The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  “That’s why I’m asking,” she said quietly, as their eyes locked.

  After a long moment, Roldo sighed and shrugged. “I swear. Of course.” Korvaun echoed him, without the shrug.

  “Good. Thank you.” Turning to the nearest wall, Asper thrust aside a curtain.

  Both Roldo and Korvaun knew the battered figure standing in the dimly lit room beyond leaning on a crutch—wherefore they both swallowed hard and rose to their feet in hasty unison.

  This earned them a smile and the dry words, uttered in a strangely slow and thickened voice: “Well met, loyal lords.”

  Mrelder had never before seen so many people just lounging around an alley in bustling Dock Ward. Laborers were casually draped over barrels, fishmongers tallied catch-crates with chalk on a handy wall instead of inside whatever warehouse held those catches, and three burly men were fixing the axle-pins of a wagon even a sorcerer could see wasn’t really broken.

  Even if he stood boldly in the center of the cobbles like a man awaiting a duel, there wasn’t much space left. Wherefore Mrelder went into a handy net mender’s shop, pointed up its stairs, and offered the toothless old man behind the counter two gold dragons for “the use of yon upper window.”

  The old man grinned. “Three dragons. Chair’s extra.”

  Mrelder rolled his eyes, dropped a third coin into the man’s palm, and ascended. He was only half-surprised to discover a dusky-skinned, scowling titan of a sailor and a pale, thin girl who seemed to be clad entirely in scabbarded daggers there already, seated in chairs at the lone open window. It seemed there was a deep daily local interest in the comings and goings at Mirt’s Mansion.

  Either that or half the city already knew Lord Piergeiron was inside the stylish fortress. Mrelder settled himself in the last chair—a crack-seated, wobbly wreck, of course—just in time to see a very drunken young man in splendid but disheveled garb carried down the mansion steps by Mirt’s doorguards and loaded into the moneylender’s carriage. The glittering blue cloak marked the drunk as one of those who’d sworded sailors in a recent brawl.

  “Lord Korvaun Helmfast,” the dagger-lass chuckled. “My, he must drink fast? ”

  The sailor’s dirty laugh broke off in a grunt as the guards went inside and a sudden singing shimmering sprang from rune-pillar to rune-pillar. “They’ve set the night-wards,” he growled in surprise. “That’s it, then. No one’ll be leaving ’til morn.”

  The girl spat thoughtfully out the window as Mirt’s carriage rumbled past, and Mrelder sat frowning and thinking.

  Then he sprang to his feet and hurried down and out, following the carriage. About half the watchers who’d been loitering in Tarnished Silver Alley had suddenly found good cause to be elsewhere; Mrelder saw only two others oh-so-casually strolling from shop to shop along the route he was taking.

  “This window’s the best,” a hoarse voice came down to him, as he passed under the open windows above one ramshackle shop, “and a good arrow’s a small price to pay for a new Open Lord who’s not quite so firm and upstanding, if ye take my meaning.”

  Mrelder hurried on. Best to pretend he’d heard nothing and keep in close under awnings and downspouts, where no arrow might find him. Of course there’d be folk in Dock Ward who’d want Piergeiron dead and welcome all the accompanying tumult. Why—

  He stopped. Ahead, Mirt’s carriage had halted outside a large, new-looking building. Mrelder vaguely recalled that an old rooming-house, its roof sagging into collapse, had stood there as sahuagin had raged down the streets. Newly rebuilt, it now sported steps up to elegant double doors flanked by formidable-looking doorguards, beneath a truly splendid signboard.

  “The Gentle Moment,” he read, then deciphered the more fanciful script below: “Skilled hands to tend all your hurts and needs.”

  The horses, their heads tossing, were already unhitched and being led around to the near end of Mirt’s carriage, to draw it right back down the street to the moneylender’s stables.

  Mrelder frowned. His purse was now slender enough to make the prospect of following some drunken noble blade—whose connection to the Lords of Waterdeep was probably nonexistent—into a brand-new and surely overpriced house of healing and pleasure rather less than appealing.

  A woman who wore little more than a collar adorned with long strips of glittering cut-glass “gems” suddenly burst out of the doors, planted herself on the steps in a pose that showed Mrelder and everyone else on the street all the charms the gods had given her, and blew a horn.

