He took three steps back, out of reach of the big man's battle-axe, stepping around a table to put between them as well, then turned and walked away. He made himself release the cutlass.
"She's known men before, boy," Aysel called after him, "better men than you."
Every word cut into Jherek. He tried to force them from his mind.
"These past few days," Aysel continued, "I've tried to understand what it was she sees in you besides that courtly manner and those smooth features, but damn me if I've been able."
Jherek walked, breathing deeply, searching desperately for the control that Malorrie's training had given him.
"One thing I want to know, boy," Aysel roared.
Jherek was almost to the door, but not out of earshot.
"I want to know if she's as good looking naked as I've thought she was," Aysel said.
Anger took Jherek then, snapping to life the way a candle wick took to flame. He made himself reach for the door as his breath tightened and turned cool in his throat.
"I look at her," Aysel said, "sometimes with the sun behind her and you can just about see through some of those clothes she wears. I see enough, then I go back to my hammock and think about her."
The tavern crowd urged him on, asking rude questions and making ribald statements.
"I imagine how she looks," Aysel croaked, "all sweaty from being used hard, and the way she smells. Like a woman instead of those fragrances she wears. And then I-"
The sailor got no further.
Jherek turned, slipping through the distance separating him from Aysel like a barracuda. He left the cutlass sheathed because he didn't think the big sailor would have time to bring the battle-axe up to defend himself. In fact, Aysel seemed stunned, barely beginning to react as Jherek vaulted to the tabletop and threw himself at the man. He flung his arms wide, taking in all of Aysel's broad frame. The bigger man wrapped his meaty arms around the young sailor as they slammed backward.
Aysel's breath whooshed out of him when he hit the floor, and his grip on Jherek broke. The young sailor pushed himself up and drew back a fist. Raw emotion burned through him. He seized Aysel by the hair with his free hand, knotting his fingers securely.
"Poke your fun at me, Aysel, and talk of me without respect, but not the lady. A lady's honor is her own, and I won't stand by while you defile it with your words." He hammered the man in the face, putting all his strength into the blow.
Aysel's head snapped to the side and blood gushed from his split lip. He roared with inarticulate rage, shoving against the floor with his hands and feet in an effort to dislodge Jherek.
Drawing his arm back, Jherek set himself to strike again. Before he could, rough hands wrapped around his arms and face, pulling him off Aysel. Jherek struggled against the three men that held him, tearing free of their grip. He turned to face Aysel again.
Aysel recovered quickly, pushing himself to his feet and fisting the haft of the battle-axe. Blood dripped down his swelling lips, turning his smile crimson. He wiped them with the back of his free hand and looked at the bloody smear.
"By the gods, you little bastard," the big man declared, "now that you're going to die for!"
XXVI
"Your song is beautiful."
Turning from the westering sea spreading out from Waterdeep, Pacys looked down at the speaker.
The priest Hroman looked up at him. A sling held his right arm, broken in the raid on the city. A healing potion would have quickly righted it, but even Waterdeep's vast stores had been hard pressed trying to save lives. Even Hroman's own abilities to heal himself through prayer had been given to the makeshift hospitals scattered throughout the city.
"Thank you for your kindness," the bard replied. His fingers caressed the yarting's strings, making bridges and notes soundlessly, though his ear could hear every one through the touch of his fingers. "It's only one of the many songs that will be sung about the battle for Waterdeep… nothing unique." He felt bad about sounding so bitter. "Forgive me, my friend. I must sound very selfish in light of all that these people have been through."
The streets around the Dock Ward teamed with a number of extra wagons pressed into service on behalf of the Dungsweepers' Guild. Debris filled several of the big carts, and their drivers headed them toward the Rat Hills while others came back for more. Their wheels clattered across the cobblestones, a constant undercurrent to all of the other activity filling the dock.
Out in the harbor, fishing vessels plied the waters with nets, sieving in the dead and the wreckage left from broken and burned ships. Not as many of the ships as had at first been feared had been lost during the attack. Even the damage to the waterfront along Dock Ward was reparable once new wood was brought in.
Most of the city's dead had been reclaimed, but a large knot of people still gathered at Arnagus the Shipwright's where the watch brought any corpses they recovered. So many were still missing, and many more than that were gone.
Hroman shook his head. "After something like this, it's only natural to start acting human again. It makes the world small again, and you only have to think about your own troubles-which don't seem too large for a time."
Pacys nodded. "You've grown wise, like your father. He'd be proud."
"I hope so."
The bard sat at the edge of a badly listing dock. Over half of it had broken off during the attack and rough splinters shoved out from the end. He noticed the dark circles under the priest's eyes. "Have you eaten?"
"Not yet. I've been working the night shift at the hospital, giving aid where I could, and last rites for those that needed them." Tears of frustration and near-exhaustion glittered in Hroman's haunted gaze. "We seem to lose so many more of the weak ones during the night."
"Yes," Pacys replied. "I think it's because the night is more tender, more accepting. A dying man doesn't seem to fight quite so hard when death is disguised as sleep."
"It's still death."
"Each man has his own race to run, Hroman. Even you can't stop that."
"No, but Oghma willing, I'll interfere with it whenever possible."
"Come," Pacys said gently, gesturing to the dock beside him. "Sit and share morningfeast with me. Several of the festhalls and taverns have remained opened night and day since they were able. Piergeiron, Khelben, Maskar, and several others of the city's officials and wealthy have opened their own larders to stock the kitchens of every establishment willing to serve a meal to those who are helping clear the city."
"I suspect a lot of graft is going on through the city while such generosity is being shown," Hroman said sourly. Still, he sat beside the old bard, stretching out awkwardly as he struggled to find comfort.
"The guard is policing the streets with a heavy hand, and even the most arrogant of nobles and merchants are rumored to be helping keep the distribution paths open and safe," Pacys said, removing the cloth that covered the basket he'd been given a few minutes ago. He'd played the yarting, trying to soften all the destruction and sadness that he'd toiled in for the last few days.
On the first day he'd helped remove most of the debris that clogged Ship Street and the nearby streets fronting the harbor. On the second day, since he was one of the eldest and suffered wounds of his own from the battle, he'd helped wash the corpses that had been recovered, getting them ready for burial. Most funerals were small things handled in the other wards. In the days since, the tasks had alternated between clearing away and recovering the dead.
"And how are you?" Hroman asked. "I'm forgetting my manners."