by Ed Greenwood
Stroamyn snorted. “In this house? You know grand folk can buy everything but discretion, yet by the luck-fall of Tymora’s dice, it happens Lord Korvaun’s not in residence.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
The guard gave her a considering look. “I’m not one to tell tales.”
“Nor am I,” Lark said firmly. “For that matter, I doubt anyone’ll think to ask how I came by the information. Lord Korvaun carries so many magical trinkets he’s probably come to think of them as commonplace. He’ll no doubt assume my mistresses found him through a seeking spell or some such foolishness. His sort never think others can’t drop coins as freely as they do.”
Stroamyn nodded ruefully and tugged at the neck of his tabard, revealing a green tunic beneath. “One of Lord Korvaun’s brothers asked me why I wear this several times a tenday, as if all men could cast coin away on ten tunics of every hue in a rainbow!”
Thus bonded by common disdain, they leaned heads together and talked. Stroamyn imparted the address of Lord Korvaun’s new and very exclusive club, as well as the password Helmfast servants gave that establishment’s doorguards. Lark thanked him, left best wishes for Rosie and the children, and hurried to give Stroamyn’s directions to their hired coachman.
“We’re off to Dock Ward,” she told the Dyre girls as she climbed back into the carriage. “It seems Lord Korvaun’s an early riser.”
Faendra winced. “Father’ll be livid when he gets the bill for this.”
“I’ve my own money,” Naoni said firmly, the first words she’d spoken since they’d left home.
The other two joined her in silence until the carriage stopped outside a ramshackle warehouse not far from Redcloak Lane. As Stroamyn had warned, a heavily armed guard stood grimly at its open door—a tough old sailor who kept his hands on ready weapons. The tattoo of the Ice Dancer stood out clearly on one brawny forearm.
Lark knew that mark well; sailors from the Dancer had frequented the dockside tavern where she’d been born and raised. Perhaps her mother had entertained this man. Perhaps …
Cheeks flaming, she forced herself to look away from the man’s impassive face as she followed her mistresses through the doorway and up the stairs.
Four men were lounging in the open-to-the-rafters room at the head of the stair: Korvaun Helmfast, Taeros Hawkwinter, and two others. The one who wore a glittering black cloak was exceedingly pale, his long, narrow face framed by lank black hair. The other was a small man with neatly shorn brown hair, mild blue eyes, and well-cut but simple brown garments. Lark assumed his cloak was the fall of rose-hued gemweave hanging on a peg beside more familiar cloaks of blue and amber.
They all looked up, and then rose, as the three women stepped into the room.
“Mistress Naoni,” Korvaun said slowly, his eyes only for the red-haired woman at the fore. “This is a most unexpected pleasure.”
“Perhaps you should hear me out before saying so,” she replied quietly. Lifting her chin, she added, “You hired a man to follow us. I insist on knowing why.”
Korvaun frowned and took two quick steps toward her, hands rising, before he caught himself and halted. “A man’s been following you?”
Naoni frowned. “You pretend to know nothing of this?”
“ ’Tis no pretense, Mistress,” Korvaun replied grimly. “I hired no man to follow you. Unless …” He glanced at Taeros.
The Hawkwinter lord shook his head. “No. I followed our plan.”
Naoni’s face darkened as she looked from one man to the other. “Plan? Tell me.”
Korvaun nodded to Taeros.
The Hawkwinter lordling sighed. “Actually, it was Lark we wanted followed.” His gaze went to the maidservant’s face then swiftly away again. “I didn’t hire a man. We thought an alternative might be … less conspicuous.”
“Ezriel,” Lark murmured. “The elf at the Notch.” She stared at him incredulously. “You thought an elf would be less conspicuous serving in a South Ward inn?”
Taeros shifted uneasily from one foot to another. “I had other reasons for my choice.”
Lark stared at him for a moment. When the answer came to her, she burst out laughing. This fool thought to distract Elaith Craulnober with a pretty elf female! Ye gods, did all men keep their brains in their codpieces?
“I fail to understand your amusement,” Taeros said stiffly.
“Really! What a large surprise!”
“Lark,” murmured Naoni in gentle admonition.
