The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  “Oh? Who’s this great champion?”

  Beldar stiffened and grew a wide, sickly smile at the same time. “You’d never believe me!” he chortled, slapping the table.

  The unseen listeners must have returned. Korvaun could not quite force a smile onto his own face as he downed his wine, rose, and said quietly, “There’s no man alive I’d trust more than you.”

  And with a merry wave he turned away, letting his friend’s unseen tormentors make of that what they would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Lord and Lady Manthar,” the doorwarden of the Purple Silks announced grandly, as that impeccably garbed couple swept imperiously past.

  He blinked at the next pair stepping up to the threshold, winced visibly at what the male half of the couple whispered into his ear, and declaimed: “Delvur Morrowlyn, proud vendor of garderobe seats, with his, ah, bedmate Lahaezyl, twenty dragons per night!”

  Delvur and Lahaezyl grinned broadly, clasped arms, and sailed into the waiting tumult every bit as serenely as had the Manthars.

  There were some titters from folk waiting on the steps—those who weren’t looking darkly scandalized—and one of them belonged to Lord Taeros Hawkwinter.

  “My, but our hosts have fine senses of humor,” he remarked to Korvaun, who stood just ahead of him with Naoni Dyre, as everyone ascended a step and the doorwarden made ready to announce Elphoros the Fishmonger and his fourth wife, Burdyl. “ ‘The city entire’ evidently means just that! This should be a Midsummer Eve to remember!”

  “And just what,” Lark inquired in a low but icy purr at his shoulder, “do you mean by that, Lord Hawkwinter?”

  Taeros grinned into her glare almost fondly and murmured, “Ladylark, you almost behave as rudely as a noble. I’m looking forward to an evening of being raked by your verbal claws, but could you not at least wait for due cause? ’Tis more sporting that way.”

  “Lark,” Naoni Dyre said quietly, before the servant could make any reply.

  “Mistress,” Lark responded stiffly.

  “Gods deliver me,” Roldo Thongolir murmured, staring up into the sky from the step below Lark and Taeros, where he stood with Faendra Dyre on his arm. His wife had crisply informed him he could attend the revel with anyone he desired to, but if it was going to daggers drawn all night, Roldo knew he’d be seeking solace in emptied goblets—lots of them—rather than enjoying dances—lots of them—with Faendra.

  “How common,” sighed Starragar’s date, from the next step down, as they all moved up again. Phandelopae Melshimber was a distant cousin of her Waterdhavian kin, but her years as one of the most frigidly voluptuous beauties in all Athkatla had stolen nothing from her arresting looks and tall, spectacular carriage. Her gown was of the deepest black shimmerweave, her curves magnificent, and she drifted up the steps with deft grace despite wearing almost her own weight in glittering falls of precious gems.

  Taeros enjoyed verbal fencing, but in his opinion the Gemcloaks should have left their ladies behind this night. None of them were trained fighters. Naoni had insisted that if trouble came, her sorcery might be needed. Lark had made no secret of her misgivings but insisted that where her mistresses went, she followed. Faendra hadn’t shared her thoughts on the matter.

  He glanced back at the younger Dyre sister. Her strawberry blonde mane fell in shining curls down a gown of shimmering sky-blue gemweave. Her benefactor for that costly fabric was Roldo; Sarintha had given her blessing, so long as she wasn’t required to rub shoulders with Waterdeep’s great unwashed. Roldo and Faendra seemed to share an easy affection that left Taeros frowning inwardly. He begrudged his friend no warmth and solace, but what of Faendra? What could this glittering evening be for her, but the beginning of certain heartache?

  Then the doorwarden was announcing: “Lord Roldo Thongolir and his business partner, Mistress Faendra Dyre, of Faendra’s Fine Gowns.”

  A smile of admiring relief spread across the Hawkwinter’s face. Faendra had come to this revel to declare herself her own mistress, not Roldo’s or anyone else’s!

  “She sewed her fingers raw to finish that gown in time,” Lark murmured. “Judging by the envious eyes of all the fine ladies she’s outshining, she’ll have enough orders in a tenday to pay Lord Thongolir back with interest.”

