"Some of Mirt's friends," Asper said sweetly. "They'll see you safely out of Dock Ward-to whatever front gates you'd like."

Gods, if this dangerously capable woman ever crossed wills with his Sarintha… Roldo stowed the slipshield carefully in his pouch. Taeros would wear it well. Moreover, it would settle his gambling debt to the Hawkwinter, avoiding Sarintha's wrath at coins wasted. And what is life but deftly dealing with little debts and unpleasantnesses?

Giving Asper the deepest, most courtly bow he could manage, he turned, nodded to the sharpswords, and strode away with them.

Mirt's lady watched him go thoughtfully, and suspected the burden young Lord Thongolir had taken upon himself was far greater than the one he'd declined.

As sages said, courage and honor took many forms.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A high horn-call rang out from the magnificent turrets and spires of Piergeiron's Palace. Lark listened as the short, ascending melody echoed off Mount Waterdeep once, twice… and thrice.

Folk in Waterdeep thought nothing of those echoes, but people familiar with mountains found it strange that echoes could bounce from a single small peak. She'd said as much on the long-ago day when she'd ridden into the city with Texter. The paladin had told her magic aided the echoes to amplify signal horn-calls.

Lark quickened her pace, striding briskly through the familiar bustle of Trades Ward. Arriving early for her shift, and working hard before her expected time, would win approval.

The carvers at the Maelstrom's Notch were deft at butter-seared seafood, and their superb table was making the inn very popular. Extra hands were needed to serve the later evening meals, after most lodgers had eaten and set off in search of fiery drink and festhalls, and a weary army of hungry guildsmen arrived to dine after a long day's work.

She was fortunate to have found a place; ill repute had a habit of clinging to a girl like a damp cloak, and her rare moment of temper had cost Lark her last position and several days' wages: the cost of the tray she'd dented over Beldar Roaringhorn's hard head.

Bah. Swaggering Lord Redcloak was worth not another thought. Those horncalls, now… everyone knew they were messages for those who knew how to read them. Who sent those notes soaring out into the evening, and to whom? Had she just heard gladsome tidings or a warning?

Once it would never have occurred to her to wonder. She cared little about what great folk did or whose backside warmed which throne. What mattered was honest work and the quiet, respectable life it could earn. Master Dyre's fair wage, bolstered by the coins this serving work brought, would in time buy a small shop with a few rooms above it she could call her own. To be her own mistress… her one desire. Her dream.

That dream burned as bright as ever, but Texter, the man who'd put her on a path toward it, had also opened her eyes to other things. In this city, those who listened could hear secrets in tavern tunes, vendors' calls, even twilight hornsong. Lark absently hummed the horncall as she walked.

"Larksong in the evening," murmured a melodious voice, so close to her ear that she could feel warm breath. "To whom are you preparing to sing, my little brown bird?"

Lark whirled, as startled as if her own shadow had tapped her shoulder and asked her the time of day.

Elaith Craulnober gave her a faintly amused smile and glided forward a step to reclaim the distance she'd hastily put between them. "If I wasn't aware of your sterling character, I'd suspect you of being troubled by a guilty conscience." His voice was gently mocking.

Lark swallowed. "You-startled me."

"You did seem rather lost in thought. Care to unburden yourself to a sympathetic listener?"

She gave him a glare. "Why? Know you of one?"

Silver brows rose. "The kitten has claws. How very… tiresome."

The Serpent's dark reputation tempered Lark's next words. "A lord as important as yourself has many demands on his time," she murmured, careful not to sound mocking. "Pray tell me how I can serve you."

Craulnober nodded at the nearest shop: Andemar the Apothecary, who greeted passing Waterdeep with a fancifully carved arch-topped door flanked by large windows set with many small, diamond-shaped panes.

Lark opened that door and stepped into a pleasant-smelling room crowded with gleaming vials and fragrant hanging bunches of drying herbs. Andemar's welcoming smile froze as he recognized Lark's companion.

Elaith waved a dismissal, and the shopkeeper's head bobbed in frantic assent as he scuttled into his back room, closing its door firmly behind him.

The elf swiveled open the domed top of a silver stud on a dagger-sheath that adorned his inner left wrist. In the revealed hollow was a tiny blue bead, which he tipped into his palm. He passed his other hand over it, fingers flashing in a swift, complex pattern.

The bead promptly expanded into a soft blue haze that drifted smoothly around them both, surrounding them like mist glowing about a lantern.

"Speak freely; none can now hear. The message you delivered was extremely interesting. I desire to know everything you can tell me about the activities of the New Day."

"Activities?" Lark sniffed. "Precious little, thus far. Just grand scheming and bluster."

"The battle in Dock Ward was mere 'bluster?' Dyre's men started it."

Lark's eyes widened. "I-I know nothing of that."

"No? Three young women were seen there, one of them a little brown bird with a green ribbon on her arm."

Lark frowned. "Yes, I was there, but by happenstance! I was with my mistresses, who had cause to pass one of their father's worksites."

Elaith's eyes were bright with disbelief, and he seemed somehow to glide nearer without actually moving at all.

"Wait," Lark blurted, cold fear rising. "I-I think I see how the brawl began! Some of Master Dyre's trustyhands frequent a quaff house just where the fighting broke out, and they hold a grudge against several young lords."

"Helmfast, Hawkwinter, Jardeth, and Roaringhorn," Elaith murmured. "What inspired that particular flock of peacocks to strut through oh-so-common Dock Ward?"

"They'd a debt to settle with my Master Dyre, and they seem taken with his daughters. Both are young and pretty."

"So this settling of grievances befell when blind chance met young love?"

"I believe so, though 'love' is putting it a bit high. Lord Helmfast's skirt-sniffing around Mistress Naoni, much luck may he enjoy."

"And it just so happened that Lord Piergeiron chose that moment, of all the unfolding season, to wander along that particular street of Dock Ward?"

Lark drew a long, shuddering breath. "I know nothing of the Open Lord's doings, beyond brisk tavern-talk of his death-and that's nothing new."

"He was wounded, and carried to Mirt's Mansion. No more is known."

"Not even by the Lords?"

Elaith smiled thinly. "The Masked Lords must, of necessity, keep many secrets."

True that might be, but Lark's interest lay in matters closer to home. "From what I've seen and heard, I can't believe Master Dyre had any part in what befell Lord Piergeiron. He only desires the Lords to renounce secrecy and be accountable to all."

"Varandros Dyre is not so lacking in initiative as you claim, but on this particular matter I'm inclined to agree. These young noblemen, however, warrant closer scrutiny."

Lark was too astonished to quell her burst of scornful laughter.

"Scoff less quickly," Elaith murmured, sniffing some herbs approvingly. "The skill exhibited by the most foolish of our nobles when it comes to keeping secrets would astonish you."