Song of the Saurials

9 Finder’s Workshop

Olive knelt down beside the bard’s unconscious body on the cracked stone floor of Finder’s ruined keep. She pulled a vial of healing potion from her knapsack and uncorked it. Though the draft would have no effect on the poison in Finder’s body, it would take care of his bleeding crossbow bolt wounds. There was a chance it would even bring the bard to consciousness. She waved it under Finder’s nose, and he stirred slightly. She poured it past his lips and ordered him to swallow.

Instinctively Finder obeyed. In a few moments, he opened his eyes. “I dropped my dagger,” he said.

Olive laughed. The bard was dying, and he was still fussing about a lost dagger. “I’ll buy you another for your birthday,” she said.

Finder shook his head from side to side. “My grandfather gave me that dagger.”

Olive sighed. “Well, if you were thinking about going back to get it, forget it. I’ve given you a potion to slow the poison, but we’ve got to get you to a healer before the potion wears off. If we can just get you to the road, we should be able to get help from travelers. Do you think you can walk?”

With Olive’s assistance, Finder rolled over and struggled to sit up. He couldn’t use his injured hand at all. It was the size of a small melon and streaked with red and white lines, which ran up his wrists beneath the sleeve of his shirt. He was shaking slightly, though it was a warm afternoon. “I’ve got potions to neutralize poison in my workshop,” he said. “It would be easier to get back down there.”

“Are you crazy?” Olive shouted. “The place is crawling with orcs with crossbows! You nearly died down there!”

“We saw only four orcs. You probably blinded one with your torch, and I killed the two that grabbed you. If I hadn’t panicked like an idiot, I would have realized that left only one for me to handle while you took care of the other lock. The one that’s left will get bored soon and go back to its warren. By then, I’ll be rested, and we can try again. Instead of trying to show off this time, I’ll let you take care of the locks. An expert of your caliber should be able to open them without setting off the silent alarm or catching the poison needle.”

Olive wanted to grab the bard and give him a good shaking, but in his condition, she didn’t think he could take it. She tried to remain calm, to reason with him. “First,” she argued, “orcs breed like rabbits, and where there’s four there’s forty. And don’t forget, they still have a pal somewhere who disintegrates ceilings. Suppose they set up a guard in the passage just in case we turn out to be really stupid and come back? Secondly, I’m good with locks, but no one is perfect; there’s no guarantee I can bypass the alarm on the first lock or open the second lock fast enough in case I fail with the alarm.”

“The orcs would all rather be snug back in their warren than standing guard in a cold tunnel,” Finder argued. “They’ve come to rely on their alarm. It worked this time. They’ll assume it will work again. They won’t set a guard. As for your talents with locks you’re too modest, Olive girl. I know you can do it.” He turned his most charming grin on the halfling.

Olive fought the urge to please him. “Finder, I don’t want to stay here,” she insisted. “I want to get to the road before dark.”

Finder glared at Olive. “All right. Go,” the bard said coldly.

Olive looked at him with astonishment. She couldn’t believe he’d send her away. “Finder, I’m not leaving you. You can’t stay here. You have to try to get to the road with me.”

Finder’s chill expression thawed, and a rueful expression crossed his face. He reached out with his uninjured hand and pushed a stray strand of the halfling’s hair out of her eyes. “Olive,” he said softly, “I don’t want to die by the side of a road waiting for rescue. This place is my home. I’d rather be here when that potion wears off.”

“You aren’t going to die waiting beside a road,” Olive snapped angrily. “There are plenty of grain caravans and adventuring parties and soldiers traveling on the road this time of year. Most of them travel with healers, or at least with potions.”

“It’s half a day’s walk to the road, Olive. I’d never make it. I’m too weak. You’d better go now, in case there are any orcs searching aboveground.”

Olive dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to keep from screaming—or crying. “Oh, sweet Selûne!” she said. “You have to try, Finder!”

Finder chuckled dryly. “You sound like my mother,” he said. “She used to say that all the time—‘sweet Selûne.’ ”

Olive started. Invoking the goddess of the moon was a habit she’d picked up from her stay with Giogi and Cat Wyvernspur. She’d never be able to face the young man or his wife if she had to tell them she’d let their ancestor die out in the middle of nowhere. She’d never be able to face herself, either. Olive gave a deep sigh, unable to understand how she managed to get into these predicaments.

