The City of Splendors

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The High House of Roaringhorn was even noisier than usual that morn. Fortunately, Beldar's stout bedchamber door muffled sounds, reducing the tumult to a steady murmur spiked with occasional incoherent outbursts.

Lying in bed staring at his familiar sculpted and painted ceiling, Beldar pondered the probable cause. Perhaps Thann ships had brought a score of fine black stallions from Amn, resulting in a sudden drop in stud fees for prize Roaringhorn racers; or mayhap his elder brother's betrothed-a pretty, flighty thing whose affections seemed to wax and wane more frequently than the moon-had undergone yet another change of heart. Quite likely it was something as trivial as his mother's twittering dismay over a rival's gown, worn yestermorn and too similar to one she'd intended to don on the morrow. In short, the usual nonsense.

It was mid-morning when Beldar checked his reflection in a gilt-edged mirror taller than he was, grimacing at the effect of eyepatch, thin black mustache, and plumed, broad-brimmed hat-not to mention the assortment of bruises and scrapes he'd incurred the last few days. Ye gods, he looked like a villainous pirate from some two-copper chapbook!

Tilting his hat to a more rakish angle, Beldar gave his image a self-mocking salute, touching fingertips to forehead and then tracing a pair of circling flourishes. Scaling the hat to the floor in disgust, he snatched up his gemweave cloak.

Lacking all desire to explain his eyepatch to the family just yet, he took the back stairs, departing the High House of Roaringhorn by the servants' entrance. The usually bustling courtyard was quiet, but the din from the streets seemed more appropriate to the bustle and strife of the southerly wards than to the quiet, tree-shaded Roaringhorn gardens and the similarly luxurious estates beyond its walls.

The stable doors stood open, and Beldar hastened to them. "A coach, quickly! I'm bound for Hawkwinter Hall," he called.

The stableboy's head arose from a stall and shook denial. "Can't be done, lord. The streets 'twixt here and there be still crowded with folk coming from the City of the Dead."

Beldar frowned. Were the rumors of Lord Piergeiron's death true, after all? "From the Deadrest? What befell?"

The tow-headed lad blinked. "You've not heard? A brawl broke out yestereve, inside the Deadrest walls-a terrible fray, 'twas! At nightfall, with it still raging, the Watch shut the gates."

"With people inside?"

"Aye, so! Many died, and a lot more sore-hurt. Some came out screaming and scramble-witted. They say carts by the score took the wounded to Hawkwinter Hall for healing. All manner of mounts and carriages still be going hither and yon-streets're full."

"Well, that'll put a crimp in Taeros's morning!"

"Oh, he weren't at Hawkwinter Hall come dawn," the boy said loftily, obviously delighted to know so much more than dashing Lord Beldar. "Ne'er came home last night, the servants're saying. Yer friend Lord Helmfast, neither."

Beldar's heart plunged. For once, he wasn't furious servants always seeming to know so much about noble business. Plucking a silver coin from his purse, he waved it at the wide-eyed lad.

"Tell me all, and this is yours."

The temple bells were chiming their last time before highsun as Beldar swung down from his swiftest horse, lathered from its gallop out and around the city, and in again by the South Gate.

He raced up the clubhouse stairs, calling for Taeros as he ran. Of all the Gemcloaks, the Hawkwinter seemed to treasure this haven most highly.

And if not Taeros, well, gathering here for a late-and for some, second-morningfeast was fast becoming a daily ritual.

The door, however, was closed and locked. A note addressed to Roldo Thongolir was pinned to it with a small silver knife.

A Hawkwinter table knife. Beldar pulled it free, spirits lifting at recognizing the firm, neat hand of Taeros on the parchment.

I hope you've already eaten, the note read, for instead of the usual bellyfilling, we'll be meeting at Master Dyre's worksite on Redcloak Lane. Seek chaos and ruin-of late, our shared banner. If you're not there by five bells past dawn, we'll proceed without you.

Taeros had signed it with his usual rune. Beldar frowned at that mark. Redcloak? The site of their mock battle? What business could await there? And why was this addressed solely to Roldo, when it concerned them all?

Five bells past dawn had come and gone, but not by much. If he hurried, he might be able to catch his friends, or learn whither they were bound, and follow.

He gave the parchment a wry smile. Didn't every leader go about his business much the same way?

