the tunnel's sound, what brought the building down?'
The dwarven spirit's reply was swift and firm. 'This digging's too close to one of Ahghairon's old wards. There's a warren of sewers under this city, and under that levels upon levels of caverns and dungeons and what-have-you. D'you think Waterdeep stands on that anthill thanks to human 'stonecraft'? Bah!' The ghostly form was noticeably fainter now.
It was Elaith's turn to sneer. Stonecraft? Hardly. Ahghairon? Well, perhaps the human had renewed or augmented the high magic he'd found, left behind from Aelinthaldaar. That was what kept half of Waterdeep from tumbling into the depths… A remembrance of his long-ago fosterage rose unbidden to mind. A particularly creative nurse once brought to the royal nursery a wonderfully complex toy made of hard-spun sugar in rainbow hues. As she told a tale about a powerful human wizard whose spells bored through the depths beneath his city seeking gold, the children had taken turns breaking off and eating bits of candy, until the toy collapsed into fragments-a lesson, of course, about the fragility of magic and the dangers inherent in hasty greed.
That game had fixed the tale in his memory so firmly that Elaith still saw it clearly, all these years later. He'd known enough to break off small bits, not pieces that were part of the supports, but little Amnestria, her sapphire hair a curly halo around a face sticky from the treat, had known less restraint. Her sweet tooth, impatient nature, and grasping little hands had brought the sweet wonder down in short order.
Firmly banishing that memory, Elaith spread out the map of Waterdeep's underground passages on the tunnel floor. Taking quill and ink from a belt-pouch, he addressed the dwarven spirit for the third and final time.
'Where are the wards of the wizard Ahghairon? Fully describe the locations and natures of all that are known to you.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The High House of Roaringhorn was even noisier than usual that morn. Fortunately, Beldar's stout bedchamber door muffled sounds, reducing the tumult to a steady murmur spiked with occasional incoherent outbursts.
Lying in bed staring at his familiar sculpted and painted ceiling, Beldar pondered the probable cause. Perhaps Thann ships had brought a score of fine black stallions from Amn, resulting in a sudden drop in stud fees for prize Roaringhorn racers; or mayhap his elder brother's betrothed-a pretty, flighty thing whose affections seemed to wax and wane more frequently than the moon-had undergone yet another change of heart. Quite likely it was something as trivial as his mother's twittering dismay over a rival's gown, worn yestermorn and too similar to one she'd intended to don on the morrow. In short, the usual nonsense.
It was mid-morning when Beldar checked his reflection in a gilt-edged mirror taller than he was, grimacing at the effect of eyepatch, thin black mustache, and plumed, broad-brimmed hat-not to mention the assortment of bruises and scrapes he'd incurred the last few days. Ye gods, he looked like a villainous pirate from some two- copper chapbook!
Tilting his hat to a more rakish angle, Beldar gave his image a self-mocking salute, touching fingertips to forehead and then tracing a pair of circling flourishes. Scaling the hat to the floor in disgust, he snatched up his gemweave cloak.
Lacking all desire to explain his eyepatch to the family just yet, he took the back stairs, departing the High House of Roaringhorn by the servants' entrance. The usually bustling courtyard was quiet, but the din from the streets seemed more appropriate to the bustle and strife of the southerly wards than to the quiet, tree-shaded Roaringhorn gardens and the similarly luxurious estates beyond its walls.
The stable doors stood open, and Beldar hastened to them. 'A coach, quickly! I'm bound for Hawkwinter Hall,' he called.
The stableboy's head arose from a stall and shook denial. 'Can't be done, lord. The streets 'twixt here and there be still crowded with folk coming from the City of the Dead.'
Beldar frowned. Were the rumors of Lord Piergeiron's death true, after all? 'From the Deadrest? What befell?'
The tow-headed lad blinked. 'You've not heard? A brawl broke out yestereve, inside the Deadrest walls-a terrible fray, 'twas! At nightfall, with it still raging, the Watch shut the gates.'
'With people inside?'
'Aye, so! Many died, and a lot more sore-hurt. Some came out screaming and scramble-witted. They say carts by the score took the wounded to Hawkwinter Hall for healing. All manner of mounts and carriages still be going hither and yon-streets're full.'
'Well, that'll put a crimp in Taeros's morning!'
'Oh, he weren't at Hawkwinter Hall come dawn,' the boy said loftily, obviously delighted to know so much more than dashing Lord Beldar. 'Ne'er came home last night, the servants're saying. Yer friend Lord Helmfast, neither.'
Beldar's heart plunged. For once, he wasn't furious servants always seeming to know so much about noble business. Plucking a silver coin from his purse, he waved it at the wide-eyed lad.
'Tell me all, and this is yours.'
The temple bells were chiming their last time before highsun as Beldar swung down from his swiftest horse, lathered from its gallop out and around the city, and in again by the South Gate.
He raced up the clubhouse stairs, calling for Taeros as he ran. Of all the Gemcloaks, the Hawkwinter seemed to treasure this haven most highly.
And if not Taeros, well, gathering here for a late-and for some, second-morningfeast was fast becoming a daily ritual.
The door, however, was closed and locked. A note addressed to Roldo Thongolir was pinned to it with a small silver knife.
A Hawkwinter table knife. Beldar pulled it free, spirits lifting at recognizing the firm, neat hand of Taeros on the parchment.
I hope you've already eaten, the note read, for instead of the usual bellyfilling, we'll be meeting at Master Dyre's worksite on Redcloak Lane. Seek chaos and ruin-of late, our shared banner. If you're not there by five bells past dawn, we'll proceed without you.
Taeros had signed it with his usual rune. Beldar frowned at that mark. Redcloak? The site of their mock battle? What business could await there? And why was this addressed solely to Roldo, when it concerned them all?
Five bells past dawn had come and gone, but not by much. If he hurried, he might be able to catch his friends, or learn whither they were bound, and follow.
He gave the parchment a wry smile. Didn't every leader go about his business much the same way?
A few workmen were hauling rubble out into carts standing in Redcloak Lane and morosely probing what was left of the stone foundations. Their work had exposed the cause of the collapse: a new tunnel connecting with the old, damp wellhouse underway Dyre had walled off.
The guildmaster shoved at the ladder they'd put down into the new tunnel, making sure it was steady. Nodding, he took up a lantern and led the way down into the gloom, sure-footed as a cat.
His daughters followed ably enough with their own lamps, closely followed by their trio of lordlings: the fair- haired Helmfast lad, as protective of Naoni as any wood-nymph her tree; the smart-tongued Hawkwinter; and the sour-faced one in the black cloak whose name Dyre kept forgetting.
Then they were in the tunnel, turning their backs to where the collapse had blocked it and striding beyond reach of daylight-where Dyre all but forgot the others, barely noticing when one of his daughters slipped past.
'Not dwarf work,' he mused, lantern held high to study the fitted stones of the passage where they arched overhead, with nary a crude lintel-slab in sight, 'but close to it.'
