"Then why not keep it your-"
"I'm not the one-the right one-to hold such power." Roldo's stare was like fire. "You know heroes and their great deeds, Taeros. I've seen pages of your gift to the child king; Thongolir scribes are embellishing them now. If a time comes when this is needed, who'd know what had to be done better than you?"
Who, indeed? Taeros saw himself again as he'd been in his dream, standing alone on Waterdeep's ramparts with only quill and parchment in hand. Poor weapons… but perhaps Roldo was right!
After all, his Hawkwinter head and heart were full of wondrous stories. Surely one might yield a plan when the city stood in need, so he could tell Korvaun what to do!
Korvaun, not Beldar… now that was unexpected, yet felt oddly right.
Taeros put the pendant around his neck. "I accept with honor, and I swear to so serve Waterdeep," he said solemnly.
Roldo managed a wavering smile. "Thank you. I'd consider it a courtesy if we spoke no more of this."
"As you wish." Taeros cleared his throat. "So, where were you heading in such haste?"
"Korvaun wants all of us to meet this morn. Didn't you-? I guess his messenger came after you were up and about."
"At the clubhouse? I've a coach!"
Roldo grinned. "And I've the sloth to take it!"
Korvaun and Starragar were waiting in the club, tankards ready.
"None of my messages seems to have reached Beldar," Korvaun told Taeros, serving forth ale, "so we might as well start."
Starragar frowned. "Shouldn't we find him?"
"I don't believe he wants to be found," Korvaun said quietly. "If we hear nothing for, say, another two days, we should search, but right now it's probably best to leave him his privacy."
Roldo shook his head. "This isn't like Beldar."
"No," Taeros agreed dryly, "usually he'd be the one starting brawls at a house of healing and pleasure." Waving away Starragar's quizzical glance, he asked, "So why are we here, exactly?"
Korvaun leaned forward. "I've been looking into all of these fallen buildings."
'"All of 'these'?" Taeros asked sharply. "There's another?"
"A tallhouse in North Ward, fortunately empty at the time. However, hear this: both it and the Slow Cheese were owned by Elaith Craulnober."
Taeros whistled. "Interesting. There was some unpleasantness three or four years back, talk of a band of elves from the forests come to the city and fighting here under Craulnober's command. He left for Tethyr soon after and presumably took his elves with him. Now, not long after his return to our streets, two of his properties are destroyed. Some sort of retribution, d'you suppose?"
Korvaun shrugged. "Possibly, but I've come across a remarkable amount of property owned by the Serpent-and I don't think I've found half of it. That two out of all these collapsed is not quite the coincidence it might at first seem."
Starragar frowned. "What else?"
"Varandros Dyre is insisting to anyone who'll listen that the Lords are digging new tunnels to spy on citizens."
"Well, the Lords couldn't do that without hiring Dyre or rivals he'd know about," Roldo pointed out, "but the Serpent, now… if there's anyone in Waterdeep who warrants watching right now, 'tis him."
As the friends exchanged grim nods, Taeros said slowly, "The Lords may not be the only ones watching Elaith. Now that I think of it, Dyre's maidservant was at Craulnober's party the night Malark died, not to serve but gowned as a guest."
"You're certain?"
Taeros nodded. "I thought she looked familiar at the time but couldn't place her. Yes, I'm quite sure."
Korvaun ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "This is truly troubling. Is she watching Elaith Craulnober or watching for him?"
"The latter seems more likely," Starragar put in darkly, "but if we put a man to watching her, we'll know soon enough."
"'Twould be better to send a woman," Taeros mused, "A sellsword who can pose as a serving wench and go where Lark goes. Hiring blades is Hawkwinter business, so I'll see to it."
Korvaun frowned. "If Lark's working for Elaith Craulnober, anyone you send will be at risk."
"I'll make sure she's pretty," Taeros replied with a wink, "and if my father has any sword-wielding she-elves for hire, so much the better. If rumors tell truth, Elaith Craulnober collects more than real estate."
Varandros strode through South Ward, his heavy coin bag thumping at his hip. It would be lighter on the return trip, more's the pity.
The brawl in Dock Ward was costing him dearly. Four of his trustyhands had died in the fighting, all workers on the Redcloak Lane raising. The sorcerer who'd bought the building would be less than pleased by further delays, so men would have to be pulled from other jobs, and skilled hands came dear in these busy days, with every jack across the city rebuilding… and then there were the burial costs and widows' fees.
He couldn't recall exactly where on Telshambra's Street his man had lived, but the place wasn't hard to find. A small, somber group was gathered outside a narrow stone building, ale cups in hand.
Varandros made his way over. The mourners-many of them his men-moved aside to let him pass. He strode inside.
The small front room was almost filled by a trestle table draped in dark cloth. Rowder had been laid out on it in his best clothes, a chisel in his folded hands.
Dyre managed not to scowl. A needless extravagance; it was customary for great folk to be buried with some sign of their house or station, but he doubted practical Rowder would have appreciated the waste of a good tool.
He nodded to the woman behind the table, face composed but eyes rimmed with red. She bobbed a curtsey.
"We're honored you've come, Master Dyre. Please have a cup of my Rowder's funeral ale."
"I'll drink to him gladly, Mistress," Dyre said gruffly. "A fine man, a good worker. He'll be missed."
"Aye," she said softly. "That he will."
He put the bag in her hands. "This is his portion. If you've further needs, the guild will see to them. I'll make sure of it."
She nodded gratefully, eyes like empty holes, and Varandros found himself standing awkwardly with nothing more to say. He did as he'd promised, raising a cup of ale to Rowder's memory, and then turned and set out for home.
Children playing in the street fell silent when they saw his face, and got out of his way. One of them made a warding sign, but the stonemason said nothing. Something like dark fire burned behind his eyes.
He found his daughters in the kitchen around a trestle table very like the one Rowder had been lying on. To his astonishment, the Dyre kitchen table had a dead man on it, too-pale, naked, and middle-aged, loins draped with a towel for modesty. Naoni, face serene despite the grim work, was sponging dried blood from the body.
Varandros gaped at her-and even more at his dainty little Faendra, who was handily stitching up a gash along the corpse's ribs and not looking the least bit squeamish. His younger apprentice, Jivin, hovered in the buttery doorway all but wringing his hands.
"What is this?" Dyre growled.
The three looked up. "I–I had to bring him here, Master," Jivin said hastily. "There was nowhere else for him."
"He'd no family, poor man," Naoni added. Dipping her cloth in a fresh basin, she gently wiped blood from the battered, staring face.
As the gore came away, Varandros recognized Cael, one of the masons who'd been setting the foundation on Redcloak Lane.
"You did right, lad," he said heavily. Every man in his employ was entitled to a fair wage and a decent burial. Yet this was not a task he'd wish on his daughters. "What of Lark? Where's the wench?"
Naoni's reply was quiet but firm. "She comes early and gives an honest day's work, Father, and in the evenings, she serves at an inn or a revel in one of the great houses. She said she'd be working late last night and would take a bed at the inn. She'll be here in time for the churning and the cheese."