  The Purple Silks—the largest and most exclusive festhall in North Ward—had been closed for a month in preparations for this night, but it had been only this morn when the invitations had gone out, borne all over the city by no less than the City Guard in full uniform. Everyone who was anyone—and many wealthy and influential commoners, for once, too—had been personally invited to a freecloak revel to celebrate “the return to health of our beloved Open Lord of Waterdeep, Piergeiron the Peerless.”

  ‘Freecloaks’ had until recently been the exclusive conceit of the oldest, grandest noble houses of Waterdeep. At such an occasion, guests arrived and promenaded in whatever finery they preferred. Thereafter, those who desired to retired to private chambers, to assume costumes and masks under the ministrations of skilled dressers and tailors, that were worn to the last bell-chime of midnight. After the unmasking, until dawn, the Silks would quite likely host the most wanton revelry Waterdeep would see this season.

  Wherefore the street was full, an orderly line of couples stretching back out of sight, reputedly halfway to Dock Ward. Some were here for the food and fine drink, some to gawk and gossip, some to see if rumors of wanton orgies were true, and undoubtedly a few were here to make grimly certain beyond any doubt, by hard and direct questioning if need be, that whatever Open Lord got paraded before them really was Piergeiron himself and not some luckless dupe cloaked in spell-guise.

  No sooner had they stepped into the high-vaulted forehall than a serving-lass stopped beside Lark to whisper, “Is this …?”

  Lark nodded, rolling her eyes, and towed Taeros firmly away.

  “What was that about?” he demanded.

  “You’re gaining a following among the serving women of Waterdeep. Some of their mistresses, too, I’ll warrant.”

  “Well, naturally. Ah, could you be more specific?”

  “The Queen of the Forest—your tale of the great tree spared because a woodsman loved its dryad. It’s become a great favorite—I liked it myself. The end surprises, and tells truth about the treachery of love.”

  Taeros’s stomach plunged in the general direction of his boots. “A favorite? One of my stories? But how—?”

  “Crumpled parchments,” Lark replied matter-of-factly. “A Hawkwinter maid found some of your discards and smoothed them out—parchment should never be wasted, Lord. She liked what she read and has been collecting them since, piecing together tales and passing them around. You could make an honest living with your quill, were you so inclined.”

  “All gods forbid!” he said, jesting to cover his embarrassment. “That sounds far too much like work.”

  “Hmmph,” Lark replied.

  Then they were in the main hall, and she said no more.

  The floors and walls were of glossy-polished marble, the former expansive and the latter towering and draped in rich purple draperies, falls of gathered and pleated luxury larger than the sails of many of the ships currently crowded into Waterdeep’s harbor.

  Judging by the din and elbow-close crowding, all Waterdeep was here, talking and drinking excitedly in finery that bid fair to outshine many a royal court.

  As the Gemcloaks swept forward with their ladies on their arms, Faendra was pleased to note how many heads turned to measure them. A fanfare drew her eye to a raised stage. On it stood Piergeiron himself, pale of face but as erect and tall as ever, clad in dazzling half-armor that shone with gems and glow-spells and undoubtedly with protective magics, too. Beside him, lounging with one elbow resting on the rather dubious charms of a carved mermaid statue that was slightly larger than life, was Mirt the Moneylender, in crimson silks hung with gaudy golden medals larger than his hairy fists. In the shadows not far behind the
stage, slender and dark and half-smilingly watchful, stood Elaith Craulnober.

  “He’s here,” Taeros murmured. “Let’s hope Beldar’s trust is well placed.”

  From the gasps and murmurs arising from behind them, it seemed others were far more alarmed—and, yes, scandalized—by the sight of the notorious Serpent than the Hawkwinter.

  “Well!” One matron’s voice cut through the chatter like a falling axe. “So ’tis true: they’re letting just anyone in here!”

  “That how you got in, Sharpfangs?” someone else drawled, and there were chuckles and titters amid the outraged feminine roaring that followed.

  “Guildmasters!” an elderly voice quavered with indignation, on its way past. “Tradesmen! Has proud Waterdeep sunk so low? They’ll be opening the doors to sailors next!”

  After an initial admiring glance at the slender maidservant, clad in a simple black gown and free of all ornamentation but a single emerald ribbon bound high about her left sleeve, Taeros Hawkwinter had refrained from glancing at the Lark on his arm more than briefly. But he couldn’t help but notice now how she stiffened beside him at the sight of Elaith Craulnober and how her hand tightened, just for a moment.

