The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  Slipshields had never been plentiful. Borne only by royal guards of Evermeet who might have to act as a decoy for one of the royal family, they were so secret that, supposedly, only the ruling Moonflowers and their guards knew what a slipshield was. No one in Waterdeep—no one—should have been able to perceive the true nature of what the Hawkwinter carried.

  Elaith knew it all too well. The silver ring on the smallest finger of his left hand allowed him to perceive slipshield spells. He’d left a similar ring behind when he’d fled the island kingdom all those seasons ago—it wouldn’t have occurred to him, even in disgrace, to do otherwise—but Amnestria, his princess, his lost love, had brought him hers when she followed him across the seas, in hopes that it would help him remember what he’d once been.

  Elaith thrust such thoughts from his mind to return to the puzzle of the slipshield. How had this so-secret creation of elves found its way to Waterdeep?

  He lifted the goblet a nervous servant placed before him and sipped absently. So rare a magic; almost as rare as the humans of Waterdeep who might have dealings with fair Evermeet …

  Laeral. Laeral Silverhand, the Lord Archmage’s lady. She was a friend to Amlaruil of Evermeet. Perhaps the elf queen had granted this magic after the sahuagin attack to aid in the city’s protection. It was unlikely anyone on Evermeet or in Waterdeep knew that a certain Serpent could detect slipshields.

  Abruptly Elaith rose from his table and stalked out into the night. Its shadows swallowed him even before the angry steward emerged to send men rushing after the patron who’d paid not a nib.

  They found no sign of the notorious elf, but the steward would have shivered to learn how close to him Elaith lounged, watching unseen as he waited with elven patience for the Notch to empty.

  It was a long time later when Lark emerged alone, heading north with her light, quick stride. One of the Notch’s better brawl-quellers stepped out of a doorway to trail behind her. Elaith was not at all surprised to see the green-eyed elf server emerge from the night to follow them both.

  The Serpent joined the tail of this silent procession, a discreet distance behind the elf. When it became clear Lark was going straight to her dismal rooming house, Elaith took a parallel street, gliding along swiftly. Choosing a side way overlooked by no eyes he knew of, he stepped out right in front of the elf warrior.

  For a moment she stared at him, her green eyes wide with wonder. Then, to Elaith’s astonishment and chagrin, she went down on one knee, fisting her sword hand and touching it to her heart—clan—and then her forehead—a warrior’s salute. Archaic tribute not seen at court in Evermeet for many summers, but Elaith knew it well. Old ways died hard among the dark green fastnesses of Evermeet’s northern wilderlands.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Do I know you?”

  “Ezriel Seawind, my lord,” she replied respectfully, “and no, we’ve never met.”

  Elaith stood absolutely still. He knew that name. The Seawinds were one of the clans of fisherfolk who lived on his ancestral lands, in the shadow of the scorched shell of Castle Craulnober.

  How inconvenient. He’d told Lark he’d deal with those following her. Human liege lords slaughtered their peasants from time to time, but such things were considered bad manners on Evermeet. However …

  “We’re not on Evermeet,” he said quietly.

  The young warrior rose, obviously assuming that he was dispensing with elven formalities.

  “I started training the year before you resigned as captain of the king’s guard, but I heard all the tales about you,” she said, hero worship bright in her eyes, “so I came to the mainland to seek adventure, as you did.”

  Her words both pained and amused him. So that was the tale told to explain away his sudden departure! It was, he supposed, as good as any.

  “Yet I’ve heard many troubling things about you since I came to this city,” Ezriel added softly. Her eyes searched his, almost pleading with him to deny them.

  “Humans say many strange things,” he replied lightly. “I’ll give you my hand on that.”

  Ezriel Seawind read the answer she sought in his words, and took his offered hand eagerly.

  Elaith’s grip tightened. Ezriel’s face went slack … and she slid to the street like a prance-puppet whose strings had been cut.

  He held up his hand, palm out, to show her the small pin protruding from one of his rings. A tiny, glistening drop fell from its hollow point as it slid back, disappearing into the thick band.

  “Statha. The Bane of Elves. A poison no rarer than it should be,” he told her matter-of-factly.

