The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [114]
Varandros gaped at her-and even more at his dainty little Faendra, who was handily stitching up a gash along the corpse's ribs and not looking the least bit squeamish. His younger apprentice, Jivin, hovered in the buttery doorway all but wringing his hands.
"What is this?" Dyre growled.
The three looked up. "I-I had to bring him here, Master," Jivin said hastily. "There was nowhere else for him."
"He'd no family, poor man," Naoni added. Dipping her cloth in a fresh basin, she gently wiped blood from the battered, staring face.
As the gore came away, Varandros recognized Cael, one of the masons who'd been setting the foundation on Redcloak Lane.
"You did right, lad," he said heavily. Every man in his employ was entitled to a fair wage and a decent burial. Yet this was not a task he'd wish on his daughters. "What of Lark? Where's the wench?"
Naoni's reply was quiet but firm. "She comes early and gives an honest day's work, Father, and in the evenings, she serves at an inn or a revel in one of the great houses. She said she'd be working late last night and would take a bed at the inn. She'll be here in time for the churning and the cheese."
Dyre nodded approvingly. "A hardworking lass."
Nor was Lark the only one. Almost for the first time, Dyre noticed how capable Naoni was, how warm and welcoming she made their home. She had her own craft, too, the spinning of fancy threads. Several skeins of pale, glittering green hung behind her on a neat row of hooks. Her mother would have loved them. Aye, Ilyndeira had been fond of pretty needlework…
Rare nostalgia swept through Varandros. He seldom thought of his wife, despite the living reminders before him. Faendra had her mother's pink-and-gold beauty, and Naoni, though plain and pale, had Ilyndeira's long, slender fingers. His gaze fell to Naoni's hands-and his brow darkened.
Around each wrist was a ring of dark bruises.
"What happened to your arms?"
Faendra looked up from her work, eyes blazing in sudden wrath. "She was rough-handled during the fight in Dock Ward yesterday."
"You were there?" Dyre demanded, aghast.
"Aye," Naoni said. She met his gaze with calm gray eyes. "No lasting harm was done, Father. Lord Helmfast saw us safely home."
"Again, that insolent pup!" Dyre's shout rang around the room, and Jivin fled. "I told him to stay away from me and mine! Was it he who marked you?"
"No, 'twas the Watch!" Faendra said indignantly. "They called us noblemens' doxies, and Naoni gave one of them a clout to remember her by!"
"Good for you, lass," he said gruffly, pride rising through his anger. "What part did Helmfast have in this?"
"It was a chance meeting in the street, Father. He and Lord Hawkwinter drew their swords to defend us against the Watch."
"Did they, now? Well, that's something," he said grimly, "but never forget this: They're still the same worthless, unthinking louts who nearly brought down all our work on Redcloak Lane!"
Naoni looked up. "They intended no harm."
"Bah! What of intentions? They'd not intend to drag a woman's good name into the dust either! To them it's all fun and frolic, but the damage done is the same!"
The look Naoni gave him was surprisingly steely. "I'm not such a child, Father, that I know nothing of the ways of men. Nor am I a fool who simpers and swoons whenever a man looks at me. Neither's Faendra. You needn't fear for us."
"That's simple truth, Father." Faendra narrowed her eyes in a parody of menace. "'Tis the men who should tremble before us."
That teased a faint smile from Dyre.
Seeing it, Naoni considered the matter resolved and said briskly, "I've called the coffinmaker and the carter and sent word to the keepers of the City of the Dead. Cael can be buried six bells after highsun, after down-tools, so those honoring him need miss no work. Perhaps