The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  Varandros made his way over. The mourners—many of them his men—moved aside to let him pass. He strode inside.

  The small front room was almost filled by a trestle table draped in dark cloth. Rowder had been laid out on it in his best clothes, a chisel in his folded hands.

  Dyre managed not to scowl. A needless extravagance; it was customary for great folk to be buried with some sign of their house or station, but he doubted practical Rowder would have appreciated the waste of a good tool.

  He nodded to the woman behind the table, face composed but eyes rimmed with red. She bobbed a curtsey.

  “We’re honored you’ve come, Master Dyre. Please have a cup of my Rowder’s funeral ale.”

  “I’ll drink to him gladly, Mistress,” Dyre said gruffly. “A fine man, a good worker. He’ll be missed.”

  “Aye,” she said softly. “That he will.”

  He put the bag in her hands. “This is his portion. If you’ve further needs, the guild will see to them. I’ll make sure of it.”

  She nodded gratefully, eyes like empty holes, and Varandros found himself standing awkwardly with nothing more to say. He did as he’d promised, raising a cup of ale to Rowder’s memory, and then turned and set out for home.

  Children playing in the street fell silent when they saw his face, and got out of his way. One of them made a warding sign, but the stonemason said nothing. Something like dark fire burned behind his eyes.

  He found his daughters in the kitchen around a trestle table very like the one Rowder had been lying on. To his astonishment, the Dyre kitchen table had a dead man on it, too—pale, naked, and middle-aged, loins draped with a towel for modesty. Naoni, face serene despite the grim work, was sponging dried blood from the body.

  Varandros gaped at her—and even more at his dainty little Faendra, who was handily stitching up a gash along the corpse’s ribs and not looking the least bit squeamish. His younger apprentice, Jivin, hovered in the buttery doorway all but wringing his hands.

  “What is this?” Dyre growled.

  The three looked up. “I-I had to bring him here, Master,” Jivin said hastily. “There was nowhere else for him.”

  “He’d no family, poor man,” Naoni added. Dipping her cloth in a fresh basin, she gently wiped blood from the battered, staring face.

  As the gore came away, Varandros recognized Cael, one of the masons who’d been setting the foundation on Redcloak Lane.

  “You did right, lad,” he said heavily. Every man in his employ was entitled to a fair wage and a decent burial. Yet this was not a task he’d wish on his daughters. “What of Lark? Where’s the wench?”

  Naoni’s reply was quiet but firm. “She comes early and gives an honest day’s work, Father, and in the evenings, she serves at an inn or a revel in one of the great houses. She said she’d be working late last night and would take a bed at the inn. She’ll be here in time for the churning and the cheese.”

  Dyre nodded approvingly. “A hardworking lass.”

  Nor was Lark the only one. Almost for the first time, Dyre noticed how capable Naoni was, how warm and welcoming she made their home. She had her own craft, too, the spinning of fancy threads. Several skeins of pale, glittering green hung behind her on a neat row of hooks. Her mother would have loved them. Aye, Ilyndeira had been fond of pretty needlework …

  Rare nostalgia swept through Varandros. He seldom thought of his wife, despite the living reminders before him. Faendra had her mother’s pink-and-gold beauty, and Naoni, though plain and pale, had Ilyndeira’s long, slender fingers. His gaze fell to Naoni’s hands—and his brow darkened.

  Around each wrist was a ring of dark bruises.

  “What happened to your arms?”

  Faendra looked up from her work, eyes blazing in sudden wrath. “She was rough-handled during the fight in Dock Ward yesterday.”

  “You were there?” Dyre demanded, aghast.

  “Aye,” Naoni said. She met his gaze with calm gray eyes. “No lasting harm was done, Father. Lord Helmfast saw us safely home.”

  “Again, that insolent pup!” Dyre’s shout rang around the room, and Jivin fled. “I told him to stay away from me and mine! Was it he who marked you?”

  “No, ’twas the Watch!” Faendra said indignantly. “They called us noblemens’ doxies, and Naoni gave one of them a clout to remember her by!”

  “Good for you, lass,” he said gruffly, pride rising through his anger. “What part did Helmfast have in this?”

  “It was a chance meeting in the street, Father. He and Lord Hawkwinter drew their swords to defend us against the Watch.”

