by Ed Greenwood
In the courts of Cormyr, a young man of noble birth could rise as high as talents and ambition would take him. There, as a counselor, envoy, or even a royal officer, Taeros could have had a hand in the important work of governance.
What awaited him here in Waterdeep but the endless gathering and flaunting of wealth? No one knew who ruled here, and few cared, so long as trade was strong and coffers full.
Taeros swallowed old bitterness and bent to the task at hand. If he was to complete this book by the time young Azoun the Fifth was able to read, he'd scant time to waste on self-pity.
No shortage of heroes plagues your land, he wrote, but it is said that a king must know the ways of many lands if he is to rule his own wisely and well. Waterdeep cannot match Cormyr's thousand-year dynasty and proud and noble traditions, yet our history is not without tales worth telling.
He dipped the quill again and pondered. Where to start? Ancient times when dragons ruled all, or when elves founded the haven of Evermeet? Or perhaps with the first barbarian settlements? Something heroic, certainly, from the days before true heroism in the shadow of Mount Waterdeep was drowned in the endless clinking of coins.
A battle, perhaps. By the gods, Waterdeep had survived enough of those!
Recalling his childhood fascination for glorious sword-swinging tales brought to mind less pleasant memories: the frowns of nursemaids when they found him bent over forbidden books.
No, too stirring a tale would prompt the young king's minders to snatch this book from small royal hands and put it on a high shelf and thence, perhaps, into a waiting hearthfire.
Perhaps a humorous tale? Surely the Obarskyrs shared a strong sense of humor; how else could they have endured the counsel of the wizard Vangerdahast all these years?
No, that wasn't quite the thing, either. The wit of Taeros Hawkwinter was too often a kettle that seethed and scalded. Heated words from afar were even more likely to be swiftly introduced to devouring flames.
Better to start with a nursery tale, one Taeros had favored as a child. Yes, safe enough to pass the judgments of nursemaids. Something they might enjoy reading aloud to a boy king.
Eagerly he began to write, the familiar story flowing swiftly onto the page. This had always been one of his favorite tales. For once, the hero wasn't the strong young chieftain or the beautiful golden maiden. From such sprang worthy heroes, of course, but why not the occasional quick-witted lass?
Or for that matter, an ink-stained nobleman?
Swiftly ascending boots thundered on the stairs: Two pairs, at least, of expensive heels.
Hastily Taeros powdered his page, blotted his quill, capped the ink, and shuffled pages out in a concealing fan over all, leaving a satirical poem-something suitably frivolous he'd dashed off over morning ale, to explain away ink-stained fingers-atop the pile.
Familiar grumbling echoed on the stair, too low-pitched to make out words, but from an unmistakable source: Starragar.
Taeros grinned. Ho, then, Faerun, salute you Starragar Jardeth, tireless voice of dissent! Every circle of friends seemed to have a Starragar. His constant nay-saying annoyed as often as it amused, but that didn't mean the man wasn't occasionally correct. Even a water clock run dry told the right time twice a day.
On cue, Starragar poked his head into the room, surveying it with distaste already riding his pale face. His hard gaze fell upon the portrait over the hearth, and he sighed loudly.
A Hawkwinter grin widened. Last winter, they'd all sat together for a portrait. As a joke, they'd had the painter render Starragar entirely in black and white. In this, art fell not far short of life.
With his lank black hair, customary somber garb, and skin no blaze of sun could brown, Starragar seemed strangely colorless.
The young man just behind Jardeth was his opposite: Korvaun Helmfast was tall and fair-haired, with serious blue eyes and a quiet, thoughtful manner.
"Dock Ward," Starragar said flatly and dismissively, as if that alone was sufficient condemnation.
Korvaun slipped past Starragar. Catching the grin Taeros wore, he greeted his friend with an easy nod.
"Nicely done," Taeros offered, sweeping his hand to indicate the entire room. Starragar's predictable response was a disdainful sniff.
A belly-shaking burst of laughter rolled up the stairwell from below. The friends exchanged delighted smiles, and even Starragar's face lit up. As one the three nobles rushed to the door.
Malark Kothont was mounting the stairs two at a time, despite the large wooden crate in his massive arms. Keeping pace with him was Beldar Roaringhorn, their unofficial leader, darkly handsome face smiling but arms empty.
