The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  Then he was off down the street like a thunderstorm afoot, and she and Lark were settling the bar into place.

  Naoni came down the last few steps, her face thoughtful. “I recall once,” she said slowly, “Father having dealings with an old tunnel-repairer, one Thandar Buckblade. Remember, Faen?”

  Faendra shook her head. “Father has dealings with lots of old men. I get tired of their winks and leers. Some are so old they can’t even whistle, and they just wheeze at me!”

  Lark rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss old men. There can be snow on the roof and fire in the loins.”

  “This Buckblade,” Naoni said firmly, “was a dwarf of Dock Ward. Father said he knew everything under the cobbles of the city. Everything. He retired years ago.”

  Lark frowned. “And you think we should go and ask this Buckblade about the Lords’ secret tunnels? If he was in the habit of giving away the Lords’ secrets, how did he live long enough to retire?”

  “Perhaps his reaction will tell us something.”

  “And if he gets angry and demands to know where you got this foolheaded notion?”

  “I … I’ll tell him I overheard Mirt the Moneylender talking about the tunnels when he was drunk—and claiming he was a Lord, too!”

  Lark shrugged to the accompaniment of Faendra’s long, low whistle of appreciation, and said reluctantly, “That should work, but make it his servant, not Mirt himself. Who’d believe the Old Wolf a loose-tongued drunkard?” When Naoni nodded, she added, “So where exactly do we find this dwarf?”

  “On our shopping next morn, we can ask some of the men Father trades with if they know where Buckblade lives, and then go see him after our highsun rounds the day after.”

  Faendra’s nod was as eager as her grin was wide.

  “Mistresses, it seems adventure awaits,” Lark said dryly, “but first things first: While fortune may favor the bold, masters pay the tidy and hardworking. Hand me that mop.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Korvaun unlocked the clubhouse door and held it open for the trio who’d followed him up the stairs, carrying fresh provender for the Gemcloaks’ morningfeast. His friends had agreed to meet here first thing in the morning, which to them of course meant “shortly before highsun.” Accordingly, Korvaun had ordered a spread of cold food commonly served at both morning and afternoon meals: breads, cheeses, sliced roasts, berry tarts, and cool ale.

  His thanks and coins swiftly saw the baker’s man and the provender shop delivery lad off, so he could supervise the placement of the ale.

  The brew had been carried up by the brewer’s apprentice, a boy of perhaps thirteen winters, who lingered after the handkeg was settled on the coldsmoke rack, staring at wisps of cold steam rising from the rack’s copper basin.

  “How’s that done?” he demanded, too fascinated to remember proper deference to nobility.

  “Handy magic.” Korvaun plucked up the vial of coldsmoke liquid. “A few drops of this in the basin—so—creates enough cold air to cool a cask this size for two days.”

  A frigid cloud rose from the basin, and the copper fittings of the barrel misted over at once. The boy peered with bright-eyed interest, and Korvaun thought of his own boyhood. He remembered intense impatience when lessons ran overlong, but he’d been fortunate to have had the opportunity to learn. There’d be no books, lessons, or boring tutors for this lad.

  The apprentice waved at the vial. “What if you get that on your hand?”

  Korvaun smiled. “Well asked; I’m sure Nipvar Tattersky—the alchemist who devised coldsmoke—wishes he’d had your foresight. His best mouser tipped over a vial and was frozen alive, as stiff as wood. Master Tattersky’s exceedingly fond of his cats, and spent days seeking a priest willing to beseech the gods on behalf of a cat. He altered his potion, so now it works only while touching copper.”

  The lad was frowning but also nodding slowly.

  On impulse Korvaun asked, “Why do you suppose he chose copper?”

  The apprentice looked at him. “I’d say he didn’t want coldsmoke used as a weapon or on weapons so warriors could freeze foes at a touch. No one fights with copper blades, but coopers use it all the time.”

  The youngest Lord Helmfast nodded, impressed. This lad was as bright as new coin, utterly wasted as a brewer’s drudge. “How came you to Master Drinder?”

  The lad shrugged. “My father knows Drinder, or you might say he knows his ale. Da’s powerful fond of it and likes to chide me for the six tenday’s drinking lost to my apprentice fee.”