  A Watch horn.

  Before Mrelder’s jaw could even drop, she’d vanished back up the steps in a flashing of false gems and a bouncing of trim flesh, and voices could be heard shouting inside the Gentle Moment—angry male voices.

  A brawl must be brewing. Mrelder strolled away from the house of healing to somewhere he could lean casually against on the far side of the street. Mirt’s carriage rumbled away, and from the east came the hasty jingling of scabbard-chains and the bobbing of torches.

  The doorguards stood motionless, staring coldly at Mrelder and several other curious Dock Warders who’d heard the horn and come to see the trouble—or being as this was Dock Ward—the fun.

  They stared back and forth, the guards on the steps and Mrelder and the others across the street, both casually ignoring the Watch patrol who rushed up the steps into the Gentle Moment, then sent out two Watchmen to blow another horn-call.

  The Watch wagon that responded to that summons was rather less elegant than Mirt’s carriage and sported enough window-bars and firequench-glowing metal plates to seem part of a fortress rather than a conveyance.

  The doors of the Gentle Moment opened again and another unconscious young noble—this one wearing a gem-bright cloak of a soft rose hue—was carried out, unconscious, and stuffed through a hastily slammed hatch into the armored wagon.

  “Where’s he off to, I wonder?” Mrelder murmured aloud.

  An old salt standing near threw him a sharp look, spat on the cobbles while deciding to humor a visiting outlander, and growled, “Palace dungeons, o’ course. Watch wagons go nowhere else—unless they’re carrying deaders to be burned at the Castle.”

  “Ah,” Mrelder said, nodding his thanks. Then he froze, staring. Lord Korvaun Helmfast, smiling and nodding to the Watch officers in a manner that could only be described as stone cold sober, was descending the steps of the Gentle Moment, and thanking one of them for letting him “borrow” some men to see him “safely closer to home.”

  Mrelder frowned. An instant sobriety spell? Well, that just might account for the amount of revelry the nobles of Waterdeep were famous for, and where better to acquire one than a house of healing?

  Or was it all part of something more sinister?

  Roldo Thongolir batted aside a veil of cobwebs and wondered why the tunnel didn’t seem quite so terrifying on this return trip.

  The underground walk from Mirt’s Mansion to the Gentle Moment had been a nightmare. The traps Asper had warned about were plentiful and dangerously imaginative, but far worse were the close walls, low ceiling, and suffocating knowledge that crushing tons of rock and soil loomed just overhead.

  On this trip the ceiling was even lower, thanks to his borrowed form, but somehow it bothered him less that his hair frequently swept the ceiling-stones. Perchance something of Lord Piergeiron’s famed courage came with the tall, broad, hard-muscled frame.

  It was strangely exhilarating, striding about in the shape of Waterdeep’s greatest living hero. Roldo was still not entirely certain why he, Korvaun, and Piergeiron had just traded shapes. Answers would surely be his soon; wasn’t that glow ahead the end of the tunnel? And wasn’t his lovely guide turning to him, stepping so close that she could—

  Kiss him, full on the mouth.

  She had to stand on tiptoe to do it, thanks to his new height. Only the grace of Lathander—and perhaps Piergeiron’s armor—kept Roldo from staggering back in stunned surprise. ’Twasn’t every day fair ladies e
xpressed their thanks so delightfully to him. His own new Lady Thongolir, alas, was … reticent in such matters.

  “Now, can you feel this?” Asper asked softly.

  “This” was a small, cold, and very sharp blade held at Roldo’s throat. He started to nod, swiftly thought better, and murmured, “Y-yes.”

  Asper stepped back. “Good. ’Twill set to work on you—very slowly—if you ever reveal what you’ve done and seen this night, until I give you permission to speak of such things.”

  “Lady,” Roldo replied stiffly, “there’s no need for your blade. My honor binds my tongue. This I swear.”

  Asper stepped back, eyes steady on his. “Then please accept my apologies,” she said softly, “and come and take wine. You’ll have to stay in Piergeiron’s shape until we hear the signal.”

  Roldo frowned. They were back in Mirt’s Mansion, and he was thoroughly confused by what he’d just taken part in. “Certainly and gladly, Lady, if you’ll please explain what we just did.”

