Still, nobody would believe that Lord Adarbrent knew anything about fashion of the current year, much less the past fifty years. His full coats and wide-brimmed hats matched the styles of her grandmother's youth. But he was definitely a lord and a well-known lord, given his constant muttering perambulations throughout all of Waterdeep.
Preoccupied with her plans, Sophraea first thought that the faint sobbing sound filling her room was just the moaning of the wind outside. But as it rose in intensity, and then faded away, only to come back again, the girl realized that something more than the wind cried in the City of the Dead.
With a strong reeling that she had done this before, Sophraea pushed back her blankets, slid out of bed, and padded across the cold floor to the window. Having latched the window tight earlier, she now had to wrestle with the bolt. Shoving hard against the casement, she finally banged it open and thrust the window wide. The wind caught it and slammed it hard against the outside wall to the ominous sound of cracking glass.
Sophraea decided she'd blame all damage on the storm. Leaning all the way out of her bedroom window, she could see the same strange light swirling along the boundary wall that separated the, courtyard of Dead End House from the City of the Dead. The ball of light seemed to hesitate and then stop in one spot. In the dark, Sophraea wasn't sure but she thought that it might be a little farther along the path to the Deepwinter tomb and not quite at the family gate.
The light continued to bob-in one place and then suddenly flashed brighter. Leaning so far out the window that she was forced to grab the edge of the window frame to keep her balance, Sophraea peered into the rain and the wind. She thought she saw another light, more yellow and dimmer than the first one, and this light was on the Dead End House side of the wall.
The sound of a woman sobbing faded away or maybe it was only the wind still murmuring in the gables. But Sophraea heard something else, a scraping sound, like an iron file on a steel lock, coming from the courtyard.
"Thieves!" she exclaimed. Thieves were trying to steal into the workshops. It had been years since anyone had been so foolish, but there was always some idiot adventurer attracted by tales of the stockpiles of materials that the Carvers kept in their workshops.
Not even pausing to grab her slippers, Sophraea flew down the stairs, banging on the doors at every landing, screaming at the top of her lungs, "Up the house! Thieves! Thieves!"
Behind her, the rumble of regular snoring was replaced by snorts and grunts and deep bass cries of "Waaa… What?" and, from her aunts and mother, "Get up! Get up! Roll over so I can get out of bed, man!"
Tripping over one of her brother's mallets left in the hallway, Sophraea hopped on one foot for a moment, waiting for the throbbing of her stubbed toe to subside. On the ground level, she paused at the door leading into the courtyard. Behind her, but still a couple of floors above her head, she heard the thump of big bare feet hitting the floorboards and more shouts of "Aarrgh, that's cold!"
She eased open the door. The wind blew the rain from the outside to the inside, splattering across her cold toes and making her think longingly of her warm fur slippers five flights of winding stairs above her.
In the yard, a dark shape was crouched over the lock on the door of Astute's workshop. A lantern sat on the cobblestones next to him, creating a small pool of amber light in the middle of the dark courtyard.
Seeing it was only one man, Sophraea grabbed the abandoned mallet and snuck across the courtyard. The thief was trying to pick the lock open with an iron file, obviously unfamiliar with the complexity of the locks built by Uncle Judicious to foil tomb robbers and other adventurers. Of course, the workshop lock was only an early model, but it still would take more dexterity and skill than displayed by the man worrying it with a bent file. The thief sniffed and licked his lips, a small growl escaping from his throat as the file slipped out of the lock.
Sophraea raised the mallet high and brought it down with a smash on the man's head.
Being considerably shorter than the thief, Sophraea's aim was a little off and she just caught him between the neck and shoulder. The man gave out a tremendous howl. Another pair of masked bravadoes appeared in the courtyard, sliding in the public gate from where they had been keeping watch. The customer bell started to clang but one of the men reached high and ripped it out of the wall. Suddenly faced with three very large and masked bullies, Sophraea let out a screech of her own.
She was answered from inside the house by a dozen deep yells as the Carver men poured out the door in various states of nightwear and semi-dress. More than a few swore and skipped as their bare feet hit the slick cold cobblestones.
What ensued was hardly a fair fight. It was a dirty, sprawling, brawling kind of battle with lots of yelping and thumping and a couple of cries from younger Carvers of "It's me! Your brother! Get off, you idiot!"
Another masked man rushed in from the street-side gate. He dodged the Carver cousins and didn't seem inclined to fight. Instead, he grabbed at the arms of his comrades. "Come on, let's go!" he bleated. "He'll kill us if we get caught by the Watch."
Somewhere in the charging back and forth, the lantern got kicked over and then extinguished with a howl from Leaplow as he trod with bare feet across the burning wick.
Sophraea was carried out of the center of the fray, still kicking and screaming, by her uncle Sagacious. He dropped her on the front doorstep with a strong admonition, "Stay here, poppet, before one of us hits you by mistake."
Then Sagacious and his wife Catletrho rushed back into the fight. She wielded a broom, he swung his fists, and the bullies fled howling before them.
Later, the women claimed that the brooms had won the day, chasing the bullies out of the courtyard and down the street.
It was the boots, added the men, that let the bandits get away.
