by Ed Greenwood
The stonemason’s slow stalk forward brought him nose-to-chest with Beldar Roaringhorn, who said quietly, “Have done, goodsir. Your anger is understandable, but your slander of Waterdhavian nobility is both misplaced and repugnant. I—”
“Don’t like to hear truth. Your sort never does. Right now the most important truth confronting you is this: I am a citizen of Waterdeep standing in my own house, and I’m far too angry to be prudent, so you’d best begone. Now. In due time my ’prentices will bring you an accounting, and you can send the coins back to me here.”
Dyre pointed at the door, his hard gaze never leaving Beldar’s eyes. Korvaun Helmfast moved to open it as swiftly and quietly as any servant.
Two young men stood just outside, their faces set and pale. Their matching tunics bore the stone-sprouting-a-fist badge of Dyre’s Fine Walls and Dwellings. The stonemason’s apprentices were clutching ready mattocks in their hands.
“Baraezym, Jivin,” Varandros Dyre greeted them grimly. “Our guests are just departing. In peace, I trust. Mark their faces, for there may come a time when you’ll need to know them.”
The Gemcloaks had already begun to stride silently out, faces set, but Beldar turned his head sharply. “Goodman Dyre, just what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, lords,” the Master Stonemason said flatly, “that a time will come when consequences can no longer be laughed away.”
Varandros Dyre watched, stone-faced, as the lordlings stalked away, fine cloaks swirling.
Then he whirled around so swiftly his apprentices jumped. Ignoring them, he peered around the hall for his daughters.
There was no sign of them, but the door to the kitchens was open, and the housemaid stood in it, steam curling from the covered serving platter in her hands. Her gaze was on the floor, and she was as still as a statue.
Dyre nodded approvingly. Some folk, at least, knew their places. He permitted himself a chuckle of satisfaction as he made the gesture that sent his apprentices hastening to close and bar the doors.
Lark kept her eyes down and wisely said nothing.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘I don’t understand.” Faendra shook her red-gold curls in puzzlement as she thumped the dasher emphatically into the butter churn. “Father may be hard, but he’s fair. It’s not like him to condemn a man for the cut of his cloak.”
Naoni glanced up from the piecrust she was crimping. “Father has no love for the noble houses. Best you remember that before you sigh over high-nosed redbearded rogues.”
“I’d much rather laugh than sigh, and Malark Kothont’s a merry fellow. Though I suppose some girls,” Faendra said slyly, “might prefer Korvaun Helmfast’s golden hair and courtly manner.”
Naoni felt her cheeks grow warm. Faendra’s smile broadened into a grin, and Naoni hastened to speak of something else. “What if Father’s right—if the Lords are all nobles and control the sewers and the thugs who lurk there? That puts Father’s New Day squarely between the highest and the lowliest, and that’s as dangerous as …”
“Pissing into lightning?” Lark suggested.
Naoni’s chuckle was weak. “Father won’t listen to us, and his friends are too cowed by his temper or dazzled by their New Day dreams. I—I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s one who might,” Lark said slowly, pushing the simmering stewpot back to a cooler spot on the stove and turning to face her mistresses. “Know you of Texter, the paladin? ”
The Dyre girls exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
“He’s that rarest of things: a good man. He … helped me, once.” Lark’s words came haltingly, not with her usual tart-tongued confidence. Naoni smiled encouragement.
“He travels, helping folk wherever he goes, seeking news of importance for Waterdeep. He speaks to the Lords.”
The leisurely thumping of the butter churn halted abruptly as Faendra threw up her hands in exasperation. “Yes, of course we must tell him all! Let’s bring the Lords right to Father’s door and save them the trouble of discovering his foolishness on their own!”
“I said he speaks to the Lords,” Lark said quietly. “Texter knows how to keep a secret. I trust him, and I can say that about no other man.”
Naoni frowned. She’d never met a paladin, but everyone knew they were upright men, holy warriors who could not break their stern codes without losing the blessing of their god and their own powers into the bargain. Moreover, Lark had good sense, and never before had she spoken so well of any man.
“You can talk to this Texter, and he’ll advise you?”
“He travels much, but messages can be got to him. There’s a hidden place in the Westwind Villa in Sea Ward.”
