"What in the Nine bloody Hells happened to you?" Starragar pointed at his own right eye to show what he meant.
Beldar waved airy dismissal. "Nothing of great consequence. My eye was scratched during the Dock Ward brawl, and a healer bade me rest it."
Lark recalled the bloodied face of the man who'd fainted in her lap. Beldar's wounds had been slight, and nowhere near his eye. Here was a man who kept secrets from his friends. A small, humorless smile touched her lips as she realized that wizard's fee was all but in her hands.
"I'm gratified to hear so, Lord Roaringhorn," she said demurely. "For a moment I feared you might have met with some lawless, murdering rogue-say, a half-ogre-and suffered thereby."
The consternation that arose on Beldar's face made Lark think a bit more highly of him. Perhaps he hadn't knowingly sold her to the half-ogre, after all.
"We're off to speak with Master Dyre," Korvaun told Beldar uncertainly. "Will you accompany us?"
Beldar, into whom healing potions had been poured not once but many times throughout a long and agonizing night, found no appeal whatsoever in this prospect. "I'll pass."
"As will I," Lark echoed quickly. She turned to Naoni. "Someone should press the new cheese and get it into the buttery before it spoils in this heat. I need to start highsunfeast, or Master Dyre will have to forage for himself-and make do with the bony ends of the salt herring and yestereve's rabbit stew. I'm not even sure he'll touch the stew; it's sure to have a top-skin of fat by now. None of which will please him."
"Very well," Naoni agreed absently, her eyes on Korvaun Helmfast. "At this time of day, Father's likely to be in his office meeting with tradesmen. We've a carriage outside that's large enough to take the rest of us there."
She turned toward the door, then looked back over her shoulder at Lord Helmfast. "And I," she added, in a tone that brooked no argument, "am paying for its hire."
Varandros Dyre was not in his office. He was standing in a narrow, stinking Dock Ward alley, gazing down at what was left of his youngest apprentice.
Jivin Tranter lay on his back, staring endlessly up at a sky that would never change for him, now. His mouth was agape. His eyes, which Dyre remembered as too clever by half, were covered with dust, yet still held dawning pain, fear, and the realization that something was very, very wrong.
Dyre wondered if the lad had found time and wits enough to know he was dying. Likely yes; by the amount of blood pooling under Jivin's head, the apprentice's heart had still been beating when that symbol was carved into his forehead.
"A necromantic rune," one of the Watchmen muttered. "No priest or mage'll get the killer's name from this one."
That explained the mutilation-the lad's corpse was shielded from spells that allowed speech with the dead, and the other magic some priests practiced that recalled the last thing a dead person had gazed upon. The rest Dyre could read for himself.
The blade that had taken Jivin's life had been rapier-thin, piercing the apprentice's heart like a needle. His shirt had been slashed and peeled aside, so four words could be carved into his hairless chest. Dyre was no scholar, but after a few moments of study he made out these chilling words: "The Wages of Curiosity."
"Guildmaster Dyre?"
The swordcaptain's grim voice was still respectful, but growing sharper. Dyre realized the Watchman had been repeating his name for some time now.
"Aye?" he growled, blinking, as he tore his gaze from Jivin's forever frozen face to the swordcaptain's weathered frown. "What?"
"Goodman Dyre, I asked: D'you have any idea who might have done this?"
The stonemason's face hardened into a bleak, stone-like mask, a mask adorned with a mirthless, unlovely grin that made the Watchman draw back a step and reach for his sword out of long habit.
"No. I have no idea at all. Not one," Varandros Dyre said, biting off his words as if each was a stone dropped over a parapet, one at a time.
He pushed past the Watch officer without a backward glance, lifting one hand in a circular gesture his employees knew well.
The little group of mute, pale-faced stonecutters hastened forward to take up Jivin's body, and bear it along in the guildmaster's wake. They knew better than to say even a lone word to any of the Watch, who in turn agreed on one thing to a man, without need for any words: Varandros Dyre had a very good idea who might have ordered the apprentice's death and was seething with rage at being thus warned, or threatened… or goaded.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Beldar Roaringhorn's friends and the three women vacated the club in swift tumult, leaving him alone in blessed silence.
For long breaths he simply stood and enjoyed the stillness, his back to the door so he could gaze the length of the room and just relax, letting his thoughts wander and his innards start to settle.
After a calming pause, he strolled across the room and poured himself some ale. Sniffing it appreciatively, he took a small sip, not trusting his roiling stomach to welcome more.
"You didn't hurt your eye in that brawl," a cool voice commented, from behind him.
Beldar froze. Then he made himself turn slowly. He knew that tone-one usually used by someone holding a weapon, who was exceedingly pleased that the person being addressed was not.
The servant girl was alone, and her hands were empty. By the look on her face, she didn't consider that one dented serving tray had settled the score between them.
Swallowing rising unease, Beldar mustered his most supercilious smile. "Weren't you off to mount a gallant defense of cheese or some such?"
The lass didn't rise to his bait. "You didn't hurt your eye in that brawl," she repeated.
Beldar set down his tankard. "Oh? And how could you possibly know?"
Lark smiled thinly. "After you fainted and fell on me, I passed much time with your head on my lap, while your friends argued with the Watch. Your wounds were right under my nose, and as I don't happen to own wardrobes full of gowns, just where you were bleeding was of some importance to me. You had a cut on your head above the hairline, but nothing more."
Beldar stared at her. He remembered few details of that humiliating episode, but-blast it! — she was probably speaking simple truth. The reason for her candor was appallingly clear. She'd been witness to his least shining moments, and with the instinctive cunning of the coin-poor lowborn, understood that he did not want his falsehood-or the events of that night in Luskan-to reach the ears of his friends.
"I assume your silence has a price?"
She nodded. "I need the services of a wizard who can truly tell the nature of magical things."
This was hardly what he'd been expecting. "Why?"
After a moment's hesitation, the lass half-turned away from him and then swung back, with a small silver charm in her hand that hadn't been there before. "I came across this and want to know what it can do. Find a wizard for me and pay his fee, and your friends need never know their gallant, noble friend sold an unwilling woman to a murderous half-ogre."
He couldn't quite suppress a wince. "I didn't know his intention."
"Not at first, perchance, but then you did-yet stood like a post as he dragged me away."
Beldar stared at Lark, seeking some defense for his behavior. The best he could muster was, "I broke no law in Luskan, and in all fairness, I should advise you that the magisters of this city have recently begun punishing extortion rather severely."
"I'm unsurprised," Lark replied softly. "Why else would you not parry my request with threats to reveal…"
She let silence fall between then until he gently finished her sentence: "Your circumstances when last we met."