by Ed Greenwood
Beldar Roaringhorn smiled bitterly. “And for a price, you’d make one particular corpse disappear?”
Elaith had already made it vanish, but saw no need to say so. “In return, I ask only for information that might lead to the recovery of a servant of mine you recently met. A half-dragon.”
“You set that ready-slayer on me? To what purpose?”
“Obviously not your demise.” Elaith inspected his nails. “If I wanted you dead, I’d hardly be standing here enduring this fine weather and the pleasure of your company.”
“I asked you a question!”
“I’d noticed as much,” Elaith said smoothly, “but you’ve won time enough to consider my proposal. Have we a bargain?”
“We do not.” Beldar gave Elaith a hard stare, proving he was either braver than most men or far more foolish. “What’s done is done. I’ll take responsibility for my deeds, but I’ll make no further alliance with evil.”
Elaith didn’t bother to hide his amusement. It was rather gratifying to be so clearly and swiftly understood. Mildly entertaining, even, if not quite worth climbing all those steps.
“I did not fail to notice, young Lord Roaringhorn, that you spoke of ‘further alliance.’ If you should find yourself too deeply mired in whatever evil you now enjoy, do not hesitate to call on me.”
Beldar’s mouth set in a thin line. “I thank you for your offer, Lord Craulnober, but I must decline.”
The Serpent’s reply was a small, slightly mocking bow followed by smooth departure.
The wind was rising as he hurried down the mountain. He might yet have use for young Roaringhorn, who seemed to be growing into the sort of human destined for great things—provided, of course, he didn’t get himself killed first.
The boy had surprised him. He’d expected insults, and heard none. Nor had Roaringhorn tried to turn aside blame, seeming determined to face the consequences of slaying the halfling. The bleak determination to “do the right thing” was written across his face. Yes, Beldar Roaringhorn was that annoying collision of nobility and stupidity Elaith knew all too well.
Waterdeep held so human-gods-be-damned much of it.
The Dyres’ old red rooster was still lustily greeting the dawn as Lark hurried into the garden. His feathered harem fluttered to greet her, eager for their morningfeast.
Lark frowned as she flapped her skirts to chase them off. Naoni should have fed them and gathered the eggs by now. What had befallen this time?
She hastened into the kitchen to find Naoni on the floor, face in her hands and slender shoulders shaking. Faendra knelt beside her, arms wrapped comfortingly around her weeping sister, and a somber-faced halfling stood over them cradling a tankard of ale. Even in distress, Naoni was ever the hostess.
Faendra looked up at Lark, her blue eyes sharp, almost accusing. “One of Naoni’s hin guards has gone missing. He’d been … following someone. Beldar Roaringhorn.”
“Mother of all gods,” Lark murmured feelingly, going to her knees to clasp Naoni’s hands. “Much as I dislike the man, I didn’t think him the sort to do murder! I’m sorry, Mistress, truly. However this unfolds, ’twill be hard on Lord Korvaun.”
“Harder still if Beldar’s killed.” Naoni’s eyes filled again. “He shouldn’t have struck you, Lark, but surely he doesn’t deserve to die for it!”
Lark gaped at both sisters, stunned. “You think this is my doing?”
Naoni bit her lip. “I hardly know what to think. Jivin was following us. You told Faen our shadow would be seen to, and he was slain. Taeros hired an elf-maid to follow you, and she disappeared. Now this halfling.”
“You’re linking Lord Roaringhorn to me. Why?”
“Because of the charm belonging to Lord Taeros—the missing charm.” Naoni sighed heavily. “You and Beldar saw it last, and each of you accuses the other of having it. We hired Warrens-folk to follow you both and recover it.”
Lark turned sharply to the halfling. “The one following me—how fares he?”
“She’s not yet attempted to retrieve the charm,” the halfling told her, his voice surprisingly deep. “As of this foredawn, she’s unhurt.”
“Call her off,” Lark said wildly. “For her life’s sake, tell her to stay far from me!”
The halfling looked at Naoni, who nodded. He bowed his head, drained his tankard in one long gulp, and left without another word, hurrying.
