Steven Schend: Blackstaff Tower

Renaer whispered, almost in prayer, "I want more for my father and for Waterdeep. This used to be a city where dreams came true and gods walked the cobbles. Now, the grime of commerce and greed covers everything, including the once-shining helms of the Lords. The Crown of the North still rules all commerce and politics, but it can't remotely claim to be the City of Splendors. This city needs heroes to bring back its life and luster. But gods know if I have it in me to be one."

Many hours later, Renaer crept quietly up the stairs to his rooms, a task not terribly difficult given the stone steps and carpets. He expected to be alone, but lights still blazed beneath the door to his father's study.

"The man is the Open Lord," Renaer muttered. "Why in the gods' names doesn't he use his offices at the palace?"

Despite his aggravation at the delay in sleep, Renaer smiled. He discovered years ago that he learned more when folk didn't know there were others within earshot. He slipped silently into his room, closed the door, and stripped for bed. Folding his clothes neatly on a side dresser, he shivered from the cold despite the small fire in the fireplace near his bed. Renaer burrowed beneath the furs and quilts, all the while keeping an ear cocked to the voices carried through the chimney shared with the next room's fireplace.

"We've not learned nearly enough, Dagult." Renaer didn't know this thin reedy voice, nor did he like-what the man had to say. "She is as stubborn as her master was."

"We know the Blackstaffs have always had access to unknown magic," another unrecognized voice said. "I got her talking about the masked Lords of the past, but she would not say how they controlled them."

The thin-voiced one said, "The secret of long years, of course, is the most profitable of secrets we could glean from her. I always suspected they bargained with elves or dwarves for those secrets."

"Three tendays! That's what you told me! And it's been seven!" Dagult slammed his hand down on a table. Renaer knew his father's temper well, and Dagult's roar meant he was frustrated but not yet angry. That's when he'd get very quiet. "You claimed I would have the Overlord's Helm to help me uncover my fellow Lords' secrets. That is what you claimed would make this gambit worth it! Well?"

The second voice joined in again. "We can't get her to focus. She's been mad ever since-"

"Focus?" Daguh snapped. "What do you think you have Granek for?"

The thin-voiced man coughed and said, "Yes, well, his methods are "Only slightly more successful than your magic, apparently," Dagult said. "Now, when are you going to deliver what you promised? You've already received far more reward than what you've delivered in return, but I'm still prepared to bring you into the fold, should you gain results before the solstice."

Just who was Dagult conspiring with here? Renaer wondered. He never put more on the table unless he could hang someone with the other end of the deal. And to deal with wizards…

"We shall celebrate together before another tenday passes, milord Neverember," the reedy voice replied. "The three of us shall free the city from the Blackstaff’s interference for the first time in two centuries-or at least ensure the Blackstaff is aligned in full with the Open Lord's policies."

Renaer heard the door open, and the men wandered out of his earshot. He saw three shadows pass his doorway, and one returned back to Dagult’s office. Renaer heard the thud and hiss of another log being tossed on Dagult's fire grate. The bluster and volume had dropped away, and the cold quiet tone chilled Renaer despite the fire and the furs. "Just make damned sure that this never soils my hearth, wizards, or you'll find out I've more power than even your wizards' guild can muster."

Dawn nearly reached his windows before Renaer fell into a fitful sleep.

9 Nightal, Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

Laraelra Harsard knew she needed help and needed it quickly. She looked over the assembled crowds milling around Heroes' Garden. Over the past few decades, each ward seemed to adopt its own unofficial gathering places for swords for hire, where Caravan Court, the White Bull, and Virgin's Square once sufficed for mercenary hiring. The snow-covered hillocks of the garden were already soiled from foot traffic, even though it was barely past sunup. Laraelra wove her way around the statues of heroes of Waterdeep's past. Scanning the crowds, she noticed someone had knocked the right foot off of Lhestyn's statue. Above a skinny man in black leathers, the outstretched stone arms of Lords Oth Ranerl, Tanar Hunabar, and Cyrin Kormallis held only broken blades or sword pommels. Laraelra moved deeper into the Heroes' Garden, searching for strong-backed hirelings but only finding jokesters had stolen the head of Rarkul Ulmaster for the fifth time that year.

If more people respected what it takes to work stone, Laraelra thought, they'd not be so quick to ruin it.

Laraelra had dressed for the weather and the task ahead of her. Her heavy woolen cloak covered her oiled leather tunic, pants, and her sealskin boots-necessities for mucking about the sewers. The black color of her clothes made her seem even paler in the morning cold. Despite her thick garments, Laraelra hugged herself to stay warm. As she rounded the back-to-back statues of Mirt the Merciless and Durnan the Wanderer, she patted their knees and thought, Milords, help me find men of your mettle before it's too late. Then she spotted the largest group of sellswords in the Garden-or more properly, they spotted her.

"Right here, Milady Harsard!" A stylish young bravo rushed ahead of the pack, his spotless purple cloak flaring behind him. He swept off his large feathered hat and bowed before her.

Behind him thundered a muscled tree stump of a young braggart, his first beard coming in thin patches and barely covering his pimples. "Ignore that fool. I'm your man, Laraelra!" To prove his point, he kicked the bowing man over on his way to intercept Laraelra.

"Hardly," she replied, striding past with a twitch of one arched eyebrow. Laraelra pulled her cloak closer to ward off the breeze and the light snow on it. Scanning the crowd, she looked for men at least her height, then winnowed down candidates by how strong or capable they seemed.

Finally, she approached one man leaning against the statue of some centaur hero. The contented young man was more interested in his roll of sausage and onion than in catching her eye. Blond hair avalanched across his shoulders and brow. Until she got close to him, Laraelra did not see the few days' growth of pale blond beard on his face. When she stopped in front of him, the man was in mid-bite, though he smiled close-mouthed at her around the steaming food.

"You'll do," Laraelra said, "assuming you can focus on a task as much as your meal."

She smiled as the man hurriedly chewed, swallowed, and then choked and coughed in surprise. He stood two hands taller than

Laraelra, his shoulders twice hers, and his arms were as large as her legs. Strapped to his back was a great-axe, much-abused but serviceable, like the dagger pommels she saw in his boots. Despite the cold, his cloak was open, exposing well-worn leather armor over a broad chest.

She pressed three silver pieces into his hand and said, "You'll get that much every bell you have to accompany me today, if that's acceptable to you."

The man nodded and coughed a few more times while he tucked the coins into his boot.

Laraelra motioned for him to follow, then turned her back and headed for the copse of trees at the southern end of the Heroes' Garden. "You'll want to finish that before we enter the sewers, I wager."