of the stream, he jumped back, gasping and stuttering. Regis snickered, knowing what the big man had seen, and Drizzt and Bruenor soon understood.
The stream flowed UP the side of the hill, then vanished just before the top, though the companions could hear that water was indeed rushing along before them. Then the stream reappeared over the hill’s crest, flowing down the other side.
The old man sprang up suddenly and rushed over to Wulfgar. “What can it mean?” he cried desperately. “How can it be?” He banged on the barbarian’s massive chest in frustration.
Wulfgar looked around for an escape, not wanting to even grab the old man in restraint for fear of breaking his frail form. Just as abruptly as he had come, the old man dashed back to the stool and resumed his silent pose.
“Alas, poor Chardin,” Harkle said somberly. “He was mighty in his day. It was he who turned the stream up the hill. But near a score of years now he has been obsessed with finding the secret of the invisibility under the bridge.”
“Why is the stream so different from the wall?” wondered Drizzt. “Certainly this dweomer is not unknown among the wizard community.”
“Ah, but there is a difference,” Harkle was quick to reply, excited at finding someone outside the Ivy Mansion apparently interested in their works. “An invisible object is not so rare, but a field of invisibility …” He swept his hand to the stream. “Anything that enters the river there takes on the property,” he explained. “But only for as long as it remains in the field. And to a person in the enchanted area—I know because I have done this test myself—everything beyond the field is unseen, though the water and fish within appear normal. It defies our knowledge of the properties of invisibility and may actually reflect a tear into the fabric of a wholly unknown plane of existence!” He saw that his excitement had gone beyond the comprehension or interest of the drow’s companions some time ago, so he calmed himself and politely changed the subject.
“The housing for your horses is in that building,” he said, pointing to one of the low, wooden structures. “The underbridge will get you there. I must attend to another matter now. Perhaps we can meet later in the tavern.”
Wulfgar, not completely understanding Harkle’s directions, stepped lightly onto the first wooden planks of the bridge, and was promptly thrown backward by some unseen force.
“I said the underbridge,” cried Harkle, pointing under the bridge. “You cannot cross the river this way by the overbridge; that is used for the way back! Stops any arguments in crossing.” he explained.
Wulfgar had his doubts about a bridge he could not see, but he didn’t want to appear cowardly before his friends and the wizard. He moved beside the bridge’s ascending arc and gingerly moved his foot out under the wooden structure, feeling for the invisible crossing. There was only the air, and the unseen rush of water just below his foot, and he hesitated.
“Go on,” coaxed Harkle.
Wulfgar plunged ahead, setting himself for a fall into the water. But to his absolute surprise, he did not fall down.
He fell up!
“Whoa!” the barbarian cried out as he thunked into the bottom of the bridge, headfirst. He lay there for a long moment, unable to get his bearings, flat on his back against the bottom of the bridge, looking down instead of up.
“You see!” screeched the wizard. “The underbridge!”
Drizzt moved next, leaping into the enchanted area with an easy tumble, and landing lightly on his feet beside his friend.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“The road, my friend,” groaned Wulfgar. “I long for the road, and the orcs. It is safer.”
Drizzt helped him struggle to his feet, for the barbarian’s mind argued every inch of the way against standing upside-down under a bridge, with an invisible stream rushing above his head.
Bruenor, too, had his reservations, but a taunt from the halfling moved him along, and soon the companions rolled back onto the grass of the natural world on the other bank of the stream. Two buildings stood before them, and they moved to the smaller, the one Harkle had indicated.
A blue-robed woman met them at the door. “Four?” she asked rhetorically. “You really should have sent word ahead.”
“Harkle sent us,” Regis explained. “We are not from these lands. Forgive our ignorance of your customs.”
“Very well, then,” huffed the woman. “Come along in. We are actually unusually unbusy for this time of the year. I am sure that I have room for your horses.” She led them into the structure’s main room, a square chamber. All four walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with small cages, just big enough for a cat-sized horse to stretch its legs. Many were occupied, their nameplates indicating that they were reserved for particular members of the Harpell clan, but the woman found four empty ones all together and put the companions’ horses inside.
“You may get them whenever you desire,” she explained, handing each of them a key to the cage of his particular mount. She paused when she got to Drizzt, studying his handsome features. “Who have we here?” she asked, not losing her calm monotone. “I had not heard of your arrival, but I am sure that many will desire an audience with you before you go! We have never seen one of your kind.”
Drizzt nodded and did not reply, growing increasingly uncomfortable with this new type of attention. Somehow it seemed to degrade him even more than the threats of ignorant peasants. He understood the curiosity, though, and figured that he owed the wizards a few hours of conversation, at least.
The Fuzzy Quarterstaff, on the back side of the Ivy Mansion, filled a circular chamber. The bar sat in the middle, like the hub of a wheel, and inside its wide perimeter was another room, an enclosed kitchen area. A hairy man with huge arms and a bald head wiped his rag endlessly along the shiny surface of the bar, more to pass the time than to clean any spills.
Off to the rear, on a raised stage, musical instruments played themselves, guided by the jerking gyrations of a white-haired, wand-wielding wizard in black pants and a black waistcoat. Whenever the instruments hit a crescendo, the wizard pointed his wand and snapped the fingers of his free hand, and a burst of colored sparks erupted from each of the four corners of the stage.
The companions took a table within sight of the entertaining wizard. They had their pick of location, for as far as they could tell, they were the only patrons in the room. The tables, too, were circular, made of fine wood and sporting a many-faceted, huge green gemstone on a silver pedestal as a centerpiece.
“A stranger place I never heared of,” grumbled Bruenor, uncomfortable since the underbridge, but resigned to the necessity of speaking with the Harpells.
“Nor I,” said the barbarian. “And may we leave it soon.”
“You are both stuck in the small chambers of your minds,” Regis scolded. “This is a place to enjoy—and you know that no danger lurks here.” He winked as his gaze fell upon Wulfgar. “Nothing serious, anyway.”