Yes. Cesira nodded.

"Setting up the meeting will take time."

Time enough to send a message of your own? Cesira asked, crooking an eyebrow.

Kall nodded. She knew what he was thinking. She nearly always did. "I want to know more about this Howling Delve." And if they were going underground, who better to aid them than a digger?

He cupped the sword's emerald between his palms and called out in his mind. His voice traveled across miles and mountains, to reverberate with the sword's sister stone. The gem graced a new weapon, a weapon that was not of Morel house, and yet the owner was no less than family to Kall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Earthvault

5 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Garavin Fallstone strode back and forth on a patch of empty air before a large expanse of cavern wall. He held up a taper that had burned down to threaten his thumb and had coated his arm in a waxy cast. He noticed neither circumstance, and continued to read the historical record etched deep into the stone.

The runes were inscribed with the same care and precision taken by a Candlekeep scribe, and Garavin should know. He'd been such a one, though it seemed like a lifetime ago: a scribe, a digger—Deepwarden for his clan. Garavin had worn many mantles, but all of them felt at home in the Earthvault.

The cone-shaped cavern rested far beneath the Marching Mountains. Mages of Shanatar, the ancient kingdom of the shield dwarves, had created it centuries ago. The vault was, to Garavin's mind, the most impressive archive to be found outside Candlekeep's doors. From the lowest point, where only worms burrowed, to the highest ridge, the history of the shield dwarves and their great realm unfolded for any of dwarf blood—and only those—to read.

Far below Garavin's boots, a tawny mastiff with stiff joints slept on the cavern floor, next to an account of the beginning of the shield dwarves' shattering war with the duergar. Garavin's satchel and maul rested against Borl's haunches, but the mastiff didn't notice when the emerald in the weapon's handle began to glow. Only when the stone hummed with gathering power did the dog stir and leap to its feet, and that was more the fault of the huge elemental being that appeared out of the air.

The powerful earth dao, keeper of Earthvault lore, spoke in the Dwarvish tongue.

"What magic do you bring, Garavin Fallstone, once son of Sorn? You disturb the stones."

"My apologies, Diuthaizos," Garavin said, bowing respectfully as he floated to the floor. "The Art will do no harm. I will take it above, so as not to offend."

Nodding regally, the dao floated away, but kept one wary eye on the dwarf and his companion.

Garavin sighed and picked up the glowing green maul. "Well, this trip is looking to be shorter than expected." He touched the emerald with a crooked finger. "Wonder what the boy wants now, eh?" But he smiled as he said it.

* * * * *

The meager apartment had thick walls. That was the only quality Aazen could recommend about the place. Situated above the vacant storefront of Eromar's Tailoring, the pair of rooms had frigid floors in the winter and rats scuffling in the walls in the summer. Aazen's music drowned them out, yet did not carry to the street. He had a cot in the corner with a blanket and a sheet, a chest of drawers, and a washbasin. He had few personal effects to store, save his violin, so the tiny space suited him well.

At peace, lost in his music, Aazen fumbled the bow in a discordant screech when the Cowled Wizard came up the stairs.

Jubair Ardoll looked far too nervous to be a proper wizard, but perhaps it was the secretive nature of his organization that bred the look of rabbit-wariness in his eyes. He wore a large black pearl earring in his left ear and was bald but for two unattractive strips of shorn hair arching over both ears. Most folk assumed he was a former Nelanther pirate. Dressed as a pirate, obviously he must be so. Amnians were not much on imagination unless it earned them coin. They had as little notion of his real occupation as his fellow wizards. Dressed as a wizard, obviously he must be so and nothing more—certainly not an agent of the Shadow Thieves.

Aazen watched impassively as Jubair raised a hand in greeting, then immediately stumbled back with a cry of pain, nearly falling down the steep stairs. A line of blood appeared at each of the wizard's ankles, dribbling down to stain his gold-threaded slippers.

"Watch the wire," Aazen suggested.

Jubair stepped over the invisible trap, hurling a stream of curses any pirate would have envied. "You might have warned me, you sick bastard."

"I wanted to finish my song," Aazen said, removing the violin from his chin.

Jubair glared at him. "Is your father insane, lad, or merely cow-eyed stupid?" he said without preamble. "The Cowls haven't stopped murmuring about the incident at Morel's party. It's all I can do to steer their eyes away from the streets."

"I wonder why you bother," Aazen said, sliding the violin back in its velvet-lined case. "As my father predicted, Chadossa is not pursuing the matter. No evidence points to us. It was simply an unfortunate mishap. These things happen when dealing with arcane magic," he said, "as any Amnian will rush to assure you."