  Those trembling lips couldn’t reply, of course, but her eyes, oh, her eyes …

  He wasn’t prepared for the hurt he saw there or his own reaction to it. He’d been betraying allies for decades, but for some reason this doomed young warrior’s silent accusation struck him like a blow to the heart.

  He could see her tremendous struggle against muscles that could no longer obey her. Green eyes darted this way and that, their flicker slowing as the statha halted even that last fading freedom.

  Suddenly Elaith understood what she wanted, what she was fighting to say. Her gaze went repeatedly to the sword on his hip, then back to herself, and then to the sword again.

  Of course. This painless, bloodless death was no fitting end for a warrior of Evermeet. She had lived by the sword and wished to die the same way.

  She lived as he once had lived and desired the death he no longer deserved.

  Elaith thrust his half-drawn weapon back into its scabbard and made a sharp, impatient gesture over a bag at his belt. Its strings flew open, and a small vial soared up into his waiting hand.

  Serpent-swift, he unstoppered it and dropped to one knee beside the dying elf. Taking her hand, he poured a few drops of shimmering fluid onto the tiny wound.

  Faint motes of light seemed to dance under her pale skin, racing away through her. After a moment she twitched once then sat up, face uncertain but leaving her hand in his.

  “What’s said of me is true,” Elaith said quietly. “Having heard the tales, you were a fool to trust me.”

  “And yet I live,” she breathed, waiting for his explanation.

  “Things in Waterdeep are seldom what they seem.”

  At this, Ezriel did tug her hand free. She rose to her feet, and he rose with her.

  “So by poisoning me, you were cautioning me to walk with care?” Her voice was low but incredulous. “Forgive me, Lord Craulnober, but that was a stern lesson. I am neither child nor fool, incapable of learning through the hearing of words.”

  “Then hear these: An elf lord of Evermeet might rule nothing more than a sprawling, complex, and largely unsavory business empire.”

  Ezriel regarded him. “Yet you rule it, do you not? At the heart, is this not much the same?”

  “Hardly!”

  “Whyever not?”

  Her quiet question left Elaith blinking. Why indeed? He’d been wont to regard the City of Splendors—such ignorant arrogance in these human names—as a rich treasure chest to plunder, its folk mere minions and victims-in-waiting. He followed city laws when it was convenient to do so and protected Waterdeep only when his interests were at stake.

  Why, then, did his absence from Waterdeep during the sahuagin attack grate at him so?

  If Evermeet were attacked, he’d empty his vast caches of wealth and magic to aid her. He’d gladly die in her defense, as befitted a former captain of King Zaor’s guard, but Waterdeep wasn’t Evermeet. He had dwellings here—more than a few—but it was not, and never would be, home.

  But then, how congenial had he ever found his family holdings? The Craulnober lands held little charm for him. He’d never bothered to rebuild the ancestral keep, fire-struck when he was a babe in arms. Queen Amlaruil had taken him in as a ward of the court, raising him among her own children. Where Amlaruil was, where Amnestria once had been—that was the only home Elaith’s heart knew, and he looked to find no other.<
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  Yet he ruled the Craulnober lands, did he not? To this day, he met with his steward each solstice to discuss matters of import to the simple folk who farmed and hunted northernmost Evermeet, and fished the waters about the outer isles. He did these things not from any deep love of those wild places, but because he owed a duty to his ancestral lands and the folk who dwelt there. His folk.

  How was Waterdeep any different? He’d inherited here no lands or titles but was widely acknowledged as a crime lord of considerable power and influence. Could this human cesspool rightfully expect him to assume a lord’s responsibilities and obligations to the city he’d plundered for so long?

  “Lord Craulnober?” Ezriel’s voice shattered his thinking.

  “To whom to you report?” he asked briskly.

  “I’m now a Hawkwinter hiresword.”

  “No fitting position for a swordmaiden of Evermeet. I’ll settle things with Lord Hawkwinter and see you more suitably employed—in one of my legitimate enterprises.”

  Green eyes glowed with excitement. “Yes, I would see my agreement with the Hawkwinters concluded with honor. Beyond that, I care little for human laws.”

