by Ed Greenwood
“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 Faerûn 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.
With a whoop Beldar Roaringhorn sent Taeros sprawling over a pile of boards. Emptying a small belt-flask in a single quaff, he spun around in a ruby-red swirl to slice through the stout rope lashings holding the lowest flight of the temporary stairs in place.
Under the weight of onrushing workers, that run of steps plunged to earth. So great was the force of its landing that it rebounded hard and high into the air, then slammed down again amidst splinterings of protest. Those crashes smote the ears almost as hard as the toppled workers hit the board-and-shaving-strewn floor. Almost.
One laborer struck a litter of lumber with a helpless curse that rose into a howl of fear as a trio of propped beams toppled over onto him. They slammed down on the man and then rolled away, leaving him bruised and groaning. Enraged, another trustyhand leaned down from the floor above to send a drop-bucket swinging hard at the back of Korvaun Helmfast’s head.
Taeros saw this peril approaching on the end of its stout rope and lunged into a frantic dive that took a startled Korvaun safely to the floor with him. It was merest mischance that someone had left dressed boards atop a row of sawhorses there and that their sudden arrival dislodged the end horse, making the boards dance and rattle with force enough to spill the carpenter’s crate of precious hand-forged longnails.
The noisy clatter of that outpouring swept the carpenter into white-hot, shrieking fury. He charged at Taeros and Korvaun heedless of obstacles.
Accordingly, several sawhorses and an entire handcart of wooden pulley-blocks were sent flying, sweeping several workers from their feet to slide and roll helplessly. One man’s tumble took Starragar Jardeth’s feet out from under him, and the watching gods alone willed that Starragar’s flailing blade severed a vital anchor-binding of a scaffold still alive with laborers pounding along its boards and hastening down its ladders.
In a sudden and sickening cacophony of shrieking wood, a corner of that scaffold buckled and swung out from the building, spilling mallets, nails, boards, off-cuts, and shouting trustyhands down into Redcloak Lane, where, a staggering Malark Kothont could not help but observe, as he smote aside a furious laborer with the flat of his blade and puffed his way back into the flame-flickering heart of the deepest shavings where Taeros and Korvaun were enthusiastically thwacking a roaring carpenter with the flats of their own blades, a delighted crowd was beginning to gather.
“Ho!” Malark shouted sportingly as he came, his sword cutting the air with mock ferocity. Workers were fleeing in all directions now, having little taste for fencing sharp steel with battered hand-mallets.
As the worksite speedily emptied of cursing, sweating laborers and Malark bore down on the still-raging carpenter, the blare of a Watch-horn arose to the north: the single note of one patrol summoning another. Redcloak Lane would very soon host more Watch officers than a bugbear had fleas.
Malark halted, abandoning his sport with a shrug. No one had been slain, though if this fool of a carpenter didn’t stop snatching gouges and chisels from his belt and throwing them at Taeros Hawkwinter, that might well change …
Malark’s speculation was abruptly cut short by a flying chisel. He ducked low then turned his dive into a somersault, bringing both of his boots up hard and fast into the carpenter’s gut. They sank therein with satisfying thuds, hurling the retching man away into a pillar, which, being a fresh and temporary prop rather than a stoutly anchored timber, promptly gave way.
The slow but gathering-in-strength groan that followed was truly impressive and heralded the sagging of an entire section of
still-charred ceiling. Gemcloaks scampered away with excited shouts but were forced to turn in swirlings of bright finery as the peg-popping, wood-twisting shiftings overhead caused the already leaning Redcloak Lane scaffolding to turn and crumple a little more.
Cries of excitement and alarm arose from the crowd, and the few of them who’d shown signs of drawing daggers or brandishing dock-hooks to join the fray drew hastily back.
The carpenter’s belligerence seemed to have left him along with the contents of his stomach, and he now devoted himself to hastily crawling away, coughing, “Help!” and “Fire!” and “Call the Watch!” as he went.
Magnanimously Malark let him go, for there were brighter foes to vanquish—to whit, one Taeros Hawkwinter, a certain Korvaun Helmfast, and the never-to-be-overlooked Starragar Jardeth. With Beldar Roaringhorn at his side, the valiant Malark Kothont would now … and where was Beldar?
