The City of Splendors

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The sky was fading from black to sapphire as Elaith Craulnober strode up the mountainside, his mood as foul as the cold, damp seawind blowing into his face.

He was in Waterdeep, gods cry all! Not Evermeet, not even Suldanessellar. He should have no lord's duties here, not in this noisy, stinking pile of humans and their coins!

Yes, he'd been born noble and raised as a royal ward. Yes, he'd honed skills bright enough to merit command in the royal guard. Yes, he'd been betrothed to a princess of Evermeet-and yes, he was heir to the Craulnober moonblade.

There it all ended. Hadn't he done enough dark work by now to break with all of that?

It must be bred into his bones, this sense of duty. Why else would the slipshields trouble him? Amnestria's ring told him when and where they were used, and slipshield magic-elven magic-had recently been flitting about Waterdeep like starving will o' the wisps rushing to mass drowning.

Though it irked, a few humans could be trusted with such power: oh-so-noble Piergeiron, and even that fat blusterer Mirt. The moneylender might resemble a walrus and outmass a boar, but his wits were almost elder-elf shrewd. Almost.

But now the latest litter of untrained noble whelps held not one, but two slipshields. This was intolerable.

It was also dangerous. They were empty-wits, a flock of bright-feathered, squawking goslings, prancing about blithely and brainlessly unaware that one among them was running with foxes.

How such a reckless fool as Beldar Roaringhorn had managed to acquire a beholder's eye of wounding was bewildering, but whoever was behind that transformation had sent slayers to defend the witless Roaringhorn against the fangs of the Serpent.

That was more than intolerable. Tincheron had gone missing in that battle in Elaith's service, and half-dragons grew not on trees.

Some Craulnobers had been dragon-riders. Matings of dragon and rider brought instant shame, and any offspring were outcast. Elaith had only ever heard of one during his lifetime-the one he'd sought out and befriended, Tincheron. Their long seasons of working together had built Elaith's greatest treasure: trust.

Tincheron would be found, or avenged.

The young noble stood on the city wall gawking down at the Walking Statues like a raw country dullard seeing something larger than his own barn for the very first time.

Marvelous. Not only was young Roaringhorn a fool and a careless waster of magic-really, dispatching an aging halfling with wounding magic when a knife-thrust would do-but, judging by his slack-jawed stupor, he was also a drunkard.

"Lord Beldar," he snapped.

The human spun around. His uncovered left eye-the remaining human one-stared at Elaith alertly enough.

Good. Not drunk, and judging by his expression, sober enough to be insulted by anyone not a close friend using his title and his first name together.

"I am Lord Beldar Roaringhorn," the lordling replied with dignity, putting hand to hilt.

Another insult, but at least the lad had sense enough to know when he faced a foe. Elaith smiled. "Men of your birth are, in Waterdeep, necessarily men of business. I've a shared venture to propose."

Roaringhorn's visible eye narrowed. "I think not," he replied flatly. "Roaringhorn interests couldn't possibly coincide with your affairs."

"Words a trifle grand for one five generations removed from reavers and horse thieves, but let it pass. You've a problem, Beldar Roaringhorn, and I a solution. In exchange for it, there's a small service you could do me."

Remarkably, the noble was managing to school his face into unreadable calm. "What problem might that be?"

"Dead halflings litter the streets so, don't they?"

Beldar Roaringhorn smiled bitterly. "And for a price, you'd make one particular corpse disappear?"

Elaith had already made it vanish, but saw no need to say so. "In return, I ask only for information that might lead to the recovery of a servant of mine you recently met. A half-dragon."

"You set that ready-slayer on me? To what purpose?"

"Obviously not your demise." Elaith inspected his nails. "If I wanted you dead, I'd hardly be standing here enduring this fine weather and the pleasure of your company."

"I asked you a question!"

"I'd noticed as much," Elaith said smoothly, "but you've won time enough to consider my proposal. Have we a bargain?"

"We do not." Beldar gave Elaith a hard stare, proving he was either braver than most men or far more foolish. "What's done is done. I'll take responsibility for my deeds, but I'll make no further alliance with evil."

Elaith didn't bother to hide his amusement. It was rather gratifying to be so clearly and swiftly understood. Mildly entertaining, even, if not quite worth climbing all those steps.

"I did not fail to notice, young Lord Roaringhorn, that you spoke of 'further alliance.' If you should find yourself too deeply mired in whatever evil you now enjoy, do not hesitate to call on me."

