by Ed Greenwood
“True,” Mrelder muttered, not wanting to voice his own suspicions that proud Braeldra had undertaken her last, foolhardy mission purely to escape Golskyn’s bed, once she’d seen she could do nothing against his magic. “Forgive my doubts, Father. If you’ll just let me make sure there’re no tracing spells on him right now, that might let others in Waterdeep—”
“See through my wards? Impossible, unless he’s bearing focus items—and those we’ll have off him, ‘for his own protection,’ of course, before we start.” Golskyn’s beholder eye seemed to glow, just for an instant. “After we do the graft, he’ll either be dead or ours, won’t he?”
Father and son stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, then nodded in curt unison.
Together they turned to face Beldar Roaringhorn.
“My son is concerned with the magic that has been expended in this room and the state of the warding-spells around it,” Golskyn announced. “Do you still want to forever lose one of your eyes—at some small risk to your life—and gain a beholder’s eye in its place?”
Beldar raised an eyebrow. “After willingly walking into a beholders’ den to get it? Of course.”
“Then I am willing to do it. Here and now. Are you also ready?”
The youngest Lord Roaringhorn nodded, folding his arms across his chest to hide his nervousness. “I am.”
“Mrelder,” Golskyn murmured, “fetch what we’ll need.”
Beckoning the noble with two of his tentacles, he pointed at the floor. “Remove every item you wear or carry that bears the slightest magic,” he ordered, “and leave them outside the doorway before you lie down here. Everything. If you’re not sure about something, remove it: The intrusions of stray spells can be disastrous.”
Beldar stared at him then began disrobing. He was down to little more than a silken clout before he was done.
By then, Mrelder had cleared ruined furniture out of the way and laid a clean cloth on the floor, carefully keeping his distance from the silent, motionless beholder all the while. A silent crowd of Amalgamation believers had gathered at the doorway. Golskyn held up a hand to keep them there.
Beldar settled himself on the cloth as the priest and his son peered at the immobile gauth.
“That one, that, and this are sufficiently extended,” Golskyn murmured. “I believe I recall what those two hurled my way; what do you recall?”
“That one wounds by spell, not fire,” the sorcerer replied, pointing.
“Then that’s the one we want,” Golskyn decided. He glanced at Mrelder, who held up the delicate ring. Bound into the graft—practically in Beldar Roaringhorn’s brain—the Guardian’s Gorget would give him control over the Walking Statures, and spells would give the priest control over him. If Mrelder’s spells were laid deftly enough, Roaringhorn need not know that until it became necessary to violently force him to do something—or refrain from doing something.
Stepping back, Golskyn ordered, “Begin.”
Mrelder carefully set the ring on what was left of a table behind him, spread his hands, and muttered the incantation that would attune him to the least of the many wards in this chamber—the only one Golskyn had allowed him to cast.
It responded, the air itself seeming to shift in silent, ponderous solidity in a far corner of the room. Sweat suddenly glistened on Mrelder’s face as he turned the unseen ward with slow, deliberate care, bringing it toward the trapped gauth at just the right angle.
Wards crafted in a certain way, with sharp edges rather than a fading, clinging field, could cut like the sharpest sword—if, that is, a sword could shear through anything: stone, metal … beholder eyestalks …
Golskyn held out his hands, palms up, and muttered the prayer that would cause one of the other wards to gently catch and hold the severed eye.
Beldar Roaringhorn lay on his back, waiting, the air cold on his skin, wondering how much this was going to hurt and if it was his first step toward glory or if he was making the worst—perhaps the last—mistake of his life.
Mrelder drew in a loud, shuddering breath. Sweat was almost blinding him, now, dripping off his nose in a steady stream. He blinked furiously; until that ward was back in place, bonded once more to its neighbors, he dared not flinch or falter—unless he wanted to bring the house down in a deadly heap of falling stones that would kill everyone in it and probably open a new shaft down into deepest Undermountain, too …
A tiny chip of stone Golskyn knew nothing about was ready in Mrelder’s belt, the putty that would hold it inside the oval of the ring already stuck to it—and one of his father’s hairs was thoroughly tamped into that putty.
