The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  “You’ll have to be more specific, my lord,” she replied. “Waterdeep knows no shortage of rumors.”

  “True enough. I’m not so thoughtless and inattentive a host as you suppose. While it’s true I’ve not entered the great hall—at least, not as you see me now—I’ve received several of my guests at brief private meetings.”

  She nodded, understanding at once. “They leave your presence speaking of things you’d like to hear said when nobles talk with nobles, rather than making idle chat about the cut of your clothes and the quality of your wine.”

  “Well said,” he told her approvingly.

  “And, of course, the nobles of Waterdeep being what they are, those who were given an audience will lord it over those who weren’t,” she added. “I’d wager gold against copper that within a tenday, half of those spurned will seek you out. Whatever the business at hand, you’ll get a better offer from the come-lately folk than from those you spoke with tonight.”

  The elf’s silver brows rose. “Well said, indeed. You know the fair flower of our citizenry well for a foreigner.”

  He allowed himself a certain dark pleasure at the sudden panic that flashed into her eyes. “You must be enjoying our sea breezes, Lady Evenmoon. Tashluta’s very warm during the Flamerule moon.”

  If the girl harbored any uncertainty about this matter, she hid it well. “Warmer than in winter, certainly.”

  Elaith chuckled at her deft parry. He swept one hand lightly toward her, subtly unleashing a minor spell. “Please be seated. Not on the carpet, preferably, though I can see why you were on the floor when I entered the room.”

  Her eyes were wary as she moved away from the desk and took the chair he’d indicated. “I’m not sure I understand, my lord.”

  “Why, you’ve lost an ornament, of course.”

  The girl’s hand immediately went to the green ribbon around her left arm—precisely the response Elaith had anticipated. He suppressed a smile. Toying with this girl was the most pleasure he’d had all evening.

  “I was speaking of your earring,” he said lightly. Striding around behind the desk, he plucked from the carpet a hoop of silver wire, from which was suspended an intricately knotted web of gem-like threads.

  The girl’s brown eyes widened and her hand lifted to her ear. She’d not felt the earring vanish with his simple theft-spell.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting the pretty thing.

  Her eyes followed him as he went directly to the hiding place and touched the carved wood in precisely the spot that released the hidden panel.

  The young woman relaxed noticeably, hardly the response he’d expected from someone whose secret message had just been intercepted.

  Elaith skimmed the note, a report about some merchants seeking to unmask the Lords of Waterdeep. From its tone, it was apparent that this girl, or someone who paid her hire, was an agent of one of the Lords. He raised his eyes from it to meet her watchful gaze.

  “For whom are you working, girl?”

  Uncertainty flickered over her face, swiftly blossoming into suspicion. Elaith realized, to his surprise and delight, that she assumed he was her contact!

  Logical enough, being as he’d shown familiarity with the hiding place. Folk who knew little of magic seldom stopped to think about the precautions taken by those who did. Elaith knew of every magic in this villa, including those borne by each of his guests. Magical toys of his own collected such information.

  “Who do you work for?” he repeated, phrasing his query in less formal terms and, not incidentally, in a manner one of his magical devices would recognize.

  He glanced at one of several portraits hanging on the wall. The nondescript image shifted, taking on the features of Texter the paladin—an image taken from the girl’s thoughts.

  Well, well. Little surprise there; Texter had long been on Elaith’s private short list of suspected Lords. The paladin’s business often took him north, and he was the sort to rescue maidens in distress. No doubt he’d extricated this girl from the clutches of a rough-handed patron, thinking her a set-upon serving girl.

  “A reasonable question,” he continued, staring into her increasingly suspicious face, “given your former employment. Our good friend Texter holds a far more optimistic view of human nature than I do.”

  Color drained from the girl’s face. “What do you know of that?” she whispered.

  In a heartbeat, he was standing over her, dangling the ribbon from her arm tauntingly before her eyes. Too late, she slapped a hand over the small brand burned into her upper arm.

