Dyre nodded approvingly. "A hardworking lass."
Nor was Lark the only one. Almost for the first time, Dyre noticed how capable Naoni was, how warm and welcoming she made their home. She had her own craft, too, the spinning of fancy threads. Several skeins of pale, glittering green hung behind her on a neat row of hooks. Her mother would have loved them. Aye, Ilyndeira had been fond of pretty needlework…
Rare nostalgia swept through Varandros. He seldom thought of his wife, despite the living reminders before him. Faendra had her mother's pink-and-gold beauty, and Naoni, though plain and pale, had Ilyndeira's long, slender fingers. His gaze fell to Naoni's hands-and his brow darkened.
Around each wrist was a ring of dark bruises.
"What happened to your arms?"
Faendra looked up from her work, eyes blazing in sudden wrath. "She was rough-handled during the fight in Dock Ward yesterday."
"You were there?" Dyre demanded, aghast.
"Aye," Naoni said. She met his gaze with calm gray eyes. "No lasting harm was done, Father. Lord Helmfast saw us safely home."
"Again, that insolent pup!" Dyre's shout rang around the room, and Jivin fled. "I told him to stay away from me and mine! Was it he who marked you?"
"No, 'twas the Watch!" Faendra said indignantly. "They called us noblemens' doxies, and Naoni gave one of them a clout to remember her by!"
"Good for you, lass," he said gruffly, pride rising through his anger. "What part did Helmfast have in this?"
"It was a chance meeting in the street, Father. He and Lord Hawkwinter drew their swords to defend us against the Watch."
"Did they, now? Well, that's something," he said grimly, "but never forget this: They're still the same worthless, unthinking louts who nearly brought down all our work on Redcloak Lane!"
Naoni looked up. "They intended no harm."
"Bah! What of intentions? They'd not intend to drag a woman's good name into the dust either! To them it's all fun and frolic, but the damage done is the same!"
The look Naoni gave him was surprisingly steely. "I'm not such a child, Father, that I know nothing of the ways of men. Nor am I a fool who simpers and swoons whenever a man looks at me. Neither's Faendra. You needn't fear for us."
"That's simple truth, Father." Faendra narrowed her eyes in a parody of menace. "'Tis the men who should tremble before us."
That teased a faint smile from Dyre.
Seeing it, Naoni considered the matter resolved and said briskly, "I've called the coffinmaker and the carter and sent word to the keepers of the City of the Dead. Cael can be buried six bells after highsun, after down-tools, so those honoring him need miss no work. Perhaps they can return here, after, for the cakes and ale?"
Varandros nodded. "Of course. You've handled it well, lass."
Naoni looked up at him, and her faintly puzzled expression smote Dyre's heart. Was he so sparing with praise, that his daughters were this unaccustomed to it?
"I'm for work," he said abruptly. Turning, he strode from the house, thinking thoughts that were both new and disturbing.
Men of the Watch had laid rough hands on his daughter. A message, perhaps, from those in power? If so, who knows what more might have happened, if not for those silly sword-swinging nobles?
In his desire for a New Day, he'd never considered the consequences for his family, never thought his daughters might be endangered. More fool he!
Aye, this striding fool.
His wordless growl was as bitter as peacebound warsteel- trapped in its scabbard, denied a foe it knew too well.
After all, who knew better how the great folk treated common-born women of Waterdeep than a man whose wife had died from the grief they'd caused?
"I trust Hoth instructed you correctly?" Golskyn's cold words were barely a question.
Mrelder looked up from the tiny golden ring balanced atop scorched stones on the table before him-the Guardian's Gorget, shrunken small enough to incorporate into the graft. The spell-glows playing around it promptly flickered and started to fade. "I believe so, Father, and my follow-all spell definitely captured the effects of the graft-chantings. That's proven by our successfully giving Narlend a lamprey-mouth in his palm-and that lamprey was none too fresh."
Ending his spell, he added, "Unless Roaringhorn bears magics that interfere with our work, or fails physically-much as I've done, thus far-the graft should work. I know how to craft new ocular muscles now."
"So you should. Eight blinded dogs are quite enough, even in Dock Ward. Had we needed more and been foolish enough to take them from North or Sea Wards, the Watch would have come calling."
Mrelder nodded. "No doubt, yet everything's neatly disposed of. The first few went out on the deathwagon, and as for the rest, well, the mongrelmen said they made a quite tasty stew."
"It was; I had a bowl myself. Will your little toy be ready in time?"
"It's ready now, not that I expect our ambitious noble to return quite so swiftly. Capturing a beholder-"
"Yes, yes, may cost him his life," Golskyn snapped, tiring of the conversation. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the spell-chamber.
Mrelder wore a little smile as he took up the little stone that had been the focus of the spell he'd just quelled. No probing questions about it, or just what magics he'd perfected, or precisely what he'd done with them. Sometimes his father's scorn of sorcery came in quite useful.
Golskyn's door slammed, and Mrelder heard something unexpected: the front door warning gong. He frowned. Beldar Roaringhorn had found his way here out of the blue; now who-?
Hoth rushed up the stairs wearing a wintry smile, heading for Golskyn's chamber without a word to Mrelder.
"Hoth!" the sorcerer snapped. "Who is it? Who's at the door?"
Hoth made no reply, and Mrelder barked his question again, making his voice as cold and authoritative as his father's.
Hoth turned, his hand already on Golskyn's door-handle. "The Roaringhorn lordling's returned, and is asking to speak with Lord Unity. Alone."
Mrelder frowned. "Is he-?"
The rest of his words were swept away in the shattering roar of his father's door-with Hoth still holding it-being hurled into a splintering meeting with the far wall.
"Father?" Mrelder shouted, breaking into a run. "Father?"
Hoth was moving feebly under the wreckage as Mrelder pounded past into smoke and two ruby-red beams of magic, flashing at each other in the gloom like thrust swords.
One came from Golskyn's beholder-eye, of course… and the other was identical, which could only mean…
Mrelder had to see. He dare not He cast a swift and simple clarity spell that should sweep away the smoke and banish both shadows and darkness.
There were shouts and pounding feet from behind Mrelder. He stepped aside swiftly so he'd not be in the way of angry Amalgamation believers rushing into the room with ready weapons.
Wards were flickering in Golskyn's chamber as strong magics lashed out and rebounded, and the feeble clarity spell struggled to expand like mist swirling in a gale. Through it, Mrelder caught a glimpse of his father standing fearlessly, hair singed and his tentacles holding his desk-its top scorched and smoldering-in front of him like a shield.
Golskyn was murmuring spell-prayers as fast as his lips could move, gesturing to bring down the wrath of the gods on something across the chamber. A foe that was, yes, high up near the ceiling: Spherical, and with Something flashed through the thinning smoke, and Mrelder felt himself stiffening. He fought to turn and lift his arm, panic flaring like a flame, but… he was caught… and frozen.
His hand slowed to a drifting thing, then stopped altogether, and Mrelder turned what was left of his will to breathing and turning his eyes, trying to see Wall and floor, rushing up to meet him swiftly as mongrel-men burst into the room and struck him aside.