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I can tell you the exact moment I stopped dreaming of gold.I was once a vain and petty creature. I loved no one and nothing so much as my own reflection. I valued gems and coins and other precious things above council and company. I kept my riches all to myself and shunned the presence of other creatures. Who could be so beautiful as I? What conversation could compare to a ruby’s hidden fire? I made myself a nest, a fortress of shining metal built on nothing more than empty pride.For this crime, I was punished.That is what I thought it. A punishment. Exacted upon me by the god of justice for failing to live up to my more noble breeding. Whatever his intentions, the fact of the matter was that I became locked in a small, weak, elven body. No claws to rend the earth. No flame alive in my breast. No wings to sail through the sky. And no glittering scales to admire in the surface of my Mirror-Lake. We dragons are powerful and magical creatures, ancient and wise. I had betrayed the creed of my kin, and for this, for this crime above crimes, I was sentenced to fulfill my god’s own errand in the pitiful, frail body of an elf.And it is as an elf that I shall die.Not for me the freedom of flight. Not for me the easy flow of magic in my veins, and fire behind my teeth.If I could complete this errand, I would exchange this ugly shell for my beautiful, perfect scales; my wings; my mighty heart.But my pride got the better of me.I could not help but dream of gold--my gold. The shimmering form of my own, true body, that which I valued far above any amount of coin.As I hung there, upside down from the parapet of an ancient and crumbling castle, in the middle of a vast and fetid swamp; as I felt the blood slowly drip from the gash on my neck; as I heard the screams and cries of battle going on all around me, I thought of how stupid it was to die here, like this. In this ugly, imperfect body. Humiliated and on display. I was better than this, better than this end. Anger boiled in blood I no longer had.Yet for all the intensity of my fury--at myself, at my god, at the world--what burned all the more fiercely was my shame.No, I do not dream of gold anymore. I do not dream of riches and count the value of my hoard, nor admire the sheen of my scales. I left it all behind that day on the parapet. It was snuffed out with my last few, struggling breaths.As the life bled from me; as I hung there, helpless and dying, in my desperate shame I begged my god that I be spared.Let me try again.One last chance, however short it may be.A single shot at redemption.Then, and only then, would I willingly surrender my soul to the god of death. Only then would I walk in judgment.But let me try again. Once more, O Lord of Justice. Let me try again.Let me live.

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Nobody had eyes like that.Soren’s coin-gold gaze pierced Remy, as if appraising her, but for what exactly, the thief wasn’t sure. Unnerving, to have the total and complete attention of someone with eyes like that. Off-putting, as well, that long silence while the other woman waited for her to speak. The wood-elf turned away, looking out into the wet autumn night, and Remy let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

Most people went about their business with their cloaks held tight, the better to shelter them from the nipping wind and settling cold. Soren stepped out into the rain as if it were a penance, only pausing to be sure that her companion was not too far behind. Remy walked noiselessly at the ranger’s side, just managing to keep pace with Soren’s long strides, despite the fact that she was supposed to be leading them through the Docks District.“Candle Lane’s got to be around here somewhere,” Soren murmured, reaching up a hand yet again to check the tautness of her bow string.Remy took a turn as they reached the end of the street, not exactly surprised when the ranger didn’t break stride to turn with her. “I take it you haven’t been in Waterdeep very long?” she said.Only the smallest pause preceded Soren’s answer. “...not very long, no. What about you? You seem to know the streets well enough.”“Well enough,” the thief answered with a shrug of her slim shoulders. “Cities are pretty much the same anywhere you go.”Soren did not miss her companion’s evasion of the question. She quirked a sharp brow but left off commenting to the contrary. “I suppose they are,” she said instead, “I much prefer the forest. Fewer people, less noise.”“More people means better business.”“Perhaps,” Soren replied, “but I’m not very good with people.”“You can say that again,” Remy snorted, recalling Soren’s flat and unaffected questioning of Volo about his missing friend. It seemed like nights ago, instead of merely hours.Soren rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”The two women eyed each other while simultaneously pretending not to. Cold and clinging rain quickly turned Soren’s intricate brown braids into a darkened and heavy coif. A ranger’s taut strength radiated from her body; both her severe expression and the archer’s calluses on her hands speaking to a hard and lean life--in more ways that simply physical. Despite Soren’s business-like attitude, which might have otherwise spoken to selfishness, she had agreed to help Volo before money was even on the table.Remy idly twirled a crossbow bolt between her fingers. Her raven-black hair swept back in what would have been a serviceable tie, if not for the rain, which plastered a few stray strands like ink to her burgundy cheeks. A pair of tiefling horns channeled the flow of water down her brow, and Remy wrinkled her nose at the sensation. It wasn’t as though a hood would have done her much good, not when it would have blocked her peripheral vision.They were dressed similarly enough; Remy in darker leathers grown supple with use, and Soren in her brown doeskin and green linen shirt more suited to the forest than a bustling city. Each woman knew what they were about, however, for they kept small pouches and holsters for personal items. Not a square inch lost to inefficiency. Just enough to be self-sufficient, but not so little as to say that they had a home nearby.No, Soren decided, as she glanced away just as Remy stole another look at her. The roguish woman beside her likely slept in doorways or in someone else’s attic. Or maybe an inn, if she was lucky.
“So…” Remy began, “are you staying at the Yawning Portal or--”Just in time, Soren managed to seize her companion by the arm and drag her back through the sea fog and under the eave of a nearby building. Rather than complain, both women fell quiet, until Remy could hear what had caught Soren’s attention: marching footsteps. They plastered themselves to the side of the row house, hardly daring to breathe.“Cordon this section off, men! We’ll find the bastards,” came the broad shout not a block away. “Curfew for the Docks; nobody comes in, nobody goes out.”Soren held as still as stone, as the bulky shapes of several Watch officers carrying stanchions and rope hurried by. There wasn’t much reason for them to be hiding, she realized. It wasn’t as if they were doing anything illegal. But the increase in gang activity in Waterdeep had led to stricter Watch patrols; more questions, more hassle. Soren had no intention of running into that hassle tonight. Floon had been missing for two days. The first thing any ranger learned about survival was the element of time. Time mattered.Gloaming light off the sea fog obscured most of the Watch officers’ passage, nonetheless highlighting for Remy the small silver crescent moon and harp pendants hanging from Soren’s chain earrings. Before she could open her mouth to whisper a comment, the sound of the Watch patrol moved off and the wood-elf glanced back to her, the movement causing her Harper earrings to once more disappear into the shadowed hood of her cloak.Remy nodded, guessing the ranger’s next question easily enough. “We’re not far now, come on.”~The dim orange glow of a single candle illuminated the end of the alley. A single candle in a city of candles. One tiny light, flickering behind the cracked yellow horn of an enclosed lantern. An impossibly small light, dimmed and diluted by the sea fog, beckoned from its place high on the warehouse wall.Rain and other wet things Soren didn’t want to think about soaked into the knee of her breeches as she rose from her place kneeling on the cobbles. Granted, the gamblers at the dockside tavern hadn’t said anything about Floon being here, per se, only that there had been strange mutterings about this warehouse as of late. There were dark activities going on everywhere, if the broadsheets and the gossip at the Yawning Portal was to be believed. Soren didn’t often ask for gossip; Durnan liked his peace and people not asking him about the weather, so the ranger remained quiet and kept to herself more often than not. This meant she’d inadvertently earned herself a friend, if one could call the rough bartender a ‘friend’ when he didn’t scowl at you quite as deeply as everyone else. Still, it was hard to miss the grumblings of gang wars, the increased Watch presence, people with flying snake or eye tattoos causing an unsightly ruckus anywhere public enough for it to catch attention--and of course everybody and their cousin trying to kill each other over some perceived slight, or a dispute on whose territory belonged to whom. Soren shook her head. Senseless, all of it.“Don’t the street cleaners come down this way,” Soren grumbled quietly as she picked her way among the refuse and runoff toward the heavy door to the warehouse yard.“I’m sure they would if they were being paid well enough,” Remy replied. Almost in unspoken understanding, the thief had taken out her second story climbing gear, and began leading out a knotted rope from its place on her hip.A heavy splash of water dripped off the leaf-like camouflage of Soren’s elven cloak when she turned her head. “Isn’t that what guilds are for?” she said flatly, but Remy knew she meant it as an honest inquiry. Soren’s golden eyes, like two tossed coins, followed the trajectory of Remy’s rope up into the air and solidly over one of the fence posts at the top of the warehouse gate. “Waterdeep is big into civil service, from what I understand.”“Yeah, it is, when its money is actually going to the people.” Remy gave a perfunctory tug on the rope and found it secured to her satisfaction.“What do you mean, ‘when its money is actually going to the people’?” Soren said, watching her companion scale the wall with suspicious ease. “That’s what taxes are for.”Remy grunted, trying to keep her footing in the dark and in the rain. Her crimson tail lashed for balance. They were talking quietly, enough to barely be overheard, but in the hush of the empty streets, words spoken aloud somehow seemed perverse and unwanted. “Well--the old Open Lord, crusty Dagult Neverember--he raised the taxes during the Dragon War. You know, to help with the war effort or something like that. Anyway, they haven’t gone back down again.” She hooked her tail around the top of the gate and used that to hoist herself the rest of the way up. Disliking the wet seat but finding a flat section to straddle the wall all the same, she braced her legs on either side of the gate and tossed the rope back down to Soren. “I guess the city’s still recovering or something. Anyway, it’s been five years and he’s no longer the Open Lord, so most folk figure this is just the way things are now. People don’t get paid, streets don’t get cleaned.”“Five years?” Soren scoffed, incredulous. The wet rope slapped her in the shoulder, spattering dirty water on her face. She didn’t bother to wipe it off. One quick tug and she shimmied up the rope as easy as strolling down the street.“Yeah, where you been living, under a rock?” Remy pretended not to look awkward when Soren didn’t need a hand up. Instead, she began feeding the rope down the other side, into the wet and empty warehouse yard.Soren shrugged, trying not to think about where--or when she’d been, before she came to Waterdeep. Wet wood squelched under her fingers as she tried to maintain her grip while she waited for Remy. “You could say that.” A pause as she watched the thief scurry her way down with far more alacrity than when she’d gone up. “...did they, ah, did they get Tiamat at the end of it all?”“Is Laerell Silverhand a dragon?”“No.”“Then I’m pretty sure Tiamat is still in Avernus.”Soren rolled her eyes. She unhooked the rope and jumped down. The wet mud took her by surprise, and she said not a word to the indignity of it all as Remy put out a hand and helped her to her feet. “Point taken.”The thief put a finger to her lips, and indicated the warehouse in front of them. A large set of double doors loomed ahead, while a shorter access door led to the left. Remy signed something with her hands, and whispered when it was clear Soren didn’t understand her meaning. “Front way’s bound to be trapped. Come on,” she said, patting a pocket on her belt and turning to the side. “I’ve got my lockpicks.”

