by Ed Greenwood
Naoni’s heart started to pound. All six of the others were right behind the foremost one. Before she could cry out to Faendra and Lark, the men charged at her, and knives flashed in their hands.
“That dagger was my favorite—or rather, the two of them were.” Malark held out his hands: one empty, the other holding a dagger with an elaborate Kothont monogram. “Superbly balanced, very fine steel, and a matched pair. I’ll have it back, and damn the cost.”
Taeros grinned mockingly. “I’d wish you luck, but you’ll need the kiss of Tymora herself to find it. By now your fang’s probably been buried in several hearts—”
“All at once?” inquired Korvaun Helmfast, with a gentle smile.
“—in rapid succession,” Taeros continued, “and thereafter sent to the bottom of the harbor, still hilt-deep in its last victim!”
“You,” Beldar growled, “spin too many wild tales. Malark has the way of it. Someone at the worksite picked up his dagger, and will doubtless require some … persuasion to relinquish his prize.”
“If we employ discretion, perhaps we could settle this with less ‘persuasion,’ ” Korvaun said. “If we keep our tempers and guard our tongues, this could be easily resolved.”
“Have you a temper to keep?” Taeros asked with mock incredulity. “I’ve seen no evidence of it.”
Korvaun shrugged. “We won’t learn if the workmen found Malark’s dagger if we arrive with accusations and demands, but we might well start a small riot.”
“Speaking of small riots,” Malark interrupted urgently, “look!”
Three young women were running frantically toward them, with several rough-looking men pounding along hard on their heels.
Beldar’s disgruntlement changed to dark glee as his sword sang out of its scabbard.
Malark ducked deftly aside to avoid getting cut, drew his own blade, and started down the alley toward the girls.
Beldar sprinted past him, eyes afire. “Gemcloaks!” he shouted as he went, Korvaun and Malark right at his heels. “The Gemcloaks are upon you!”
Which is when, of course, Taeros tripped on a loose cobble and fell on his face amid a swirl of amber.
Fortunate was the hero, he observed wryly, who writes his own story. If ever this tale were told, Taeros Hawkwinter would be foremost among the fair maidens’ defenders. Until then, he’d have to acquit himself as best he could.
He picked himself up, drew his sword, and charged after his more nimble friends.
Hard fingers raked down Naoni’s back, then snatched at her hair. Desperately she jerked her head away, clenching her teeth against the burst of pain as tresses tore.
She stumbled and almost went down, but a glimpse of Faendra’s wide-eyed terror gave her new speed. She caught her sister’s hand and pulled her along. Lark was several paces ahead, running like a rabbit. Then, suddenly, there were men with drawn swords shouting and running toward them, too!
“Oh, Lady Luck!” Naoni gasped, as a heavy hand fell on her shoulder and dragged her down. “Be with my Faen …”
She struck the cobbles, hard. The pouch at her belt slammed into her midriff, leaving her no breath at all. Writhing and sobbing, she looked frantically about for her sister.
There! Somehow Faendra had slipped past the onrushing men and was nearly to the main street. She’d be safe there.
Relief swept through Naoni. She was dimly aware of rough hands clawing at her belt and her hand, where it was clutching the heavy little bag. Her attacker was snarling promises of what he’d do to her if she didn’t yield it up right quick, and—
Suddenly he was gone. A bloodstained cobblestone rolled past Naoni’s hair-tangled gaze, and she saw a determined-looking Lark reaching down for another.
A man with a long, gleaming sword in his hand and a red cloak flapping—a cloak made of Jacintha’s gem-fabric, woven from her thread!—sprang past Lark, soaring right over Naoni in a leap that snatched him from view.
“Have at you, miscreants!” a cultured voice rang out.
Naoni rolled out of the way of Red Cloak’s companions. As she came up to her knees, she caught sight of one of the halfling guards from the Warrens. He winked at her as he darted past, a blur of dusty gray, to hamstring one of the ruffians.
The man screamed and went down, and his fellow behind him went pale and staggered hastily back out of the way as a second grandly garbed man sprang past Naoni, blue cloak swirling and blade flashing.
