The City of Splendors

CHAPTER THIRTY

The strangest and most painful day of Beldar Roaringhorn's life was the day he attended his own funeral.

He wore Korvaun Helmfast's form, of course, his fallen friend's blue cape around his shoulder and a pale but composed Naoni staunchly at his side.

It was… odd, watching others mourn him. His family's grief was deep and genuine-and puzzling. How could they mourn someone they'd never really known? All his life he'd felt apart, ignored, even scorned, yet the senior Lord Roaringhorn spoke with tearful pride of his son's accomplishments, his swordsmanship, his riding, and his eloquent knowledge of law. The Roaringhorn heir confessed to feelings of envy-even inadequacy-that his fallen junior had been most fitted to inherit, to lead.

Nearly as hard to hear were the words of his friends-apologies for doubting him, praise for saving Korvaun Helmfast by giving him a potion that transferred his wounds to Beldar himself.

For that was the comfort every mourner held dear, and only three knew to be false: Beldar Roaringhorn had died that a friend might live.

Well, Beldar lived that his friend might live, and he stood in silent tears, iron-determined to leave a legacy that Korvaun would be proud of.

Only the Dyre sisters knew his secret, and Faendra had already cornered him alone, and told him in no uncertain terms that he would treat Naoni well or answer to her. Beldar needed no threat but rather admired the way she'd delivered it. The Dyre girls were superb-as fine as the magic that spilled from Naoni's clever fingers.

He looked at the woman at his side, noting her grace, her quiet strength. Small wonder Korvaun had lost his heart to Naoni Dyre. Beldar was already half in love with her himself. Perhaps, in time, she might…

"Korvaun, they're waiting for you to speak," Taeros murmured.

Korvaun had spoken at Malark's funeral, not so many days past. Those words had honored, comforted, and inspired. Now it was his turn to do the same for his friends and family.

He strode to the coffin wherein Korvaun had been laid to rest, wearing both Beldar's form and-as a shroud-the ruby gemweave cloak. Drawing a deep breath, he began.

"We are none of us quite what we seem. Beldar Roaringhorn had dreams of greatness and perhaps the seeds of it too. He found not lasting greatness but brief glory, when he gave his life in service to others."

He stared around slowly at tearful faces.

"That greatest of deeds leaves an obligation upon all who knew him, and upon me most of all. It will henceforth define for me what it truly means to hold power, position, and wealth. Rest well, Beldar Roaringhorn, knowing that we will never forget this."

It was a short speech, but he saw in all those faces that it had been enough.

He walked back to his friends, accepting their nods and handclasps as what they were: warriors raising swords to acknowledge their leader.

What he once had been, he was again. This time, he would honor his responsibilities by becoming the man he was truly intended to be.

The summons to the Palace came the morning after Beldar's funeral. Taeros wasn't surprised; after all, he'd yet to account for the slipshield entrusted to him.

He made all haste, but when the seventh set of guards showed him into the room, Taeros found that there was only one vacant chair left-his. Korvaun nodded to him, seated with an exalted trio: Lord Piergeiron, Mirt the Moneylender, and the archmage Khelben Arunsun, who looked somewhat the worse for wear.

The Open Lord inclined his head. "Well met, Lord Hawkwinter. I trust you know us all?"

Taeros cleared his throat. "One only by repute."

Khelben fixed him with a stern eye. "Reputations you've labored to enhance, young scribbler, as a seabird enhances a statue."

Taeros felt his face grow warm as he recalled some of his more biting ballads. "If-if I've offended, I most humbly beg pardon."

Piergeiron waved a dismissive hand. "Waterdeep has need of men such as you, who make us all laugh and think at the same time. Four out of five snore during sermons, but sharp humor keeps them awake long enough to listen. 'Tis far easier to rule men who listen, think, and laugh than those who do none of those things."

A smile came unbidden to Taeros's face. It would seem he did have a role in the governance of this city, however small.

"Fewer than a dozen people in Waterdeep know of slipshields," the Blackstaff said abruptly. "It's been decided we'll keep the number small, rather than finding another man who can keep track of his property."

Taeros stared at what Khelben Arunsun held out to him then: A tiny shield affixed to leather thongs.

"Is that…"

"Against my better judgment, it is. Important in safeguarding this city and its leaders. Secrecy's vital."

Taeros closed his fingers firmly around this second chance. "I gave my vow, and I'll give it again if you require it."

"No need," said Piergeiron. "You fought loyally when the Statues walked, but understand that carrying a slipshield binds you not only to secrecy, but to service."

Taeros found this notion deeply satisfying. "That's my desire as well as my duty. It's all I've wanted in my life."

The three elders of Waterdeep nodded. Mirt then turned to Korvaun.

"And what of ye, young Lord… Helmfast. What'll ye make of your secrets? Some lordlings are all too boastful and proud, the more so when in their cups or feeling slighted."