  “Easy, lass,” he murmured, as gently as he might soothe one of his falcons. “He’s only one elf, and standing on the far side of two men who could best him in battle, either one.”

  Lark gave him a unreadable glance, then turned to take the tallglass of Midsummer wine a servant was offering her.

  “Aha!” Roldo exclaimed. “Proper drinks! Delopae, are you going to—?”

  “Balance two tallglasses on my bitebolds? I think not, Lord Thongolir—just as you obviously think not!” Phandelopae snapped. “Though considering some of our fellow guests, such a show might meet with approval.”

  Whereupon Lord Starragar Jardath turned with a flourish and pressed his lips against hers, kissing Phandelopae into startled silence. Their clinch continued—as Faendra and then Naoni stared in astonishment—until the tall Athkatlan moaned and moved ardently against Starragar.

  “Ah, the dour act melts them every time,” Beldar Roaringhorn purred, stepping out of the crowd to run a teasing finger up the exposed and sleekly muscled Melshimber back as if her gown had been designed to lay it bare just for him. “Fair shine the Midsummer Moon on our meeting, friends! I see the fair Lark conquers all, as usual!”

  “Well met, old friend,” Korvaun Helmfast said firmly and heartily, reaching out an arm to embrace Beldar, who grinned, bowed floridly to Naoni, then rose to clasp Korvaun warmly.

  “Full battle-steel this night, I see! The martial look—a fine choice!”

  “We are ever tasteful,” Taeros purred, winking. Faendra giggled, and a faint smile rose to Lark’s lips. Still wearing it, she gave Lord Roaringhorn a firm nod.

  He smiled and nodded back. “I hope we shall all have a chance to—but hark! Eleven bells already? I must pay my respects to our hosts without delay!”

  “About our hosts,” Roldo said suddenly. “What if someone decides to put a dagger through Piergeiron in all this rub-elbows chatter? Or Mirt, for that matter?”

  “No fear,” Korvaun said quietly. “Not until swords are out openly, at least. Look you behind Piergeiron.”

  “In the shadows?”

  “Aye; what see you?”

  Roldo peered, as Taeros accepted drinks for them all, and deftly snared a platter of fancy-fish from a passing servant.

  “Someone … no, two heads. Men, sitting down.”

  “Not mere men: Madeiron Sunderstone, the Lord’s Champion, and the other is Tarthus, Piergeiron’s pet guardian wizard. Near as deadly as the Lord Mage Khelben himself, they say.”

  It was at that moment that Naoni Dyre drove a claw-like hand into her sister’s leg. Faendra squealed, gave her a glare and then froze at the sight of her pale face and horrified stare, and reluctantly followed it.

  Across the cavernous but crowded hall, resplendent in gaudy flame-orange silks that would have looked better on him if they’d been cut to fit or he’d been a bit less, as ladies were wont to say, “ample of haunch,” Jarago Whaelshod was proudly escorting a lush beauty the Dyres knew was a highcoin lady from the Lasheira’s Low Lamps festhall, because she frequently needed Faendra to repair torn gowns.

  The master carter had stopped to display his nicely gowned ornament to … someone else strolled out of the way, and Naoni and Faendra gasped in unison: Karrak Lhamphur, in a green swallowtail jackcoat of great lushness, that made him seem to be an officer of some unknown but far-behind-the-times navy. Lhamphur, too, had brought a beautiful female along, but at least he’d had enough measure of honor to have it be his wife.

  The two New Day members were not much more damaging to watching eyes than dozens of the wincingly clad, overexcited, ill-at-ease tradesmen here in the Silks this night, but they could hardly fail to recognize the two daughters of Varandros Dyre … and worse: if they’d been invited and had seen fit to attend, so too probably had the Shark of Stonemasons himself!

  “Father!” Naoni gasped. “He must be here, somewhere!”

  “Gods, what if he sees us?” Faendra wailed.

  “What of it?” Korvaun asked quietly. “You’re both among the brightest flowers in all this hall, and do him proud. Moreover, you’re conducting yourselves as ladies—though, Faendra, might I warn that ladies don’t squeal?—and we shall treat you with all chaste honor, wherefore he should see nothing to cause him complaint.”

  “Indeed,” Roldo put in helpfully. “Just act and speak as if your father’s standing right behind you, henceforth, and you should be fine.”