  “Did they, now? Well, that’s something,” he said grimly, “but never forget this: They’re still the same worthless, unthinking louts who nearly brought down all our work on Redcloak Lane!”

  Naoni looked up. “They intended no harm.”

  “Bah! What of intentions? They’d not intend to drag a woman’s good name into the dust either! To them it’s all fun and frolic, but the damage done is the same!”

  The look Naoni gave him was surprisingly steely. “I’m not such a child, Father, that I know nothing of the ways of men. Nor am I a fool who simpers and swoons whenever a man looks at me. Neither’s Faendra. You needn’t fear for us.”

  “That’s simple truth, Father.” Faendra narrowed her eyes in a parody of menace. “ ’Tis the men who should tremble before us.”

  That teased a faint smile from Dyre.

  Seeing it, Naoni considered the matter resolved and said briskly, “I’ve called the coffinmaker and the carter and sent word to the keepers of the City of the Dead. Cael can be buried six bells after highsun, after down-tools, so those honoring him need miss no work. Perhaps they can return here, after, for the cakes and ale?”

  Varandros nodded. “Of course. You’ve handled it well, lass.”

  Naoni looked up at him, and her faintly puzzled expression smote Dyre’s heart. Was he so sparing with praise, that his daughters were this unaccustomed to it?

  “I’m for work,” he said abruptly. Turning, he strode from the house, thinking thoughts that were both new and disturbing.

  Men of the Watch had laid rough hands on his daughter. A message, perhaps, from those in power? If so, who knows what more might have happened, if not for those silly sword-swinging nobles?

  In his desire for a New Day, he’d never considered the consequences for his family, never thought his daughters might be endangered. More fool he!

  Aye, this striding fool.

  His wordless growl was as bitter as peacebound warsteel—trapped in its scabbard, denied a foe it knew too well.

  After all, who knew better how the great folk treated common-born women of Waterdeep than a man whose wife had died from the grief they’d caused?

  “I trust Hoth instructed you correctly?” Golskyn’s cold words were barely a question.

  Mrelder looked up from the tiny golden ring balanced atop scorched stones on the table before him—the Guardian’s Gorget, shrunken small enough to incorporate into the graft. The spell-glows playing around it promptly flickered and started to fade.

  “I believe so, Father, and my follow-all spell definitely captured the effects of the graft-chantings. That’s proven by our successfully giving Narlend a lamprey-mouth in his palm—and that lamprey was none too fresh.”

  Ending his spell, he added, “Unless Roaringhorn bears magics that interfere with our work, or fails physically—much as I’ve done, thus far—the graft should work. I know how to craft new ocular muscles now.”

  “So you should. Eight blinded dogs are quite enough, even in Dock Ward. Had we needed more and been foolish enough to take them from North or Sea Wards, the Watch would have come calling.”

  Mrelder nodded. “No doubt, yet everything’s neatly disposed of. The first few went out on the deathwagon, and as for the rest, well, the mongrelmen said they made a quite tasty stew.”

  “It was; I had a bowl myself. Will your little toy be ready in time?”
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  “It’s ready now, not that I expect our ambitious noble to return quite so swiftly. Capturing a beholder—”

  “Yes, yes, may cost him his life,” Golskyn snapped, tiring of the conversation. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the spell-chamber.

  Mrelder wore a little smile as he took up the little stone that had been the focus of the spell he’d just quelled. No probing questions about it, or just what magics he’d perfected, or precisely what he’d done with them. Sometimes his father’s scorn of sorcery came in quite useful.

  Golskyn’s door slammed, and Mrelder heard something unexpected: the front door warning gong. He frowned. Beldar Roaringhorn had found his way here out of the blue; now who—?

  Hoth rushed up the stairs wearing a wintry smile, heading for Golskyn’s chamber without a word to Mrelder.

  “Hoth!” the sorcerer snapped. “Who is it? Who’s at the door?”

  Hoth made no reply, and Mrelder barked his question again, making his voice as cold and authoritative as his father’s.

  Hoth turned, his hand already on Golskyn’s door-handle. “The Roaringhorn lordling’s returned, and is asking to speak with Lord Unity. Alone.”

  Mrelder frowned. “Is he—?”

  The rest of his words were swept away in the shattering roar of his father’s door—with Hoth still holding it—being hurled into a splintering meeting with the far wall.