  “Lack of regard for human laws? Shocking!” Elaith took her hand again and tucked it companionably under his arm. “Walk with me, and tell me more.”

  Morning sun was stealing into the kitchen as Naoni wiped the last mug dry, and Faendra danced merrily into the room, sparkling-fresh despite her sleepless night.

  She rolled her eyes. “Gennior finally left. I’m not entirely certain, but he might think we’re betrothed.”

  “If so, Father will beat the notion out of him before highsun,” Naoni said calmly. “What’ve you learned?”

  Faendra sat on a crate and smoothed her grey skirt. “Father hired no guards. I doubt he had one of his men watch us, either, as none of them gossiped or bragged about it.”

  “So you spent the better part of the night charming a gluemaker’s apprentice for nothing?”

  “Not exactly,” Faendra said, examining her fingernails with a smug little smile. “Gennior’s cousin serves at Hawkwinter Hall. It seems Lord Taeros hired a guard on behalf of his friend Korvaun Helmfast, who put up the coin for it.”

  Naoni felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her lightheaded and dizzy. “He’s paying to have me … us watched?”

  “Protected, more likely.”

  “I’ve no desire for his money, nor need of his protection,” Naoni whispered, so enraged she was scarcely aware she was clenching her fists, “and I shall tell him so … as soon as I change into something more suitable for an audience with nobility.”

  She stalked off, pretending she didn’t hear Faen calling teasingly after her, “Or to cleave closer to the truth: As soon as you change into a more fetching gown!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The scream shattered Lark’s dreams into bright shards.

  As they fell past, forgotten, she found herself awake, bolt upright in bed, heart pounding.

  A second shriek brought remembrance, fury, and her wits, all at once. Her landlady’s new rooster, a large, handsome bird with pure white feathers and a keening crow piercing enough to make a banshee rise up and applaud, was an early riser with no respect for hard-working lasses who’d fallen into bed only two or three bells ago.

  “Blast it all to the Abyss and back!” Lark swore, pounding the bed with both fists. “Bugger that wretched fowl on a leeward run!”

  She went on in this vein for some time, until thumping on the wall told her she’d awakened—and possibly offended—the sailor next door.

  Muttering dire threats of chicken stew, Lark tossed aside her covers and stumbled to the window. If the sun had risen, its rays had yet to reach the small fenced yard behind her rooming house. A streetlamp, visible over the low roof of the stable next door, sparked and guttered as the last of the night’s oil burned dry.

  No sense burrowing back into the warmth; she was needed at the Dyres’ by sunrise. Slamming and bolting her shutters, Lark fumbled for the flint to light her current candle-stub.

  Its feeble circle of light reached all of her walls; Lark’s room was barely large enough for its narrow cot and tiny table. A chest under the bed held her smallclothes and ribbons, and her two changes of clothing hung from hooks on the wall. Her carefully hoarded coins were in the vault in the Warrens, and they’d stay there until she’d earned enough to buy free of this place. This life.

  Pouring water into her chipped washbasin, Lark dipped in a scrap of linen to wash. Out of long habit, she lingered over the mark of indenture on her upper arm, scrubbing it vigorously though she’d learned as a child that nothing she could do would make it go away. Someday she’d have coin enough for magic to remove the brand, but first must come her own shop and her own rooms … and before that, this day’s work ahead.

  She dressed swiftly, as the cock crowed several times more. She sent dark thoughts its way as she set off through the swiftly awakening streets.

  To her surprise, Faendra met her at the kitchen door, still wearing her gray mourning gown. In silence she tilted her head meaningfully in the direction of her sister.

  Naoni was sitting on the high kitchen stool, lacing her best slippers with sharp, impatient movements. Despite the early hour, she wore a fine pale green gown.

  She looked up, her eyes bright as angry stars. “I’m glad you’re early. If you’ll help Faendra press the cheese, we’ll change the mattress straw when I return.”

  Lark glanced at the younger Dyre sister, eyebrow crooked quizzically. Faendra rolled her eyes and towed Lark into the buttery. “It’s about the man who’s following us,” she whispered.

