by Ed Greenwood
The servant girl was alone, and her hands were empty. By the look on her face, she didn’t consider that one dented serving tray had settled the score between them.
Swallowing rising unease, Beldar mustered his most supercilious smile. “Weren’t you off to mount a gallant defense of cheese or some such?”
The lass didn’t rise to his bait. “You didn’t hurt your eye in that brawl,” she repeated.
Beldar set down his tankard. “Oh? And how could you possibly know?”
Lark smiled thinly. “After you fainted and fell on me, I passed much time with your head on my lap, while your friends argued with the Watch. Your wounds were right under my nose, and as I don’t happen to own wardrobes full of gowns, just where you were bleeding was of some importance to me. You had a cut on your head above the hairline, but nothing more.”
Beldar stared at her. He remembered few details of that humiliating episode, but—blast it!—she was probably speaking simple truth. The reason for her candor was appallingly clear. She’d been witness to his least shining moments, and with the instinctive cunning of the coin-poor lowborn, understood that he did not want his falsehood—or the events of that night in Luskan —to reach the ears of his friends.
“I assume your silence has a price?”
She nodded. “I need the services of a wizard who can truly tell the nature of magical things.”
This was hardly what he’d been expecting. “Why?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the lass half-turned away from him and then swung back, with a small silver charm in her hand that hadn’t been there before. “I came across this and want to know what it can do. Find a wizard for me and pay his fee, and your friends need never know their gallant, noble friend sold an unwilling woman to a murderous half-ogre.”
He couldn’t quite suppress a wince. “I didn’t know his intention.”
“Not at first, perchance, but then you did—yet stood like a post as he dragged me away.”
Beldar stared at Lark, seeking some defense for his behavior. The best he could muster was, “I broke no law in Luskan, and in all fairness, I should advise you that the magisters of this city have recently begun punishing extortion rather severely.”
“I’m unsurprised,” Lark replied softly. “Why else would you not parry my request with threats to reveal …”
She let silence fall between then until he gently finished her sentence: “Your circumstances when last we met.”
“Aye. My circumstances,” she said with soft, searing bitterness.
Beldar drew himself up. “Because, Mistress Lark, that would be as unworthy of me as it is of you.”
A flush rose into her cheeks. “So you’ll not help me?”
“I’ll help you,” Beldar replied, “but such aid is not to be construed as payment for your silence on this matter or any other.”
Lark’s smirk told him she saw his carefully worded parry for what it was: cowardice, dressed up in a magister’s fine black robes, but cowardice all the same. And why should she think otherwise, when laws written to prompt men to own their words and actions were so often used to shrug off responsibility?
That was a question for another day. The wench was obviously determined to view any aid he might offer as silence-coin, and it was a reasonably cheap road to her immediate silence. Of course, those who wore black mail invariably made additional demands, but she was, after all, a woman, and common born at that. He could charm her into compliance long before her wits took her that far.
And if you can’t charm her, a ghostly voice hissed deep in Beldar’s mind, you can always kill her.
That notion was so absurd Beldar was able to brush it aside as absently as he might wave away a stingfly.
“It so happens,” he told the unsmiling lass, “I know a wizard who just might serve our purpose …”
As the carriage pulled away from the offices of Dyre’s Fine Walls and Dwellings, Naoni silently reckoned the cost of her impulsive extravagance. In her rush to leave the house, she’d snatched up the coinsack holding the entire profits of her latest delivery of gem thread. The fare for their hither-and-yon travels, plus gratuity for the patient carriageman, would devour nearly every coin.
Faendra was also reconsidering the morning’s adventure, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as the carriage bounced and rumbled. At Naoni’s look, she smiled ruefully. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’d rather walk. The novelty’s worn thinner than the padding under these seats.”
“Novelty’s like silk and passion,” observed Starragar Jardeth in the disgruntled way Naoni now knew to be his usual manner. “All three wear out quickly.”
