'She spoke truth, just not the whole truth. Betimes what's left unsaid means more than what's uttered.'
Naoni gnawed on her lip. 'I know of some suitable halflings. If you've coin enough, let's go hire them right now-one to follow Lark, the other Beldar.'
'I do, and thank you. 'Tis vital we retrieve the slipshield before anyone learns its secrets.'
Naoni set off at a brisk pace, and Korvaun fell into step beside her. After a few strides, she said wistfully, 'I hope you're wrong about Lark.'
'So do I,' he replied.
And while we're hoping, he thought grimly, let's hope all of Waterdeep's wrong about Elaith Craulnober.
Returning to The High House of Roaringhorn in his dirty, bloodied state had been surprisingly easy, once Beldar decided to swagger along with his sword half-drawn and his hand on its hilt. He'd greeted the curious stares of Watchmen and Roaringhorn servants alike with nods and grimly satisfied smiles, and passed on his way leaving them whispering and wondering.
In fact, life was surprisingly easy, he concluded grimly, when expectations were low. Men like him were a source of gossip and inconvenience. Fortunately, it was the nature of humankind that folk enjoyed the former sufficiently to consider the latter a fair price for their entertainment. The Watch would make inquiries into duels fought that night, and the House servants would inform the steward that some sort of financial amends would likely need to be made on the morrow. In short, business as bloody usual.
By the time Beldar reached his room, his head was throbbing, and the burning in his new eye made him long to tear it from his head. He ached all over, and no wonder. Each garment he shed revealed new bruises.
Gazing regretfully at his ever-handy decanters, Beldar went to one end of the sideboard, unlocked the hidden compartment there, and downed a healing potion.
It snatched away his headache in the time it took him to pad to his waiting bath. Ah, a long, warm soak! Sorbras was worth every last shiny dragon the Roaringhorns paid him…
The waters did nothing to ease his mind nor banish his restlessness, and Beldar lingered only long enough to scrub himself clean. Dripping his way back to his bedchamber, he found his bed far less inviting than he'd expected.
Bone-deep exhausted he might be, but something within him was driving him on; he had to be out there again, in the night.
Seeking… danger, perhaps. Well, hadn't Roaringhorns been famous battle-lions of old, and was he not a Roaringhorn? No battle was ever won, and no lands ruled, by a man languidly counting his bruises in a scented bath.
He'd need boots on his feet for the streets and something above them more suitable than an open-fronted, swirling chamber-robe.
Beldar padded barefoot to his robing-rooms.
He had no spell-spurning talisman to replace the one the half-dragon had destroyed, but he refilled his gem- pouch and selected his grandes 'dashing yet refined bladesman of action' garb. Crimson shirt, breeches fashioned of red and black, black tunic… the eyepatches he'd ordered had been delivered, and Beldar selected one that bore a stylized lightning bolt across its darkness. Dashingly overbold, but it suited his mood.
His gemcloak was as bright and unwrinkled as if he'd never worn it. Beldar settled it around his shoulders in all its ruby splendor. Folk were beginning to know him in the streets by its striking hue; the notoriety he'd long sought was his at last.
Yet notoriety was a poor substitute for destiny. Small wonder he'd snatched so eagerly at the first chance at fulfilling the Dathran's prophecy. He touched his eyepatch lightly; yes, he'd quite literally 'mingled himself with monsters.' The Dathran had promised such a mingling would be the beginning of his path to greatness. She'd also said he'd be a deathless warrior and a leader of men.
Beldar smiled grimly at his reflection in the tall robing room mirrors-a smile that froze when a grim thought smote him: The Dathran had said nothing about the sort of men he'd lead nor the nature of his great and unknown destiny. Did not scoundrels require leaders more than honest men? Had he taken his first step to lordship over rogues and villains?
Frowning, he swept down the back stairs and out into the street. He knew not what he sought, aside from trouble. He'd welcome another chance at that half-dragon-or Hoth, for that matter. And this time, he'd fight his own battle!
'I am Beldar Roaringhorn,' he proclaimed in a self-mocking murmur as he turned a corner, hand on hilt, 'and 'twere best, m'lord, if you feared me.'
A Watchman lounging in the lee of a greathouse gate-pillar waiting for a certain personage to obligingly step out of that gate to be arrested, overheard that murmur, and rolled his eyes before carefully not smiling. Young idiot.
He would have been more than surprised to know that for all his grandly carefree air, Beldar Roaringhorn agreed with his assessment.
Not knowing this, the Watchman had to settle for being surprised to notice a halfling in leathers the hue of mottled gray stone-and with hair to match-stroll along the street after Beldar, pausing briefly here and there to admire carved faces on pillars and grand ornaments on iron gates, but glancing repeatedly at the young noble.
A bit old and small for a cudgel-thief. Ah, but perhaps the elder Roaringhorns had hired a 'vigilant eye' to see where their young lance went and what he got up to… yes, that must be it.
It must be pleasant to have coins to waste on such matters. Heh, if he came into gold, he'd find better uses for it! Fine horses, hunting hounds, perhaps a lodge on the verges of Ardeepforest where he'd guest friends for days a-hunt and nights of loud, laughing revelry. Warm fires, games of dice and cards, plenty of sizzling roasts and cold ale to wash them down with-and pretty lasses to serve it all, aye!
He went on thinking such thoughts long after his memories of Beldar Roaringhorn's passage faded.
Sun or starlight, Waterdeep never slept. Beldar's aimless stroll had taken him into Castle Ward and past the Palace, where the hurrying throngs were always thickest. The streets were busier than usual, but as he turned into Sea Ward, he looked back, as was his wont, to admire the lamplit Palace, standing forth proudly from the rocky flank of Mount Waterdeep.
Descending its magnificent stone, his gaze fell upon a small, gray-clad figure. Nothing unusual about an aging halfling walking a street in Waterdeep; as Taeros never failed to observe, they were scarcely in short supply.
Ha ha. Yet when he turned a corner nigh Myarvan the Minstrel's gaudy mansion, glanced idly back again, and saw the same halfling, Beldar grew thoughtful.
He knew no hin personally-not beyond nodding and handing coins to those who worked in shops he frequented. Beldar was obviously armed and just as obviously young and strong, so no skulk-thief would think him easy prey.
Easily spotted, yes, and thus easily known. Moreover, known to the gossips of Waterdeep as an idle young blade, not the Roaringhorn heir, and hence worth no ransom, nor likely to be carrying serious coin. So this was a spy rather than a thief… but for whom? Who had reason to follow Beldar Roaringhorn?
Who but Golskyn of the Gods and his surly son?
Hmmm. The most likely culprits, yes, but they'd hire no halpfling. Their sneak-eyes would be a human with some beast claw or tail hidden under-cloak.
Well, he'd take an unusual route and so make certain this was a spy.
Beldar turned onto one of the paths-stairs, actually-cut into the flank of the mountain, ascending to the City wall. Too narrow and windswept to be used by the Guard, who had their own tunnels inside the mountain, safe from winter sleet and summer storms, this sparsely lamplit way was mostly used by folk desiring to hold long conversations in relative privacy, such as shady traders and lovers. Thankfully, there seemed to be a shortage of both at the moment.
Perhaps a hundred steps up, Beldar stopped and looked back. The small gray figure was right behind him,