  Outrage flooded Korvaun. “Your father sold you for two months of ale?”

  The boy’s jaw dropped. He stared at Korvaun and then whooped with laughter. “Oh-hoho, that’s rich! A master don’t pay the apprentice fee! It’s the ‘prentice as pays him—and thanks him for the privilege!”

  “I see.” That made sense, given that an apprenticeship was a crafter’s education. “If you could do anything, would you have apprenticed to a brewer?”

  The lad gave Korvaun a puzzled frown. The thought of choosing a livelihood was obviously new to him. “There’s a lot to brewing,” he said slowly, “but Master Drinder says I need only know what he sees fit to tell me, which isn’t much more than fetch this, mop that.”

  “You and Master Tattersky would get on well. His lament is that his new apprentice is content to do what he’s told but hasn’t the wits to wonder why. The alchemist values an inquisitive nature, which most likely explains his affinity for cats.”

  “Master Drinder doesn’t like cats or questions. He says too much thinking sours ale.”

  Korvaun corked the vial and handed it to the lad. “Take this to your master, and instruct him in its use. It might be of benefit to him in brewing, and—who knows?—perhaps the brewer and the alchemist might find themselves engaging in mutually beneficial trade. Of more than one kind.”

  The boy was quick to grasp the unspoken, and his eyes widened with the wonder of new possibilities. Korvaun watched the dawning of hope with pleasure and dropped a large handful of coins into the lad’s hand. “For your apprentice fee,” he said softly, touching a finger to his lips to counsel secrecy.

  Eyes shining, the boy nodded and knelt to Korvaun as one does to kings. Springing up, he ran down the stairs in a joyful clatter of boots.

  “You’re a good man, my friend,” a voice observed quietly. “The best of us all.”

  Korvaun looked up, startled. Wary alarm melted into pleasure at the sight of Roldo Thongolir. His long-absent friend was lounging against the doorpost, smiling wistfully. Roldo was sunbrown from long hours riding under summer skies, and his blue eyes were weary. He’d always been shorter, slighter, and less flamboyant than his friends, but he wore his new gemweave cloak proudly. Its soft rose caught the light, glowing like a cloud at sunrise.

  Grinning in real delight, Korvaun strode forward and pulled his friend into a back-thumping hug. “Welcome home! I didn’t hear you come up.”

  “You were too engrossed in arranging that lad’s future. When did the Helmfasts leave off shipping to become champions of the common man?”

  “Weren’t champions once those who gave aid wherever it was needed?”

  The Thongolir heir chuckled. “You sound like Taeros talking of knights and heroes. Speaking of whom, it seems our sharp-tongued friend’s been busy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. I’ve just come from the print shop, where the ink was drying on his latest broadsheets. The cryers’ lads came to take them round the taverns. Fur’ll fly before day’s end.”

  Korvaun sighed. “Our Taeros can offend people more efficiently than a flatulent half-orc in a public bath.”

  Roldo smirked. “His is a rare gift—Lathander be praised for that!”

  The youngest Lord Helmfast nodded in full agreement. “How was your wedding promenade?” he asked, knowing he must.

  His friend’s smile slipped. “I always enjoy Silverymoon. The minstrelsy and plays are better than ever! I
held dawn vigil at Rhyester’s Matins; it fills with rainbows when the light of morning touches its windows. Extraordinary.” He plucked at his rose-quartz cloak. “I’ll wear this when next I worship there, and see if the faithful mistake me for the next Mornmaster!”

  Korvaun nodded. ’Twas said that laying the right “sign” of the god on that temple’s altar would show the devout of Lathander their next leader, or some such. “And Sarintha?”

  “She was pleased with the trip.”

  “It augers well for your union,” Korvaun observed carefully, “that you find enjoyment in mutual interests.”

  Roldo smiled faintly. “As to that, my lady’s already showing promise of a steady hand at the Thongolir helm. Father’s pleased with several ingenious plans she’s devised to increase trade with Silverymoon.”

  “I’m surprised to learn Silverymoon lacks either scribes or books.”

  “They’ve both in plenty. In fact …” Roldo reached into his belt-satchel and took out a volume bound in purple leather and stamped in gold: Dynasty of Dragons: The First Thousand Obarskyr Years. “I found a tome The Hawkwinter has long sought.”