  Lark and Phandelopae Melshimber snorted in unison at these words and then gave each other challenging glares.

  “The Mistresses Dyre are greatly comforted by your helpful suggestion, I’m sure,” Taeros Hawkwinter observed sarcastically.

  Naoni and Faendra exchanged unhappy glances, but they’d have been far more upset if they’d turned in just the right direction at that moment to peer into the laughing, chatting crowd, and so behold a particular face that had gone from ruddy to white in an instant, upon commencing to stare at them.

  Varandros Dyre was extraordinarily uncomfortable in his hired finery—Gods above, why did these collars have to itch so?—and too hot besides … and this din was deafening.

  Yet the drinks were free and potent—firewine, by the Altar, the best that had ever raged down his gullet!—he’d never tasted smallmeats so fine, and Nalys was even more beautiful than he’d paid her to be. Quite the actress she was being, too, looking and sounding the part of a fine lady. None of the overloud haughtiness of the real noblewomen he’d observed here thus far. His daughters would doubtless be disapproving, but blast it, a man has to—

  His gaze, roving across the noisy tumult filling the vast, crowded hall, fixed upon a distant face.

  And froze with a gut-dropping lurch.

  Naoni! His Naoni, looking as serenely noble and as beautiful as—as any ten women here, by all the Watching Gods! And there—aye, his little Faen was right beside her, standing in a little cluster of the Gemcloaks. Faendra might have been her mother, come back to life, and Varandros felt his throat tightening.

  Oh, Ilyndeira, if only you’d lived to see this …

  He could not stop looking at his daughters. In, yes, in awe. When had they turned so beautiful?

  Someone stepped into the way of his stare, pointing. “Who’s that yonder—the incontinent dragon? ”

  “Lord Tesper? No, couldn’t be! What a costume!”

  “I know the lady with him, I do, but can’t quite … well, we’ll know at the unmasking.”

  “Yes! How soon—?”

  The floor beneath the chatterers trembled briefly, and someone let out a startled shriek. Dyre frowned. Well, at least the disturbance had shifted them out of the way, so he could look at Naoni and Faendra again, but … this was a big building; it would take a lot to make it shiver so. A spell?

  There was a
nother brief, heavy shuddering, soundless but strong enough to make someone drop a platter and evoke several screams.

  “What by the Nine Hells—?” a shipwright snapped, nearby, as the chatter turned to voices rising in alarm and query.

  Up on the stage, Piergeiron had stepped back, looking even more pale, and Madeiron and the mage were on their feet, peering around watchfully. Magic started to twinkle in the air all around them, and Elaith stepped quickly away from it.

  Varandros Dyre didn’t see what was happening on the stage and could have cared less. His daughters were over there, and something was very wrong, and—and Nalys was plucking at his arm and murmuring, “Varandros? This is—not right, is it?”

  “No,” Dyre snarled unnecessarily, as the tremors acquired sound—a ponderous, heavy thudding—and rhythm. Boom. Boom. Again, and again, for all the world as if Mount Waterdeep had decided to get up and start walking nearer … and nearer …

  “They’re trying to kill us all!” the shipwright shouted, before Dyre could. Folk were screaming all over the hall now, and running this way and that. Grandly garbed men were cursing and peering around wildly, more than one spectacularly gowned woman was swooning theatrically, and servants all over the hall were turning and peering at the stage.

  Varandros started across the hall toward his daughters, towing Nalys in a grip so hard that she gasped in pain, but she hurried with him rather than protesting.

  He found himself looking at Elaith Craulnober, who’d just sipped some wine and lowered his tallglass unconcernedly. As the rhythmic, growing thunderings got louder and tapestries and hanging lamps started to sway, the Serpent looked up and out across the crowd, smiled, then nodded, slowly and deliberately.

  Right in front of Dyre, a servant cast aside his tray of tallglasses with a spectacular crash, tugged at the gold shoulder-braids of his jackcoat … and drew forth a wicked-looking shortsword. Bending to draw a matching dagger from his boot, the platter-jack straightened with sharp warsteel in both hands and strode across the room.

  Other servants were doing the same, everywhere in the hall, hurrying purposefully through the frightened crowd with drawn swords, converging on … an archway in the wall a little way along from the stage.