The thieves brandished knives and muttered curses as they hastily retreated. One fell heavily, tripping the man behind him. Naoni saw a leather thong slide out from behind his ankle, and the two halflings responsible for tripping him vanish behind the tangle of frantically struggling arms and dirty, hairy legs.
These must be guardians, sent by Jacintha to tail her home. She’d often been assured the Small Folk protected their own, but this was the first time she’d caught them at their work.
“Run, lowlife scum!” exulted one of their sword-waving rescuers, a red-bearded young giant in a green gemcloak with, oddly enough, a Moonshar accent. “Bested with barely a slash of my steel!”
“They weren’t all that good at standing, let alone fighting,” observed a dark-haired youth whose cultured tones were heavily laced with sarcasm. “No, Beldar, let them go. I believe we can trust the Watch to find crawling men.”
Nobles. These must be nobles. Who else would speak of Watchmen with such weary disdain? Plenty of crafters and dockers hated the Watch, but Naoni had never heard them dismissed with amusement before.
A sword slid back into its sheath, and firm but gentle fingers were under Naoni’s elbows, lifting her. She looked up into a handsome face framed by fair, short-shorn hair. The man’s eyes were blue and kind, full of concern … and something more.
It took Naoni a moment to recognize that “something more” as the sort of look commonly directed at pretty Faendra.
“Are you hurt, my lady?”
She considered this, and the man’s lips twitched.
“Had I asked how your companions fared, you’d have a ready answer,” he said quietly. “In the midst of danger, you spared no thought for yourself.”
“Well, there wasn’t time, you see,” she said lamely.
He smiled, not in mockery, but with genuine warmth, and beyond him, Naoni caught sight of a rising cobblestone, clenched in familiar work-reddened fingers.
“Lark, no!” she cried.
The man whirled, blue cloak swirling. Lark stepped deftly back and tossed her weapon down.
“My … yon goodwoman means no harm,” Naoni said urgently, putting a staying hand on the man’s sword arm.
“Oho!” the red-bearded man grinned knowingly, as the nobles gathered around.
She snatched her hand away. Her pouch might be heavy enough to tempt even these young blades—and didn’t such highnoses come to Dock Ward to sport with lowborn lasses? Would the refusal of a damsel they’d just rescued be heeded?
Her younger sister was wandering back, pretty face cat-curious. Fear choked Naoni. Not Faendra! Never that!
“Lark meant no harm,” she repeated hastily. “Can you say as much?”
“Aye,” the fair-haired man told her firmly. “Korvaun’s my name—Lord Korvaun Helmfast—and despite what some say about the habits of the nobility, I’m not in the habit of attacking women in the street.”
“He speaks for himself,” the red-bearded man said cheerfully, giving Faendra a good-natured wink.
Naoni’s heart sank at the delight in her sister’s face. Faen might have their mother’s beauty, but that didn’t mean she had to repeat Mother’s mistakes!
The sardonic man sighed. “Malark, not now! Save the jests for ladies not so unsettled. Ah, forgive me: I am Lord Taeros Hawkwinter, this buffoon is Lord Malark Kothont, and our foremost battle-blade yonder is Lord Beldar Roaringhorn. Usually his tongue is as swift as his sword, but just now he seems at a most uncharacteristic lack for words. Collectively we’re the Gemcloaks for, hem, obvi
ous reasons. Are you unhurt?”
Naoni nodded, alarm fading. “Bruised, perhaps. They took nothing.” She managed a smile. “I’m Naoni Dyre. This is my sister Faendra, and our servant Lark.”
Faendra pointed at Naoni, her eyes bright. “She spun the gems that went into the cloaks you’re wearing.”
The one called Beldar frowned. “Crafters?”
“Lord Roaringhorn,” Lark said, her voice like acid, “you seem surprised to learn we’re respectable women.”
The leader of the Gemcloaks reddened at her rebuke. “Forgive me, mistresses, but what do you hereabouts? These streets are no place for—”
“Folk who must go where their work takes them?” Lark’s voice and gaze were now positively glacial. “What would you know of work?”
