But why the servants of such a rich man would bother stealing from a tradesman workshop, especially one filled with fine materials bought by their master, was a puzzle that Sophraea couldn't solve.
She found the graveside gate still locked. Peering through the bars, Sophraea could see no marks upon the mossy steps or the path revealed in the candlelight. The rain had stopped and the wind died down a little. Beyond her own small circle of light, the moon revealed a swirling white mist that clung to the bare black branches and blurred the edges of the tombs.
As she stared, Sophraea could make out pale shapes in the fog. But everyone saw shapes in the mist in Waterdeep. They were harmless mirages, nothing to worry about.
Except, one shape was a bit more solid than the others: a man carrying a lamp, that's what it looked like. A man in a broad-brimmed old-fashioned hat and long coat carrying a hooded lamp that only cast a dim light. A man leaning on a cane and looking directly at her.
Sophraea blew out the candle with a quick breath and drew back into the shadow of the wall.
The man lingered for a moment more, then walked away from the gate, following the path that led around the Deepwinter tomb and farther north into the City of the Dead. Another pale figure, glowing slightly around the edges, drifted through the fog and followed his dark shape away from the Dead End gate.
Sophraea put her hand on the latch, ready to unlock the gate and follow. But a strange chill touched her. Suddenly, she felt that it would be a very bad idea to go into the graveyard alone. She started to shrug off the foreboding when she remembered some of Leaplow's past misadventures. Those that the Carvers buried rarely bothered the family. Sometimes they even gave out a friendly warning or two, and only Leaplow was rash enough to ignore such signs.
As certain as she was that her brother would have bounded down the steps with a shout and wildly waving fists, Sophraea knew someone or something was telling her to stay out of the City of the Dead. Dangerous magic was brewing on the other side of the wall, old shadows were stirring, and even a Carver should tread warily after dark in the graveyard.
'Find a wizard,' Volponia had advised her. The old pirate knew what she was talking about, Sophraea decided. There was trouble simmering within the walls of the City of the Dead, magical trouble that would take more than a mallet and a pack of unruly relatives to quell.
FIVE
Sophraea was still mulling over the previous evening's events when her mother Reye thrust a shopping basket into her hands. 'With that midnight supper last night,' said Reye, 'we have nothing left in the house for tonight. See what you can find in the market. Take Leaplow if you need some help.'
'I'd rather go by myself,' said Sophraea, thinking she might cut down to Coffinmarch and call on Egetha. The woman wasn't the right type of wizard, at least according to Volponia, but she must know other magic-users in Waterdeep.
Reye started to protest, then shook her head. 'I keep forgetting how old you are. You're right. It would probably be easier shopping without Leaplow. But keep…'
'My money hidden and don't talk to strangers!' Sophraea grinned at her mother.
'Go on, go on.' Reye flapped her hands at her only daughter. 'I obviously can't teach you anything.'
Sophraea just laughed, pulling her second best cloak off the peg by the door. Outside a low dark sky threatened an eventual downpour. However, even though the chimney tops were lost in the clouds, the rain held off as Sophraea walked quickly to the market.
Once there, she found barrel after barrel filled with slightly s°ggy root vegetables. Winter storms kept the more distant traders away and the selection coming from nearby farms was the usual boring winter fare.
While bargaining with one vendor who at least had some greens that were supposed to be green, Sophraea heard a familiar voice behind her.
'I haven't the full price yet,' said the lilting accents of Gustin Bone. 'But give me just a little time and I can pay for the room all winter.'
Peeking around a pile of dried fruits, Sophraea saw Gustin deep in conversation with the neighborhood silversmith.
'I get a good price for that room most seasons,' said the man who was as round and heavy as one of his bowls. 'Seeing as it opens onto the alley and there are no stairs.'
'Certainly, you should charge more for such, a prize,' agreed Gustin, smoothing back his well-trimmed beard. 'And I will be happy to pay once I get my little exhibition open.'
'A spell-petrified hero,' said the silversmith. 'Can't say that I have ever heard of such a thing.'
'Shh, shh.' Gustin laid his finger to his lips with exaggerated caution. 'Don't want the citizenry of Waterdeep to hear too much before we are ready.'
'We?'
'Well, I'm thinking a small portion of the viewing fee should belong to you by rights; it being your room and all. Of course, in return, you might agree to a smaller deposit on the room. A little less now, as it were, for much more later.'
The silversmith smiled that smile so often seen upon the streets of Waterdeep, the one that says 'I know you're trying to get the best of me, but I'm sure that I can get the best of you.'
Gustin returned the silversmith's smile with one equally as bland.
'Well, it's hard to rent a room in winter,' said the silversmith finally. 'And people will pay to see the oddest things, just for entertainment.'
' 'I tell you, the ladies will weep with sympathy for such a brave paladin turned to stone in his prime,' Gustin said. 'And the gentlemen will pay to let them in to take a look. Especially when the gentlemen can comfort them afterward.'
'Very well, I'll take what you have now and a portion of the fee later.'
'Quite the best business decision that you've ever made.'
In perfect accord, the two men nodded at each other, spat into their hands (at which Sophraea rolled her eyes in disgust), and shook upon the bargain.
His business successfully concluded, the satisfied Gustin went whistling past the outraged Sophraea. She swung her basket in front of him, knocking him hard in the stomach.
'Oof!' Gustin stopped abruptly. 'Sophraea Carver. I didn't see you there. Do you need help carrying that basket home?'
His voice was still as cheerful as ever, but his face fell when Sophraea began to scold.
'You're a cheat!' she said to him. 'My father is carving you that stone man. It was never any living hero. Spell-petrified paladin, I don't think so!'
Gustin dragged the sputtering Sophraea into a nearby alley.
'Hush,' he said. 'You don't understand.'
'I understand very well,' returned Sophraea. 'You're just another adventurer trying to cheat a little coin out of our pockets. The ladies will weep… Well, they should if they waste their money on your foolishness.'
'My foolishness is very harmless entertainment,' retorted Gustin. 'And they will come, especially after my hero walks through the market here, seeking to return to his family home.'
'It's the silversmith's spare room!'
'I'll say that his family lived there many generations ago and he has spent all these long years seeking his way home, one last tiny spark of a living soul trapped inside the stone, driving him to his final resting place.'
'Oh, that's terrible! Who is going to believe that?'
'Well, the citizens of Marsember, Arabel, and Daerlun, for a start,' huffed Gustin. 'It's how I make my living. Displaying the rare artifacts of a more magical time, before the Spellplague swept through the world. A tragic petrified hero always packs them in, especially after I get the chapbook printed telling about his great deeds and battles. A simple piece that can be bought on the way in or the way out.'
'But my father is carving the statue now. How can you have done this in Marsember and those other places?'
