The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [119]
Beldar Roaringhorn lay on his back, waiting, the air cold on his skin, wondering how much this was going to hurt and if it was his first step toward glory or if he was making the worst-perhaps the last-mistake of his life.
Mrelder drew in a loud, shuddering breath. Sweat was almost blinding him, now, dripping off his nose in a steady stream. He blinked furiously; until that ward was back in place, bonded once more to its neighbors, he dared not flinch or falter-unless he wanted to bring the house down in a deadly heap of falling stones that would kill everyone in it and probably open a new shaft down into deepest Undermountain, too…
A tiny chip of stone Golskyn knew nothing about was ready in Mrelder's belt, the putty that would hold it inside the oval of the ring already stuck to it-and one of his father's hairs was thoroughly tamped into that putty.
He'd cast seven spells on that lone hair, trusting in something he'd read at Candlekeep. Each magic captured his father's hand, or reflection, or some deed or property of Golskyn of the Gods as if from Golskyn's own viewpoint. If Watchful Order magists, or Mystra forefend, the Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep, probed the ring in time to come, Mrelder wanted them to see nothing at all of a certain young sorcerer and a lot about a man who called himself Lord Unity.
That time of reckoning might not be all that far off. From what little he'd seen of the high and mighty of Waterdeep-not the strutting nobles, but those who held real power at the Palace and over magic and the defenses of the City of Splendors-Mrelder was stone cold certain of one thing: any attempt to control a Walking Statue would instantly awaken the full awareness and wrath of the Lords, the City Guard, and the Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep.
When that happened, the son of Lord Unity wanted his father and his fellow ambitious fools of Amalgamation to face the spell-storm-not Mrelder the sorcerer.
Golskyn was on his knees, hands spread like reaching claws over Roaringhorn's face. He allowed only himself to do the deft spell-surgery that would cost the noble his right eye, and bind the beholder orb floating bloodily at hand into its place.
Magic flared up bright and white, the priest murmured, "Close your left eye and keep it closed," and blood fountained.
Everyone standing in the doorway drew in a breath at the same moment in what was almost a gasp.
Then a trembling, sweating Beldar Roaringhorn strained suddenly against the knees-Mrelder's-that were pinning down his wrists. As the grafting began, he gasped out a ragged curse.
* * * * *
The sound of distant temple bells drifted in through the open windows of the Dyres' front room, the sixth chiming since highsun. Lark polished the silver candlesticks one last time and stepped back to survey the funeral spread critically.
Neat rows of mugs stood ready beside a barrel of ale, and heaped plates of almond cakes were arranged down the polished table. Naoni and Faendra stood ready to serve the traditional fare, clad in softly flowing gray gowns, the traditional family mourning hue.
That was Naoni's idea, and Lark thought it clever. When Master Dyre's workmen came from the City of the Dead, they'd see how Cael was being honored and hear the silent message that they, too, were regarded as family. Given such encouragement, they should linger long and drink freely.
Lark turned to her mistresses. "You're certain you don't want me to stay?"
Naoni shook her head. "Things are well in hand." Leaning close, she whispered, "Faen'll serve the men warmly; she knows how fine she looks in that gown."
They traded grins. "Off with you, then," Naoni added more loudly. "'Twon't do to be late on your second night at the Notch."
Lark undid her apron and put it in Naoni's hand. "There's something you should know," she said softly. "All day someone's been following us."
Naoni smiled gently. "My halfling guardians."
"Not so." Faendra's hearing was very keen when she wanted it to be. "I glimpsed him, too-never a really good look, but