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."
"Longsaddle offers us a much needed rest," Drizzt added. "Here, we can
lay the course of our next trek in safety and take back to the road
refreshed. It was two weeks from the dale to Luskan, and nearly another to
here, without reprieve. Weariness draws away the edge and takes the
advantage from a skilled warrior." He looked particularly at Wulfgar as he
finished the thought. "A tired man will make mistakes. And mistakes in the
wild are, more often than not, fatal."
"So let us relax arid enjoy the hospitality of the Harpells," said
Regis.
"Agreed," said Bruenor, glancing around, "but just a short rest. And
where in the nine hells might the barmaid be, or do ye have to get to it
yerself for food and drink?"
"If you want something, then just ask," came a voice from the center of
the table. Wulfgar and Bruenor both leaped to their feet, on guard. Drizzt
noted the flare of light within the green gem and studied the object,
immediately guessing the setup. He looked back over his shoulder at the
barkeep, who stood beside a similar gemstone.
"A scrying device," the drow explained to his friends, though they, by
now, had come to the same understanding and felt very foolish standing in
the middle of an empty tavern with their weapons in their hands.
Regis had his head down, his shoulders rolling with his sobs of
laughter.
"Bah! Ye knew all along!" Bruenor growled at him. "Ye've been takin' a
bit of fun at our cost, Rumblebelly," the dwarf warned. "For meself, I'm
wondering how much longer our road holds room for ye."
Regis looked up at the glare of his dwarven friend, matching it
suddenly with a firm stare of his own. "We have walked and ridden more than
four hundred miles together!" he retorted. "Through cold winds and orc
raids, brawls and battles with ghosts. Allow me my pleasure for a short
while, good dwarf. If you and Wulfgar would loosen the straps of your packs
and see this place for what it is, you might find an equal share of
laughter yourself!"
Wulfgar did smile. Then, all at once, he jerked back his head and
roared, throwing away all of his anger and prejudice, so that he might take
the halfling's advice and view Longsaddle with an open mind. Even the
musical wizard stopped his playing to observe the spectacle of the
barbarian's soul-cleansing scream.
And when he had finished, Wulfgar laughed. Not an amused chuckle, but a
thunderous roll of laughter that flowed up from his belly and exploded out
his widethrown mouth.
"Ale!" Bruenor called into the gemstone. Almost immediately, a floating
disk of blue light slipped over the bar, bearing to them enough strong ale
to last the night. A few minutes later, all traces of the tensions of the
road had flown, and they toasted and quaffed their mugs with enthusiasm.
Only Drizzt kept his reserve, sipping his drink and staying alert to
his surroundings. He felt no direct danger here, but he wanted to keep
control against the wizards' inevitable probing.
Shortly, the Harpells and their friends began to make a steady stream
into The Fuzzy Quarterstaff. The companions were the only newcomers in town
this night, and all of the diners pulled their tables close by, trading
stories of the road and toasts of lasting friendship over fine meals, and
later, beside a warm hearth. Many, led by Harkle, concerned themselves with
Drizzt and their interest in the dark cities of his people, and he had few
reservations about answering their questions.
Then came the probing about the journey that had brought the companions
so far. Bruenor actually initiated it, jumping up onto his table and
proclaiming, "Mithril Hall, home of me fathers, ye shall be mine again!"
Drizzt grew concerned. Judging by the inquisitive reaction of the
gathering, the name of Bruenor's ancient homeland was known here, at least
in legend. The drow didn't fear any malicious actions by the Harpells, but
he simply did not want the purpose of the adventure following, and possibly
even preceding, him and his friends on the next leg of the journey. Others
might well be interested in learning the location of an ancient dwarven
stronghold, a place referred to in tales as, "the mines where silver rivers
run."
Drizzt took Harkle aside. "The night grows long. Are there rooms
available in the village beyond?"
"Nonsense," huffed Harkle. "You are my guests and shall remain here.
The rooms have already been prepared."
"And the price for all of this?"
Harkle pushed Drizzt's purse away. "The price in the Ivy Mansion is a
good tale or two, and bringing some interest into our existence. You and
your friends have paid for a year and more!"
"Our thanks," replied Drizzt. "I think that it is time for my
companions to rest. We have had a long ride, with much more before us."
"Concerning the road before you," said Harkle. "I have arranged for a
meeting with DelRoy, the eldest of the Harpells now in Longsaddle. He, more
than any of us, might be able to help steer your way."
"Very good," said Regis, leaning over to hear the conversation.
"This meeting holds a small price," Harkle told Drizzt. "DelRoy desires
a private audience with you. He has sought knowledge of the drow for many
years, but little is available to us."
"Agreed," replied Drizzt. "Now, it is time for us to find our beds."
"I shall show you the way."
"What time are we to meet with DelRoy?" asked Regis.
"Morning," replied Harkle.
Regis laughed, then leaned over to the other side of the table where
Bruenor sat holding a mug motionless in his gnarled hands, his eyes
unblinking. Regis gave the dwarf a little shove and Bruenor toppled,
thudding into the floor without even a groan of protest. "Evening would be
better," the halfling remarked, pointing across the room to another table.
Wulfgar was underneath it.
Harkle looked at Drizzt. "Evening," he agreed. "I shall speak to
DelRoy."
The four friends spent the next day recuperating and enjoying the
endless marvels of the Ivy Mansion. Drizzt was called away early for a
meeting with DelRoy, while the others were guided by Harkle on a tour
through the great house, passing through a dozen alchemy shops, scrying
rooms, meditation chambers, and several secured rooms specifically designed
for conjuring otherworldly beings. A statue of one Matherly Harpell was of
particular interest, since the statue was actually the wizard himself. An
unsuccessful mix of potions had left him stoned, literally.
Then there was Bidderdoo, the family dog, who had once beep Harkle's
second cousin - again, a bad potion mix.
Harkle kept no secrets from his guests, recounting the history of his
clan, its achievements, and its often disastrous failures. And he told them
of the lands around Longsaddle, of the Uthgardt barbarians, the Sky Ponies,
they had encountered, and of other tribes they might yet meet along their
way.
Bruenor was glad that their relaxation carried a measure of valuable
information. His goal pressed in on him every minute of every day, and when
he spent any time without making any gains toward Mithril Hall, even if he
simply needed to rest, he felt pangs of guilt. "Ye have to want it with all
yer heart," he often scolded himself.
But Harkle had provided him with an important orientation to this land
that would no doubt aid his cause in the days ahead, and he was satisfied
when he sat down for supper at The Fuzzy Quarterstaff. Drizzt rejoined them
there, sullen and quiet, and he wouldn't say much when questioned about his
discussion with DelRoy.
"Think to the meeting ahead," was the drow's answer to Bruenor's