Taeros, who’d proclaimed himself in need of a nap, lifted one eyelid. “Speaking from sad experience?” he asked archly. “The fair Phandelopae, perchance, has turned love’s silken embrace into threadbare rags? Take heart, man. I know an herb …”
“Most amusing,” snapped his dour friend. “Save your herbs to impress the Dyres’ prickly maid. You’ll need all you can muster to win past the thorns on that rose!”
The Hawkwinter’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment he looked ready to dispute Starragar’s words. Then a puzzled expression crossed his face. He closed his mouth without saying a word and settled back into his seat. Though his eyes closed again, Naoni doubted very much he sought slumber.
She pushed aside sudden dismay. Lark was a sensible girl, too proud to dally with the likes of Lord Taeros. On the other hand, the man’s tart wit was like enough to hers that they might …
No, surely not. Even if Lark were interested, Korvaun would remind his friend to observe propriety. If ever a man could be trusted in such matters, Naoni mused, ’twas he.
Or could he?
A small sigh escaped her. She’d been reared believing no man raised with a noble’s sense of entitlement could be trusted in such matters. It was a conviction too deeply and painfully engraved to lightly abandon.
The carriage stopped by the Dyres’ door. Naoni accepted Korvaun’s hand to alight then counted out coins to the carriageman. It seemed she’d reckoned fare and gratuity correctly; he tipped his cap in thanks before shaking the reins and rumbling away.
The front door opened before Naoni reached its latch, to reveal Varandros Dyre wearing an expression that brought to mind a gathering storm.
“Where’ve you been? I was about to call the Watch and report you missing!”
“Just tending to errands, Father,” Naoni replied soothingly. She waved at the men behind her. “Lord Helmfast’s here to speak with you … to ask you to release him, and his friends, from their promise to keep clear of the women of your household.”
“Why?”
Varandros Dyre launched that word like a war-arrow, leaving Naoni blinking in sudden realization that she had no words to answer him.
These men have offered to help us spy on your New Day activities, Father, was fairly accurate, but hardly likely to sway him. These young nobles desire to make common cause with you, in working to unmask the Lords … No. The first, approving reaction of Taeros Hawkwinter to this notion was too flimsy a foundation for that—and her father would never believe it.
Help came from a most unexpected quarter. “It’s been pointed out to me,” Taeros Hawkwinter said dryly, casting a glance at Starragar, “that I may have some interest in your maidservant.”
Dyre glared. “The girl suits us fine and is not for hire!”
Faendra giggled. “Father, you’re not that old, to have forgotten how matters of the h … ah, such things go.”
The guildmaster flushed, redness swiftly darkening to the deep, mottled blood-red of fury. “If you’re even thinking of debauching my servant—”
“I assure you, goodsir, I’d not insult that woman if I were in full plate and defended by the City Guard’s griffonback lancers!” Taeros declared fervently.
Puzzlement chased ire from the guildmaster’s face, and he passed a hand over his forehead. “I’m in no mind for puzzles j
ust now, young lord.”
The deep weariness in his voice smote Naoni’s heart. “What is it, Father?” she asked softly.
He turned tired eyes on her. “We’ve another death, lass. Jivin was found in an alley with a warning carved into his hide.” He looked at Taeros with more worry than anger on his face. “You might have need of armor and lancers if you plan to keep company with my lasses.”
Korvaun said quietly, “Some might hear a threat in those words, sir, but I doubt that’s your intent.”
“No,” Dyre said simply, ere turning back to Naoni. “I bade Jivin watch over you lasses, as he was quick on his feet and knew the streets. They killed him to warn me off, that’s plain enough, but ’twas me who sent him to his doom.”
Naoni heard Faendra’s quick gasp and whirled around. Faen’s eyes were wide, and the hand she held over her mouth trembled. Naoni reached for her sister’s other hand. The small, suddenly cold fingers curled tightly around hers.
Starragar Jardeth lifted a hand. “The warning: What was it, exactly? ”
Every face turned to him, incredulously.