As usual, an inner annoyance rose in Taeros. Unlike the rest of them-young blades of Waterdeep born to wealth, whose proud merchant families had claimed nobility generations ago-Malark had royal blood. His mother was from the Moonshaes, distant kin to High Queen Alicia. Malark was, quite simply, better than the rest of them. His blindness to this grated on Taeros.
Malark tossed the crate onto a chair and threw his powerful arms wide. "I'm back, lads, and thirsty as a Ruathymaar sailor! I see ale in plenty, but where are the wenches?"
"There're no women in the Moonshaes?" Starragar asked dryly.
Malark winked. "Aye, but I've been there a year and more, haven't I?"
Long enough to acquire considerable bulk, it was evident, not to mention considerable facial hair. Though Malark was only two-and-twenty, he was muscled like a dock worker, and the curly red beard spilling down his tunic would be the envy of many a dwarf.
Beldar clapped him on the shoulder. "Run through all the women, did you? No wonder you've come home. We've business to attend to, but tonight we'll drink the taverns dry."
"Speaking of which-" Taeros untied a small bag from his belt and tossed it to Korvaun. "That's for covering me the night I was coin-short for ale and breakage."
Beldar's face darkened. "Time was-not long gone, either-when a noble's word was coin enough until his steward came to settle up."
"You said something about gifts?" Malark asked with smooth eagerness, eyes wide and bearded face innocent. The others grinned. Beldar lifted an eyebrow to show he'd recognized the ruse, but let his temper drop. Prying up the lid of the crate with his silver-mounted belt knife, the Roaringhorn folded back linen wrappings within and lifted a length of shimmering cloth into view, its rich amber hue as bright as a copper-backed candle. Not bothering to shake it out, he tossed it carelessly to Taeros.
"A cloak. I'm told flame-kindle is a good color for a man with black hair and gray eyes."
Taeros momentarily struck the taunting pose of a coquettish high lady, making a show of smoothing his hair, then shook out the garment. He abandoned playacting to hold it up and raised his eyebrows, impressed. It was very fine, woven with threads that sparkled brightly. He moved it, watching them wink and catch the light.
"What's this?"
"Amber and topaz. I found a weaver who can work gemstone into cloth," Beldar replied. "For a suitably lofty stack of coin, she agreed not to sell her wares to anyone but us for the rest of the season. By then, we'll have set the fashion, and anyone who takes up wearing gemweave will be seen as a come-lately."
Turning, the Roaringhorn tossed a black cloak to Starragar. It started to unfold in the air, tumbling into a shimmering cloud of darkness.
"Hematite," Beldar said with a grin. "A stone said to absorb negative energies."
"Let us hope its capacity rivals Malark's thirst, or it'll shatter in a tenday," Taeros said dryly, drawing a ripple of laughter-even from Starragar.
"For Korvaun, what else but true blue?" Beldar continued, handing the fair-haired blade a cloak that displayed a spectrum of jewel shades from pale blue to darkest sapphire. Korvaun nodded and smiled silent thanks.
Malark snatched the next cloak from his friend's hands the moment its emerald hue gleamed forth. "You needn't be saying it. With this hair and beard, I'll look like an overfed leprechaun, but you haven't th
e imagination to be picking any other color. Jade, is it?"
"Emerald, you ingrate," Beldar told him, scowling with feigned wrath, "and worth far more than you are. As for me, it's rubies and garnet." He swept a glimmering red cloak about his own shoulders and struck a pose.
Taeros did not share Beldar's preoccupation with fashion, but had to admit his friend looked dashing. A fine horseman and keen hunter, Beldar had the sun-browned skin of an outdoors-man and the lean physique of a swordmaster. His dark chestnut hair swept his shoulders, and his small, elegant mustache gave him a raffish air.
Taeros crooked a critical eyebrow. "All you need is an oversized pirate's hat to complete your garb."
"Why d'you think we were late?" Malark whispered, loudly enough to be heard clear down the stairs. "We had to stop in every hattery 'tween here and the Northgate to try on great wagon-wheel things, but no one had a hat quite big enough to suit him."
Beldar shrugged off the resulting laughter. "Well, we have our club," he began, nodding approvingly to Korvaun, "and our name."
"Gemcloaks?" ventured Taeros.
