Korvaun frowned. "If Lark's working for Elaith Craulnober, anyone you send will be at risk."

"I'll make sure she's pretty," Taeros replied with a wink, "and if my father has any sword-wielding she-elves for hire, so much the better. If rumors tell truth, Elaith Craulnober collects more than real estate."

Varandros strode through South Ward, his heavy coin bag thumping at his hip. It would be lighter on the return trip, more's the pity.

The brawl in Dock Ward was costing him dearly. Four of his trustyhands had died in the fighting, all workers on the Redcloak Lane raising. The sorcerer who'd bought the building would be less than pleased by further delays, so men would have to be pulled from other jobs, and skilled hands came dear in these busy days, with every jack across the city rebuilding… and then there were the burial costs and widows' fees.

He couldn't recall exactly where on Telshambra's Street his man had lived, but the place wasn't hard to find. A small, somber group was gathered outside a narrow stone building, ale cups in hand.

Varandros made his way over. The mourners-many of them his men-moved aside to let him pass. He strode inside.

The small front room was almost filled by a trestle table draped in dark cloth. Rowder had been laid out on it in his best clothes, a chisel in his folded hands.

Dyre managed not to scowl. A needless extravagance; it was customary for great folk to be buried with some sign of their house or station, but he doubted practical Rowder would have appreciated the waste of a good tool.

He nodded to the woman behind the table, face composed but eyes rimmed with red. She bobbed a curtsey.

"We're honored you've come, Master Dyre. Please have a cup of my Rowder's funeral ale."

"I'll drink to him gladly, Mistress," Dyre said gruffly. "A fine man, a good worker. He'll be missed."

"Aye," she said softly. "That he will."

He put the bag in her hands. "This is his portion. If you've further needs, the guild will see to them. I'll make sure of it."

She nodded gratefully, eyes like empty holes, and Varandros found himself standing awkwardly with nothing more to say. He did as he'd promised, raising a cup of ale to Rowder's memory, and then turned and set out for home.

Children playing in the street fell silent when they saw his face, and got out of his way. One of them made a warding sign, but the stonemason said nothing. Something like dark fire burned behind his eyes.

He found his daughters in the kitchen around a trestle table very like the one Rowder had been lying on. To his astonishment, the Dyre kitchen table had a dead man on it, too-pale, naked, and middle-aged, loins draped with a towel for modesty. Naoni, face serene despite the grim work, was sponging dried blood from the body.

Varandros gaped at her-and even more at his dainty little Faendra, who was handily stitching up a gash along the corpse's ribs and not looking the least bit squeamish. His younger apprentice, Jivin, hovered in the buttery doorway all but wringing his hands.

"What is this?" Dyre growled.

The three looked up. "I-I had to bring him here, Master," Jivin said hastily. "There was nowhere else for him."

"He'd no family, poor man," Naoni added. Dipping her cloth in a fresh basin, she gently wiped blood from the battered, staring face.

As the gore came away, Varandros recognized Cael, one of the masons who'd been setting the foundation on Redcloak Lane.

"You did right, lad," he said heavily. Every man in his employ was entitled to a fair wage and a decent burial. Yet this was not a task he'd wish on his daughters. "What of Lark? Where's the wench?"

Naoni's reply was quiet but firm. "She comes early and gives an honest day's work, Father, and in the evenings, she serves at an inn or a revel in one of the great houses. She said she'd be working late last night and would take a bed at the inn. She'll be here in time for the churning and the cheese."

Dyre nodded approvingly. "A hardworking lass."

Nor was Lark the only one. Almost for the first time, Dyre noticed how capable Naoni was, how warm and welcoming she made their home. She had her own craft, too, the spinning of fancy threads. Several skeins of pale, glittering green hung behind her on a neat row of hooks. Her mother would have loved them. Aye, Ilyndeira had been fond of pretty needlework…

Rare nostalgia swept through Varandros. He seldom thought of his wife, despite the living reminders before him. Faendra had her mother's pink-and-gold beauty, and Naoni, though plain and pale, had Ilyndeira's long, slender fingers. His gaze fell to Naoni's hands-and his brow darkened.

Around each wrist was a ring of dark bruises.

"What happened to your arms?"

Faendra looked up from her work, eyes blazing in sudden wrath. "She was rough-handled during the fight in Dock Ward yesterday."

"You were there?" Dyre demanded, aghast.

"Aye," Naoni said. She met his gaze with calm gray eyes. "No lasting harm was done, Father. Lord Helmfast saw us safely home."

"Again, that insolent pup!" Dyre's shout rang around the room, and Jivin fled. "I told him to stay away from me and mine! Was it he who marked you?"

"No, 'twas the Watch!" Faendra said indignantly. "They called us noblemens' doxies, and Naoni gave one of them a clout to remember her by!"

"Good for you, lass," he said gruffly, pride rising through his anger. "What part did Helmfast have in this?"

"It was a chance meeting in the street, Father. He and Lord Hawkwinter drew their swords to defend us against the Watch."

"Did they, now? Well, that's something," he said grimly, "but never forget this: They're still the same worthless, unthinking louts who nearly brought down all our work on Redcloak Lane!"

Naoni looked up. "They intended no harm."

"Bah! What of intentions? They'd not intend to drag a woman's good name into the dust either! To them it's all fun and frolic, but the damage done is the same!"

The look Naoni gave him was surprisingly steely. "I'm not such a child, Father, that I know nothing of the ways of men. Nor am I a fool who simpers and swoons whenever a man looks at me. Neither's Faendra. You needn't fear for us."

"That's simple truth, Father." Faendra narrowed her eyes in a parody of menace. "'Tis the men who should tremble before us."

That teased a faint smile from Dyre.

Seeing it, Naoni considered the matter resolved and said briskly, "I've called the coffinmaker and the carter and sent word to the keepers of the City of the Dead. Cael can be buried six bells after highsun, after down-tools, so those honoring him need miss no work. Perhaps they can return here, after, for the cakes and ale?"

Varandros nodded. "Of course. You've handled it well, lass."

Naoni looked up at him, and her faintly puzzled expression smote Dyre's heart. Was he so sparing with praise, that his daughters were this unaccustomed to it?

"I'm for work," he said abruptly. Turning, he strode from the house, thinking thoughts that were both new and disturbing.

Men of the Watch had laid rough hands on his daughter. A message, perhaps, from those in power? If so, who knows what more might have happened, if not for those silly sword-swinging nobles?

In his desire for a New Day, he'd never considered the consequences for his family, never thought his daughters might be endangered. More fool he!

Aye, this striding fool.

His wordless growl was as bitter as peacebound warsteel- trapped in its scabbard, denied a foe it knew too well.

After all, who knew better how the great folk treated common-born women of Waterdeep than a man whose wife had died from the grief they'd caused?