“I guess I’ll have to go down to your workshop, then,” she said with a false cheery tone.

“Good. Let’s go,” the bard said, trying to rise to his feet.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Olive exclaimed, holding him down with her hands on his shoulders. “I’m going alone. You’ll only slow me down. Give me the key to your workshop and tell me where to find the potions we need.”

“There is no key. Music unlocks the door to the workshop,” Finder said.

“Like the finder’s stone,” Olive guessed. “What note?” she asked.

“It’s more complicated than that. It takes a phrase from a song.” Finder sang out an allegro melody Olive had never heard before: “ ‘When Lady Luck lies with Grim Justice,/The soaring stars will be man’s auspice.’ ”

“Now, that’s right pretty,” Olive said. “You never sang that one before.”

“It’s not finished,” Finder said.

“When did you start it?”

“Before I finished building Flattery,” the bard said. “Now sing it back,” he ordered the halfling.

Olive obeyed.

“Lower it an octave,” Finder ordered.

“Finder, I’m too small. My voice doesn’t go down that low.”

“Yes, it does. Do it.”

“Whose voice is it, anyway?” Olive squeaked.

“I trained it. It’s mine,” the bard replied.

Olive laughed. “You’ve got to get this possessive streak under control,” she said.

“Olive, you have a fine voice. You can’t afford to waste it by constantly saying ‘I can’t, I can’t.’ Now try, for me, please.”

Olive flushed deeply. She forced her voice down to the first note.

“Good,” Finder said. “Now the words.”

“ ‘When Lady Luck lies with Grim Justice—’ ”

“Two notes in ‘Grim,’ ” the bard corrected. “G to F-sharp.”

Olive sang the the line over.

“Good. Now both lines.”

“ ‘When Lady Luck lies with Grim Justice,/The soaring stars will be man’s auspice,’ ” the halfling sang.

“Again.”

Olive repeated the phrase three more times before Finder seemed satisfied. He smiled and wrapped a curl of her hair around his finger. “I might make a bard out of you yet,” he said, tugging playfully at the strand of hair.

“I’d settle for not ending up a corpse,” Olive cracked.

“Never settle for anything, Olive girl. You’re too good for that,” the bard insisted, releasing her hair.

The compliment was lost on the halfling, who had begun to notice a forced sound to the bard’s cheery tone. She could hear him wheezing, and he had to use his good hand to shift the injured one.

Olive pulled out one of her light cotton tunics from her sack, bunched it up, and poured what was left of her whiskey on it. She reached over and wrapped the wet cloth around the bard’s swollen hand, then handed Finder her water jar. “When the bandage gets warm, pour some more water on it,” she instructed. “Try drinking the water, too. It might help.”

Finder nodded. He struggled to take a deep breath before he said, “You’ll find the potions in the mahogany wardrobe. They’ll be alphabetized. Look for the one labeled ‘neutralize poison.’ Also, bring the spellbook on the marble-topped desk and the sack of gems in the hidden compartment under the worktable bench.” The bard drew in another wheezy breath before continuing. “The door will lock behind you when you close it. You only need the music key from the tunnel side. You can unlock it from the workshop side by tracing your finger over the treble cleft carved into the doorframe.”

Olive nodded.

“You’d better take this,” the bard said, twisting one of the plain gold rings on his injured hand. “It’s a ring of protection.”

“You’ll never get that off,” Olive said, flinching instinctively. “Better forget it.”

“No,” Finder replied. He hummed a high B-flat, and the ring expanded until he could pull it off his swollen finger. He slipped it on Olive’s tiny fifth finger, and the ring shrank magically until it fit snugly.

“I’ll be back soon,” Olive promised, rising to her feet and shouldering her backpack.

Finder nodded, too tired to reply.

Olive drew the bolt, opened the door to the underground tunnels, and crept down the staircase. When she reached the first cave-in, she pulled a flint and a fresh torch out of her sack, but she debated mentally with herself before lighting the torch. She couldn’t hide in the shadows if she carried a torch, but a torch would at least keep her from bumping into any orcs in the dark. If only she could see in the dark like the orcs could. “Why did I just inherit Grandmother Rose’s singing voice? Why couldn’t I get her nightvision, too?” she muttered.

