Just in time, he remembered his familiar's fate. The sahuagin was no good to him dead.
Hissing one of his father's viler oaths, Mrelder drew it from his pouch and scowled at it. A dead sahuagin wasn't hard for a man like Golskyn to acquire. Capturing one alive, now, was another matter, but how could he keep it living until he was ready to face his father… and endure the grim transformation that must follow?
Mrelder stepped off the gate to think.
He could see only one path: hide the creature here and return for it at some later time. If he couldn't take this prize to Golskyn, he'd bring his father to Waterdeep. Surely even the great Golskyn wouldn't scorn such an offering as a four-armed sahuagin, nor the son who'd brought it to him!
He caught up a handful of pebbles in case he needed to toss or drop them to judge unseen distances, then strode into the dark tunnel. Unpleasant wet and rotting smells assailed him as he felt his way into deepening chill and damp, groping at the rough walls in search of hiding-places.
Eventually he found one: a small niche in the uneven stones to his left, well above his head and near what felt like an empty but sturdy iron torch bracket. Mrelder hid the tiny monster there behind most of his handful of stones and then cut free one of the leather thongs that criss-crossed his soft boots to ensure a snug fit. He tied the thong to the bracket, letting it dangle there to mark the hiding-place for his return.
Mrelder stood listening for a breath or two, afraid the small noises he'd made thus far might have lured other sahuagin-or worse-hither.
He heard nothing, not even the plink of dripping water, and with a relieved sigh returned to the wellhouse, took his place on the gate, and murmured, "Arranath."
Once again, the floor seemed to give way under his boots, plunging him into a silent, dreamlike freefall.
He emerged into warm lamplight in the circular chamber in Candlekeep where an anxious Belloch was pacing.
The monk's scowl fell away as he rushed forward to clasp Mrelder by the shoulders. "You're the first to return! What news?"
"Waterdeep's secure," Mrelder mumbled, suddenly weak with weariness. "Our work's done, the Open Lord told me."
The Great Reader smote the young sorcerer's shoulder, in a painful reminder of Piergeiron's salute. "Victory, lad-glorious victory!"
"Yes," Mrelder agreed, managing a smile.
He was not seeing battles in the streets of Waterdeep, however, but a confrontation to come, one where he'd not stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Open Lord of Waterdeep and a score of veteran bodyguard knights.
When he faced Golskyn again, he and the sahuagin would prevail.
Even as he made that silent vow, Mrelder seemed to hear the mocking echo of his father's taunting voice, saying this bid would fail him as so many had before.
Monsters, observed Beldar Roaringhorn glumly, were damnably unreliable fellows. According to everything Beldar knew of swordplay and monsters-and he prided himself on his knowledge of both-the ugly green bastard should have won that fight. Handily.
He counted out the ten dragons he'd lost betting on the scarred half-ogre, and with a casual flourish that told the world he tossed away gold at least a dozen times a day, slid the coins across the table. The peg-legged sailor who stood waiting for it grew a nastily delighted leer.
Beldar studied him. The strange, dirty, spidery-looking fellow appeared to be held together largely by years' worth of accumulated grime. His arms were long, thin, and ropy with sagging remnants of muscles. He wore no shirt, but his faded red breeches were belted high over a tightly rounded belly that seemed at odds with his emaciated limbs. His remaining foot was bare, and gold toe-rings gleamed down there through layers of dirt.
The old man grinned at Beldar, displaying three blackened teeth, and flipped one of the coins to the half-ogre. The brute caught the gold deftly and gave Beldar a mocking, almost courtly bow.
"Son of a sahuagin," muttered the young noble.
"My friend Gorkin's not what you'd call sea-devil spawn," the old sailor said smugly, "but you'll be seeing plenty of those soon enough. Word is Waterdeep's under attack right now! Wouldn't put it past yer perfumed pretty-women to drag the scalies into those public baths fer a quick… swim."
The look on Beldar's face sent the wretch into gales of laughter that promptly turned into a coughing fit. It lasted, relatively speaking, a tenday or so, ere the salt spat a thick gobbet of pipeweed onto the floor, wheezed, and gave Beldar that grin again.
"You'd like that, would you?" he taunted. "Comin' home to Waterdeep to find yer women's got a taste for seafood, so to speak? Might be they'd find the sea-devils a closer thing to a real man than yer fancy-pants, soft-handed, white-livered, sorry sons of-"
The old sailor's words ended abruptly with a sharp urp! as Beldar sprang lightning-swift from his chair to drive a fist deep into that capacious gut.
The salt went to his knees, wheezing, coins bouncing and rolling in all directions. In an instant, the makeshift sparring floor emptied as the trio of mixed-blood outlaws currently fighting for the entertainment of Luskan's lowlives hurled themselves at a richer prize, not to mention the young nobleman who'd provided it.
Beldar's eyes lit up at the prospect of battle. With a widening smile he clapped his hand to the hilt of his sword.
Suddenly a larger hand took hold of his collar, and he was jerked up and back so sharply his feet left the floor.
Green muscles rippled as that arm twisted, turning the momentarily strangling Beldar to almost touch noses with… Gorkin. The half-ogre's other hand clamped over Beldar's sword-hand, holding the noble's magnificent weapon firmly sheathed.
"Easy, lad. I'm just takin' you out of harm's way."
Beldar blinked. There was no menace in the brute's face. Avarice, yes, but what face in Waterdeep didn't bear the same stamp?
"Very kind of you, I'm sure," he replied, "but hardly necessary."
The half-ogre held Beldar off the floor a moment longer, because he could, then lowered him, stepped back, and jerked his bald, green-skinned head at the widening brawl where knives were out, and men were dying over a few spilled coins.
"More needed'n'you might think. Yonder's Boz." A stubby green finger indicated a furry mongrelman not much larger than a halfling. "Might as well thrust your arm into a dragon's maw as draw steel on him. Mean little bastard."
"Really." Beldar watched the small fighter kick, bite, and stab for a moment, and saw Boz's teeth take out a second throat as thoroughly as his wickedly hooked knife had served the first one. "Gods! He looks as if his mother had carnal knowledge of a badger."
Gorkin grinned. "Fights like it, too."
"So I see," the nobleman murmured.
The little mongrelman pinned an orcblood foe tusks-down to the ground and wrenched one thickly muscled arm back so sharply that Beldar imagined the thick, wet sound of rending bone and sinew. Not that he could have heard it over the shrieking. Boz was calmly biting off fingers, one at a time, to get at the coins clenched in the orc-blood's fist.
Beldar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Yonder mongrelman might prove to be a creature he'd long sought. It was certainly worth the price of an introduction to find out.
He met the half-ogre's speculative gaze. "You know who I am?"
The brute nodded. "I know who, but I don't know why."
Beldar smiled thinly. In certain circles he was known for his fascination with monsters. Of course, he wasn't the first wealthy well-born with a taste for exotic creatures, but Beldar's interest was less easily explained than most. He slew not for bounty, nor entertainment. He did not line the walls of Roaringhorn mansions with mounted trophies, nor did he collect living specimens. Occasionally he purchased some of the more interesting bits of slain monsters for magical uses, but what man with his resources did not?