Korvaun met the old man's sharp gaze calmly. "Some young lords are all that, and worse. As for me, know this: I am determined to live up to the name I bear."

His words rang across the chamber. After a moment, he added in a softer voice, "I've learned that some secrets are worth dying to protect."

Emboldened by his friend's fervor, Taeros said, "When I said my desire was to serve Waterdeep, I omitted something important to me: it's always been my desire to advise and stand with great men."

"We would be grateful for your advice," Piergeiron said gravely, with no hint of the patronizing tone Taeros thought he'd be more than justified in using.

"He's not speaking of us," Mirt growled. "He's talking about him."

The moneylender waved at Korvaun, a faint smile curling the corner of his untrimmed, food-hoarding mustache. "And mayhap-just mayhap-he might blasted well be right."

The faintly giggling man on the slab beside Mrelder didn't seem to know where he was or who was with him.

Setting his jaw, the sorcerer looked from his father to the beastmen standing over him, and said, "Do it."

The two Amalgamation priests started chanting.

As one of them lifted a knife, Mrelder smiled. "Just don't make me lopsided."

The shining blade swept down.

Out of purple agony he swam up into ruby-red pain. Mouthless, he shrieked… eyeless, he wept… voiceless, he prayed-and shot into the light.

Flaming torches overhead, and pain, pain, PAIN.

Mrelder screamed.

A face swam above his, grim and somehow familiar, blotting out torchlight. Cruel fingers forced his jaws apart, pouring gurgling iciness that soothed… soothed…

He sank thankfully away from the pain and the light, sinking into shadows warm and welcome, that His head was struck into fresh fire. "Stop that! Rise, Mrelder of the Amalgamation!" The priest slapped him again, and Mrelder found himself blinking up at the torches. His throat was raw, his body ached and, yes, itched despite all the healing potions they'd poured into him… and he was still screaming.

Or, no, the shrieking wasn't his. It was coming from beside him, and weakening into gurgles.

Golskyn of the Gods writhed on his slab, one eye socket empty and weeping, and a raw stump where his nearest arm ought to be.

Mrelder's father was dying, literally drowning in his own blood as he thrashed feebly.

Mrelder looked back up at priests. "How well did it go?"

"Very well. If your grafts remain alive, you've gained your father's fiery eye and his best arm."

That was saying something, considering how many powerful appendages the man who'd called himself Lord Unity had sported. Mrelder glanced down at his new limb, strong-looking and promisingly ruddy. "Well, we'll know soon enough."

"We will indeed." The beastman's voice was flat.

Their eyes met. Both knew that if Mrelder's grafts started to fail, the priests would slay him without hesitation. There was an old saying: Those who smite kings had best slay at first strike…

Mrelder struggled to sit up. Raw fire surged through him, and the only thing that kept him from weeping and vomiting was his body's struggle to decide which to do first-and the awe and respect on the faces of the priests.

With a smile of satisfaction, Mrelder forced himself upright. "To come to Waterdeep was no mistake," he announced to the dozen surviving Amalgamation faithful. He discovered that he was drooling blood but went on anyway. "Even so, Golskyn's deeds have made this city a trap for us now. We'll return here in time, but not before we are ready to triumph. Make ready for the journey back to the temple-cellar in Scornubel."

"And this?" One of the beastmen pointed at the mutilated and dying Golskyn.

Mrelder looked down at the weakly mewing man who'd filled his entire life with terror and pain. "He no longer matters. It's past time to leave him behind."

Mrelder hugged himself against gnawing pain as the lurching wagon creaked and groaned.

He lived, and the spell he'd so carefully prepared burned in his mind like an overwhelming lust.

"Stop the wagons," he ordered, thrusting aside the wagon-flap with his new arm. "This is far enough."

He clambered out and down and walked a little way along the ridge to look back at the distant walls and towers of Waterdeep.

"The City of Splendors," Mrelder murmured, and cast his spell with slow, deliberate care.

"There will come a day when this City of Splendors is mine… and that day will come sooner than any think."

The monstrous priest bowed his head. "Lord," was all he said, but his voice was husky with reverence.

The beast-madness is a powerful spell, and during his time in Waterdeep, Mrelder of the Amalgamation had managed to touch or wound no less than six magists of the Watchful Order.

One of them erupted from quiet spell-study when the sorcerer's words crashed into his mind. He raced out and over a handy parapet, to a wet and bone-shattering death below.

Another whimpered, stopped in mid-stride on a busy street, and then burst into roaring, capering madness. Merchants recoiled from the wild-eyed, foam-mouthed wizard, and when he clawed at a shopkeeper's face, the frightened man snatched out his belt-knife and slashed the wizard's throat.

The other four erupted into madness inside Watchful Order moots and spell-chambers, where alarmed colleagues kept maddened magists from harm. All of those four survived, lapsing into calm, forgetting-all-that-had-befallen normalcy after announcing softly: "There will come a day when this City of Splendors is mine… and that day will come sooner than any think."

