CHAPTER ELEVEN

One of the things that made the library Taeros Hawkwinter's favorite room in all Hawkwinter House-gods strike that, in all Waterdeep and the wider world beyond-was that it had a door that locked.

He set that lock now and turned to regard the principal reason this was his favorite place, "the refuge of my soul," as he'd declared it grandly to himself one summer evening years ago: his books. Rows and rows of them, precious tomes that had cost more than he'd ever in his life spend on gems or clothing, no matter how often fashions changed.

Taeros ran a hand caressingly across the gilded, tooled, familiar spines of his treasures-tales of great men and women, of heroic deeds and glorious quests, the very fire, heart, and glory of what it was to be human. To matter.

Here was Aldimer's Histories of the Heroes, and there The Glory of the Dragon, Danchas the Scribe's glowing history of Azoun IV of Cormyr.

The Purple Dragon. Dead now, swept away in fittingly heroic sacrifice, dying in battle to save his realm, hewing down a dragon on a blood-drenched field.

What wouldn't he give to serve a man such as Azoun! Oh, not a king, but a leader whose name men murmured in genuine awe, a man so loved that those who wore his colors would unhesitatingly throw their lives away in his cause. To see that fierce loyalty like a flame in their eyes, to hear your lord's name chanted because the very sound of it bolstered courage and gave a sense of purpose.

Now, more than ever, Waterdeep needed such heroes-and to be shaken by the throat to open eyes and follow them, too. To lift Waterdhavian attention from daily coin-grubbing or the cut-and-thrust of proud noble rivalries, and look upon…

Taeros snorted aloud. Who? No faces came to mind. And who was he to tell Waterdeep what it needed, and be heeded? After all, what great deeds had he done?

He glanced at the locked, chained-to-the-table box wherein lay the precious parchments that would someday become Deep Waters.

Nothing, yet. Nothing beyond pondering things a trifle deeper than the frivolities that consumed the lives of his friends and their noble elders, especially the older nobles. Arrogant, feuding emptyheads and gossips, wasteful, cruel, selfish, malicious when crossed…

Enough. Suffice to say that he could point at nothing in all that parade of smeering faces and proud names to admire and emulate. Not one thing.

So what would befall if Piergeiron was truly gone and Waterdeep left lordless? Oh, Masked Lords abounded, but what of the tall, striding figure in armor at whom citizens could roar approval?

How went the song? Empty throne at the Palace…

As he tried to recall words for that tune, an angry face swim up in memory to glare at Taeros: Varandros Dyre, standing behind his desk glowering at them all.

The more Taeros pondered that stonemason's anger, and Dyre's snarls of a "New Day," the more sense the man seemed to make.

Not that Varandros Dyre was any sort of hero. A hard, grasping man, full of bile and indignation, and lowborn to boot.

Yet heroes were just his own fascination, and it was so typically noble a mistake to let one's own enthusiasms and views blind one to everything else. Perhaps, in crowded, bustling Waterdeep, it was men such as Dyre who could get things done. Small men, effecting small changes. Coin by coin, deal by deal… small tugs at the tiller of the great ship of a city, turning it slowly and ponderously on into a new sunrise, and… a New Day.

Taeros Hawkwinter snorted again. If Varandros bleeding Dyre could turn Waterdeep, so could the youngest, hitherto most idle flower of the Hawkwinters.

With Piergeiron dead or alive but with folk thinking he might be, it was time for change. The city needed a man to become a hero, or at least take the first longbooted stride toward glory.

Beldar. Beldar Roaringhorn, who'd always been at the fore in the Gemcloaks' adventures, and in settling their disputes. He'd never become "the" Lord Roaringhorn unless at least three cousins died first, but his kin weren't blind to his gifts. They'd noticed his quick wits and swift tongue and set him to studying law, the better to aid them in dancing around it. Beldar, of course, had excelled, and when inclined, he could argue a Black Robe to a standstill.

Beldar must be Waterdeep's tall man in armor! He was as strong of arm as he was keen of wit, the best blade among the Gemcloaks, and a skilled rider. The Roaringhorns bred racehorses and battle steeds, and Beldar had learned to ride almost before he could walk. Taeros could easily picture him in a high saddle, swinging a blood-drenched sword and bellowing Waterdeep's greatness in the thick of battle…

He was handsome, too, with an infectious energy and a gift for the grand gesture, and there was something more. Since boyhood, he'd carried himself with the confidence of one destined for great things. Because Beldar believed that, so did his friends. In time, so might others.

Belief was a powerful thing. Enough of it could turn a demon into a god. Of course, a man who lacked the gifts and personal discipline to support a lofty opinion of himself was no more than a buffoon, but Beldar had that discipline. He listened to his friends, and if those friends included wise Korvaun and-ahem-one Taeros…

Yes! There was no time to waste. So much had slipped away already…

Taeros whirled from his beloved books and made for the door. He hit the stairs like a racing gale, cloak streaming behind him, and was out the front doors before the doorguards could do more than gape.