The servant nodded to her mistress and put away her grin. Indeed, now that her first mirth was spent, she found this more troubling than humorous. If she was correct about Hawkwinter’s motive for hiring Ezriel, it meant he’d seen a link between her and Elaith Craulnober.
Naoni shot Taeros and Korvaun both pointed looks. “Right, then, why were you watching Lark?”
Korvaun gave her a small bow of apology. “This requires more than a little explanation. Won’t you sit? Perhaps take refreshment?”
“I’d be grateful for some ale,” Faendra announced. “I’m as dry as Anauroch.”
As the brown-clad man drew a tankard for Faen, Lark took her mistresses’ half-cloaks and hung them on the empty pegs beside the glittering nobles’ gemweave. Her gaze lingered on Lord Hawkwinter’s cloak. Its amber gleam was as cold and bright as a certain pair of mocking elven eyes.
Staring at it, Lark suddenly knew how she’d fulfill her bargain with Elaith. If Taeros was wearing his silver charm, she’d have it off him before she left this room. Schooling her face to a servant’s expressionless calm, Lark took a seat beside Naoni.
“Ere we continue,” Korvaun was saying, “allow me to present my friends Lord Roldo Thongolir and Lord Starragar Jardeth. Gentlesirs, I give you Mistresses Naoni and Faendra Dyre, and Mistress-Lass Lark.”
Roldo and Starragar stood, bowed to the three common-born women with no hint of mockery, and resumed their seats.
“As you know, we lost a friend when the Slow Cheese came down.”
“Lord Malark Kothont,” Faendra murmured, almost wistfully.
“Yes. Had he been slain by a blade or mage’s spell, we’d have avenged him forthwith, but how does one take vengeance on a building? The only satisfaction left to us is to ferret out why the collapse befell.”
Naoni leaned forward. “When you learn the cause, you’ll avenge your friend?”
Lark wondered at the excitement in Naoni’s voice. When had her elder mistress developed an interest in vengeance?
Perhaps she was thinking of Master Dyre’s mutterings about the Lords digging new tunnels to spy on dissenters. If she could win these lordlings to her father’s cause, that would certainly cast aside shields between Naoni Dyre and Lord Korvaun Helmfast.
“Yes, we will avenge our friend,” the black-clad Lord Jardeth said suddenly, his voice as dark as his garb. There was a faint ripping sound as he shifted forward in his seat. Lark saw that the trailing hem of his black cloak was uneven, as if pieces of gemweave had simply fallen away.
Korvaun gave Starragar a swift, quelling glance. “For now, we seek only answers. A second building fell, a fine townhouse in North Ward. So far as we know, these buildings were unrelated except for their owner, an elf of considerable means and power: Elaith Craulnober.”
“Again, what has this to do with Lark?” Naoni demanded.
“She was at Craulnober’s recent revel,” Taeros said quietly.
Lark met his eyes. “I’m surprised you recognized me, milord. Most men of wealth don’t look closely at a servant until she unlaces her bodice.”
Before Lord Hawkwinter could respond in kind, Naoni said, “Lark attended that function at our request!” Then she stopped, mouth still open but indecision clear on her face. Dared she …?
Korvaun gave her a nod of encouragement. Keeping her eyes on his, Naoni took a deep breath and then said slowly, “You’ve tasted my father’s anger, lords. Sharp and bitter, yes? Well, he’s taken it into his head to bring about
a New Day: To demand the Lords of Waterdeep unmask and henceforth be accountable to all citizens.”
“Reasonable enough,” Taeros Hawkwinter agreed, astonishing everyone in the room but his friend Korvaun. Shrugging away incredulous stares, he waved at Naoni to continue.
“My sister and I fear for our father,” Naoni Dyre said carefully, seeking the right words, “but know not where to turn. Lark knew how to get word to a wise and good man, seeking his counsel.”
“And what did this wise and good man advise?”
“We’ve not yet received his reply.”
“I see. How’s the elf entangled in this?”
Lark frowned. How indeed? She remembered the plans strewn across Elaith’s desk and suddenly realized what they were: maps of the sewers under the city. If he was one of Waterdeep’s secret Lords, could things be as Master Dyre claimed? Were the Lords spying? If so, who better to do so than the Serpent, rumored to command half the ruffians in the city?
