The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [176]
No sooner had they stepped into the high-vaulted forehall than a serving-lass stopped beside Lark to whisper, "Is this…?"
Lark nodded, rolling her eyes, and towed Taeros firmly away.
"What was that about?" he demanded.
"You're gaining a following among the serving women of Waterdeep. Some of their mistresses, too, I'll warrant."
"Well, naturally. Ah, could you be more specific?"
"The Queen of the Forest-your tale of the great tree spared because a woodsman loved its dryad. It's become a great favorite-I liked it myself. The end surprises, and tells truth about the treachery of love."
Taeros's stomach plunged in the general direction of his boots. "A favorite? One of my stories? But how-?"
"Crumpled parchments," Lark replied matter-of-factly. "A Hawkwinter maid found some of your discards and smoothed them out-parchment should never be wasted, Lord. She liked what she read and has been collecting them since, piecing together tales and passing them around. You could make an honest living with your quill, were you so inclined."
"All gods forbid!" he said, jesting to cover his embarrassment. "That sounds far too much like work."
"Hmmph," Lark replied.
Then they were in the main hall, and she said no more.
The floors and walls were of glossy-polished marble, the former expansive and the latter towering and draped in rich purple draperies, falls of gathered and pleated luxury larger than the sails of many of the ships currently crowded into Waterdeep's harbor.
Judging by the din and elbow-close crowding, all Waterdeep was here, talking and drinking excitedly in finery that bid fair to outshine many a royal court.
As the Gemcloaks swept forward with their ladies on their arms, Faendra was pleased to note how many heads turned to measure them. A fanfare drew her eye to a raised stage. On it stood Piergeiron himself, pale of face but as erect and tall as ever, clad in dazzling half-armor that shone with gems and glow-spells and undoubtedly with protective magics, too. Beside him, lounging with one elbow resting on the rather dubious charms of a carved mermaid statue that was slightly larger than life, was Mirt the Moneylender, in crimson silks hung with gaudy golden medals larger than his hairy fists. In the shadows not far behind the stage, slender and dark and half-smilingly watchful, stood Elaith Craulnober.
"He's here," Taeros murmured. "Let's hope Beldar's trust is well placed."
From the gasps and murmurs arising from behind them, it seemed others were far more alarmed-and, yes, scandalized-by the sight of the notorious Serpent than the Hawkwinter.
"Well!" One matron's voice cut through the chatter like a falling axe. "So 'tis true: they're letting just anyone in here!"
"That how you got in, Sharpfangs?" someone else drawled, and there were chuckles and titters amid the outraged feminine roaring that followed.
"Guildmasters!" an elderly voice quavered with indignation, on its way past. "Tradesmen! Has proud Waterdeep sunk so low? They'll be opening the doors to sailors next!"
After an initial admiring glance at the slender maidservant, clad in a simple black gown and free of all ornamentation but a single emerald ribbon bound high about her left sleeve, Taeros Hawkwinter had refrained from glancing at the Lark on his arm more than briefly. But he couldn't help but notice now how she stiffened beside him at the sight of Elaith Craulnober and how her hand tightened, just for a moment.
"Easy, lass," he murmured, as gently as he might soothe one of his falcons. "He's only one elf, and standing on the far side of two men who could best him in battle, either one."
Lark gave him a unreadable glance, then turned to take the tallglass of Midsummer wine a servant was offering her.
"Aha!" Roldo exclaimed. "Proper drinks! Delopae, are you going to-?"
"Balance two tallglasses on my bitebolds? I think not, Lord Thongolir-just as you obviously think not!" Phandelopae snapped.
"Though considering some of our fellow guests, such a show might meet with approval."