The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  On all sides, sweating dockworkers and fishmongers with unspeakable slime smeared on their bellies and boots were breaking off work to seek their midday meal, jostling under the cries of street-sellers hawking highsunfeast: thick-crusted handpies, wooden skewers of still-sizzling roast meat of dubious origin, handwheels of strong cheese, and plump twists of saltbread.

  Taeros elbowed his way through them all until he found a particular building—no easy task, given the frenzy of dockside rebuilding after last year’s fish-men war.

  He tossed a coin to the sour-faced doorguard. The burly warrior gave the noble’s black hair and storm-gray Hawkwinter eyes a slow, hard look ere nodding, waving a “fire not” signal to the crossbowman in a window across the street, and stepping aside.

  Taeros sprinted up a long, narrow flight of stairs, eager to leave the scents and sounds of the Dock Ward behind. His ascent ended on a small landing before a massive door.

  Black with age but richly carved from a single plank of oak, it was obviously a relic of some vanished, far grander building. Taeros took a large black key from a belt-pouch and tried its massive lock. It swung silently open on well-oiled hinges, and he stepped into the room that, he fondly hoped, would become a second home to him and his five closest friends.

  This new lair was a far cry from the luxury of the Hawkwinter estates, but Taeros was well pleased with it. The room was spacious and lofty, open to the building’s bare rafters and lit by rows of tall windows. Comfortable chairs were scattered about, flanked by small tables ready for tankards or friendly games of dice or cards. Polished wooden cabinets held a suitably lavish assortment of bottles, goblets, and tankards, and a keg of ale sat ready on a metal rack. White wisps of steam, like breath on a wintry morn, curled up from a pottery dish situated just beneath its oak staves.

  Taeros nodded approvingly. They’d done well to entrust the furnishing of their new haven to Korvaun Helmfast. True to their family name, Helmfasts were steady and practical folk, and Korvaun bred truer than most. He’d forgotten nothing—including the perpetual ice-smoke, a common but very handy little enchantment that kept ale pleasantly cool and local alchemists in ready coin.

  Leaving the door ajar, Taeros strolled to one of the west-side windows. The casements had been thrown open to catch the ocean breeze, and the room was pleasantly cool despite the midsummer heat. The sun had just begun its descent, which meant he’d arrived at precisely the agree-upon meeting time. Even so, he didn’t expect his friends any time soon. They had many virtues, but promptness was not among them. Taeros didn’t mind; in fact, he’d been counting on their tardiness.

  Between his family’s mercantile affairs and jollity with his tardy friends, the young Lord Hawkwinter found few quiet opportunities to indulge his private passion. Taking ink, parchment, and quills from his thigh-satchel, he chose the table in the best light and settled down to write.

  The title page was done, brought by the scribe’s runner this very morning. “Deep Waters,” it proclaimed, in large script embellished with colored inks and surrounded by an elaborate border. It was a fine thing, certain to capture the eye of any child—even that of Cormyr’s young king.

  Taeros dipped his quill in black ink and began to write: Humbly offered to King Azoun, fifth of that name to rule Cormyr, a gift from one who is a loyal subject in his heart, if not by his birth.

  He considered this phrase, and decided to let it stand. The wording was awkward and the sentiment would infuriate his family and puzzle his friends, but it was truth nonetheless.

  In the courts of Cormyr, a young man of noble birth could rise as high as talents and ambition would take him. There, as a counselor, envoy, or even a royal officer, Taeros could have had a hand in the important work of governance.

  What awaited him here in Waterdeep but the endless gathering and flaunting of wealth? No one knew who ruled here, and few cared, so long as trade was strong and coffers full.

  Taeros swallowed old bitterness and bent to the task at hand. If he was to complete this book by the time young Azoun the Fifth was able to read, he’d scant time to waste on self-pity.

  No shortage of heroes plagues your land, he wrote, but it is said that a king must know the ways of many lands if he is to rule his own wisely and well. Waterdeep cannot match Cormyr’s thousand-year dynasty and proud and noble traditions, yet our history is not without tales worth telling.