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The door swung open noiselessly, Remy keeping it lifted off its hinges so it wouldn’t squeak. It revealed an almost lightless interior--one nearly impossible to see in, if either of the women had been human. Remy’s black eyes reflected that slight sheen which all nocturnal creatures possess. Light poured in from the moon behind the clouds and from the candle, trapped as it was behind its horn lantern. Not enough for a human, but more than enough for an elf and a tiefling. Enough, in fact, for Remy to catch sight of a dark crimson pool of blood where the thin light from outside met the near-darkness of the warehouse interior. She followed its path, past the realm of color, and into the dim shades of heavy, lumpy grey, which made up the crumpled body of a Zhentarim agent; his flying snake tattoo a stark black along the pale skin of his arm. “Fuck. Looks like we’re not the first ones here. Now, if we’re quiet, they won’t notice--” she began in a low whisper, but Soren wasn’t paying attention.Something in the mud and the muck at their feet had grabbed the wood-elf’s eye. With an awful, squelching sound, she lifted up her boot to reveal a half-deformed indentation. Now that she had the shape of it, the ranger could see the trail leading from the warehouse gate, across the yard, and to the door they now stood in front of. Several pairs of splayed footprints and the irregular shape of something being dragged. A tiny scrap of cloth had come off as whoever the unlucky bastard had been, had gotten dragged over the doorway. Navy blue, now soaked by the rain.The exact color of tunic Volo told them that Floon had been wearing.Soren crouched down, rain pouring off her cloak and trailing her mahogany hair into black tendrils along the side of her face. Those tracks, she’d seen them before. One heel, three long toes; clawed, at the end. More common in the forest than the city, and not nearly as large. She reached slowly over her shoulder for her bow, raindrops pattering on her fingers.Remy lifted up a foot to cross the threshold. Soren seized the back of her cloak just in time to yank the thief out of the way of a whistling crossbow bolt. The metal invitation to a quick death buried itself to the fletching in the solid pine door not a hair’s breadth from where she’d just been. A frustrated, squawking shrieking erupted from within the warehouse.“Kenku,” Soren spat.The tiefling dove behind a stack of crates, her long tail whipping through the air. “Great, just what we needed,” she said, rolling her eyes, “a complication.”Familiar muscles ached as Soren pulled back on her bowstring. How long had it been since she’d last used it? Too long, too long by far. Long enough for her to lose the finer edges of prowess that she’d once had. Her shot went wide.“Regards!” came a bird-like shriek from somewhere on the second level of the warehouse. “Loot the place!”A bolt nicked her leg as Soren hurried into position behind a support pillar. She accepted the pain as stoically as she seemed to accept everything else. The ranger glanced across at Remy, and the two of them leaned out of cover at nearly the same time to place their shots.“No time! No time!” the kenku shrieked. They had the intruders pinned--and easily outnumbered. It peered over the balcony to see where the elf and the tiefling had gone, only to find a crossbow bolt and an arrow sticking out of its chest. With a surprised squawk, it tumbled over the railing and onto the hard oblivion of the shipping crates below.Almost at once, Remy saw her mistake. They had aimed at the voice above, but now two dark and tattered figures rushed at them from the shadows by the warehouse stairs. One of them leapt on her before her wet and fumbling fingers could properly notch another bolt. The disgusting musk of damp feathers, filth, and blood overwhelmed her at almost the same time as the kenku’s dagger. Pain blossomed from a sharp wound in her belly, an unbelievable amount of pain. Hot, hot and wet in a way that the rain had not been. “Oh,” she gasped as a wave of rushing dizziness washed over her. The kenku’s enormous carrion beak reared back, a dagger of certain death itself. Remy’s eyes slid out of focus and her vision faded, faster than the shock, just barely in time to see Soren leap on the creature’s back. Killed? By a kenku, of all things? Here, now?“Well, that’s annoying,” Remy groaned before she lost consciousness.Soren snarled as she seized the bird-like creature by its shabby tunic. The sound echoed out of her chest, larger, larger than her body could contain. Despite the kenku’s wild croaking and flailing, she managed to keep her grip. It scratched at her arms, feathers bending and breaking. Soren hauled it backwards, huffing under the strain. A spare second afforded her time to go for her weapons. Too close for her short swords and she had no dagger. Grunting with effort, feeling her grip loosen, fingers slipping on wet clothes, wet feathers, she yanked an arrow from her quiver and drove its sharp tip into the creature’s neck.“Xanathar--sends, sends his--regards--” it parrotted, breathless, and fell to the ground.The ranger grabbed her bow from where she’d dropped it and slung it unceremoniously over one shoulder. No time, no time to check her companion. Hearing the rush of clawed feet, Soren grunted as she hefted Remy in an awkward fireman’s carry and bolted for the door.It wasn’t fear but anger that led strength to her steps. Panting with the exertion, her boots splashed mud up her calves as she retreated back out into the pouring rain. “What’s in those horns of yours?” Soren growled at the unconscious tiefling, “a year’s taxes’ worth of gold?”Scraping and scrabbling behind her told her that she’d run out of time. But Soren had made the end of the yard. In a single, fluid motion, she rolled Remy off her shoulders and grabbed her bow. An arrow appeared in her hand by the habit of long practice, as if, now that she’d done it once, her body had remembered what it was supposed to do. What it had to do, to get through this night alive.The kenku appeared at the door, a mass of ebony feathers and mottled brown rags. Their beaks drove through the rain like the muzzles of baying hounds, just as mad, and just as certain. “Get the boy!” one of them shrieked. “No time to loot the place!” squawked another.Soren grimaced. She stepped over Remy, digging her heels into the mud to steady her position. One arrow twanged as it flew from her bow, slicing a silver corridor through the rain. It buried itself in the chest of one of the kenku. The creature fell back with a harsh cry.“Come on!” she snarled, her coin-gold eyes alight. “Come and get me!”Fear and confusion filled the coal-black face of the final kenku. “Loot the place!” it wailed, parroting mere pieces of what it had heard earlier. “No time to loot the place!” It spun, fully intent on running for help, or more likely, far away from this crazy elf woman.
An arrow shaft sprouted from the front of its throat. It went down, clawing at its dirty, soaking feathers.Soren nocked another arrow and stood her ground, chest heaving. The cold rain turned her knuckles a dark pink as she stood there, waiting. Waiting.When at last she was convinced there was no other danger forthcoming, she knelt down and propped Remy up in her arms. “Hey,” she said, “hey, I’ve got you.” Awkwardly with one hand, Soren fumbled at her belt pouch. Cursing not too quietly, she managed to undo the clasp and dive her hand in, searching among the few coins, the crest of House Sesso, and other baubles for her healing potion.She’d never been good at making friends. The last folk she’d been traveling with--well, she hadn’t even tried. What was the point? She had a purpose, and it wasn’t to waste time with silly little things like getting to know her traveling companions. Besides, they had all been rotten anyway; vain or stupid, or both. Only the paladin--another tiefling, Soren thought ruefully--had had any amount of sense.It was…strange how you met people, wasn’t it? One minute you’re drinking quietly in the Yawning Portal by yourself, not asking nothing of nobody, and the next minute there’s a troll and a flock of stirges climbing up out of the Undermountain, and you pair up with the only other idiot mad enough to do anything about it. One minute minding your own business, and in the blink of an eye the years roll out in front of you and you’ve got a friend for life.Or you don’t.As if through a bloody haze, as if the ichor was falling again, falling from the gash on her throat, and it was Rezmir’s clawed fucking hand in her hair, getting ready to push, and her awful, slithering voice pointing out at the battle below, as each member of Soren’s party fell to the curved blade of the mad cultists, as if she could see it all again, the whole thing as clear as day, with those coin-gold eyes that had already seen too much--Soren tore the cork off the neck of the potion with her teeth and spat it out into the mud. “I’m not good with people,” she murmured, helping Remy take the draught of life-saving liquid. It was like a prayer. “Sorry. I’m not good at this.”She knew she didn’t have a future. But that was no reason to deny her companion the right to have one.Remy’s red face twitched and then pulled into an exaggerated grimace. “Oh, you got the cherry kind?” she said weakly. “I hate cherry.”“Well,” Soren snapped, instantly regretting her decision. She shoved the rest of her feelings away. They weren’t necessary. “I’ll remember to get the strawberry flavored ones next time.”“Oh, don’t do that, those are just the worst.”Soren straightened and held out a hand. “Can you stand?”“I think so.” Remy rubbed her side. It still ached, and now there was blood all down her leathers. “Well, that’ll be a bitch to clean.”“We can worry about that later. Come on, Floon might still be inside.” Soren motioned for her to follow. She stepped back over the threshold, ignoring Remy’s low whistle at the sight of the kenku bodies.It wasn’t much, what was left in the warehouse. “They were between shipments,” Remy said when she found the ledger in the upstairs office. She ran a carmine finger--calloused, but nimble, Soren noticed--down the neat columns. “‘Snaptusk delivers art donation. Fancypants delivers bank deposit.’ Gods, that’s a lot of money. Received by--” She leaned closer, squinting in the dim light. “‘YG’.”“Yagra, maybe?” Soren asked, thinking of the half-orc woman back at the Yawning Portal. The art donation was no mystery; Remy had found several rolled up and, most importantly, expensive canvases of oil paintings in one of the crates below.“Perhaps,” Remy said, but didn’t sound convinced.Soren moved along to the other rooms on the balcony level. The Zhentarim had left very little here in the first place, and it seemed that Xanathar’s men had routed whoever was left--thoroughly. It would certainly explain the bodies and the old blood, several hours old at least. Floon must have been here for a while before the other gang had decided to drop in without so much as a ‘by your leave’.Retracing her steps back to the stairs, Soren found the trail she’d lost earlier--that of the dragging body. Walking just beside it, in time and in step with the kenku’s bloody footprints, she frowned. The trail…was it…going the wrong way? Not someone being taken in, but someone being taken out.
Get the boy! No time to loot the place!
She cursed. So they had missed Floon. If Remy didn’t find out where they’d taken the man using the papers in the office, they’d have to start over again from scratch. Soren grimaced. She did not like the thought of having to trace tracks back through the rain. Not that she minded the wet but rather that, if Xanathar’s men had any amount of sense, they would have turned onto a main thoroughfare and made use of a cart, thereby making certain their tracks were lost along with the thousands of feet and wagons that plied the streets of the City of Splendors everyday. Knowing that the best they could do now was to be thorough, Soren pushed open the door to a holding cell and immediately recoiled.Blood splashed the walls. The smell of human refuse stung her sensitive nose with its particular sourness, and she fought the sudden urge to heave. Putting the edge of her cloak over her face, Soren inspected the room.There was not much to find. Only two straw sleeping pallets and an interrogation chair that had obviously seen a fair amount of use. Yet another scrap of navy blue cloth clung to one of the rusty bolts. Soren ripped it free and folded it in a spare, clean bandage. Regardless of anything else, they could still tell Volo what they’d found--and provide proof.She tucked her head, lost in the oddness of it all. How queer, to kidnap a nobleman. What on earth did they want with him? Ransom?It seemed the most likely reason.“Ridiculous.” Soren turned to go but stopped, one foot balanced in the air. A half-thought barely formed, she turned back around and looked at the room again.There were two sleeping pallets. And--what was this?She knelt down, no longer concerned with the smell. Her fingers scraped on the wood as she drew up a bent lockpick. It came away with a wet stickiness from the bloody footprint where it had fallen. A human footprint.Remy nearly ran smack into Soren as the ranger turned the corner quickly, her eyes to the floor. “Whoa! Did you--”Soren held a finger to her lips. “We’re not alone,” she said, for the footprints still glistened with their newness.Like a pair of hunting cats, the two women grew quiet once more. Remy passed the first fallen kenku and stopped. From this vantage point she could see both the side door and the main entrance. But she could also see a closet door beneath the stairs.The kenku hadn’t been waiting for an outside attack. They had been waiting for something else entirely, something already inside.Noiseless as clouds passing in front of the moon, Soren and Remy made their way back downstairs. On a silent count of ‘three’ they heaved open the closet door and burst inside, weapons singing from their sheaths.Almost at once a shuddering collection of miscellany rose from the dark shadows of the closet’s corner. Tangled rope swayed as if animated by some mage’s spell and a bucket danced where a head should be.“Oh great,” Remy said drily, “a trash elemental.” Tension sang along her arms as she raised her crossbow.A sharp, broken pole jutted out at them threateningly. “I’m warning you, stay away!” came a strained tenor voice. “I’m armed and I’m not afraid to fight!” The splintered end of the mop waved at them again. “Away, you Xanathar dogs!”Soren and Remy glanced at each other, perplexed. “Xanathar?”“Zhentarim then!” came the shout, and the heap of closet paraphernalia stumbled forward--before promptly getting its foot caught in a half-collapsed barrel and falling over in a great crash of wood, iron rings, and empty lanterns.
Very slowly, wood elf and tiefling leaned over the heap of detritus. “Are you…all right?” Soren said, the words oddly pinched, as if she didn’t know how to laugh and wasn’t certain if she liked the sensation.“Do I look all right to you?” the man inside the closet wreckage retorted. He extended a pale, freckled hand--pale, but no less strong in its grip. Carefully, both women helped the gentleman to his feet.“Floon Blagmar?” Remy asked as the man shrugged the ropes and sacking off his shoulders.“Would that I were.” With a great heave, the bucket released his head. A volume of copper hair fell over his shoulders. Lean but strong. Now that he was released from his hiding place, the human before them stood with a noble air. Though he couldn’t see them well in the dark, his emerald green eyes conveyed an inner depth of complexity--like a forest waking up from a summer rain. “Renaer Neverember, at your service. It seems, ladies, that I am in your debt.”Soren sucked in an unexpected breath, the sound loud in her own ears. The man was dirty, strewn with sweat and blood, and marked with livid bruises. He had no proud muzzle, no claws, no…fierceness about him, and yet……that hair, as red as a copper coin. Hanging over his shoulders like a curtain of slightly wavy scales.“Old Lord Neverember’s son?” Remy was saying when Soren came back to the world.Renaer pressed his lips together. “The very same,” he confirmed. “My father and I do not…speak. I suppose you ladies are my…rescue party?”Soren cleared her throat with an awkward cough. “Volo sent us after Floon, do you know the man?”“He’s a dear friend of mine.” Renaer ran a hand through his tangled hair, his brows drawing together. “We were out gambling and--gods--we got careless. Jumped in an alley by the Black Network and taken here. The Zhentarim agents wouldn’t listen; they thought I was Floon.”“Oh no.” Remy blanched. “Then your friend--”Renaer nodded. He wiped his cut and dirty hands on his trousers, but it didn’t help. “Taken, by Xanathar’s men.”“What on earth could they want with him--with you?” Remy gestured to Renaer.Soren watched the young nobleman retreat into himself. The handsome line of his jaw shifted and he sagged as a sail without wind to hold it up. “My father. The Zhents know that my father embezzled money off the top of the taxes he imposed during the Dragon War. That’s why he’s no longer Open Lord.”The wood elf stiffened. She let out a hiss of disgust that made Remy’s tail lash. “I remember,” Soren said. “When I first came through Waterdeep, how the city was ‘helping the war effort’.” She nodded to the thief beside her, a reference to their earlier conversation. “And those taxes haven’t come down since.”“Correct.” Renaer led them, at first cautiously and then with confidence, out of the storage closet. A glance around told him all he needed to know about how the battle had gone. “The city has to over-compensate, to make up for that loss. Father’s money was never found.”Remy wrinkled her nose. “So that’s what the Black Network and Xanathar’s Guild are fighting over. What all this gang strife is about. So, they thought you knew. Do you? Know, that is.”Renaer shook his head. He pulled all his copper hair over one shoulder, oblivious to Soren looking at once in any direction but straight at him. “I wish I did. That money belongs with the city. No, Father hid it, and hid it well. That and some relic: the Stone of Golorr. I’d never heard of it, but that was one of their incessant questions when they…interrogated us.” Another sigh. “It would have been worse going, but then Xanathar’s men stormed the place and, well. You know the rest.”Something didn’t make sense. Soren turned the information over in her mind like a child would turn over a sweet in their mouth. A sweet, only to find out it was butterscotch. She tapped her cheek with her knuckles, thinking. “But, for the taxes to still be so high, and for him to have been ousted for such a…a white-collar crime, the kind rich folk do all the time, how much money did he steal?”“500,000 gold dragons,” Renaer said.“He WHAT?!” Soren exclaimed, at the same time that the shrill, piercing sound of a watch whistle reached their ears.Something large and heavy banged on the front doors of the warehouse. “ALL RIGHT YOU XANATHAR SCUM. WE KNOW YOU’RE A’HIDIN’ IN THERE! COME OUT WITH YER HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE’S ‘EM.”The trio glanced quickly between each other. Fear, cold and certain, washed through Remy. “We need to get out of here!” she hissed, tail lashing.“What for?” Soren hissed back. “We haven’t committed any crime.”Renaer gave up on trying to straighten his cuffs. He brushed off the front of his navy blue tunic--which opened considerably in the front, Soren noticed--and held his head high. “Ladies, please leave this to me. After all, it is the least that I can do to repay you.”

