The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  Several of the surrounding beholders were smaller and had only six eyestalks each. Dandalus had said beholder eye-magics varied from one eye tyrant to another in nature as well as strength, and some eye tyrants weren’t nearly as powerful as the fearsome reputation legend gave them, but standing alone gazing upon so many gently writhing eyestalks and so many malicious stares, Beldar Roaringhorn knew better.

  The smallest one here can slay me at will.

  “I come not to harm,” he rasped, finding his mouth and throat suddenly dry, “but to warn and seek advice.”

  “Are you alone?” the beholder mage demanded, “Do you know spells?”

  A sudden crushing force blossomed inside Beldar’s head, leaving him gasping and numbed, barely able to think or move. He struggled, thick-tongued, to answer … and then, as suddenly as it had come, the awful invasion ended.

  “You stagger under the weight of magics you know not how to use,” the beholder hissed contemptuously. “Speak now, ere we slay you. You offer poor sport.”

  Beldar took a deep breath, reminding himself of the Dathran’s prophecy, and said, “I come from the city of Waterdeep, where a man now dwells who seeks to ‘improve’ himself by grafting claws and tails and other body parts of wild beasts—monsters—to himself. He’s done so successfully at least a tencount of times, winning new limbs and organs that live and thrive, obeying him as if they were his own. They now are his own.”

  “And this concerns us how?” the eye tyrant mage sneered, though the glows encircling it brightened and its surviving eyes flashed in evident excitement.

  “This man keeps one of his eyes hidden behind a cloth patch,” Beldar replied, “to keep other humans from seeing it’s been replaced with … an eye from a beholder.”

  A hiss went up all around Beldar that was almost a roar, drool-wet and furious. Eyes flashed, eyestalks writhed like angry snakes, and a dozen beams and bolts of deadliness stabbed at the quaking human from all sides.

  All of them vanished in amber glows that brightened until Beldar could see a soft aura all around him. His skin tingled painfully, and he bit back a moan of fear.

  “Soil yourself not, human,” the beholder mage said coldly. “That was but a simple truth-test. I’d not have believed your tale, else. You spoke truth and so live yet, but this blasphemer, this human who dares to butcher our kind, must die—swiftly and knowing one of us is his slayer!”

  Eager babble filled the cellar in an instant—and ceased, knife-sudden, as amber radiance blazed anew about the beholder mage.

  One of its eyestalks curled to tap thoughtfully at its fanged mouth in an oddly human gesture. “Dealing death to this blasphemer would be a pleasure to everyone here, but one of us has a prior claim. Who sent you here, human, to tell us this? ”

  “No one.” Beldar tapped the badge Dandalus had sold him, the device that marked him as a man in thrall to a beholder. “There is no one now,” he added meaningfully.

  “I see. Your master was slain by this human.”

  That hissing voice was not quite questioning. In case a truth-magic remained in the soft amber glow, Beldar said, “I decided to come here—alone—and parted with valuable gemstones to learn the way.”

  “You earn my protection already,” the great beholder said, turning to face him fully, almost as if its blind, empty eyesocket could still see. “Are you willing to do more?”

  “I am your servant,” Beldar replied with dignity, knowing no other sane answer.

  “Then one of us shall accompany you back to Waterdeep.”

  Though Beldar saw no gesture nor word pass among the floating horrors, one of the gauths—if he remembered the Roaringhorn library bestiary correctly—drifted forward to hang just above and in front of him. Before he could look at it properly, it began to circle him as if surveying a roast boar for a tasty-looking place to start devouring.

  “You shall lead Alanxan without delay to this man, that his death may be accomplished without arousing the city’s defenders, attracting undue attention, or leading this arm of our vengeance into any traps. Failure to do this, Beldar Roaringhorn—oh, yes, human, I read all I want of your mind in our brief contact—and not only will you die in long torment, but so shall all your friends and kin. Perhaps every so-called noble house of Waterdeep needs one of us commanding it.”

  “I thought you loathed …” Beldar stopped, realizing nothing he might say could be well received.

  “We do. Save as cowering slaves to fetch, enact our wills, and provide us with entertainment. Yet with your ridiculous airs, you prancing humans entertain and even amuse—some of the time.”