  He dipped the quill again and pondered. Where to start? Ancient times when dragons ruled all, or when elves founded the haven of Evermeet? Or perhaps with the first barbarian settlements? Something heroic, certainly, from the days before true heroism in the shadow of Mount Waterdeep was drowned in the endless clinking of coins.

  A battle, perhaps. By the gods, Waterdeep had survived enough of those!

  Recalling his childhood fascination for glorious sword-swinging tales brought to mind less pleasant memories: the frowns of nursemaids when they found him bent over forbidden books.

  No, too stirring a tale would prompt the young king’s minders to snatch this book from small royal hands and put it on a high shelf and thence, perhaps, into a waiting hearthfire.

  Perhaps a humorous tale? Surely the Obarskyrs shared a strong sense of humor; how else could they have endured the counsel of the wizard Vangerdahast all these years?

  No, that wasn’t quite the thing, either. The wit of Taeros Hawkwinter was too often a kettle that seethed and scalded. Heated words from afar were even more likely to be swiftly introduced to devouring flames.

  Better to start with a nursery tale, one Taeros had favored as a child. Yes, safe enough to pass the judgments of nursemaids. Something they might enjoy reading aloud to a boy king.

  Eagerly he began to write, the familiar story flowing swiftly onto the page. This had always been one of his favorite tales. For once, the hero wasn’t the strong young chieftain or the beautiful golden maiden. From such sprang worthy heroes, of course, but why not the occasional quick-witted lass?

  Or for that matter, an ink-stained nobleman?

  Swiftly ascending boots thundered on the stairs: Two pairs, at least, of expensive heels.

  Hastily Taeros powdered his page, blotted his quill, capped the ink, and shuffled pages out in a concealing fan over all, leaving a satirical poem—something suitably frivolous he’d dashed off over morning ale, to explain away ink-stained fingers—atop the pile.

  Familiar grumbling echoed on the stair, too low-pitched to make out words, but from an unmistakable source: Starragar.

  Taeros grinned. Ho, then, Faerûn, salute you Starragar Jardeth, tireless voice of dissent! Every circle of friends seemed to have a Starragar. His constant nay-saying annoyed as often as it amused, but that didn’t mean the man wasn’t occasionally correct. Even a water clock run dry told the right time twice a day.

  On cue, Starragar poked his head into the room, surveying it with distaste already riding his pale face. His hard gaze fell upon the portrait over the hearth, and he sighed loudly.

  A Hawkwinter grin widened. Last winter, they’d all sat together for a portrait. As a joke, they’d had the painter render Starragar entirely in black and white. In this, art fell not far short of life. With his lank black hair, customary somber garb, and skin no blaze of sun could brown, Starragar seemed strangely colorless.

  The young man just behind Jardeth was his opposite: Korvaun Helmfast was tall and fair-haired, with serious blue eyes and a quiet, thoughtful manner.

  “Dock Ward,” Starragar said flatly and dismissively, as if that alone was sufficient condemnation.

  Korvaun slipped past Starragar. Catching the grin Taeros wore, he greeted his friend with an easy nod.

  “Nicely done,” Taeros offered, sweeping his hand to indicate the entire room. Starragar’s predictable response was a disdainful sniff.

  A belly-shaking burst of laughter rolled up the stairwell from below. The friends exchanged delighted smiles, and even Starragar’s face lit up. As one the three nobles rushed to the door.

>   Malark Kothont was mounting the stairs two at a time, despite the large wooden crate in his massive arms. Keeping pace with him was Beldar Roaringhorn, their unofficial leader, darkly handsome face smiling but arms empty.

  As usual, an inner annoyance rose in Taeros. Unlike the rest of them—young blades of Waterdeep born to wealth, whose proud merchant families had claimed nobility generations ago—Malark had royal blood. His mother was from the Moonshaes, distant kin to High Queen Alicia. Malark was, quite simply, better than the rest of them. His blindness to this grated on Taeros.

  Malark tossed the crate onto a chair and threw his powerful arms wide. “I’m back, lads, and thirsty as a Ruathymaar sailor! I see ale in plenty, but where are the wenches?”

  “There’re no women in the Moonshaes?” Starragar asked dryly.

  Malark winked. “Aye, but I’ve been there a year and more, haven’t I?”