A few workmen were hauling rubble out into carts standing in Redcloak Lane and morosely probing what was left of the stone foundations. Their work had exposed the cause of the collapse: a new tunnel connecting with the old, damp wellhouse underway Dyre had walled off.

The guildmaster shoved at the ladder they'd put down into the new tunnel, making sure it was steady. Nodding, he took up a lantern and led the way down into the gloom, sure-footed as a cat.

His daughters followed ably enough with their own lamps, closely followed by their trio of lordlings: the fair-haired Helmfast lad, as protective of Naoni as any wood-nymph her tree; the smart-tongued Hawkwinter; and the sour-faced one in the black cloak whose name Dyre kept forgetting.

Then they were in the tunnel, turning their backs to where the collapse had blocked it and striding beyond reach of daylight-where Dyre all but forgot the others, barely noticing when one of his daughters slipped past.

"Not dwarf work," he mused, lantern held high to study the fitted stones of the passage where they arched overhead, with nary a crude lintel-slab in sight, "but close to it."

"Korvaun…"

Naoni's voice was soft and steady, yet it held a note that lifted the hairs on the back of Dyre's neck. He charged toward whatever danger threatened his daughter; may young Helmfast be fleeter of foot or be damned!

Arriving first, he pulled up short alongside Naoni, and after a stunned moment, slid a steadying arm around her waist.

A burly, battered body lay sprawled on the stones-a dwarf. More than that Dyre couldn't say, for the dead face had been battered beyond recognition… but there was an all too familiar rune carved bloodily into the corpse's forehead.

Beldar found it surprisingly easy to win past the workmen. One looked up, saw his glittering red cloak, and pointed with his hammer at a ladder sticking up out of a pit.

Beldar nodded thanks, took a torch from a sand-bucket bristling with them, lit it from the lantern sitting hard by, and climbed down into the darkness.

After his last and exceedingly unpleasant underground experience, he was relieved to find himself in a stone-lined tunnel: well-built, dry, and smelling of not much more than damp earth. He started to walk briskly, hoping to catch up with his friends.

Very soon he saw the glimmerings of several distant lanterns, and quickened his pace.

Just as he was about to call out a greeting, he passed the mouth of a side-passage. A dark shape exploded out of it.

Beldar grabbed for his sword, but The world whirled around him. He fought for balance, and somewhere in his flailings lost hold of his torch. It whup-whupped into the wall and exploded into sparks at about the same moment Beldar's back slammed bruisingly onto flagstones, smashing the wind out of him.

He gasped for breath in the sudden darkness and then went very, very still. There was no doubt at all about the nature of the cold sharpness pressed against his throat.

"I've got him!" a familiar voice called from just above him. "Bring a lantern!"

"Korvaun?" Beldar gasped in disbelief. "Helmfast, is that you?"

There was a long silence, during which two lights approached.

"Aye," Korvaun said at last, and the steel was gone from Beldar's throat as Taeros and Starragar, lanterns held high, stopped and stared down at him.

"How'd you know where to find us?" Starragar snapped.

Beldar frowned. Did they think he couldn't read? Surely they hadn't planned to undertake some sort of adventure without him!

"You left a note on the clubhouse door," he replied, not bothering to hide his exasperation.

His fellow Gemcloaks exchanged dark glances. Their manner was beginning to grate on Beldar's nerves, already frayed over the last few days. He struggled to his feet unaided, and gave Korvaun Helmfast his best glare. "You ambushed me. Why?"

Korvaun slid his dagger into its sheath. "My apologies." His voice was flat and cool. "We heard footsteps and decided to lie in wait for whoever-or whatever-was following us."

Beldar lifted an eyebrow. "Admirably cautious."

"We've good reason," Taeros said bluntly. "The Dyre girls are with us-and Master Dyre's apprentice was murdered while following them."

Beldar frowned in bewilderment. "And you thought to find his killer here?"

"There's little chance of finding him at all," Starragar said. "Some sort of necromantic rune carved into his forehead blocks magical inquiry. A popular spell, it seems; there's another corpse in the tunnel yonder sporting the same rune."

A little chill wandered down Beldar's back. The mad priest Golskyn, his burning-eyed sorcerer son, the Dathran…

"Magic's nearly endless in form and variety," he murmured. "I know an outlander mage well versed in dark arts."