He’d cast seven spells on that lone hair, trusting in something he’d read at Candlekeep. Each magic captured his father’s hand, or reflection, or some deed or property of Golskyn of the Gods as if from Golskyn’s own viewpoint. If Watchful Order magists, or Mystra forefend, the Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep, probed the ring in time to come, Mrelder wanted them to see nothing at all of a certain young sorcerer and a lot about a man who called himself Lord Unity.
That time of reckoning might not be all that far off. From what little he’d seen of the high and mighty of Waterdeep—not the strutting nobles, but those who held real power at the Palace and over magic and the defenses of the City of Splendors—Mrelder was stone cold certain of one thing: any attempt to control a Walking Statue would instantly awaken the full awareness and wrath of the Lords, the City Guard, and the Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep.
When that happened, the son of Lord Unity wanted his father and his fellow ambitious fools of Amalgamation to face the spellstorm—not Mrelder the sorcerer.
Golskyn was on his knees, hands spread like reaching claws over Roaringhorn’s face. He allowed only himself to do the deft spell-surgery that would cost the noble his right eye, and bind the beholder orb floating bloodily at hand into its place.
Magic flared up bright and white, the priest murmured, “Close your left eye and keep it closed,” and blood fountained.
Everyone standing in the doorway drew in a breath at the same moment in what was almost a gasp.
Then a trembling, sweating Beldar Roaringhorn strained suddenly against the knees—Mrelder’s—that were pinning down his wrists. As the grafting began, he gasped out a ragged curse.
The sound of distant temple bells drifted in through the open windows of the Dyres’ front room, the sixth chiming since highsun. Lark polished the silver candlesticks one last time and stepped back to survey the funeral spread critically.
Neat rows of mugs stood ready beside a barrel of ale, and heaped plates of almond cakes were arranged down the polished table. Naoni and Faendra stood ready to serve the traditional fare, clad in softly flowing gray gowns, the traditional family mourning hue.
That was Naoni’s idea, and Lark thought it clever. When Master Dyre’s workmen came from the City of the Dead, they’d see how Cael was being honored and hear the silent message that they, too, were regarded as family. Given such encouragement, they should linger long and drink freely.
Lark turned to her mistresses. “You’re certain you don’t want me to stay?”
Naoni shook her head. “Things are well in hand.” Leaning close, she whispered, “Faen’ll serve the men warmly; she knows how fine she looks in that gown.”
They traded grins. “Off with you, then,” Naoni added more loudly. “ ’Twon’t do to be late on your second night at the Notch.”
Lark undid her apron and put it in Naoni’s hand. “There’s something you should know,” she said softly. “All day someone’s been following us.”
Naoni smiled gently. “My halfling guardians.”
“Not so.” Faendra’s hearing was very keen when she wanted it to be. “I glimpsed him, too—never a really good look, but ’twas a man, not a halfling.”
“I see,” Naoni murmured, looking at her bruised wrists. “Perhaps we shouldn’t tell Father. You saw him when he heard about the street battle; I don’t want to wo
rry him.”
Lark frowned. “Mayhap you should worry him. If he minded his own family more, he might have less time to poke about in the Lords’ business.” Remembering Elaith Craulnober’s demands, she asked, “Speaking of which, where’s he steering the New Day now? He’s not one to take deaths of his men lightly.”
Naoni sighed. “Father’s been all too quiet since the battle. I wish I knew what to think of that.”
Faendra’s eyes danced. “Perhaps he put a guard to watch us. If so, one of the men will know.” Her smile became a purr. “And they’ll tell me everything I want them to.”
Where once they might have rolled their eyes, Naoni and Lark now nodded approval.
“Tell me all about it in the morning,” the maid told her mistresses. “I’m off to the Notch.”
