The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [165]
He'd become someone important, after all. The voice commanding the Walking Statues of Waterdeep was coming from his own mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sky was fading from black to sapphire as Elaith Craulnober strode up the mountainside, his mood as foul as the cold, damp seawind blowing into his face.
He was in Waterdeep, gods cry all! Not Evermeet, not even Suldanessellar. He should have no lord's duties here, not in this noisy, stinking pile of humans and their coins!
Yes, he'd been born noble and raised as a royal ward. Yes, he'd honed skills bright enough to merit command in the royal guard. Yes, he'd been betrothed to a princess of Evermeet-and yes, he was heir to the Craulnober moonblade.
There it all ended. Hadn't he done enough dark work by now to break with all of that?
It must be bred into his bones, this sense of duty. Why else would the slipshields trouble him? Amnestria's ring told him when and where they were used, and slipshield magic-elven magic-had recently been flitting about Waterdeep like starving will o' the wisps rushing to mass drowning.
Though it irked, a few humans could be trusted with such power: oh-so-noble Piergeiron, and even that fat blusterer Mirt. The moneylender might resemble a walrus and outmass a boar, but his wits were almost elder-elf shrewd. Almost.
But now the latest litter of untrained noble whelps held not one, but two slipshields. This was intolerable.
It was also dangerous. They were empty-wits, a flock of bright-feathered, squawking goslings, prancing about blithely and brainlessly unaware that one among them was running with foxes.
How such a reckless fool as Beldar Roaringhorn had managed to acquire a beholder's eye of wounding was bewildering, but whoever was behind that transformation had sent slayers to defend the witless Roaringhorn against the fangs of the Serpent.
That was more than intolerable. Tincheron had gone missing in that battle in Elaith's service, and half-dragons grew not on trees.
Some Craulnobers had been dragon-riders. Matings of dragon and rider brought instant shame, and any offspring were outcast. Elaith had only ever heard of one during his lifetime-the one he'd sought out and befriended, Tincheron. Their long seasons of working together had built Elaith's greatest treasure: trust.
Tincheron would be found, or avenged.
* * * * *
The young noble stood on the city wall gawking down at the Walking Statues like a raw country dullard seeing something larger than his own barn for the very first time.
Marvelous. Not only was young Roaringhorn a fool and a careless waster of magic-really, dispatching an aging halfling with wounding magic when a knife-thrust would do-but, judging by his slack-jawed stupor, he was also a drunkard.
"Lord Beldar," he snapped.
The human spun around. His uncovered left eye-the remaining human one-stared at Elaith alertly enough.
Good. Not drunk, and judging by his expression, sober enough to be insulted by anyone not a close friend using his title and his first name together.
"I am Lord Beldar Roaringhorn," the lordling replied with dignity, putting hand to hilt.
Another insult, but at least the lad had sense enough to know when he faced a foe. Elaith smiled. "Men of your birth are, in Waterdeep, necessarily men of business. I've a shared venture to propose."
Roaringhorn's visible eye narrowed. "I think not," he replied flatly. "Roaringhorn interests couldn't possibly coincide with your affairs."
"Words a trifle grand for one five generations removed from reavers and horse thieves, but let it pass. You've a problem, Beldar Roaringhorn, and I a solution. In exchange for it, there's a small service you could do me."
Remarkably, the noble was managing to school his face into unreadable calm. "What problem might that be?"
"Dead halflings litter the streets so, don't they?"
Beldar Roaringhorn smiled bitterly. "And for a price, you'd make one particular corpse disappear?"
Elaith had already made it vanish, but saw no need to say so. "In return,