All of this fit all too well, except for one thing: the fallen buildings had belonged to Elaith; surely he’d not toss away his own valuable properties!
Faendra elbowed Lark sharply, letting her know everyone was awaiting her answer.
Well, what answer could she give?
“He has many resources,” Lark said at last, “and is readily able to convey messages.”
“And that’s why you’ve been seen with the notorious Serpent? You trust him to carry messages betwixt you and your advisor? Reliably and sharing them with no one else?”
“For a price,” Lark replied, truthfully enough. Her eyes slid to the glint of silver at the Hawkwinter throat.
Korvaun’s frown was grave. “A dangerous risk. Tales of Elaith Craulnober’s treachery abound.”
“Lark’s very resourceful,” Naoni said firmly. “You need not fear for her and certainly need have no fear of her!”
Three of the nobles inclined their heads in acceptance, but Taeros Hawkwinter’s face suggested he was reserving judgment on this matter.
Korvaun lifted his tankard. “May I ask what Master Dyre says of these building downfalls?”
“He thinks the Lords control the sewers and dig new tunnels as desired to keep a close watch on citizens—tunnels that caused the collapses.”
Taeros nodded. “All too likely. If anyone bears watching, ’tis the elf.”
Lark frowned. “You believe as Master Dyre does?”
The Hawkwinter shrugged. “I’m willing to entertain any reasonable explanation.”
“I believe it,” dark-cloaked Starragar said grimly, “and if unmasking the Lords is needful to force someone to account for Malark’s death, I’ll tear off every last one of those masks with these hands!”
“Hear, hear,” murmured Lord Thongolir. “It seems we have common cause with these ladies. Perhaps we should work together?”
“We’ve given our word to Master Dyre that we’d not seek the company of his daughters,” Korvaun reminded him. “We’re honor-bound to obtain release from this promise.”
Faendra gave her sister a sly glance ere she told Lord Helmfast, “If you can sway Father, you can do anything. Let’s go to him at once!”
“Hear, hear,” Roldo said heartily, looking to Korvaun.
Lark needed no lord’s approval. She rose and retrieved her mistresses’ wraps, then took up the glittering amber cloak and held it out to Taeros, her gaze challenging. When he reached to take it, she snatched it away.
“I’m a servant, Lord Hawkwinter. One of my duties is to help people on with their cloaks.”
He made a futile grab for the gemweave. “You’re not my servant, blast it!”
“Nevertheless,” she said firmly.
With an impatient hiss, Taeros turned his back and let her drape his cloak over his shoulders. She smoothed its glittering folds with swift, practiced hands …
And when they came away, the silver chain and the magical device it bore were hidden in one palm.
With it, she could repay her debt to Craulnober. The sooner she could get shed of that one, the better.
But … was she making a mistake handing a magic of unknown power to the Serpent? There were spells that could reveal the true nature of magics, but a wizard’s fee was well beyond her means, even if she spent her every last, laboriously hoarded nib.
A sudden thunder of boots on the stairs drew every eye. Beldar Roaringhorn paused in the doorway, ruby cloak a-swirl, gazing bemused at the three women standing in what was perhaps the last place in Waterdeep he might have expected to find them.
Lord Beldar looked considerably the worse for wear. He was richly dressed, a-gleam with jewels and fine weapons, his mustache freshly trimmed, but grayness lurked on his sun-browned face, and his right eye was covered with a black patch.
“What in the Nine bloody Hells happened to you?” Starragar pointed at his own right eye to show what he meant.
Beldar waved airy dismissal. “Nothing of great consequence. My eye was scratched during the Dock Ward brawl, and a healer bade me rest it.”
Lark recalled the bloodied face of the man who’d fainted in her lap. Beldar’s wounds had been slight, and nowhere near his eye. Here was a man who kept secrets from his friends. A small, humorless smile touched her lips as she realized that wizard’s fee was all but in her hands.
“I’m gratified to hear so, Lord Roaringhorn,” she said demurely. “For a moment I feared you might have met with some lawless, murdering rogue—say, a half-ogre—and suffered thereby.”