  “A—a deathwagon waits to carry me back into Waterdeep,” Beldar almost gabbled. “It has, uh, grim cause to travel every street of the city, so Alanxan can be safely brought to the back door of the, ah, blasphemer’s abode, if, of course, this meets with your approval!”

  “It will serve. Go.”

  Beldar bowed, turned, and strode hastily back out of the lair, eagerly seeking the stomach-churning reek of rotten garbage. The gauth drifted behind him, its largest eye half-closed but its others trained on him, as if anticipating betrayal at any moment.

  The Roaringhorn allowed himself a grim smile. As the creature was expecting treachery, it would be ill-bred of him to disappoint it!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Taeros stood on the Westgate ramparts, the siege of Waterdeep raging all around him.

  Far below his boots, a host of sahuagin pounded at the gate, using great waterlogged timbers from sunken ships as rams. Wizards hurled down magical fire at them, and City Guard archers loosed wave after wave of flaming arrows. Scores of fish-men fell, until the wet sands were hidden by heaps of blackened, smoking scaled corpses.

  Suddenly a gigantic squid rose from the dark, roiling sea, towering higher than Mount Waterdeep. An enormous tentacle lashed out, impossibly long, dashing a screaming line of Waterdeep’s defenders off the battlements, leaving Taeros standing alone, armed with only a quill and a fistful of parchments. The tentacle curled back slowly, arching menacingly on high … and then descended at him, vast and dark and terrible …

  He was blinking blindly into the bright morning sun, bolt upright in bed and gasping hard. It took some time before Taeros realized the thudding in his ears wasn’t just the pounding of his heart. Someone was insistently striking the knockplate of his bedchamber door.

  Mumbling curses, Taeros swung out of bed. The shirt and breeches he’d worn the night before were conveniently right on the floor where he’d left them. He yanked them on, strode barefoot to the door, and flung it open.

  Onarlum stood with his staff of office raised to strike again, mute apology on his face. Behind his shoulder Taeros could see a young woman—tall, blonde, formidable, and all too familiar.

  His irritation fled before the bright wrath burning in her blue eyes.

  “Sarintha,” Taeros murmured, staring with growing concern at Roldo Thongolir’s bride. “Is anything amiss?”

  “My husband is amiss,” she snapped, pushing past him into the room. Over one shapely shoulder she sent Onarlum a white-hot glare of dismissal. The steward hastily bowed and scuttled gratefully away. “Or rather, missing.”

  “Missing?”

  Sarintha’s look of scorn might have melted glass. “Lord Hawkwinter, even in infancy, I was neither stupid nor naive.”

  Taeros blinked. “I—I’ve never suggested you were. If I knew where Roldo was, I’d surely—”

  “Invent some story to cover his tracks,” Sarintha said sharply, “but as it happens, I know all: he went to a moneylender, and lacked even the decency to lie about it!”

  Taeros blinked again. Roldo was careful with his coins, as nobles went. He owed Taeros a small gambling debt, true, but ’twas nothing pressing, certainly nothing to send him a-borrowing …

  Sarintha gathered volume. “Do you know what he did with these borrowed coins?”

  Taeros shook his head, feeling like a particularly stupid stu
dent being tonguelashed by a supercilious tutor.

  “He went straight to the Gentle Moment—for ‘healing’—and got into a drunken brawl. They carted him to the Castle dungeons like a common sailor!”

  Taeros frowned. “That … doesn’t sound like Roldo.”

  “Nevertheless, that’s the tale his manservant dares to tell me! Take this!”

  Sarintha thrust a coin-heavy purse into his hands. “Now go and pay his Watch-fines and his debt, whatever it may be. I would be grateful if you handled this with as much discretion as possible.” She glanced pointedly at the amber cloak lying in a glittering puddle on the floor.

  It was little surprise that Sarintha mistrusted the Thongolir steward’s tongue. She’d want no word of Roldo’s indiscretions to reach his parents’ ears, lest they conclude Sarintha couldn’t manage her husband, much less family business.

  “I’ll see to it at once,” Taeros promised. “You’ll have Roldo back before highsun.” Whether you want him or not, he thought.