Without waiting to see if they’d follow, the young nobleman strode forward toward the side door.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Renaer’s words worked wonders. He held himself like a king, Soren couldn’t help but notice. Even drenched, even soaked to the skin and caked in blood. Even covered in the sweaty film of his own suffering, the red-eyed dredges of his desperation. Even here and now, on the other side of sleep and pulled ruthlessly along by the worry over his friend. Here, beneath the cold and pouring rain, with nothing to prove a claim to his house except his bearing, Renaer Neverember spoke to the Watch officers with a dignity that belied his circumstances.Still, even so, they were slow to trust. Suspicion was the well-nursed gin of all policemen everywhere. In every other city on the Sword Coast, Remy observed, that suspicion had always been tempered by a healthy dose of self-preservation. Oh sure, Waterdavian Watchmen would take a bribe as soon as look at you, but she couldn’t shake an uncomfortable itch between her shoulder blades as she squinted up at Sergeant Staget.There was a certain keenness about the man, and not the earnest kind. Not the sort of helpful spit-shine of a new recruit eager to please his superiors, but the sharp cunning of a man who was built like a brick shithouse and had learned to disguise his personal penchant for cruelty behind a veneer of what appeared on the outside to be bull-headed stupidity. It was the letter of the law that mattered. Whatever it took to stop Crime.A thick square jaw worked, Staget somehow managing to get words around the smoldering cigar he kept clenched between his wide, dull teeth. “What about them?” He pointed at Soren and Remy. “Ought to bring ‘em down to the Halls of Justice. Just a few questions.”Renaer shook his head. “It’s hardly necessary--”The Sergeant grinned; a bulldog snarling around a bone right before it cracked. “Oh, begging yer pardon, Neverember.” Dark, silhouetted shapes--his other Watch officers--shifted in the silver and blue shadows of the pouring rain. “You wouldn’t understand. Folk like these…” He spread his wide, meaty hands in a companionable invitation to commiserate.“Folk like…my rescuers?” Renaer’s flat expression said more than his words. Politician he might be, but he was not a man who played games. Not those kind, anyway.Staget frowned, a deep furrow that suited his stocky face far better. “How does your Lordship known they weren’t skulkin’ about, waiting for their master’s word--”“I’ve told you,” Soren put in sharply, fully sick of this rubbish, “Volo hired us.” She gestured unerringly in the direction of the Yawning Portal, the movement of her arm splattering water across the wallowing and muddy courtyard of the Candle Lane warehouse. “If it’s a reference you want--”“None of that is necessary,” Renaer put in before Staget could draw breath to order his saviors put in irons. “Sergeant, I will happily come by the Halls of Justice and deliver a full report, in person. I have no doubt as to the validity of these women’s claims. And, I am certain, even Volo can be made to answer if you are in need of a witness--in the morning.”Staget reached up and plucked the cigar from the corner of his mouth. He drew heavily on it and the smoldering end suddenly glowed a dull and angry orange. Despite Renaer’s words, which carried a noble’s air of polite but firm orders, Staget grinned. The copper glow made an ugly, dented smile on the underside of the brim of his metal helmet. “As you say, my Lord. As you say.”He tapped the cigar and the burning embers fell..Down and down through the dark, and in the dream, Soren went with them.~Twin fires, brightly burning, became a pair of gold coins tossed--up and up. Spinning in the air, untethered from the weight of the world. Each side, each rim, twinkling in the warm spring sun. Those gold coins that disappeared every time she blinked.Soren came back to the world, her rippling reflection tossing the gold of her eyes over and over, in some innocent and heartless mockery. She lay on her side by a clear, forest stream. Cool, dewy air and dappled light moved freely over her bare, olive skin. For a long time she knew nothing, watching familiar eyes in an unfamiliar face.Gradually, like an ice flow cracking with the spring melt, she felt the pain. Not so much a physical pain, but an emptiness that she did not yet have words for. Her body felt thin and sluggish, somehow both at the same time. Gangly and awkward. Her chest felt hollow and her mouth no longer tasted of iron and sulfur. Her blood no longer burned. The awaited second blink never came, and so there was nothing to keep the tears from running freely down her cheeks and onto the moss. The forest enveloped her, hiding her nakedness from the rest of the world. But it could not hide the brown arm that reached for the rippling water, to touch that stranger’s face.She meant to roar. A shriek of power and rage and fury.Instead, it came out as a scream. Raw, raw and naked as the rest of her.Chest heaving, Soren clawed at her body. She rocked back on her heels--too fast--and toppled over on her side again. Sharp nails left pink tracks across her soft skin. No scales, no coat of beaten gold, no armor against the world.No beauty.She clawed at her ugly body, more and more desperate. Each streak of her nails sent a sharp, unexpected pain through her. One hand balled into a fist. Soren, her other arm shaking and pressed across her middle, as if she could keep the rest of herself inside, away from this terrible roughness, this all-consuming ugliness and unfairness of the universe, shattered her reflection. Over and over, mud and moss and sand and water splashing across her breasts and neck.“BAHAMUT!”Her mouth did not know how to push out words around these dull and pearly teeth. How to hiss or snarl. But she knew the name of her god, and she knew the name of the one responsible for this violation. As simply as she knew her own name.
Follow the river of gold to a castle in the sky. Prevent the rise of the Dark Queen at the Well of Dragons. Then, Zarrakor, and only then, will you have earned your scales.
The wood elf thrashed. She opened her pink mouth and screamed until it felt as though her heart would empty itself right then and there. Curling up, her forehead pressed against the soft moss, her untamed mahogany hair falling in a dark pool all around her, Soren clutched at her belly. She shredded the smoothness of her shoulders, her fragile ribs. As if, if she dug deep enough, if enough blood soaked into the earth, that she could find her scales and her wings beneath it all.Her wings!God, he’d stolen her wings!Ripped the sky away from her as easily as dashing a sailor’s beloved ship on an unforgiving shoal. Ripped the freedom from her body. Her spine shuddered with ragged sobs. No amount of mutilation would return her wings, her pride and joy, her sense of self.Bahamut’s punishment had swept through her like a tidal current, leaving her as empty as a cracked shell on some forgotten beach. Full of brine and grit--and death.Muscle rubbed against bone. A mortal heart counted out its beats. So few of them.Gods, so very, very few.And she with no mate, no children of her own. Not even her hoard, not a single pair of coins to spark together except the ones in her eyes.
You are better than this.
“I am a dragon!” Soren snarled, fury calling up a heat in her breast--but no, it was only heartbreak. “I am a dragon,” she gasped to the silent, steadfast forest.“What else am I supposed to be?!”No answer was forthcoming. Soren turned her cheek away from the stream, her countenance unbearable, her form ugly and weak and mortal. Her body dying by moments in some great, twisted tragedy, her heart struggling to keep pace with the passage of time.An unforgiving sun beat down on the wood elf, its gaze at once golden and empty. Everything, and nothing.~The sun turned silver. Silver turned to milky white. Everything, and nothing.Remy blinked hard when a brown hand waved in front of her face, disrupting her view of the stuffed beholder. “Huh?”“You…all right?” Soren placed a gentle hand on Remy’s shoulder. Well, it wasn’t exactly gentle. It was the firm, solid pressure of someone who meant well, but had no idea how to follow her feelings with action.Remy rubbed her eyes, looking anywhere but at the ancient, shriveled beholder that acted as Xoblob’s shop sign. “I’m certainly something. C’mon, the owner might have seen something.”Violet smoke poured out of the shop when Remy pushed open the door. It enveloped the stairs and spilled into the street. The rain did little to dampen it, and it curled ever outward until it dissipated and became one with the fog. A strange little gnome greeted them. He sat on a ratty, upholstered cushion and blew a long breath of hookah smoke from his impressive nostrils. His skin was covered in purple eye tattoos, as was his bald head. Instead of opening his wrinkled eyes, the gnome lowered his head, as if the tattoo itself were staring at them.“Tom cat’s greetings to you both,” he said, speaking in a high, reedy voice. “Welcome to Old Xoblob’s Shop! Xoblob has many things--knows many things, yes. Things seen and unseen; but Xoblob knows everyone’s secrets.”Remy shuddered. When she wasn’t looking directly at the gnome’s head, it was as if the great, tattooed eye were blinking at her. The pupil seemed to follow her around, but only from the edge of her vision. “We, uh--”The two women looked at each other. Soren gave a shrug. It was instinct that had pulled them off the street. That, and a chance to get out of the rain. Remy looked around them, seeing that Xoblob’s shop was, in fact, full of junk. Beetles painted lavender. Scrimshaw dyed purple by some Calimshan paint. Broken knives laying in a lupine-grey dust. “We’re looking for a man named Floon Blagmar?”Xoblob grinned, his skinny mouth stretching in a slit, thin line. “The twin flames!” he whispered excitedly. “Xoblob knows! Two flames passed in the night, speaking heavy words. Words of stone, words of gold. Dangerous words.”Soren picked up a box of matches, slathered with purple paint. A fat, fuzzy spider crawled out from underneath it and laboriously made its way behind a shattered salt cellar. She set the matchbox down again. “Know everything, hm?” she said, almost absently. “Even where to find a missing man?”This time Xoblob tapped the side of his ponderous nose. He never opened his wrinkled eyes, but he turned his head, and Remy could have sworn the pupil of the tattoo darted with him, keeping its attention fixed on the wood elf. “Xoblob knows,” he cackled. “Xoblob knows you, great one. Xoblob knows what it is you seek. He knows what you will find. And he knows the price. It is a very, very steep price indeed.”Soren drew in a sharp breath, gathering her hard veneer of privacy, and turned away.Xoblob only laughed, perhaps not unkindly. He turned his attention, like the tension of a crossbow, back to Remy. “And you, quick-fingered one. Xoblob knows you, too.”Ignoring Soren’s dismissive gesture toward the door, Remy swallowed. The old gnome was mad. Everyone who’d ever been through the Docks Ward knew that. Thought himself a beholder or some other such thing. But madness and knowledge often shared a face. “My…friends,” Remy said, wordlessly motioning to Soren that this was important, gods dammit, and it would only take her a moment, really. “I left…some of my friends, in Baldur’s Gate. You wouldn’t happen to know about them, would you?”“Oh, come off it, Remy. Candle Lane can’t be far, let’s not--”Hurrying, hurrying before she decided it was all a stupid idea anyway, Remy poured their names out of her mouth. Bug, Shiv, Andre. Her old gang. It was silly, ridiculous. But something opened inside of her. Something teetering, precarious. Something that mattered.Something hopeful.But she didn’t hear Xoblob’s answer. The skin on the top of his bald head split. Wider and wider, but he just kept talking. Mute horror kept Remy rooted to the spot. Xoblob kept on speaking as his skin sloughed off and an enormous eyeball peered out at her and through her, blinking and--~Remy held stock-still. She clutched the plush bank carpet and flattened herself against the floor. Her heart pounded in her ears as she willed herself to not exist.She was back in Baldur’s Gate. Back in the Baldur’s Gate Bank & Trust--or back in the dream of it, anyway. The long, posh hallway was lined with office doors, each with a frosted glass panel looking out into the hall. Beyond the doors, beyond the building altogether, a sweeping search light blinked between outside windows, bathing the offices and the inner hall in a horrible, milky glow. It swept back and forward relentlessly as the hallway shifted underneath her like a long ribbon.Forward, she knew, was the teller’s lobby. A great rotunda of pink marble and gilded edges. A place a person like her was never supposed to see, except from the outside. The kind of place that was more temple than bank, as if people would rather sing hymns to gold and trade and commerce than to virtues of justice, honor, and charity. As if there was something…sacred in the space between coins, as money fell from one palm to another.Gold.The dream of it could drive men mad.Steal a loaf of bread and they hanged you for a petty thief. Steal a vault of gold and they called you a politician. People like that didn’t deserve money like that. There was no worth in it. There was only suffering.Besides, who would miss a few hundred gold dragons? Or a few hundred silver?Oh, the bookkeepers might, but the bank owners never would. They would still dine on prawns and Calimshan oranges, and twinkle their Mirabar-bought gem necklaces under the light of a thousand candles at some fancy gala party.Well, they could eat shit and die.It had been a decent heist plan. Come up from the sewers, get the gold, and get out. Celebrate with a bottle of wine that didn’t taste like horse piss. Not Elverquist. There was no sense overdoing it. Whoever got caught by the Watch, their bail would be paid by those who did manage to scrounge something before they all had to scarper. And besides, they’d saved up enough to pay bail for at least two of them, if it came to that.The heist of a lifetime.Remy squeezed her eyes shut as the blinking light passed overhead again. Dread soaked up through her chest, as though she were laying in a puddle of cold, liquid lead. No, not the lobby. She had to go back, down to the basement, where she’d told her friends to wait.In the way that one knows things in dreams, Remy knew she could go forward or she could go back.She turned to grab the carpet to pull herself around. She’d damn well crawl if she had to. The access stairwell loomed at the other end of the hall. Elongating and shortening at the same time, it swept toward her and she tumbled down, down----Remy hit the railing of the gallery above the teller’s lobby with all the force of a sailor striking the taffrail of his ship in a storm. She clung to it, dizzy, and tried to catch her breath.“Remiah Sinnah!” called a gleeful, awful little voice. She’d know that voice anywhere. It belonged to Sinrin Goldnose, the last member of the Shiller’s Row Gang. He was supposed to be robbing some art gallery or something, to prove that he was better equipped to lead than she was. A useless dick-measuring contest that Remy had had to accept.Bracing herself for what she already knew she would see--Sinrin and the Watch Captain at the center of the rotunda, guards lining every wall--and what she knew would follow after--blood splattering the clean pink marble, dark and heavy and wet--bracing herself, Remy hauled herself to her feet to look over the gallery railing. This time it was not Sinrin standing, horribly happy next to the Watch Captain, his little gnomish features pinched with wicked delight. It was Bug; her half-orc friend, the muscle of the gang since his brains weren’t ever really up to snuff; Bug standing beside the Watch Captain. Remy wanted to throw up. In a cacophony of iron and copper and gunpowder echoes, her own voice came back to her.
How can you arrest me when I haven’t even committed any crime yet?