With several strikes of the flint, she had the torch blazing. She began crawling through the first cave-in tunnel. It was more difficult crawling with a torch in one hand, and the knowledge that she was crawling toward orcs didn’t compel her to move any faster.

She tried concentrating on how heroic the deed would sound when she told it later, but she couldn’t help thinking that the entire ugly situation could have been avoided. It was all Finder’s fault. “If you’d left the tower when I asked, we wouldn’t have lost the finder’s stone to Kyre,” she muttered as she crawled. “If you’d only accepted Giogi’s offer to stay in Immersea, we wouldn’t have had to dig and crawl through dirt for four hours like moles. And if you hadn’t been such a show-off with the locks, we wouldn’t have been discovered by the orcs, we’d have probably made it into your lab, I wouldn’t be covered with orc blood, and you wouldn’t be dying from a poison needle trap.”

Olive reached the other side of the first cave-in tunnel and slid down to the floor. She sighed. She’d gotten what she had to say out of her system. It hardly mattered that she hadn’t said it to Finder’s face. It wasn’t as if he would pay any attention to her anyway. She padded silently down the stone passageways.

After wriggling through the second cave-in tunnel, Olive proceeded more cautiously toward the third and last cave-in. She considered putting her torch out before going through it. No, she thought, it’s better to see what I’m afraid of than to be afraid of what I don’t see. She crawled up the mound of dirt and stone and into the tiny tunnel. About halfway through, where Finder had collapsed the first time they had come through, Olive found the bard’s dagger. As she slipped it into her pack, she imagined how she might wrap it and give it to him as a birthday present.

You’ll have to get out of here alive with a neutralize poison potion first, she chided herself, or Finder may not make it to his next birthday. She emerged through the other side of the tunnel.

She paused several minutes, peering into the darkness beyond the iron gate, looking for the telltale red gleam of orc eyes. When her head began to hurt from the strain of not blinking, Olive decided it was time to get going. She slid as quietly as possible down the pile of dirt and padded up to the iron gate.

Without touching the gate or the lock, the halfling examined them for several minutes before she discovered a string between the gate and a hole in the wall nearby. Olive presumed that the string went all the way to the orc warren, where it triggered some sort of silent alarm. At any rate, the string was very well concealed. If she hadn’t been certain that it was there, she might not have looked hard enough to find it. She checked for a second string, but didn’t find one. Apparently the orcs weren’t as paranoid as she was. Fortunately the alarm string was near the floor, so she could work on it comfortably. She wedged her torch in the grate, put her pack down, and pulled out the equipment she would need. She used a bit of putty to hold the string taut against the bottom bar of the iron grate. With a pair of scissors, she clipped the string where it was connected to the door.

It took her only a few seconds to unlock the door. Then she spritzed the hinges of the gate with oil and pushed the gate open a foot.

“So far, so good,” she whispered, picking up her torch and pack and slipping through the gap. She pushed the gate nearly, but not quite, closed. Then she tiptoed down the corridor.

When she reached the gap in the wall that led to the tunnel the orcs had come from, Olive dashed across the open space, then pressed herself against the wall on the other side and waited a minute.

She listened carefully, but she heard neither voices nor footfalls. Finder must have been right about the orcs relying on their alarm, she thought as she crept down to the second iron grate.

The second lock was a masterful piece of workmanship, of fairly recent design. It definitely was not the kind she’d expect to see in an orc warren. The orcs’ friend who possessed the disintegrate spell must have installed it, Olive decided. After setting her pack down again and disengaging the alarm, the halfling examined the other mechanisms with more care.

The needle trap was especially nasty. It refilled and retriggered itself automatically. Olive pulled out an especially long pick. Holding it awkwardly from a position above the lock, with her hand safely out of the way, she twisted it in the keyhole and watched the trap spring. It was a very long, very sharp needle. Olive sprang it several more times, but the reserve of poison didn’t show any signs of running low. Judging from its effect on Finder, Olive suspected it was too potent a poison to risk receiving even a trace dose.