  Sarintha was already nodding curtly, and Taeros was left bowing at a swirling of skirts as she turned and strode from the room.

  Taeros didn’t know whether to glare at the open doorway or sigh. After a moment he shrugged instead, dressed quickly, and strode out, leaving his telltale cloak behind.

  Hurrying to the carriage house, he bade the groom harness the unmarked coach, a workaday carriage with curtained windows of the sort used by many slimcoin travelers and merchants.

  The hostler knew his work. Without prompting he passed over the stalls of sleek, highbred horses to choose a pair of cart nags, and brought out unadorned harness. The drover stripped off his Hawkwinter livery and turned the tabard inside out, so its plain dark lining showed. The same routine was well-rehearsed among most noble house servants in Waterdeep, for many masters frequently ordered errands best done quietly.

  After a seemingly interminable ride through bustling morning streets—ye gods, didn’t anyone in this city sleep?—the coach rumbled to a halt before the Castle entrance known as the Dungeon Doors. A panel in the heavy iron gate slid open, and a gray-bearded man looked out expectantly.

  Taeros jerked the coach-curtain aside. “I’ve come for Roldo Thongolir. Brought in last night for drunken brawling.”

  The gateguard shook his head. “Here no longer; fine’s paid.”

  “What? By whom?”

  The guard’s steel-gray gaze sharpened. “And who might be asking?”

  Taeros thunked Sarintha’s purse down on the coach’s door-ledge. “A friend to Lord Thongolir, acting on behalf of his lady wife.”

  The graybeard eyed the purse—or rather, the Thongolir crest worked into its soft leather. “Guess there’s no harm in telling you to take Lady Thongolir’s coins to Mirt. The moneylender sent word last night pledging payment.”

  Gritting his teeth, Taeros gave the man a curt nod of thanks. Calling the new destination to his drover, he flung himself back in his seat, not bothering to close the curtain.

  They were nearly at Mirt’s Mansion when Taeros caught a glimpse of glittering rose hue and rapped hastily on the coach wall. Even before the drover had quite pulled the horses to a stop, Taeros was out and down into the street.

  Striding through the street crowd, he clapped Roldo on the arm. His friend spun around, hand on sword.

  “Save that for Sarintha,” Taeros said sourly. “She sent me to settle your fines and debts.”

  Roldo grimaced. “My lady’s well informed.”

  “Better than your friends.” Taeros slapped the purse into Roldo’s hand. “If you’d need of coin, why not come to me?”

  “All’s settled with the moneylender—and if you’re willing, I’d like to settle the debt between us with something more handsome than coins. I’ve received a gift more suited to your name and tastes than mine: A charm wrought in white gold.”

  Cradled in his hand was bright, silvery fancywork: a pendant of a smooth, stylized hawk soaring across a beautifully carved, intricate snowflake, on a fine chain. Roldo put it into his friend’s palm with great care.

  “Very fine,” Taeros murmured, peering at it with dawning pleasure. “I think I’ve won the better part of this bargain.”

  Roldo glanced around, and then took his friend’s arm and pulled him into the angle formed by two mismatched shop walls.

  “Perhaps, and perhaps not,” he muttered. “This is a magical thing; it lets you trade shapes with another man … and it comes with two solemn oaths: to never tell anyone about its powers and to use them only for the good of Waterdeep.”

  Taeros stared at his friend. “Who—”

  “The moneylender’s lady gave it to me. Korvaun has one too. We did Lord Mirt some small service.”

  “Then why not keep it your—”

  “I’m not the one—the right one—to hold such power.” Roldo’s stare was like fire. “You know heroes and their great deeds, Taeros. I’ve seen pages of your gift to the child king; Thongolir scribes are embellishing them now. If a time comes when this is needed, who’d know what had to be done better than you?”

  Who, indeed? Taeros saw himself again as he’d been in his dream, standing alone on Waterdeep’s ramparts with only quill and parchment in hand. Poor weapons … but perhaps Roldo was right!

  After all, his Hawkwinter head and heart were full of wondrous stories. Surely one might yield a plan when the city stood in need, so he could tell Korvaun what to do!