Beldar's mouth set in a thin line. "I thank you for your offer, Lord Craulnober, but I must decline."

The Serpent's reply was a small, slightly mocking bow followed by smooth departure.

The wind was rising as he hurried down the mountain. He might yet have use for young Roaringhorn, who seemed to be growing into the sort of human destined for great things-provided, of course, he didn't get himself killed first.

The boy had surprised him. He'd expected insults, and heard none. Nor had Roaringhorn tried to turn aside blame, seeming determined to face the consequences of slaying the halfling. The bleak determination to "do the right thing" was written across his face. Yes, Beldar Roaringhorn was that annoying collision of nobility and stupidity Elaith knew all too well.

Waterdeep held so human-gods-be-damned much of it.

The Dyres' old red rooster was still lustily greeting the dawn as Lark hurried into the garden. His feathered harem fluttered to greet her, eager for their morningfeast.

Lark frowned as she flapped her skirts to chase them off. Naoni should have fed them and gathered the eggs by now. What had befallen this time?

She hastened into the kitchen to find Naoni on the floor, face in her hands and slender shoulders shaking. Faendra knelt beside her, arms wrapped comfortingly around her weeping sister, and a somber-faced halfling stood over them cradling a tankard of ale. Even in distress, Naoni was ever the hostess.

Faendra looked up at Lark, her blue eyes sharp, almost accusing. "One of Naoni's hin guards has gone missing. He'd been… following someone. Beldar Roaringhorn."

"Mother of all gods," Lark murmured feelingly, going to her knees to clasp Naoni's hands. "Much as I dislike the man, I didn't think him the sort to do murder! I'm sorry, Mistress, truly. However this unfolds, 'twill be hard on Lord Korvaun."

"Harder still if Beldar's killed." Naoni's eyes filled again. "He shouldn't have struck you, Lark, but surely he doesn't deserve to die for it!"

Lark gaped at both sisters, stunned. "You think this is my doing?"

Naoni bit her lip. "I hardly know what to think. Jivin was following us. You told Faen our shadow would be seen to, and he was slain. Taeros hired an elf-maid to follow you, and she disappeared. Now this halfling."

"You're linking Lord Roaringhorn to me. Why?"

"Because of the charm belonging to Lord Taeros-the missing charm." Naoni sighed heavily. "You and Beldar saw it last, and each of you accuses the other of having it. We hired Warrens-folk to follow you both and recover it."

Lark turned sharply to the halfling. "The one following me- how fares he?"

"She's not yet attempted to retrieve the charm," the halfling told her, his voice surprisingly deep. "As of this foredawn, she's unhurt."

"Call her off," Lark said wildly. "For her life's sake, tell her to stay far from me!"

The halfling looked at Naoni, who nodded. He bowed his head, drained his tankard in one long gulp, and left without another word, hurrying.

Naoni reached for Lark's hand. "I think you've much to tell us."

Lark nodded unhappily, and began the story she'd hoped never to have to tell.

"I was born in Luskan, to a tavern wench. I never knew a father, and when I was young, I once asked my mother what he looked like. She said it was hard to know, as there's little to see when your skirts are thrown over your head."

Faendra winced. "Your mother was… forced?"

"Paid is more like it," Lark said bitterly. "From birth, I was indentured to the tavernmaster. My mother owed him for her keep, as she downed more drink than she served and never won free of her debt. Not that she tried. She was well content with the place and her life, and had grown fond of some of her regular customers."

"Indentured," Naoni murmured, understanding dawning.

"In my twelfth winter I was told to take up my mother's debt… and her duties. I'd cleaned and worked in the kitchen, all along, and never minded the work, but this other…"

Lark stared into her memories, then tossed her head and said briskly, "I had no choice in matters and couldn't flee; my arm was branded with the inn's mark."

"So you always wear a ribbon," Faendra murmured.

"Any guardsman of Luskan, any seacaptain anywhere, and every caravan master headed to Luskan could return me for a reward-that'd be added to my indenture. I was determined to earn my way free, but my mother's debt had grown large. She died birthing another twelve-fathered bastard, but lingered long enough to need a healer. I had no love for her, but couldn't let her die untended. By the time they found someone who'd venture those rough streets, she was past healing, and the babe as well. Then there were burial costs…"

Lark dismissed memories with an impatient wave. "By then the debt was more than I could hope to pay. No matter how hard I worked, I'd never be more than a slave."

Faendra winced, and Naoni squeezed Lark's hand in silent sympathy.