Again his friends shot looks at each other. Starragar thrust his head forward. "Oh? And how came you by this… acquaintance?"

"My brother took me to her as a prank, years ago," Beldar explained impatiently. "She mumbled the usual dire prophecies and grand promises. What of it, if she knows a way around those runes? I'll take something personal from this body you've found; it might help her find the killer."

"Worth trying," Korvaun admitted. He looked at Taeros, who handed Beldar an intricately worked iron medallion.

"We'd planned to take it to the Warrens in hopes someone could name the owner," the Hawkwinter explained.

"Your corpse is a halfling?"

"Dwarf."

Beldar waited for Taeros to elaborate, but his friend merely regarded him. With unfriendly eyes.

Suddenly he understood; Lark must have already reneged on their deal.

"What did she tell you?" he demanded.

His friends gave him only silence. After it had lasted long enough to become uncomfortable, Taeros asked, "Just when did you take up beating unarmed women?"

Shame and relief swept over Beldar together. If this was the sum of their complaints, a simple half-truth should set them at ease. "She bore a stolen charm: Silver, on a silver chain. I tried to take it from her. Though I'd no intention of striking her, my hand… connected, ere she fled. I deeply regret this mishap and will tell her so at first opportunity."

Taeros absently reached for his chest, at just the place where a charm might hang, and Beldar knew his words had hit their mark.

"And where's this charm now?"

Beldar shrugged. "Find the wench, and you'll find your property."

Starragar scowled. "She said much the same of you."

For a long moment Beldar regarded his boyhood friends, realizing they'd become strangers all. With all the dignity he could muster, he said, "If you think me a liar and thief, put me to the test. Surely at least one of you has a truth-seeker."

Starragar stripped a ring from his hand and all but threw it at Beldar. "Put it on. You'll be compelled to answer three questions truthfully."

Beldar donned the ring and waved at the other Gemcloaks to proceed.

Korvaun winced. "Blast it, this isn't right! Never once has Beldar Roaringhorn given any of us cause to doubt his word! Never once has he forgotten a debt or failed to stand beside his friends!"

He turned to Beldar. "Take off the thrice-damned ring and tell me straight out you don't possess the charm or know its whereabouts-and I'll believe you."

Beldar regarded Korvaun, held up his hand so the ring was prominently displayed, and said flatly, "I don't have it, I don't know where it is, and this ring is far too garish and made of brass, which is utterly, unforgivably common. Is that truth enough for you?"

"Please accept our apologies," Korvaun said. "There should be no talk of truth-spells among us."

"It's forgotten." The Roaringhorn tossed the ring back to Starragar. "I'm off, then. What say we meet at the club come sundown?"

"Agreed," Korvaun replied.

The other Gemcloaks just nodded, content to let Korvaun speak for them. At that moment, a truth hit Beldar hard. The Gemcloaks now looked to Korvaun-steady, decent, honorable Korvaun-rather than to him.

Loss-almost grief-stabbed at Beldar. Forcing a smile onto his face, he gave the dwarf's medallion a jaunty swing, wheeled around, and started the long walk to the Dathran's lair.

The Dathran handed back the dwarf's medallion, shaking her head.

"Nothing." Surprise laced her voice. "Not a face, not a name. Again, naught. What sort of magic have you been bringing Dathran?"

"I was hoping," Beldar replied grimly, "you could tell me."

"It's elven magic, you ignorant hag," murmured Elaith Craulnober, answering the question floating up from one of his gently glowing scrying bowls.

Strictly speaking, the rune was Netherese, but the long-ago mage who'd crafted it had based his Art on elven lore. Of course, few elves these days knew such ancient magics, and fewer still would use them.

Elaith had no such scruples. Moreover, he'd added a twist to the rune, binding a rebounding spell to it so any attempt to magically seek the killer would be turned back against the seeker, revealing his identity.

Yet another incantation had empowered the rune still more. Elaith uncorked a tiny vial and tapped a pinch of its glittering powder into the scrying bowl. The ripples took the noble and the witch away, replacing them with a miniature map of the city, lit by a lone red spark.

Its radiance marked just where their conversation had taken place. The area around it began to expand, bringing to mind the way the ground loomed up at one riding a giant eagle to the ground. In moments Elaith was regarding a close, clear view of the witch's lair. Softly glowing footprints marked a path from her rooms up a stair to a hidden door and out into an alley Elaith's henchmen knew well.

