into silence, as stiff as the monument on a paladin's tomb.
'Oh, sit down,' Dyre told him irritably. 'There's no harm done, for there's none as can hear us here.'
In the forehall at the bottom of the stairs, a slender hand deftly unhooked the alarm-cord. Three pairs of hastily bared feet ascended a few steps, and three heads bent nearer still, so as not to miss a single word from the locked room above.
Muttering an apology, Hasmur Ghaunt hastily sat down again, almost toppling a decanter.
Imdrael shot him a look of contempt and asked Dyre in a low, eager murmur, 'So what will we of the New Day do, exactly?'
'Are you with me?' Dyre asked, just as eagerly. 'Each and every one of you? Guild oath?'
His four guests almost fell over each other's tongues giving their emphatic oaths, two of them nicking palms and slapping down blood onto the table in the manner of their guilds. Decanters danced, and Dyre's smile grew.
'You know the Lords control the very sewers beneath our feet?'
Every Waterdhavian knew that, and the four merchants said so.
'Wherever the sewers don't run just to suit them in their spying and rushing bands of thugs here and there by night to silence unruly commoners, they cause passages to be dug. As a Master Stoneworker, I see much of the ways beneath the cobbles, and I swear to you: this is truth.'
Four heads nodded-and from somewhere below came the sharp creak of a board, as if someone was on the stairs.
Five heads turned with frowns of alarm to listen intently.
And heard only silence.
The stillness stretched until Dyre stirred and muttered warningly, 'For the words we've traded here this night, we could be the next unruly commoners to be silenced, so-'
'We must protect ourselves!' Imdrael hissed.
The Master Stoneworker smiled thinly. 'I've already started doing precisely that.'
From below came the hollow boom of the door-knocker. The men of the New Day flinched in unison, grabbing hastily for daggers.
'Dyre,' Lhamphur snarled through suddenly streaming sweat, 'if this is some sort of trap-'
The Shark flung the door wide, peered down the stairs, and turned back to his guests with a smile.
'Alarm-cord still stretched, door still closed, and-hear that giggling?-my gels at the door outside, with hot platters of something to make us all a little less fearful! Men, 'tis time to talk of the new buildings we'll raise together before the season's out, and those we must repair before they topple! No New Day talk around the ladies, mind!'
'We're not fools, Dyre,' Whaelshod muttered under his breath.
'Oh, no?' Lhamphur whispered, his own knuckles white on the hilt of his still-sheathed dagger. 'Let's hope not, or the heads that roll won't be the ones wearing the masks of the Lords of Waterdeep.'
You must find him, Piergeiron had said. From what I've seen this day, I'm certain any father would rejoice in such a son.
The First Lord's words echoed in Mrelder's mind, mocking him with the hope he'd cherished for more than a year. The false hope.
He knew. He had yet to open his eyes, but he knew the graft had been a failure.
There was a dull, phantom ache where his left arm had been. If the gods had granted Golskyn's prayers and found Mrelder a worthy host, he would now be aflame with searing pain. Not lightly did the monstrous gods award their favors.
A faint, unfriendly hiss came from somewhere beside him. Then another, slightly fainter.
Mrelder fought his way up through the darkness. As lantern-light flared before his eyes, he turned his head toward the hissings.
The dying sahuagin lay on a table beside him, its gills flaring weakly as it gasped out its last breaths. A foul scent came from the charred, blackened stumps that were all that remained of not one, but all four of its scaled arms.
Four times had the followers of Lord Unity attempted the graft, and four times Mrelder's body had refused to accept the gods-given improvement.
'My son lives,' Golskyn said coldly, looming over Mrelder, 'and the sahuagin dies.' His tone left little doubt as to his opinion of this state of affairs.
'I… I'm sorry,' Mrelder managed to murmur.
'My sentiments precisely,' his father replied, each word burning like acid. He drew a long dagger from its belt- sheath. 'The mongrelmen follow me because I tell them they are more, not less. They enjoy the special favor of the True Gods. They are already well along the path only the strong may take. They are my children. I need no other.'
Golskyn lifted the knife high.
This was it. His father's patience was at an end. Forlorn dreams and schemes flooded Mrelder's mind, a storm- flow of regret and loss. All would fade with him, thrown away in this dark cellar, all…
One idea caught in the rush of thoughts, looming rather than being swept on. A moment later, it was joined by another-and fresh hope, as Mrelder realized the two notions could become one: the sahuagin-shaped Walking Statue and the Guardian's Gorget.
'There's another way,' he gasped.
'To end your worthless life?'
'To gain the strength of mighty creatures!' Mrelder gasped excitedly, seeing it all now.
The priest's uncovered eye narrowed. 'Explain.'
Mrelder nodded, but the words he needed would not come. As his stupor faded, the pain came in waves. He reached across to the other table to pluck away a strip of the dying sahuagin's scales from one of its stumps. Holding up the ribbon of hide, he managed a single word: 'Gorget.'
For a long moment Mrelder prayed to any gods who might be listening that his father would remember the letters he'd written about Piergeiron and the Walking Statues, wherein he'd told Golskyn about this wondrous magical piece of the First Lord's armor, enspelled to command the great constructs.
Golskyn lowered the knife. His uncovered eye regarded his son thoughtfully. 'This has possibilities. You can do this? With your… sorcery?'
Mrelder nodded. Perhaps he could prove to Golskyn that magic and items that held it were worthy sources of power, and in doing so earn his father's respect.
And, not incidentally, save his own life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Naoni Dyre sang softly to herself as she spun the last few chips of amethyst into shining purple thread.
A hole in the kitchen doorframe held her distaff: a long-handled runcible spoon, both ladle and fork. Instead of wool or flax, it held a steadily diminishing pile of rough amethysts. Delicate purple fibers spilled between its narrow tines in a curtain of gossamer purple that drew down into a triangle. At the point of that triangle Naoni's deft, pale fingers were busily at work, drafting the fibers together and easing them onto the shaft of her spindle.