"One night a young lordling came to the tavern. A half-ogre was with him, a beast dreaded across Luskan-but when coins're on the table, most tavernmasters care little for servants' safety. The wealthy lord paid for his companion's food and entertainment, and watched while the monster dragged me to the stairs."

Tears glimmered in Faendra's eyes.

Naoni had gone pale. "You needn't say more."

"Nay, the story turns brighter: Chance brought a paladin from Waterdeep through the doors just then. He slew the beast, asked the tavernmaster my debt, and handed over coin on the spot. We left that very night for Waterdeep."

Lark smiled faintly. "At first I thought he'd bought me for his own pleasure on the road south, but he understood nothing of what my life had been. Doubtless he thought he was rescuing a virtuous maiden." She frowned, and added wonderingly, "or perhaps he knew what I was and cared not."

"Texter!" Faendra exclaimed. "He you sent a message to, at the Serpent's revel!"

"Yes. I tried to repay him, but he refused my coins. I'll be beholden to no man, not even a good one, and told him so. Seeing I was steadfast in this, he asked me, in lieu of coin, to send him word whenever I saw possible danger to Waterdeep or its people."

Naoni frowned. "How does Elaith Craulnober come into this?"

Lark stared at her pleadingly. "Try to see things as I do, Mistress. I've… known wealthy men, titled men, even a High Captain of Luskan, once. Under their finery, they're little different than the roughest sailor. Like men everywhere, the masked Lords of Waterdeep are-no better than they have to be. Elaith Craulnober went straight to the hiding-place where Texter had told me to hide my message, so I thought…"

"He was a Lord of Waterdeep." Faendra concluded.

"Yes. I wondered if I'd been mistaken when Jivin was killed, but then, if your father's right, 'twould be a small matter for a Lord to order a man's death. I know Elaith's interested in the New Day; he's asked me about it."

Naoni caught her breath sharply. "What did you tell him?"

"Forgive me: That Master Dyre and his friends, like many old men, said much but did little."

"Words lead to deeds," Naoni said grimly. "The riot in the City of the Dead began with those old mens' words."

Faendra regarded Lark shrewdly. "You're not so loyal to Waterdeep-nor half so stupid! — that you'd do what the Serpent demands, just because you think he might be a Lord of Waterdeep. He knew your past and threatened to tell the city, losing you your employment here-and everywhere respectable. That's why you took the charm from Lord Taeros: The Serpent demanded it."

"Yes," Lark whispered miserably.

"Did you give it to him?" Naoni asked.

Lark pulled up her kirtle, clawed open the small cloth bag sewn to her shift, and handed the charm to her mistress.

Closing her fingers around it, Naoni gave Lark a long, level look. "You told us Beldar took it from you."

"He did."

"You also said you didn't have it!"

"I said it wasn't in my belt-bag, words as true now as when they were spoken." Lark sighed. "I beg pardon, Mistress, for deceiving you with… truth untold."

Naoni shrugged. "Well, at least you didn't give it to The Serpent."

"I couldn't, not knowing for certain what it was or why he wanted it, so I had Lord Roaringhorn take me to a mage and pay for her seeking-spells. She found no magic in it at all."

Faendra frowned. "But why would he-"

She snapped her fingers. "Beldar was the wealthy young man in Luskan!"

"I hated him… but have since come to know he never knowingly pandered for that beast. Please, let's speak of this no more. I want nothing more in my life than an end to all this."

"Gods willing, you'll have it," Naoni said briskly. "When the elf asks about this, tell him Taeros no longer has it, nor do you."

"And if he persists?"

Naoni looked down at what she held. "Tell him," she said slowly, "that the charm was taken from you by a metal worker, who made something else of it."

"Mistress, his magic will test my words for truth."

There was steel in Naoni's sudden smile. "True they will be! Faen, fetch me my spindle!"

Beldar stood in silence, staring at the stone skull. He wasn't sure what the old witch could do for him, but where else could he turn?

One of the teeth shifted. "Are you alone this time?" the Dathran asked coldly.

He touched his eyepatch. "No man or monster stands with me or follows me, as far as I know, yet I can't in all honor claim I'm truly alone."

"More puzzles you bring Dathran? Very well, so long as you also bring gems and gold."

Beldar shook his bag of gems, and the skull grated open.

Climbing into the room, he was surprised to find the Dathran already at work, settling a large, shallow bronze bowl onto a spiked iron tripod, and pouring dark fluid into it.

She looked up and made the usual demand: "Blood."

