Beldar winced and shook his head. First Lord of Waterdeep? Never in all his grandest fancies had he envisioned such a future, yet this ghastly parody of his dreams wasn't even slightly tempting.
In a dark tunnel, Elaith wiped blood from his blade and rose, his inquiries complete. It had taken more time than he'd expected to cut the truth from the massive, six-armed man who'd fought Tincheron, but it was good news.
Tincheron hadn't fallen into the hands of the Amalgamation, but escaped into the sewers. Golskyn's cultists were searching for him, but so now were Elaith's agents; they should find the half-dragon first.
Which meant Beldar Roaringhorn's tormentors would outlive this day after all. Lord Unity's spells and servitors were astonishingly strong: It had taken most of Elaith's ready magic just to shield himself from the mad priest's wards and seeking-spells.
The Serpent grimaced as he sheathed his sword. No triumph, but a clean escape.
He shrugged. Now that Tincheron's safety was no longer an immediate concern, it would be wasteful to slay any potentially useful players just yet-especially when they had such interesting abilities and ambitions.
Elaith smiled. Coins and power were nice, but increasingly he preferred something else: entertainment.
And whatever befell, the Amalgamation couldn't fail to offer that.
There were only two customers in the Old Xoblob Shop. A pair of boys of about thirteen winters were sniggering over their anticipations of how a lass would shriek when fanged rat skulls sprouted from her Midsummer flowers. Beldar sent the lads a glare that sent them hastening out of the shop.
Dandalus gave Beldar a level look. 'Scaring off paying customers?'
In reply, Beldar pointed at the stuffed and mounted beholder overhead. 'How'd you kill Xoblob?'
Dandalus stroked his chin. 'Well now, it's been years… haven't minstrels sung a song or two about it?'
'I need truth, not tavern-tales! Is there a way to destroy a single eye without slaying the creature?'
'Aye, but you know the saying: if you're going to sword a king, best kill him in one thrust. Beholders are much the same.'
Beldar turned his head so as not to wound the shopkeeper and tore off his eyepatch.
Dandalus regarded him in silence for a long time ere replying, 'Aye, there's a potion that might do what you're after. Be warned: It'll burn like black dragon venom, and there's no certainty the beholder will survive his blinding.'
'Understood,' Beldar said crisply. 'How much?'
Dandalus reached under the counter and produced a small crimson vial. 'No charge. You've been a good customer.'
Beldar's smile was wry. Such an elegant farewell.
Elaith Craulnober watched Beldar depart then turned from his hiding place among the jars of monster bits and pickled curiosities lining the shelf and slipped back through the crevice in the wall behind. Mouse-size made it easy to enter and leave many a building.
In the adjacent alley his tiny form expanded, flowing like smoke into his normal size. He nodded to a pair of burly laborers loitering nearby, and they pushed away from the wall they'd been leaning on and ambled off, following Lord Roaringhorn until the next team took over. Folk Elaith had followed were seldom aware of their watchers.
Beldar Roaringhorn was growing steadily more interesting. At first he'd been no more than the easiest route to reclaiming the slipshields held by the Gemcloaks, but now…
He had tried to kill a certain notorious Serpent, but then most men-to say nothing of many elves-would do the same if given half a chance. And he was strong enough in mind and body to fight off the mind-numbing spell Elaith had cast in hope of breaking Golskyn's hold, and to be seeking his own death right now, to win free of his Amalgamation servitude-another stupid but noble human gesture.
It might still prove necessary to eliminate him, but Elaith liked to take the measure of those who crossed his path. Beldar Roaringhorn would be, at the very least, an interesting diversion.
First he had to keep the young fool from killing himself.
'Lord Roaringhorn,' he called.
Beldar turned slowly to face him, his uncovered eye burning with cold fire. 'I've heard elves measure time differently than men do, but is it common to wait until after a battle is over to honor an alliance?'
Elaith let the insult pass. 'Your right arm-how fares the wound you took in the tunnels?'
The Roaringhorn stared at him for a long moment before reaching into the ornamental slashing of his upper sleeve to explore a shallow cut. His expression suggested he was just now feeling the sting of that injury.
'When? How…?'
'Let's start with 'who' and 'why,' shall we? I dealt that scratch with a blade poisoned to numb into immobility. You seemed determined to kill me at the time, so it seemed a prudent tactic. Remember you nothing of the fray?'
'I led you to the Amalgation,' Beldar said slowly. 'Through the tunnels, to take them by surprise.'
'As we did, though they were not nearly as surprised as I'd have liked. The spell I cast on you wasn't equal to your will-'
'Which in turn, fell before Golskyn's magic,' Beldar remembered bitterly. After a frowning moment, he asked, 'How fares the half-dragon?'
'He's back among friends. How fares your eye? You seemed in considerable pain.'
The Roaringhorn smile was grim. 'A faint shadow of things to come.'
'The potion,' Elaith said flatly, drawing a gasp of surprise from the noble. 'A brave notion, but somewhat premature. Better to uncover all the mad priest's designs and shatter them and him together.'
The lordling's face emptied of expression. 'I'll think on your words, and I thank you for your council.' He turned away.
Elaith glided forward to smoothly the noble's sleeve, and said quietly, 'If you require assistance, you need look no further.'
Eye to eye, they studied each other for a long moment.
'Your word on it?' Beldar asked, just as quietly.
'I swear upon my honor as a Lord of Evermeet.' Elaith grew a wry smile. 'And, apparently, of Waterdeep as well!'
Every noble house employed errand-runners, but Korvaun Helmfast was surprised, to say the least, to see the steward of Helmfast Hall-a man of such years that he was white-haired to the tips of his downdagger mustache- come puffing up to proffer a small, neatly folded square of parchment. Gilt-edged, which meant the writer of the note was noble.
'What's this, Thamdros?'
'The Lord Roaringhorn impressed me with the urgency of his missive,' the steward wheezed, 'and urged me to deliver it myself.'
'Urged you?'
'With a sapphire, Lord. The smallest such I've yet seen, but it must have been worth a good hundred dragons. I refused it of course, my Lord.'
The steward's mustache fairly quivered with indignation. No honorable servant would accept such a gift from a noble not of his household, for doing so implied he wasn't adequately paid-or worse, that he was untrustworthy.