Oh, my dear Remiah, that’s simple. You’re being arrested for murder.

What murder?
Bug pulled the loaded flintlock pistol--an expensive and rarely-issued sidearm--from the Watch Captain’s belt. In the dream, the blond human woman didn’t even blink. She didn’t even move, despite the fact that Remy could feel herself screaming.In a smooth, baritone voice that Remy knew he didn’t have, Bug said, “It’s time to wake up, dear.” He pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the Watch Captain’s pink, unblemished cheek.
This one!
~Remy tore herself out of sleep to a crack of thunder. Despite the cool air, sweat poured down her back. She shoved black hair out of her face and scrambled to the edge of the bed. Her searching, scrabbling fingers soon found the empty chamber pot. Into the pot went the contents of her stomach--last night’s very expensive meal. At least, she consoled herself, the meal had been on Renaer’s tab.When her mouth was finally clean again, Remy sank back down on the edge of the bed. Renaer’s thankful kindness had earned them an inn room for as long as they needed it at the Hawk & Harrier Arms. Behind her, Soren groaned fitfully, and turned over in her sleep. Almost by unspoken agreement the two women had holed up in a single one of their conjoined rooms. Furniture in front of the doors, a wire across the windows. The wood elf had even turned over every mirror. So they couldn’t be scried, or so she said.Remy lay back down gingerly and pulled the blankets up to her chin. After several long, unbearable minutes, she spoke into the dark. “Soren?”“Hm?” The sound was almost a gasp, as if she, too, had arisen from an unpleasant slumber. “Whassat?” Her voice with its long, dry and laconic drawl, sounded like a river trying to speak a language made of stones. But then again, that was Draconic for you.“Are you awake?”Soren rolled over and rubbed her eyes. She held her arms above her for a moment, her darkvision showing her the outline of five fingers on each hand. A long sigh left her.“What time, ah, when did Renaer want to see us in the morning?”“Nine bells.” The answer came immediately, in Common, with her usual flat affect. The sheets rustled as Soren tucked her arms over her middle. “Why?”“I can’t sleep.”Thunder grumbled outside again, this time more distant.“Do you think we’ll find Floon before Xanathar’s men discover he’s not Lord Neverember?”This time, Soren took a long while in answering. “We’ll do our best,” she said after a while. “And that will have to be enough.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Renaer Neverember was already waiting for them. He’d chosen a table by the window, where the golden light of early fall spilled over the block-printed tablecloth and fine, upholstered chairs. The tapered sweep of strong shoulders could not--quite--be disguised by his royal blue doublet. It must have been brisk outside, despite the sun, for Renaer had added a pair of sleeves to his vest. The leather ties--not cloth, Soren noticed--stood out as odd on a nobleman. Was he perhaps expecting some other accosting vagabonds?It was then that Soren saw the fine rapier with its swirling basket guard that hung at Renaer’s lean hip. Giving a private huff, he tossed his head, clearing a fall of thick, copper hair from his face. He raised a leather thong and began to tie the troublesome locks back. As he did so, Renaer noticed his rescuers lingering in the doorway of the dining room. With a smiling nod, he indicated the two empty chairs opposite him.“I cannot thank you enough,” he began as they took their seats, “for all you have done for me.”Remy lounged against the backrest, her long crimson tail draping artfully over the arm of the chair. She spread herself across the furniture, even kicking one leg up over the opposite arm. “Big damn heroes, that’s us. And commanding big damn hero prices.”Young Lord Neverember raised a brow, his freckled face quirked in a bemused smile. “When the Watch searched the warehouse,” he said, “they didn’t find the unstamped silver bars the Zhentarim had listed in their inventory.” A single glance at Remy’s face proved Renaer’s guess correct. “I think you’ve been paid well enough for your assistance.”“And you?” Renaer turned to Soren, brow raised even farther in question.Soren sat straight, her strung bow hung off the frame of the chair, easily within reach. Her hands folded quietly in her lap. In truth, a strange heat had begun to spread its way through her chest. The man--the human--across from her, was neither dragon nor dragonborn. He had no scales, no long and elegant features, no wings like the sails of tall ships. And yet, something about him softened her, and Soren gave her answer with unexpected gentleness and sincerity.“I want nothing,” she said. “I shall be happy if your friend is delivered safely.”This time, both of Renaer’s brows went up. He swept his emerald gaze over the wood elf again, not missing the silver glint of her Harper earring charms; on one side the crescent moon, on the other, the harp. The ranger held herself like an unbent pine--and she dressed like one, too; a forest-green linen shirt, doeskin trousers, serviceable boots worn soft and soundless from long use, and a hard leather halter to keep her vitals protected. No space wasted. Renaer found his gaze lingering on Soren’s, on the strange coin-gold of her eyes.He cleared his throat and turned his attention to his own hand, smoothing down the tablecloth. A flash of the inside of his wrist--at the Harper crest buttons that held his sleeves closed--and he marked the nearly-imperceptible dart of Soren’s gaze. “...a rare thing,” Renaer said finally. “And rarer still, if true.”~
Tie up the pretty boy in the back room, follow the yellow signs to the sewers. No time to loot the place, take him to the boss!
It was, Soren decided with a stoic grimace, not the river of gold she’d been hoping for.Remy, well-used to such things--or so it seemed--was already working up the alley’s manhole cover. She grunted as Soren stood guard. Renaer had told them everything he could, though it wasn’t much. Necessity had brought them back to Candle Lane, or near enough to it, with the Watch having cordoned off the place. From there the two women had circled outward through the alleys, finally coming to Book Street, whose entrance had been marked with a faded, yellow-painted sign denoting a shop whose windows were fit to bursting with old manuscripts, tomes, and parchments.A further yellow handprint gleamed in the sun as Remy finally hauled the manhole cover to the side. The thick stench of sewer mixed with brine floated up as she did so. Soren wrinkled her nose. “Well that’s unpleasant.”“It’s a sewer,” Remy shot back with an exasperated flick of her tail. She curled it around her leg to keep from accidentally touching…things. “What did you expect?”One by one, and taking the cover back with them, both ranger and rogue disappeared beneath the streets of Waterdeep. Soren’s boots splashed as she lowered herself from the ladder to the narrow walkway. “Oh, I dunno, more aqueduct and less cesspit?”Remy alighted after Soren. Her shimmering eyes hardly needed the wan autumn light peeking in from the manhole above them. “That’s up the city. Down here--downhill--all the filth is thicker. You know what they say, it pays to live uptown. Just be glad it rained last night, or the smell would be--believe me--WAY worse.”“That’s fair.”Every great city had its plumbing, and Waterdeep was no exception. A network of tunnels, causeways, cisterns, aqueducts, and waste flows snaked beneath the city. More than half the tunnels likely connected to the infamous Undermountain, although Remy had yet to delve so deep. Not for the first time she wondered what it might be like to live in a place like this. How often would you see the sun?“Practically a city of its own down here,” she said, by which she meant for Soren--who was clearly not used to this sort of thing--to stick close.The ranger fitted an arrow into her bow and held it casually at her side. City unto itself or no, no sewer was without its dangers. “What else is Waterdeep built on but more Waterdeep,” she remarked drily.“And here I thought you didn’t have a sense of humor.”“I don’t.”Remy rolled her eyes as Soren’s first, almost imperceptible smile tugged at her lips. The exaggerated gesture brought Remy’s gaze to rest on a set of dull yellow markings on the wall. Handprints, angled to the right. The tip of her tail flicked against her thigh with anticipation. Wordlessly, she motioned for Soren to follow her lead.The ancient stone tunnel stretched out before them, a walkway to either side and a deeper channel in the middle. Despite its age, the sturdy construction had clearly stood the test of time. The walkway was narrow, and they edged along in the fetid darkness, taking care not to splash as they took careful steps. If this had been any other season surely the water would have been lower--and thick with the inevitable sludge of city living.More used to adventuring in odd places than Remy thought, Soren didn’t so much as bring a cloth up over her nose. She took up the rear, her slender, pointed ears alert for danger. They walked in silence for what felt like hours. More tunnels joined theirs, bringing in fresh water from sluices far uphill, and the plopping, ponderous hiss of the passing stream soon became an almost deafening rumble.Before they even reached the crossway, Soren could see the glimmering, wavey squares of water refracting on the tunnel ceiling. Water poured in from all directions, tumbling in a grey froth to a cistern below. Likely there was another tunnel at the bottom, completely underwater, that ran farther south. Thick iron grates blocked two of the other inflows. Only the fourth way, the smallest and weakest-flowing, had no grate at all.Remy all but flattened herself to the wall and behind her Soren did the same. “A ladder,” she whispered, “with a gazer underneath.”Soren peeked out around her companion and grimaced. Sure enough, across a wide gap in the walkways, on the opposite side, she saw the ugly little head of a gazer bobbing in the air. For all intents and purposes, it appeared to be asleep. Their dilemma was clear. If the ladder led to the Xanathar hideout, then the gazer was blocking the way--and could possibly call for help. If it wasn’t, and the unblocked passage to their left led to the hideout, there was no way they would be able to jump the gap and continue on without alerting the hideous creature.With all the patient care borne of long practice, Remy pulled out her crossbow and loaded a quarrel. She crouched, allowing Soren to aim over her.The bolt whizzed through the air, crossing the gap over the cistern almost faster than the eye could follow it. Instead of hitting the gazer, however, it zipped right by, and clanged against the ladder’s metal rungs. The gazer whipped around, its large eyeball shortly joined by the appearance of several smaller eyestalks that clustered around its bulbous head. It let out a piercing, vibrating scream of tiny rage.“Fuck,” said Remy.Soren’s arrow exploded one of its eyestalks as it raced across the distance separating them. The scream only intensified in pitch. Its remaining eyes glowed like the directed beam of a hooded lantern, showering the wood elf and the tiefling in their unnatural light. A beam of ice, intensely cold and oddly sharp, struck Remy square in the chest. It forced her back, sucking the breath from her lungs. With an undignified groan, she slipped on the causeway and fell backward into the water.Fighting back the ache of what must have been a paralyzing ray, Soren’s aim again proved true. Her next arrow, pulled back farther on the bowstring than the distance truly called for, burst through the grisly globe of the gazer’s body and pinned it, dead, to the wall opposite.“Well, I hate this for me,” Remy said, spitting the taste of sewer from her mouth as Soren helped her back onto the walkway. She made to smell her now-sopping clothes and then immediately thought better of it. “We’re going to a bathhouse after this.”“After we’ve seen Floon to safety.”“Yeah, of course.”There was nothing at the top of the ladder. Nothing of interest, anyway. Soren climbed back down and shook her head. “Just a tavern basement,” she said, shaking the slime from her hands. “The Spouting Fish Tavern, to be precise. We’re not in the Docks Ward anymore.” That would explain the slightly cleaner tinge to the water, not to mention the lack of brine in the air. “Somewhere near the South Gate, unless I miss my guess.”“Look who knows so much,” Remy said, pulling a face at the cherry-flavored health potion. “Only one way to go, then.”Soren nodded. “Upstream it is, then.”They followed the unblocked tunnel, teetering carefully on its ever-narrowing walkway. Eventually it ceased to have a walkway altogether, but by then the flow of water came barely up to their ankles.“Soren?” Remy whispered.“What?”