The City of Splendors c-2 Page 5

  With a whoop Beldar Roaringhorn sent Taeros sprawling over a pile of boards. Emptying a small belt-flask in a single quaff, he spun around in a ruby-red swirl to slice through the stout rope lashings holding the lowest flight of the temporary stairs in place.

  Under the weight of onrushing workers, that run of steps plunged to earth. So great was the force of its landing that it rebounded hard and high into the air, then slammed down again amidst splinterings of protest. Those crashes smote the ears almost as hard as the toppled workers hit the board-and-shaving-strewn floor. Almost.

  One laborer struck a litter of lumber with a helpless curse that rose into a howl of fear as a trio of propped beams toppled over onto him. They slammed down on the man and then rolled away, leaving him bruised and groaning. Enraged, another trustyhand leaned down from the floor above to send a drop-bucket swinging hard at the back of Korvaun Helmfast's head.

  Taeros saw this peril approaching on the end of its stout rope and lunged into a frantic dive that took a startled Korvaun safely to the floor with him. It was merest mischance that someone had left dressed boards atop a row of sawhorses there and that their sudden arrival dislodged the end horse, making the boards dance and rattle with force enough to spill the carpenter's crate of precious hand-forged longnails.

  The noisy clatter of that outpouring swept the carpenter into white-hot, shrieking fury. He charged at Taeros and Korvaun heedless of obstacles.

  Accordingly, several sawhorses and an entire handcart of wooden pulley-blocks were sent flying, sweeping several workers from their feet to slide and roll helplessly. One man's tumble took Starragar Jardeth's feet out from under him, and the watching gods alone willed that Starragar's flailing blade severed a vital anchor-binding of a scaffold still alive with laborers pounding along its boards and hastening down its ladders.

  In a sudden and sickening cacophony of shrieking wood, a corner of that scaffold buckled and swung out from the building, spilling mallets, nails, boards, off-cuts, and shouting trustyhands down into Redcloak Lane, where, a staggering Malark Kothont could not help but observe, as he smote aside a furious laborer with the flat of his blade and puffed his way back into the flame-flickering heart of the deepest shavings where Taeros and Korvaun were enthusiastically thwacking a roaring carpenter with the flats of their own blades, a delighted crowd was beginning to gather.

  "Ho!" Malark shouted sportingly as he came, his sword cutting the air with mock ferocity. Workers were fleeing in all directions now, having little taste for fencing sharp steel with battered hand-mallets.

  As the worksite speedily emptied of cursing, sweating laborers and Malark bore down on the still-raging carpenter, the blare of a Watch-horn arose to the north: the single note of one patrol summoning another. Redcloak Lane would very soon host more Watch officers than a bugbear had fleas.

  Malark halted, abandoning his sport with a shrug. No one had been slain, though if this fool of a carpenter didn't stop snatching gouges and chisels from his belt and throwing them at Taeros Hawkwinter, that might well change…

  Malark's speculation was abruptly cut short by a flying chisel. He ducked low then turned his dive into a somersault, bringing both of his boots up hard and fast into the carpenter's gut. They sank therein with satisfying thuds, hurling the retching man away into a pillar, which, being a fresh and temporary prop rather than a stoutly anchored timber, promptly gave way.

  The slow but gathering-in-strength groan that followed was truly impressive and heralded the sagging of an entire section of still-charred ceiling. Gemcloaks scampered away with excited shouts but were forced to turn in swirlings of bright finery as the peg-popping, wood-twisting shiftings overhead caused the already leaning Redcloak Lane scaffolding to turn and crumple a little more.

  Cries of excitement and alarm arose from the crowd, and the few of them who'd shown signs of drawing daggers or brandishing dock-hooks to join the fray drew hastily back.

  The carpenter's belligerence seemed to have left him along with the contents of his stomach, and he now devoted himself to hastily crawling away, coughing, "Help!" and "Fire!" and "Call the Watch!" as he went.

  Magnanimously Malark let him go, for there were brighter foes to vanquish-to whit, one Taeros Hawkwinter, a certain Korvaun Helmfast, and the never-to-be-overlooked Starragar Jardeth. With Beldar Roaringhorn at his side, the valiant Malark Kothont would now… and where was Beldar?