Beldar and Lark locked gazes. What passed between them only they knew, but it looked profoundly unpleasant. Naoni winced.
Gods above, we should be thanking these men, not insulting them! They seem pleasant enough, but they’re nobles—and who knows what such grand folk might do if they take offense?
“We just came from one of my father’s worksites,” she said hastily. “It was badly damaged by some bold blades playing pranks.”
The four nobles exchanged uneasy looks.
The one called Malark frowned. “Stands this, ah, site on Redcloak Lane?”
“It does.”
Four throats were cleared in unison. “Good ladies,” Lord Roaringhorn said stiffly, “you’re probably not going to like these next words of mine well …”
“That’s a certainty,” Lark said under her breath, causing Faendra to giggle and Malark to grin.
Naoni sent both girls a quelling look and turned it into a warning frown when Malark offered his arm to Faendra. Ignoring her, Faendra slipped her hand into the crook of Lord Kothont’s arm with an easy grace that suggested long practice in front of a mirror.
“Mistress Naoni,” Korvaun Helmfast murmured gravely as he took her hand in both of his, “will you suffer our protection as you take us to your father? Those ruffians are not the only dangers in Dock Ward.”
“Ah, of course, but why take you such an interest in us?” Then, belatedly, “My father?”
“Mistress,” Lark said crisply, “these four fine noblemen are obviously responsible for the worksite damage. And, being men of honor, they’re planning to make restitution. Isn’t that so, Lord Roaringhorn?”
“It is,” Beldar said stiffly.
“Then my two lady mistresses here will be happy to take you to the man you wish to see. No,” she corrected herself, “the man you need to see. No one wishes to see Master Dyre in his present mood, but … the gods don’t always grant wishes.” She looked at Naoni. “Does that cover it, mistress?”
“It does,” she agreed absently. “Most thoroughly.”
Lark firmly took Lord Hawkwinter’s arm, leaving Beldar with no partner, and gave him a glare. “Have a care where you walk, Lord Roaringhorn. It would be a shame to spoil those fine boots.”
Naoni opened her mouth to order Lark into silence, but the words stuck in her throat. The girl’s loyalty meant much, and her judgment could hardly be faulted. Everything Naoni knew warned her to distrust these noblemen—even kindly Lord Helmfast.
She glanced up at his handsome face, and something leaped inside her.
Especially Korvaun Helmfast.
Varandros Dyre reached his front door as the third imperious volley of rapping began. Even before its sharp thunder befell, he was scowling.
Someone was ignoring a perfectly good bellpull and striking his knocker-plate with hard metal.
The Master Stonemason shook the old sword that lived in the stave-stand beside the door out of its sheath and kept one hand near it as he shot the bolts. He didn’t take the blade into his hand to heft meaningfully lest the rapping—now crack-crack-cracking on his good door again, by Tempus!—prove to be the Watch.
Dyre swung the stout door wide and stood back, his hand hovering by his blade, and saw what waited beyond his threshold.
His eyes flashed even before his mouth dropped open.
His daughters stood outside with the housemaid and a seeming army of smiling, fashionably garbed young men. There was color in everyone’s cheeks, and hair askew, and faces that looked as if they’d been laughing and were holding back mirth even now!
And looming right in front of him, in the elegantly gloved hand of one of these laughing young pups, was a dagger, reversed and raised to strike his knocker-plate once more.
It was the twin of the one he’d found at the worksite, monogram and all.
Dyre raised a hand sharply, cutting off Faendra’s excited flood of explanation of how their lives had been so bravely saved, by these very—
“Enough, daughter. I’ll be having a word with these … gentlesirs,” he growled at her, his fierce gaze brooking no argument.
Fire to match his own kindled briefly in those blue eyes—not for nothing was her name Dyre!—but Naoni placed a quelling hand on her sister’s shoulder. Her gray eyes fixed on him in some sort of mute appeal. Before she could speak, the maid deftly herded both girls back from the doors and drew them firmly down the hall.
Dyre gave a curt nod of approval. Lark’s wages were well spent; she at least had sense. Though in truth, he cared not if his daughters heard every word. Might be better for them if they did.