  “There’s no need to do aught,” Lark murmured, seeing again Elaith Craulnober speaking his promise. “He’ll bother us no more.”

  “Good, but ’tis only one side of the coin. ’Twas Lord Helmfast hired the guard!”

  “Ah.” Lark’s smile was less than nice. “Such a generous gift, and given with no thought of repayment.”

  “Generous indeed,” Faen agreed, ignoring Lark’s biting tone, “but like you, Naoni always thinks the worst of wealthy men. She assumes he’s buying, not giving, and she’s determined to let him know she’s not for sale at this price or any other.”

  “Good for her. Better yet, I’ll carry that message and save her the wear on her fine shoes and good name.”

  Faendra whispered in Lark’s ear, “And take away her excuse to visit Korvaun Helmfast?”

  Lark blinked. “Ye gods! Thus blows the wind?”

  “Aye. She’ll deny it, of course. Yet I’ve—”

  “Faen!” Naoni called.

  Her sister stepped back into the kitchen, her smile so open and guileless that none might guess she’d been gossiping.

  None but Naoni, who sent her a narrow, knowing look.

  Lark smiled. Her elder mistress was no fool—save, perhaps, when it came to her taste in men.

  “Jivin’s lurking in the herb garden,” Naoni told her, “doubtless come early in hopes of a morning mug of ale. Take him some, then send him to summon a carriage.”

  Faendra’s blue eyes grew round. “A carriage?”

  “I’m certainly not going to walk to Helmfast Hall! I’ve far too much work waiting to waste a half a day or more on this foolishness.”

  Faen’s eyes misted at the grand image of an ornate conveyance, all gilded upswept ornamentations and tossing-headed matched horses … Oh, yes. “A carriage … I’m coming with you.”

  “As am I,” Lark put in, her voice every bit as firm as Naoni’s. “If you want no word of this to get back to your father, you must make sure no servant gossips. I know the man who keeps the Helmfast gate by day; his wife’s a laundress, and they both serve tables at the Black Flagon of an evening, when they’ve need for extra coin. He’s a decent sort, and our best chance of departing Helmfast Hall without rumor racing like wildfire behind us.”

  Naoni’s unsmiling lips pressed together in a thi
n line as if to hold back an argument she knew she could not defend. When they opened, it was to tell Faendra, “Have Jivin hire a conveyance large enough to carry three in comfort.”

  “Of that,” her sister replied with relish, “you can rest assured.”

  The carriage that rolled up to the Dyres’ doors proved to be almost as large as Lark’s rented room and far more comfortable. Its velvet seats were somewhat the worse for wear, but the padding was only slightly lumpy and the cloth had been brushed clean.

  Faendra settled back into a corner with a deeply contented smile. “Life hands me far too few excuses to visit North Ward. ’Tis so beautiful; as I gawp at all the finery, I’ll dream of living there someday!”

  As they rolled through ever-widening streets, Lark had to agree with that judgment of North Ward, even if she didn’t share Faendra’s ambitions.

  Here the city’s wealthiest new-coin citizens traveled streets of cobbles so smooth the carriage seemed to glide. The glittering folk dwelt behind ornate iron gates, in grand homes fashioned from gleaming marble, white-stone, and fine woods. Stately trees shaded all, and the gardens surrounding the homes displayed flowing plants in frames of sculpted hedges, rather than the practical herbs and vegetables crowding the Dyre’s tiny backyard plot.

  Helmfast Hall was a grand affair, with a sweeping iron arch soaring above its gate. Flanking the arch stood two small forehouses, of the same pale-gold stone as the mansion beyond. One was little more than a covered bridge, and in it stood a coach, liveried staff gentling the harnessed horses, awaiting Helmfast whims. The other was the gatehouse, and Lark was relieved to see the black-bearded man seated within was her friend from the Black Flagon.

  As the carriage rumbled to a stop, Lark hastened out and down. “Good morn, Stroamyn.”

  “And to you.” The guard glanced at the hired carriage. “You’ve not come to serve, not in that rolling ship. Are you a ladies’ maid, now?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Lark replied. “My mistresses wish to speak with Lord Korvaun. Know you one of the staff who can be trusted to carry that message to his master and no other?”