The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  “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.”

  “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?

  The silence became strained. Grim looks passed between Korvaun and Beldar. Taeros watched them both. It had always been Beldar who spoke and Korvaun who quietly arranged. Longstanding habits were not easily broken.

  Finally Korvaun stepped forward and put his hands on the polished oak. “The measure of a man,” he said in a raw voice, “is often found in the worth he accords those around him. Malark saw good in everyone and was ever swift with kind words and gentle jests. He died not obeying some great lord in battle, but aiding a frightened lass.”

  Korvaun’s gaze turned to the girl standing with Lark, and he walked to her, smiling in reassurance. Yet only Lark’s arm around the girl’s waist kept her from shrinking away, so overwhelmed was she by the eyes of so many grand folk turning upon her.

  To the astonishment of all, Korvaun went down on one knee before the girl and took her small, work-roughened hand in his. “Melia Brewer, never forget your worth. A good man valued your life more highly than his own.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips in tribute then rose and looked slowly around at the gathered mourners. “The same can be said of all here. A good man called us brother, cousin, father, or friend. Malark Kothont called me his friend. If that’s the only tribute said at my burial, I’ll need no other, and rest content.”

  Taeros blinked moist eyes and watched as Lord Goldbeard placed his hand on the casket. There was no time for more farewell than that.

  On a nearby knoll stood a memorial graven with the curving runes of elvish Espruar. The leaves of the tree sheltering it were turning blue, a sure sign of coming night. The Elven Ghost Tree—by day an oak, at night form-shifting into an Evermeet blueleaf, a tree well loved by the elves buried among its roots. There were strange tales aplenty told about it … and what if all the other tales told of the City of the Dead were true?

  Taeros fell into line, taking his place among those shuffling quickly past Malark’s casket to bestow the customary farewell—and make a quick escape.

  The dining hall of the Rearing Hippocampus wasn’t a place any of the Gemcloaks would normally have chosen for an evening gathering. It lacked the dazzling splendor and pretensions of highcoin houses, the sly exclusivity of daring clubs and festhalls, and the raw fun of the Dock Ward dives.

  What it did have, as Taeros had successfully argued, was zzar laced with stronger drinks to achieve a potency that matched their collective need to remember Malark over something far stronger than ale. It also happened to be the inn where Lark worked, though neither Taeros nor Korvaun mentioned this to the other three remaining Gemcloaks.

  Lark was waiting tables right now. She came around to theirs with a well-laden tray and briskly replaced their empty glasses with full ones. Taeros found his gaze following her as she walked away.

  “This,” Beldar announced, raising his tallglass, “is a more fitting tribute to our fallen friend. Wine, pretty women, and frivolous sport—that’s a send-off Malark would appreciate!”

  Glasses were raised in their third or fourth toast. Taeros drained his in a single stinging swallow, grimaced, and gasped, “I thought Korvaun’s words well said. He took the burden none of us cared to lift and deserves no chiding for it.”

  “I take no offence,” the Helmfast scion said quietly. “Malark was fond of revelry. It’s fitting we celebrate his life as he lived it.”

  “Hear, hear!” Roldo echoed, waving his tallglass. It hadn’t escaped Taeros’s notice that the Thongolir heir had drunk sparingly, not much more than wetting his lips with each toast. Roldo was wont to talk overmuch in his cups and probably feared what he might say if he drank freely on the night of Malark’s funeral.

  Beldar had no such qualms. Their leader waved his empty glass imperiously on high. Lark promptly arrived with a serving tray in one hand and a bottle of zzar in the other, and began pouring.

  “Leave the bottle,” Beldar ordered, not glancing up. “Yes, yes, Korvaun did well. Just as he said, I consider myself honored to have been counted among Malark’s friends.” He shook his head. “But what an appalling waste! Was it really meet to elevate a serving slut—a whey-faced chit with no grace and less bosom—to the same honor as noble friends and family? ”

  “If, my lord,” an acid-laced female voice inquired, “the lass sported breasts larger than your head, would you find her more worthy of Lord Kothont’s sacrifice and your regard?”