  “A mark of indenture,” Elaith said softly, recognizing the shape of the old scar. “All too common on the docks of barbarous Luskan. Your mother was a tavern slut and owed more than she could ever hope to repay on her own. She no doubt rejoiced when her belly swelled with a ten-fathered bastard, and sold the babe at birth. I doubt you were much past childhood when you started plying your mother’s trade.”

  To her credit, the girl did not weep or plead with him to stop. A question burned in her eyes, more painful to her than her revealed shame. “Did he tell you?”

  Elaith did not need to ask whom she meant. Something held him back from naming the paladin as his source. His reticence was not, he told himself, prompted by a desire to save the girl from disillusionment and pain. It was merely—practical. Let her believe in her Texter’s shining honor, and so let her continue to send and receive messages. Messages the Serpent would intercept and profit from.

  “I have some … small magical skills,” he murmured, giving her his softest smile. “You may rest assured: Texter did not betray you.”

  The emphasis was not lost on her. “But you might.”

  “If it affords me an advantage, certainly. That’s why I make it a point to know the secrets of everyone in my employ.”

  She frowned, lips thinning.

  “It’s not escaped my notice that you’ve avoided your first trade since arriving in Waterdeep—in fact, you seem to want nothing much to do with men.”

  He let the ribbon drift down, and watched her snatch it deftly out of the air before adding dryly, “It would gladden my heart if more elven females would emulate your good judgment in such matters.”

  “I want nothing to do with male elves, either,” Lark said bluntly.

  He smiled, faintly amused by her presumption. “You’ll have no quarrel from me on that score; it’s hardly the service I require from you.”

  The girl shook her head. “I owe a debt of honor to Texter. It’s him I’ll serve, and no other.”

  “Is that so?” he asked mildly. “Whom would you serve if your tawdry past became common knowledge? The working-class respectability so dear to Master Dyre would demand you be summarily dismissed and loudly denounced. You’d be hard-pressed to find another position among respectable folk.”

  She regarded him with a mixture of anger and uncertainly, but said nothing. Merely watched him, eyes larger and darker. Waiting to hear her fate.

  Elaith smiled pleasantly. “You wish to leave your past behind. Commendable.” Time to twist the knife. “Also understandable. I can see how this knowledge could color your working relationship with an upstanding man like Texter.”

  “You son of a snake,” she said softly.

  Elaith’s smile never faltered. “I’ll ask you one more time: Who are you working for?”

  A long, heavy silence followed as Lark wrestled with herself under his interested eye. Then she took a long breath and squared her shoulders.

  “You,” she said heavily.

  The elf took her at her word. How could he not? The portrait of Texter had shifted again, and his own handsome face gazed out of the frame, amber eyes gleaming over a smile of supreme satisfaction.

  The rumble and roar of falling timber was all around, unseen in swirling, choking dust.

  “Taeros!” came a familiar Roaringhorn bellow. “Malark!”

  Taeros knew Beldar was nearby, somewhere that way … but “that way”
was all dust, fallen wood, and leaning beams.

  Lanterns and candles had crashed down everywhere to start little leaping fires, and their flickering glows showed Lord Hawkwinter a swaying, swinging chaos of ropes and beams. Smoke was rolling and eddying energetically—and all around him wood was screaming.

  Taeros wouldn’t have believed splintering, rending wood could scream, but then, he hadn’t known it could groan, either.

  It was doing both right now, even more loudly than the frantic, sobbing screams of women blundering about in the alarmingly leaning labyrinth of pillars and sagging balconies. Men were shouting and coughing, and at least one fool had drawn a sword and was slashing wildly as he came staggering through the dusty gloom, as if sharp steel could slaughter dust.

  As Taeros struggled to his feet, the remains of someone’s chair and table falling away from his bruised shoulders, a balcony tore free and plunged to the stage with a thunderous crash. In an instant, the man waving the sword was smashed into a bloody smear on those shattered, bouncing boards.

  Taeros saw that sword, still clutched by the severed ruin of a forearm, clatter to the floor near Malark, who was having troubles of his own amid much splintered furniture. Then roiling dust hid Lord Kothont again.

