The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [30]
* * * * *
Muttering an apology, Hasmur Ghaunt hastily sat down again, almost toppling a decanter.
Imdrael shot him a look of contempt and asked Dyre in a low, eager murmur, "So what will we of the New Day do, exactly?"
"Are you with me?" Dyre asked, just as eagerly. "Each and every one of you? Guild oath?"
His four guests almost fell over each other's tongues giving their emphatic oaths, two of them nicking palms and slapping down blood onto the table in the manner of their guilds. Decanters danced, and Dyre's smile grew.
"You know the Lords control the very sewers beneath our feet?"
Every Waterdhavian knew that, and the four merchants said so.
"Wherever the sewers don't run just to suit them in their spying and rushing bands of thugs here and there by night to silence unruly commoners, they cause passages to be dug. As a Master Stoneworker, I see much of the ways beneath the cobbles, and I swear to you: this is truth."
Four heads nodded-and from somewhere below came the sharp creak of a board, as if someone was on the stairs.
Five heads turned with frowns of alarm to listen intently.
And heard only silence.
The stillness stretched until Dyre stirred and muttered warningly, "For the words we've traded here this night, we could be the next unruly commoners to be silenced, so-"
"We must protect ourselves!" Imdrael hissed.
The Master Stoneworker smiled thinly. "I've already started doing precisely that."
From below came the hollow boom of the door-knocker. The men of the New Day flinched in unison, grabbing hastily for daggers.
"Dyre," Lhamphur snarled through suddenly streaming sweat, "if this is some sort of trap-"
The Shark flung the door wide, peered down the stairs, and turned back to his guests with a smile.
"Alarm-cord still stretched, door still closed, and-hear that giggling?-my gels at the door outside, with hot platters of something to make us all a little less fearful! Men, 'tis time to talk of the new buildings we'll raise together before the season's out, and those we must repair before they topple! No New Day talk around the ladies, mind!"
"We're not fools, Dyre," Whaelshod muttered under his breath.
"Oh, no?" Lhamphur whispered, his own knuckles white on the hilt of his still-sheathed dagger. "Let's hope not, or the heads that roll won't be the ones wearing the masks of the Lords of Waterdeep."
* * * * *
You must find him, Piergeiron had said. From what I've seen this day, I'm certain any father would rejoice in such a son.
The First Lord's words echoed in Mrelder's mind, mocking him with the hope he'd cherished for more than a year. The false hope.
He knew. He had yet to open his eyes, but he knew the graft had been a failure.
There was a dull, phantom ache where his left arm had been. If the gods had granted Golskyn's prayers and found Mrelder a worthy host, he would now be aflame with searing pain. Not lightly did the monstrous gods award their favors.
A faint, unfriendly hiss came from somewhere beside him. Then another, slightly fainter.
Mrelder fought his way up through the darkness. As lantern-light flared before his eyes, he turned his head toward the hissings.
The dying sahuagin lay on a table beside him, its gills flaring weakly as it gasped out its last breaths. A foul scent came from the charred, blackened stumps that were all that remained of not one, but all four of its scaled arms.
Four times had the followers of Lord Unity attempted the graft, and four times Mrelder's body had refused to accept the gods-given improvement.
"My son lives," Golskyn said coldly, looming over Mrelder, "and the sahuagin dies." His tone left little doubt as to his opinion of this state of affairs.
"I… I'm sorry," Mrelder managed to murmur.
"My sentiments precisely," his father replied, each word burning like acid. He drew a long dagger from its belt-sheath. "The mongrelmen follow me because I tell them they are more, not less. They enjoy the special favor of the True Gods. They are already well along the path