"Well said," Ghaunt agreed hastily, looking at Varandros.
Dyre bared teeth in what might have been a smile. "Thank you, Dorn. I say again: we must learn who wears the Lords' masks… and one way or another, see that the real incompetents among them get replaced."
"'One way or another'?" Imdrael echoed. "Var, we must be very careful. Even if we do nothing that makes anyone decide to put a blade through us, we'd be wise to remember that old saying about toes."
Jarago Whaelshod scowled, in no mood to play games this morning. "What old saying?"
"Be careful which toes you step on now, lest they be connected to the arse you must kiss on the morrow."
Karrak Lhamphur waved away those words with an impatient hand. "How exactly do we set about learning who's a Lord?"
"Watch over Mirt's Mansion from now on, to see just who comes and goes, because…"
"I know!" Hasmur interrupted excitedly. "Because everyone knows Mirt's a Lord!"
Naoni silently closed the well-oiled door, turned her key in its lock with slow, exacting care, and sat down with Faendra and Lark around the broth pot. A warm, rich-smelling mist was rising from it in the chill of approaching dawn, but they left their mugs untouched, staring at each other with identical looks of dismay.
"And so it starts," she whispered. "Father's striding right down the path that can take them all to their deaths."
"And us with them," Lark said quietly.
Faendra turned wide eyes on them both and asked forlornly, "So what do we do?"
Naoni rose and began to pace, her thoughts flying. "Hasmur Ghaunt's the one to work on. The others are much too clever. We leave them be until we've learned things from Ghaunt that we can 'let slip' to make the others think Father's brought us into his confidence. Your task, Faen!"
Her sister smiled sweetly, lashes fluttering over guileless blue eyes. "Dear Hasmur," she murmured. "So very wise, so handsome-"
"Don't fluster him overmuch," Lark warned, "or the poor man won't be able to stammer a word. We need to know, as things unfold, just how far each of them is willing to go."
Boots thundered faintly down the stairs within, and Lark hissed, "Lean back and look sleepy!"
They barely had time to do so ere the lock rattled and the door grated open. Jarago Whaelshod glared out suspiciously. Seeing naught but three sleepy girls huddled in their cloaks, he nodded in grim satisfaction and strode out and away down the street without a word.
Lhamphur and Imdrael were hardly slower, though both returned their tankards with murmured thanks.
Then Hasmur Ghaunt was blinking out at the brightening dawn. Alone. The girls exchanged glances.
Naoni quickly slipped past Master Ghaunt and up the stairs to forestall her father's departure for a few breaths, and Lark knelt to tend the fire. Faendra stepped to Hasmur Ghaunt's side with an understanding smile and murmured, "I know how upsetting this must be for a man as wise as you."
Ghaunt blinked at her, then blushed at the thought such a lovely young lass would know something about him. Had she-no, surely not-said "wise"? He cleared his throat. "'This'?"
"This business with the Lords," Faendra said, eyes demurely downcast. "You've always been the most understanding of Father's friends. I know he trusts you more than anyone else in the New Day."
Her gaze lifted to Ghaunt's face as it drained of color. "New-? How-?" he croaked.
Faendra patted his arm, then took it and walked him a little away from the doors, snuggling against him. Trembling against her soft warmth, Hasmur Ghaunt made the mistake of looking into her blue, blue eyes and was lost.
"Father tells us everything, since Mother died," Faendra told him a little sadly. "I know he was worried that Whaelshod and Lhamphur didn't believe him. Did he tell you why he thinks the Lords are watching him?"
Master Ghaunt blinked. "Y-yes. He showed us all."
"Showed you?"
Faendra raised her eyebrows and turned her face to his in mute appeal, and Hasmur Ghaunt blushed vividly and stammered, "Y-you're right: Jarago pressed him to say why he's so sure the Lords are watching him, and Var-uh, your father, showed us a little charm he found in a tunnel near one of his worksites: A Black Helm token, of the sort Lord Piergeiron passes out as marks of his favor!"
"In a tunnel," Faendra echoed soothingly, looking very serious.
"Aye-yes-err-ah, a tunnel your father swore wasn't on any map he, a master stonemason, has access to, so…"
"So it must be one of the secret tunnels the Lords use to keep an eye on honest men like you and Father," Faendra breathed, her wide eyes very close to Ghaunt's.
He trembled in her grasp like a rabbit on the verge of fleeing. Then there was a familiar roar from behind them both, and Master Hasmur Ghaunt tore free with a high-pitched stammer of apologies and fled, gone down the street in a scampering instant.
"Stop teasing the man, Faen!" Varandros Dyre growled, stamping up to his favorite daughter. "You've been making men blush like lasses since your twelfth winter, but Ghaunt has work to do, and 'tisn't seemly, a daughter of mine reducing a grown man to gabbling, in a public street!"
"Father," Faendra said reproachfully. "That's hardly fair! Master Ghaunt's like an uncle to us. He's the only one who has time for our jokes, and he's polite when we-"
"Yes, yes," her father agreed curtly. "Now get in there and clean the place up! Mind you bar the door and keep behind it, and have the place spotless before highsun; I'll send some of my men then to escort you home. You're not to go traipsing around on your own. What with footpads and wandering nobles, this ward isn't safe for young gels to be flouncing through unguarded!"
Faendra knew when it was time to meekly agree-whatever her actual intentions might be-and give her father a quick hug and kiss. This was one such time.
Then he was off down the street like a thunderstorm afoot, and she and Lark were settling the bar into place.
Naoni came down the last few steps, her face thoughtful. "I recall once," she said slowly, "Father having dealings with an old tunnel-repairer, one Thandar Buckblade. Remember, Faen?"
Faendra shook her head. "Father has dealings with lots of old men. I get tired of their winks and leers. Some are so old they can't even whistle, and they just wheeze at me!"
Lark rolled her eyes. "Don't be so quick to dismiss old men. There can be snow on the roof and fire in the loins."
"This Buckblade," Naoni said firmly, "was a dwarf of Dock Ward. Father said he knew everything under the cobbles of the city. Everything. He retired years ago."
Lark frowned. "And you think we should go and ask this Buckblade about the Lords' secret tunnels? If he was in the habit of giving away the Lords' secrets, how did he live long enough to retire?"
"Perhaps his reaction will tell us something."
"And if he gets angry and demands to know where you got this foolheaded notion?"
"I… I'll tell him I overheard Mirt the Moneylender talking about the tunnels when he was drunk-and claiming he was a Lord, too!"
Lark shrugged to the accompaniment of Faendra's long, low whistle of appreciation, and said reluctantly, "That should work, but make it his servant, not Mirt himself. Who'd believe the Old Wolf a loose-tongued drunkard?" When Naoni nodded, she added, "So where exactly do we find this dwarf?"
"On our shopping next morn, we can ask some of the men Father trades with if they know where Buckblade lives, and then go see him after our highsun rounds the day after."
Faendra's nod was as eager as her grin was wide.
"Mistresses, it seems adventure awaits," Lark said dryly, "but first things first: While fortune may favor the bold, masters pay the tidy and hardworking. Hand me that mop."