  Curses and thuds heralded someone wearing a splendid scarlet-and-gold tunic, not Malark’s emerald gemfire, who came stumbling out of the dust. The man clawed his way past Taeros, trailing a stream of curses and half-dragging someone long-haired and presumably feminine whose slender shoulder slammed into Beldar with force enough to stop a Roaringhorn bellow in mid-roar, and leave Beldar retching on his knees.

  Well, at least Taeros now knew where that friend was. He turned toward Beldar, but—

  Another balcony fell, with a splintering, floor-shaking crash. And then another.

  Taeros fought for balance on floorboards that were suddenly rising and falling like waves rolling into the harbor.

  The next crash was a long, rolling, ear-hammering chaos, and Taeros saw a ceiling-beam, wreathed in flames, plunge to the floor. Dust rose like a wall.

  As the echoes of its rolling faded, he became aware that someone was shouting—someone familiar. Beldar had found his breath again.

  “Get out! Come on! We’ve got to get out!”

  Taeros turned, staggering as loose boards shifted under his boots, and then glanced back. Had Malark—?

  Other patrons were thundering past, running blindly. Some slammed into already trembling pillars and reeled sideways or fell senseless.

  Flames flared as a fallen curtain ignited, and Taeros could suddenly see the stage again, where blood lay in pools and still, huddled forms were sprawled under tangles of jagged wood.

  “Malark?” Taeros shouted, peering at where his friend had been. Dust swirled thickly there, but he thought he saw a glimmer of green.

  He started forward—and fell hard as something else collapsed, far off in the gloom, and the floor bounced and rippled again.

  More grandly garbed folk came running out of the smoke and dust, wild-eyed and staggering. Among them, a woman who wore a tiara and dripped with jewels was cursing like a sailor as she tried to twist and tear free of three or four terrified serving-girls who were clinging to her long sleeves and trailing gown.

  “Let go!” the woman spat. Cloth tore with a long snarl of protest, baring her legs, and a mewling trio of maids crashed to their knees in the wreckage.

  Weeping with fear and rage, the woman ran on, spraying jewels in her wake like hailstones. Across much dust and chaos, Taeros finally caught sight of Malark’s familiar grin—directed not at him, but at a servant-lass who was clinging to him, sobbing and trembling.

  As they emerged fully from the dense smoke, Lord Kothont put her gently away from him and gave her a little shove in the direction of the door. She stumbled, then caught herself and darted toward safety. Malark nodded in satisfaction, then reached down to pluck up one of the three terrified maids.

  And then, with a crash like the hammer of Gond coming down on his Greatforge, three or four ceiling-beams came down right in front of Taeros, hurling him helplessly back, arms flailing, into—something hard yet yielding that cursed as it collapsed under him.

  “Hawkwinter?” whoever it was snarled. “That you?”

  “Beldar!” Taeros gasped, fighting for breath. His arm was numb, one of his knees was burning as if afire, and—

  “Up, and out of this!” Beldar growled, rising up under Taeros like a harbor wave. His snarling strength hauled them both to their feet, and they swayed together as more beams fell. Then the young flower of House Roaringhorn snatched, heaved, and broke into a stumbling run, Taeros Hawkwinter bobbing along on his shoulder like a sack of meal.

  “Malark—”

  “Can fend for his bloody self,” Beldar panted. “Much good we’ll be … to him … flat as … fish-heads underfoot … on the docks. ’Sides, have you ever known Malark not slide out of anything?”

  Taeros couldn’t find breath for a reply as he was hustled along, bouncing jaw biting his own tongue repeatedly, but he didn’t have to. Malark would come out unscathed. Malark always did.

  He couldn’t stop coughing.

  On his knees on the dirty cobbles, Taeros hacked and spat and heaved, shoulders shaking, until a grim-jawed Beldar slapped his back hard enough to drive him nose down onto the stones, which promptly rattled and shook hard enough to numb a Hawkwinter chin and send its owner rolling helplessly over onto his side, still coughing.

  “What was—?” he managed to ask.