Naoni reached for Lark’s hand. “I think you’ve much to tell us.”
Lark nodded unhappily, and began the story she’d hoped never to have to tell.
“I was born in Luskan, to a tavern wench. I never knew a father, and when I was young, I once asked my mother what he looked like. She said it was hard to know, as there’s little to see when your skirts are thrown over your head.”
Faendra winced. “Your mother was … forced?”
“Paid is more like it,” Lark said bitterly. “From birth, I was indentured to the tavernmaster. My mother owed him for her keep, as she downed more drink than she served and never won free of her debt. Not that she tried. She was well content with the place and her life, and had grown fond of some of her regular customers.”
“Indentured,” Naoni murmured, understanding dawning.
“In my twelfth winter I was told to take up my mother’s debt … and her duties. I’d cleaned and worked in the kitchen, all along, and never minded the work, but this other …”
Lark stared into her memories, then tossed her head and said briskly, “I had no choice in matters and couldn’t flee; my arm was branded with the inn’s mark.”
“So you always wear a ribbon,” Faendra murmured.
“Any guardsman of Luskan, any seacaptain anywhere, and every caravan master headed to Luskan could return me for a reward—that’d be added to my indenture. I was determined to earn my way free, but my mother’s debt had grown large. She died birthing another twelve-fathered bastard, but lingered long enough to need a healer. I had no love for her, but couldn’t let her die untended. By the time they found someone who’d venture those rough streets, she was past healing, and the babe as well. Then there were burial costs …”
Lark dismissed memories with an impatient wave. “By then the debt was more than I could hope to pay. No matter how hard I worked, I’d never be more than a slave.”
Faendra winced, and Naoni squeezed Lark’s hand in silent sympathy.
“One night a young lordling came to the tavern. A half-ogre was with him, a beast dreaded across Luskan—but when coins’re on the table, most tavernmasters care little for servants’ safety. The wealthy lord paid for his companion’s food and entertainment, and watched while the monster dragged me to the stairs.”
Tears glimmered in Faendra’s eyes.
Naoni had gone pale. “You needn’t say more.”
“Nay, the story turns brighter: Chance brought a paladin from Waterdeep through the doors just then. He slew the beast, asked the tavernmaster my debt, and handed over coin on the spot. We left that very night for Waterdeep.”
Lark smiled faintly. “At first I thought he’d bought me for his own pleasure on the road south, but he understood nothing of what my life had been. Doubtless he thought he was rescuing a virtuous maiden.” She frowned, and added wonderingly, “or perhaps he knew what I was and cared not.”
“Texter!” Faendra exclaimed. “He you sent a message to, at the Serpent’s revel!”
“Yes. I tried to repay him, but he refused my coins. I’ll be beholden to no man, not even a good one, and told him so. Seeing I was steadfast in this, he asked me, in lieu of coin, to send him word whenever I saw possible danger to Waterdeep or its people.”
Naoni frowned. “How does Elaith Craulnober come into this?”
Lark stared at her pleadingly. “Try to see things as I do, Mistress. I’ve … known wealthy men, titled men, even a High Captain of Luskan, once. Under their finery, they’re little different than the roughest sailor. Like men everywhere, the masked Lords of Waterdeep are—no better than they
have to be. Elaith Craulnober went straight to the hiding-place where Texter had told me to hide my message, so I thought …”
“He was a Lord of Waterdeep.” Faendra concluded.
“Yes. I wondered if I’d been mistaken when Jivin was killed, but then, if your father’s right, ’twould be a small matter for a Lord to order a man’s death. I know Elaith’s interested in the New Day; he’s asked me about it.”
Naoni caught her breath sharply. “What did you tell him?”
“Forgive me: That Master Dyre and his friends, like many old men, said much but did little.”
“Words lead to deeds,” Naoni said grimly. “The riot in the City of the Dead began with those old mens’ words.”
Faendra regarded Lark shrewdly. “You’re not so loyal to Waterdeep—nor half so stupid!—that you’d do what the Serpent demands, just because you think he might be a Lord of Waterdeep. He knew your past and threatened to tell the city, losing you your employment here—and everywhere respectable. That’s why you took the charm from Lord Taeros: The Serpent demanded it.”