  Asper nodded and led him up a curving stair to a room with a high northeast window, where lamps glimmered and warm covered platters waited. Waving at him to help himself, she said, “The Lord Piergeiron’s badly wounded. Due to his age and the longevity magics that sustain him, he isn’t … healing well. Half the city knows it, including many who see gain in slaying the Open Lord.”

  “So Sunderstone and Piergeiron’s pet wizard want him somewhere secure. The Castle.”

  Asper smiled. “You grasp the basics. Problem: Piergeiron can’t be teleported safely through the Castle or Palace wards because he can’t speak the trigger words properly just now.”

  Roldo nodded. “His mouth was hurt. Swollen.”

  “Yes. Moreover, his wounds make it unlikely he’d avoid the tunnel’s traps. Korvaun swore an oath to serve Waterdeep, so we called on him. A slipshield let him trade his likeness with the Lord. As drunken Korvaun Helmfast, Piergeiron could be taken to the Gentle in our carriage.”

  “While you took us through the tunnel, and when was that dug?”

  “Centuries ago. It’s why my Mirt had the Gentle Moment built.”

  “So you gave me this slipshield so Korvaun could take his own form and be seen leaving, and Lord Piergeiron could be taken away in yet another man’s likeness. That whole brawl was staged, wasn’t it?”

  Asper grinned. “We can’t hope to fool true brawlers such as yourselves.”

  Roldo reddened. “Lady, do you hate nobles so much?”

  “No, Lord Thongolir. My tongue makes sport of everyone. Please forgive me.”

  Roldo swallowed. Women didn’t stir him much, but when Asper looked at him like that … “So in my shape and feigning drunk, Lord Piergeiron was arrested.”

  Asper nodded. “And conveyed safely to the Castle in a prison-wagon.”

  “All this just to fool watching eyes?”

  She nodded again. “I saw scores of them, just glancing out the windows here.”

  Roldo caught sight of himself, still in the Open Lord’s form, in the light-reflecting window. He grimaced at the unseemly disarray and peeled another cobweb from his hair. It was uncanny, seeing Piergeiron’s hands obeying his thoughts!

  “We’ll arrange for the payment of your fine. I apologize for any blot this might leave on your good name.”

  “A night in the Castle for drunken brawling in a house of healing and pleasure? That can only enhance my reputation,” Roldo said dryly.

  “With your noble friends, but there remains your wife. I can explain matters to her, if you will—not everything, but enough to ease her mind.”

  Roldo managed a smile. “Your offer’s both kind and appreciated, but I suspect the sight of you would more unsettle my lady wife than thoughts of an entire festhall of hired beauties.”

  “Gallantly said, milord! If you didn’t resemble Piergeiron so closely, I’d suspect you of flirtation!”

  They shared a chuckle as a high horn-call rang out, echoing off Mount Waterdeep in a triumphant ascending flourish.

  Asper smiled. “He’s safe inside,” she announced, drawing him away from the windows into another room, where she reached for the hawk-and-snowflake pendant resting on the breastplate of Piergeiron’s armor.

  As she lifted the charm, a strange tingling swept through Roldo, and the armor felt suddenly heavy and cumbersome. Looking down, he saw that his hands were his own once more.

  Asper helped him out of the too-large armor, and handed the slipshield back. “A small reward. In case you ever need it.”

  Roldo regarded the device with unease. Magic was something he preferred to regard from a distance … and there was something deeper and disturbing about the slipshield, something personal. To one who hides from the world behind a mask, this little thing was ultimate power … and temptation.

  “I’ll not deny the worth of this gift or the honor you do me in giving it,” he said slowly, “but I’m not the man to carry it. Pretending to be someone you’re not is a great burden.”

  Mirt’s lady eyed him shrewdly. “One you know something about.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “I’ve never pretended to be other than I am. But I have responsibilities, obligations …”

  “And the slipshield might tempt you from those?”

  “Lady, you may think me a coward, but that’s something I’d rather not learn about myself.”

  Asper kissed his cheek. “Courage comes in many forms, as do those who possess it. You came without question when your friend called.”

  “Korvaun’s a good man. If he says a thing must be done, I trust his reasons.”

