behind her, those same eyes widened. 'Ah, this isn't your kitchen garden.'

'Of course not,' said Sophraea, a little impatiently, distracted by trying to tell if the whisper she'd just heard was the usual moan to be expected in the graveyard or something else. 'This is the City of the Dead. Why would you think it was our kitchen garden?'

'I saw you go through that little gate in the wall,' Gustin continued, 'and I thought… I mean, the big houses in Cormyr, they have gardens walled off where people grow their herbs and vegetables.'

'We have a solarium on the second floor of the house for herbs,' Sophraea informed him, still only paying half attention to the young man. 'And we buy our vegetables in the market.'

Gustin slov. lv spun in place, taking in the multitude of tombs, the memorial statutes, the ornamental and somber shrubbery, and the urns stuffed with flowers weeping shriveled petals onto the ground below. On the roof of the closest tomb, grotesque carved figures hung over the edge, peering down on the pathway.

'But this is the famous City of the Dead!' he exclaimed; 'Aren't all the gates guarded by the Watch? And aren't the gates into it bigger?'

'The public gates are very large and guarded, of course. But this is our gate, the Dead End gate. It's just for the family,' said Sophraea marching back toward their gate. 'To bring things through. It would be a terrible nuisance if we had to go all the way to the Coffin march or Andamaar gates just to take a marker to a grave.'

'And what were you bringing here?'

'Nothing. I was trying to catch…' Sophraea skidded to a stop and scowled at Gustin. 'It's none of your business. What are you doing here?' She emphasized the 'you' in the exact same suspicious tone as Myemaw used when saying 'And what are you boys planning to do tonight?'

Gustin reacted just like her brothers. He shuffled his feet and mumbled, 'Nothing… I just saw you and…'

'Oh, come on,' said Sophraea. 'If you want to see my father about your statue, he's in his workshop.'

'Of course,' said Gustin briskly. 'That's why I'm here. To see your father.'

Sophraea shut and latched the Dead End gate. 'He started your statue this morning,' she said, 'selecting the stone and roughing out the shape. My brothers Leaplow and Runewright will do the preliminary work under his direction and then he'll add the fine details later. It's a handsome stone he picked. I think you'll like it.'

'I do want to see it,' said Gustin following her to the workshop. 'I have heard that he's very good at his work.'

'The best in Waterdeep,' said Sophraea with no small pride. 'All of the Carvers are. Well, except Leaplow, but he can be good when he thinks about what he is doing. But my father and my uncles are the most skilled. They know how important their craft is. It's the last gift the living give the dead, a box to house the body, a stone to mark their passing, so they make their work beautiful.'

'I never thought of it like that. And what do you do?' Gustin Bone asked-

'I'm not in the business. I'm going to be the first Carver to leave Dead End House and become a dressmaker.'

'Gifts that the living give the living.' The young man dodged around a stone cherub with a broken wing waiting for repair and a stack of lumber seasoning for spring coffins. A Carver cat curled atop the lumber gave him an inscrutable look as he passed by.

Sophraea giggled as she pushed open the door of her father's workshop. 'I guess you could call it that.'

Inside Astute Carver and her uncle Perspicacity were pouring over some long scrolls. Rampage Stunk's scruffy knave was still there, leaning insolently against Astute's workbench and cleaning his nails with a long thin dagger. Sophraea could clearly see the stiff black hairs sprouting on the back of the man's dirty knuckles.

'We should have Myemaw look it over too,' said Perspicacity, 'but I think it is legal.'

'I am afraid that you are right,' agreed Astute. 'But who would have thought that a family could sell off their deeds like that?'

'It's property,' said Perspicacity. 'Just like a house or any land, I suppose. And it's not like this one was close to them or would even remember who was lodged inside. The seller is a fourth cousin on the distaff side, I think. I'd have to look at the ledger to be sure.'

'Well, they do say Waterdeep is changing and changing fast. But who would have thought…' Astute noticed his daughter and the young man close behind her. 'I am sorry, saer, but I am just finishing some business here. Give us a moment more.'

'No rush, no rush at all.' Gustin bowed slightly in the direction of all the men in the workshop. Stunk's servant ignored him but Perspicacity gave the younger man a friendly nod. Gustin turned away to examine Astute's chisels and mallets, all neatly hanging from rows of hooks set into the rough plaster walls.

'Tell your master that we will begin the work as soon as the materials arrive,' Astute instructed the servant.

'He will be displeased by any delays,' growled the man.

'He would dislike hasty work done with shoddy materials even less,' replied the unruffled Astute. 'Stunk only wants the finest, and that takes time, as any good craftsman knows.'

The servant shrugged one shoulder. 'Very well, I will give him your message.' He stowed his dagger in his shirt. Passing by the Carver's open ledger, he paused to read a page.

'That's a curious book,' he said, flicking over the pages much more quickly than Lord Adarbrent. 'A lot of old names. My master likes old histories. He might pay you something for this.'

'It is not for sale,' Astute said with great finality and, turning his back on the hirsute doorjack, began to chat with Gustin about the stone that he had selected for the young man's statue. Perspicacity joined the two men in their discussion.

Only Sophraea noticed the servant tug sharply at a page in the ledger, digging in his yellow fingernails.

'Stop that!' she cried, attracting everyone's attention. 'You will rip it!'

The hairy man backed away from the book, his hand snaking toward the dagger in his shirt as the two big Carver men advanced upon him. Behind them, Gustin's eyes glowed like twin emeralds.

'Leave me alone,' whined the servant. 'I didn't do anything.'

Astute snapped the covers of the ledger closed and put the book away on a high shelf. 'Go on. Your business is done here.'

The servant hurried to the door, barking in a whisper to Sophraea as he passed her, 'Meddling girl, you'll be sorry.'

FOUR

If she had been asleep, the sound of sobbing would have woken her. As it was, Sophraea was already awake, staring at the ceiling of her room and thinking of what she would say to Lord Adarbrent. She was sure that he would sign the letter, but what if he said no? And what if the dressmaker didn't think the Walking Corpse was quite the right type of reference? Of her own ability to do the job, Sophraea had no doubts. She was as gifted with a needle as her father was with a chisel and awl. And there was always good work available for a girl who was a clever seamstress, given the enduring passion of the Waterdeep nobility for the latest cut of the sleeve or the newest style of embroidery to decorate the collar, and the equally lasting obsession of the richest merchants to dress their own families in the style of the oldest blood of Waterdeep. But, ever since she'd seen those gilded chair legs, she'd really had her heart set upon working in that shop in the Castle Ward.

Still, nobody would believe that Lord Adarbrent knew anything about fashion of the current year, much less the past fifty years. His full coats and wide-brimmed hats matched the styles of her grandmother's youth. But he was definitely a lord and a well-known lord, given his constant muttering perambulations throughout all of Waterdeep.

Preoccupied with her plans, Sophraea first thought that the faint sobbing sound filling her room was just the moaning of the wind outside. But as it rose in intensity, and then faded away, only to come back again, the girl realized that something more than the wind cried in the City of the Dead.

With a strong reeling that she had done this before, Sophraea pushed back her blankets, slid out of bed, and padded across the cold floor to the window. Having latched the window tight earlier, she now had to wrestle with the bolt. Shoving hard against the casement, she finally banged it open and thrust the window wide. The wind

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