Olive turned and looked behind her, just to be sure there weren’t any orcs watching her work. Assured that she was still alone in the hallway, she wedged her torch in the iron grate and turned her attention back to the trap.

She drew out Finder’s dagger. It was heavy, just right for bending needles. It took her three tries, but she managed to bring the blade down on the needle after it sprang out and before it retracted. It bent, but the force of the spring connected to it pulled it back into the mechanism. Once inside the retriggering box, however, the needle was jammed tight and couldn’t spring out again. Olive sniffed once with pride, then spat on Finder’s blade a few times and wiped it off on her cloak so as not to risk leaving any poison on it.

After checking over her shoulder once again for any stray orcs, she began work on the lock. It was a heavy one, and she broke two wire picks in it. She wondered momentarily whether it had been welded shut. She began to examine miscellaneous keys from her key collection. When she thought she had a near match, she wriggled both it and another wire about in the hole. She tried to put Finder’s poisoned hand out of her mind. She couldn’t allow anything to distract her.

Olive had no idea how long she’d been fiddling with the gate, but when the lock finally gave way, her torch was burnt to a nub. When she pushed on the gate, the burning stick fell to the ground. The flame immediately went out, leaving only glowing cinders at her feet.

The halfling picked up her pack and pushed the door open farther, not bothering to oil the hinges. They didn’t squeak, suggesting that the door was probably used often. Olive tried to put that idea out of her mind. If the only key was Finder’s unfinished melody, there wasn’t an orc in the world who could open the door. She’d heard orcs singing several times, and she had been anything but impressed.

Olive ran her hand along the polished steel door. There was no handle or lock. “Listen up, door,” she whispered. She sang the lyrics to the melody Finder had taught her as softly as she could. Something in the door made a clicking noise. Olive pushed on the door gently, and it swung open. Bright light flooded into the corridor from the workshop within. Olive slipped into the room and pushed the door closed behind her. It clicked again. She was locked safely inside. The halfling sighed with relief and leaned back against the door.

“Hello, Father,” a voice said from inside the workshop.

Olive stood bolt upright. A figure stood before her, dressed in black robes. He looked just like Finder, only younger, when he was in his prime. When he said the word “Father,” his voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Flattery!” Olive gasped. “But—but you’re dead! Giogi killed you!”

“I’ve been hoping you would escape the Harpers’ prison someday and return here,” Flattery said.

Since Flattery seemed unaware that she was not Finder, Olive realized she was seeing only a magical image of the evil mage, a message Flattery had left behind for Finder. Flattery had assumed his creator would be the only other person who could open the workshop door.

“After the weeks you spent trying to force me to sing your songs,” the image of Flattery said, “I hope you’ll be pleased to learn that I finally broke down and sang the key to the workshop door. Naturally I did not sing it to please you. When you struck me that first time, only three days after I was ‘born,’ I realized there was no pleasing you. Even if my new voice hadn’t been weak and immature, even if it had been identical to yours, you would have found something else to criticize me for. Knowing that enabled me to endure your violent threats and your pitiful apologies.”

Olive clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms, trying to deny the truth behind Flattery’s evaluation of Finder.

“It is now three years since my escape from this place, this hell hole you chose as my nursery,” Flattery’s image explained, indicating the workshop with a wave of his hand. “The Harpers have destroyed your reputation so fast that even I am impressed with their power. I haven’t heard one of your stupid little tunes for nearly a year and a half now. Your name is truly forgotten.

“I shall never forget, though, the look of surprise and fear on your face the day you came down to this room and found me free. Your apprentice, Kirkson, had taken pity on me—something you and your fawning Maryje never possessed. Kirkson used to come down late at night to comfort me as best he could. It was he who gave me some of your books to read. By mistake, he gave me your spellbook. When I realized what it was, I used its magic to escape from my cage and stole the disintegration ring from your desk. Then I waited. It wouldn’t have mattered that day whether you intended to plead with me or to beat me again. Either way, I intended to kill you and Maryje. Kirkson alone would be spared. It was unfortunate that it was he who leapt into the path of my disintegration ray in order to save your miserable lives.