The steward’s pantry at the Notch was already bustling. An unfamiliar voice, humming nigh her elbow, made Lark look up from the scrawled table assignments, her fingers still tugging at the knot of her apron.
A tall elf maiden she’d never seen before stood beside her tying on another server’s apron. Lark tried not to stare at her striking good looks: Moon-pale skin and night-black hair framing a narrow, angular face dominated by eyes the color of new leaves.
Lark blinked, hoping the aristocratic features didn’t mean haughtiness to match, but the new server smiled, asked Lark’s name, and laughed in delight at the answer.
“How perfect! I’m Ezriel: ‘song bird.’ It’s well we’re working together. As the old saying runs, L’hoira doutrel mana soutrel.”
“Birds of a feather fly together?” guessed Lark.
Green eyes widened. “You speak Elvish?”
“No, but if one serves drink to men long enough, one hears a lot of old sayings,” she said dryly, “most of them more along the lines of, ‘If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?’ ”
Ezriel chuckled. “Surely not!”
“A wager: A copper to you if the night passes without some drunken guildsman trotting that offering out, but a nib to me each time you hear it.”
“Done!” A shadow passed briefly across the narrow face. “Though if I lose, you may have to dig your winnings out from under the speakers’ thumbnails, for that’s the coin I’ll be tempted to pay for such compliments.”
Lark winced. “That’s … inventive.”
A sour look from the steward sent them scurrying to tend tables, and there was little time for more talk. Yet as the night wore on, Lark found her gaze turning Ezriel’s way more often than was strictly polite. In fact, she found it hard not to stare.
Not many elves served tables in Waterdeep, and there’d been even fewer in Luskan. Lark had little experience of the Fair Folk, and this willow-slim beauty seemed woefully out of place in a South Ward dining-den. She looked as if she should be wearing fine gowns and reclining on silken pillows idly strumming a lyre with a peacock quill.
Lark grimaced at that fancy. Such thoughts were for idle lords and their fancy ladies, not a practical worker like herself!
The elf emerged from the kitchen bearing a large, steaming platter of sea harake, and Lark found herself hurrying over to help.
“Let me carry that,” she said firmly, taking its handles. “ ’Tis hot; there’s no sense in you spoiling your hands.”
Ezriel gave her a keen look, as if she suspected mockery. Seeing none, she extended her hands, palms up.
“That’s kind of you, but as you can see, I’m no delicate flower.” She ran her thumb proudly over the calluses on the fingertips of her left hand then the hard ridge on her upper palm.
Lark’s smile froze. Both of her own hands were similarly marked from years of handwork. She glanced quickly at the elf’s right palm.
Its pale skin was as smooth as a courtesan’s, and the elf’s left forearm, though slender, was slightly more muscled than the right. Lark knew of only one kind of work that left such signs, and it didn’t involve serving tables.
The smile she gave Ezriel was wry. “Forgive me my misjudgment. I’ll serve this fish to the hearthside table if you’ll get their drinks.”
The elf nodded and glided over to the bar. Lark watched her from the corner of her eye as she served the harake.
At a table near the bar, a trio of master tailors was laughing uproariously over their fourth round of mead. One pinched Ezriel as she walked past.
She whirled, left hand darting to her hip, and the flat warrior’s stare she leveled at the tailor made her eyes look as cold as green ice.
Lark looked away quickly, laughing perhaps a bit too heartily at whatever cleverness the nearest harake-loving Calishite merchant had just said to her. She dodged deftly away from his groping hand—and froze as she saw Elaith Craulnober, sitting alone at a small table near the door.
He lifted one elegant hand in an imperious beckoning. Drawing a deep breath, Lark threaded her way to him, snatching up one of the small dishes of salt-smoked mussels that served as this night’s thirst-starter.
“Evening, milord,” she said brightly, setting the dish before him. “What may I bring you to drink with this?”
