Every face turned to him, incredulously.
'I mean no disrespect,' the dark-cloaked lordling told them, 'but if I'd seen someone in my employ so served, I'd not be of a mind to see past the outrage. One who stands apart may see clearly, and the precise wording may shed light on the intent-and the murderer.'
Varandros Dyre stared at the young noble in silence for an uncomfortably long time before muttering, 'Well said.'
It was even longer ere he added, 'Thorass, 'twas: 'The Wages of Curiosity.' I've been asking questions of late- never mind what about. Someone's warning me off.'
'Perhaps we're not so far removed from this matter as Lord Jardeth suggests,' Korvaun said slowly. 'You should know, Master Dyre, that we've been seeking answers about the fallen buildings. A friend of ours died in the collapse of the festhall, he whose dagger you found. A good man, who shouldn't be judged by that one day's mischief at Redcloak Lane.'
'So say you,' observed Dyre, something also like sympathy in his tone, 'and so you should say. Even if that foolishness told young Kothort's true measure, men should stand by their friends.'
'We are agreed on that, and perhaps in other matters, as well,' Korvaun said carefully. 'These mysteriously fallen buildings may touch on matters that concern us both. If this is so, release us from our promise, and our swords are yours to command.'
The stonemason blinked, staring at the young noblemen as if he'd never seen them before.
'I… I'll think on it,' he said curtly. Giving them an abrupt nod, he pointed at his daughters and then imperiously at his open door, and strode off down the street.
Faendra whirled to face Naoni. 'Jivin was following us!'
'Yes, Father just said so,' Naoni agreed, puzzled by the fear in her sister's eyes.
'Lark… Lark told me not to worry about the man following us. She said he was being dealt with. Being dealt with! I never thought-'
'Nor should you,' Naoni said firmly, ignoring the sick, sinking feeling in her own stomach. 'We've known Lark nearly a year, and she's as reliable as the tides.'
'Perhaps Mistress Faendra has cause for concern,' said Starragar gravely, his eyes on Taeros. 'You were wearing a silver medallion this morn, were you not?'
Taeros's hand flew to his throat. 'It's gone! Blast it!'
'I saw you wearing it when you got up to leave the club-before the lass so tartly insisted on helping you with your cloak. I just noticed its absence now.'
Naoni frowned. 'That could be mere happenstance. Perhaps it fell off in the carriage?'
Starragar shook his head. 'I was last to alight, and I always look about for items that might have been left behind. As for happenstance, is it also happenstance that your servant's been seen with Elaith Craulnober, the owner of those two fallen buildings?'
'Nine happy Hells,' Taeros murmured softly. 'The elf I hired to watch Lark hasn't reported back. I wonder if she's…'
'We'll look into it,' Korvaun said briskly. 'Mistress Naoni, where might Lark be now?'
'She implied she was returning here to tend to chores, but Father's worry rather gives the lie to that.'
'Lark stayed behind to talk to Beldar,' Faendra said confidently. 'I looked back as our carriage pulled away, and neither had come down the stairs.'
The nobles exchanged worried glances.
Naoni peered from one to another. 'What? What is it?'
'Beldar hasn't… been himself of late,' Korvaun told her. 'I'd put it down to grief about Malark. Much as I hate to admit it, we may have another worry in common.'
Beldar glanced back at Lark. 'Take care. The steps are damp and slippery.'
She put her hand on the mossy wall, her face ghostly green in the faint lichen-glow. Beldar took some satisfaction in her tense expression. Clearly, the wench had no fondness for tunnels and close places, or perhaps she was reconsidering the wisdom of blackmail, though she should hardly have expected a sordid transaction to be free of discomfort.
The look on her face when they stopped before the Dathran's skullgate was all Beldar could have desired. It turned to open fear when the front four 'teeth' swung inward to reveal the way on.
'Well met again, Lord Roaringhorn,' the dry and familiar voice came from the darkness beyond. 'I see you are something more than you were… and something less. Come in, the maid first.'
Beldar waved Lark forward. She clenched her teeth, climbed through the opening-and promptly squeaked in surprise at the touch of the warding magics.
Beldar joined her. The old witch was standing with her black Rashemaar mask in her hand and her keen blue eyes bent on Lark. 'Welcome, child. I sense in you a great longing to know. Tell Dathran what you seek.'
Lark handed over the charm. The Dathran passed it from one wizened hand to the other.
'Stolen,' she announced, her voice devoid of judgment. 'More than that, I cannot tell.'
Lark swallowed. 'Is there… magic about it?'
Dathran closed her eyes, and her face took on the expression of one who listens to distant voices. 'None,' she said slowly.
'So you can tell me nothing about it.'
'Only that you fear the use that might be made of it and need not, yet. Perhaps I can tell something of its history, if that would ease your mind.'
When Lark nodded, the woman began to chant. A soft, humming haze gathered around the charm but faded at the end of the incantation.
Dathran handed it back. 'I learned one word, nothing more: slipshield. Holds that any meaning for you?'
Lark shook her head and slipped the charm into the bag at her belt. 'No, but I thank you for trying.'
A high-pitched chuckle came from the gargoyle-like figure perched on the mantel. Lark caught her breath as the small gray form she'd thought a mere carving flapped batlike wings and showed its fangs in a leer.
'You needn't thank her,' the imp mocked. 'You have to pay her.'
Beldar handed over a palmful of coins and ushered Lark out of the Dathran's lair. When they emerged from the skullgate, he seized her arm and spun her around to face him.
'What's this about? From whom did you steal this, and why did you think it might be magic?'
Lark tugged free and stepped back, lifting her chin defiantly. 'You keep your secrets, Lord Roaringhorn, and I'll keep mine.'
Beldar's first inclination was to let the matter go; after all, what cared he about a silver trinket? Yet a dark, hissing murmur in the back of his mind wanted the charm.
Without another thought he seized the bag at her belt and tugged sharply. Its strings broke, Lark lunged for it- and he backhanded her across the face.
She reeled, face showing none of the astonishment Beldar himself felt. Before he could offer a word of apology, she hauled up her skirts in obvious preparation for a groin-high kick.
He sidestepped into a crouch to shield the Roaringhorn family jewels-and astonishingly, the lass punched his face, hard.
Blast! He dropped the bag to clutch his bleeding nose. Lark snatched up her property and raced away up the stairs, as nimble as a sewer rat.
Two high-pitched, evil chuckles arose behind the skull-wall, but for once Beldar's thoughts were not of his own humiliation.
He, a noble of Waterdeep, had robbed a commoner. He'd struck a woman. By any lights, these were not the deeds of a man destined to be a death-defying hero!
You are something more than you were… and something less.
The Dathran's words haunted Beldar as he trudged up the steps into a future that had never looked so uncertain.