  “You’re right to trust him.” Her hand closed his fingers around the slipshield. “Then find another you judge able to bear this little burden. Dawn breaks; we’ll see you safely home.”

  Roldo lifted her fingers to his lips. “I’ll strive to be worthy of your trust.”

  He bowed, strode back to the room of windows, and then turned with a frown. “ ‘We’?”

  Asper smiled and drew aside another curtain, and Roldo found himself staring at three scarred, monstrously large sharpswords whose very looks made him shudder. Two of them tried to smile, and that made it even worse.

  “Some of Mirt’s friends,” Asper said sweetly. “They’ll see you safely out of Dock Ward—to whatever front gates you’d like.”

  Gods, if this dangerously capable woman ever crossed wills with his Sarintha … Roldo stowed the slipshield carefully in his pouch. Taeros would wear it well. Moreover, it would settle his gambling debt to the Hawkwinter, avoiding Sarintha’s wrath at coins wasted. And what is life but deftly dealing with little debts and unpleasantnesses?

  Giving Asper the deepest, most courtly bow he could manage, he turned, nodded to the sharpswords, and strode away with them.

  Mirt’s lady watched him go thoughtfully, and suspected the burden young Lord Thongolir had taken upon himself was far greater than the one he’d declined.

  As sages said, courage and honor took many forms.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A high horn-call rang out from the magnificent turrets and spires of Piergeiron’s Palace. Lark listened as the short, ascending melody echoed off Mount Waterdeep once, twice … and thrice.

  Folk in Waterdeep thought nothing of those echoes, but people familiar with mountains found it strange that echoes could bounce from a single small peak. She’d said as much on the long-ago day when she’d ridden into the city with Texter. The paladin had told her magic aided the echoes to amplify signal horn-calls.

  Lark quickened her pace, striding briskly through the familiar bustle of Trades Ward. Arriving early for her shift, and working hard before her expected time, would win approval.

  The carvers at the Maelstrom’s Notch were deft at butter-seared seafood, and their superb table was making the inn very popular. Extra hands were needed to serve the later evening meals, after most lodgers had eaten and set off in search of fiery drink and festhalls, and a weary army of hungry guildsmen arrived t
o dine after a long day’s work.

  She was fortunate to have found a place; ill repute had a habit of clinging to a girl like a damp cloak, and her rare moment of temper had cost Lark her last position and several days’ wages: the cost of the tray she’d dented over Beldar Roaringhorn’s hard head.

  Bah. Swaggering Lord Redcloak was worth not another thought. Those horncalls, now … everyone knew they were messages for those who knew how to read them. Who sent those notes soaring out into the evening, and to whom? Had she just heard gladsome tidings or a warning?

  Once it would never have occurred to her to wonder. She cared little about what great folk did or whose backside warmed which throne. What mattered was honest work and the quiet, respectable life it could earn. Master Dyre’s fair wage, bolstered by the coins this serving work brought, would in time buy a small shop with a few rooms above it she could call her own. To be her own mistress … her one desire. Her dream.

  That dream burned as bright as ever, but Texter, the man who’d put her on a path toward it, had also opened her eyes to other things. In this city, those who listened could hear secrets in tavern tunes, vendors’ calls, even twilight hornsong. Lark absently hummed the horncall as she walked.

  “Larksong in the evening,” murmured a melodious voice, so close to her ear that she could feel warm breath. “To whom are you preparing to sing, my little brown bird?”

  Lark whirled, as startled as if her own shadow had tapped her shoulder and asked her the time of day.

  Elaith Craulnober gave her a faintly amused smile and glided forward a step to reclaim the distance she’d hastily put between them. “If I wasn’t aware of your sterling character, I’d suspect you of being troubled by a guilty conscience.” His voice was gently mocking.

  Lark swallowed. “You—startled me.”

  “You did seem rather lost in thought. Care to unburden yourself to a sympathetic listener?”

  She gave him a glare. “Why? Know you of one?”

  Silver brows rose. “The kitten has claws. How very … tiresome.”

  The Serpent’s dark reputation tempered Lark’s next words. “A lord as important as yourself has many demands on his time,” she murmured, careful not to sound mocking. “Pray tell me how I can serve you.”