The Roaringhorn drew his dagger and carefully cut his forearm. As blood dripped into the scrying bowl, its surface began to roil and seethe. When the surface calmed, the Dathran leaned over it to peer intently into its depths.

A gout of steam burst from the bowl, scalding the old woman into staggering retreat. The steam darkened to smoke, and with horrified speed thickened into A pair of long, black tentacles!

One lashed out, snapping around the Dathran's throat with vicious force. She clawed at it, her fingers passing through it to leave bloody furrows in her own skin, and tried in vain to gurgle out a spell.

Beldar flung down his dagger, drew his sword, and swung it high overhead. He brought it down with all his strength behind it-straight through the tentacle as if he'd been slicing empty air, to strike sparks from the stone floor.

The tentacle undulated unharmed, the Dathran gagging.

The imp streaked off a shelf to pounce, shrieking and clawing. Its claws and fangs could find and harm the tentacle, slicing long, bloodless rents in the dark flesh. The imp sprang from the second tentacle to the first, slashing and gnawing in frenzy as the dark suppleness choked the Dathran.

That sinuous limb never slowed, dragging the witch toward the scrying bowl.

The second tentacle stabbed down-not at Beldar, but to flick the imp away. It spun into a hard, wet meeting with a wall and slid to the floor, spasming, to crouch hissing like an angry cat.

That tentacle darted menacingly at Beldar. He sprang aside, hefting his sword, but it swooped aside to dash the bowl off the tripod.

Dark fluid splashed in all directions, and the smoky tentacles thinned to the girth of ropes. Beldar hacked at one, but it curled away from him as the other tentacle hauled at the Dathran, hard. Snatched off her feet, the feebly struggling witch was jerked forward.

Her body struck the three iron spikes with a thick, wet rending thud, and rode them downward.

The tentacles collapsed into smoke. Wisps curled almost tauntingly around the twitching woman… and were gone.

It had all happened so fast. Beldar stared at down at what was left of the Dathran. Blood drenched the floor below the tripod, and the witch's flesh seemed to be melting away from the barbed spikes thrusting wetly up through her body.

A delighted cackle arose from the imp. It flapped unsteadily up from the floor to hover in front of Beldar.

"You've freed me from her service, so I don't suppose we'll meet again," it hissed. Then it leered, pointed at its right eye, and added, "And then again, we just might!"

It disappeared in a puff of stinking smoke, departing much faster than its parting chuckle.

Retrieving his dagger, Beldar clambered hastily through the skull, half-fearing it might start to close, and staggered away. Waterdeep held men who might help him without magic. Everyone knew of the barbers who sewed and slashed flesh in dark Dock Ward rooms, aiding-if that was the right word-those who spurned priestly prayers and couldn't afford potions. Surely one of them would be willing to free him from this abomination in his head!

If he died, what of it? It was becoming increasingly clear to Beldar Roaringhorn that his life was no longer his own.

The second bell past dawn was striking as Elaith Craulnober strode through the smoking ruins of what had been a barber's hovel and kicked aside the blasted, twisted thing that had been its owner.

The dead man's patient looked little better. A magical backlash had thrown him across the room before the Watchful Order's firequench spell had taken effect, and greasy soot from the barber's badly burned corpse had settled thickly over him. His eyes-the right one markedly larger than the left-were closed, but his chest was rising and falling shallowly. He was larger and heavier than the elf, but Elaith lifted him onto one shoulder with seeming effortlessness and carried him out onto the street.

A few curious onlookers saw the grim face of The Serpent and scattered like a flock of startled birds.

Elaith tossed a small glass vial to the cobbles. From its bursting spilled a glimmering liquid that promptly spread into a perfectly round puddle, which in turn birthed a rising cylinder of glittering motes. The elf stepped into it with his head-lolling burden and promptly vanished, taking all traces of his portal magic with him.

Handy things, jumpgates. Elaith's boot came down on the fore-hall tiles of one of his quieter Waterdeep houses.

An elf matron stared at her master and his burden and promptly hurried to a sweeping sculpture on a plinth. As Elaith dropped the scorched noble to the floor, she did something to its rainbow teardrops that made it chime and shift its outlines, offering her seven vials. Snatching several, she hastened to Elaith's side.

The Serpent had already gone to one knee and started to pry open Beldar Roaringhorn's jaws.

"Stupid, stubborn human," he murmured, as his housekeeper carefully emptied a vial into the opening he'd forced.