With a small silver ladle the Serpent dipped some fluid from the bowl into a crystal goblet. Dipping a finger into that liquid, he traced circles around the goblet's edge, coaxing an eerie note from it.

All of his agents wore rings adorned with flat silver ovals that sang in unison with the crystal, awakening a magic that sent anyone wearing them a mind-vision of the telltale map. It would only loom large and clear enough to read in the minds of those close to the site.

The water in the goblet began to boil, without heat or steam- the signal that his message had been received and understood. Elaith poured the contents of the goblet back into the scrying-bowl and waited to see which agents' faces took shape in the swirling water.

When three faces became clear, a smile touched a corner of his lips.

Lord Beldar Roaringhorn was said to be an excellent swordsman. The coming battle would sorely test his skills. It should, therefore, be most amusing to observe.

Or very, very short.

Beldar Roaringhorn plodded up the dark stone steps, the Dathran's words ringing in his ears. Nursery tales and hedge-wizards' claims notwithstanding, magic wasn't going to answer all secrets and banish all troubles in a trice and a twinkling of stars. "What a large surprise," he murmured mockingly, as he came to the tiny chink of light around the door out into the alley. Slipping out into the familiar refuse, Beldar wondered where, in this city of myriad secrets, he should go now to lay bare this latest mystery.

The route to the Dathran's lair was a blind alley, with no other way out other than a warehouse door somewhere to his right that had long ago been buried in a huge heap of shattered stone and rotting wooden shards tossed down in a clumsy rebuilding.

So it was hardly likely that the three figures advancing purposefully down the alley with blades drawn and hard faces fixed smilingly on him were here for trading purposes-or to consult the Dathran, for that matter.

They were here for him.

Beldar's hand wavered between swordhilt and eyepatch as he watched the foremost flex long and slender arms. Both held long, hooked swords that had been tarred to quell their shine. The movement pushed back the hood of his foe's half-cloak, revealing a face that was far from human.

A silver beard tufted the chin of a long, narrow face topped with a crest or shock of stiff hair or… or something. Eyes as gold as a sun elf's bore slitted vertical pupils. It seemed as if a proud elf had tumbled into bed with a dragon and in time had somehow borne-this.

His gold-eyed foe also boasted things no elf had ever possessed: massive shoulders and faint silvery scales. The two bullyblades flanking him a respectful-cautious? — step behind looked human enough, but hardly more welcoming.

Oh, naed. Beldar gave them a bright smile and an airy wave-and spun around to sprint back to the hidden door.

He was through it in moments and racing back the way he'd come. There were crashings of shifting rubble under hurrying boots behind him.

Beldar half-ran and half-fell down the slippery stairs, shoulders and knees bouncing bruisingly off stone, and lurched to the waiting skull.

"Dathran," he gasped, scooping a handful of bloodstones onto the nose-ledge from his smaller purse, "I must consult with you- urgently!"

"So soon? Years steal memories and leave grayer men forgetting things and having to return. To see this in one so young and bold…"

Fortunately, the teeth-stones were moving during these mocking words. Beldar flung himself into the widening way and tumbled onto the rune-bedecked rugs of the witch's hearth-chamber. "Close the portal!"

The Dathran, imp alert on her shoulder, was staring past Beldar at his three onrushing pursuers.

"You bring these?" the crone snapped.

"Not by invitation," Beldar gasped. "I-"

As the three slayers dived into the room, rolling up into fighters' crouches, the Dathran calmly turned to touch a tapestry with a single murmured word. It promptly melted away into nothingness, revealing a shelf of human skulls.

Beldar snatched off his eyepatch and backed away as the three slayers advanced menacingly. The half-dragon thrust one of its swords through a belt loop and fumbled something small out of a belt-pouch, reaching back as if to slap it against the skull-wall.

The Dathran turned a cold smile upon the half-wyrm and folded her arms across her breast. Three skulls soared off the shelf behind her and raced across the room at the intruders. Flinching back, the dragonblood threw whatever it held at them.

Beldar dropped to the ground just before three bright, ear-splitting blasts rocked the room and flung him upright again, stumbling unsteadily amid swirling dust.