  “Ah, he’ll be pleased.”

  “Oddly enough, ’twas Sarintha who acquired this. She was busy indeed during our time in Silverymoon.”

  “Oh? What schemes hath the fair Sarintha hatched?” Korvaun asked, not without genuine interest.

  Sarintha Thann was the granddaughter of the redoubtable Lady Cassandra and had inherited that lady’s shrewd business sense as well as her blonde beauty. The unfolding of Sarintha’s plans for the Thongolir calligraphy, limning, and printing businesses would be worth watching.

  Roldo smiled a little ruefully. “We’re now in the trade of printing music, and off to a promising start. The lute-master at the House of the Harp is something of a legend, a half-elf of the old bardic tradition: memory only, nothing written. Sarintha won him over with personal charm and samples of family calligraphy; he’s agreed to allow his work to be set down in a fine Thongolir tome. Each page carved and block-printed, and for the coin-heavy, copies with hand-painted borders. Demand swells already, with not a single page printed.”

  “Then we’ll drink to its success.” Korvaun strode to the keg and drew two tankards. “To the union of Roldo and Sarintha, and to your new business venture.”

  Roldo lifted an eyebrow and his tankard together. They drank in silence, and it was almost a relief when swift footfalls on the stairs heralded the arrival of another Gemcloak.

  Starragar Jardeth stumbled into the room, face even paler than usual. His air of quiet elegance was absent, and his garb uncharacteristically disheveled. His hematite cloak was twisted around and hanging over one shoulder, and his black jerkin gaped from shoulder to opposite hip, slashed open to reveal his tunic beneath. A tunic smeared with dirt and—

  Korvaun’s eyes narrowed. “Scods, man! Is that blood?”

  “Aye,” Starragar said grimly. “Who’d have thought a made-from-scrap fang could cut so well?”

  “Sit,” instructed Korvaun, pointing to a chair. “I’ll get a healer.”

  Starragar flopped into it with a groan. “No need. A good jerkin reduced to rags, but I’ve naught but a scratch.”

  “What befell?”

  “I was out dicing with the Eagleshield twins last night. By the time they ran out of coin it was so late we took rooms above the tavern. Come morning, they insisted on seeing me safely here, and for that I owe them my life. We were set upon by ruffians. Like all Eagleshields, they’re keen brawlers and leaped right into the fray—so they took the worst of it.”

  “Badly hurt? Did the Watch come?” demanded Roldo.

  Starragar looked up. “You’re back,” he said flatly. “Welcome home, and so on. Aye, to both: the twins’ll mend, but not soon. The Watch came—again, not soon. Once come, they didn’t move to protect us any too swiftly, either. Is there more of that ale?”

  Korvaun filled a tankard to the brim. A thunder of booted feet below bespoke more arrivals, so he filled another three.

  “A sad day, when Waterdeep’s lowlives run in packs like wild dogs,” Starragar grumbled. “ ’Tis time to run blades up a few backsides to teach some lessons!”

  “Hear, hear!” Roldo echoed, raising his tankard.

  Korvaun frowned. “What lessons?”

  Starragar looked up from his ale. “Quelling talk of the Lords all being nobles working hard to enrich nobles, for a start. You should hear what they’re snarling in the taverns! Some hold the Lords—yes, the Masked flaming Lords of Waterdeep!—to blame for the festhall collapse!”

  Roldo frowned. “Festhall?”

  “The Slow Cheese,” Beldar Roaringhorn snapped, striding into the room to clasp Roldo’s forearms in welcome. He continued straight to the three tankards, drained one without pausing for breath, and stared at the other two. After a moment, he picked up a second and drained it just as quickly.

  Korvaun regarded him in puzzlement. Accustomed to servants, Beldar seldom gave thought to menial tasks but was as attentive to his friends’ comforts as his own. It was unlike him to help himself to a tankard obviously meant for someone else.

  “News travels fast,” Taeros observed, limping into the room and leaning hard on a silver-handled cane. Sinking into a chair, he grimaced as he stretched one leg out before him. “Alas, faster than I do.”

  Korvaun frowned. “What befell?”

  “An unfortunate choice of words,” Taeros replied in a strangely flat voice. “The Slow Cheese fell. We three were inside at the time.”