The consternation that arose on Beldar’s face made Lark think a bit more highly of him. Perhaps he hadn’t knowingly sold her to the half-ogre, after all.
“We’re off to speak with Master Dyre,” Korvaun told Beldar uncertainly. “Will you accompany us?”
Beldar, into whom healing potions had been poured not once but many times throughout a long and agonizing night, found no appeal whatsoever in this prospect. “I’ll pass.”
“As will I,” Lark echoed quickly. She turned to Naoni. “Someone should press the new cheese and get it into the buttery before it spoils in this heat. I need to start highsunfeast, or Master Dyre will have to forage for himself—and make do with the bony ends of the salt herring and yestereve’s rabbit stew. I’m not even sure he’ll touch the stew; it’s sure to have a top-skin of fat by now. None of which will please him.”
“Very well,” Naoni agreed absently, her eyes on Korvaun Helmfast. “At this time of day, Father’s likely to be in his office meeting with tradesmen. We’ve a carriage outside that’s large enough to take the rest of us there.”
She turned toward the door, then looked back over her shoulder at Lord Helmfast. “And I,” she added, in a tone that brooked no argument, “am paying for its hire.”
Varandros Dyre was not in his office. He was standing in a narrow, stinking Dock Ward alley, gazing down at what was left of his youngest apprentice.
Jivin Tranter lay on his back, staring endlessly up at a sky that would never change for him, now. His mouth was agape. His eyes, which Dyre remembered as too clever by half, were covered with dust, yet still held dawning pain, fear, and the realization that something was very, very wrong.
Dyre wondered if the lad had found time and wits enough to know he was dying. Likely yes; by the amount of blood pooling under Jivin’s head, the apprentice’s heart had still been beating when that symbol was carved into his forehead.
“A necromantic rune,” one of the Watchmen muttered. “No priest or mage’ll get the killer’s name from this one.”
That explained the mutilation—the lad’s corpse was shielded from spells that allowed speech with the dead, and the other magic some priests practiced that recalled the last thing a dead person had gazed upon. The rest Dyre could read for himself.
The blade that had taken Jivin’s life had been rapier-thin, piercing the apprentice’s heart like a needle. His shirt had been slashed and peeled aside, so four words could be carved into his hairless chest. Dyre was no scholar
, but after a few moments of study he made out these chilling words: “The Wages of Curiosity.”
“Guildmaster Dyre?”
The swordcaptain’s grim voice was still respectful, but growing sharper. Dyre realized the Watchman had been repeating his name for some time now.
“Aye?” he growled, blinking, as he tore his gaze from Jivin’s forever frozen face to the swordcaptain’s weathered frown. “What?”
“Goodman Dyre, I asked: D’you have any idea who might have done this?”
The stonemason’s face hardened into a bleak, stonelike mask, a mask adorned with a mirthless, unlovely grin that made the Watchman draw back a step and reach for his sword out of long habit.
“No. I have no idea at all. Not one,” Varandros Dyre said, biting off his words as if each was a stone dropped over a parapet, one at a time.
He pushed past the Watch officer without a backward glance, lifting one hand in a circular gesture his employees knew well.
The little group of mute, pale-faced stonecutters hastened forward to take up Jivin’s body, and bear it along in the guildmaster’s wake. They knew better than to say even a lone word to any of the Watch, who in turn agreed on one thing to a man, without need for any words: Varandros Dyre had a very good idea who might have ordered the apprentice’s death and was seething with rage at being thus warned, or threatened … or goaded.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Beldar Roaringhorn’s friends and the three women vacated the club in swift tumult, leaving him alone in blessed silence.
For long breaths he simply stood and enjoyed the stillness, his back to the door so he could gaze the length of the room and just relax, letting his thoughts wander and his innards start to settle.
After a calming pause, he strolled across the room and poured himself some ale. Sniffing it appreciatively, he took a small sip, not trusting his roiling stomach to welcome more.
“You didn’t hurt your eye in that brawl,” a cool voice commented, from behind him.
Beldar froze. Then he made himself turn slowly. He knew that tone—one usually used by someone holding a weapon, who was exceedingly pleased that the person being addressed was not.
