Rosemary Jones: City of the Dead

"My uncles build the monuments and do the fine stone ornaments and my cousins engrave markers in bronze or marble. My brothets can cut a coffin to fit you in less than a day, but that's wood and not stone for most folks. My father carves the best statues," Sophraea explained. She pointed out her father's workshop, third door on her left facing into the yard. "You'll find him there."

The young man nodded but seemed rooted to where he was, staying in the courtyard to watch her toss one of Leaplow's shirts over the line.

"And are you a Carver too?" he asked.

Sophraea threw Bentnor's second best tunic on the line before answering. "I'm Sophraea Carver, but I'm no stoneworker if that's what you are asking."'

She dived into the basket to pull out another set of wet pants, the left knee sporting a large hole, which meant patching would be needed. If it wasn't patching, it was darning. There was always sewing to do, but never the sort she liked. Since the young man showed no signs of shifting from under her clotheslines, she repeated, "My father is the one you want to see. Third door, where I showed you."

"Actually, I'm quite fond of the view from where I am," he replied with a wink and a grin as the stiff breeze whistling into the yard plastered Sophraea's skirts against her legs and tugged loose her dark curls. "My name is Gustin Bone, in case you were wishing to know."

"Not particularly," Sophraea answered with an ease of practice borne of shopping expeditions into Waterdeep's markets.

As she had grown older, more than one young man unacquainted with the size and sheer numbers of her male relatives had tried to flirt with her. Sophraea never minded the flirting, but it did get tiresome to see her cousins, her brothers, and even the occasional uncle take a young man for "a pleasant walk" around the City of the Dead to explain the family's closeness and their natural concern for the only Carver daughter.

This young man might be as tall as some of her cousins, but he lacked the breadth to go with the height. Thin as a spear and shoulders bent with a scholar's slouch, Sophraea doubted this one would ever speak to her again after even the shortest stroll with Leaplow or Runewright.

Since Gustin Bone's feet seemed stuck to the cobblestones under his boots, Sophraea used- a trick that usually caused her male relatives to disappear like smoke up one of Dead End House's crooked chimneys.

"I could use some help," she said, indicating the nearest overflowing laundry basket. "Perhaps you could hang those shirts."

"I'm not one for physical labor," Gustin Bone stated without moving. "But thank you for the offer."

"Come along then, you might as well bother my father instead of me," Sophraea said, marching over to the door of her father's workshop and rapping on it with a brisk knock. The top half of the door swung open and her father's bushy bearded face peered out. "There's a man here to see you about a statue."

"Weeping goddess or shieidbearer or infant sleeping?" asked Astute Carver, leaning on the lower half of the door.

"Is that all you do?" asked Gustin Bone.

"I can carve anything you want," said Astute. "But those arc the most popular for monuments. The first for lost lovers, the second for fallen warriors, and the third. Ah, the third is for the heartbroken parents and always the saddest of the lot to carve."

"I need someone to carve me a hero," said Gustin Bone.

"Any particular one?"

"No, just a stone man of heroic aspect. Taller, bigger, broader than ordinary men, a great paladin like the old stories," said Gustin. "And make him as lifelike as possible."

"Creases in his clothing and those wrinkles that paladins get from squinting at enemies on the distant horizon?" speculated Astute.

"Oh excellent. As real as you can make him!"

"I could even give him pores in his skin. By the time that I'm done, there's more than one who will wonder if he's simply sleeping or waiting to draw his next breath."

"Wonderful," said Gustin reaching across the half door to clap Astute's shoulder. "Absolutely what I need."

Astute straightened up and looked over the young man, a long speculative look that Sophraea had seen him use before.

"What I need," Astute finally replied in the careful drawl of a Waterdeep man who knew the importance of remuneration, "is money to pay for the stone and for my labor."

"Certainly, certainly," said Gustin, producing a thin brown leather pouch from the front of his tunic. He dropped it into Astute's broad palm.

"A trifle light," said Astute.

"A partial payment only, saer," promised Gustin. "The rest will be coming soon. A day or two to make my arrangements."

Then the surprising young man grabbed Sophraea's hand and bowed over it with a smile. "Pleasure, truly a pleasure," he said. Those wickedly long lashes blinked, momentarily hiding his extraordinary green eyes. "I'm sorry that I cannot stay longer."

A little popping sound filled the courtyard. The young man grinned again at Sophraea, bowed elaborately toward her father, and then sprinted for the public gate.

"Fish guts and torn garters!" exclaimed Sophraea. "What was that all about?"

"Language, my girl!" said Astute.

"I didn't say anything bad," protested Sophraea.

Astute shook his bearded head. "Ew, girl, you know how your mother feels about outbursts like that."

"Bad enough that your brothers can't keep polite tongues in their heads," sang Sophraea. "But surely you can act more like a lady."

Astute chuckled at her perfect mimicry of Reyes most recent and constant scold.

Another gust of wind tugged at Sophraea's skirts and remembering the full baskets of laundry, she turned back to the lines. But all the baskets were empty and all the laundry was neatly hung, wafting back and forth as it dried. A pale glow outlined each item, slowly fading away even as Sophraea stared.

Sophraea could feel her mouth hanging open, snapped it shut, and then looked over her shoulder at her father.

"A very surprising young man," observed Astute with a chuckle at his daughter's astonishment. "I think he liked you. Perhaps I should have a little talk with him when he comes back."

"Don't bother," said Sophraea with a firm shake of her head. "But I do have something to tell you."

Putting thoughts of the brown lad firmly out of her head, Sophraea started to tell her father about last night's light in the graveyard, but the heavy clopping of hooves outside the street gate interrupted her. A jingle of harness signaled that a coach had stopped outside their public entrance.

"Ah," sighed Astute, "I forgot that he was coming today. Go get your uncles. He'll want all of us to wait on him."

From the heavy frown that marred Astute's usually mild expression, Sophraea didn't need to ask who to announce to her uncles. Only one man annoyed the family so completely, but was also so rich as to be impossible to turn away. Obviously, Rampage Stunk was about to give the Carvers another set of orders about his mausoleum.

Sophraea sped to each door of her uncles' workshops, banging on them loudly to be heard over the hammering and sawing inside. One by one, her uncles popped their heads out of the doors. An aunt or two appeared at the windows overlooking the courtyard.

"It's Stunk," Sophraea called to them.

"I hope he left his hairy brute of a servant behind," she muttered to herself.

In Waterdeep, a city that lived and died by gossip. Rampage Stunk somehow discouraged speculation about the size and extent of his fortune. His personal wealth, like his stomach, was known to be much larger than the ordinary man's and that seemed to be the extent of others' knowledge of Rampage Stunk's business.

Sophraea found him an unpleasant man. Something about the way he thrust himself forward, his stiff black hair looking as if it had been dipped in ink and then slicked down with grease, his head always cocked at an angle on his shoulders as if listening for gossip about others. Even the heavy tread of his peculiar swaying walk seemed to state that here was a man who did not mind crushing those beneath him.