  Malark caught sight of him through merrily rising flames. The ruby-cloaked Roaringhorn was happily fencing with Starragar, while Taeros and Korvaun raced to snatch and empty the workers' fire-buckets on the most enthusiastic of the conflagrations. Beldar, unaware or uncaring of such trifles, buried his blade deep in a pillar that Starragar had ducked behind.

  The Jardeth took advantage of Beldar's frantic tugging to race up a short ladder, snatch another fire-bucket, and empty it over Beldar's head.

  Thankfully it proved to be full of water and not pipe-ash and sand, and watching Waterdeep was treated to the sight of the leader of the Gemcloaks spitting water and roaring in damp fury.

  Malark opened his mouth to bellow delightedly-and Waterdeep suddenly vanished in a dark, stunningly wet torrent of evil-smelling water.

  The scion of House Kothont staggered blindly, clawed the bucket off his head, and glared angrily into the coldly smiling visage of a Watch officer. The man faced Malark with his sword drawn, its blade thrust through the handle of a second full bucket. The dozen hard-faced Watchmen looming behind his leather-armored shoulders held leveled halberds in their hands, and they were not smiling.

  "Stand!" another Watchman bellowed from the far side of the building in the tones of one who is accustomed to obedience. "Stand, and down arms all! Reveal your names and business here to the Watch! All others, keep back and keep silence!"

  "Stamp and quench!" the officer facing Malark snapped, without turning his head to look at his men. "In there now, swift as you can! Get those fires out!"

  The Watchmen charged forward, more than one of them roughly jostling Malark. The officer took one slow step forward and curtly made a 'down arms' gesture to Malark.

  Who spread his arms wide, splendid emerald cloak swirling, and asked, "Surely, goodman, you don't mean to separate a noble from his sword?"

  The Watch officer's face went carefully expressionless. "Being an officer of the City Watch, lord, I never mean to do anything. I uphold the law, follow orders, and visit consequences on those who do not."

  He repeated the 'down arms' gesture. Malark shrugged and let his blade fall to the shavings-littered floor at his feet.

  The Watch officer nodded curtly. Good dog, Malark thought, remembering one of his father's huntsmen nodding in exactly the same way to a hound he was training.

  "And what might your name be? Lord…?"

  "Kothont. Malark Kothont."

  Many Watchmen were approaching through the littered building, forming a loose ring around the other Gemcloaks. The Watch officer nodded his head toward them without lowering his blade or taking his eyes off Malark. "And these bright-feathered birds: They're nobles, too?"

  "Of course," Malark said airily, spreading his hands in an expansive gesture.

  "Of course," the officer echoed, the merest thread of contempt in his level, carefully flat voice.

  Catcalls and derisive comments were being shouted from the crowd, but by now there were more Watchmen than dock workers in Redcloak Lane, and when curt "stand away" orders were given, space was cleared.

  The complaints of the carpenter rose into a roar as he and his men were included in that shoving of turned-sideways halberds. The ranking Watch commander held up a warning hand and growled, "Patience, goodman," in tones that promised dire consequences for disobedience. The carpenter fell silent.

  The commander turned back to Beldar Roaringhorn, who with Taeros and the others had now been herded to stand with Malark Kothont. He made a swift, two-fingered circling gesture, and Watchmen scrambled to take up the Gemcloaks' weapons.


  "I say-" Malark protested, and again the warning hand came up, commanding silence.

  "Assault, damage to property, and fire-setting," the commander listed almost wearily. "Openly and in public, apparently with pranksome intent. Have you any explanation for this fool-headedness or good reason you should not face magisterial justice forthwith?"

  With only the slightest of wincings Beldar stepped forward and gave the commander an easy "We're all reasonable men here" smile. Malark subsided, more than content to let his friend fly this particular hawk.

  "Mere fun, nothing more! No harm was meant and little was done. On my honor as a Roaringhorn, we'll be happy to compensate the building's owner for any damage!"

  Most of the Watch officers were eyeing the Gemcloaks as if they'd like to toss the young nobles into the nearest rat-infested dungeon, yet in a civilized city, money smoothed many rough roads, and men of means could send their stewards around to settle any unpleasantness.