Almost all the Carvers had extremely bruised toes from where the bullies had stomped down on their bare feet and made their escape. Leaplow also had a fine burn on his instep which Myemaw later insisted on smearing with butter and binding with a big white bandage, much to his embarrassment.
But at the height of the fight, the family raced down the street in pursuit of the thieves, leaving Sophraea and Myemaw forgotten on the front doorstep.
"Huh," said Sophraea, who was still clutching Leaplow's old mallet. "I could have fought them off."
"Yes," answered Myemaw in her practical way, "but why bother when you've got so many tall relatives who are having so much fun."
Sophraea's grandmother stood in the doorway throughout the fight, well-wrapped in a warm woolen robe. She had lit a candle in the hallway so the open door was clearly visible if the family needed to retreat. Obviously prepared for anything, Myemaw carried her knitting bag looped over her arm, with the extra long steel needles sticking out of the top. Even more deadly than the needles was the black ball of yarn that Volponia had given Myemaw years ago. At Myemaw's command, the yarn ball could entangle a dozen rambunctious adolescents, or any robber, and drop them trussed to the ground.
As was the family's emergency plan, Myemaw guarded the door, throughout the fight, ready to use the yarn and needles on any intruder who dared to invade the house.
"But they always set me out of the way," grumbled Sophraea.
"Only because they love you and because Reye yelled so much every time your brothers brought you home with a black eye or some other interesting scrape."
"Piffle," sighed Sophraea. "It's just because I am short. They all think I'm as fragile as Volponia's china ornaments. If I was taller, then I could be in fights and Mother would not fuss."
Myemaw did not argue. She just handed Sophraea her extra slippers. "Brought them with me," said the old lady. "Figured that you would have forgotten to wear any."
With a grateful hug, Sophraea slipped the warm sheepskin slippers over her cold feet.
There were still yells and other noise on the other side of the wall bordering the street, but no one was left in the dark and silent
courtyard.
"I'm going up to the kitchen," said Myemaw, apparently satisfied that Dead End House was no longer in immediate danger of invasion. "Everyone will be too excited to go to sleep when they, get back. So I might as well stir up the soup pot and see if we have any wine to heat."
"I'll help you in a moment. But I want to check the graveyard gate and make sure it's latched and locked."
The old lady fetched a candle from the hall table and lit the wick from her own candle. She handed it to Sophraea. "Go on, but take that mallet with you too."
"Thank you for trusting me out on my own," her granddaughter replied.
With a smile wickedly reminiscent of her friend Volponia, Myemaw said, "I was always the shortest one until you came along, and it took a few years before those big Carvers learned exactly how well I could take care of myself and my family. You'll do just fine on your own. I've never doubted that. But don't do anything too rash. We only need one Leaplow in this family."
Sticking the mallet through the belt on her nightrobe, Sophraea sheltered the flickering flame of the candle with her curled palm as she stepped into the night wind.
As she walked to the graveyard gate, a memory niggled at her mind. There had been something familiar about the first thief, something about the way he sniffed the air. "He acted like that hairy doorjack of Stunk's," Sophraea said to herself.
But why the servants of such a rich man would bother stealing from a tradesman workshop, especially one filled with fine materials bought by their master, was a puzzle that Sophraea couldn't solve.
She found the graveside gate still locked. Peering through the bars, Sophraea could see no marks upon the mossy steps or the path revealed in the candlelight. The rain had stopped and the wind died down a little. Beyond her own small circle of light, the moon revealed a swirling white mist that clung to the bare black branches and blurred the edges of the tombs.
As she stared, Sophraea could make out pale shapes in the fog. But everyone saw shapes in the mist in Waterdeep. They were harmless mirages, nothing to worry about.
Except, one shape was a bit more solid than the others: a man carrying a lamp, that's what it looked like. A man in a broad-brimmed old-fashioned hat and long coat carrying a hooded lamp that only cast a dim light. A man leaning on a cane and looking directly at her.
Sophraea blew out the candle with a quick breath and drew back into the shadow of the wall.
The man lingered for a moment more, then walked away from the gate, following the path that led around the Deepwinter tomb and farther north into the City of the Dead. Another pale figure, glowing slightly around the edges, drifted through the fog and followed his dark shape away from the Dead End gate.
Sophraea put her hand on the latch, ready to unlock the gate and follow. But a strange chill touched her. Suddenly, she felt that it would be a very bad idea to go into the graveyard alone. She started to shrug off the foreboding when she remembered some of Leaplow's past misadventures. Those that the Carvers buried rarely bothered the family. Sometimes they even gave out a friendly warning or two, and only Leaplow was rash enough to ignore such signs.
As certain as she was that her brother would have bounded down the steps with a shout and wildly waving fists, Sophraea knew someone or something was telling her to stay out of the City of the Dead. Dangerous magic was brewing on the other side of the wall, old shadows were stirring, and even a Carver should tread warily after dark in the graveyard.
"Find a wizard," Volponia had advised her. The old pirate knew what she was talking about, Sophraea decided. There was trouble simmering within the walls of the City of the Dead, magical trouble that would take more than a mallet and a pack of unruly relatives to quell.