“Since then, however, I’ve had my revenge on Maryje. She went mad after they exiled you, and last night she killed herself. It was I who drove her to it. It wasn’t very difficult. I sent her constant nightmares about my pain and suffering, along with telepathic suggestions that she was worthless.”

Olive felt sick to her stomach. She was trembling with grief and rage. She hadn’t wanted to see the workshop where Flattery had been created, and she’d been right.

“That leaves only you, Father,” Flattery’s image said, spitting out the word “Father” like an epithet. “I returned here to my birthplace to claim my inheritance. I’ve left you nothing. You might as well be dead.”

From the center of Flattery’s image, a dozen green rays shot out like spokes from a wheel and whirled around until a single green plane of light shimmered three feet above the floor. Then just as suddenly, the green rays disappeared along with Flattery’s image.

Olive reached up and touched the top of her head. A large clump of her hair came off in her hand, shaved off near the roots by the strange green light. A line of black scorch marks ran along the walls and furniture of the workshop.

The halfling walked about the workshop like an automaton. The room was well lighted with magical stones set in the walls and ceiling. Everything was tidy and dust-free. Olive looked at the marble-topped desk. There was no spellbook there. There were no books anywhere in the room. The shelves that lined the walls stood empty. She went over to the mahogany wardrobe on the wall behind the well and opened the doors. The shelves within were empty, too. There not only were no neutralize poison potions, but there were no potions at all.

Olive sat down on the bench at the worktable without bothering to check for any secret compartment holding a sack of gems. It just didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. She pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapped her arms around her legs, lowered her head, and wept uncontrollably.

Finder awoke from his nightmare shouting in fear. It took him several moments to remember he was in the ruins of his manor house. He was still having trouble breathing, and he was drenched in a feverish sweat and shivering from the cooling air. The sun was beginning to set, and the moon was cresting the horizon.

The bard had been dreaming of Flattery, something he thought was long past him. He’d told the lie of the creature’s destruction so many times that he’d almost come to believe it himself. Leave it to Olive, he thought, a lying thief herself, to discover the existence of Flattery.

Finder had always believed that Tymora, Lady Luck, favored the halfling rogue, but now it seemed that Tyr Grimjaws, the Even-Handed, God of Justice, had made Olive his agent. If she told Elminster that she knew Flattery hadn’t died, Elminster would know Finder had lied about the ice shard exploding in order to cover up a worse secret. If Olive knew anything about how he had treated Flattery and told Elminster, the bard’s reputation would be ruined. Finder wondered whether Tymora had made Olive loyal to him because Lady Luck still favored him, or if Tyr was testing him somehow with the halfling’s presence.

In his dream, Finder had opened the door to his workshop, just as he had two centuries ago, and discovered Flattery standing there, pointing a ringed finger at him, prepared to disintegrate him. In Finder’s dream, though, it was Olive, not Kirkson, who leapt in front of him to save his life from the green death ray, but the halfling was too short, so the ray hit Finder anyway, and he died.

If Finder hadn’t been feverish with poison, he might have chalked the dream up to memories brought on by the attempt to visit the scene of his failure. He might also have scoffed at the idea that the gods took any interest in him whatsoever. Finder, however, was feverish with poison, and his vivid imagination found other reasons for the dream. He thought it must be the gods’ way of telling him he would die no matter what. “Why should I die?” he muttered to the sky. “Elminster hasn’t. Morala hasn’t.”

The bard wondered what was taking Olive so long. He estimated she’d been gone over an hour. He had no doubt the halfling could handle the locks and the traps, and he grinned with pride at the memory of how easily she’d mastered the melody for the door lock. There was nothing in the workshop that could give her any trouble, he reassured himself. He dismissed the dream as having no basis in reality. After all, according to Olive, Flattery was dead.

Of course, he could have been wrong about the orcs. They may have decided to post a guard after all, and were lying in wait to grab Olive when she passed the tunnel that led to their lair. The longer the shadows lengthened, the more uneasy Finder grew. She’d saved his life twice already today, yet he’d had the nerve to convince her to go past an orc warren alone to save his life a third time. Here he was, a master bard, a Harper, a full-grown human male, relying on a tiny halfling female to pull his fat out of the fire. Female! Sweet Selûne! He hadn’t even considered what the orcs would do to her if they captured her.