Once through the front gates, he really started to hurry.

No less than three Watch patrols hailed Taeros Hawkwinter during his sprint down Whaelgond Way, for a lone running man in North Ward is unlikely to be anyone other than a thief. Yet it seemed his bright amber cloak was becoming known by sight; a senior officer striding out of a side-street curtly ordered off their heavy-booted pursuit-allowing Taeros to fetch up, panting and red-faced, at the Helmfast gates.

Thankfully, the splendidly armored guards there knew him, too, and let him stagger inside without a word… which was good, because Taeros was damned if he could find breath enough to produce one.

In similar manner he gained entrance through the front doors, where his ruffled state and limp-his knee was afire again, despite all the healing potions he'd swallowed-goaded a servant into scurrying ahead, as Taeros discovered when Korvaun came down the stairs at a frowning trot to meet him.

The hard-panting flower of the Hawkwinters pointed up the stairs in the direction of Korvaun's rooms, and Korvaun took that arm and helped Taeros ascend.

Broad steps tiled in swirling sea-waves of blue and green seemed to rush past, and then they were in the upper hall. Edwind Helmfast, Korvaun's eldest brother, strolled out of the gilded doors of the Great Solar, a chart in one hand and a large goblet in the other, and greeted them with a disapproving sneer.

Too winded to speak, Taeros managed to give the Helmfast heir a pitying look and was rewarded by utter bafflement dawning on the Young Captain's face.

Korvaun saw that and turned his head away to favor a marble bust of old Lathaland Helmfast with a grin. The founder of the house had been sculpted with a grim, lopsided smile, and that did not change as the two friends swept past together, and into Korvaun's rooms.

Korvaun slammed shut his door and whirled around. "What news? War? Castle Waterdeep's fallen over? The Lords've all been unmasked as Mother Amaltha's pleasure-girls? What?"

The winded Hawkwinter swallowed hard and gasped, "They're saying Piergeiron's dead!"

Korvaun nodded. "Every tenday, it seems. Is this talk gaining ground?"

Taeros nodded, still fighting for breath, and sank into a chair. "Half the city's saying so!"

The youngest Lord Helmfast headed for the decanters on his sideboard. "That's bad. Is anyone speaking out against these rumors?"

Taeros waved his hands in a "who knows?" gesture. "Probably, but against truth, rumor spreads faster, dies harder, and is usually far more interesting."

Korvaun turned with a frown, decanter in hand. "And reminds us of the obvious: Piergeiron will not outlive every rumor. Some dark day, that rumor will be true."

"Yes!" Taeros gasped. "Wherefore I ran here! If enough citizens can be made to think about such things, we've the best chance we'll ever have to change things in Waterdeep! Make the Lords unmask, at least."

"How are we going to manage that, without violence? I can't imagine they'll want to reveal themselves, or that, if we try to force change with shouts and crowds and fists in the streets, the drunks and thieves and troublemakers won't swiftly make sure the whole city explodes into swords and blood. We'll have shops smashed, folk murdered, and the Watch and the Guard called out. Jails and blood and very hard feelings, fences broken that might not be mended for lifetimes…"

Taeros stared back at his friend, his red face going white to the lips, and eagerly took and drained an offered goblet. Korvaun calmly filled it again.

Taeros stared down into it. "So for the good of the city," he asked it bitterly, "we should just sit and do nothing as the Lords choose someone else to sit in the Palace, and everything goes on as before?"

Korvaun shook his head. "No, I didn't say that. I pointed out peril right before us and wondered why unmasking the Lords matters so much. Convince me."

"Who proclaims our laws?"

"Piergeiron, of course."

"Right. Who writes and decides them?"

"The Lords of Waterdeep, Piergeiron and…"

"And the gods alone know how many masked Lords, yes. And who chooses them?"

Korvaun chuckled. "I know not-no one does. That is, the Masked Lords choose their own, ah, reinforcements."

"Aha, and who administers the laws?"

"The Watch, and the Magisters decide guilt."

Taeros waved his goblet. "Who does the Watch report to? How are the Magisters chosen?"

"They report to Piergeiron, ultimately, and I believe he appoints the Black Robes, too."

"Just so. How's the Open Lord chosen?"

Korvaun frowned. "Strangely enough, I've no idea."

"Precisely!" snapped Taeros, slamming his fist down on a sidetable. "The most powerful man in Waterdeep, and no one knows just who gave him that power or who else decides things for this city. Piergeiron's worthy and just-few dispute that-but who's to say the one who follows him will be anything of the kind? He'll be the choice of the Lords, of course, but who are they? Why're we so willing to trust in what's kept secret from us? Who's to say we're not obeying the whims of liches? Or the very hissing sahuagin we thought we hurled back from our walls? Why-"

There was a commotion outside Korvaun's closed door: Booted feet coming swiftly closer. Then the door opened precipitously and one of the house doorjacks thrust his head in and blurted, "Pray pardon the interruption, Lords, but you have a visi-"

A long arm jerked the man back out of sight, trailing a startled "Eeeep!"