There were hoarse shouts of pain, a shriek, and the imp's shrill laughter. Then warmer light was blossoming somewhere in front of him, as the Dathran called, "Follow the light, Lord Roaringhorn. That way lies your safety. Go!"

Beldar staggered forward into fresh dustfalls, small stones stinging him as they plunged and bounced all around. He could see nothing but glowing dust, tapestries, and… a door.

Opening it, he stepped into quieter, damper darkness, and the faint privy-reek and stronger mold-stench that proclaimed "sewer" to any Waterdhavian.

An eerie chiming rose behind him, and with it came a blue-green radiance that swirled, clung to Beldar numbingly, and thrust him forward in a fell tide, shoving him along dark stone walls.

It released him suddenly, retreating to hang in a singing, seething cloud. Beldar whirled around to behold a blue-greenmist that seemed studded with half-seen, gently drifting spikes and chains. A narrow face began to form in its roilings.

The half-dragon. Beldar drew his sword and thrust hard between those golden eyes, hoping to slay the dragonblood before it could fully regain solidity.

Frigid pain slammed up his arm into his chest, so sharp and searing that he fell. Beldar rolled away, fighting for breath-gods, the cold! — but his collapse had thankfully torn him free of the killing frost.

The strange mist drifted nearer. Floating in the glowing blue-green haze were three skulls, empty eyesockets glimmering in warning as their bony jaws moved in unison, and the Dathran's voice hissed, "Go fight your battles elsewhere, Lord Roaringhorn. When next you come, come alone!"

Beldar groaned at his own stupidity. No attack by the half-dragon, this, but one of the Dathran's wardspells.

He staggered to his feet and stumbled away into deeper darkness. Fumbling for his eyepatch, he found with relief that it still hung about his neck, but he didn't don it, for only his beholder eye could see in this gloom.

To its gaze, the pulsing ward was almost blinding, but even as he fought to clear his sight, Beldar saw something moving beyond its bright curve-something silver and scaled.

When the half-dragon came into clear view, one of its hands was empty. At least one dark bulk was bobbing along behind it. Beldar hissed a curse and turned away, seeking The first bright flash and roar almost lifted him off his feet, but he got turned around again in time to see the snarling half-wyrm swing the smoking, twisted stub of its sword at the second hurtling skull.

Steel shards clanged and sang off stone in all directions in the roiling heart of the blast that followed, and Beldar winced and shrank away as the third skull came flying out of the mist. The half-dragon hurled a dagger at it and flung itself back, crashing into the bladesman behind it. Beldar found himself seeking the floor, too, as The skull exploded.

The roar of its rending echoed strangely, making his ears ring, but nothing tore at Beldar this time, and he heard no cries of pain.

When he turned back to face the ward, it was pulsing as if nothing had befallen, and the portal behind it was gone. The Dathran had thrown them all out into the sewers to settle this on their own.

The half-dragon was already struggling to its-his? — feet, and Beldar strode forward and glared at the creature, closing his left eye in case this would help the beholder graft unleash its full power.

Beldar felt a strange warmth in his head, a dark stirring that flared into excitement, even hunger…

Elven magic was not alone in seeking Beldar Roaringhorn. Mrelder, Golskyn, and Hoth bent over a large scrying bowl, watching Beldar's attempt to use his beholder eye.

"He's a bold one, to hurl magic so soon after the graft," the priest said approvingly.

Stupid, more like. Mrelder knew better than to say those words aloud.

"Look at that magnificent creature," Golskyn breathed, his lone remaining human eye shining as he gazed at the half-dragon. "What a marvel. A natural melding of man and monster."

The epitome of your insane aspirations, his son thought silently.

"A good sign," the priest continued. "Waterdeep's future ruler has the sense to consort with superior beings. Very good."

And with those words Golskyn ambled away, not seeming to notice that the "magnificent creature" and "Waterdeep's future ruler" seemed bent upon mutual destruction.

His father, Mrelder concluded grimly, was utterly insane.

Glancing up from the bowl, he found himself looking into the eyes of Hoth and saw his own opinion of Golskyn mirrored there.

Hoth held his gaze, not in challenge but inquiry. He seemed to be waiting for something.

A moment later, Mrelder realized Golskyn's many-armed second-in-command was awaiting instructions. From him!

