'Mistress Naoni,' Korvaun Helmfast murmured gravely as he took her hand in both of his, 'will you suffer our protection as you take us to your father? Those ruffians are not the only dangers in Dock Ward.'
'Ah, of course, but why take you such an interest in us?' Then, belatedly, 'My father?'
'Mistress,' Lark said crisply, 'these four fine noblemen are obviously responsible for the worksite damage. And, being men of honor, they're planning to make restitution. Isn't that so, Lord Roaringhorn?'
'It is,' Beldar said stiffly.
'Then my two lady mistresses here will be happy to take you to the man you wish to see. No,' she corrected herself, 'the man you need to see. No one wishes to see Master Dyre in his present mood, but… the gods don't always grant wishes.' She looked at Naoni. 'Does that cover it, mistress?'
'It does,' she agreed absently. 'Most thoroughly.'
Lark firmly took Lord Hawkwinter's arm, leaving Beldar with no partner, and gave him a glare. 'Have a care where you walk, Lord Roaringhorn. It would be a shame to spoil those fine boots.'
Naoni opened her mouth to order Lark into silence, but the words stuck in her throat. The girl's loyalty meant much, and her judgment could hardly be faulted. Everything Naoni knew warned her to distrust these noblemen- even kindly Lord Helmfast.
She glanced up at his handsome face, and something leaped inside her.
Especially Korvaun Helmfast.
Varandros Dyre reached his front door as the third imperious volley of rapping began. Even before its sharp thunder befell, he was scowling.
Someone was ignoring a perfectly good bellpull and striking his knocker-plate with hard metal.
The Master Stonemason shook the old sword that lived in the stave-stand beside the door out of its sheath and kept one hand near it as he shot the bolts. He didn't take the blade into his hand to heft meaningfully lest the rapping-now crack-crack-cracking on his good door again, by Tempus!-prove to be the Watch.
Dyre swung the stout door wide and stood back, his hand hovering by his blade, and saw what waited beyond his threshold.
His eyes flashed even before his mouth dropped open.
His daughters stood outside with the housemaid and a seeming army of smiling, fashionably garbed young men. There was color in everyone's cheeks, and hair askew, and faces that looked as if they'd been laughing and were holding back mirth even now!
And looming right in front of him, in the elegantly gloved hand of one of these laughing young pups, was a dagger, reversed and raised to strike his knocker-plate once more.
It was the twin of the one he'd found at the worksite, monogram and all.
Dyre raised a hand sharply, cutting off Faendra's excited flood of explanation of how their lives had been so bravely saved, by these very 'Enough, daughter. I'll be having a word with these… gentlesirs,' he growled at her, his fierce gaze brooking no argument.
Fire to match his own kindled briefly in those blue eyes-not for nothing was her name Dyre!-but Naoni placed a quelling hand on her sister's shoulder. Her gray eyes fixed on him in some sort of mute appeal. Before she could speak, the maid deftly herded both girls back from the doors and drew them firmly down the hall.
Dyre gave a curt nod of approval. Lark's wages were well spent; she at least had sense. Though in truth, he cared not if his daughters heard every word. Might be better for them if they did.
Varandros Dyre turned his back on the young nobles and strode around behind his desk to stand regarding them across its large, parchment-littered expanse. His gaze was not friendly.
Taeros saw Beldar looking askance at the untidy papers. So did the master of Dyre's Fine Walls and Dwellings.
'You seem unused to the litter of honest toil,' Dyre said coldly. 'Might I remind you that some of us in this fair city must work hard to keep Waterdeep fair?'
Shrewd eyes and ears weren't needed to conclude that the stonemason was simmering with rage, and Taeros raised a hand in a warning gesture to his fellows.
'It seems you protected my daughters and my maid, and I owe you the thanks any father must tender. Please accept it.' Dyre did not trouble to make that 'please' anything but a command, and swept straight on.
'You must forgive me if I have some suspicions as to why such grand young lords, free in idleness to pursue any amusement that might occur to them and range freely from end to end of great Waterdeep, come to be in the vicinity of a certain worksite in the heart of highly unfashionable Dock Ward-a worksite that a band of young lordlings recently reduced to a shambles! In doing so, it seems they also found it amusing to sword honest workers, to say nothing of setting fires that might well have devastated more than a street or two of fair Waterdeep.'
Dyre's words came out cold, clipped, and inexorable, like measured lash-blows. 'And so damaging a scaffold that another worker fell from it this morn: a man who'll be maimed for life if healings fail.'
Taeros saw his own guilt mirrored on his friends' faces. Before any of them could find the right words, Dyre planted his large hands on his desk, leaned forward with his eyes ablaze, and asked softly, 'Now, would any of you know anything about this?'
Despite the desk, his shorter stature, and several paces of floor between them, the stonemason seemed to loom over the younger men.
Taeros swallowed. 'Master Dyre, goodsir, I assure you, we'll…'
The Mason Stonemason looked directly at him, and under the sudden fierce fire of his gaze and its comical juxtaposition with that huge snout of a nose, the Hawkwinter's mouth went dry.
'Sir,' Malark said swiftly, 'of course we'll make amends!'
'Of course,' Beldar added grandly, reaching for his purse. 'I am-'
'I know who you are, Lord Roaringhorn,' Dyre said with a snarl, 'and I know you'll pay for all you've done. I'll have the Black Robes make sure of that, whatever your intentions. I know our laws, which is why I'm not taking a blade to all of you, right now, and ending your foolishness for good! Waterdeep had more than enough of the haughty vandalism of Waterdhavian nobility years ago.'
He drew himself up, becoming, if possible, even more imposing.
'I shall expect all of you to keep well away from my daughters henceforth, which should prove easy for you, my lords, because they spend their days in honest work. You have your grand houses to sport in, to say nothing of clubs my lowborn girls would not be allowed through the doors of, even if they had coins enough to waste.'
The stonemason took a long breath and continued more calmly but even more firmly, 'My daughters will have to earn their places in Waterdhavian society, and I cannot think they'll be aided in achieving the station and success they deserve by consorting with ruffians, however nobly born, who amuse themselves by harming and beggaring others whenever they're not doing the dirty work of the Lords!'
Taeros blinked. Dirty work of the…?
The Gemcloaks scarcely had time to frown in puzzlement ere the Master Stoneworker came slowly around the edge of his desk, hands hanging loosely at his sides, ready for trouble.
'Nor am I alone in such views. I've friends among the guilds and shopkeepers who watch the antics of you and your like with far less than approval. Many eyes will have seen your arrival here, and tongues will wag as to why. A good part of the city-the working part-will be watching you lordlings very closely in days to come, to see if any 'accident' should befall me. Not because I am important, or for any love of me, but because time and again dissent has been quelled in Waterdeep through the silencing of overly loud critics, by accident after accident, and they won't stomach much more of it.'
He took a step closer, and more than one noble hand drifted toward a swordhilt.
'So, my lords,' Dyre added softly, his eyes still blazing, 'let us understand each other very well. I will accept your apologies and your coins, and you will keep away from the women of my household, and take very great care that no further accidents befall me, Dyre's Fine Walls and Dwellings, or any of my worksites.'
The stonemason's slow stalk forward brought him nose-to-chest with Beldar Roaringhorn, who said quietly, 'Have done, goodsir. Your anger is understandable, but your slander of Waterdhavian nobility is both misplaced and repugnant. I-'
'Don't like to hear truth. Your sort never does. Right now the most important truth confronting you is this: I am