The owner of that arm swept into the room, face set in dark anger.

Beldar Roaringhorn sported an impressive bruise on his jaw, and there was fire in his eyes as he kicked the door shut, causing a muffled groan and thump from its far side. Taeros swallowed anxiously as Beldar strode forward.

To meet Korvaun's gaze squarely, and snap, "Pray accept my apologies for… last night. The fault was mine; I shouldn't run around disparaging servants, no matter what foolishness they offer me. What I said darkened the memory of poor Malark. Your anger was just. Pray, let it be forgotten between us."

"Let it be forgotten," Korvaun agreed, stepping forward to offer Beldar a goblet.

The youngest Lord Roaringhorn took and drained it. "Fine stuff, and sorely needed!" He set it down with a thunk. "Now, to business."

Korvaun poured himself a goblet. "Taeros came to me a-fire, and now you. What fuels your flame? All this talk of Piergeiron's death?"

"That and more. The city's roused worse than I've ever seen it. Even when scaly things were slithering up out of the harbor and folk were trembling in their beds, Waterdeep stood together. Now the city feels like… like an alley-full of roughblades spoiling for a fight, eyeing you just before the first of them pulls his knife."

"And Malark's dead," Taeros said softly, seeing what lay beneath his friend's anger.

A ruby-red cloak swirled glimmeringly as Beldar whirled around. "Yes, hrast it," he snarled. "Dead, just like that! Gone from us when-when it should never have happened! He had years left to joke and prance and-years!"

Korvaun deftly replaced Beldar's empty goblet with a full one. "Tell us more."

"More?" Beldar snapped. "This isn't enough?"

"Humor me," Korvaun replied, his voice mild but firm.

Beldar stared at him, breathing hard, then sipped from his goblet, swallowed, and growled, "The old Open Lord may just be gone at last, so Malark's passing is forgotten in an instant… and the shopkeepers and dockers are snarling at us as both the cause and all that's bad and wrong about Waterdeep… and blast me if I can find the words to refute them, with my own mother, Mratchetta bloody Roaringhorn, sitting there in her pearl-and-gold bedchamber right now; shouting at her maidservants and everyone else within reach, to get out and scour every last jeweler in the city-just so she can find out how many sapphires Alys Jardeth has had fitted into her new upcomb, so she can have more!"

The rivalry between Alys Jardeth and Mratchetta Roaringhorn was well known, and a traditional source of sardonic amusement among the Gemcloaks, but it took few wits to see Beldar was deeply upset-and not about upcombs.

"That would be those tiara-trellis things the ladies use to make their hair stand up like a rooster's comb, yes?" Taeros asked quietly, to fill the furious silence.

Beldar nodded as he drained his goblet again, somehow managing not to choke in doing so.

"Beldar," Korvaun said quietly, "be fair to your mother. She's grown up knowing she's but a cousin of the Lords Roaringhorn, and that even if neither of them marry and produce heirs, they've a younger brother who probably will. Moreover, with nigh a dozen strong, capable male Roaringhorns striding the halls of your High House, and-forgive me-her neither the most beautiful nor the most capable noble lady in Waterdeep, with no head for business nor easy hostess graces, what does life offer her but frivolous pursuits?"

Beldar Roaringhorn looked up with murder in his eye, and for a moment Taeros wondered if he was going to lose one friend to a burial crypt or perhaps his own life through getting between the two of them… but then the leader of the Gemcloaks set down his empty goblet on the nearest bright-polished sidetable with exaggerated care, drew a deep breath, and whispered, "You… see clearly and speak truly, Korvaun. I thank you for that. As you say, how could my mother be otherwise?"

He strode to Korvaun's windows and asked the city outside grimly, "How can any of Waterdeep's nobility be otherwise? So all of us fine nobles stand blind to the anger in the streets or dismiss it as the usual grumblings of the underclasses."

He made a fist and drew his arm sharply up as if to smash his hand down on a handy table that wasn't there, and then burst out, "Why can't folk just know their place?"

Taeros and Korvaun exchanged glances. It was the youngest Lord Helmfast who ventured to say quietly, "So we stand here concerned but uncertain of how to proceed. I suggest we go see Mirt the Moneylender and ask his advice. After all, he's a merchant of Dock Ward, and-"

"As everyone knows," Beldar said wearily, "he's a Lord of Waterdeep. But come now, Korvaun- advice? Even assuming the truth of that old rumor, what wisdom can fall from the mouth of that puffing, strutting old pirate?"

"You might be surprised," Korvaun said quietly. "I was."

For a long moment his two friends stared at him. Taeros found his voice first. "You have much to tell us."

"On the way to Mirt's Mansion," Beldar added, striding to the door. Taeros and Korvaun hurried in his wake, cloaks swirling.