That explained the mutilation-the lad's corpse was shielded from spells that allowed speech with the dead, and the other magic some priests practiced that recalled the last thing a dead person had gazed upon. The rest Dyre could read for himself.

The blade that had taken Jivin's life had been rapier-thin, piercing the apprentice's heart like a needle. His shirt had been slashed and peeled aside, so four words could be carved into his hairless chest. Dyre was no scholar, but after a few moments of study he made out these chilling words: "The Wages of Curiosity."

"Guildmaster Dyre?"

The swordcaptain's grim voice was still respectful, but growing sharper. Dyre realized the Watchman had been repeating his name for some time now.

"Aye?" he growled, blinking, as he tore his gaze from Jivin's forever frozen face to the swordcaptain's weathered frown. "What?"

"Goodman Dyre, I asked: D'you have any idea who might have done this?"

The stonemason's face hardened into a bleak, stone-like mask, a mask adorned with a mirthless, unlovely grin that made the Watchman draw back a step and reach for his sword out of long habit.

"No. I have no idea at all. Not one," Varandros Dyre said, biting off his words as if each was a stone dropped over a parapet, one at a time.

He pushed past the Watch officer without a backward glance, lifting one hand in a circular gesture his employees knew well.

The little group of mute, pale-faced stonecutters hastened forward to take up Jivin's body, and bear it along in the guildmaster's wake. They knew better than to say even a lone word to any of the Watch, who in turn agreed on one thing to a man, without need for any words: Varandros Dyre had a very good idea who might have ordered the apprentice's death and was seething with rage at being thus warned, or threatened… or goaded.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Beldar Roaringhorn's friends and the three women vacated the club in swift tumult, leaving him alone in blessed silence.

For long breaths he simply stood and enjoyed the stillness, his back to the door so he could gaze the length of the room and just relax, letting his thoughts wander and his innards start to settle.

After a calming pause, he strolled across the room and poured himself some ale. Sniffing it appreciatively, he took a small sip, not trusting his roiling stomach to welcome more.

"You didn't hurt your eye in that brawl," a cool voice commented, from behind him.

Beldar froze. Then he made himself turn slowly. He knew that tone-one usually used by someone holding a weapon, who was exceedingly pleased that the person being addressed was not.

The servant girl was alone, and her hands were empty. By the look on her face, she didn't consider that one dented serving tray had settled the score between them.

Swallowing rising unease, Beldar mustered his most supercilious smile. "Weren't you off to mount a gallant defense of cheese or some such?"

The lass didn't rise to his bait. "You didn't hurt your eye in that brawl," she repeated.

Beldar set down his tankard. "Oh? And how could you possibly know?"

Lark smiled thinly. "After you fainted and fell on me, I passed much time with your head on my lap, while your friends argued with the Watch. Your wounds were right under my nose, and as I don't happen to own wardrobes full of gowns, just where you were bleeding was of some importance to me. You had a cut on your head above the hairline, but nothing more."

Beldar stared at her. He remembered few details of that humiliating episode, but-blast it!-she was probably speaking simple truth. The reason for her candor was appallingly clear. She'd been witness to his least shining moments, and with the instinctive cunning of the coin-poor lowborn, understood that he did not want his falsehood-or the events of that night in Luskan-to reach the ears of his friends.

"I assume your silence has a price?"

She nodded. "I need the services of a wizard who can truly tell the nature of magical things."

This was hardly what he'd been expecting. "Why?"

After a moment's hesitation, the lass half-turned away from him and then swung back, with a small silver charm in her hand that hadn't been there before. "I came across this and want to know what it can do. Find a wizard for me and pay his fee, and your friends need never know their gallant, noble friend sold an unwilling woman to a murderous half-ogre."

He couldn't quite suppress a wince. "I didn't know his intention."

"Not at first, perchance, but then you did-yet stood like a post as he dragged me away."

Beldar stared at Lark, seeking some defense for his behavior. The best he could muster was, "I broke no law in Luskan, and in all fairness, I should advise you that the magisters of this city have recently begun punishing extortion rather severely."

"I'm unsurprised," Lark replied softly. "Why else would you not parry my request with threats to reveal…"

She let silence fall between then until he gently finished her sentence: "Your circumstances when last we met."

"Aye. My circumstances.'' she said with soft, searing bitterness.

Beldar drew himself up. "Because, Mistress Lark, that would be as unworthy of me as it is of you."

A flush rose into her cheeks. "So you'll not help me?"

"I'll help you," Beldar replied, "but such aid is not to be construed as payment for your silence on this matter or any other."

Lark's smirk told him she saw his carefully worded parry for what it was: cowardice, dressed up in a magister's fine black robes, but cowardice all the same. And why should she think otherwise, when laws written to prompt men to own their words and actions were so often used to shrug off responsibility?

That was a question for another day. The wench was obviously determined to view any aid he might offer as silence-coin, and it was a reasonably cheap road to her immediate silence. Of course, those who wore black mail invariably made additional demands, but she was, after all, a woman, and common born at that. He could charm her into compliance long before her wits took her that far.

And if you can't charm her, a ghostly voice hissed deep in Beldar's mind, you can always kill her.

That notion was so absurd Beldar was able to brush it aside as absently as he might wave away a stingfly.

"It so happens," he told the unsmiling lass, "I know a wizard who just might serve our purpose…"

As the carriage pulled away from the offices of Dyre's Fine Walls and Dwellings, Naoni silently reckoned the cost of her impulsive extravagance. In her rush to leave the house, she'd snatched up the coinsack holding the entire profits of her latest delivery of gem thread. The fare for their hither-and-yon travels, plus gratuity for the patient carriageman, would devour nearly every coin.

Faendra was also reconsidering the morning's adventure, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as the carriage bounced and rumbled. At Naoni's look, she smiled ruefully. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather walk. The novelty's worn thinner than the padding under these seats."

"Novelty's like silk and passion," observed Starragar Jardeth in the disgruntled way Naoni now knew to be his usual manner. "All three wear out quickly."

Taeros, who'd proclaimed himself in need of a nap, lifted one eyelid. "Speaking from sad experience?" he asked archly. "The fair Phandelopae, perchance, has turned love's silken embrace into threadbare rags? Take heart, man. I know an herb…"

"Most amusing," snapped his dour friend. "Save your herbs to impress the Dyres' prickly maid. You'll need all you can muster to win past the thorns on that rose!"