For the next tenday or three, there was much debate in the Order over those words, and the fell magic that had brought them-but Waterdeep is a busy, bustling city, and the wonder of today is the old news of the morrow. That calm promise, like the Night the Statues Walked, seemed likely to join the fading memories only bards and sages recalled.

But then again…

Winter was coming. So promised the brisk morning wind tugging Taeros Hawkwinter's cloak into a writhing amber semblance of flame as he reached the newest shop on Redcloak Lane.

It was smaller than the predecessor destroyed by sahuagin, fire, and playful nobles, but it was sturdily built of dressed stone. Its newly carved overdoor sign announced that Larksong Stories was open for business.

Taeros stepped inside and looked around with his usual pleasure. Bright new books lined the polished shelves. Comfortable chairs and heaps of cushions welcomed those who stopped by after tools-down to hear hired taletellers spin stories of Waterdeep.

This was a home as well as a business. Through a window he could see the neat herb-garden, and beside it a small kitchen flanking the old well house. Above the window, a staircase curved up to two rooms above; all the abode an independent tradeswoman needed.

Lark came out of the small back room to greet him. Respectability sat well on her shoulders. She was dressed as simply as the small brown bird she resembled, but there was pride in the lift of her chin, and some of the wariness had faded from her bright brown eyes.

"The 'Queen of the Forest' chapbook did as well as I thought it would," she said, without preamble. "But where, pray tell, is 'The Guild's War?'"

"And a fair morning to you, Taskmistress!" Taeros replied with a grin. "Long finished, and yestereve Roldo promised me two hundred copies would be delivered here within a tenday. Lady Thongolir's so pleased by the success of your venture that she nearly smiled." Taeros shuddered a little at the memory.

"I'm happy for Lord Thongolir," Lark said briskly. "When next you see him, tell him I'll need four hundred. Nigh every tutor in the city has been in here asking for it. A 'cautionary tale,' they're calling it. 'Tis high time people paid attention to stories of their past. Mayhap they'll be slower to start New Days if they know how the old ones ended!"

Her words echoed Taeros's private thoughts rather too closely for comfort. Instead of saying so, he asked, "There're four hundred tutors in Waterdeep? Ye gods, no wonder we drove the sahuagin back into the sea! I'd retreat at the sight of that many sour-faced men with foul breath and sharp-edged ferules!"

"Not just tutors have been asking; many are interested in tales of the common folk," Lark replied, adding a sly smile. "Don't take that as an excuse to ignore Deep Waters."

"You know about that, too? Is nothing sacred?"

"Business is, and judging by the success of your hero-tales, I can sell several hundred copies. Lady Thongolir is complaining about parchment costs and the wisdom of investing in a Dock Ward shop, but I'll have my own rag-paper soon. A deal with the Dungsweepers, another with a woman from Amn who knows the craft, and I know a suitable warehouse for hire in South Ward. By mid-spring we could-"

She broke off abruptly as Taeros lifted one of her hands to his lips. She tugged it hastily free. "What was that about?"

"Better become accustomed to it. With your wits and drive, you'll soon be ruling us all."

Lark's scowl became a sly smile. "Just why are you so certain, Lord Hawkwinter, that I'm not?"

They laughed together, and when he kissed her hand a second time, Lark stood proudly, not pulling away in the slightest.

The fall wind was growing stronger, and Taeros put his head down and hastened. He'd promised to meet Korvaun at the Dyres' house for the highsunfeast.

It was a hectic place these days, what with Naoni preparing for her wedding and training a new housekeeper, and Faendra busily creating a wardrobe worthy of her sister's new station. It hadn't escaped his notice that she was making tiny garments, too.

So Korvaun was soon to be a father. Strange, to someone who'd known him since boyhood, but no doubt the surprising Helmfast would rise to this challenge as well as all others he embraced.

Since Beldar's death, Korvaun had devoted himself to studying Waterdeep's laws and history, and to the amazement of his family, their formerly reluctant student was now the shining pride of sages, not just tutors. Korvaun now spent most of his days attending magisterial courts or working at the Palace, learning the daily business of governance.

Well enough. Taeros hoped Lord Piergeiron would live long and rule well, but the day would come when other men and women would have to rule, masked or openly, and they'd need a counselor they could trust.

Until then, Taeros had his own work to do and-for the first time in his life-he was quite content. He could leave the governance of Waterdeep to its masked Lords. As Korvaun often said these days, some stories were great only if they remained untold.

Taeros wondered if this was Korvaun's kind caution to a tale-writing friend, his commentary on the system of secret Lords, or something deeper and more personal. Secrets rode his friend's shoulders, and sometimes Taeros sensed odd, unsaid meanings in Korvaun's simplest utterances.

Of one thing he was certain: The value of untold stories was not a sentiment one Taeros Hawkwinter would repeat in Lark's hearing!