This had possibilities!

"This place isn't far," Mrelder said calmly, pointing into the bowl. "Take two men in all haste to help Lord Roaringhorn. If possible, retrieve the half-dragon alive. If we can't convert him, I'm sure we can find another use for him."

Hoth offered neither scorn nor argument. His nod was curt but respectful, and he turned and left the room at a run. The young sorcerer watched him go, feeling a smile slowly spreading across his own face.

The half-dragon was on its feet with another blade in its grasp now, eyes glaring angry gold at Beldar as it strode to meet him.

Roaringhorn's new eye quivered, and the beast rocked back on its booted heels, grunting in pain. It had short, backswept silver horns instead of ears, Beldar saw, as it staggered under whatever wounding magic his eye had visited upon it.

Then it opened its jaws and spat at him-a white, frostlike roaring that sprang out, spreading swift and wide in a deadly racing chill that told Beldar all too painfully that he wasn't the only one able to unleash magic.

He flung himself back, ducking into a side-passage that reeked chokingly of human waste. Biting cold settled over him. A warding talisman an aunt had given him long ago crumbled to worthless powder all down his chest, and a gem adorning his belt shivered into fragments with what sounded eerily like a whimper. Cold gnawed at him like a small beast with many teeth as the half-wyrm and the other two bullyblades advanced again, blades out.

Slowly and warily they came on as Beldar winced at the chill still clinging to him and retreated reluctantly into the choking stench behind. He'd rather attack and meet his death with sword in hand, but wasn't certain his numbed fingers could hold a blade.

He was going to die here in the darkness, somewhere beneath the hurrying boots and rumbling cartwheels of unwitting, uncaring Waterdhavians. He'd go down, hacked and stabbed, destiny unfulfilled, not even knowing who'd ordered his death.

This was no chance encounter. Three slayers wouldn't simply find the alley leading to the Dathran's lair by chance. These were assassins sent for him.

Beldar smiled grimly. It was the first indication that his graft had resulted in a rise in his status. Cold comfort indeed!

His three pursuers were in the mouth of the passage now, crouching against the walls to shield themselves against any attack from him. They knew about his wounding eye, so there'd be no more surprises.

A door swung open almost beside his nose, startling him almost into heart-stop. Beldar sprang back, giving way to a tall and very wide man with shoulders almost as broad as the doorframe-and a familiar face.

Hoth of the Amalgamation was coming through the door with a hot shuttered dark-lantern in one hand and an iron staff bristling with vicious-looking spikes in the other. Judging from the sound of hurrying boots, he'd brought others with him.

Hoth looked at Beldar with something in his eyes that just might have been respect, and growled, "Stand aside, Lord Roaringhorn, and leave the vermin to us."

Beldar stumbled back to let the burly man stride past. Two men in leathers followed at his back, swords out. One of them had a wrist encircled by half a dozen coiling eels that held daggers ready in their jaws for the human hand to pluck and throw. The other had a forearm that bristled with a row of long, sharp fangs that lengthened as Beldar stared at them, sliding forward out of sheathing flesh in preparation for battle. The hand at the end of that wrist was no longer human, but a head-sized knob of bone studded with well-worn bony spurs, like a great mace.

The half-dragon stepped away from the passage wall and strode to meet Hoth, one of its hands reaching to pluck daggers from hidden sheaths as it came. The two humans moved, too, spreading wide to gain sword-room.

"Kill the humans," Hoth told the two Amalgamation believers. A thrown dagger flashed from the half-dragon's hand, and a swift movement of Hoth's dark-lantern sent it clanging aside.

Then Hoth tossed his lantern behind him. Beldar's jaw dropped in astonishment as it halted to hover in midair, casting its light over suddenly rushing men. Steel rang on steel, men snarled and grunted, and the sewer-passage was alive with blood and men seeking to spill it.

Beldar glared at the half-dragon again, seeking to harm it with his eye as he snatched out his sword, leaping high to avoid two rolling, struggling men Too high. Something cold and very, very hard slammed into his head, or he slammed into it, and all Faerun went away into darkness amid a sudden, fading roar…

Beldar's neck ached, and there was a fire in his head that made him wince and groan whenever his boots came down just a trifle too hard on uneven cobbles. He had vague memories of finding a rusting ladder, shoving aside a rotting trapdoor that had spilled squeaking rats in all directions, and staggering through a warehouse that sported more of the same, to find himself in the lamplit darkness of last twilight.

