The old moneylender stared at what he was holding with a strange, perplexed expression, and then said slowly, "I've no idea. No idea."

A memory came into Mirt's mind then, through a golden shimmering: the wry smile of a certain elf.

Well, now, perhaps he knew the answer after all.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The strangest and most painful day of Beldar Roaringhorn's life was the day he attended his own funeral.

He wore Korvaun Helmfast's form, of course, his fallen friend's blue cape around his shoulder and a pale but composed Naoni staunchly at his side.

It was… odd, watching others mourn him. His family's grief was deep and genuine-and puzzling. How could they mourn someone they'd never really known? All his life he'd felt apart, ignored, even scorned, yet the senior Lord Roaringhorn spoke with tearful pride of his son's accomplishments, his swordsmanship, his riding, and his eloquent knowledge of law. The Roaringhorn heir confessed to feelings of envy-even inadequacy-that his fallen junior had been most fitted to inherit, to lead.

Nearly as hard to hear were the words of his friends-apologies for doubting him, praise for saving Korvaun Helmfast by giving him a potion that transferred his wounds to Beldar himself.

For that was the comfort every mourner held dear, and only three knew to be false: Beldar Roaringhorn had died that a friend might live.

Well, Beldar lived that his friend might live, and he stood in silent tears, iron-determined to leave a legacy that Korvaun would be proud of.

Only the Dyre sisters knew his secret, and Faendra had already cornered him alone, and told him in no uncertain terms that he would treat Naoni well or answer to her. Beldar needed no threat but rather admired the way she'd delivered it. The Dyre girls were superb-as fine as the magic that spilled from Naoni's clever fingers.

He looked at the woman at his side, noting her grace, her quiet strength. Small wonder Korvaun had lost his heart to Naoni Dyre. Beldar was already half in love with her himself. Perhaps, in time, she might…

"Korvaun, they're waiting for you to speak," Taeros murmured.

Korvaun had spoken at Malark's funeral, not so many days past. Those words had honored, comforted, and inspired. Now it was his turn to do the same for his friends and family.

He strode to the coffin wherein Korvaun had been laid to rest, wearing both Beldar's form and-as a shroud-the ruby gemweave cloak. Drawing a deep breath, he began.

"We are none of us quite what we seem. Beldar Roaringhorn had dreams of greatness and perhaps the seeds of it too. He found not lasting greatness but brief glory, when he gave his life in service to others."

He stared around slowly at tearful faces.

"That greatest of deeds leaves an obligation upon all who knew him, and upon me most of all. It will henceforth define for me what it truly means to hold power, position, and wealth. Rest well, Beldar Roaringhorn, knowing that we will never forget this."

It was a short speech, but he saw in all those faces that it had been enough.

He walked back to his friends, accepting their nods and handclasps as what they were: warriors raising swords to acknowledge their leader.

What he once had been, he was again. This time, he would honor his responsibilities by becoming the man he was truly intended to be.

The summons to the Palace came the morning after Beldar's funeral. Taeros wasn't surprised; after all, he'd yet to account for the slipshield entrusted to him.

He made all haste, but when the seventh set of guards showed him into the room, Taeros found that there was only one vacant chair left-his. Korvaun nodded to him, seated with an exalted trio: Lord Piergeiron, Mirt the Moneylender, and the archmage Khelben Arunsun, who looked somewhat the worse for wear.

The Open Lord inclined his head. "Well met, Lord Hawkwinter. I trust you know us all?"

Taeros cleared his throat. "One only by repute."

Khelben fixed him with a stern eye. "Reputations you've labored to enhance, young scribbler, as a seabird enhances a statue."

Taeros felt his face grow warm as he recalled some of his more biting ballads. "If-if I've offended, I most humbly beg pardon."

Piergeiron waved a dismissive hand. "Waterdeep has need of men such as you, who make us all laugh and think at the same time. Four out of five snore during sermons, but sharp humor keeps them awake long enough to listen. 'Tis far easier to rule men who listen, think, and laugh than those who do none of those things."

A smile came unbidden to Taeros's face. It would seem he did have a role in the governance of this city, however small.

"Fewer than a dozen people in Waterdeep know of slipshields," the Blackstaff said abruptly. "It's been decided we'll keep the number small, rather than finding another man who can keep track of his property."

Taeros stared at what Khelben Arunsun held out to him then: A tiny shield affixed to leather thongs.

"Is that…"

"Against my better judgment, it is. Important in safeguarding this city and its leaders. Secrecy's vital."

Taeros closed his fingers firmly around this second chance. "I gave my vow, and I'll give it again if you require it."

"No need," said Piergeiron. "You fought loyally when the Statues walked, but understand that carrying a slipshield binds you not only to secrecy, but to service."

Taeros found this notion deeply satisfying. "That's my desire as well as my duty. It's all I've wanted in my life."

The three elders of Waterdeep nodded. Mirt then turned to Korvaun.

"And what of ye, young Lord… Helmfast. What'll ye make of your secrets? Some lordlings are all too boastful and proud, the more so when in their cups or feeling slighted."

Korvaun met the old man's sharp gaze calmly. "Some young lords are all that, and worse. As for me, know this: I am determined to live up to the name I bear."

His words rang across the chamber. After a moment, he added in a softer voice, "I've learned that some secrets are worth dying to protect."

Emboldened by his friend's fervor, Taeros said, "When I said my desire was to serve Waterdeep, I omitted something important to me: it's always been my desire to advise and stand with great men."

"We would be grateful for your advice," Piergeiron said gravely, with no hint of the patronizing tone Taeros thought he'd be more than justified in using.

"He's not speaking of us," Mirt growled. "He's talking about him."

The moneylender waved at Korvaun, a faint smile curling the corner of his untrimmed, food-hoarding mustache. "And mayhap-just mayhap-he might blasted well be right."

The faintly giggling man on the slab beside Mrelder didn't seem to know where he was or who was with him.

Setting his jaw, the sorcerer looked from his father to the beastmen standing over him, and said, "Do it."

The two Amalgamation priests started chanting.

As one of them lifted a knife, Mrelder smiled. "Just don't make me lopsided."

The shining blade swept down.

Out of purple agony he swam up into ruby-red pain. Mouthless, he shrieked… eyeless, he wept… voiceless, he prayed-and shot into the light.

Flaming torches overhead, and pain, pain, PAIN.

Mrelder screamed.

A face swam above his, grim and somehow familiar, blotting out torchlight. Cruel fingers forced his jaws apart, pouring gurgling iciness that soothed… soothed…

He sank thankfully away from the pain and the light, sinking into shadows warm and welcome, that His head was struck into fresh fire. "Stop that! Rise, Mrelder of the Amalgamation!" The priest slapped him again, and Mrelder found himself blinking up at the torches. His throat was raw, his body ached and, yes, itched despite all the healing potions they'd poured into him… and he was still screaming.