She studied the result calmly, poured two more potions after the first, and announced, "He's not swallowing."

Elaith promptly punched the handy Roaringhorn gut. Air wheezed out of the noble, potion dribbling from the sides of his mouth, but there came a rattling intake of air, and Beldar sat up, coughing and sputtering.

"He's supposed to swallow them, not breathe them in," the housekeeper pointed out.

Her master shrugged, rising from his heels in one swift, fluid movement. "He's alive-more or less. Argue not with success."

Beldar Roaringhorn writhed and spasmed, helpless racking coughs roaring out of him. When his agonies finally faded, he found himself looking at a patiently extended hand. A long-fingered, graceful, somewhat familiar hand.

He stared at it for a moment and then accepted it. With casual strength Elaith Craulnober pulled Beldar to his feet.

"The… barber?"

"Dead as last summer's hopes," Elaith replied, watching Beldar's shoulders slump and bleakness creep into the noble's eyes. "Care to reconsider my offer?"

"I seem bereft of options," the young Lord Roaringhorn observed. "What d'you want of me?"

Elaith pointed at Beldar's right eye. "Take me to whoever did that. I'll do the rest."

Beldar nodded. "When?"

"Immediately. They have one of my… companions."

The human studied Elaith's face. "The half-dragon. You're truly concerned about your underling."

"They cut up a beholder like cooks gleaning morsels for exotic dishes; do you imagine a half-dragon can expect a long and pleasant life in their hands?"

Beldar frowned. "I'll take you, and fight beside you as best I can, but you must understand that I'm not in full control of my actions. I might be forced to betray you."

The elf shrugged. "As long as you don't expect a similar confession from me, we're agreed."

Beldar's lips twitched.

Elaith smiled back. "Is there anything else I should know about you?"

"Yes," the youngest Lord Roaringhorn said grimly. "I require your promise that you'll kill me if I become a threat to innocent folk."

Elven eyebrows rose. "For a moment," Elaith said dryly, "I feared you might ask me to do something unpleasant."

The ringing in Beldar's ears became deafening… and then faded. He swam up out of darkness and pain to find himself staring into the mismatched eyes of Golskyn's son.

"He's awake," Mrelder announced flatly.

Golskyn of the Gods bustled over, wild-eyed. Tentacles emerged from beneath his robes, curled about Beldar's waist and arms, and yanked the noble upright.

"Stand, as befitting Piergeiron's heir," the eld man thundered.

Beldar looked inquiringly at Mrelder, who seemed the saner of the two.

"You've been granted an improvement because Lord Unity desires to place a puppet of the Amalgamation on the First Lord's throne," Mrelder said flatly. "As you've guessed, you won't be able to speak of this to anyone. You've already seen what results from any attempt to have the magic traced or the eye removed."

"This one betrayal will be pardoned," Golskyn added, "but the next will not. You destiny will soon be upon you. The gods have shown me the best time and place: Midsummer night, at the Purple Silks revel." Tentacles reared menacingly. "Accept this destiny, here and now, or it will pass to another. Do you take my meaning?"

The noble managed a nod. The priest dismissed him with a wave of tentacles, and Beldar all but ran from the building.

This one betrayal, the mad priest had said. What had happened? Where was Elaith Craulnober? Had the Amalgamation managed to slay the justly feared Serpent?

Beldar frowned, dodging through the street crowds. The shop wasn't far ahead…

He vaguely remembered Elaith casting a spell on him that hadn't seemed to do anything but dull his thinking. Had it hidden his recollection of their agreement? Was The Serpent lurking, watching the monster-lovers right now?

There'd been no battle, as far as he could recall, no grand confrontation between Elaith and Golskyn-and no sign of the half-dragon… or his recycled limbs.

Beldar winced and shook his head. First Lord of Waterdeep? Never in all his grandest fancies had he envisioned such a future, yet this ghastly parody of his dreams wasn't even slightly tempting.

In a dark tunnel, Elaith wiped blood from his blade and rose, his inquiries complete. It had taken more time than he'd expected to cut the truth from the massive, six-armed man who'd fought Tincheron, but it was good news.

Tincheron hadn't fallen into the hands of the Amalgamation, but escaped into the sewers. Golskyn's cultists were searching for him, but so now were Elaith's agents; they should find the half-dragon first.

Which meant Beldar Roaringhorn's tormentors would outlive this day after all. Lord Unity's spells and servitors were astonishingly strong: It had taken most of Elaith's ready magic just to shield himself from the mad priest's wards and seeking-spells.