“I’m starving.”The ranger looked back over her shoulder. “How can you even think of food in a place like this?”Remy opened her mouth to reply but Soren held up a hand. The wood elf cocked her head, mahogany braids flowing over one shoulder. She pointed down the tunnel, to where it ended in a mostly dry cistern. “Voices,” she mouthed.Tension sang through Soren’s limbs as they left the true sewers behind, and began to edge through a series of smaller passages. Perhaps old store rooms or basements, long blocked off and forgotten about. Waterdeep built on more Waterdeep, indeed. The tension only heightened as they stalked soundlessly--and uncontested--through each room, checking each new corner before slipping forward into the low, torch-lit gloom.“Soren?” Remy whispered again, this time far quieter. Her breath barely forming the words. She peered ahead into a barracks--an empty barracks--full of sleeping pallets and strewn with personal belongings. “Where is everyone?”To that, the ranger had no answer. Jumbled voices and cries of what she could now distinguish as pain echoed through the twisting halls. There was nowhere to move but forward.Streaked graffiti lined the walls. No more did they see the yellow hand signs, but instead eyes, always eyes, as if Xanathar himself could see out of every hideously-painted line. In the corners, the faces of rats had been drawn, low-down, on the stone. Shard Shunner markings, and in Xanathar territory no less. If there was an alliance of wererats and the Xanathar Guild of Thieves, it certainly couldn’t bode well for the city. There were not, however, any rats wandering about. No little shadows scurrying into cracks at the passage of their footsteps. That, more than anything, tightened the tension between Remy’s shoulder blades.At last, Soren and Remy turned a corner to confront a set of wide, broad stairs that led up, out of the damp barracks. Not quite to street level, by the sounds of voices echoing against stone, but certainly drier. The shouting had untangled itself from the winding of the passageways and the two women listened intently as they took the stairs with cautious care.“You idiots!” snarled the unmistakable accent of a half-orc. There was the thick, unmistakable sound of a body hitting stone. “I sent you to find the Neverember boy and you bring me THIS?!”Soren knelt on the stairs and dared a glance over the top. Her breath caught in her throat and she blanched, only just managing to signal to Remy to keep her horns down. A few brief gestures, made up on the spot but no less intelligible than Thieves’ Cant, quickly communicated the extent of the situation. Remy did not need to ask twice what Soren meant by wiggling her fingers in front of her mouth.
Mind flayer.
In unison, both women laid on the stairs and peered over the top.At the back of the long room, on a raised stone dais, stood the hideous form of a mind flayer, one of the most feared denizens of the Underdark after the drow. Instead of the elaborate fanned crest of an Underdark noble, however, much of its upper robes were covered in black leather. A mask--almost seeming to Remy like an exterminator’s mask--encased the creature’s bulbous head. Thick goggles blocked a direct view of what each woman knew would be its ugly, milky eyes. Likely, the head covering had been made to help it adjust to brighter lights, as mind flayers were not known for their tolerance of the sun. Four long, slick tentacles hung down from its mouth, dripping saliva or some other secretion onto the floor while its incredibly long, clawed fingers ran over the quivering form of what first appeared to be a basket-sized brain. The brain turned in the illithid’s arms, wriggling in what could only be called anticipation.In front of them stood a towering half-orc and a deep dwarf. Both men were covered in the eye tattoos common among Xanathar’s guild. As they watched, the half-orc laid the deep dwarf out with a solid punch to the unfortunate fellow’s face. He struck again, furious, and the grey-skinned duergar sank into death without a further sound. Several more men, humans, Soren guessed, lay dead at their feet. Among the prone forms was one man not dressed as poorly as the others. His red hair, though covered in grime, stood out in a flash of color, as well as the sky blue of his silk tunic.Floon!The realization had no sooner struck Soren and Remy than the mind flayer looked up sharply. It hissed, clacking the hideous beak that lay behind its tentacled appendages. As one would treat a beloved pet, it set the now-squirming and slavering intellect devourer down on its four stubby, yet well-muscled, legs.Snarling, the half-orc turned. He stomped on Floon’s limp body, eliciting a dying groan. “Come for the boy, have ye?”Knowing they’d been found, Soren whipped herself out of hiding, her knee scraping against stone as she came up from her crouch and fired. Her arrow flew true--only for the mind flayer to throw up a clawed hand and stop it, by the sheer force of its will, in midair. It flexed its fingers and the arrow fell, cracked in half, to the floor. Another flick of its hand and a hidden door shuddered open behind the dais. As if they warranted no more attention than annoying gnats, the illithid turned and floated out of the room. The door shut tight behind it, and Soren’s second arrow shattered on the stone seconds after the ugly creature had disappeared.“We’ve got bigger problems,” Remy said. She fired off her crossbow and grimaced as the half-orc took the bolt squarely in the shoulder without flinching. “Way bigger problems.”The half-orc roared, electricity crackling off his scarred knuckles. “Grum’shar will teach you maggots the meaning of respect!” He charged them, crying something unintelligible in his own guttural tongue.“Wizard!” Soren yelled. Removing her attention from the illithid’s crouching pet entirely, she leapt to her feet and took off in a wide circle around the edge of the room. If only she could kite him, keep him from gaining on her long enough to get off a few more solid shots. Almost unbidden, a word of power jumped to her lips, and the next arrow that hit the half-orc exploded in a shower of thorns.The thorns raked his skin and sent a fine mist of blood up in front of Grum’shar. He came on anyway, howling with increased rage. Not stopping his original trajectory, he took a single swipe at Remy, cuffing her upside the head with a sizzling jolt.“Hey, rude!” The tiefling thief kept light on her feet, ducking a second punch. She slammed her horns into Grum’shar’s stomach, using the brief distraction as she blew the breath from his lungs to draw the sword from her cane. Dancing just shy of his increasingly-furious strikes, her sword sliced across his powerful forearms, and even got a glancing slice across his muscled chest.Grum’shar clasped his meaty fists together and brought them around in a swirl of green fire. He cracked Remy--hard--across the face. “KILL YOU!” the half-orc roared as Remy swooned, her vision popping with lights and spots of dizzying blackness. He raised his fists together for a second, devastating blow.“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Soren growled. She’d lost too many friends already, and damned if she’d let down someone who was counting on her now. Two someones, for Floon still lay prone and pale, so very pale indeed, on the stone floor. Pulling back the bowstring farther than she had for the gazer, Soren’s arm trembled. She let her final arrow fly, zipping too fast to see through the air.The bolt seemed to cut the very atoms of the air between them. It slammed into the base of Grum’shar’s skull, killing him instantly. Its pointed tip, covered in dark blood, appeared in his open mouth. The fire surrounding his fists died and Remy gave an undignified squeak as the half-orc’s body fell heavily to the floor, just barely missing crushing her under its weight.Instead of thanks, Remy’s eyes went wide. No longer giving the dead wizard any thought, she screamed. “Soren! SOREN!”The ranger turned, a flicker at the edge of her vision telling her where her attention ought to have been this entire time. Giving an ear-piercing shriek it should not have been able to make, given that it had no mouth, the intellect devourer that had crept forward leapt, launching itself at Soren.It needn’t have bothered.Soren reeled from the shriek, a stabbing pain shooting through her skull. It was like an egg cracking to reveal a dragon hatchling--but too early--the innocent form emerging, dead, into the world. She gave a half-hearted swipe at the intellect devourer with her bow, barely connecting. It attached itself to her stomach, horrible claws rending leather to reach the soft flesh of her belly within.Dragon! came an awful, screeching, high-pitched voice. It knickered gleefully, accompanied by a painful scratching sensation inside her head, as though her skull were suddenly too small. Wings! Fire! Power! Give it, give it, GIVE IT TO US!Soren didn’t even see Remy charging headlong across the room. Her eyes misted red and she tasted copper in her mouth. A warm liquid ran down her neck. Somewhere in the haze of pain, she knew her ears were bleeding. Crimson blood flowed out of her eyes, her nose, every orifice on her head--nevermind the warm sensation of gore spilling down her thighs from the wound on her stomach.She vomited grey matter onto the floor and fell, heavy and unresponsive, to the cold stone. The intellect devourer pounced on her face and rent flesh from bone in a hungry frenzy. Violet, psychic light pulsed along the pink ridges of the monster’s exposed brain. There was no itching anymore. No pain. No worry. No will to fight. There was, in fact, nothing at all, nothing but a voice screaming inside her as one shouts into an empty cave.
YesyesyesyesYESYES--
Remy’s sword sank deep into the intellect devourer’s crusty carapace and through the soft, quivering brain. It burst out the other side and scraped, metal screaming on stone, against the floor. She hacked desperately, face set into a wild grimace of horror and determination. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t--it couldn’t. She’d been unable to save her friends in Baldur’s Gate but here, here was another chance! Not for redemption, but to start all over again. Friends were more precious than gold. Better than concepts of honor or duty, which so often had come with empty hands to the tiefling. “Not again!” she cried, not caring what gore spattered her arm. “Not this time you ugly motherfucker!”The intellect devourer shrieked again, but this time it subsided into a wail of anguish. Caught in the middle of its meal, it could not so easily turn its attention to the enraged Remy. It sent a half-hearted clawed paw raking across the tiefling’s shin before going entirely limp.Remy practically kicked it off Soren’s body. Kneeling, wincing at the pain in this fresh wound, she fumbled in her bag for a potion, for god damned something. Lockpicks, climbing rope, and a battered lantern flew as she dug around the inside of the small canvas backpack. Finally, she withdrew a very small bottle of pinkish-red liquid. Remy hauled off the cork with her teeth, wrinkling her nose at the watered-down fruity smell, the pungent ingredients somehow more noticeable in this tiny container.
She slipped an arm under Soren’s head, to prop her up, only to nearly gag as the other side of the ranger’s face came more fully into view. Bone. Broken teeth. Mangled flesh. A mess of white that Remy didn’t care to think about.“Priest,” she said, not wanting to believe the sight in front of her eyes. “Y-you need a priest. Yeah.”Suddenly realizing how alone she was, Remy looked back over her shoulder to Floon’s prone form. If she didn’t bring them both back to the surface--and fast--all of this would be in vain. There was no telling if the mind flayer would return soon with more of Xanathar’s goons. Remy had no doubt that the monstrous illithid, with its psychic powers, was well aware that its compatriots were now dead.“Fuck,” she said. “Fuck. Gods’ damned fucking fuck shit FUCK.”Downing the potion herself--it wouldn’t do Soren any good now--Remy let the warm tingle flow through her veins as she carefully maneuvered the ranger into a fireman's carry. There were no jokes now. She had an hour, perhaps less, to find a priest to tend to Soren. An hour might have seemed a long enough time, but in a city as big as Waterdeep, it might not be enough to get to a temple, nevermind convince someone to help.With Soren secure, Remy leaned down and grabbed the collar of Floon’s blue vest. One glance around the room revealed a set of upward steps partially concealed by a hanging tapestry. “You better be fucking worth all this,” she snapped, hauling him, with some difficulty, toward the stairs.Remy couldn’t stop thinking of waking outside the warehouse, Soren crouching over her. They hadn’t known each other a few hours then, hardly even a full evening, and still the ranger had carried her to safety. People--friends--like that weren’t a silver a dozen. They didn’t come along every day.“I’ve got you,” Remy said, trying to convince herself as well as to say it aloud to Soren, even if the ranger couldn’t hear her. She patted Soren’s arm, a thin reassurance but honestly meant all the same. “You’ll come out of it, I’m sure.”Floon groaned as she hefted him upward, one stone stair at a time.“This time, nobody gets left behind.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