Faendra tugged off the soft gloves she wore to keep churning from roughening her hands. “I know that place! The great hall there can hold half the nobles in the city—and will, at a grand revel morrow-night!”
Naoni raised an eyebrow. “And you learned this how?”
Her sister grinned. “A tiny shop on Sails Street sells ladies’ cast-offs; betimes I talk to the maids bringing the gowns in.”
“Stolen?” Naoni demanded, aghast.
“Rest easy! Some high ladies give their old gowns to their maids—as if the girls have any place to wear them! Fine stuff, nevertheless, that can be pulled apart and made over. I’ll show you.”
Faendra flitted from the room and in short order returned, bearing an armful of rich green.
“Off with your kirtle and shift, Lark,” she ordered. “The bodice is too slim-cut for me, but it should fit you well enough. It goes on thus, this side to the front.”
The maid sighed but peeled off her clothes and reached for the dress. Sliding it on, she checked to make sure her ribbon was still in place around her left arm and looked inquiringly at Faendra. “Where’s the rest of it?”
The younger Dyre sister laughed merrily as she came forward to tighten the side-lacings and smooth the neckline into place. “This is all there is! No sleeves, you see, and the back’s supposed to be open to the waist. It fits the hips snugly, but the skirt will flare out full when you turn. ’Tis meant for dancing.”
Naoni stared in wonderment. “This is your design, Faen? Your work?”
Her sister nodded happily. “I’ve always been handy with a needle, and making over a gown’s more pleasant work than hemming linens. Giandra the dressmaker stocks ready clothes for ladies who haven’t time to order them made. She’s already bought two of my gowns and will happily take more.”
Looking as surprised as Naoni, Lark started to slip off the gown.
“Wait!” Faendra commanded, clapping her hands excitedly. “You can wear this to the revel at Westwind! You can go as a grand lady, and leave your message for Texter!”
“I’ve a better idea,” Lark said dryly. “I’ll go to Sea Ward after my work here is done and ask at the Westwind if they’re hiring extra servants. For the big revels, they usually do.”
“Why be a servant when you can go as a lady?”
A stubborn expression crossed Lark’s face. “I don’t like pretending to be other than I am.”
Naoni put a hand on Faendra’s arm to still her, and said, “I quite agree, but I overheard Master Whaelshod talking with my father and learned the Westwind changed hands recently. It now belongs to Elaith Craulnober, a rather sinister elf better known to the city as ’the Serpent.’ He’s been away from Waterdeep for a few seasons.”
She leaned forward and murmured, “Master Whaelshod said this elf had a secret partnership with Lady Thann. She died two moons past, and Craulnober’s returned to sort out his affairs.” Naoni looked from Lark to her sister. “Their ah, connection’s not widely known; you’d do best to keep this quiet.”
Faendra’s eyes grew round. “I’ve heard about the Serpent. This is the company your paladin keeps?”
Lark shrugged. “Not from choice, I’ll warrant. In Waterdeep a man may choose his friend, but not the Lords who rule.”
“Surely not! You don
’t think …”
“As I said, some of the Lords are no better than they have to be. Mayhap the elf is among them; who can say? All I know is that someone in the Westwind can get messages to Texter, or perhaps my notes are carried by magic, untouched by any hands but Texter’s and mine.”
“You must wear the gown,” Naoni said softly, “and attend as a noble lady from afar. You’ll get in more easily with less scrutiny. Elaith Craulnober’s far more likely to be particular about his servants than his guests.”
The maid sniffed. “As he’s inviting nobility, that goes without saying.”
As he stepped out of the midst of the comforting bulk of the House Helmfast bodyguards, Korvaun Helmfast felt suddenly alone.
Mirt’s Mansion loomed before him like a scowling fortress, all dark, stern stone save for a cascade of green to his right, where its gardens climbed a rocky shoulder of Mount Waterdeep.
Straight before Korvaun, down an avenue formed by two rows of rune-spangled warding pillars thrice his height, the mansion’s grand stair began. At its head the moneylender’s guards were waiting for him. Four of them, standing impassively in full plate armor, two on each side of the broad black double doors, heavy-gauntleted arms folded across their chests.