The Serpent grimaced as he sheathed his sword. No triumph, but a clean escape.

He shrugged. Now that Tincheron's safety was no longer an immediate concern, it would be wasteful to slay any potentially useful players just yet-especially when they had such interesting abilities and ambitions.

Elaith smiled. Coins and power were nice, but increasingly he preferred something else: entertainment.

And whatever befell, the Amalgamation couldn't fail to offer that.

There were only two customers in the Old Xoblob Shop. A pair of boys of about thirteen winters were sniggering over their anticipations of how a lass would shriek when fanged rat skulls sprouted from her Midsummer flowers. Beldar sent the lads a glare that sent them hastening out of the shop.

Dandalus gave Beldar a level look. "Scaring off paying customers?"

In reply, Beldar pointed at the stuffed and mounted beholder overhead. "How'd you kill Xoblob?"

Dandalus stroked his chin. "Well now, it's been years… haven't minstrels sung a song or two about it?"

"I need truth, not tavern-tales! Is there a way to destroy a single eye without slaying the creature?"

"Aye, but you know the saying: if you're going to sword a king, best kill him in one thrust. Beholders are much the same."

Beldar turned his head so as not to wound the shopkeeper and tore off his eyepatch.

Dandalus regarded him in silence for a long time ere replying, "Aye, there's a potion that might do what you're after. Be warned: It'll burn like black dragon venom, and there's no certainty the beholder will survive his blinding."

"Understood," Beldar said crisply. "How much?"

Dandalus reached under the counter and produced a small crimson vial. "No charge. You've been a good customer."

Beldar's smile was wry. Such an elegant farewell.

Elaith Craulnober watched Beldar depart then turned from his hiding place among the jars of monster bits and pickled curiosities lining the shelf and slipped back through the crevice in the wall behind. Mouse-size made it easy to enter and leave many a building.

In the adjacent alley his tiny form expanded, flowing like smoke into his normal size. He nodded to a pair of burly laborers loitering nearby, and they pushed away from the wall they'd been leaning on and ambled off, following Lord Roaringhorn until the next team took over. Folk Elaith had followed were seldom aware of their watchers.

Beldar Roaringhorn was growing steadily more interesting. At first he'd been no more than the easiest route to reclaiming the slipshields held by the Gemcloaks, but now…

He had tried to kill a certain notorious Serpent, but then most men-to say nothing of many elves-would do the same if given half a chance. And he was strong enough in mind and body to fight off the mind-numbing spell Elaith had cast in hope of breaking Golskyn's hold, and to be seeking his own death right now, to win free of his Amalgamation servitude-another stupid but noble human gesture.

It might still prove necessary to eliminate him, but Elaith liked to take the measure of those who crossed his path. Beldar Roaringhorn would be, at the very least, an interesting diversion.

First he had to keep the young fool from killing himself.

"Lord Roaringhorn," he called.

Beldar turned slowly to face him, his uncovered eye burning with cold fire. "I've heard elves measure time differently than men do, but is it common to wait until after a battle is over to honor an alliance?"

Elaith let the insult pass. "Your right arm-how fares the wound you took in the tunnels?"

The Roaringhorn stared at him for a long moment before reaching into the ornamental slashing of his upper sleeve to explore a shallow cut. His expression suggested he was just now feeling the sting of that injury.

"When? How…?"

"Let's start with 'who' and 'why,' shall we? I dealt that scratch with a blade poisoned to numb into immobility. You seemed determined to kill me at the time, so it seemed a prudent tactic. Remember you nothing of the fray?"

"I led you to the Amalgation," Beldar said slowly. "Through the tunnels, to take them by surprise."

"As we did, though they were not nearly as surprised as I'd have liked. The spell I cast on you wasn't equal to your will-"

"Which in turn, fell before Golskyn's magic," Beldar remembered bitterly. After a frowning moment, he asked, "How fares the half-dragon?"

"He's back among friends. How fares your eye? You seemed in considerable pain."

The Roaringhorn smile was grim. "A faint shadow of things to come."

"The potion," Elaith said flatly, drawing a gasp of surprise from the noble. "A brave notion, but somewhat premature. Better to uncover all the mad priest's designs and shatter them and him together."

The lordling's face emptied of expression. "I'll think on your words, and I thank you for your council." He turned away.

Elaith glided forward to smoothly the noble's sleeve, and said quietly, "If you require assistance, you need look no further."

Eye to eye, they studied each other for a long moment.