  Taeros stared at Lark in both curiosity and horror. Serving wenches, even those pleasing to the eye and possessed of a swift and entertaining wit, simply did not intrude upon patrons’ conversations—and certainly not with a rebuke!

  Beldar gave Lark a drunken glare. “Sported? Aye, she might then be worthy of sport, if not the high honor Korvaun offered.”

  The servant regarded him for a moment. Then she set the bottle of zzar on the table with exaggerated care, turned to leave—and whirled back, serving tray held high in both hands. Before anyone could do more than gape, she brought it down on Beldar’s head with a ringing clang.

  He crashed to the floor, chair and all. Lark spun away and marched straight out of the Hippocampus, tossing the bent platter to the floor and her apron to the indignantly sputtering master of the hall as she went.

  Chairs scraped as the Gemcloaks sprang to help their fallen leader. Korvaun, who’d been seated next to Beldar, did most of the honors, raising the dazed Lord Roaringhorn to his feet and briskly brushing floor-reeds from Beldar’s ruby cloak. “Are you unhurt?”

  Beldar explored his scalp with tentative fingers and nodded.

  “Good,” Korvaun said politely—and punched Beldar in the jaw, hard. The youngest Lord Roaringhorn reeled back, stumbled over Lark’s twisted serving-tray, and found the floor once more.

  As the hallmaster stared, aghast, Lord Korvaun Helmfast strode quickly to the front door, his sapphire cloak swirling around him like a stormcloud.

  This time Beldar stayed down, groaning and unaided, as Taeros, Starragar, and Roldo stared open-mouthed at their departing friend’s back.

  “Thank you, Hoth,” Mrelder murmured, when it became clear his father wasn’
t going to say anything at all.

  The tall man bowed silently and departed, leaving Mrelder and his father alone in Golskyn’s office with the tankards of hot cider Hoth had brought. The priest gestured imperiously, bidding Mrelder to go and bolt the door.

  When he turned back from doing that, Golskyn of the Gods was sitting at his desk looking out the windows at the dawn, warming his hands around his tankard. “You have been here longer than the rest of us,” he said abruptly, “and so seen more of this city of greed and bustle. Moreover, you are still of an age where dreams and fancies flourish, so tell me something of your thoughts: What should we of the Amalgamation strive for? Speak freely.”

  Mrelder’s jaw dropped.

  His father’s gaze never left the street below, but the thin smile on Golskyn’s hard, lordly face told Mrelder he’d seen his son’s astonishment.

  “Waterdeep,” Mrelder said slowly, “is a city of secrets and strivings. Men clash daily with wits and coins—and too often with daggers and worse. Buy this, sell that, swindle and cajole and misrepresent: Folk here spend their lives chasing coins.”

  He waved at the busy street outside, where carters were calling their wares amid rumbling wagons and hurrying folk. “Many dream of great wealth, even when they know it’s forever beyond their grasp. Some slave their days away grumbling or resigned to their lot, but a great many here have the fire and ambition I’ve always seen in you, Father—though not your wits or perception.”

  “How so?”

  “They seek an edge, an advantage over others, some first step or hold on power that’ll bring them a shade closer to making their dreams real. Waterdeep holds a lot of doers, not just dreamers.”

  Golskyn nodded. “And this means …?”

  His father actually seemed to be taking his words seriously! Desperate not to put a word wrong, Mrelder took a deep breath and burst out, “Folk so eager for riches offer themselves, often without realizing they’re doing so. They leap at chances, for fear of missing the trail to riches. They never want to refuse or turn away from what could be their way to power. They all like to think they’re cleverer than their fellows, but time and again someone crafts a new swindle, and jack after lass falls for it: They can’t resist.”