"So how," Starragar asked his tankard, "did the valiant but lone Lord Roaringhorn escape?"
Beldar grimaced. "In truth, I know not. At some point in the battle I hit my head. I was alone in the dark when I… woke up. I blundered around until I found a way up to the streets and got myself here as fast as I could. Not my finest foray, but there 'tis."
"Did any of the Watch see you?" Korvaun asked. "Or anyone who might be inclined to report this fray to them?" The Watch wouldn't look kindly on Gemcloaks sword-brawling, so soon after the street fight wherein Piergeiron had been wounded.
"I don't think so," Beldar replied, going to the ale-keg. "I didn't seek battle this night, and I doubt those who did are likely to air their business before magisters."
Korvaun frowned. "Why d'you think they came after you?"
"I don't know," the Roaringhorn replied wearily, discovering some cheese and his own great hunger in the same instant. "Truly." He munched, reached for the spigot, and asked, "So what befell, and what do we do next?"
The only reply he got was an uneasy silence.
"Friends," Beldar said grimly, hefting his tankard, "you were talking of such matters when I arrived. What god's stolen your tongues now?"
"We…" Taeros began, then fell silent again.
"We were down in the sewers, too," Starragar said. "Great spell-blasts, you said?"
"I did."
"We heard and felt nothing like that," Taeros said quietly.
A short, uncomfortable silence fell.
"There was a time," Beldar said softly, "when my friends the Gemcloaks would have unhesitatingly taken my word, a time not so long ago. Starragar, hand me your ring and let's be done with this."
"No," Korvaun said firmly. "Your word is good enough."
But the other three nobles neither nodded nor smiled.
The silence returned, and this time its weight was crushing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Taeros sighed. "The slipshield's gone." Asper stiffened. He added hastily, "We think we know who has it."
Shapely eyebrows rose. "So get it back."
Korvaun winced. "That may be difficult. We believe it's now in the hands of Elaith Craulnober."
It was Asper's turn to wince. "I see. I quite see."
Her tone was dry and light, but her smile was wry, and concern stood in her eyes. "By and large, we leave the Serpent be. He conducts himself carefully, with an eye to not threatening governance of the city overmuch-and were we to eliminate him, the struggle to take his place would inevitably cause much bloodshed."
"We didn't come here to beg aid," Korvaun said quietly. "We consider this matter our responsibility, but if Taeros and I are to have any hopes of recovering the slipshield, we'll need help. To get it, I need you to relax my vow of silence, so I may share this secret with my lady. Naoni Dyre's a sorceress whose gift is to spin anything into thread. She does business with a gnome weaver in the Warrens, spinning precious stones into this." He patted his glittering cloak.
"A young woman carrying such treasures needs guarding. The halflings of the Warrens are as good as watchblades come, and have some swift fingers among them. The best hands to recover the slipshield are those of a thief. Am I right?"
"About most things, I'd wager," Korvaun murmured.
Her grin was impish. "Been talking to Mirt, have you? Lord Helmfast, you may tell your lady about the slipshield, swearing her first to the same oaths that bind you. I leave its recovery to you. Send swift word if the Serpent does anything… significant."
"Lady, we shall," Taeros replied. "Assuming, of course, we're still alive to do so."
Korvaun and Naoni stood together in the moonlight, gazing up into the Moon Sphere with unseeing eyes.
At least a score of laughing, chattering revelers floated in its softly glowing haze. On the balcony overhanging it, a pair of well-oiled young tradesmen were playing tickle-slap with an equally inebriated lass. She bubbled false protests and delighted giggles as they tipped her over the rail, skirts flashing, into the globe. She plunged into the iridescent haze like a sea-diver, righted herself, and joined an ongoing, languorous midair dance.
"I can't believe this," Naoni murmured. "Never once has Lark stolen from us-not so much as a honey cake! Why would she lie about Lord Hawkwinter's charm?"
"She spoke truth, just not the whole truth. Betimes what's left unsaid means more than what's uttered."
Naoni gnawed on her lip. "I know of some suitable halflings. If you've coin enough, let's go hire them right now-one to follow Lark, the other Beldar."
"I do, and thank you. 'Tis vital we retrieve the slipshield before anyone learns its secrets."
Naoni set off at a brisk pace, and Korvaun fell into step beside her. After a few strides, she said wistfully, "I hope you're wrong about Lark."
"So do I," he replied.
And while we're hoping, he thought grimly, let's hope all of Waterdeep's wrong about Elaith Craulnober.
Returning to The High House of Roaringhorn in his dirty, bloodied state had been surprisingly easy, once Beldar decided to swagger along with his sword half-drawn and his hand on its hilt. He'd greeted the curious stares of Watchmen and Roaringhorn servants alike with nods and grimly satisfied smiles, and passed on his way leaving them whispering and wondering.
In fact, life was surprisingly easy, he concluded grimly, when expectations were low. Men like him were a source of gossip and inconvenience. Fortunately, it was the nature of humankind that folk enjoyed the former sufficiently to consider the latter a fair price for their entertainment. The Watch would make inquiries into duels fought that night, and the House servants would inform the steward that some sort of financial amends would likely need to be made on the morrow. In short, business as bloody usual.
By the time Beldar reached his room, his head was throbbing, and the burning in his new eye made him long to tear it from his head. He ached all over, and no wonder. Each garment he shed revealed new bruises.
Gazing regretfully at his ever-handy decanters, Beldar went to one end of the sideboard, unlocked the hidden compartment there, and downed a healing potion.
It snatched away his headache in the time it took him to pad to his waiting bath. Ah, a long, warm soak! Sorbras was worth every last shiny dragon the Roaringhorns paid him…
The waters did nothing to ease his mind nor banish his restlessness, and Beldar lingered only long enough to scrub himself clean. Dripping his way back to his bedchamber, he found his bed far less inviting than he'd expected.
Bone-deep exhausted he might be, but something within him was driving him on; he had to be out there again, in the night.
Seeking… danger, perhaps. Well, hadn't Roaringhorns been famous battle-lions of old, and was he not a Roaringhorn? No battle was ever won, and no lands ruled, by a man languidly counting his bruises in a scented bath.
He'd need boots on his feet for the streets and something above them more suitable than an open-fronted, swirling chamber-robe.
Beldar padded barefoot to his robing-rooms.
He had no spell-spurning talisman to replace the one the half-dragon had destroyed, but he refilled his gem-pouch and selected his grandes "dashing yet refined bladesman of action" garb. Crimson shirt, breeches fashioned of red and black, black tunic… the eyepatches he'd ordered had been delivered, and Beldar selected one that bore a stylized lightning bolt across its darkness. Dashingly overbold, but it suited his mood.
His gemcloak was as bright and unwrinkled as if he'd never worn it. Beldar settled it around his shoulders in all its ruby splendor. Folk were beginning to know him in the streets by its striking hue; the notoriety he'd long sought was his at last.
Yet notoriety was a poor substitute for destiny. Small wonder he'd snatched so eagerly at the first chance at fulfilling the Dathran's prophecy. He touched his eyepatch lightly; yes, he'd quite literally 'mingled himself with monsters.' The Dathran had promised such a mingling would be the beginning of his path to greatness. She'd also said he'd be a deathless warrior and a leader of men.