  “Three? So where’s Malark?”

  “Dead,” Beldar said bluntly.

  A heavy silence descended.

  “I left him,” the youngest Lord Roaringhorn added angrily. “I left him there, and the whole damned festhall fell on top of him.”

  Taeros stirred. “If there’s blame in this, Beldar should shoulder none of it. He was occupied with matters of lesser importance in the grand schemes of the gods, namely, carrying me to safety.” His voice broke. “Don’t think me ungrateful—never that—but Malark was worth two of me.”

  “As to that, Malark outweighed two of you,” Korvaun pointed out, his voice gentle. “If Beldar had left you lie to help Malark, all three of you might have perished, and Faerûn would be poorer by two good men.”

  “The matter before us now,” Starragar said grimly, “is avenging our friend’s death.”

  Roldo gripped his swordhilt. “I’m ready.” He looked to Beldar, awaiting their leader’s word.

  Roaringhorn set down his tankard and smoothed foam from his mustache before turning to Starragar. “You’d know the men who attacked you if you saw them again?”

  Starragar’s lips tightened in a deadly smile. He nodded and held out a hand, palm down. Beldar strode over and put his hand atop Starragar’s. Roldo followed suit, and the three waited for Taeros, who fought to rise from his chair with the unfamiliar assistance of the cane.

  Korvaun frowned. “Might I remind you that these men did not kill Malark? They should be reported to the Watch, certainly, but not hunted down merely because we can’t take vengeance on a fallen building.”

  Taeros gave up the struggle and fell back into his chair. “So, you suggest?”

  “Caution. Whatever we do shouldn’t embrace bloodletting in the streets.”

  Roldo’s hand rose from the clasp to hover uncertainly. “Then what?”

  “I know not,” Korvaun admitted. “Yet.”

  He watched his friends’ hands slide part and found himself transfixed by Beldar’s dark glare. Worse than the anger in those Roaringhorn eyes were the uncertain looks of the other Gemcloaks. He’d challenged Beldar’s hitherto undisputed leadership, but offered no path of his own.

  Yet.

  As Taeros Hawkwinter limped between the last pair of impassive, gleaming-armored guards, he cast swift glances at the four men who’d walked the length of the grand hall in perfect step with him, limp and all.

  No man,
he swore silently, had ever been gods-blessed with better friends than these. When his father’s grim old manservant had stepped into the Gemcloaks’ clubhouse bearing Eremoes Hawkwinter’s summons, the Gemcloaks had insisted on accompanying Taeros, though they’d all felt the sharp tongue of the Hawkwinter patriarch before and knew what was coming.

  Taeros swallowed. The painted shield that had for years hung over the door of his father’s office, displaying the Hawkwinter arms, had been replaced by a bright new tapestry. Its royal blue field positively glowed around the black silhouettes of two mailed fists holding wind-tossed banners. A large silver star gleamed high in one corner.

  They stopped together before it. Beldar was already scowling. “Real silver, look you! That gnome weaver will answer for this! She swore to sell gemweave to me alone until spring.”

  “Silver’s not a gem,” Starragar pointed out, predictably contrary.

  “Nevertheless,” Beldar muttered.

  Taeros knew stalling when he heard it. “Wait for me here, lads. If I’m not out in three bells, go in and offer to bury what’s left of me.”

  Four mouths opened to protest, but he flung up his hand to silence them. “We’ve just lost Malark, and none of you are minded to shrug away unearned abuse today. It’ll be hard enough for me in there, and I deserve the accolades my loving father heaps upon me.” He lifted one black brow. “And need I remind you we stand in a garrisoned armory, full of loyal Hawkwinter men impatient of any challenge to their employer’s will and well-being?”

  “Good points all.” Beldar clapped his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll wait here.”

  Taeros gave Beldar his cane to hold, squared his shoulders, and pushed open one of the great metalshod doors.

  His father looked up, face darkening. His briefest of glances at the three men flanking Lord Hawkwinter’s desk—veteran warcaptains who’d been in Hawkwinter employ as long as Taeros could remember—had them bowing in silence and striding out past Taeros without a glance.

  The youngest Lord Hawkwinter tried to match their confident swagger as he advanced on the desk, but his swollen knee throbbed with every step.