  On the other hand, Malark mused, perhaps the city was too civilized. In Waterdeep, things were done in sly roundabout ways that didn't suit him at all. In the wilderlands of his mother's kin, men dealt with matters, promptly and openly, with none of this whining dependence upon a council of anonymous rulers.

  Here, a carpenter could glare at Malark with eyes holding deadly promise, and a nobleman could be deprived of his sword, yet knowing Waterdeep, most likely both of them would die not settling their differences blade to blade but eating a stew poisoned by an unseen aggrieved party.

  The Watch commander made a gesture, and the Gemcloaks' weapons were proffered to them, hilts-first.

  "Stand back, men," he said softly. "Restitution has been offered. These men are free to go."

  Beldar sheathed his sword, and his companions followed suit. "We meant no harm," he repeated.

  "Aye," the commander said dryly, his eyes boring into those of Beldar Roaringhorn like two contemptuous daggers. "Your sort never do."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Morning came slowly to Dock Ward. Its close-huddled buildings cast stubborn shadows the guttering street-lanterns did little to dispel. Here and there roosters caroled like conjurers summoning the sun. Muttered curses followed most of their crowings amid clatters of tools. Some folk who dwelt here had to rise early to earn coin enough to eat.

  Mrelder headed for Redcloak Lane, marveling at the changes a year could bring. The last time he'd stumbled wearily along here, seeking his way back to Candlekeep, most of these buildings had been charred and smoking ruins.

  The rebuilt structures had stone walls to twice a man's height, crowned with one or more stories of stout timber. Most roofs were of new thatch, but the fires hadn't been forgotten: there were a few runs of slate tiles too. Mrelder wondered how much such a roof would add to the cost of his new establishment.

  He stopped where Candiera's Fine Shoes and Sandals had stood. Its rubble had been carted away, and a new timber frame soared to impressive heights above a repaired foundation of dressed stone. However, roofless openwork timbers kept a man a trifle damp and drafty, even in fabled Waterdeep.

  One of the workers shifting and hammering boards in that littered interior saw him and strode over, mallet in hand.

  "Have you business here?"

  Mrelder smiled faintly. "I'd fondly hoped to be doing business here before the midsummer fairs, but it seems the work goes slowly."

  The man's eyes widened. "Be you the sorcerer who bought out Candiera?"

  "The same. Would you be Master Dyre?"

  A passing trustyhand grinned at them. "If yer offering to magic him into Dyre, he'd probably take you up on it-leastwise, if'n he could keep his own nose." There were roars of laughter from workers all around.

  "I take it Master Dyre's not here. May I… look about?"

  The carpenter shrugged. "It's yours, bought and paid for. Don't be climbing the frames or pulling on any ropes, though; they're not secured proper."

  Mrelder nodded. "Fair enough. I want a look around back to see what room we'll have for loading carts and such."

  "Back there? Done, all but some carting away. Mind your step and take a torch-it's dark as Cyric's heart down by yon well."

  "Oh? What befell the glowpaint?"

  "Probably wore out. Everything does. I can tell you true there was no magic about the place when we started. Master Dyre always makes sure; says it costs him less coin to hire a wizard to spy out magic than to pay for his own burial if he blunders into an old ward."

  "A prudent man," Mrelder observed.

  Accepting a torch, he made his way through ankle-deep shavings to light it from a small fire in a copper brazier near the workers' glue pots, and picked his way on through the litter to the well house.

  It, too, had changed. Beyond a new door, neatly dressed stone had replaced the old chipped steps. As the carpenter had said, the glowpaint was gone.

  As Mrelder glanced at the well, his heart sank. It had a lid so new that the wood was still pale, the brass fasteners bright. Beside it, the old cover lay in a rotting heap.

  There was no sign of the Candlekeep rune on those moldering shards. The magic was gone. The wood had probably crumbled when the enchantment was dispelled.

  Mrelder sighed. No doubt spell-ways into that great fortress temple were crafted to vanish if any magic was worked on them.

  Or perhaps the monks now believed they had reason to distrust him.