  Korvaun, not Beldar … now that was unexpected, yet felt oddly right.

  Taeros put the pendant around his neck. “I accept with honor, and I swear to so serve Waterdeep,” he said solemnly.

  Roldo managed a wavering smile. “Thank you. I’d consider it a courtesy if we spoke no more of this.”

  “As you wish.” Taeros cleared his throat. “So, where were you heading in such haste? ”

  “Korvaun wants all of us to meet this morn. Didn’t you—? I guess his messenger came after you were up and about.”

  “At the clubhouse? I’ve a coach!”

  Roldo grinned. “And I’ve the sloth to take it!”

  Korvaun and Starragar were waiting in the club, tankards ready.

  “None of my messages seems to have reached Beldar,” Korvaun told Taeros, serving forth ale, “so we might as well start.”

  Starragar frowned. “Shouldn’t we find him?”

  “I don’t believe he wants to be found,” Korvaun said quietly. “If we hear nothing for, say, another two days, we should search, but right now it’s probably best to leave him his privacy.”

  Roldo shook his head. “This isn’t like Beldar.”

  “No,” Taeros agreed dryly, “usually he’d be the one starting brawls at a house of healing and pleasure.” Waving away Starragar’s quizzical glance, he asked, “So why are we here, exactly? ”

  Korvaun leaned forward. “I’ve been looking into all of these fallen buildings.”

  “ ‘All of these’?” Taeros asked sharply. “There’s another?”

  “A tallhouse in North Ward, fortunately empty at the time. However, hear this: both it and the Slow Cheese were owned by Elaith Craulnober.”

  Taeros whistled. “Interesting. There was some unpleasantness three or four years back, talk of a band of elves from the forests come to the city and fighting here under Craulnober’s command. He left for Tethyr soon after and presumably took his elves with him. Now, not long after his return to our streets, two of his properties are destroyed. Some sort of retribution, d’you suppose?”

  Korvaun shrugged. “Possibly, but I’ve come across a remarkable amount of property owned by the Serpent—and I don’t think I’ve found half of it. That two out of all these collapsed is not quite the coincidence it might at first seem.”

  Starragar frowned. “What else?”

  “Varandros Dyre is insisting to anyone who’ll listen that the Lords are digging new tunnels to spy on citizens.”

  “Well, the Lords couldn’t do that without hiring Dyre or riv
als he’d know about,” Roldo pointed out, “but the Serpent, now … if there’s anyone in Waterdeep who warrants watching right now, ’tis him.”

  As the friends exchanged grim nods, Taeros said slowly, “The Lords may not be the only ones watching Elaith. Now that I think of it, Dyre’s maidservant was at Craulnober’s party the night Malark died, not to serve but gowned as a guest.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Taeros nodded. “I thought she looked familiar at the time but couldn’t place her. Yes, I’m quite sure.”

  Korvaun ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “This is truly troubling. Is she watching Elaith Craulnober or watching for him?”

  “The latter seems more likely,” Starragar put in darkly, “but if we put a man to watching her, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “ ’Twould be better to send a woman,” Taeros mused, “A sellsword who can pose as a serving wench and go where Lark goes. Hiring blades is Hawkwinter business, so I’ll see to it.”

  Korvaun frowned. “If Lark’s working for Elaith Craulnober, anyone you send will be at risk.”

  “I’ll make sure she’s pretty,” Taeros replied with a wink, “and if my father has any sword-wielding she-elves for hire, so much the better. If rumors tell truth, Elaith Craulnober collects more than real estate.”

  Varandros strode through South Ward, his heavy coin bag thumping at his hip. It would be lighter on the return trip, more’s the pity.

  The brawl in Dock Ward was costing him dearly. Four of his trustyhands had died in the fighting, all workers on the Redcloak Lane raising. The sorcerer who’d bought the building would be less than pleased by further delays, so men would have to be pulled from other jobs, and skilled hands came dear in these busy days, with every jack across the city rebuilding … and then there were the burial costs and widows’ fees.

  He couldn’t recall exactly where on Telshambra’s Street his man had lived, but the place wasn’t hard to find. A small, somber group was gathered outside a narrow stone building, ale cups in hand.