CHAPTER ELEVEN

One of the things that made the library Taeros Hawkwinter's favorite room in all Hawkwinter House-gods strike that, in all Waterdeep and the wider world beyond-was that it had a door that locked.

He set that lock now and turned to regard the principal reason this was his favorite place, "the refuge of my soul," as he'd declared it grandly to himself one summer evening years ago: his books. Rows and rows of them, precious tomes that had cost more than he'd ever in his life spend on gems or clothing, no matter how often fashions changed.

Taeros ran a hand caressingly across the gilded, tooled, familiar spines of his treasures-tales of great men and women, of heroic deeds and glorious quests, the very fire, heart, and glory of what it was to be human. To matter.

Here was Aldimer's Histories of the Heroes, and there The Glory of the Dragon, Danchas the Scribe's glowing history of Azoun IV of Cormyr.

The Purple Dragon. Dead now, swept away in fittingly heroic sacrifice, dying in battle to save his realm, hewing down a dragon on a blood-drenched field.

What wouldn't he give to serve a man such as Azoun! Oh, not a king, but a leader whose name men murmured in genuine awe, a man so loved that those who wore his colors would unhesitatingly throw their lives away in his cause. To see that fierce loyalty like a flame in their eyes, to hear your lord's name chanted because the very sound of it bolstered courage and gave a sense of purpose.

Now, more than ever, Waterdeep needed such heroes-and to be shaken by the throat to open eyes and follow them, too. To lift Waterdhavian attention from daily coin-grubbing or the cut-and-thrust of proud noble rivalries, and look upon…

Taeros snorted aloud. Who? No faces came to mind. And who was he to tell Waterdeep what it needed, and be heeded? After all, what great deeds had he done?

He glanced at the locked, chained-to-the-table box wherein lay the precious parchments that would someday become Deep Waters.

Nothing, yet. Nothing beyond pondering things a trifle deeper than the frivolities that consumed the lives of his friends and their noble elders, especially the older nobles. Arrogant, feuding emptyheads and gossips, wasteful, cruel, selfish, malicious when crossed…

Enough. Suffice to say that he could point at nothing in all that parade of smeering faces and proud names to admire and emulate. Not one thing.

So what would befall if Piergeiron was truly gone and Waterdeep left lordless? Oh, Masked Lords abounded, but what of the tall, striding figure in armor at whom citizens could roar approval?

How went the song? Empty throne at the Palace…

As he tried to recall words for that tune, an angry face swim up in memory to glare at Taeros: Varandros Dyre, standing behind his desk glowering at them all.

The more Taeros pondered that stonemason's anger, and Dyre's snarls of a "New Day," the more sense the man seemed to make.

Not that Varandros Dyre was any sort of hero. A hard, grasping man, full of bile and indignation, and lowborn to boot.

Yet heroes were just his own fascination, and it was so typically noble a mistake to let one's own enthusiasms and views blind one to everything else. Perhaps, in crowded, bustling Waterdeep, it was men such as Dyre who could get things done. Small men, effecting small changes. Coin by coin, deal by deal… small tugs at the tiller of the great ship of a city, turning it slowly and ponderously on into a new sunrise, and… a New Day.

Taeros Hawkwinter snorted again. If Varandros bleeding Dyre could turn Waterdeep, so could the youngest, hitherto most idle flower of the Hawkwinters.

With Piergeiron dead or alive but with folk thinking he might be, it was time for change. The city needed a man to become a hero, or at least take the first longbooted stride toward glory.

Beldar. Beldar Roaringhorn, who'd always been at the fore in the Gemcloaks' adventures, and in settling their disputes. He'd never become "the" Lord Roaringhorn unless at least three cousins died first, but his kin weren't blind to his gifts. They'd noticed his quick wits and swift tongue and set him to studying law, the better to aid them in dancing around it. Beldar, of course, had excelled, and when inclined, he could argue a Black Robe to a standstill.

Beldar must be Waterdeep's tall man in armor! He was as strong of arm as he was keen of wit, the best blade among the Gemcloaks, and a skilled rider. The Roaringhorns bred racehorses and battle steeds, and Beldar had learned to ride almost before he could walk. Taeros could easily picture him in a high saddle, swinging a blood-drenched sword and bellowing Waterdeep's greatness in the thick of battle…

He was handsome, too, with an infectious energy and a gift for the grand gesture, and there was something more. Since boyhood, he'd carried himself with the confidence of one destined for great things. Because Beldar believed that, so did his friends. In time, so might others.

Belief was a powerful thing. Enough of it could turn a demon into a god. Of course, a man who lacked the gifts and personal discipline to support a lofty opinion of himself was no more than a buffoon, but Beldar had that discipline. He listened to his friends, and if those friends included wise Korvaun and-ahem-one Taeros…

Yes! There was no time to waste. So much had slipped away already…

Taeros whirled from his beloved books and made for the door. He hit the stairs like a racing gale, cloak streaming behind him, and was out the front doors before the doorguards could do more than gape.

Once through the front gates, he really started to hurry.

No less than three Watch patrols hailed Taeros Hawkwinter during his sprint down Whaelgond Way, for a lone running man in North Ward is unlikely to be anyone other than a thief. Yet it seemed his bright amber cloak was becoming known by sight; a senior officer striding out of a side-street curtly ordered off their heavy-booted pursuit-allowing Taeros to fetch up, panting and red-faced, at the Helmfast gates.

Thankfully, the splendidly armored guards there knew him, too, and let him stagger inside without a word… which was good, because Taeros was damned if he could find breath enough to produce one.

In similar manner he gained entrance through the front doors, where his ruffled state and limp-his knee was afire again, despite all the healing potions he'd swallowed-goaded a servant into scurrying ahead, as Taeros discovered when Korvaun came down the stairs at a frowning trot to meet him.

The hard-panting flower of the Hawkwinters pointed up the stairs in the direction of Korvaun's rooms, and Korvaun took that arm and helped Taeros ascend.

Broad steps tiled in swirling sea-waves of blue and green seemed to rush past, and then they were in the upper hall. Edwind Helmfast, Korvaun's eldest brother, strolled out of the gilded doors of the Great Solar, a chart in one hand and a large goblet in the other, and greeted them with a disapproving sneer.

Too winded to speak, Taeros managed to give the Helmfast heir a pitying look and was rewarded by utter bafflement dawning on the Young Captain's face.

Korvaun saw that and turned his head away to favor a marble bust of old Lathaland Helmfast with a grin. The founder of the house had been sculpted with a grim, lopsided smile, and that did not change as the two friends swept past together, and into Korvaun's rooms.

Korvaun slammed shut his door and whirled around. "What news? War? Castle Waterdeep's fallen over? The Lords've all been unmasked as Mother Amaltha's pleasure-girls? What?"

The winded Hawkwinter swallowed hard and gasped, "They're saying Piergeiron's dead!"

Korvaun nodded. "Every tenday, it seems. Is this talk gaining ground?"

Taeros nodded, still fighting for breath, and sank into a chair. "Half the city's saying so!"