  “Father?” Mrelder shouted, breaking into a run. “Father?”

  Hoth was moving feebly under the wreckage as Mrelder pounded past into smoke and two ruby-red beams of magic, flashing at each other in the gloom like thrust swords.

  One came from Golskyn’s beholder-eye, of course … and the other was identical, which could only mean …

  Mrelder had to see. He dare not—

  He cast a swift and simple clarity spell that should sweep away the smoke and banish both shadows and darkness.

  There were shouts and pounding feet from behind Mrelder. He stepped aside swiftly so he’d not be in the way of angry Amalgamation believers rushing into the room with ready weapons.

  Wards were flickering in Golskyn’s chamber as strong magics lashed out and rebounded, and the feeble clarity spell struggled to expand like mist swirling in a gale. Through it, Mrelder caught a glimpse of his father standing fearlessly, hair singed and his tentacles holding his desk—its top scorched and smoldering—in front of him like a shield.

  Golskyn was murmuring spell-prayers as fast as his lips could move, gesturing to bring down the wrath of the gods on something across the chamber. A foe that was, yes, high up near the ceiling: Spherical, and with—

  Something flashed through the thinning smoke, and Mrelder felt himself stiffening. He fought to turn and lift his arm, panic flaring like a flame, but … he was caught … and frozen.

  His hand slowed to a drifting thing, then stopped altogether, and Mrelder turned what was left of his will to breathing and turning his eyes, trying to see—

  Wall and floor, rushing up to meet him swiftly as mongrelmen burst into the room and struck him aside.

  Mrelder slammed into unyielding hardness and bounced, hearing a mongrelman grunt in pain behind him. Then there came a heavy crash as another blundered into a chair and fell through it to the floor.

  Then came more bright red flashes, somewhere above him, and more groans. Weapons were dropped with heavy clangs and clatters, someone shouted in pain, and someone else shrieked in agony, cries that receded swiftly back out the door and ended in an abrupt wail that could only mark a plunge down the stairwell.

  Golskyn said something cold and crisp and triumphant, and Mrelder felt that horrible shifting in his mind that could only mean one thing: his father was collapsing most of the wards laid on his chamber into a mighty spell to make it even stronger.

  Mrelder’s skin tingled, and a sudden, high singing began, so thin and high-pitched that it felt almost like a needle driven into his ears … and it went on and on.

  All other sounds ceased, but for a few distant groans and the imperious tread of his father’s boots, crossing the chamber to thrust bruisingly into Mrelder’s ribs and roll him over.

  “Well, you exhibited your usual scant usefulness,” Golskyn of the Gods commented, staring scornfully down at the paralyzed sorcerer. Mrelder gazed helplessly back at him.

  One side of the priest’s head was scorched, his bared torso was a mass of sickening yellow-and-blue bruises, blistered burns, and blackened tatters of clothing largely burned away down to his belt. The little snake graft that sprouted from his wrist was thrashing about convulsively, biting the air in agony … but the priest’s own surviving eye was its usual cold, confident self. The other one—the beholder orb—stared with deadly promise down at Mrelder, the eyepatch that customarily concealed it dangling around Golskyn’s neck.

  Beyond him, shrouded in flickering magics, a beholder—a small one, little larger than a round shield, and with only six eyestalks, but yes, a beholder!—hung motionless.

  His father’s head turned. “Well, Hoth?”

  “Four dead. Ortarn here, Danuth and Velp yonder, and Skeln’s face was burnt off, even before he fell over the rail and broke his neck. The rest of us will live until we can heal each other. Shall I show the noble up?”

  Golskyn started to chuckle, a harsh, mirthless sound that went on for some time. Mrelder tried again to move his hand and found that it responded now, but slowly, drifting in dreamlike torpor despite the fiercest exertion of his will.

  Hoth ignored the sorcerer at his feet entirely, his eyes fixed on Golskyn as the priest’s chuckle ran down. Gazing at the frozen beholder, the leader of the Amalgamation replied, “Of course. Tell him—”

  “I found my own way up, as it happens,” Beldar Roaringhorn said calmly from the doorway.

  Hoth whirled around, but Golskyn snapped out a tentacle to coil around the man’s arm and ordered, “Leave us, Hoth. Peacefully. The Lord Roaringhorn stands very much in our favor, just now.”

