"So Sunderstone and Piergeiron's pet wizard want him somewhere secure. The Castle."
Asper smiled. "You grasp the basics. Problem: Piergeiron can't be teleported safely through the Castle or Palace wards because he can't speak the trigger words properly just now."
Roldo nodded. "His mouth was hurt. Swollen."
"Yes. Moreover, his wounds make it unlikely he'd avoid the tunnel's traps. Korvaun swore an oath to serve Waterdeep, so we called on him. A slipshield let him trade his likeness with the Lord. As drunken Korvaun Helmfast, Piergeiron could be taken to the Gentle in our carriage."
"While you took us through the tunnel, and when was that dug?"
"Centuries ago. It's why my Mirt had the Gentle Moment built."
"So you gave me this slipshield so Korvaun could take his own form and be seen leaving, and Lord Piergeiron could be taken away in yet another man's likeness. That whole brawl was staged, wasn't it?"
Asper grinned. "We can't hope to fool true brawlers such as yourselves."
Roldo reddened. "Lady, do you hate nobles so much?"
"No, Lord Thongolir. My tongue makes sport of everyone. Please forgive me."
Roldo swallowed. Women didn't stir him much, but when Asper looked at him like that… "So in my shape and feigning drunk, Lord Piergeiron was arrested."
Asper nodded. "And conveyed safely to the Castle in a prison-wagon."
"All this just to fool watching eyes?"
She nodded again. "I saw scores of them, just glancing out the windows here."
Roldo caught sight of himself, still in the Open Lord's form, in the light-reflecting window. He grimaced at the unseemly disarray and peeled another cobweb from his hair. It was uncanny, seeing Piergeiron's hands obeying his thoughts!
"We'll arrange for the payment of your fine. I apologize for any blot this might leave on your good name."
"A night in the Castle for drunken brawling in a house of healing and pleasure? That can only enhance my reputation," Roldo said dryly.
"With your noble friends, but there remains your wife. I can explain matters to her, if you will-not everything, but enough to ease her mind."
Roldo managed a smile. "Your offer's both kind and appreciated, but I suspect the sight of you would more unsettle my lady wife than thoughts of an entire festhall of hired beauties."
"Gallantly said, milord! If you didn't resemble Piergeiron so closely, I'd suspect you of flirtation!"
They shared a chuckle as a high horn-call rang out, echoing off Mount Waterdeep in a triumphant ascending flourish.
Asper smiled. "He's safe inside," she announced, drawing him away from the windows into another room, where she reached for the hawk-and-snowflake pendant resting on the breastplate of Piergeiron's armor.
As she lifted the charm, a strange tingling swept through Roldo, and the armor felt suddenly heavy and cumbersome. Looking down, he saw that his hands were his own once more.
Asper helped him out of the too-large armor, and handed the slipshield back. "A small reward. In case you ever need it."
Roldo regarded the device with unease. Magic was something he preferred to regard from a distance… and there was something deeper and disturbing about the slipshield, something personal. To one who hides from the world behind a mask, this little thing was ultimate power… and temptation.
"I'll not deny the worth of this gift or the honor you do me in giving it," he said slowly, "but I'm not the man to carry it. Pretending to be someone you're not is a great burden."
Mirt's lady eyed him shrewdly. "One you know something about."
He raised his eyes to hers. "I've never pretended to be other than I am. But I have responsibilities, obligations…"
"And the slipshield might tempt you from those?"
"Lady, you may think me a coward, but that's something I'd rather not learn about myself."
Asper kissed his cheek. "Courage comes in many forms, as do those who possess it. You came without question when your friend called."
"Korvaun's a good man. If he says a thing must be done, I trust his reasons."
"You're right to trust him." Her hand closed his fingers around the slipshield. "Then find another you judge able to bear this little burden. Dawn breaks; we'll see you safely home."
Roldo lifted her fingers to his lips. "I'll strive to be worthy of your trust."
He bowed, strode back to the room of windows, and then turned with a frown. "'We'?"
Asper smiled and drew aside another curtain, and Roldo found himself staring at three scarred, monstrously large sharpswords whose very looks made him shudder. Two of them tried to smile, and that made it even worse.
"Some of Mirt's friends," Asper said sweetly. "They'll see you safely out of Dock Ward-to whatever front gates you'd like."
Gods, if this dangerously capable woman ever crossed wills with his Sarintha… Roldo stowed the slipshield carefully in his pouch. Taeros would wear it well. Moreover, it would settle his gambling debt to the Hawkwinter, avoiding Sarintha's wrath at coins wasted. And what is life but deftly dealing with little debts and unpleasantnesses?
Giving Asper the deepest, most courtly bow he could manage, he turned, nodded to the sharpswords, and strode away with them.
Mirt's lady watched him go thoughtfully, and suspected the burden young Lord Thongolir had taken upon himself was far greater than the one he'd declined.
As sages said, courage and honor took many forms.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A high horn-call rang out from the magnificent turrets and spires of Piergeiron's Palace. Lark listened as the short, ascending melody echoed off Mount Waterdeep once, twice… and thrice.
Folk in Waterdeep thought nothing of those echoes, but people familiar with mountains found it strange that echoes could bounce from a single small peak. She'd said as much on the long-ago day when she'd ridden into the city with Texter. The paladin had told her magic aided the echoes to amplify signal horn-calls.
Lark quickened her pace, striding briskly through the familiar bustle of Trades Ward. Arriving early for her shift, and working hard before her expected time, would win approval.
The carvers at the Maelstrom's Notch were deft at butter-seared seafood, and their superb table was making the inn very popular. Extra hands were needed to serve the later evening meals, after most lodgers had eaten and set off in search of fiery drink and festhalls, and a weary army of hungry guildsmen arrived to dine after a long day's work.
She was fortunate to have found a place; ill repute had a habit of clinging to a girl like a damp cloak, and her rare moment of temper had cost Lark her last position and several days' wages: the cost of the tray she'd dented over Beldar Roaringhorn's hard head.
Bah. Swaggering Lord Redcloak was worth not another thought. Those horncalls, now… everyone knew they were messages for those who knew how to read them. Who sent those notes soaring out into the evening, and to whom? Had she just heard gladsome tidings or a warning?
Once it would never have occurred to her to wonder. She cared little about what great folk did or whose backside warmed which throne. What mattered was honest work and the quiet, respectable life it could earn. Master Dyre's fair wage, bolstered by the coins this serving work brought, would in time buy a small shop with a few rooms above it she could call her own. To be her own mistress… her one desire. Her dream.
That dream burned as bright as ever, but Texter, the man who'd put her on a path toward it, had also opened her eyes to other things. In this city, those who listened could hear secrets in tavern tunes, vendors' calls, even twilight hornsong. Lark absently hummed the horncall as she walked.