A hot wind blasted against her face. It threw stinging grit at her eyes, and tossed her long golden braids until they cascaded down her naked back like light given burnished, sinuous form. Claws met stone as her fingers flexed.Soren opened her eyes, squinting at once against the heavy hand of the wind. She blinked, the long slender shape of her golden arm gradually coming into a sharper focus. For centuries upon centuries the first sight to greet her eyes each day was the vision of her own, perfect body--as handsome as a king’s polished crown. She stared at her arm, at her scales, for a long time, not understanding.“ZARRAKOR, YOU ARE LATE.”Coldness gripped her chest, as sure as any field of ice. Soren pushed herself up quickly, and staggered to standing. A long reptilian tail flicked, anxious, in the air. Her wings beat for balance, but could not lift her from the ground. Heavy and bracing, the wind pushed at her as if were the endless breeze off of a featureless desert. Soren knew at once that she was dead. Where else would she be, caught between one body and another? Dragon and wood elf had fused into some other creature, some creature of wings and tail and scales and slender body--but it was no dragon.Unashamed of her nakedness--for dragons do not care about such things--Soren scrubbed the fine grit from her eyes and stared out at the craggy plain before her. Far in the distance she could see a great mountain. It ascended up into a cloud of dust. Or perhaps the grains of dust were the forms of thousands and thousands of dragons, so small from this distance that they appeared no more substantial than a smoky fog. Lightning danced behind a heavy bank of clouds at the mountain’s peak and paced around the horizon with long, searing strides. There was no telling how far away the mountain was, but she could hear the thunder even from here; deafening and terrible.The craggy landscape jutted into mesas and striated badlands, as if a thousand wings lay outstretched on their sides, long ago turned to immovable stone. A field of grinding sandstone icebergs, forever frozen. The angled end of one long plateau stretched out in front of her, with a high, narrow valley behind. It jutted out and ran unbroken in her direction, along the edge of a vast chasm. Dwarves sometimes called their little cracks in the earth ‘chasms’, but they were mere scratches in the dirt compared to this. The distance from her side to the craggy distance beyond could not be leapt by any amount of strength or faith or luck.“The Wing,” she gasped. Soren knew it instantly as anyone of draconic heritage would. Her mother, Radiant Zabaena, had often gathered her little hatchlings to her on star-filled nights to tell them the way of the world. Of mighty Bahamut and wicked Tiamat. Of gods and men and heroes, of cunning Ashardalon and the importance of balance in all things. Of the realms of the first beings of the world, of the great Astral Sea, and what it means for a dragon to die. The Wing! It was a place between worlds, between life and death, where a dragon would have to walk in judgment.“CORRECT.”From the depths of the chasm came a great set of claws, bleached bone. Black mist swirled around them, hissing, but never deviating very far from its original shape. Soren stumbled backwards as a massive dragon heaved himself out of the rift. Rocks and stones tumbled away into oblivion as he pulled himself upward. The entire chasm was wide enough for him to fly parallel in it with his full wingspan spread and not touch the sides, yet he seemed to take up the whole of the pit, his great bone-and-shadow body as heavy as a black thundercloud over a prairie bent in supplication.One beat of the gargantuan creature’s mighty wings and he soared upward, into the dusty sky. Soren could not look up far enough to see all of him--not this close. His boney tail whipped across the ledge as he cleared the rift, and she threw an arm over her head to keep from being clipped by wayward chunks of sandstone. A fair bit of stone tumbled down, into oblivion.He made one pass above her before landing on a nearby ridge, as solid and final as the slam of a coffin lid--if a coffin lid could be made from mountains. Coal-black smoke leaked out of his frame, dissipating before it got too far from his hulking body. Sickly opal-green light crackled inside the empty cavern of his ribs. He turned vicious and burning foxfire eyes to her and roared loud enough to rattle the earth.Soren roared back. Or, perhaps more correctly, Zarrakor returned the salvo with her own fury. All dragons had two names; one by which they knew each other, and one by which the world commonly knew them. Zarrakor had never bothered with a name meant for the lips of men, not until Bahamut had cursed her with this horrible elven body. Not so horrible anymore, though, for she would not have appeared half dragon and half elf in this place of all places if she did not have an identity firmly rooted in each; a foot on both sides of a sharp, dividing line. This wood elven shape was not, after all, so terrible. It had become, at some point which she could not define, comfortable and familiar. A kind of home.The sound echoed from her chest, as strong as it ever was in the days Before, when she had still had her cave and her hoard and her beautiful wings. When it died away, the rime-eyed god snarled down at her with a voice like slabs of stone meeting as soldiers might on a plain of war. “FIVE YEARS I HAVE WAITED FOR YOU, LITTLE GOLDEN ZARRAKOR. FIVE YEARS YOU HAVE KEPT FROM ME WHAT I AM OWED.”“Great Null, I don’t--”“DO NOT PRETEND! NOT HERE!” Null, the dragon god of death, roared once more. His jaw did not--precisely--move as he spoke. Instead, the words came to her mind, each one a heavy stone. Briefly, she wondered if she could carry them all; the weight of those words. Null lowered his long neck near to the ground and stalked down the side of a small peak toward her, grinning horribly. “CASTLE NAERYTAR SAW YOU SLAUGHTERED, AND YET YOUR SOUL NEGLECTED TO COME TO ME.”At once, Soren understood. If golden scales could grow pale, as wan as winter sunlight, then she did so. “The choice was not my own!” she insisted, standing pine-straight despite the enormous predator coming slowly toward her. “Bahamut sent me back, he--”“AND DID YOU NOT BEG HIM TO DO SO?” Null hissed wickedly. When Soren did not look away, he spat oozing plasma and shadow to the side. It fizzled and disappeared before it hit the ground.“He has a task for me,” Soren continued, as proud as any member of her mighty race and not cowed in the least. “And I mean to fulfill it.”Null growled, low enough to send a terrible chatter through her bones and her teeth. “WHAT YOU WILL DO, LITTLE GOLDEN ZARRAKOR, IS WALK.” He flicked his bony tail at a thin land bridge between one side of the chasm and the other. “AND IF YOUR SOUL IS UNWORTHY, THE BRIDGE WILL SHATTER AND YOU WILL FALL.”Soren edged to the side and risked a glance down into that nothingness. Thick smoke, acrid as the breath of a long-dormant volcano, swirled in the depths below. Shadows played against the wall of the chasm and in the under-lit clouds of smoke. At such a great distance she could only just make out the enormous, whipping head of a dragon. No, five heads. The coldness gripped her chest again. Soren knew she looked down into Avernus, upon the hated, evil form of Tiamat herself.“YOU WILL FALL,” Null said again, sounding certain, “AND THE QUEEN OF HELL WILL SWALLOW YOU WHOLE.”She turned on her heel to face the stalking dragon, who had paused his hunt near the base of his crag. “I am a gold!” Soren growled right back. “Avernus is not for me!” With one hand she gestured at the far distant mountain with its cloud of dragon souls wheeling all about the peak. “I belong in the Eyrie, with Bahamut and the rest of my kind.”“OH DO YOU?” The grin in Null’s voice could have frozen the deserts of Calimshan in a single moment. “AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO DESERVE THAT REWARD? SAT ON YOUR HOARD AND ADMIRED YOURSELF?” He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “HOW VERY CHROMATIC OF YOU.”This time Soren did look away, ashamed. Her cheeks burned. But she knew that she had set out on a noble quest. Yes, perhaps she had only joined the chase against the Dragon Cult to regain her own scales, but it had been a good deed nonetheless! Even that excuse felt hollow. Soren knew that on that long journey north she had tried to put thoughts of gold and flying from her mind and not succeeded. Yet Bahamut had heard her prayers that day as she hung from the parapet. He had brought her back, in Waterdeep, for a reason. And she aimed to fulfill that reason. So what if there was no reward? The city was in some kind of trouble--real trouble, from what she could tell--and she was in a position to help. She could help, and therefore she must. Was that not a good enough reason?“Bahamut gave me a quest,” she said, finding her voice again and finding it strong. “I am to fulfill his will in Waterdeep.”“IT IS ONE CITY, AND A CITY OF MEN AT THAT.”“It is the duty I have been given.”Null snarled again, lightning crackling between his ribs. “AND DO YOU EVEN KNOW THE NATURE OF THAT DUTY, ZARRAKOR THE BEAUTIFUL?” He spat her full title as though it were a disgusting thing that he could not bear to have linger in his mouth.“My duty is to fulfill the task Bahamut has given me, to see his will done.” Soren glanced at the bridge. “Please, Mighty Null. I am not finished yet!”“ALL CREATURES LEAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS. THAT IS WHAT DYING IS.” Null stalked behind her and Soren turned, never taking her eyes off the unforgiving god. “AND YOU HAVE BEEN TOO SELFISH ALREADY.”He meant to herd her onto the bridge, she realized. Despite herself, Soren backed up. “No! Not for myself!” Pieces of stone broke off and tumbled into the abyss. “Gods, please!” Soren cried, real desperation entering her voice. Her wings flapped once, twice, but they would not lift her. If she fell, she would not be able to fly. As she retreated before Null, the luster of gold faded from her limbs. Until, by the time her heel met the seam of the bridge, she was nothing but a wood elf again; all dark hair, olive skin, and golden eyes like two flipped coins.“I don’t want this for myself! My scales, my gold, my wings, I don’t want any of that!” As the words left her mouth, strong but pleading, she knew them at once to be true. Once she might have given anything to be a dragon again. But in this body? In this skin? Soren thought of Remy, and poor Floon, and of Renaer with his kind smile and his fall of soft, copper hair. It wasn’t much--but wasn’t that the way it always started? She had ignored her traveling companions before, and they had all been slaughtered along with her by the Cult of the Dragon. How could she abandon her new-found friends now? And who better than a dragon to sniff out a hoard of hidden gold? “Please,” she cried again. “Bahamut gave me this chance, let me keep it! Let me do what I set out to do, and then I swear I will come to you. Without complaint. I will walk in judgment for you then.”Null snorted, a great blast of chill air that burned even as it covered the ground in a flash of hoarfrost. “I WILL NOT BE TWICE DENIED,” he rumbled, and lifted a foot to come forward once more, and force her fully onto the bridge.