Elminster's Daughter - Ed Greenwood [5]
Merry blue-gray eyes darted a glance at the gaping kitchen lad from under dark brows and gave him a wink ere turning to favor old Phaerorn with a nod, a wave, and the words, "Thy son's working out just fine in Suzail, Forn, and looking likely to be wedded by full spring, if he's not careful!"
The old cook's jaw dropped, his eyes widened with delight- and the briskly walking visitor was gone, a curved pipe floating along in his wake like some sort of patient snake.
"Wha-wha-who…" Naviskurr gabbled.
Master Phaerorn folded his arms across his chest, gave his scullery knave a wide grin, and said triumphantly, "That's why we keep that door clear, lad. Yer Mystra-loving, world-blasting archmages don't look kindly to stepping knee-deep in kitchen slops, look ye!"
"Uh…" Naviskurr blinked, swallowed, and asked weakly, "Mystra? Archmage? Who was he?"
"Just an old friend of mine," Phaerorn said briskly, turning back to his sizzling spits. "No one ye'd know. His name's Elminster."
With a chuckle he turned the roasts, waiting for the storm of questions to come.
Instead, to his ears came a soft, rather wet thump. After stirring thickening gravy and licking the steaming wooden spoon consideringly, Phaerorn turned to see just how the lazy lad had made such a sound-and discovered Naviskurr sprawled across all four baskets of slops. His least promising scullion yet was staring sightlessly at the skillet-bedecked rafters. He'd fainted.
Phaerorn sighed and flicked his spoon at the lad. Perhaps a few drops of hot gravy would revive him. Or perhaps not. Ah, the mighty valor of the young…
* * * * *
Her mother's apprentices had been lying to her, of course. They must have been. Yet they'd been angry and taunting her, not watching their words… and they'd acted later as if they shouldn't have told her what they had. One had tried to make her think they'd been drunk and uttered nonsense, but the others had tried to use drink on her to find out exactly what they'd said and she'd remembered.
Crouching on a rotten and unsuitable rooftop that would send tiles clattering down right in front of the Watch if she dared to move, Narnra thought up some furious curses at the scudding moon.
She'd been over these memories more times than she could count and knew- knew-that Goraun and the other apprentice gemcutters had been telling the truth, or thought they were. It had taken her a year of careful probing to make sure they literally meant Maerjanthra Shalace the sorceress, better known to all Wa-terdeep as Lady Maerjanthra of the Gems, jeweler to the nobility, was a dragon with scales and wings and not merely the sort of "dragon" that meant a bad-tempered, powerful woman who was to be feared.
Whichpowerful wizard? They'd never told her that.
"Three gold," came a voice from below as another Watch officer joined the others peering about the alley. The two who were halfway up the stair that led to Narnra turned at something in his voice and asked gruffly, "So?"
"Well, so he was lured, right enough. But our victim's Caethur the moneylender."
There was a general growl of disgust. "Pity the thief didn't slay him," one of the others said. "Or did he?"
"Oh, he'll live, though it might be long years, if ever, before he has much of a voice again. But unless Clutchcoins knows who did him-and will tell us-I think Waterdeep's best served if we-"
"Exactly," an older, deeper voice agreed. "I'm sure there's something that needs our urgent attention going on over River Gate way, about now. Help Caethur to the Watchpost, and see if he feels like making us all wiser. I'll be deeply unsurprised if he does not."
* * * * *
The bearded old man ignored the grand entry stair and its flanking stone pillars, striding instead up a flight of steps set into the mossy side of a rock garden that rose to the right of the