  Mrelder’s paralysis was falling away very quickly now. He rolled over and got to his feet.

  Beldar Roaringhorn was strolling forward, one hand on swordhilt and the other at his belt. Heedless of the strong likelihood that the noble was clutching his two strongest battle-magics, Mrelder stepped into his path and snarled, “You sent that horror in here to kill us!”

  Lord Roaringhorn lifted one brow. “That was obviously the beholder’s intent, yes, but how would that serve my purpose?”

  Golskyn eyed him keenly. “A test, perchance, to see if we of the Amalgamation were powerful enough to grant you what you seek.”

  The young noble nodded.

  “And now that you know?” the priest demanded.

  Beldar met his gaze squarely. “Now that I know, I’d like to proceed immediately.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mrelder glared at Beldar Roaringhorn, reaching for the dagger Piergeiron had given him a lifetime ago.

  Golskyn’s scaly hand closed around his son’s wrist before that fang could be drawn.

  “Enough,” Lord Unity of the Amalgamation said coldly. “You found the right man, and I’ll look very darkly on any attempt to harm him now.”

  Mrelder opened his mouth and then shut it again, swallowing his fury behind set teeth. If this fool of a noble had managed Golskyn’s slaying, that would have been a delight, but now …

  He’d never expected the man to return, and had laid his plans with Korvaun Helmfast in mind. This Beldar showed a disturbing boldness and wits, too. Could it be he’d actually stumbled on a worthy heir to Lord Piergeiron? Did the Watching Gods laugh that much?

  “Your son’s right to be suspicious of me,” Beldar was telling the priest, “for even as I arrive at your door, this beholder—the sort known as a ‘gauth,’ I believe—enters your house forcibly, by another way.”

  He glanced at the charred ruin of Golskyn’s back room beyond the office-chamber. What had been a window was now a ragged hole opening onto a high vi
ew down over the alley behind.

  “I must assure you I’m guilty only of overconfidence. I thought the spells I’d purchased—I dared not specify too closely what I wanted them for, you’ll appreciate—were sufficient to keep it securely captive until you could assume control of them, and, ah … of it.”

  Golskyn waved a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. We all make mistakes. So long as you don’t make a habit of doing so or betray the slightest hint of any malice toward the Amalgamation or our goals, I care not if you bought, borrowed, stole, or personally gave birth to this beholder or overcame it by strength, guile, or beguiling minstrelsy. What matters are results.”

  “Father,” Mrelder said quietly, “there’s a matter of magic I must speak with you about privately, right now. I need only a few breaths of your time and mean no disrespect to you or to Lord Roaringhorn, but magic has already done much damage here, and we may yet have the Watch pounding at our doors as to why. We’ll certainly have them doing so if there are further … eruptions.”

  “I’ve had my own dealings with the Watch,” Beldar put in quickly, “and will be glad to withdraw for as long as you need. Magic can be dangerous, and the Watch all too vigilant.”

  Golskyn nodded. “You speak truth. Stand you then by the head of the stair while I speak with Mrelder.”

  The moment Beldar had bowed and withdrawn, the priest rounded on his son, and his whisper was fierce. “Well?”

  Mrelder kept his voice low. “I’m alarmed at how swiftly we’ve embraced this noble—and how quickly he’s brought us a beholder! Father, if he’s been chosen as Piergeiron’s successor, don’t you think a dozen wizards have scoured his thoughts scores of times, and taken full measure of his motives? Hasn’t he been trained, probably for years, to put Waterdeep first, and ruthlessly put down all threats to—”

  Golskyn swung up his hand like a cook hefting a cleaver. Mrelder knew what that meant and fell abruptly silent.

  “I meant what I said,” the priest muttered. “You found us the right man: this must be the next Open Lord of the city. I think you speak sound prudence now: yes, of course he’s formidable, swift-witted and loyal to Waterdeep, yet he’s never crossed swords with Golskyn of the Gods before, to say nothing of those I serve! Do you think so little of my own abilities to subvert anyone? Have you forgotten Braeldra so soon? And Aummaduth of Calimport? Both wanted my head before I bent them to the true faith, and you know the eternal price they both paid in the end. Willingly, I might add.”