“Yes,” Lark whispered miserably.
“Did you give it to him?” Naoni asked.
Lark pulled up her kirtle, clawed open the small cloth bag sewn to her shift, and handed the charm to her mistress.
Closing her fingers around it, Naoni gave Lark a long, level look. “You told us Beldar took it from you.”
“He did.”
“You also said you didn’t have it!”
“I said it wasn’t in my belt-bag, words as true now as when they were spoken.” Lark sighed. “I beg pardon, Mistress, for deceiving you with … truth untold.”
Naoni shrugged. “Well, at least you didn’t give it to The Serpent.”
“I couldn’t, not knowing for certain what it was or why he wanted it, so I had Lord Roaringhorn take me to a mage and pay for her seeking-spells. She found no magic in it at all.”
Faendra frowned. “But why would he—”
She snapped her fingers. “Beldar was the wealthy young man in Luskan!”
“I hated him … but have since come to know he never knowingly pandered for that beast. Please, let’s speak of this no more. I want nothing more in my life than an end to all this.”
“Gods willing, you’ll have it,” Naoni said briskly. “When the elf asks about this, tell him Taeros no longer has it, nor do you.”
“And if he persists?”
Naoni looked down at what she held. “Tell him,” she said slowly, “that the charm was taken from you by a metal worker, who made something else of it.”
“Mistress, his magic will test my words for truth.”
There was steel in Naoni’s sudden smile. “True they will be! Faen, fetch me my spindle!”
Beldar stood in silence, staring at the stone skull. He wasn’t sure what the old witch could do for him, but where else could he turn?
One of the teeth shifted. “Are you alone this time?” the Dathran asked coldly.
He touched his eyepatch. “No man or monster stands with me or follows me, as far as I know, yet I can’t in all honor claim I’m truly alone.”
“More puzzles you bring Dathran? Very well, so long as you also bring gems and gold.”
Beldar shook his bag of gems, and the skull grated open. Climbing into the room, he was surprised to find the Dathran already at work, settling a large, shallow bronze bowl onto a spiked iron tripod, and pouring dark fluid into it.
She looked up and made the usual demand: “Blood.”
The Roaringhorn drew his dagger and carefully cut his forearm. As blood dripped into the scrying bowl, its surface began to roil and seethe. When the surface calmed, the Dathran leaned over it to peer intently into its depths.
A gout of steam burst from the bowl, scalding the old woman into staggering retreat. The steam darkened to smoke, and with horrified speed thickened into—
A pair of long, black tentacles!
One lashed out, snapping around the Dathran’s throat with vicious force. She clawed at it, her fingers passing through it to leave bloody furrows in her own skin, and tried in vain to gurgle out a spell.
Beldar flung down his dagger, drew his sword, and swung it high overhead. He brought it down with all his strength behind it—straight through the tentacle as if he’d been slicing empty air, to strike sparks from the stone floor.
The tentacle undulated unharmed, the Dathran gagging.
The imp streaked off a shelf to pounce, shrieking and clawing. Its claws and fangs could find and harm the tentacle, slicing long, bloodless rents in the dark flesh. The imp sprang from the second tentacle to the first, slashing and gnawing in frenzy as the dark suppleness choked the Dathran.
That sinuous limb never slowed, dragging the witch toward the scrying bowl.
The second tentacle stabbed down—not at Beldar, but to flick the imp away. It spun into a hard, wet meeting with a wall and slid to the floor, spasming, to crouch hissing like an angry cat.
That tentacle darted menacingly at Beldar. He sprang aside, hefting his sword, but it swooped aside to dash the bowl off the tripod.
Dark fluid splashed in all directions, and the smoky tentacles thinned to the girth of ropes. Beldar hacked at one, but it curled away from him as the other tentacle hauled at the Dathran, hard. Snatched off her feet, the feebly struggling witch was jerked forward.
Her body struck the three iron spikes with a thick, wet rending thud, and rode them downward.
The tentacles collapsed into smoke. Wisps curled almost tauntingly around the twitching woman … and were gone.
