The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [106]
Thus far, his father seemed far from convinced. "So this paragon of virtue-whom I've not failed to notice you've yet to name-was seen coming from a moneylender? Is being short of coin, in your eyes, a mark of lordliness?"
"This Mirt wields much power in Waterdeep," Mrelder insisted. "Recall the fat bearded man the Watchmen were carrying with such haste they nearly ran us down? That was Mirt. When talk turns to the hidden Lords, Mirt's name is always spoken: everyone in the city 'knows' he's a Lord. Why else would Lord Piergeiron be carried to his mansion?"
"Mansion?" Golskyn's manner brightened. "He's wealthy, this Mirt?"
Mrelder knew well his father's preoccupation with wealth. The priest had amassed a fortune, and considered accumulated wealth one mark of a leader.
"Mirt's Mansion is a city landmark. They say he captained a mercenary company in his youth, and some insist he owned a pirate fleet! His pillaging obviously proved highly profitable."
His father nodded approvingly. A good part of Golskyn's fortune had been acquired the same way.
"So your young noble was summoned to Mirt's Mansion shortly after the wounded First Lord was taken there… yes, things may well stand as you say. Fighting prowess, his fellow lordlings look to him… and he has money."
Heavy footfalls echoed down the hall, approaching in cadence. Golskyn frowned at the open door.
"He wears a cloak woven from gemstones magically spun into thread," Mrelder added hastily, concerned he might lose his father's attention.
Golskyn turned to his son, grunting, "As to that, he'd be better off putting his coins to less vain uses. A wise man, in a city such as this, would put his coins into investments."
"That, good sir, is my intention," announced a cultured male voice.
The priest turned slowly back to face the doorway, every inch a holy patriarch.
In the doorway stood two mongrelmen, flanking a richly dressed young man. One made a swift gesture that made Golskyn's eyes widen.
"Gemweave cloak," the priest murmured. "Tall, fit, handsome, well-spoken-yes, he's much as you said, and he desires to join the Amalgamation! You failed to mention he'd been wounded in the fray outside our doors, but then, so was Lord Piergeiron, who's said to be a peerless fighter. You've done well, my son. Very well indeed."
Mrelder shut his gaping jaw with an audible click.
Later, he'd worry about how this young noble had so swiftly discovered what and where the Amalgamation was. Yes, he'd worry very much indeed, but just now…
"Lord Unity," he said grandly, "may I present Beldar Roaringhorn, a Lord of Waterdeep."
Lord Roaringhorn inclined his head to Golskyn in a small but adequately respectful bow. "I'm honored to meet so great a necromancer."
"I'm only a sorcerer, and a minor one at that," Mrelder said hastily, seeing his father's face turn stormy. Nothing angered Golskyn of the Gods more than being mistaken for a wizard of any sort. "Yet I'm often mistaken for a necromancer because folk misunderstand the natures of those with whom I associate. My father, Lord Unity of the Amalgamation Temple, is a great and holy man, a priest who speaks for gods whose names cannot be shaped by human tongues. The mongrelmen and those granted monstrous enhancements through the grace of these gods revere and follow Lord Unity."
Beldar Roaringhorn bowed again. "An honor. I hope you'll not think me irreverent when I say I'm willing to pay a small fortune to receive a graft similar to the one beneath Lord Unity's eyepatch."
Golskyn greeted these words with a dry, grating chuckle that might have held derision, admiration, genuine humor, or all three.
"Incorporating any graft is difficult,"