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The elf grimaced. What, then? How had Olte
"Give it back, I say!" demanded a loud and indignant male voice. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
Elaith glanced toward the front entrance, where a familiar scene was playing out.
A well dressed, black-bearded young man was brandishing an empty scabbard at the hostess of Tymora's Fancy, a delicate moon elf maiden who also served as the establishment's brawl-stopper. Rapidly fading motes of light swirled around the man like tiny, schooling fish. The hostess caught Elaith's gaze and rolled her eyes skyward before turning back to the irate patron.
"Either you're Lord Melshimber or you're a very talented doppleganger," she said sweetly. "The house rules have not changed since you were here last night, my lord: no spells, no magical items, no exceptions."
The bearded man shook the scabbard again. "Have you any idea how valuable this sword is?"
"Was," the hostess reminded him. "As you were warned in the forehall-as all are warned every night-Tymora's Fancy offers a fair and level field of play. To that end, all clandestine magical items are disintegrated."
It was a lie, of course. Elaith's warding spells whisked away the magical trinkets Waterdhavians tried to smuggle in, depositing them in a locked box in his back office.
Lord Melshimber accepted his loss with a shrug and sent a sheepish grin in the direction of his two smirking companions. It has become a popular game among Waterdeep's idle wealthy, this quest to bypass Elaith Craulnober's wards and get the better of the infamous Serpent. Elaith didn't mind, as this had swiftly made Tymora's Fancy one of the city's most popular and profitable gaming festhalls.
He turned his attention back to Olte
An ancient gnome stood by, a priest of Gond Wonderworker in full clerical regalia, hired to certify the equal chances of the clockwork opponents-and to repair them, afterward. Something very like maternal concern was etched into the lines of the gnome's dried-apple face, and he stood wringing his hands in dismay as his metal charges battered each other for the pleasure of wealthy humans.
Elaith drifted over, curious about the greeting that had passed between Olte
The little knight in brazen armor was wi
Elaith caught the look of mute appeal the gnome sent Olte
Before Olte
Clockwork arms milled wildly as the brazen knight strove to regain balance. But the silver warrior was on his feet, barreling in to shoulder-smash his unsteady opponent. The brazen knight crashed to the floor and did not rise, for the victor's sword was at his metal throat.
Elaith cast a simple spell, a simple cantrip that required little more than a flick of his fingers. Immediately a soft blue glow surrounded the arena-a widely recognized sign of magic at work.
At least half the spectators groaned, even before the arena master a
But the grumbles of protest were short-lived, and the hall quieted as people pressed in to see who had finally managed to get slip magic past the moon elf's safeguards. They watched in puzzlement as the blue glow faded from the arena, lingering only around the clerics and hired wizards.
Elaith made another small, subtle hand gesture, and the southerner's snuffbox lit up like an azure candle.
Indignation flooded Olte
Olte
"I broke none of your city laws or your festhall rules," he said, speaking with a dignity befitting the scion of a long, distinguished line. "There is no magic in this box. Your spell might have been silent, good sir, but it told a lie nonetheless!"
"Of course it did," Elaith Craulnober readily admitted, either missing or choosing to ignore the typically ironic Lanta
This second admission of wrongdoing set Olte
"May I see the snuffbox?" Elaith asked.
Olte
The elf flipped open the lid and gave close study to the contents. "I have never seen such tiny or intricate gear-works. Impressive, but not particularly fragrant. Might I then inquire why you felt compelled to sniff it so frequently?"
Olte
After a moment, the elf set the box carefully on the floor, straightened, and casually rested one boot on the lid. One silvery brow arched in unmistakable emphasis.
Panic leaped up like bright flame from somewhere deep in Olte
The elf studied him in silence, no doubt wondering what sort of work might absorb the full attention of Gond-fearing artisans for over thirteen centuries.
As well he might.
"My ancestor, the first Gondblessed, was so named for his astonishing skill," Olte
"Impossible," snapped the guard with sharp elbows. He brushed down the hood of his cape, revealing a narrow, angular face covered by tiny silvery scales.