The moon elf eyed the grayish blobs with distaste. “The only fitting choice would be a large flagon of hemlock. Take this excrement away and bring me some deep-ocean fish, prepared as simply as possible. A bottle of elverquisst if you have it. If not, a pale wine, unwatered.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“What do you have?” he asked softly, his look making it clear he meant information, not seafood.
“Very little,” she murmured, bending low to take up the spurned mussels. “Several workmen were killed or injured in the brawl, and Dyre’s had time for little else, but someone followed his daughters—and me, of course—wherever we went today.”
“Don’t you find it of passing interest that the proprietor of Maelstrom’s Notch has taken to hiring warrior-elves to befriend the help?”
“How did you—” She broke off abruptly, not wanting to offend him.
Elaith looked faintly amused. “She’s as out of place here as a unicorn among cow rothé. No offense intended.”
Lark bit back a retort. After all, hadn’t she thought much the same?
“Give your shadow no more thought,” the Serpent murmured. “I’ll see to that matter. In return, I need you to relieve young Lord Hawkwinter of the silver-hued charm he wears about his neck.”
As Lark nodded, it occurred to her that they’d been talking for longer than she could readily explain away. She glanced toward the steward—and met his hard, unfriendly stare.
Turning back to Elaith, she blurted, “Begging your pardon, milord, but perhaps you should pinch my backside, or … something.”
Silvery eyebrows rose.
“To explain why I’ve been here so long,” she explained hastily. “They expect serving wenches to parry men’s advances. If there are none, some will wonder what else might have passed between us.”
“I see.”
His hand shot out as swift as any striking serpent. A quick tug at her wrist brought her tumbling into his lap. Before Lark could even draw startled breath, his lips claimed hers.
For a moment all she could think of was the shock of staring into those descending amber eyes. Now she knew precisely how a hare must feel as a hawk glided in …
There came a light caress down her back, as if the elf was writing on her with his fingertips.
And the world dissolved into darkness, in an overwhelming wave of something—something wonderful and terrifying at the same time—that swept over her like a sudden storm, and left her weak, shuddering, and bewildered. Blinking up at Elaith’s dark smile, Lark fought her way free of … whatever it was and leaped to her feet, heart pounding.
“You used magic on me!”
The elf gave her an unreadable smile. “Or … something,” he replied, his voice managing perfect mimicry of her own.
Elaith watched as Lark flounced to the bar, offended dignity in every stride.
She held a low-voiced but heated conversation with the steward, during which his gaze shifted more than once between his mountainous brawl-queller and Elaith, as if measuring the bouncer’s chances against the elf. Finally he shook his head. Lark pointed at one of the other serving girls, there was more talk, and the steward nodded.
All of this meant: No, he wouldn’t have Elaith Craulnober thrown out, but he would allow Lark to send another lass to serve Elaith’s meal.
The Serpent smiled approvingly. Yes, the wench was clever and quick-witted. Now if she proved light-fingered enough to get the slipshield from Taeros Hawkwinter without drawing attention, he’d be truly impressed.
The Gemcloaks were proving entertaining indeed. Young Korvaun Helmfast was unearthing information about Elaith’s properties with impressive speed, digging into the Serpent’s business with a determination usually managed only by dwarf miners. By now he undoubtedly knew Elaith held title to both the Slow Cheese and the tallhouse formerly owned by Danilo Thann—or to be more precise, those two piles of rubble. It would be interesting to see what young Lord Helmfast did with that information.
More interesting still was a slipshield right here in Waterdeep. Did Taeros Hawkwinter know what sort of treasure he wore? Most likely not; its magic was nigh-impossible to detect.
Elaith twisted the small, silver ring that had first warned him of a slipshield at work, prompting him to seek out its bearer and confirm with his own eyes that a noble pup still wet behind the ears had the audacity to wear the winterhawk badge, the slipshield that had once protected King Zaor himself. The boy’s family name, Hawkwinter, made a bad jest of one of Evermeet’s great secrets.