It had all happened so fast. Beldar stared at down at what was left of the Dathran. Blood drenched the floor below the tripod, and the witch’s flesh seemed to be melting away from the barbed spikes thrusting wetly up through her body.
A delighted cackle arose from the imp. It flapped unsteadily up from the floor to hover in front of Beldar.
“You’ve freed me from her service, so I don’t suppose we’ll meet again,” it hissed. Then it leered, pointed at its right eye, and added, “And then again, we just might!”
It disappeared in a puff of stinking smoke, departing much faster than its parting chuckle.
Retrieving his dagger, Beldar clambered hastily through the skull, half-fearing it might start to close, and staggered away. Waterdeep held men who might help him without magic. Everyone knew of the barbers who sewed and slashed flesh in dark Dock Ward rooms, aiding—if that was the right word—those who spurned priestly prayers and couldn’t afford potions. Surely one of them would be willing to free him from this abomination in his head!
If he died, what of it? It was becoming increasingly clear to Beldar Roaringhorn that his life was no longer his own.
The second bell past dawn was striking as Elaith Craulnober strode through the smoking ruins of what had been a barber’s hovel and kicked aside the blasted, twisted thing that had been its owner.
The dead man’s patient looked little better. A magical backlash had thrown him across the room before the Watchful Order’s firequench spell had taken effect, and greasy soot from the barber’s badly burned corpse had settled thickly over him. His eyes—the right one markedly larger than the left—were closed, but his chest was rising and falling shallowly. He was larger and heavier than the elf, but Elaith lifted him onto one shoulder with seeming effortlessness and carried him out onto the street.
A few curious onlookers saw the grim face of The Serpent and scattered like a flock of startled birds.
Elaith tossed a small glass vial to the cobbles. From its bursting spilled a glimmering liquid that promptly spread into a perfectly round puddle, which in turn birthed a rising cylinder of glittering motes. The elf stepped into it with his head-lolling burden and promptly vanished, taking all traces of his portal magic with him.
Handy things, jumpgates. Elaith’s boot came down on the forehall tiles of one of his quieter Waterdeep houses.
An elf matron stared at her master and his burden
and promptly hurried to a sweeping sculpture on a plinth. As Elaith dropped the scorched noble to the floor, she did something to its rainbow teardrops that made it chime and shift its outlines, offering her seven vials. Snatching several, she hastened to Elaith’s side.
The Serpent had already gone to one knee and started to pry open Beldar Roaringhorn’s jaws.
“Stupid, stubborn human,” he murmured, as his housekeeper carefully emptied a vial into the opening he’d forced.
She studied the result calmly, poured two more potions after the first, and announced, “He’s not swallowing.”
Elaith promptly punched the handy Roaringhorn gut. Air wheezed out of the noble, potion dribbling from the sides of his mouth, but there came a rattling intake of air, and Beldar sat up, coughing and sputtering.
“He’s supposed to swallow them, not breathe them in,” the housekeeper pointed out.
Her master shrugged, rising from his heels in one swift, fluid movement. “He’s alive—more or less. Argue not with success.”
Beldar Roaringhorn writhed and spasmed, helpless racking coughs roaring out of him. When his agonies finally faded, he found himself looking at a patiently extended hand. A long-fingered, graceful, somewhat familiar hand.
He stared at it for a moment and then accepted it. With casual strength Elaith Craulnober pulled Beldar to his feet.
“The … barber?”
“Dead as last summer’s hopes,” Elaith replied, watching Beldar’s shoulders slump and bleakness creep into the noble’s eyes. “Care to reconsider my offer?”
“I seem bereft of options,” the young Lord Roaringhorn observed. “What d’you want of me? ”
Elaith pointed at Beldar’s right eye. “Take me to whoever did that. I’ll do the rest.”
Beldar nodded. “When?”
“Immediately. They have one of my … companions.”
The human studied Elaith’s face. “The half-dragon. You’re truly concerned about your underling.”
“They cut up a beholder like cooks gleaning morsels for exotic dishes; do you imagine a half-dragon can expect a long and pleasant life in their hands? ”