Finder caught sight of the sun and the moon just as they were equally distant from the horizon, like Tyr’s scales, balanced in the sky. Then the sun sank lower and the moon rose higher. The bard sighed. If Olive didn’t return with a neutralize poison potion soon, he would die anyway. With a deep sense of shame, he realized there was no sense in letting her die, too. He twisted his tunic into a sling for his injured arm and forced himself to his feet. His head spun, and glittering dots danced before his eyes, but he did not change his mind. As the sun sank, the bard climbed down the stairs into the underground passages in search of the halfling.

After Olive had cried herself out, she stared for a while at the wall of the brightly lit workshop, blinking like an owl in daylight. Part of her kept telling her to hurry back to Finder. If she couldn’t get him to the road, she could at least be with him when he died. Another part of her didn’t want to watch him die. That part must have been stronger, because she didn’t move until something heavy thumped against the door.

Olive started and nearly tumbled from the bench. She padded over to the enchanted steel door and pressed her ear against it. From the hallway on the other side came harsh, unintelligible cries. The orcs had returned and discovered the unlocked gate, Olive realized.

Fortunately there was a second door out of the workshop, but if she used it, she’d have to find her way through strange tunnels and dig her way through Tymora knew how many more cave-ins. Then it occurred to Olive that the other door might also lead to a T-trap guarded by orcs. The thought paralyzed her with fear.

From near the door, she heard another cry—an unmistakably haughty voice demanding the orcs back away.

“Finder?” Olive whispered to herself, confused by the bard’s presence. Why hadn’t he stayed put?

From the hallway, Finder shouted, “You have no business here. This is my home. Leave now or face the consequences.”

Has he gone mad? the halfling wondered. There was a slurred sound to his speech and a tremor in his deep voice. That’s just great. He’s delirious, she thought wearily.

The orcs in the tunnel outside shouted and screamed. There was another thump at the door, like a spear or a crossbow hitting against it. Then suddenly there was silence. A new voice, sharp and high-pitched, spoke in the common tongue. “Release him,” the voice ordered calmly, in the manner of a being accustomed to being obeyed. Olive couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

Someone else was out there, someone who ordered orcs around. Someone, Olive suspected, who had the power to disintegrate ceilings and other things.

“Don’t try anything foolish. I can kill you in an instant. You are the Nameless Bard?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” Finder replied with a croaking sound in his voice.

Olive bit her lip, wondering what she could do to rescue her friend.

“I’m pleased you returned,” the sharp voice said. “I was sorry to have missed you the first time. The orcs were sure you’d fled for good. It seems that I came to investigate this tunnel in the nick of time. Now that you’ve gone to all the trouble to pick the lock on the gates, you might as well open the door to your workshop for me,” the voice demanded.

“Why should I?” Finder replied. His tone was haughty, but Olive could hear him wheezing even through the workshop door.

“Because if you don’t, these orcs will kill you,” the voice explained.

“I’m already dying,” Finder said. “I was caught by the poison needle trap in this gate.”

“Show me,” the sharp voice ordered.

There was a short silence, then the sharp voice said, “My, my. How inconvenient for you, nameless one. You can hardly play an instrument with that hand. Corx, the antidote!”

“He’s not dying yet,” an orc replied in common. “Let him open the door first.”

“I need this hand to open the door,” Finder lied.

“Corx, obey me!” the sharp voice insisted.

There was the sound of grumbling among the orcs, and a moment later, Olive heard Finder say, “A good year for antidotes. A youthful bouquet, fruity and light.” His voice still sounded weak.

“My name is Xaran,” the sharp voice announced, “and I have just saved your life. I think that deserves some consideration, don’t you?”

“Consideration, certainly,” Finder replied, “but not license to loot my workshop.”

“I can still kill you without blinking an eye,” Xaran pointed out.

“But then you’ll never get into my workshop,” Finder replied. “you’ve gone to such trouble to set up a trap to capture me before I got inside. What is it you’re after? Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement.”

“Well, naturally my associates, these orcs, are interested in whatever wealth you might have been hoarding in there for the past two centuries,” Xaran said.