FIVE
Sophraea was still mulling over the previous evening's events when her mother Reye thrust a shopping basket into her hands. "With that midnight supper last night," said Reye, "we have nothing left in the house for tonight. See what you can find in the market. Take Leaplow if you need some help."
"I'd rather go by myself," said Sophraea, thinking she might cut down to Coffinmarch and call on Egetha. The woman wasn't the right type of wizard, at least according to Volponia, but she must know other magic-users in Waterdeep.
Reye started to protest, then shook her head. "I keep forgetting how old you are. You're right. It would probably be easier shopping without Leaplow. But keep…"
"My money hidden and don't talk to strangers!" Sophraea grinned at her mother.
"Go on, go on." Reye flapped her hands at her only daughter. "I obviously can't teach you anything."
Sophraea just laughed, pulling her second best cloak off the peg by the door. Outside a low dark sky threatened an eventual downpour. However, even though the chimney tops were lost in the clouds, the rain held off as Sophraea walked quickly to the market.
Once there, she found barrel after barrel filled with slightly s°ggy root vegetables. Winter storms kept the more distant traders away and the selection coming from nearby farms was the usual boring winter fare.
While bargaining with one vendor who at least had some greens that were supposed to be green, Sophraea heard a familiar voice behind her.
"I haven't the full price yet," said the lilting accents of Gustin Bone. "But give me just a little time and I can pay for the room all winter."
Peeking around a pile of dried fruits, Sophraea saw Gustin deep in conversation with the neighborhood silversmith.
"I get a good price for that room most seasons," said the man who was as round and heavy as one of his bowls. "Seeing as it opens onto the alley and there are no stairs."
"Certainly, you should charge more for such, a prize," agreed Gustin, smoothing back his well-trimmed beard. "And I will be happy to pay once I get my little exhibition open."
"A spell-petrified hero," said the silversmith. "Can't say that I have ever heard of such a thing."
"Shh, shh." Gustin laid his finger to his lips with exaggerated caution. "Don't want the citizenry of Waterdeep to hear too much before we are ready."
"We?"
"Well, I'm thinking a small portion of the viewing fee should belong to you by rights; it being your room and all. Of course, in return, you might agree to a smaller deposit on the room. A little less now, as it were, for much more later."
The silversmith smiled that smile so often seen upon the streets of Waterdeep, the one that says "I know you're trying to get the best of me, but I'm sure that I can get the best of you."
Gustin returned the silversmith's smile with one equally as bland.
"Well, it's hard to rent a room in winter," said the silversmith finally. "And people will pay to see the oddest things, just for entertainment."
' "I tell you, the ladies will weep with sympathy for such a brave paladin turned to stone in his prime," Gustin said. "And the gentlemen will pay to let them in to take a look. Especially when the gentlemen can comfort them afterward."
"Very well, I'll take what you have now and a portion of the fee later."
"Quite the best business decision that you've ever made."
In perfect accord, the two men nodded at each other, spat into their hands (at which Sophraea rolled her eyes in disgust), and shook upon the bargain.
His business successfully concluded, the satisfied Gustin went whistling past the outraged Sophraea. She swung her basket in front of him, knocking him hard in the stomach.
"Oof!" Gustin stopped abruptly. "Sophraea Carver. I didn't see you there. Do you need help carrying that basket home?"
His voice was still as cheerful as ever, but his face fell when Sophraea began to scold.
"You're a cheat!" she said to him. "My father is carving you that stone man. It was never any living hero. Spell-petrified paladin, I don't think so!"
Gustin dragged the sputtering Sophraea into a nearby alley.
"Hush," he said. "You don't understand."
"I understand very well," returned Sophraea. "You're just another adventurer trying to che
at a little coin out of our pockets. The ladies will weep… Well, they should if they waste their money on your foolishness."
"My foolishness is very harmless entertainment," retorted Gustin. "And they will come, especially after my hero walks through the market here, seeking to return to his family home."
"It's the silversmith's spare room!"
"I'll say that his family lived there many generations ago and he has spent all these long years seeking his way home, one last tiny spark of a living soul trapped inside the stone, driving him to his final resting place."
"Oh, that's terrible! Who is going to believe that?"
"Well, the citizens of Marsember, Arabel, and Daerlun, for a start," huffed Gustin. "It's how I make my living. Displaying the rare artifacts of a more magical time, before the Spellplague swept through the world. A tragic petrified hero always packs them in, especially after I get the chapbook printed telling about his great deeds and battles. A simple piece that can be bought on the way in or the way out."
"But my father is carving the statue now. How can you have done this in Marsember and those other places?"
"Different statue, obviously," said Gustin with exaggerated patience. "But the wagon tipped over on the way here, the statue broke, and pieces were never as interesting as a whole body. I have to say, what your father is doing is much more lifelike than my last hero."
"I still think it's a terrible cheat-. And why would anyone pay to see such a thing?"
"It's the marching through the streets that usually does it, I tell you. I know you have more of a history here of walking statues, but in Cormyr, most folks are impressed with that kind of magic." He grinned at her, his humor obviously restored. His green eyes twinkled, inviting her to share the joke with him.
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