  Long enough to acquire considerable bulk, it was evident, not to mention considerable facial hair. Though Malark was only two-and-twenty, he was muscled like a dock worker, and the curly red beard spilling down his tunic would be the envy of many a dwarf.

  Beldar clapped him on the shoulder. “Run through all the women, did you? No wonder you’ve come home. We’ve business to attend to, but tonight we’ll drink the taverns dry.”

  “Speaking of which—” Taeros untied a small bag from his belt and tossed it to Korvaun. “That’s for covering me the night I was coin-short for ale and breakage.”

  Beldar’s face darkened. “Time was—not long gone, either—when a noble’s word was coin enough until his steward came to settle up.”

  “You said something about gifts?” Malark asked with smooth eagerness, eyes wide and bearded face innocent. The others grinned. Beldar lifted an eyebrow to show he’d recognized the ruse, but let his temper drop. Prying up the lid of the crate with his silver-mounted belt knife, the Roaringhorn folded back linen wrappings within and lifted a length of shimmering cloth into view, its rich amber hue as bright as a copper-backed candle. Not bothering to shake it out, he tossed it carelessly to Taeros.

  “A cloak. I’m told flame-kindle is a good color for a man with black hair and gray eyes.”

  Taeros momentarily struck the taunting pose of a coquettish high lady, making a show of smoothing his hair, then shook out the garment. He abandoned playacting to hold it up and raised his eyebrows, impressed. It was very fine, woven with threads that sparkled brightly. He moved it, watching them wink and catch the light.

  “What’s this?”

  “Amber and topaz. I found a weaver who can work gemstone into cloth,” Beldar replied. “For a suitably lofty stack of coin, she agreed not to sell her wares to anyone but us for the rest of the season. By then, we’ll have set the fashion, and anyone who takes up wearing gemweave will be seen as a come-lately.”

  Turning, the Roaringhorn tossed a black cloak to Starragar. It started to unfold in the air, tumbling into a shimmering cloud of darkness.

  “Hematite,” Beldar said with a grin. “A stone said to absorb negative energies.”

  “Let us hope its capacity rivals Malark’s thirst, or it’ll shatter in a tenday,” Taeros said dryly, drawing a ripple of laughter—even from Starragar.

  “For Korvaun, what else but true blue?” Beldar continued, handing the fair-haired blade a cloak that displayed a spectrum of jewel shades from pale blue to darkest sapphire. Korvaun nodded and smiled silent thanks.

  Malark snatched the next cloak from his friend’s hands the moment its emerald hue gleamed forth. “You needn’t be saying it. With this hair and beard, I’ll look like an overfed leprechaun, but you haven’t the imagination to be picking any other color. Jade, is it?”

  “Emerald, you ingrate,” Beldar told him, scowling with feigned wrath, “and worth far more than you are. As for me, it’s rubies and garnet.” He swept a glimmering red cloak about his own shoulders and struck a pose.

  Taeros did not share Beldar’s preoccupation with fashion, but had to admit his friend looked dashing. A fine horseman and keen hunter, Beldar had the sun-browned skin of an outdoorsman and the lean physique of a swordmaster. His dark chestnut hair swept his shoulders, and his small, elegant mustache gave him a raffish air.

  Taeros crooked a critical eyebrow. “All you need is an oversized pirate’s hat to complete your garb.”

  “Why d’you think we were late?” Malark whispered, loudly enough to be heard clear down the stairs. “We had to stop in every hattery ’tween here and the Northgate to try on great wagon-wheel things, but no one had a hat quite big enough to suit him.”

  Beldar shrugged off the resulting laughter. “Well, we have our club,” he began, nodding approvingly to Korvaun, “and our name.”

  “Gemcloaks?” ventured Taeros.

  “Of course. The question remains: What shall we Gemcloaks do?”

  “Gossip, gamble, drink, wager, and plot little schemes to pry money out of rich and title-hungry merchants—all of which we’ll promptly loose in various bad investments,” Malark replied promptly. “In short: The usual.”

  “Add to that list a haven for younger sons,” Taeros said glumly. “ ’Tis my misfortune to have a paragon for an older brother. When Waterdeep was attacked, I was away on a ‘pleasure trip,’ but Thirayar slew ten sahuagin with a salad fork—or so our proud parents tell the world.”

