sideways halberds. The ranking Watch commander held up a warning hand and growled, 'Patience, goodman,' in tones that promised dire consequences for disobedience. The carpenter fell silent.
The commander turned back to Beldar Roaringhorn, who with Taeros and the others had now been herded to stand with Malark Kothont. He made a swift, two-fingered circling gesture, and Watchmen scrambled to take up the Gemcloaks' weapons.
'I say-' Malark protested, and again the warning hand came up, commanding silence.
'Assault, damage to property, and fire-setting,' the commander listed almost wearily. 'Openly and in public, apparently with pranksome intent. Have you any explanation for this fool-headedness or good reason you should not face magisterial justice forthwith?'
With only the slightest of wincings Beldar stepped forward and gave the commander an easy 'We're all reasonable men here' smile. Malark subsided, more than content to let his friend fly this particular hawk.
'Mere fun, nothing more! No harm was meant and little was done. On my honor as a Roaringhorn, we'll be happy to compensate the building's owner for any damage!'
Most of the Watch officers were eyeing the Gemcloaks as if they'd like to toss the young nobles into the nearest rat-infested dungeon, yet in a civilized city, money smoothed many rough roads, and men of means could send their stewards around to settle any unpleasantness.
On the other hand, Malark mused, perhaps the city was too civilized. In Waterdeep, things were done in sly roundabout ways that didn't suit him at all. In the wilderlands of his mother's kin, men dealt with matters, promptly and openly, with none of this whining dependence upon a council of anonymous rulers.
Here, a carpenter could glare at Malark with eyes holding deadly promise, and a nobleman could be deprived of his sword, yet knowing Waterdeep, most likely both of them would die not settling their differences blade to blade but eating a stew poisoned by an unseen aggrieved party.
The Watch commander made a gesture, and the Gemcloaks' weapons were proffered to them, hilts-first.
'Stand back, men,' he said softly. 'Restitution has been offered. These men are free to go.'
Beldar sheathed his sword, and his companions followed suit. 'We meant no harm,' he repeated.
'Aye,' the commander said dryly, his eyes boring into those of Beldar Roaringhorn like two contemptuous daggers. 'Your sort never do.'
CHAPTER TWO
Morning came slowly to Dock Ward. Its close-huddled buildings cast stubborn shadows the guttering street- lanterns did little to dispel. Here and there roosters caroled like conjurers summoning the sun. Muttered curses followed most of their crowings amid clatters of tools. Some folk who dwelt here had to rise early to earn coin enough to eat.
Mrelder headed for Redcloak Lane, marveling at the changes a year could bring. The last time he'd stumbled wearily along here, seeking his way back to Candlekeep, most of these buildings had been charred and smoking ruins.
The rebuilt structures had stone walls to twice a man's height, crowned with one or more stories of stout timber. Most roofs were of new thatch, but the fires hadn't been forgotten: there were a few runs of slate tiles too. Mrelder wondered how much such a roof would add to the cost of his new establishment.
He stopped where Candiera's Fine Shoes and Sandals had stood. Its rubble had been carted away, and a new timber frame soared to impressive heights above a repaired foundation of dressed stone. However, roofless openwork timbers kept a man a trifle damp and drafty, even in fabled Waterdeep.
One of the workers shifting and hammering boards in that littered interior saw him and strode over, mallet in hand.
'Have you business here?'
Mrelder smiled faintly. 'I'd fondly hoped to be doing business here before the midsummer fairs, but it seems the work goes slowly.'
The man's eyes widened. 'Be you the sorcerer who bought out Candiera?'
'The same. Would you be Master Dyre?'
A passing trustyhand grinned at them. 'If yer offering to magic him into Dyre, he'd probably take you up on it- leastwise, if'n he could keep his own nose.' There were roars of laughter from workers all around.
'I take it Master Dyre's not here. May I… look about?'
The carpenter shrugged. 'It's yours, bought and paid for. Don't be climbing the frames or pulling on any ropes, though; they're not secured proper.'
Mrelder nodded. 'Fair enough. I want a look around back to see what room we'll have for loading carts and such.'
'Back there? Done, all but some carting away. Mind your step and take a torch-it's dark as Cyric's heart down by yon well.'
'Oh? What befell the glowpaint?'
'Probably wore out. Everything does. I can tell you true there was no magic about the place when we started. Master Dyre always makes sure; says it costs him less coin to hire a wizard to spy out magic than to pay for his own burial if he blunders into an old ward.'
'A prudent man,' Mrelder observed.
Accepting a torch, he made his way through ankle-deep shavings to light it from a small fire in a copper brazier near the workers' glue pots, and picked his way on through the litter to the well house.
It, too, had changed. Beyond a new door, neatly dressed stone had replaced the old chipped steps. As the carpenter had said, the glowpaint was gone.
As Mrelder glanced at the well, his heart sank. It had a lid so new that the wood was still pale, the brass fasteners bright. Beside it, the old cover lay in a rotting heap.
There was no sign of the Candlekeep rune on those moldering shards. The magic was gone. The wood had probably crumbled when the enchantment was dispelled.
Mrelder sighed. No doubt spell-ways into that great fortress temple were crafted to vanish if any magic was worked on them.
Or perhaps the monks now believed they had reason to distrust him.
Mrelder shook his head. No, they had applauded his decision to apply himself to the study of sahuagin. After a year, when he'd declared his intent to fare forth to gather tales of sahuagin attacks and compile information about their magic and methods, the First Reader had given his personal approval and even modest funding. No, these doubts were his fancies, no more.
He lifted his torch high. To his astonishment, its flickering light fell on a fresh oval of solid stone wall. The tunnel was gone!
Mrelder rushed around the well to feel and then pound the stones-large, solid blocks, each so tightly fitted to its neighbor that he doubted a dainty lady's dagger could slip between them.
Mrelder stared around the well house in stunned disbelief and then turned, rushed up the stairs, and ran back through the worksite until he could catch the sleeve of a passing worker.
It was the carpenter, who blinked at the ferocity of Mrelder's question: 'What happened to the well house?'
The carpenter frowned. 'Dyre oversaw that rebuilding himself. The stonework should be tighter'n a dwarf moneylender.'
'It is, in fact, too tight,' Mrelder snapped.
The carpenter looked incredulous, so he invented quickly: 'I plan to sell well-aged cheeses. They require a cool, damp place to ripen.'
The man's face cleared. 'Well, that's fine, then. You'll have a big root cellar yonder when we're done.' He glanced swiftly about and then leaned close and murmured, 'There was a tunnel in yon well house leading to gods-only know. 'Tis good fortune for you Master Dyre closed it off. What was found there, you don't want to have come a'calling.'
Mrelder's heart thudded. He slipped a silver coin from his purse, turning his hand discreetly to show it to the