Korvaun raised one eyebrow at the motionless full-face helms above him—or rather, at the complete lack of eye slits or visor openings in those unbroken, gleaming metal ovals. How did they see? Or were they but statues?
Seabirds squawked in the none-too-fresh breeze coming off the harbor, and his eyebrow rose still farther. If they were statues, what kept the bird-dung off them?
He took a stride forward. As he did so, the guards moved too, gliding a step sideways and putting hands on swordhilts, all in precise unison and utter silence.
Ah. Illusions or helmed horrors. My, but moneylenders were doing well in Waterdeep, these days.
“So,” he asked, taking another step, “is there a password?”
The doors emitted a gentle feminine chuckle … or no: there was a sudden, ghostly shimmering in the air just in front of the doors, and the silvery shadow of a tall, gracefully slender lady—for Korvaun had measured folk at a glance for years, and this woman could be no less than a lady—suddenly stood before him. He could see the four impassive guards through her, and in fact she was protruding through them. Korvaun watched tiny blue motes of light, like sparks turned the hue of moonlight, dance along the line where ghost-shadow met gleaming blue armor, and noticed her flowing gown did not ripple in response to the harbor breeze but to some other, unfelt wind of its own. A ghost wind.
“Well met, Lady Ghost Wind,” he said, in as friendly and respectful a voice as he could manage. Thanks to several maiden aunts, Korvaun Helmfast could sound very respectful when he needed to. “My name is Korvaun Helmfast, and I seek audience with Mirt, commonly called the Moneylender.”
The ghostly lady smiled. “Ghost Wind is a better name than some have given me.” She looked down the stair past Korvaun at his waiting bodyguard. “I trust you don’t intend to bring all of your bullyblades inside our doors.”
Korvaun bowed to her, turned, and made a certain signal. “You trust rightly, Lady. I’ll proceed alone.”
“Then be welcome. What you’ll feel on the threshold within is no attack but a probing. Ascend the stair, and Mirt will doubtless find you.”
She winked into nothingness even before her words ended. The helmed horrors stepped back to their former positions as the doors beyond them parted and drew inward, revealing a cavernous forehall beyond.
“Impressive, I’ll grant,” Korvaun murmured, as he crossed the threshold.
The lofty-domed forehall of Mirt’s Mansion was smaller and far less ornate than most nobles’ abodes, and far more welcoming. Free of clutter and ornate adornment, it didn’t strive to impress the eye, yet everything was well-made. It was not a showplace but a home, of someone wealthy and pleasure-loving and yet no-nonsense.
Another eight helmed horrors awaited Korvaun, four on either side this time. As he stepped forward, he felt the probing the ghostly lady had warned him about, like a tingling haze in the air. He was suddenly surrounded by blue smoke so thin he could barely see it, and so acrawl with power that he was shuddering.
The youngest Lord Helmfast hesitated as radiances flickered and grew stronger all around him, and his hands and face went numb. He decided to walk on. What sort of probing was this? The surging tinglings coiled most strongly around the rings on his fingers and the slender sword he wore, but seemed to ignore his dagger. Most curious.
Then it was all gone, fallen away as if it had never been, and he was passing between the motionless helmed horrors and traversing empty flagstones toward the stair. Before him, massive turned wooden posts like the deck-bollards of a great ship held up stairs as finely made as the flights in any villa or mansion he’d ever seen, but far plainer.
Faint kitchen noises—and now a waft of cooking, too—came from behind some of the doors he was leaving behind as he ascended, but he still saw no sign of a living person.
Some folk of Waterdeep spoke of Mirt’s Mansion as a sort of vast prison or series of bloodstained torture chambers, where folk who’d been unwise or desperate enough to fall into his clutches screamed out their pain as he cut what he was owed out of their flesh. Others held that it was as gray and drab and graspingly humorless as any moneylender must be, and still others …
Had obviously never been here, any of them. None had walked along a thick blue fine-weave rug as long as any Waterdhavian noble villa might boast, in a white-walled passage whose sides curved up and around overhead in a smooth, unbroken arch. Korvaun strode softly along it, past several closed doors: broad, plain-plank affairs rather than the gaudily carved entries of snarling lion faces and suchlike favored by most rising-coin merchants. He was heading for what must be a solar ahead, where the passage opened out, sunlight streamed down from above, and plants flowered in profusion.
