by Ed Greenwood
"Oh? What schemes hath the fair Sarintha hatched?" Korvaun asked, not without genuine interest.
Sarintha Thann was the granddaughter of the redoubtable Lady Cassandra and had inherited that lady's shrewd business sense as well as her blonde beauty. The unfolding of Sarintha's plans for the Thongolir calligraphy, limning, and printing businesses would be worth watching.
Roldo smiled a little ruefully. "We're now in the trade of printing music, and off to a promising start. The lutemaster at the House of the Harp is something of a legend, a half-elf of the old bardic tradition: memory only, nothing written. Sarintha won him over with personal charm and samples of family calligraphy; he's agreed to allow his work to be set down in a fine Thongolir tome. Each page carved and block-printed, and for the coin-heavy, copies with hand-painted borders. Demand swells already, with not a single page printed."
"Then we'll drink to its success." Korvaun strode to the keg and drew two tankards. "To the union of Roldo and Sarintha, and to your new business venture."
Roldo lifted an eyebrow and his tankard together. They drank in silence, and it was almost a relief when swift footfalls on the stairs heralded the arrival of another Gemcloak.
Starragar Jardeth stumbled into the room, face even paler than usual. His air of quiet elegance was absent, and his garb uncharacteristically disheveled. His hematite cloak was twisted around and hanging over one shoulder, and his black jerkin gaped from shoulder to opposite hip, slashed open to reveal his tunic beneath. A tunic smeared with dirt and Korvaun's eyes narrowed. "Scods, man! Is that blood?"
"Aye," Starragar said grimly. "Who'd have thought a made-from-scrap fang could cut so well?"
"Sit," instructed Korvaun, pointing to a chair. "I'll get a healer."
Starragar flopped into it with a groan. "No need. A good jerkin reduced to rags, but I've naught but a scratch."
"What befell?"
"I was out dicing with the Eagleshield twins last night. By the time they ran out of coin it was so late we took rooms above the tavern. Come morning, they insisted on seeing me safely here, and for that I owe them my life. We were set upon by ruffians. Like all Eagleshields, they're keen brawlers and leaped right into the fray-so they took the worst of it."
"Badly hurt? Did the Watch come?" demanded Roldo.
Starragar looked up. "You're back," he said flatly. "Welcome home, and so on. Aye, to both: the twins'll mend, but not soon. The Watch came-again, not soon. Once come, they didn't move to protect us any too swiftly, either. Is there more of that ale?"
Korvaun filled a tankard to the brim. A thunder of booted feet below bespoke more arrivals, so he filled another three.
"A sad day, when Waterdeep's lowlives run in packs like wild dogs," Starragar grumbled. "'Tis time to run blades up a few backsides to teach some lessons!"
"Hear, hear!" Roldo echoed, raising his tankard.
Korvaun frowned. "What lessons?"
Starragar looked up from his ale. "Quelling talk of the Lords all being nobles working hard to enrich nobles, for a start. You should hear what they're snarling in the taverns! Some hold the Lords-yes, the Masked flaming Lords of Waterdeep! — to blame for the festhall collapse!"
Roldo frowned. "Festhall?"
"The Slow Cheese," Beldar Roaringhorn snapped, striding into the room to clasp Roldo's forearms in welcome. He continued straight to the three tankards, drained one without pausing for breath, and stared at the other two. After a moment, he picked up a second and drained it just as quickly.
Korvaun regarded him in puzzlement. Accustomed to servants, Beldar seldom gave thought to menial tasks but was as attentive to his friends' comforts as his own. It was unlike him to help himself to a tankard obviously meant for someone else.
"News travels fast," Taeros observed, limping into the room and leaning hard on a silver-handled cane. Sinking into a chair, he grimaced as he stretched one leg out before him. "Alas, faster than I do."
Korvaun frowned. "What befell?"
"An unfortunate choice of words," Taeros replied in a strangely flat voice. "The Slow Cheese fell. We three were inside at the time."
"Three? So where's Malark?"
"Dead," Beldar said bluntly.
A heavy silence descended.
"I left him," the youngest Lord Roaringhorn added angrily. "I left him there, and the whole damned festhall fell on top of him."