Malark caught sight of him through merrily rising flames. The ruby-cloaked Roaringhorn was happily fencing with Starragar, while Taeros and Korvaun raced to snatch and empty the workers’ fire-buckets on the most enthusiastic of the conflagrations. Beldar, unaware or uncaring of such trifles, buried his blade deep in a pillar that Starragar had ducked behind.
The Jardeth took advantage of Beldar’s frantic tugging to race up a short ladder, snatch another fire-bucket, and empty it over Beldar’s head.
Thankfully it proved to be full of water and not pipe-ash and sand, and watching Waterdeep was treated to the sight of the leader of the Gemcloaks spitting water and roaring in damp fury.
Malark opened his mouth to bellow delightedly—and Waterdeep suddenly vanished in a dark, stunningly wet torrent of evil-smelling water.
The scion of House Kothont staggered blindly, clawed the bucket off his head, and glared angrily into the coldly smiling visage of a Watch officer. The man faced Malark with his sword drawn, its blade thrust through the handle of a second full bucket. The dozen hard-faced Watchmen looming behind his leather-armored shoulders held leveled halberds in their hands, and they were not smiling.
“Stand!” another Watchman bellowed from the far side of the building in the tones of one who is accustomed to obedience. “Stand, and down arms all! Reveal your names and business here to the Watch! All others, keep back and keep silence!”
“Stamp and quench!” the officer facing Malark snapped, without turning his head to look at his men. “In there now, swift as you can! Get those fires out!”
The Watchmen charged forward, more than one of them roughly jostling Malark. The officer took one slow step forward and curtly made a ‘down arms’ gesture to Malark.
Who spread his arms wide, splendid emerald cloak swirling, and asked, “Surely, goodman, you don’t mean to separate a noble from his sword?”
The Watch officer’s face went carefully expressionless. “Being an officer of the City Watch, lord, I never mean to do anything. I uphold the law, follow orders, and visit consequences on those who do not.”
He repeated the ‘down arms’ gesture. Malark shrugged and let his blade fall to the shavings-littered floor at his feet.
The Watch officer nodded curtly. Good dog, Malark thought, remembering one of his father’s huntsmen nodding in exactly the same way to a hound he was training.
“And what might your name be? Lord …?”
“Kothont. Malark Kothont.”
Many Watchmen were approaching through the littered building, forming a loose ring around the other Gemcloaks. The Watch officer nodded his head toward them without lowering his blade or taking his eyes off Malark. “And these bright-feathered birds: They’re nobles, too?”
“Of course,” Malark said airily, spreading his hands in an expansive gesture.
“Of course,” the officer echoed, the merest thread of contempt in his level, carefully flat voice.
Catcalls and derisive comments were being shouted from the crowd, but by now there were more Watchmen than dock workers in Redcloak Lane, and when curt “stand away” orders were given, space was cleared.
The complaints of the carpenter rose into a roar as he and his men were included in that shoving of turned-sideways halberds. The ranking Watch commander held up a warning hand and growled, “Patience, goodman,” in tones that promised dire consequences for disobedience. The carpenter fell silent.
The commander turned back to Beldar Roaringhorn, who with Taeros and the others had now been herded to stand with Malark Kothont. He made a swift, two-fingered circling gesture, and Watchmen scrambled to take up the Gemcloaks’ weapons.
“I say—” Malark protested, and again the warning hand came up, commanding silence.
“Assault, damage to property, and fire-setting,” the commander listed almost wearily. “Openly and in public, apparently with pranksome intent. Have you any explanation for this fool-headedness or good reason you should not face magisterial justice forthwith?”
With only the slightest of wincings Beldar stepped forward and gave the commander an easy “We’re all reasonable men here” smile. Malark subsided, more than content to let his friend fly this particular hawk.
“Mere fun, nothing more! No harm was meant and little was done. On my honor as a Roaringhorn, we’ll be happy to compensate the building’s owner for any damage!”
Most of the Watch officers were eyeing the Gemcloaks as if they’d like to toss the young nobles into the nearest rat-infested dungeon, yet in a civilized city, money smoothed many rough roads, and men of means could send their stewards around to settle any unpleasantness.