Fine plants, some in hanging baskets. Dodging amongst them was a fat, puffing man in flopping boots and seaman’s breeches held up by both braces and the broadest belt Korvaun had ever seen. But then, he’d seen very few bellies that bulged and strained above and over belts with quite the quivering enthusiasm Mirt’s did.
Just now, the infamous moneylender was watering his plants with a shower of sweat as he stamped, parried, and scrambled. Mirt was grunting and wheezing like a tired cart-ox as he fenced with a petite lady in dark leathers, whose hair danced behind her like the mane of a proud horse.
My, what a beauty! Korvaun watched her in open admiration and found his gaze drawn to the quickening skirl and clash of blades as Mirt groaned, sputtered, and cursed his way right out of view, driving his lovely opponent back through the greenery.
There followed a sudden lionlike roar of dismay and a tinkling of merry feminine laughter. Korvaun followed the sounds into the warm, damp air of the solar.
Both combatants were regarding him with interest before he could even draw breath to speak. Rings on their fingers glowed in sudden readiness. Korvaun tried a smile.
“I … offer no menace to you or to any in this fair house. I’m Korvaun Helmfast of House Helmfast, here to crave audience on matters of business with the famous Mirt the Moneylender.”
Mirt grunted, wiped one fat-fingered hand across his brow, and leaned on his sword as if it was a dung-spade. Korvaun managed not to wince.
“A flatterer, eh? Ye must be desperate.”
Korvaun found himself at a loss for words. Well, that was quick.
“I’ve some need for coin, yes,” he managed, uncomfortably aware of dancing mirth in the woman’s eyes, “yet I’ve come here rather than just emptying the nearest family coffer because I find myself also in need of some advice.”
The shaggy-mustached head lifted from its hard-breathing rest on the pommel of the sword, its owner frowning in sudden interest. “Well, now. Have ye, indeed?”
A hand like a gnarled, hairy-knuckled shovel w
aved Korvaun toward a door.
“Rest yerself in there, my young friend, an’ we’ll sport together awhile. Asper will find us something to drink—something unpoisoned, I hope.”
Asper gave him a dazzling smile, tossed her blade onto a cushion, and dived head-first down a hitherto-hidden slide. The broad leaves of a sea-mist flower, large enough to conceal several such floor openings, danced in her wake.
Aware of Mirt’s scrutiny, Korvaun repressed the urge to shake his head in bemusement as he went to the indicated door. Unlike a noble villa, indeed. The man most of Waterdeep called the Old Wolf fell into step behind him.
“So, young Helmfast, how’s your mother these days?”
Gods, but she was beautiful. Not in the overpainted, gilded, exquisitely coiffed manner of noble matrons, nor yet in the slyly wanton lushness of the best tavern dancers, but … like a graceful wisp of a temple dancer, yet with something of the imp about her, too, in her dark leathers.
Asper gave Korvaun a smile that made him blush as she handed him a decanter to match the one she’d given Mirt, stopper and all, and trotted out of the room, unstrapping and unbuckling as she went.
“She’s gone down to the pool to bathe, an’ there’s no one else this end of the house,” Mirt grunted, from where he was lounging in an old wreck of a chair with his feet up on a matching ruin of a footstool. He waved Korvaun to more catastrophes of furniture. “So speak freely. An’ soon.”
Korvaun lowered himself gingerly onto a decrepit chair. It creaked, but held firm. “Goodsir, I’m here because I need to settle a debt we—I’ve just incurred, to a certain Master Stone—”
“Nay, nay, tell me nothing, young lord! I needn’t know an’ don’t want to know, for I cannot tell excited Guardsmen or dogs of the Watch what you’ve never spoken of. Besides, I know all about your little swordsclang with Varandros Dyre, an’—”
“You do?” Korvaun blurted, too astonished to stop himself.
Keen old eyes met his from under bristling brows. “Tymora keep ye, is each new generation born blind? As ye strut about the city, young cockerel, has it never occurred to ye that your every spit and belch an’ casual insult is marked, an’ remembered, an’ told about to someone else?”