Taeros stirred. "If there's blame in this, Beldar should shoulder none of it. He was occupied with matters of lesser importance in the grand schemes of the gods, namely, carrying me to safety." His voice broke. "Don't think me ungrateful-never that-but Malark was worth two of me."
"As to that, Malark outweighed two of you," Korvaun pointed out, his voice gentle. "If Beldar had left you lie to help Malark, all three of you might have perished, and Faerun would be poorer by two good men."
"The matter before us now," Starragar said grimly, "is avenging our friend's death."
Roldo gripped his swordhilt. "I'm ready." He looked to Beldar, awaiting their leader's word.
Roaringhorn set down his tankard and smoothed foam from his mustache before turning to Starragar. "You'd know the men who attacked you if you saw them again?"
Starragar's lips tightened in a deadly smile. He nodded and held out a hand, palm down. Beldar strode over and put his hand atop Starragar's. Roldo followed suit, and the three waited for Taeros, who fought to rise from his chair with the unfamiliar assistance of the cane.
Korvaun frowned. "Might I remind you that these men did not kill Malark? They should be reported to the Watch, certainly, but not hunted down merely because we can't take vengeance on a fallen building."
Taeros gave up the struggle and fell back into his chair. "So, you suggest?"
"Caution. Whatever we do shouldn't embrace bloodletting in the streets."
Roldo's hand rose from the clasp to hover uncertainly. "Then what?"
"I know not," Korvaun admitted. "Yet."
He watched his friends' hands slide part and found himself transfixed by Beldar's dark glare. Worse than the anger in those Roaringhorn eyes were the uncertain looks of the other Gemcloaks. He'd challenged Beldar's hitherto undisputed leadership, but offered no path of his own.
Yet.
As Taeros Hawkwinter limped between the last pair of impassive, gleaming-armored guards, he cast swift glances at the four men who'd walked the length of the grand hall in perfect step with him, limp and all.
No man, he swore silently, had ever been gods-blessed with better friends than these. When his father's grim old manservant had stepped into the Gemcloaks' clubhouse bearing Eremoes Hawkwinter's summons, the Gemcloaks had insisted on accompanying Taeros, though they'd all felt the sharp tongue of the Hawkwinter patriarch before and knew what was coming.
Taeros swallowed. The painted shield that had for years hung over the door of his father's office, displaying the Hawkwinter arms, had been replaced by a bright new tapestry. Its royal blue field positively glowed around the black silhouettes of two mailed fists holding wind-tossed banners. A large silver star gleamed high in one corner.
They stopped together before it. Beldar was already scowling. "Real silver, look you! That gnome weaver will answer for this! She swore to sell gemweave to me alone until spring."
"Silver's not a gem," Starragar pointed out, predictably contrary.
"Nevertheless," Beldar muttered.
Taeros knew stalling when he heard it. "Wait for me here, lads. If I'm not out in three bells, go in and offer to bury what's left of me."
Four mouths opened to protest, but he flung up his hand to silence them. "We've just lost Malark, and none of you are minded to shrug away unearned abuse today. It'll be hard enough for me in there, and I deserve the accolades my loving father heaps upon me." He lifted one black brow. "And need I remind you we stand in a garrisoned armory, full of loyal Hawkwinter men impatient of any challenge to their employer's will and well-being?"
"Good points all." Beldar clapped his friend's sho
ulder. "We'll wait here."
Taeros gave Beldar his cane to hold, squared his shoulders, and pushed open one of the great metalshod doors.
His father looked up, face darkening. His briefest of glances at the three men flanking Lord Hawkwinter's desk-veteran warcaptains who'd been in Hawkwinter employ as long as Taeros could remember-had them bowing in silence and striding out past Taeros without a glance.
The youngest Lord Hawkwinter tried to match their confident swagger as he advanced on the desk, but his swollen knee throbbed with every step.
"Limp if you must," his father growled. "No sense doing more damage to that knee."
Taeros came to an abrupt halt. "You've heard about the festhall."
"The Slow Cheese," Eremoes Hawkwinter snapped in disgust. "A low alehouse where 'dancers' disrobe while drunken emptyheads toss coins at them. No fitting place for a noble of Waterdeep to die. Better a man of honor die of heartstop riding some unmarried lass-at least then his family can claim he died trying to extend their lineage!"