On the other hand, Malark mused, perhaps the city was too civilized. In Waterdeep, things were done in sly roundabout ways that didn’t suit him at all. In the wilderlands of his mother’s kin, men dealt with matters, promptly and openly, with none of this whining dependence upon a council of anonymous rulers.
Here, a carpenter could glare at Malark with eyes holding deadly promise, and a nobleman could be deprived of his sword, yet knowing Waterdeep, most likely both of them would die not settling their differences blade to blade but eating a stew poisoned by an unseen aggrieved party.
The Watch commander made a gesture, and the Gemcloaks’ weapons were proffered to them, hilts-first.
“Stand back, men,” he said softly. “Restitution has been offered. These men are free to go.”
Beldar sheathed his sword, and his companions followed suit. “We meant no harm,” he repeated.
“Aye,” the commander said dryly, his eyes boring into those of Beldar Roaringhorn like two contemptuous daggers. “Your sort never do.”
CHAPTER TWO
Morning came slowly to Dock Ward. Its close-huddled buildings cast stubborn shadows the guttering street-lanterns did little to dispel. Here and there roosters caroled like conjurers summoning the sun. Muttered curses followed most of their crowings amid clatters of tools. Some folk who dwelt here had to rise early to earn coin enough to eat.
Mrelder headed for Redcloak Lane, marveling at the changes a year could bring. The last time he’d stumbled wearily along here, seeking his way back to Candlekeep, most of these buildings had been charred and smoking ruins.
The rebuilt structures had stone walls to twice a man’s height, crowned with one or more stories of stout timber. Most roofs were of new thatch, but the fires hadn’t been forgotten: there were a few runs of slate tiles too. Mrelder wondered how much such a roof would add to the cost of his new establishment.
He stopped where Candiera’s Fine Shoes and Sandals had stood. Its rubble had been carted away, and a new timber frame soared to impressive heights above a repaired foundation of dressed stone. However, roofless openwork timbers kept a man a trifle damp and drafty, even in fabled Waterdeep.
One of the workers shifting and hammering boards in that littered interior saw him and strode over, mallet in hand.
“Have you business here?”
Mrelder smiled faintly. “I’d fondly hoped to be doing business here before the midsummer fairs, but it seems the work goes sl
owly.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Be you the sorcerer who bought out Candiera?”
“The same. Would you be Master Dyre?”
A passing trustyhand grinned at them. “If yer offering to magic him into Dyre, he’d probably take you up on it—leastwise, if’n he could keep his own nose.” There were roars of laughter from workers all around.
“I take it Master Dyre’s not here. May I … look about?”
The carpenter shrugged. “It’s yours, bought and paid for. Don’t be climbing the frames or pulling on any ropes, though; they’re not secured proper.”
Mrelder nodded. “Fair enough. I want a look around back to see what room we’ll have for loading carts and such.”
“Back there? Done, all but some carting away. Mind your step and take a torch—it’s dark as Cyric’s heart down by yon well.”
“Oh? What befell the glowpaint?”
“Probably wore out. Everything does. I can tell you true there was no magic about the place when we started. Master Dyre always makes sure; says it costs him less coin to hire a wizard to spy out magic than to pay for his own burial if he blunders into an old ward.”
“A prudent man,” Mrelder observed.
Accepting a torch, he made his way through ankle-deep shavings to light it from a small fire in a copper brazier near the workers’ glue pots, and picked his way on through the litter to the well house.
It, too, had changed. Beyond a new door, neatly dressed stone had replaced the old chipped steps. As the carpenter had said, the glowpaint was gone.
As Mrelder glanced at the well, his heart sank. It had a lid so new that the wood was still pale, the brass fasteners bright. Beside it, the old cover lay in a rotting heap.
There was no sign of the Candlekeep rune on those moldering shards. The magic was gone. The wood had probably crumbled when the enchantment was dispelled.
Mrelder sighed. No doubt spell-ways into that great fortress temple were crafted to vanish if any magic was worked on them.
Or perhaps the monks now believed they had reason to distrust him.