“I mean no disrespect,” the dark-cloaked lordling told them, “but if I’d seen someone in my employ so served, I’d not be of a mind to see past the outrage. One who stands apart may see clearly, and the precise wording may shed light on the intent—and the murderer.”
Varandros Dyre stared at the young noble in silence for an uncomfortably long time before muttering, “Well said.”
It was even longer ere he added, “Thorass, ’twas: ‘The Wages of Curiosity.’ I’ve been asking questions of late—never mind what about. Someone’s warning me off.”
“Perhaps we’re not so far removed from this matter as Lord Jardeth suggests,” Korvaun said slowly. “You should know, Master Dyre, that we’ve been seeking answers about the fallen buildings. A friend of ours died in the collapse of the festhall, he whose dagger you found. A good man, who shouldn’t be judged by that one day’s mischief at Redcloak Lane.”
“So say you,” observed Dyre, something also like sympathy in his tone, “and so you should say. Even if that foolishness told young Kothort’s true measure, men should stand by their friends.”
“We are agreed on that, and perhaps in other matters, as well,” Korvaun said carefully. “These mysteriously fallen buildings may touch on matters that concern us both. If this is so, release us from our promise, and our swords are yours to command.”
The stonemason blinked, staring at the young noblemen as if he’d never seen them before.
“I … I’ll think on it,” he said curtly. Giving them an abrupt nod, he pointed at his daughters and then imperiously at his open door, and strode off down the street.
Faendra whirled to face Naoni. “Jivin was following us!”
“Yes, Father just said so,” Naoni agreed, puzzled by the fear in her sister’s eyes.
“Lark … Lark told me not to worry about the man following us. She said he was being dealt with. Being dealt with! I never thought—”
“Nor should you,” Naoni said firmly, ignoring the sick, sinking feeling in her own stomach. “We’ve known Lark nearly a year, and she’s as reliable as the tides.”
“Perhaps Mistress Faendra has cause for concern,” said Starragar gravely, his eyes on Taeros. “You were wearing a silver medallion this morn, were you not?”
Taeros’s hand flew to his throat. “It’s gone! Blast it!”
“I saw you wearing it when you got up to leave the club—before the lass so tartly insisted on helping you with your cloak. I just noticed its absence now.”
Naoni frowned. “That could be mere happenstance. Perhaps it fell off in the carriage?”
Starragar shook his head. “I was last to alight, and I always look about for items that might have been left behind. As for happenstance, is it also happenstance that your servant’s been seen with Elaith Craulnober, the owner of those two fallen buildings?”
“Nine happy Hells,” Taeros murmured softly. “The elf I hired to watch Lark hasn’t reported back. I wonder if she’s …”
“We’ll look into it,” Korvaun said briskly. “Mistress Naoni, where might Lark be now?”
“She implied she was returning here to tend to chores, but Father’s worry rather gives the lie to that.”
“Lark stayed behind to talk to Beldar,” Faendra said confidently. “I looked back as our carriage pulled away, and neither had come down the stairs.”
The nobles exchanged worried glances.
Naoni peered from one to another. “What? What is it?”
“Beldar hasn’t … been himself of late,” Korvaun told her. “I’d put it down to grief about Malark. Much as I hate to admit it, we may have another worry in common.”
Beldar glanced back at Lark. “Take care. The steps are damp and slippery.”
She put her hand on the mossy wall, her face ghostly green in the faint lichen-glow. Beldar took some satisfaction in her tense expression. Clearly, the wench had no fondness for tunnels and close places, or perhaps she was reconsidering the wisdom of blackmail, though she should hardly have expected a sordid transaction to be free of discomfort.
The look on her face when they stopped before the Dathran’s skullgate was all Beldar could have desired. It turned to open fear when the front four “teeth” swung inward to reveal the way on.
“Well met again, Lord Roaringhorn,” the dry and familiar voice came from the darkness beyond. “I see you are something more than you were … and something less. Come in, the maid first.”