"I'm sure Lord Goldbeard regrets the fact of his son's death more than the manner of it," Taeros replied in acid tones.
Eremoes waved a dismissive hand. "The Kothonts are herders and trappers, not men of battle. Better's expected of you."
His son bowed. "Then give me your blessing, Father, and I'll set out forthwith to study upon a more glorious end."
"Still your tongue!" Lord Eremoes Hawkwinter roared. "It's barely highsun, and your foolish words this morn will last us all season!" He snatched up a sheet of bright new parchment. Through the closed door, Taeros heard Roldo groan; the Thongolir heir knew only too well what was coming.
"A broadsheet, Father? Since when do you heed anonymous scribblings?"
"Since I received on good authority the name of he who printed this-this rhyming dung, and more importantly, the fool who paid for that printing." Lord Hawkwinter shook the broadsheet.
"That fool," he added sourly, making the parchment rattle, "seems to be me. Now, is this your work, or hired you some other half-wit to pen it?"
Taeros bowed sardonically. "'Tis mine own. Merely a small tribute to the royalty of Cormyr; no harm in it, Father."
"Tribute! Since when is any man increased through another's ridicule?" Clearing his throat, Lord Hawkwinter read aloud:
When great Azoun fell dragon-doomed
And princess mage lay dying,
In steel-clad Regent's peerless arms
The next great king was lying.
But when OUR Lordship's heir is crowned,
It's likely they'll have found her
In converse with some paramour Both flatter than a flounder.
Taeros nodded. Catchy, mildly clever: Cormyr's stability compared to Waterdeep's energetic street-scandals. The infant king cradled in the arms of his warrior aunt contrasted ironically with what dignitaries might well find if they went looking to crown Piergeiron's roving, fun-loving daughter. No one in all Waterdeep expected her to succeed the Paladin-a point that had apparently sailed over his father's head with room to spare.
Wherefore an explanation would probably fail, but he must try. "Piergeiron's daughter-"
"Is none of your concern!" thundered Eremoes, his fist slamming down onto his desk. "She can do whatever she sees fit, in whatever bed suits her fancy, and Waterdeep's none the less for it! We've no hereditary monarchy-or have you forgotten that merest of details?"
"I strive daily to reach that happy oblivion," Taeros replied coolly. "The Obarskyr dynasty has endured a thousand years, but what awaits Waterdeep when the Open Lord's reign is done?"
"Well, we're about to find out, aren't we?"
Taeros felt suddenly cold. "Lord Piergeiron's dead?"
His father nodded grimly. "So 'tis said. The city's always awash in such rumors, but this news is racing through the ranks of the Castle itself. True or not, when warriors think their leader's dead, a door opens that's seldom shut again without bloodshed."
Taeros swallowed. "No one will believe House Hawkwinter foments rebellion against the Masked Lords," he said tentatively.
"Won't they? Tell me, how many men-at-arms can any noble house maintain?"
"No more than seventy, by decree of the Lords."
"And how many swords are hired through us every tenday?"
"I–I don't know."
"Of course not." Eremoes crushed the broadsheet in his hand. "You've far more important matters to attend to, such as, perhaps, the forcible establishment of a Hawkwinter ruling dynasty? I've made inquiries-it seems this isn't your first foray into scurrilous politics."
Taeros sank into the nearest chair. "How could anyone draw such conclusions from a few humorous verses?"
"This wouldn't be the first time swift and foolish words have been used to sway small minds and herd crowds like cattle. You call for a dynasty; what man does that, but to advance his own line? Even if no one accuses us of ruling ambitions, many will likely ponder the wisdom of allowing any one family so much control over men of the sword-the hiring of which is, may I remind you, the family business?"
Taeros sat in silence for a long moment. "My rebuke is well deserved," he said quietly.
His father nodded curtly. "I don't need your apologies, Taeros, I need you to think." He picked up a scroll and added, in a softer voice, "This came for you."
The seal was broken. Taeros decided not to comment on that breach of privacy. It was a swiftly written notice announcing that Malark's funeral would be held that very day.
