"Only if you promise not to hurt the guardian," huffed the little man.
"Absolutely. Certainly. Just let her go."
The little man whistled three notes in a descending trill, more like a birdsong than any language, and the leafy paw lifted from Sophraea.
With a sigh of relief, the girl scrambled up, grabbing her basket and shaking the worst of the mud off her skirt. Around her, she could feel that heavy silence that meant somebody or more likely several souls were listening hard. The usual almost unnoticeable whispers were gone. ¦
"Give him back his sword," she gestured at Gustin. "Quickly." Out of the corner of her eye, Sophraea noted that the stone hand of the warrior woman had shifted slightly, so she was no longer weeping but peeping at the small group assembled before her.
"I beg your pardon? And have this mite hamstring me?"
"I am a guardian of the tomb," declared the little man.
"You heard him, they are guardians." She turned to the small warrior. Now that she wasn't lying under a bush, she could see that he was clothed from head to toe in dark green leaves, overlapping each other in the same manner as a warrior might wear armor. Brambles curled around his wrists and waist as further protection. With his green skin and dark brown hair, he blended perfecdy into the shrubbery around them.
"I apologize, I should have known better than to go so close to that monument. Have you been guarding it long?" Sophraea asked.
"You're a Carver, aren't you?" The litde man retrieved his thorn sword from Gustin. He made quite a flourish as he sheathed it by his side. "One of Fidelity's?"
"Great-granddaughter."
"Realty. Fidelity was the last one that I spoke to, but that has been more than a few seasons. So Fidelity's great-granddaughter? A short one like you. Who'd have thought it?" The little man pointed a thumb at Gustin. "And who's the long shanks? He's too skinny to be a Carver and your line never ran to magic."
"I've either been insulted or complimented," observed Gustin.
"His name is Gustin Bone. And yours?" asked Sophraea, ignoring the wizard.
"Briarsting."
Sophraea walked up to the leafy creature that had retreated to curl around the monument. "It's a topiary dragon," she told Gustin, gently stroking the quivering long branches that served as the creature's whiskers. "I thought these were all destroyed long ago."
"This one is the last," admitted Briarsting. "We used be a full' Honor Garden, a complete thirteen of petals, thorns, and topiary beasts. But now there's just this old boy and myself."
"Do you know what he is talking about?" Gustin asked Sophraea.
"Some tombs, important ones, have guardians. This one must have been very special, a memorial garden filled with more than just the usual shrubbery."
"She was a great hero," said Briarsting, looking at the stone tree that once marked the center of the Honor Garden. "And died in the defense of Waterdeep. But she was a druidtoo, and it was thought a living memorial was more fitting than an ordinary tomb. So we came, and the elves set such magic here as to give us both a task and good living."
"I'm sorry that we disturbed you," said Sophraea. "I didn't think that there was a topiary beast left in the City of the Dead."
The little man seemed mollified and even inclined to chat. "We don't have any visitors these days," he said. "Just the odd person wandering by and looking for something else."
"Have you seen any wizards here lately?" Sophraea was almost certain that the lights that she'd seen in the City of the Dead were signs of magic, although she couldn't imagine why a wizard would want to venture into the graveyard after dark. The dead tended to punish those who cast spells near their graves. And the Blackstaff took an even dimmer view of unauthorized magic in a place so prone to peril.
"Haven't seen any wizards where they shouldn't be. Other than him." The thorn pointed rather rudely at Gustin, who made a face back at the little man.
Sophraea settled herself comfortably on a memorial bench set near the topiary dragon. She rummaged through her basket, pulling out a little of the dried fruits to share with both Briarsting and Gustin. "I've been seeing a light in the City of the Dead, usually in the middle of the night. Perhaps it's the dragon or another guardian."
"It's not us," Briarsting said. "He doesn't glow in the dark and I don't light fires near him. Too many dry leaves this time of year." The dragon sat back on its haunches and waggled its ears as if it knew they were talking about it.
"How about ghosts?" asked Gustin.
"They don't usually glow that brightly," started Sophraea only to be interrupted by Briarsting.
"It might be one of the more substantial dead," said the thorn. "Two tombs were opened recently. The remains were removed to other parts of the graveyard. And the dead can take offense at such actions. Especially if the removal is being done by amateurs."
"Amateurs?" Sophraea asked. "If a family requests a removal, it's usually us or one of the other funerary families."
"Why would anyone move coffins and urns?" asked Gustin, pinching a little more of the dried fruits and nuts out of Sophraea's basket.
"To make room," said Sophraea, with the certainty of one raised in the funeral business. "The old tombs are all full. Sometimes, when a new family member dies, somebody has to be… well… shifted to another location."
"First come, first removed. Last come, last interred," joked Gustin.
"It's not something that is done lightly!" Sophraea said. "You wouldn't believe the arguments that some families get into about who should go and who should stay. And if the dead decide to get involved in the decision, then it can be a real quarrel."
"The dead do that?" Gustin paused, a handful of fruit halfway to his mouth, and looked over his shoulder at the seemingly peaceful tombs.
"Sometimes, the dead want to travel," Briarsting informed him. "Sometimes they don't. But I don't think it was anything like that. With those kinds of removals, the difficult kinds, you get Carvers, for one thing, supervising the opening and the closing. And I didn't see any of your lot around."
"No, we haven't done anything like that for ages," Sophraea began.
"Didn't a Carver open up something in the south end last spring?" asked Briarsting.
"Leaplow," sighed Sophraea." "That was not official. And that's been all properly sealed since." Then she remembered the fat Rampage Stunk. "There's a client now who'd like a couple of tombs opened, but nobody has started any work yet."
"Didn't think I'd seen your lot around here. Where there's Carvers, there's always a nice funeral afterward, with the new resident being laid to rest and all, everything done just right," concluded the thorn, snatching the last of the fruit out of the basket before Gustin could get to it.
Sophraea resigned herself to stopping at the fruit seller's place on the way home.
"Still, there have been workmen nearby," Briarsting said, settling back on the bench. "Amateurs. Clearing out a tomb, like I said."
"Which tombs were opened?" Sophraea asked.
"Markarl and Vesham."
"Those certainly are Carver-built tombs. Old ones too. Both are down in the ledger. A bit north and east of our gate,"
Sophraea said. "That would be close to where I saw that light the first time."
"They're working there right now," said Briarsting.
"Then we should go take a look," Sophraea said to Gustin. "I don't understand why Father or one of my uncles hasn't reported this to the Watch. They know it's not safe to trespass here. There're laws for a reason. And only Carvers should work on Carver tombs."
The bronze door on the Markarl tomb was locked tight but the Vesham tomb stood wide open.
Two burly men wrestled a marble urn through the door with grunts and some groans. The piece was heavy and the wide curling handles had to be angled precisely to fit through the door.