"Your word on it?" Beldar asked, just as quietly.

"I swear upon my honor as a Lord of Evermeet." Elaith grew a wry smile. "And, apparently, of Waterdeep as well!"

Every noble house employed errand-runners, but Korvaun Helmfast was surprised, to say the least, to see the steward of Helmfast Hall-a man of such years that he was white-haired to the tips of his downdagger mustache-come puffing up to proffer a small, neatly folded square of parchment. Gilt-edged, which meant the writer of the note was noble.

"What's this, Thamdros?"

"The Lord Roaringhorn impressed me with the urgency of his missive," the steward wheezed, "and urged me to deliver it myself."

"Urged you?"

"With a sapphire, Lord. The smallest such I've yet seen, but it must have been worth a good hundred dragons. I refused it of course, my Lord."

The steward's mustache fairly quivered with indignation. No honorable servant would accept such a gift from a noble not of his household, for doing so implied he wasn't adequately paid-or worse, that he was untrustworthy. Thamdros was clearly offended by this breach of etiquette, and Korvaun promptly committed another: he clasped the old man's shoulder as one close friend might reassure another.

"Lord Roaringhorn knows your measure as well as I do, and I promise you he meant no offense. He was counting on your integrity to relay something he dared not entrust to paper. He knew you'd report his behavior to me, letting me know without dire words that matters are not as they should be."

The steward's face cleared, and he bowed. "Thank you, Lord."

Korvaun broke Beldar's seal, unfolded the note, and read: Meet me within two bells at Tamsrin's? Firm friendship always. Beldar's rune was scrawled below. Shaky handwriting, obviously scribbled in haste.

What now? Tamsrin's Thirst was as bright and busy a wine-and-chat bower as North Ward offered-far too crowded for conspiracies or dirty work. Too noisy and too plagued by the preeningly self-important for Korvaun's taste, but like everyone who dwelt north of Waterdeep Way, he knew where it was.

"Trouble, Lord?" Thamdros dared to ask.

Korvaun held out the note. It might be wise to have someone know his whereabouts.

"An invitation to wine and idle chat?" The old steward was indignant.

Korvaun smiled. "That I don't believe for a moment. I'd best go see what's on Lord Roaringhorn's mind. Perhaps this most important matter is happy news rather than grave. He might even have fallen prey to a lady's charms at last."

"If so," Thamdros observed sourly, "you'd do better to hasten to the lady's door and attempt to bring her to her senses." He promptly purpled in shame, clearly regretting that the words had ever left his mouth.

His jaw dropped open when Korvaun gave him a wide grin.

"Better yet, I'll introduce her to Lord Jardeth's new ladylove. Perhaps the gods will smile on two otherwise doomed ladies and bring them to their collective senses."

The aged steward emitted a swift, hard wheezing that might have been laughter. Korvaun waited long enough to be sure Thamdros wasn't choking or plunging into a fit and then broke into a run, dashing to answer Beldar's summons.

He smiled wistfully. Just as in our days of yore.

Just as things should be. Korvaun knew his friends were now looking his way for leadership, but in his mind, that mantle and a certain red gemcloak would ever be one and the same.

Tamsrin's was as crowded as always, both with chattering revelers and with all manner of ferns and hanging floral vines, dappled with sunlight falling through glass roof-tiles. Amid all the delighted shrieks and tipsy laughter, two men could have bellowed treason back and forth at each other without being overheard.

Silent gestures summoned wine, whereupon Beldar and Korvaun sipped, clinked glasses in salute, and bent their heads together over the table, sliding the inevitable basket of hot onion bread out of the way.

Before Korvaun could speak, Beldar tilted his glass of foaming firemint, inspecting its contents as if he'd never before tasted one of his favorite wines. A dollop of foam fell to the table. He swiped it flat, and casually began to draw in it with a forefinger.

Korvaun's eyes narrowed.

Beldar smiled a little sadly. "No fell magic. I'm still the Roarer who's led us all into…"

"So much trouble," Korvaun finished dryly, as Beldar realized where his own words were going and let them trail off.

"Yes, but let's permit the, ah, unfortunate wagers of yestertimes be forgotten, shall we? Those horses might not have won, but some of them made excellent glue!"

Beldar went on to another weak jest, but Korvaun barely heard it. He was watching a Roaringhorn forefinger wandering idly through the puddle-and realizing what it was doing.

