“And by leaving behind your own illusionary corpse, you created a diversion that allowed the girl to escape unnoticed, and that condemned Elaith Craulnober to death. Masterfully done,” Danilo complemented him. “But how did you intend to explain your eventual return from the grave? I have my suspicions, mind you, but I’d like hear you tell the tale.”

The gnome had the grace to look sheepish. “I’ve been known to go off fishing now and again. Gives me time alone, time to think. I thought to come back when this was over, act surprised by this rogue’s fate. And yer right in what yen thinking, Harper; I thought to pin the blame for the illusion on you. Yen known for pranks, and for spells gone awry”

Danilo took note of the remarkable change, which came over Elaith during this confession. Understanding, then profound relief, then chilling anger played over his elven features. Danilo sent him a warning look.

“I must say, this leaves me with something of a dilemma,” the Harper said. “Elaith has been found to be without guilt in this case, but to make public your scheme would upset the balance in the Friendly Arm, and would alert those who are seeking the Thione heiress.”

“True enough,” the gnome agreed. “So what yen gonna do, then?”

Danilo sighed. “I see no real choice. I shall take the blame for the illusion, as you intended. If asked, I can cite old and very real enmities between myself and Elaith.” He turned to the elf. “In return for this, I expect your word that you will not hinder Arilyn and me in our task. We intend on taking Isabeau Thione-better known as Sophie the pickpocket-to safety in the north.”

Bentley snorted. “Yer gonna take the word of such a one as this?”

“In your position, I would not be too quick to cast aspersions on the honesty of another,” Elaith said, his voice bubbling with barely controlled wrath. “I am what I am, but the Harper knows that my word, once given, is as good as that of any elf alive, and better than that of any gnome. And so you may believe me when I swear that if ever I meet you beyond these walls, I will kill you in the slowest and most painful manner known to me.”

The gnome shrugged. “Sounds fair enough. But mind you, take care who yen calling a liar. I never said a single thing wasn’t Garl’s honest truth. An illusion ain’t never a lie-people just got a bad habit of believing what they see.”

Danilo took Elaith’s arm and led the furious elf from the temple. “I will keep my oath to you, bard,” the elf hissed from between clenched teeth, “but there is another I long to break! Like any other elf I believe that disturbing the dead is a terrible thing. But I would give fifty years off my life to continue this discussion-with that wretched gnome’s real spirit!”

The Harper shrugged. “We are neither of us quite what we seem, are we? Why, then, should you expect anything else to be what it seems?” Elaith glared at him. After a moment a smile, slow and rueful, softened the elf’s face. “If a Moon elf of noble family commands half the illegal trade in Waterdeep, and if a foolish minstrel from that same city displays insight that an elven sage might envy, why should we make foolish assumptions about speaking with the dead?”

“Exactly,” Danilo agreed, his expression somber. “There is some comfort in having at least one thing proven true.”

“Oh?”

“The dead are every bit as dreary as I have been led to believe. A small thing, to be sure, but in this life we should take our absolutes where we can find them.”

Elaith gave the Harper an odd look. After a moment, a wry chuckle trickled from his lips. He stopped and extended his hand, and his amber eyes were utterly devoid of mockery or disdain.

The gesture was all the apology, and all the thanks, that Danilo would ever receive. For once, the Harper felt no need to seek for hidden meanings or illusionary truths. He knew the proud, complex elf for what he was, but there were some absolutes that Danilo took when and where he found them. Friendship was one of them.

Without hesitation, he clasped Elaith’s wrist in a comrade’s salute.

A Walk in the Snow

Ogden smiled. This was his favorite task.

It had been better when Maere was still alive to share the chores of the White Hart, the inn they'd built together. Then the kitchen would be filled with the aroma of baking bread and stewing meat as well as the sweet odor of cooling malt.

The chore was better even when his old friend Robert had lent a hand, at least with the hopping and fermenting. Rob had visited mainly to keep the widower from despair in the first few months of his solitude. When Rob's first son was born, he showed only every other time. After the second son, Ogden was on his own.

Even in solitude, years past any useful company, brewing the ale for the Hart was still one of his few pleasures.

A breathless voice from the common room cut through the innkeeper's pleasant reverie. "Ogden!"

Startled, Ogden let the steaming brew kettle slip onto his round belly. With a pained hiss he shifted it back over the lip of the oaken tun before him. Cloudy amber liquid resumed its course into the barrel, splashing some foam into life.

"Not now, lad," shouted Ogden. "I'm sparging the wort. It's a delicate part of the proc-"

A bear-sized bulk crashed through the kitchen's bolt-less door. It turned toward the innkeeper, tiny eyes round on a pink face. His pug nose was wide and runny. The first foliage of a beard was evident upon the young man's face. "But Ogden, it's-"

"Whatever it is, it can wait until I've emptied the kettle." The happy smile that had warmed his face faded into Ogden's day-old whiskers. He never shaved on brew day; that was one of his other small pleasures, though when he saw a mirror, he fretted at the conquest of the gray stubble over the familiar brown.

"But-"

Ogden caught the big boy's mouth with his free hand. The kettle shifted again, and Ogden stepped around the tun, keeping his palm firmly pressed over Portnoy's lips.

"Count to twenty," said Ogden. He felt Portnoy's lips move beneath his palm and added, "Silently!"

Portnoy's deep brow creased with the effort, but his tiny eyes set in determination as he struggled to obey. That should take him a while, thought Ogden with a smile of relief. His sister's son was not quite an idiot, but he was often mistaken for one.

The innkeeper wiped his hand on his heavy apron before regaining a grip on the kettle.

"Here, hold the tun steady," said Ogden. Portnoy hesitated, perhaps wondering whether it was a trick to interrupt his counting. Deciding that obedience was the better course, he gripped the oak tun.

"I was trying to tell you that-"

"Uh, uh! There," said Ogden. "Now tilt it back. Careful, it's a bit warm, still…"

Portnoy was far better with his hands than with his brain. His thick fingers were clamps, holding the tun at just the right angle to let Ogden pour the remaining malt with the least splashing. When the kettle was empty at last, Ogden favored Portnoy with a smile. Maybe he should show the lad the whole process soon. Surely it was simple enough.

"Good." Ogden set a lid atop the tun. The malt would need a few more hours to cool, and then he could hop and cask it. A few months later, he'd have another batch of rich ale to serve the villagers of Myrloch. "That's the last one."

He turned to his young charge. The boy was only fifteen years old, but already he stood taller than the war veteran and outweighed him by four stone. Nonetheless, Ogden managed to look down at the boy with fatherly condescension while looking up to see the lad's broad face. "Now what is it that has you carrying on so madly?"

"It's Cole," replied Portnoy. "The wizard."