"Of course. The question remains: What shall we Gemcloaks do?"
"Gossip, gamble, drink, wager, and plot little schemes to pry money out of rich and title-hungry merchants-all of which we'll promptly loose in various bad investments," Malark replied promptly. "In short: The usual."
"Add to that list a haven for younger sons," Taeros said glumly. "'Tis my misfortune to have a paragon for an older brother. When Waterdeep was attacked, I was away on a 'pleasure trip,' but Thirayar slew ten sahuagin with a salad fork-or so our proud parents tell the world."
"At least you still have a brother," Starragar said sharply. "Roldo wasn't so fortunate."
An uncomfortable silence fell. Roldo Thongolir was still on his wedding trip. His older brothers had both died in the defense of Waterdeep, leaving him heir. Roldo was a fine companion, the first to lift tankard in tribute and a stout lad at your back in a tavern brawl, but he was fashioned to follow, not to lead, command, or administer. Thongolir elders had swiftly chosen a bride for him, a brisk and competent young woman who would manage the family fortune capably and, no doubt, Roldo as well. Never was a man less suited to the duties of a noble of Waterdeep, but Roldo did as his family bade without a word of complaint.
Beldar cleared his throat sharply and nodded at the crate. "Roldo's is of rose quartz, as he honors the Morninglord."
"A thoughtful gift," Malark said with a grin, "and practical. With one of us sporting pink, we're sure to be invited to a brawl early on. Get the fighting over and done first, and we can devote the better part of the night to the ladies."
"As to fighting," Beldar said firmly, "if Roldo had been here, he'd have acquitted himself better than either of his brothers. 'Tis Waterdeep's misfortune that none of us were here when the attack came."
"And ours," Taeros added under his breath.
Though none of them liked to admit it, they all wore the weight of unintended absence from the battles. Who'd have expected the sea to erupt with scaly beasts bent on destroying Waterdeep?
One and all, they were younger sons of proud Waterdhavian noble houses. Come every spring, until circumstances or family decrees thrust them into posts of responsibility, they were expected to wander and learn the ways of rivals, buyers, and would-be clients in the family trades all across Faerun. If much of their time was spent in festhalls and taverns, did that make them wastrels any idler than their sires had been? Didn't every traveling merchant of Waterdeep do as much, insofar as coins allowed?
A shared sigh of relief arose in the room when Beldar's eyes lit with new mischief. He pointed out the nearest window. Across crowded and ramshackle rooftops, one structure stood out, bright with new timbers and scaffolding-one of many Dock Ward buildings damaged in the sahuagin fighting. Fire had all but gutted it, but restoration was well underway.
"See yon scaffolding? All those ropes?" Beldar smiled. "An excellent place for some fun, I'm thinking…"
"A battle!" Malark said gleefully. Slapping his knees, he bounded to his feet. "Beldar and I against you three."
"Beldar's the best sword among us, and you're the biggest and strongest," Starragar complained.
"Two against three," Beldar pointed out, "and you've got Korvaun. He's nearly as good as I am."
This teasing boast brought a bow from Korvaun and a groan from the others. It occurred to Taeros that-Beldar's claim notwithstanding-if one set aside flamboyance and showmanship, it just might be that Korvaun could best them all. Moreover, Korvaun probably knew as much, but considered it unworthy of mention.
Not that it mattered. The day was fair, and the glorious game unfolding once more! Amid general laughter and swirling of new finery, Taeros tucked his things into his satchel and became the rearguard of the general rush downstairs.
"I cannot believe," Beldar Roaringhorn announced in aggrieved tones, whirling his drawn sword in a gleaming flourish to underscore his pique, "that some fool-head of a shopkeeper needs a building of this size to sell a few sandals."
"And I," Starragar added, "find myself mired in similar disbelief that a shop on Redcloak Lane in Dock Ward can truly sell 'Fine' anything."
"Well, then," Malark roared, drawing a frown from a worker peering down over a fire-scorched sign proclaiming this no mere half-rebuilt shop, but the one and only Candiera's Fine Shoes and Sandals, "we are collectively affronted. Does this establishment deserve a continued existence? I say no!"