Beldar waved Lark forward. She clenched her teeth, climbed through the opening—and promptly squeaked in surprise at the touch of the warding magics.
Beldar joined her. The old witch was standing with her black Rashemaar mask in her hand and her keen blue eyes bent on Lark. “Welcome, child. I sense in you a great longing to know. Tell Dathran what you seek.”
Lark handed over the charm. The Dathran passed it from one wizened hand to the other.
“Stolen,” she announced, her voice devoid of judgment. “More than that, I cannot tell.”
Lark swallowed. “Is there … magic about it?”
Dathran closed her eyes, and her face took on the expression of one who listens to distant voices. “None,” she said slowly.
“So you can tell me nothing about it.”
“Only that you fear the use that might be made of it and need not, yet. Perhaps I can tell something of its history, if that would ease your mind.”
When Lark nodded, the woman began to chant. A soft, humming haze gathered around the charm but faded at the end of the incantation.
Dathran handed it back. “I learned one word, nothing more: slipshield. Holds that any meaning for you?”
Lark shook her head and slipped the charm into the bag at her belt. “No, but I thank you for trying.”
A high-pitched chuckle came from the gargoyle-like figure perched on the mantel. Lark caught her breath as the small gray form she’d thought a mere carving flapped batlike wings and showed its fangs in a leer.
“You needn’t thank her,” the imp mocked. “You have to pay her.”
Beldar handed over a palmful of coins and ushered Lark out of the Dathran’s lair. When they emerged from the skullgate, he seized her arm and spun her around to face him.
“What’s this about? From whom did you steal this, and why did you think it might be magic?”
Lark tugged free and stepped back, lifting her chin defiantly. “You keep your secrets, Lord Roaringhorn, and I’ll keep mine.”
Beldar’s first inclination was to let the matter go; after all, what cared he about a silver trinket? Yet a dark, hissing murmur in the back of his mind wanted the charm.
Without another thought he seized the bag at her belt and tugged sharply. Its strings broke, Lark lunged for it—and he backhanded her across the face.
She reeled, face showing none of the astonishment Beldar himself felt. Before he could offer a word of apology, she
hauled up her skirts in obvious preparation for a groin-high kick.
He sidestepped into a crouch to shield the Roaringhorn family jewels—and astonishingly, the lass punched his face, hard.
Blast! He dropped the bag to clutch his bleeding nose. Lark snatched up her property and raced away up the stairs, as nimble as a sewer rat.
Two high-pitched, evil chuckles arose behind the skull-wall, but for once Beldar’s thoughts were not of his own humiliation.
He, a noble of Waterdeep, had robbed a commoner. He’d struck a woman. By any lights, these were not the deeds of a man destined to be a death-defying hero!
You are something more than you were … and something less.
The Dathran’s words haunted Beldar as he trudged up the steps into a future that had never looked so uncertain.
“Ah … Master Dyre?”
Varandros Dyre glanced up sharply. “I’m starting to dread news unlooked-for,” he growled, letting fall a sheaf of building plans onto his littered desk. “What is it this time?”
The man at his office door was a senior framer who’d been with Dyre’s Fine Walls and Dwellings from the early days. A calm, capable worker, Jaerovan was first hand of his own crew for nigh a decade and well worthy of that trust, a man of prudence and few words. It took much to bring any expression at all onto Jaerovan’s old boot-leather face, a face that, just now, looked very grim.
Varandros lifted an eyebrow. “Well? Out with it, man!”
“Another building’s down. One of ours.”
Dyre’s mouth dropped open.
“On Redcloak Lane,” Jaerovan added, before the guildmaster could snap the inevitable question. “The one Marlus was—”
Varandros Dyre went as white as winter snow. His fist crashed down onto his desk so hard that the massive piece of furniture shook, with just a hint of splintering lacing the thunderous boom of his blow.
Then Dyre was moving, snatching up the swordcane Jaerovan had only seen him carry twice before and striding for the door like a storm wind. The framer hastily got out of the way.