“You will not be thrice denied,” corrected a voice, no less deep but with infinitely more patience and kindness than the god of death.Soren and Null whipped around in tandem, like two serpents glancing toward a noise at the same time. On an opposite crag sat a handsome silver dragon, his features sleek and elegant. He had no wings, and so he came down the side of the peak with all the graceful smoothness of a sea lion gliding across the ice. “Greetings Mighty Null, Zarrakor.”“SONNGRAD THE WING,” Null spat. “THIS IS NOT YOUR PLACE. IT IS NOT YOUR MATTER TO INTERVENE.”“No,” conceded the silver thoughtfully, “but I am here on behalf of my father Bahamut, who very much has an interest in the fate of Zarrakor’s soul. If you must turn your ire anywhere, you ought to turn it at your brother. It is his fault, after all, that her spirit went missing from your realm.”The two dragons glared at each other, Null with open hatred, and Sonngrad with a kind of serene firmness that belied a greater strength within. “AND WHAT DOES MY BROTHER WISH WITH THIS ONE? BY ALL RIGHTS, SHE IS MINE.”Soren shivered in the way he said it. The god of death spoke of possessing her in the same way that any dragon spoke of an item in their hoard. Some gathered gold, Null gathered souls.“True, true,” Sonngrad conceded again. He scratched a great claw on the underside of his chin. “But an oath is an oath all the same. And those should not be broken either.”A long moment passed between the two creatures of legend, as though a great game were being played between them. At last, Null looked to Soren, his baleful eyes blazing with fury. “THE MOMENT YOUR DUTY TO THE PLATINUM DRAGON IS FINISHED, CHILD, YOU BELONG TO ME.” He snapped at Sonngrad over his shoulder, but the silver dragon did not flinch. “I WILL NOT BE THRICE DENIED.”The smoking dragon of shadow and bone and death lifted his enormous head to the sky and let out a roar that shook the firmament. Whipping the sand and stones and dust into a frenzy, he took off and soared into the sky, before disappearing beneath the hazy clouds within the chasm itself.Soren turned back to Sonngrad only to find the tip of his claw touching her forehead with the utmost gentleness. Before she could so much as open her mouth to say anything, or to thank him, light enveloped her thoughts. It poured through her and washed her clean. It sloughed off the dust and banished the heat of Avernus’ wind. It filled her up like a kind of relief and she fell into it as one falls into a feather bed at the end of a long and trying day.~“Quit that damned wailing, she’s coming ‘round!”A warm hand cupped her cheek. Warm and broad and kind. “Soren?” said another voice, this one more softly. Fingers brushed her earrings, the silver charms sparkling as they caught the light. “Can you hear me?”Somewhere nearby, an ear-splitting shriek of agony assaulted her senses. Soren groaned. Her head turned away from that noise, but it did little good. The dark lines of her brow furrowed and she tried to curl on her side. Hands stopped her, that kind voice coaxing her to open her eyes first, to come back to the world.Soren opened her eyes and then immediately wished she hadn’t. A sharp pain stabbed her skull and she groaned again, louder this time.“I said, would you get your priests to cut that out!” Remy demanded nearby. The tiefling shivered. “God damned giving me the creeps.”The ranger came back to herself, as if from a long way away. Several times she tried to open her eyes or flex her fingers, only for her head to pound as though someone was taking an ice pick to the inside. She opened her mouth and found it too dry to bear. “Where…”“In the Hospice of St. Laupsenn,” that kind voice said again.“How long…”“Remy got you here within an hour. And, I must say, I’ve never seen someone move that fast who wasn’t running from the law. And carrying two of you, as well!” A low, handsome chuckle accompanied that comment, and Soren, even aching as she was, could not help a strange flush as she finally recognized Renaer’s voice.Valiantly, Soren battled against the piercing migraine to open her eyes. She had to shade them from the single shaft of light falling in through a high window. At first the world made very little sense. All she saw was brown with spots of grey, and, of course, the blur of Renaer’s copper hair and the crimson of Remy’s face coming close to hover over her.“Can you touch your nose?” the tiefling demanded urgently. “Can you pat your head and rub your belly? That’s the test, you know,” she added in response to Renaer’s incredulous grin.Soren fumbled at her side until she found a slender, scarred and crimson hand. Raising it up a little, she squeezed Remy’s fingers tightly. “Fuck you,” she whispered, with a weary smile of her own.“You’re welcome,” Remy replied with a well-meaning snort. “Can you feel any weird wiggling around in your brain? You’ve gotta say if you do.”One of the grey blobs stepped forward and it resolved itself into the stern visage of the head priestess. She wore a necklace of thorns and one of her arms hung in a freshly-strung sling. “There are no signs of a tadpole or intellect devourer possession. Welcome back to the world of the living, Ms. Chandry,” she said, and added drily, “Your friends were most insistent that you deserved the most expedient care. It is no small thing to gather so many of us for so swift--and severe--a healing.”Soren glanced at Renaer, whose hair, she noticed, had come loose again and hung fetchingly about his shoulders. “St. Laupsenn?” she whispered.“A temple of Ilmater,” he said, “the suffering god.” With a gesture, he indicated the rest of the room. Several more priests stood around the raised table upon which she rested, all of them with some sort of fresh wound on their bodies. Quietly, as the faithful trudged out under the head priestess’ watchful eye, Renaer explained that their healing ceremonies involved a form of somewhat…sympathetic suffering.Helped by the young Lord Neverember to a sitting position, Soren looked over at the head priestess. “Thank you,” she remembered to say. “How much is the service?”“It is free,” the head priestess sniffed. “Although Lord Mirt has already made a sizeable donation in your name.”Before the next question could so much as leave Soren’s lips, she caught, out of the corner of her eye, a Harper-coded gesture that Renaer flashed to her.
Explanation later.
Checking her body over, to be sure she was really and truly here, Soren blinked in surprise as Remy brought her her things. “Now,” the thief said matter-of-factly, “I don’t go hauling ass across the city for just anybody, so. Better be grateful, is all I’m saying.”Soren saw the sentiment for what it was, and, as she slung her bow over her shoulder again, she hopped off the table and bumped Remy with the side of her hip. “Beyond measure.” Still feeling a bit stiff, Renaer had to help her put on her small knapsack. As he did, Soren’s gaze turned briefly inward.Had it all been a dream? No, she decided. The conversation with Null still rang clear in her mind, and the dragon soul within her knew that it had all been true. She, a creature so long-lived that even an elf would have trouble comprehending the length of her lifespan, had been handed an hourglass. As soon as her duty to Bahamut was through, as soon they had stopped this madness, this…dream of gold, Soren would once again find herself in the Wing. They could finish this task a year from now, or tomorrow. She had been handed an hourglass whose top chamber could not be seen, only the seconds adding and rushing fast into the bottom.A severe hardness overtook Soren’s features. She supposed anyone else would have been terrified, knowing that death loomed just off the bow. But she was a creature of action. No, better to run at the future with all of her might. Forget fear. What was the point of fear if she knew the inevitable outcome? Better to give herself so wholly to her task, to what little life she had left, that none--not even the god of death himself--could deny that she had lived as well as she was able. What a freedom! No worse fate could possibly have awaited her. Soren cracked a wry, self-deprecating smile.She would never be a dragon again. It was no longer a question, no longer a hope. So there was nothing to stop her, nothing to hold her back, from living in the skin she was in. Nothing putting off or denying what joy she might find in this, these last hours of her life. For, to a dragon, they were mere hours, even if it took a year or more to finish her task.The lightness in her own breast twined with the unbending steel of her conviction. If there was no consequence worse than what was already determined for her, then there was no power on earth that could stop her. Let them come, let them all come; Xanathar and Zhentarim, and whoever the other players might be. Let them stand against a dragon’s certainty and, by Bahamut’s grace, might they find themselves wanting.Soren realized her hand had been lingering in Renaer’s as the steel and the lightness became something real inside of her. The future, with heavy sparks off its dark whetstone, no longer troubled her. There was only the Now. Soren felt as if she could walk across the sea, or into impossible odds, and fear no darkness. Without meaning to, she squeezed Renaer’s hand and, to her surprise, he flushed.“Did, ah, did Floon make it out all right?” she managed. The ranger withdrew her hand, trying, suddenly, to look anywhere but at Lord Neverember.“He, he did.” Renaer coughed, somewhat awkwardly. “I suppose you ladies will be wanting to meet with Volo to give him the good news and collect your reward?”At the mention of ‘reward’, the head priestess cleared her throat pointedly. “The Hospice of St. Laupsenn wishes you the best on all your endeavors, of course, as well as all of our acolytes, who sustained injuries during your ceremony.”Remy opened her mouth to give the priestess a sharp retort. Lord Mirt--whoever that was--had already paid for them, after all.Soren beat her to it. “Whatever I have,” she said, pulling out her purse and emptying its entire contents into the priestess’ outstretched palms. Silver and gold winked in the shaft of autumn light as they tumbled through the air. After all, Volo would give them enough to get by on, surely, for the rest of this adventure. And Renaer had paid for their food and lodging. “I shall not have need of it.”
I no longer dream of gold.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What the

