The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [153]
It was mid-morning when Beldar checked his reflection in a gilt-edged mirror taller than he was, grimacing at the effect of eyepatch, thin black mustache, and plumed, broad-brimmed hat-not to mention the assortment of bruises and scrapes he'd incurred the last few days. Ye gods, he looked like a villainous pirate from some two-copper chapbook!
Tilting his hat to a more rakish angle, Beldar gave his image a self-mocking salute, touching fingertips to forehead and then tracing a pair of circling flourishes. Scaling the hat to the floor in disgust, he snatched up his gemweave cloak.
Lacking all desire to explain his eyepatch to the family just yet, he took the back stairs, departing the High House of Roaringhorn by the servants' entrance. The usually bustling courtyard was quiet, but the din from the streets seemed more appropriate to the bustle and strife of the southerly wards than to the quiet, tree-shaded Roaringhorn gardens and the similarly luxurious estates beyond its walls.
The stable doors stood open, and Beldar hastened to them. "A coach, quickly! I'm bound for Hawkwinter Hall," he called.
The stableboy's head arose from a stall and shook denial. "Can't be done, lord. The streets 'twixt here and there be still crowded with folk coming from the City of the Dead."
Beldar frowned. Were the rumors of Lord Piergeiron's death true, after all? "From the Deadrest? What befell?"
The tow-headed lad blinked. "You've not heard? A brawl broke out yestereve, inside the Deadrest walls-a terrible fray, 'twas! At nightfall, with it still raging, the Watch shut the gates."
"With people inside?"
"Aye, so! Many died, and a lot more sore-hurt. Some came out screaming and scramble-witted. They say carts by the score took the wounded to Hawkwinter Hall for healing. All manner of mounts and carriages still be going hither and yon-streets're full."
"Well, that'll put a crimp in Taeros's morning!"
"Oh, he weren't at Hawkwinter Hall come dawn," the boy said loftily, obviously delighted to know so much more than dashing Lord Beldar. "Ne'er came home last night, the servants're saying. Yer friend Lord Helmfast, neither."
Beldar's heart plunged. For once, he wasn't furious servants always seeming to know so much about noble business. Plucking a silver coin from his purse, he waved it at the wide-eyed lad.
"Tell me all, and this is yours."
* * * * *
The temple bells were chiming their last time before highsun as Beldar swung down from his swiftest horse, lathered from its gallop out and around the city, and in again by the South Gate.
He raced up the clubhouse stairs, calling for Taeros as he ran. Of all the Gemcloaks, the Hawkwinter seemed to treasure this haven most highly.
And if not Taeros, well, gathering here for a late-and for some, second-morningfeast was fast becoming a daily ritual.
The door, however, was closed and locked. A note addressed to Roldo Thongolir was pinned to it with a small silver knife.
A Hawkwinter table knife. Beldar pulled it free, spirits lifting at recognizing the firm, neat hand of Taeros on the parchment.
I hope you've already eaten, the note read, for instead of the usual bellyfilling, we'll be meeting at Master Dyre's worksite on Redcloak Lane. Seek chaos and ruin-of late, our shared banner. If you're not there by five bells past dawn, we'll proceed without you.
Taeros had signed it with his usual rune. Beldar frowned at that mark. Redcloak? The site of their mock battle? What business could await there? And why was this addressed solely to Roldo, when it concerned them all?
Five bells past dawn had come and gone, but not by much. If he hurried, he might be able to catch his friends, or learn