“I’m flattered,” Finder replied.

“I doubt it. Your monstrous ego is well known. Perhaps, though, your pride is justified. Certainly I can think of many uses for your renowned skills.”

“You won’t get much out of me if all you intend to offer me is my life,” Finder said.

“But suppose I were to offer you immortality?”

“I already have that,” Finder boasted, “through my music.”

“But does that truly satisfy you?” Xaran asked. “Think of all the adventures you could yet experience, all the tales still untold, all the songs unfinished. People not even born could one day benefit from your wisdom and tutelage—singers and musicians, adventurers and Harpers, wizards and kings. You haven’t even lived as long as Elminster the Sage. He has yet to surrender to death. Why should you?”

Listening behind the enchanted steel door, Olive tapped her foot nervously. This Xaran knows Finder too well, she thought. Who is he, anyway? How did he learn the bard’s weaknesses? And most importantly, what in the Nine Hells does he want? The outline of a plan came to Olive, and she began pulling light stones out of the wall as she listened to the voices filtering through the door.

“Were you thinking of offering me an unlimited supply of elixirs of youth?” the bard asked. “Or did you have something more devious in mind, like depositing me in a magic jar or turning me into a lich?”

“No,” Xaran said. “I had in mind a new spell, one that will make your body immortal.”

“I see,” Finder said. “And what do you ask in return?”

“I am interested in your advanced knowledge of simulacrums.”

“So is every evil tyrant in the Realms,” Finder retorted. “But I’m the evil tyrant who holds your life in his hands, so to speak.”

“True enough. Is that all you want?”

“No. There is one other little thing. You must bring me Akabar Bel Akash. I believe you are acquainted with the gentleman.”

“Akabar?” Finder asked with surprise, echoing Olive’s own thoughts. “What do you want with him?”

“He has in his possession something I desire. You must convince him to visit you here.”

“I haven’t seen Akabar in over a year,” Finder argued. “He returned to Turmish.”

“He is near Shadowdale now,” Xaran corrected him.

“I see,” Finder said.

“Well, nameless one?” Xaran prompted.

Olive stood poised at the door, holding a fistful of the magical light stones in one hand and Finder’s dagger in the other. This might be my last chance for a surprise attack, she thought.

She reached up and traced the treble clef carved in the doorframe. The door swung open a foot, and with a banshee shriek, the halfling burst out of the workshop and hurled the light stones down the hallway. The orcs screamed in terror at the brilliant light and covered their eyes with their arms. While they were temporarily blinded, Olive lunged out with Finder’s dagger to the right, where she’d heard Xaran’s voice coming from, but there was no one there. Olive whirled about and pushed Finder through the workshop doorway.

As she turned around again to close the door, she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder, and blood began oozing into the fabric of her tunic. Olive’s eyes widened at the sight of what had just attacked her. There, five feet above the ground, just outside the door, floated Xaran—a hideous ball of flesh with a monstrous maw of fangs, one great central bloodshot eye, and a crown of ten eye stalks waving like serpents. Xaran was a beholder!

The halfling realized with a jolt that when she had tried to attack Xaran with the dagger, she’d lunged just beneath it, ironically in the only place it could not harm her with any of its magical eye rays. When she’d pulled back into the supposed safety of the workshop, she’d stepped into its line of vision, and it had hit her with a look from an eye that caused magical wounds.

Olive slammed the door shut before the monster could turn an even deadlier eye in her direction.

“What are you doing?” Finder shouted, squinting in the brightly lit room.

“What am I doing?” Olive squeaked with astonishment. “I’m saving your life! In case you hadn’t noticed, there was a beholder out there!”

“I was in the middle of negotiating a deal with it,” Finder said angrily.

“Are you nuts? Beholders are incredibly evil!” Olive shrieked.

“So? They are also honorable … in their own fashion.”

“They’re also vicious,” Olive argued. “As soon as you refused to bring Akabar to it, it would have killed you.”

“What makes you think I was going to refuse?” Finder asked.

Olive stared up at the bard in horror, but Finder just glared back at her, offering no further explanation.

She thought she’d shut all the monsters out of the workshop. Now she wasn’t certain.