"Whereas I," Taeros responded with a grin, entering into the spirit of the thing, "stand against you, sir, and say that it should and must! For humble shops like this, howe'er overblown and spurious their claims, have been the backbone, lifeblood, and ever-rising greatness of the City of Splendors these passing centuries, and bid fair to remain so! To strike at Candiera's Fine Shoes and Sandals is to threaten true Waterdhavians all!"
"Well shoveled," Korvaun chuckled, as hammerings and clatterings fell silent above them, and the faces of workers-younger ones grinning, but older ones frowning apprehensively-began to gather to gaze down at the Gemcloaks.
"Moreover," Starragar added hastily, recalling which side he was supposed to be on, "I can only view any attack upon this establishment's claims, however embellished they might be, to be an assault on the essential character of what it is to be Waterdhavian! Endless mercantile disputation and strife is the very lifeblood of our city! In short, to demand the destruction of this shop is to decry the very soul and core of Waterdeep!"
"What, by all the watching gods…?" a grizzle-bearded carpenter demanded in bewilderment, shouldering between his suddenly idle trustyhands to gaze down and try to discover why they'd all stopped work.
"Foolblades," an older worker spat scornfully, hefting his mallet. In response to his employer's sharp, inquiring frown, he added in explanation, "Young wastrel nobles. At play, as usual."
"And when foolblades play," another worker grunted, "things always get broken."
The carpenter leaned forward and bellowed down at the Gemcloaks, "Ho! Be off with you! Yes, you!"
Malark seemed not to hear. "Well, then," he said grandly, continuing the game, "only one solution remains to men of honor!"
"Indeed," Taeros replied politely. Four blades sang out of scabbards to join Beldar's already-bared steel, and the Gemcloaks drew themselves smoothly into two lines, facing each other in mock menace.
Someone hummed a mock fanfare, and one man from each line glided forward to stand blade-to-blade. With matching grins, Beldar and Taeros indulged in a mocking, finger-crooking parody of the elaborate lace-wristed courtesies of old nobles. Grand flourishes were made, bows performed, and blades crossed delicately, steel kissing steel.
"Insomuch as thy tragic and injurious delusions must fall, have at you, miscreant," Beldar intoned, stepping back to strike a dramatic pose made resplendent by his ruby cloak.
"And to rescue all Faerun against thy grievous and ever-burgeoning errors, have at you," Taeros
replied, his fierce grin belying the haughty styling of his words.
With a whoop, Beldar lunged and charged, hacking hard twice at Hawkwinter steel as he came, the drive and direction of his assault seeking to back Taeros over a handy bucket.
Taeros, who'd marked that hazard before crossing steel, sprang over it without looking down. In a swirl of amber finery he retreated nimbly into the litter of boards, chopping-blocks, dangling ropes, and sawhorses that crowded the building's ground floor.
Beldar advanced, kicking the bucket at his Hawkwinter foe. If the bucket chanced to contain fresh and very sticky mulehoof glue, and if Taeros happened to be adept at sliding aside and letting such missiles hurtle past him to strike and topple a leaning sheaf of boards, and thence ricochet hard into the face of the first charging worker to come thundering down a rickety temporary stair, well, that was merely the will of the gods, was it not?
And if the Gemcloaks burst into the wood shavings and barrel-littered worksite with enthusiastic roars, wild slashes, and kicks that upset most of the barrels and toppled an entire run of thankfully unoccupied scaffolding with a deafening crash into the stout stone wall of the shop next door, well, that too was as the gods willed and merely to be expected when the future champions of Waterdeep's honor took the field with blades bared and battle in their eyes.
"Ho!" Malark boomed cheerfully. With wondrous economy of movement he parried two blades as he landed a kick to Starragar's ornately filigreed codpiece.
The midnight-cloaked Voice of Dissent went staggering back, but his yelp of pain was not quite the sob it might have been. The freshest flower of House Jardeth had experienced this particular favorite Kothont attack a time or two before and protected himself accordingly.
As it was, Starragar's helpless retreat took him crashing through and over the low, stout brazier kept alight to warm and soften the carpenter's peg and wedge glues, sending it and an array of battered glue-pots flying.
Flames were springing up here and there among the thick-fallen shavings by the time the carpenter and four of his largest trustyhands came clattering down their temporary stairs with roars of rage, hurling mallets as they came. If a foolblade got knocked senseless or lost a nose to his own foolishness, well that too was in the hands of the gods.