  “The last of the Slow Cheese,” Beldar Roaringhorn snapped, in a voice that promised brutal death to someone, and soon. “Going down flat.”

  “M-Malark?”

  “Under it, somewhere.” Beldar thrust something under his friend’s nose.

  Taeros blinked at it, fighting for breath.

  “This,” Beldar growled, “was stuck to a spar that was flung into the air just after I carried you over here—and damned near skewered me coming down. It was stuck there with blood.”

  Taeros stared at what his friend was holding: A blood-smeared scrap of emerald green gemweave, cloth that in all Waterdeep, only Malark Kothont could have been wearing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first rumble and roar brought Golskyn from his bed, coverlets flying. He hurried to the window of their upper room and gazed up into the midnight sky, his uncovered eye searching the stars with open longing.

  “A dragon’s heart,” he said wistfully. “Now that would be a true test of a man’s strength!”

  Mrelder stumbled to his father’s side, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His thoughts were not of dragon flight, nor the wondrous challenge of capturing, dismembering, and incorporating that greatest of creatures. He thought instead of the city all around and the folk who dwelt in it. Fresh rumblings drew his gaze.

  “A building’s fallen!” He pointed. “Look, there: Dust rising. Flames now, too.”

  Golskyn peered. “Dragonfire?” he asked hopefully, not ready to relinquish his fond hope.

  “No dragons,” his son murmured.

  Mrelder thought he might know the cause of the collapse. The mongrelmen had tunneled thereabouts to link to the cellars of another of Golskyn’s buildings. Lord Unity wasn’t the only priest of monstrous gods in Waterdeep, but he was new to Waterdhavians, and undeniably impressive. Folk were flocking to his hidden rituals, and the traffic beneath Waterdeep’s streets was rapidly increasing. If one foundation had been so weakened, what else might soon fall?

  Once the rubble was cleared, that tunnel would be discovered, and then—

  The sharp, suspicious glare of his father’s uncovered eye suddenly blocked Mrelder’s view.

  “You know something of this,” Golskyn snapped. It was not a question.

  Mrelder’s thoughts raced. Nothing less than a solution would serve; Golskyn had no patience for unsolved problems.

  “Well?”

  A map of the city sewers came suddenly t
o mind, and with it his answer.

  “I had the mongrelmen undermine yon building’s foundation,” Mrelder lied. Golskyn scowled, and his son added hastily, “Their work runs very close to a long established sewer-run. It’ll be short work to breach what’s between them and use the dirt and stone to block off one end of our passage, keeping it secret.”

  “And the other end?”

  “Leads to an old warehouse, half-full of the rubble of our diggings.”

  Golskyn’s scowl remained. “I like this not. Too high a risk.”

  “How so? Investigation will show only that someone’s extending tunnels. Most Waterdhavians believe the Lords control the tunnels, so the Lords’ll be blamed. The more troubles Lord Piergeiron must answer for, the more frequently he’ll be out among the people—and the more opportunities we’ll have to lay hands on the Guardian’s Gorget.”

  “And this warehouse?”

  A genuine smile spread across Mrelder’s face. “I won it at dice—no coin changed hands, no papers—from an old, retired merchant. He had no family, and, ahem, died suddenly. Shortly after our game.”

  “He’d no parts worth keeping, I’ll warrant,” Golskyn muttered predictably, in his usual response to news of death, dismemberment, or murder.

  “Alas, none. Heirs and mourners: None again. If anyone wonders who owns the warehouse, the law’s clear: as he had no heirs, it’s now city property. Another finger pointing at the Lords.”

  Lord Unity’s scowl was gone. “You’ve given this hard thought.”

  Mrelder nodded. “Once the ‘why’ of this collapse is known, citizens’ll be ready enough to blame tunneling for other downfalls.”

  “There are other buildings down?”

  “Not yet.” Mrelder smiled. “Before dawn, another building will fall. Far from here, so no hint of suspicion comes to our doors.”

  Golskyn actually smiled. “Your sorcery will cause this?”

  Mrelder bowed.

  The priest squinted at the sky. “You’d best get on with it, my son. Dawn is but three bells away.”