Shortly after sunset, which meant his fellow Gemcloaks would be at the clubhouse.

Well, this wasn't going to be one of his more triumphal entries, to be sure. Setting his teeth against the pain, Beldar stumbled to the nearest street-moot and peered around, seeking landmarks. The city wall yonder meant that way was east, so the waulking-vat reek was coming from the north-which meant his destination couldn't be more than about three streets that way.

Not even Watchmen bothered him during his painful plod to the familiar guard and stair, so Beldar supposed he looked dirty and drunken enough to be mistaken for a true Dock Warder. He was well past caring. There'd be cold ale in the clubhouse, and if Korvaun was true to form, fresh cheese and meats, too.

He almost fell on the stairs but fetched up with a relieved sigh And froze, staring at the unexpected tableau.

His friends were at ease in the cozy lamplight, tankards in hand and platters of food in their laps, talking earnestly to two sisters who were becoming all too familiar.

"We saw nothing untoward," Starragar was saying with his usual sourness, "but that means little. For all we know, some of the rats might be spies for the Lords. We may all be marked right now! 'Tis not every day nobles take pleasure excursions into Dock Ward sewers!"

Which was when Naoni Dyre caught sight of Beldar, and her widening stare made every head in the room turn. Silence fell in an instant.

Naoni and her sister were cradling tankards and dining on lap-platters of cheese and fancy pickles, feet up on the footstools just like Beldar's fellow Gemcloaks. They were co-conspirators and trusted friends now, not awkward common lasses, all prim and glaring and scandalized. Well, at least they'd left their blackmailing servant-wench behind!

"Ale for a thirsty warrior," Beldar croaked, managing a smile and thanking Tymora to the depths of his heart that he'd remembered to put his eyepatch back on.

"Where've you been?" Starragar snapped.

Beldar's heart sank. Korvaun might still trust him, but the same could not be said of the others. Starragar and Roldo were regarding him grimly, and even the face of Taeros betrayed wariness.

"I've been strolling through sewers, not far from here," he replied lightly. "Can't you smell?"

"You certainly do," murmured Taeros.

"There you have it," Beldar said lightly, heartened by the familiarity of an acerbic Hawkwinter comment. "I took the dwarf's medallion to my spellhurler-to no avail, I might add-and ran into a bit of trouble on the way out: Three slayers after my head, one of them half a dragon by the looks of him. Others came, swords clashed, spells were hurled." He shrugged to indicate that it had all been a minor annoyance.

"So how," Starragar asked his tankard, "did the valiant but lone Lord Roaringhorn escape?"

Beldar grimaced. "In truth, I know not. At some point in the battle I hit my head. I was alone in the dark when I… woke up. I blundered around until I found a way up to the streets and got myself here as fast as I could. Not my finest foray, but there 'tis."

"Did any of the Watch see you?" Korvaun asked. "Or anyone who might be inclined to report this fray to them?" The Watch wouldn't look kindly on Gemcloaks sword-brawling, so soon after the street fight wherein Piergeiron had been wounded.

"I don't think so," Beldar replied, going to the ale-keg. "I didn't seek battle this night, and I doubt those who did are likely to air their business before magisters."

Korvaun frowned. "Why d'you think they came after you?"

"I don't know," the Roaringhorn replied wearily, discovering some cheese and his own great hunger in the same instant. "Truly." He munched, reached for the spigot, and asked, "So what befell, and what do we do next?"

The only reply he got was an uneasy silence.

"Friends," Beldar said grimly, hefting his tankard, "you were talking of such matters when I arrived. What god's stolen your tongues now?"

"We…" Taeros began, then fell silent again.

"We were down in the sewers, too," Starragar said. "Great spell-blasts, you said?"

"I did."

"We heard and felt nothing like that," Taeros said quietly.

A short, uncomfortable silence fell.

"There was a time," Beldar said softly, "when my friends the Gemcloaks would have unhesitatingly taken my word, a time not so long ago. Starragar, hand me your ring and let's be done with this."

"No," Korvaun said firmly. "Your word is good enough."

But the other three nobles neither nodded nor smiled.

The silence returned, and this time its weight was crushing.