XXVI
8 Tarsakh, the Year of the Gauntlet
'Your song is beautiful.'
Turning from the westering sea spreading out from Waterdeep, Pacys looked down at the speaker.
The priest Hroman looked up at him. A sling held his right arm, broken in the raid on the city. A healing potion would have quickly righted it, but even Waterdeep's vast stores had been hard pressed trying to save lives. Even Hroman's own abilities to heal himself through prayer had been given to the makeshift hospitals scattered throughout the city.
'Thank you for your kindness,' the bard replied. His fingers caressed the yarting's strings, making bridges and notes soundlessly, though his ear could hear every one through the touch of his fingers. 'It's only one of the many songs that will be sung about the battle for Waterdeep… nothing unique.' He felt bad about sounding so bitter. 'Forgive me, my friend. I must sound very selfish in light of all that these people have been through.'
The streets around the Dock Ward teamed with a number of extra wagons pressed into service on behalf of the Dungsweepers' Guild. Debris filled several of the big carts, and their drivers headed them toward the Rat Hills while others came back for more. Their wheels clattered across the cobblestones, a constant undercurrent to all of the other activity filling the dock.
Out in the harbor, fishing vessels plied the waters with nets, sieving in the dead and the wreckage left from broken and burned ships. Not as many of the ships as had at first been feared had been lost during the attack. Even the damage to the waterfront along Dock Ward was reparable once new wood was brought in.
Most of the city's dead had been reclaimed, but a large knot of people still gathered at Arnagus the Shipwright's where the watch brought any corpses they recovered. So many were still missing, and many more than that were gone.
Hroman shook his head. 'After something like this, it's only natural to start acting human again. It makes the world small again, and you only have to think about your own troubles-which don't seem too large for a time.'
Pacys nodded. 'You've grown wise, like your father. He'd be proud.'
'I hope so.'
The bard sat at the edge of a badly listing dock. Over half of it had broken off during the attack and rough splinters shoved out from the end. He noticed the dark circles under the priest's eyes. 'Have you eaten?'
'Not yet. I've been working the night shift at the hospital, giving aid where I could, and last rites for those that needed them.' Tears of frustration and near-exhaustion glittered in Hroman's haunted gaze. 'We seem to lose so many more of the weak ones during the night.'
'Yes,' Pacys replied. 'I think it's because the night is more tender, more accepting. A dying man doesn't seem to fight quite so hard when death is disguised as sleep.'
'It's still death.'
'Each man has his own race to run, Hroman. Even you can't stop that.'
'No, but Oghma willing, I'll interfere with it whenever possible.'
'Come,' Pacys said gently, gesturing to the dock beside him. 'Sit and share morningfeast with me. Several of the festhalls and taverns have remained opened night and day since they were able. Piergeiron, Khelben, Maskar, and several others of the city's officials and wealthy have opened their own larders to stock the kitchens of every establishment willing to serve a meal to those who are helping clear the city.'
'I suspect a lot of graft is going on through the city while such generosity is being shown,' Hroman said sourly. Still, he sat beside the old bard, stretching out awkwardly as he struggled to find comfort.
'The guard is policing the streets with a heavy hand, and even the most arrogant of nobles and merchants are rumored to be helping keep the distribution paths open and safe,' Pacys said, removing the cloth that covered the basket he'd been given a few minutes ago. He'd played the yarting, trying to soften all the destruction and sadness that he'd toiled in for the last few days.
On the first day he'd helped remove most of the debris that clogged Ship Street and the nearby streets fronting the harbor. On the second day, since he was one of the eldest and suffered wounds of his own from the battle, he'd helped wash the corpses that had been recovered, getting them ready for burial. Most funerals were small things handled in the other wards. In the days since, the tasks had alternated between clearing away and recovering the dead.
'And how are you?' Hroman asked. 'I'm forgetting my manners.'
'Well.'
'What about the wound in your side?'
Pacys stretched gingerly. A sahuagin trident had gouged his side, requiring a number of stitches, and there was the wound in his arm. Still, he appeared to be mending, though slowly.
'Troubling,' the old bard admitted, 'but not disabling.'
Hroman glanced around at the battered and broken shops and taverns. 'So many people lost everything they had.'
'At least they live,' Pacys pointed out, 'that those material losses may be grieved over. They'll rebuild.'
'In time,' Hroman agreed. He scratched at a dried blood stain on his shirt. 'So is this the song that you believed you were called for to sing?'
Pacys hesitated, searching his feelings again for the answer himself, finding mostly a brittle, hollow ache left over from the raid. He shook his head. 'I don't know.'
'I listened for a time just now,' Hroman admitted, 'before you knew I was there.'
Pacys didn't refute the statement. He'd known the priest was there. A man living on the road, singing for his meals and lodging, such a man learned more than just pretty words and a lively tune.
'Your song truly is beautiful, old friend,' Hroman said honestly. 'I felt the pain of this city and the people who live here, and I felt the fear that still hangs about in the shadows.' 'There are too many songs like it already, and more coming.'
Pacys drew a knife from his boot and cut slices from the small half loaf of bread he'd been given in the food basket. He covered the slices with ham spread made fresh that morning, then passed a sandwich to the priest.
Hroman accepted it with thanks.
'On every street corner,' Pacys said, 'you'll find a bard. They're all composing songs about the raid, even those who weren't in Waterdeep that night. They've come from far and wide, trailing word of the story back.'
'This is what you believed you were called for?'
'Yes,' Pacys said, 'and I still believe that, but there is something missing.'
'What do you mean?'
'I've worked on the song about the raid for days,' the old bard replied, 'and have it shaped much as I want it, but there's more.'
'More? You're sure of that?'
'Yes. Even as much work as I've done on it, the song yet remains unfinished.'
'How do you know?'
Pacys smiled at the younger man. 'How do you know a prayer is left unfinished?'
'Every priest is trained on the elements of a prayer,' Hroman replied. 'There's the invitational, the declaration-, the body of the message, and the closing.'
'Sadly,' Pacys said, 'many bards believe it's the same with a song or a tale. Jokes, however, may be so mechanically inclined, but even within that art there are a number of allowances. In your vocation, my friend, the mind trains the ear, but in mine it's the ear that trains the mind.'
'You remain hopeful, then.'
Pacys smiled. 'I yet live, and my song is undone. I've been following it for fourteen years. I can't allow myself to believe that I've been led this far and there will be no crescendo.'
Quietly and efficiently, Hroman bowed his head and asked a blessing on the meal. Pacys joined him, finding his spirits even further lifted by the sincere belief in Hroman's words as he asked for peace and healing to descend on the city.