  Mrelder shook his head. No, they had applauded his decision to apply himself to the study of sahuagin. After a year, when he'd declared his intent to fare forth to gather tales of sahuagin attacks and compile information about their magic and methods, the First Reader had given his personal approval and even modest funding. No, these doubts were his fancies, no more.

  He lifted his torch high. To his astonishment, its flickering light fell on a fresh oval of solid stone wall. The tunnel was gone!

  Mrelder rushed around the well to feel and then pound the stones-large, solid blocks, each so tightly fitted to its neighbor that he doubted a dainty lady's dagger could slip between them.

  Mrelder stared around the well house in stunned disbelief and then turned, rushed up the stairs, and ran back through the worksite until he could catch the sleeve of a passing worker.

  It was the carpenter, who blinked at the ferocity of Mrelder's question: "What happened to the well house?"

  The carpenter frowned. "Dyre oversaw that rebuilding himself. The stonework should be tighter'n a dwarf moneylender."

  "It is, in fact, too tight," Mrelder snapped.

  The carpenter looked incredulous, so he invented quickly: "I plan to sell well-aged cheeses. They require a cool, damp place to ripen."

  The man's face cleared. "Well, that's fine, then. You'll have a big root cellar yonder when we're done." He glanced swiftly about and then leaned close and murmured, "There was a tunnel in yon well house leading to gods-only know. 'Tis good fortune for you Master Dyre closed it off. What was found there, you don't want to have come a'calling."

  Mrelder's heart thudded. He slipped a silver coin from his purse, turning his hand discreetly to show it to the carpenter alone. "A prudent man knows the dangers he avoids as well as those he faces."

  "'Twas a token," the man said softly, his eyes on the coin. "From Those Who Watch, whose noses you don't want poking into your affairs."

  "The token was black," Mrelder said softly, and the carpenter nodded.

  Mrelder managed a smile and held out his hand. "My thanks for your help." They shook, and the silver changed palms.

  With that, Mrelder waved farewell and strode away. On his return to Candlekeep a year ago, he'd sought in vain for the little black helm Piergeiron had given him, and in the end concluded it must have held some magic and so had been stripped from him by the defenses of the gate.

  It seemed he'd dropped the charm in the well-tunnel, and the workers had taken it as a warning from the First Lord to keep away.

  What to do now? Requesting the tunnel be re-opened mig
ht establish him as a man with ties to… well, to those whose noses were best kept out of common folks' business. That sort of reputation would draw attention he could ill afford.

  By now it was bright morning, and the streets were filling quickly. Mrelder walked briskly, dodging the inevitable creaking hand-carts and sleepy-eyed, shuffling dockers as he made for the house he and his father were to share.

  Golskyn had pointed out, sensibly enough, that they'd need more than one base in the city. For several tendays now his father's followers-mongrelmen who served the priest with hound-like devotion-had been busily connecting divers lodgings and storehouses with new tunnels. Most who served Golskyn couldn't walk any city openly and so had become well versed in the lore of dark places, including tunneling and hiding all traces of such work.

  Mrelder would send some of them to Redcloak Lane when the harbor fogs rolled in and full darkness came to begin a tunnel between the root cellar the carpenter had pointed out and the stone passage where the tiny sahuagin lay waiting.

  Thinking of what was to come, Mrelder felt himself smiling.

  The sahuagin would regain its formidable size and find itself joining a certain young sorcerer in a new war.

  More accurately, selected parts of the sahuagin would join with Mrelder.

  "No work ever got done," Varandros Dyre growled at the two apprentices scurrying at his heels, "by a man who spends more time on his arse than his feet. That's why we go from site to site, afoot so the lads don't see us coming three streets off! And mark me, young Jivin, our little visits are why Dyre's Fine Walls and Dwellings can afford to hire the likes of you and Baraezym here-and why I, the gods help me, can afford the fine gowns my daughters so like to wear."

  Dyre shouldered through the thickening crowds at the mouth of Redcloak Lane, clearing a path for his two 'prentices like a hard-driven coach. Not much stood in Varandros Dyre's path. The sheer energy of the man was enough to sweep aside obstacles and draw eyes to him.