Varandros Dyre turned his back on the young nobles and strode around behind his desk to stand regarding them across its large, parchment-littered expanse. His gaze was not friendly.
Taeros saw Beldar looking askance at the untidy papers. So did the master of Dyre’s Fine Walls and Dwellings.
“You seem unused to the litter of honest toil,” Dyre said coldly. “Might I remind you that some of us in this fair city must work hard to keep Waterdeep fair?”
Shrewd eyes and ears weren’t needed to conclude that the stonemason was simmering with rage, and Taeros raised a hand in a warning gesture to his fellows.
“It seems you protected my daughters and my maid, and I owe you the thanks any father must tender. Please accept it.” Dyre did not trouble to make that ‘please’ anything but a command, and swept straight on.
“You must forgive me if I have some suspicions as to why such grand young lords, free in idleness to pursue any amusement that might occur to them and range freely from end to end of great Waterdeep, come to be in the vicinity of a certain worksite in the heart of highly unfashionable Dock Ward—a worksite that a band of young lordlings recently reduced to a shambles! In doing so, it seems they also found it amusing to sword honest workers, to say nothing of setting fires that might well have devastated more than a street or two of fair Waterdeep.”
Dyre’s words came out cold, clipped, and inexorable, like measured lash-blows. “And so damaging a scaffold that another worker fell from it this morn: a man who’ll be maimed for life if healings fail.”
Taeros saw his own guilt mirrored on his friends’ faces. Before any of them could find the right words, Dyre planted his large hands on his desk, leaned forward with his eyes ablaze, and asked softly, “Now, would any of you know anything about this?”
Despite the desk, his shorter stature, and several paces of floor between them, the stonemason seemed to loom over the younger men.
Taeros swallowed. “Master Dyre, goodsir, I assure you, we’ll …”
The Mason Stonemason looked directly at him, and under the sudden fierce fire of his gaze and its comical juxtaposition with that huge snout of a nose, the Hawkwinter’s mouth went dry.
“Sir,” Malark said swiftly, “of course we’ll make amends!”
“Of course,” Beldar added grandly, reaching for his purse. “I am—”
“I know who you are, Lord Roaringhorn,” Dyre said with a snarl, “and I know you’ll pay for all you’ve done. I’ll have the Black Robes make sure of that, whatever your intentions. I know our laws, which is why I’m not taking a blade to all of you, right now, and en
ding your foolishness for good! Waterdeep had more than enough of the haughty vandalism of Waterdhavian nobility years ago.”
He drew himself up, becoming, if possible, even more imposing.
“I shall expect all of you to keep well away from my daughters henceforth, which should prove easy for you, my lords, because they spend their days in honest work. You have your grand houses to sport in, to say nothing of clubs my lowborn girls would not be allowed through the doors of, even if they had coins enough to waste.”
The stonemason took a long breath and continued more calmly but even more firmly, “My daughters will have to earn their places in Waterdhavian society, and I cannot think they’ll be aided in achieving the station and success they deserve by consorting with ruffians, however nobly born, who amuse themselves by harming and beggaring others whenever they’re not doing the dirty work of the Lords!”
Taeros blinked. Dirty work of the …?
The Gemcloaks scarcely had time to frown in puzzlement ere the Master Stoneworker came slowly around the edge of his desk, hands hanging loosely at his sides, ready for trouble.
“Nor am I alone in such views. I’ve friends among the guilds and shopkeepers who watch the antics of you and your like with far less than approval. Many eyes will have seen your arrival here, and tongues will wag as to why. A good part of the city—the working part—will be watching you lordlings very closely in days to come, to see if any ‘accident’ should befall me. Not because I am important, or for any love of me, but because time and again dissent has been quelled in Waterdeep through the silencing of overly loud critics, by accident after accident, and they won’t stomach much more of it.”
He took a step closer, and more than one noble hand drifted toward a swordhilt.
“So, my lords,” Dyre added softly, his eyes still blazing, “let us understand each other very well. I will accept your apologies and your coins, and you will keep away from the women of my household, and take very great care that no further accidents befall me, Dyre’s Fine Walls and Dwellings, or any of my worksites.”
