"Thank you very much."
Bullard interrupted, "How about I have a look at your sword?"
"How about you let us finish our business first?" Piergeiron replied. "But as to Your Immensity going off and inviting the rest of the world to circumnavigate our bridge," Becil continued obliviously, "well. now that's a pickle. And, you know, even an Enormous Egregiousness like yourself can make a pickle from a cucumber but not a cucumber from a pickle, apples and peach pits marching to a different kettle of fish altogether, if you follow my thinking."
"I do not"
Bullard scooted his chair to one side of Piergeiron's desk, and then pretended to be intensely interested in a corner of the ceiling. His feverish eyes slipped for a moment down to Piergeiron's long sword, and his fingers twiddled in anticipation.
Madieron's own fingers did a little twiddling.
"Well, for one thing," Becil prattled on, "it's not so great a bridge. Your Obesity. I'd say even with you and that pony of yours-Deadheart, is it? "Dreadnought."
"— Deadweight, right, thanking Your Monstrosity, well, that much weighty preponderance might make the whole thing go over into the river. Then we'd not have our hysterical and advantageous bridge and you'd not have your compounded interest, neither. You see, my brother Bullard was the archipelago of the current edifice, and just because he's got piles doesn't mean he knows about pilings…"
"I'd hold my tongue, Becil-" Bullard advised as he shifted his chair around beside Piergeiron.
"I'm sure our heiratic bridge would break under Your ponderous Propensity and your pony. Dreadlocks, not to I mention your bodyguard Matterhorn-"
Madieron growled, splitting his disapproval equally between the brothers.
Into the tense silence that followed this vocalization, Piergeiron ventured, "The agreement allows for a whole new bridge, one you two wouldn't need to build yourselves. And the bridge would have a toll, to enrich your family into perpetuity." Piergeiron thought but didn't add that they could and should use that toll for educating future Boarskyrs.
"But like we extrapolated " Becil continued, "we could care less about the future. We could care more about the present."
"Once you go changing the present, all you've got left is the future," Bullard noted, nodding enthusiastically. "By the way, how about I get a look at your sword?"
Madieron folded his arms over his chest and let out an unappreciative hiss.
"No," Piergeiron reiterated. He turned to Becil. "You said you would sign"
"We said we'd not sign," Becil corrected, "until you'd been nuptualized to Eidola of Neverwinter-"
"— our kin."
"— and with kin of ours ruling Waterdeep-through the allspices of Yours Truly (no, I mean Yours Truly as in Yours Truly, not Mine Truly)-we know you will promulgate a present-tense orientational direction for our little village. Great High Commissary."
If ever the mouse held the elephant at bay, thought Piergeiron…
He said with a bit more exasperation than he had intended, "But I am marrying her!"
"You're not married yet," Becil pointed out.
Madieron released a moan that sounded as though it came from a tree on the brink of toppling.
Piergeiron felt a sudden insistent tugging at his swordbelt
“Peace strings!" Bullard proclaimed angrily where he yanked on the hilt of Halcyon. He was about to brace a foot on Piergeiron's back, but Madieron's own foot removed the man as though he were a dog and Halcyon an unappreciative leg.
As Bullard tumbled to the floor, he said, with no sign of rancour. "Until the Brothers Borskyr see gold on your finger, you won't be seeing their Xs on your paper."
"A lot can happen between here and the altar-the viscerals of life in the big city," Becil said. "No ring. no sign."
"How about I have a look at that sword-"
"No!" shouted Piergeiron and Madieron in chorus.
Becil slapped his brother's hand away, whereupon the unflappable Bullard flapped. "Hands off, Im-Becil."
"Im-Becil," murmured Madieron, and he chuckled to himself. "I get it. Im-Becil" "Shut up, Dullard!"
"Im-Becil and Dullard," Madieron repeated, chortling. As the blond giant laughed and the Boarskyr Brothers engaged in a spirited slap-fight, Piergeiron thought once again about building a five-mile loop around Boarskyr Bridge and letting the town wither to nothing in the shadow of the great caravan way. Still, Grandfather Boarskyr had built in the best spot for fifty miles up or down the river. Circumventing it would be more costly, more time consuming, and more galling than even these negotiations.
The Open Lord's musings were interrupted by Bullard, who was seated and therefore had won the fight. "After all. Laird Pallidson, we didn't become Boarskyrs by being idiots."
Piergeiron couldn't help himself. "You became idiots by being Boarskyrs."
Red-cheeked, Becil struggled up from the floor. He regarded his brother darkly. "Pinky flicker."
"How about I have a look at that sword?"
"Dullard, ha ha," Madieron said, struggling to squelch his giggles. "Ha ha."
When Eidola emerged from her latest session beneath the sharp-nailed fingers of hairdressers and face powderers. Captain Rulathon was waiting. He merged more deeply with the shadows of the hallway. His always-intent face was especially grave.
The watchcaptain was not blind to Eidola's beauty. Her gown was exquisite, her makeup flawless. The fortress of hair, flowers, lace, and pins atop her head was a construct worthy of any siege engineer. The gem that hung from a silver chain round her slender throat glowed and sparkled in the candlelight
Yes, she is beautiful, Rulathon thought, but artificially so. She is cold calculation instead of warm wildflowers. Every face she stares into is a mirror. When she seems to gaze lovingly into Piergeiron's eyes, she admires only her own reflection.
Beside and behind Eidola came a flock of chattering manicurists and hairdressers-the attendants who had worked the magic over her. They were each garbed in the ceremonial satins and laces that marked them as the retinue of the bride, though the ivory shade of their dresses showed that they lacked her white virtue. The Women pranced and laughed excitedly as they moved along.
In a shimmering rush, they were past. Rirfathon waited a breath before he started out from the recess. A frisson of intuition ran up his spine, and he drew back. A last attendant came scuttling up behind. She called out for the others to wait and ran on toward their oblivious backs.
As she flapped past, the watchcaptain thought for a moment he glimpsed, beneath the ruffle of skirts, a trailing tentacle.
A tentacle, he thought. One would think a hairdresser would know enough to tuck away so telltale a thing.
He stepped from the crevice, and pursued them through the darkness of the corridor.
Just before the wedding ceremony began, Noph cornered Jheldan- "Stormrunner" Boaldegg, First Mariner of the Master Mariners' Guild. The sea dog stood in the narthex of the palace chapel, and like the other guests, waited to be seated for the ceremony.
Noph casually approached the man. "An honest to goodness sea captain," he said admiringly.
The old seaman stared out from behind a fleecy white mask of beard and eyebrows. Around a battered pipe, he drawled, "Aye."
"This is the closest I've ever been to real adventure," Noph pressed. "As the son of a nobleman, I read plenty of stories of the briny deep. but have never gotten to sail out on it myself."
"Aye."
Noph's demeanor suddenly changed from casual excitement to focused desire. "I want to go to sea."
Captain Boaldegg fixed him with a stem look.
"I wouldn't need a commission," Noph said quietly, all the while glancing over his sshoulder. "I know you give officer commissions to some nobles-but I'd be willing to holystone decks and haul sheets."