Sometimes boyhood codes can come in useful. Beldar chuckled loudly at his own joke, and Korvaun joined in with a grin, lifting his gaze long enough to give Beldar the slightest of nods. Then he raised his glass again, to make anyone watching think he was saluting the jest, and glanced down once more.

"New eye under patch. Controlling me!" Beldar's hand waved idly across the foamy puddle, sweeping away his writing.

"Hah! I've got one for you?" Korvaun announced delightedly, and leaned even closer. Nose to nose with Beldar and very curious as to what was lurking under the eyepatch so close to him, he murmured, "Who?"

"I can't say," Beldar said with a wide, false grin, "and I mean that quite literally: I cannot shape the right words."

As he spoke, he drew their private runes for, "They're seeking next Piergeiron."

Korvaun reached for his own tallglass, deliberately jostling it so that some spilled onto the table. "We're going to need more wine soon," he said loudly, quickly finger-writing, "Piergeiron ALIVE. Healing well!"

Beldar sat back, slapping the table as if Korvaun had said something uproariously funny. "So I've heard, but who knows what to believe these days?"

"You'll hear even better tales at the Purple Silks revel," Korvaun said, trying to impart some important information of his own. "Everyone'll be there, even-"

"No, no, no!" Beldar interrupted loudly and delightedly, waving his hands in a wild caricature of a gossiping housewife. "Don't tell me!"

Then he leaned closer, offering his ear in broad parody of that delighted gossip, and wrote, "Say nothing. Being listened to."

"WHO listen?" Korvaun wrote as he whispered some meaningless scandal. "Whence came eye? Wizard?"

Beldar roared with laughter and wrote: "No. Beholder."

Korvaun felt his face change. He forced the horror from his eyes and levity into his voice. "What news of Roaringhorn acquisitions?" It was a standing joke that Beldar's elder male kin almost daily bought horses or small city shops-or tried to buy beautiful women. Yet even as he spoke, Korvaun winced. "Roaringhorn acquisitions," indeed!

Beldar's smile went wry. "My esteemed cousin acquired three this morn, I'm told, each crossing the finish line first. Impressive, until one heeds the gossip of disgruntled fillies claiming the future Roaringhorn patriarch confuses racing grounds with bedchambers."

"Far be it from us to spread gossip," Korvaun responded archly, lifting his tallglass.

"Far indeed."

They clinked glasses in an ironic toast, not incidentally spilling more foam, and sipped again.

Suddenly Beldar touched his eyepatch, and his face cleared. "They're gone for the moment, gods be praised," he muttered. "Doubtless driven off in sheer disgust. Now heed: I may not have time to repeat this."

Korvaun leaned close. "Speak!"

"Come to the revel, Gemcloaks all, ready for trouble: Real weapons, not fancy show-blades. Expect to fight men with monster claws and tentacles and such, two score or more, led by a mad priest who wants to put his own thrall on Piergeiron's throne: Me-did I not say he was mad? His son's a sorcerer, and they can move the Walking Statues to do their bidding. Through me."

"Marvelous," Korvaun replied loudly, slapping the table and sitting back as a serving lass saw the state of their glasses and hastened up with fresh wine. "Simply splendid!"

When she was gone, he hissed, "Beldar, we should tell the Palace at once! Piergeiron plans to attend the revel!"

"Tell them what? That I'm hearing voices? I'm sure they'll drop everything to listen to an idle young blade so stupid he'd allow his own right eye to be cut out of his head and a beholder eye enspelled into its place! Something that's strictly illegal, according to magisters' case-law, by the way. Did I mention that?"

"No."

"I suppose I also failed to mention the halfling I killed last night, when the eye was controlling me."

Korvaun stared at his friend. "Surely a mage or priest could prove your words true-and break this hold over you."

Beldar shook his head. "I've tried. A onetime witch of Rashemen lies dead not far from here, as does a barber whose only fault was greed. I'll not be responsible for more deaths. This is my fate, and I must put it right."

"We'll stand beside you, of course! Yet twoscore monster-men! What can our four swords-five if you can stand with us-do against such foes?"

"Little, but perhaps we can offer our assistance to someone with more experience in such matters."

"Oh? Who's this great champion?"

Beldar stiffened and grew a wide, sickly smile at the same time. "You'd never believe me!" he chortled, slapping the table.

The unseen listeners must have returned. Korvaun could not quite force a smile onto his own face as he downed his wine, rose, and said quietly, "There's no man alive I'd trust more than you."

And with a merry wave he turned away, letting his friend's unseen tormentors make of that what they would.