  “At least you still have a brother,” Starragar said sharply. “Roldo wasn’t so fortunate.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell. Roldo Thongolir was still on his wedding trip. His older brothers had both died in the defense of Waterdeep, leaving him heir. Roldo was a fine companion, the first to lift tankard in tribute and a stout lad at your back in a tavern brawl, but he was fashioned to follow, not to lead, command, or administer. Thongolir elders had swiftly chosen a bride for him, a brisk and competent young woman who would manage the family fortune capably and, no doubt, Roldo as well. Never was a man less suited to the duties of a noble of Waterdeep, but Roldo did as his family bade without a word of complaint.

  Beldar cleared his throat sharply and nodded at the crate. “Roldo’s is of rose quartz, as he honors the Morning-lord.”

  “A thoughtful gift,” Malark said with a grin, “and practical. With one of us sporting pink, we’re sure to be invited to a brawl early on. Get the fighting over and done first, and we can devote the better part of the night to the ladies.”

  “As to fighting,” Beldar said firmly, “if Roldo had been here, he’d have acquitted himself better than either of his brothers. ’Tis Waterdeep’s misfortune that none of us were here when the attack came.”

  “And ours,” Taeros added under his breath.

  Though none of them liked to admit it, they all wore the weight of unintended absence from the battles. Who’d have expected the sea to erupt with scaly beasts bent on destroying Waterdeep?

  One and all, they were younger sons of proud Waterdhavian noble houses. Come every spring, until circumstances or family decrees thrust them into posts of responsibility, they were expected to wander and learn the ways of rivals, buyers, and would-be clients in the family trades all across Faerûn. If much of their time was spent in festhalls and taverns, did that make them wastrels any idler than their sires had been? Didn’t every traveling merchant of Waterdeep do as much, insofar as coins allowed?

  A shared sigh of relief arose in the room when Beldar’s eyes lit with new mischief. He pointed out the nearest window. Across crowded and ramshackle rooftops, one structure stood out, bright with new timbers and scaffolding—one of many Dock Ward buildings damaged in the sahuagin fighting. Fire had all but gutted it, but restoration was well underway.

  “See yon scaffolding? All those ropes?” Beldar smiled. “An excellent place for some fun, I’m thinking …”

  “A battle!” Malark said gleefully. Slapping his knees, he bounded to his feet. “Beldar and I against you three.”

  “Beldar’s the best sword among us, and you’re the biggest and strongest,�
� Starragar complained.

  “Two against three,” Beldar pointed out, “and you’ve got Korvaun. He’s nearly as good as I am.”

  This teasing boast brought a bow from Korvaun and a groan from the others. It occurred to Taeros that—Beldar’s claim notwithstanding—if one set aside flamboyance and showmanship, it just might be that Korvaun could best them all. Moreover, Korvaun probably knew as much, but considered it unworthy of mention.

  Not that it mattered. The day was fair, and the glorious game unfolding once more! Amid general laughter and swirling of new finery, Taeros tucked his things into his satchel and became the rearguard of the general rush downstairs.

  “I cannot believe,” Beldar Roaringhorn announced in aggrieved tones, whirling his drawn sword in a gleaming flourish to underscore his pique, “that some fool-head of a shopkeeper needs a building of this size to sell a few sandals.”

  “And I,” Starragar added, “find myself mired in similar disbelief that a shop on Redcloak Lane in Dock Ward can truly sell ‘Fine’ anything.”

  “Well, then,” Malark roared, drawing a frown from a worker peering down over a fire-scorched sign proclaiming this no mere half-rebuilt shop, but the one and only Candiera’s Fine Shoes and Sandals, “we are collectively affronted. Does this establishment deserve a continued existence? I say no!”

  “Whereas I,” Taeros responded with a grin, entering into the spirit of the thing, “stand against you, sir, and say that it should and must! For humble shops like this, howe’er overblown and spurious their claims, have been the backbone, lifeblood, and ever-rising greatness of the City of Splendors these passing centuries, and bid fair to remain so! To strike at Candiera’s Fine Shoes and Sandals is to threaten true Waterdhavians all!”