"You were right about Lord Goldbeard," he told his father wearily. "The Kothonts are ashamed of Malark's death, though he died a hero. His last act was helping a servant girl. He died trying to save her."
Lord Hawkwinter's expression was unreadable. "Is that a hero to you, or is this?" He waved the ruined broadsheet. "Dragonslaying, royal blood…"
Taeros stared at the crumpled parchment. "I… I don't know."
Lord Eremoes Hawkwinter sighed, massive shoulders rising and falling. "You might have less sense than the gods gave to sheep, son, but at least you're honest." He waved a hand. "Go then, and honor your friend as best you can."
CHAPTER TEN
The last rays of the sun were slanting through the trees, bathing the City of the Dead in warm, golden light. Walking in its serenity, Taeros Hawkwinter couldn't deny the Deadrest's beauty, even in his current mood.
No other spot in all Waterdeep had been so touched by artists. The finest sculptors of many lands had crafted wondrous statues and adorned the flanks of soaring monuments with intricate carvings. The inside walls of many tombs were painted with vast and lush scenes, and there were living artworks, too: small floral bowers and ponds full of bright fish. Beautiful pavilions beckoned not only those who came to mourn or contemplate but also folk who sought green pleasantness for outdoor dining or trysts. Children were wont to run and play among the tombs, their voices hushed by awe and by subtle enchantments… and the rare druid arriving in Waterdeep would be drawn to the old trees and quiet groves. Pixies and sprites were rumored to dwell here.
As were other, darker creatures. The high, magic-mortared cemetery walls weren't just to keep out vandals and tomb-robbers. They also, it was whispered, kept in night-hunting monsters and unquiet dead.
The gates in those walls would be closed at twilight, so there was little time for a full funeral. Malark Kothont, noble of Waterdeep and blood-kin to royalty, would be laid to rest with only slightly more ceremony than that afforded a favorite hound.
Taeros glanced at the western sky. Sunset was already approaching; the burial would be swift indeed.
His gaze fell on a familiar face: a small, slender lass with snapping brown eyes, walking with another girl. Who-ah, yes, the maidservant of Dyre's pretty daughters. Named for a bird Raven? Wren? Lark-yes, Lark.
He fell back a pace, waving his friends to walk on. "I'd not thought to find you here, Mistress Lark."
She regarded him thoughtfully. "Nor had I expected an invitation."
<
br /> "From?"
Lark nodded at the backs of the four Gemcloaks Taeros had been walking with. "Lord Helmfast came this afternoon to the Rearing Hippocampus. I serve betimes in the dining hall there. He asked me to find the woman your friend saved." She smiled reassuringly at the wan, fragile-looking lass clasping her arm.
Taeros also gave the timorous girl a faint smile, wondering what Beldar would make of this. Usually such timely gestures were his doing… but perhaps the youngest Lord Roaringhorn was as much unsettled by Malark's death as a certain Taeros Hawkwinter.
"He seemed a good man, your friend," Lark said quietly.
Taeros looked at her, startled. "You knew Malark?"
"We shared words at a revel. Very fond of women, he was, but less obnoxious about it than most."
He snorted. "Thus you define a 'good man'?"
"I haven't met many who were better," was the flat reply.
Taeros nodded in full agreement, though he suspected he and the maid saw different meanings in those words.
They walked together in silence the rest of the way to join the mourners gathering at the Kothont tomb. Some noble families had their own crypts at country mansions or beneath their city villas, but deceased Kothonts slept in the City of the Dead, in a small fortress of white marble hung about with banners of Kothont green. A constellation of silver-plated stars, echoing the Kothont arms, gleamed on its domed roof in a grand, even ostentatious display that Malark had poked sly fun at in life.
All stood silent as the plain oak casket was carried to the threshold of the open tomb. By custom, final tributes would be said at the door.
Long moments passed, and no one spoke. Alauos Kothont- known to all Waterdeep as Lord Goldbeard-stood with head bowed and tears running unchecked into his famous red-gold beard, a beard not quite as long or luxuriant as his son's had been. How often had the Gemcloaks teased Malark about this family affectation, calling him a long-legged dwarf and more? Never once had their good-natured friend taken offense. He was a good man, the best of them all! Why would no one say so?
Taeros swallowed. Why couldn't he say so?