fuck

is this?”

Volo coughed awkwardly before throwing out his arms in a grand, sweeping gesture. “My

friends,

” he cried jubilantly, “may I present to you your future home (and/or tavern, inn, or other place of business)?”

Soren crossed her arms with a creak of her leather armor and arched a sharp brow. “You mean our future tax burden.”

“Oh, I dunno about that Soren,” Remy mused, tapping her fingers to her ruby lips. “...it’s kinda growing on me.”

Almost in unison they both leaned sideways until the ranger straightened up, shaking her head, braids bouncing against her back. “Remy, it’s a dump heap.”

Remy bounced forward and motioned at the enormous, dilapidated building in front of them. She gestured enthusiastically at it for a moment, as though its mere presence should be enough to convince her friend of the ‘good idea’. Behind her, a stiff breeze ripped a set of shingles free from the roof. They tumbled over the broken gutter and smashed on the ground.

“No.”

“But,

Soren

--”

“No.”

“Think of the possibilities!”

“I will not.”

Remy zipped up and snatched Soren by the waist, pressing them closer together than the dragon was truly comfortable with. She bristled like an alley cat but her friend pretended not to notice. “Think of it,” the tiefling said, waving a palm in the air as if the ugly, old tavern could magically transform into a bustling business--spit and polish included. “Both of us,

homeowners.

”

“Property taxes.”

“The best taproom in the North Ward!”

“

Guild fees.

”

“I don’t know,” Floon chimed in from Soren’s other side. “It’s quite adorable, once you get past all the wood rot and smashed windows.”

Soren slapped a hand over her face.

“A true place for the enterprising entrepreneur!” Volo crowed.

Perfect. On a holy mission to find Dagult Neverember’s hoarded gold and save the city, and she was stuck with these idiots. “Don’t encourage her!” Soren snapped, but neither Volo nor Floon were listening.

Remy, as silent and crafty as the ranger herself, appeared out of thin air at her friend’s side. “You’ll love it, come on!”

“What, what are you--” Soren’s protests were drowned out by the tiefling’s infectious enthusiasm, as Remy dragged her bodily toward Trollskull Manor. “Whoa!”

“Are you

certain

you don’t have any money to pay us?” she begged Volo as Remy hauled her along like a sack of taciturn flour.

Volo chortled, oblivious entirely to the glare Soren shot him. “When my new book is

finally

accepted by the publishers, then I will be able to pay you, of course. It is just, I, ah, don’t know exactly

when

that will be.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but forget the money!” Remy threw open the front door. It slammed against the wall and, somewhere, a pane of glass tipped the rest of its contents onto the floor.

Soren rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re saying it, either.”

“It isn’t so bad,” Floon encouraged her as Remy went skipping through the dusty taproom. “At least it has a roof.”

“--for now.”

Trollskull Manor, a once-prosperous tavern with several living apartments upstairs for the proprietor and family. Stuck at the back of the self-same Trollskull Alley. The creaky building rose three stories on a fieldstone foundation, its clapboard siding showing its weathered age, for it was nearly as grey as Volo’s beard. Floon flipped through the legal papers the author had handed off to him, tossing his red hair over his shoulder. Soren had to squint at him to convince herself that

anyone

could have mistaken him and Renaer for each other. The man had several bruises still, but he was remarkably resilient--for a human.

As she navigated her way carefully through the smashed chairs and tables, long ago made useless as little more than kindling, Soren felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She paused near the base of the stairs that followed the far wall up to the second level. “What happened to this place?” the ranger asked, turning to see Remy seizing Floon by the wrist and hauling him around to admire the architecture in general, and the space of the larder in particular. Floon, she noticed, was not truly paying attention to the building, but rather her tiefling friend instead.

Volo tapped his fingers together and gave what Soren was beginning to call his ‘nervous chuckle’. “Well, my fiery friend, you see…”

“I don’t. Enlighten me.”

After several starts and stops, Volo reached up to readjust his floppy cap to give himself something else to look at than the ranger’s uncompromising stare. “Lif Lingrin, the previous owner, was quite the, erm,

charismatic

fellow.”

When nothing else was forthcoming, Soren prompted, “Until?”

“Well…”

“

Volo

.”

He waved his hands in dramatic exasperation. “

Impossible

to please, aren’t you, my friend? Not satisfied with less than the

absolute TRUTH!

”

“Do

not

write about this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” The author gave her an exaggerated bow. Volo coughed. “Saer Lif, alas, gave himself into some strange sort of melancholy. Something to do with his wife and child leaving him, I believe. The poor fellow died suddenly--perhaps of heartbreak!”

Soren bit back a groan as Volo followed her up the stairs. Wood creaked and sighed under her weight. It would take more than a pretty penny to fix this place up. The higher she climbed, the colder the air became. All dragons were sensitive to magic and, even in her wood elf body, Soren was no exception. Something was strange here. As the steps rose up to the second floor, Soren glanced across the taproom to a trapdoor that, presumably, went down into the basement. She frowned, watching Floon tug at the iron ring to no avail. Undaunted, she climbed higher.

“Just think of it,” Remy was saying, standing with her hands on her hips in front of the bar. A grimy pewter backsplash, once polished, would reflect the light of a hundred candles. “Me, a business owner. Respected.

Legitimate.

”

Floon grunted behind her, still tugging uselessly on the iron ring.

“A real home,” the tiefling thief said under her breath. “For everyone, after all this time.”

With a shout of surprise, Floon toppled backward. The trapdoor flung open, emitting a cold, stale air that made even Remy wrinkle her nose. “Vecna’s Hand, what crawled down there and died?”

Floon sat up to investigate but quickly shoved a handkerchief over his nose. “Oh,

gods.

That’s rank.”

“I think--”

A holler of alarm from above them and the sound of crashing wood sent both Remy and Floon taking the stairs two at a time. Tail whipping behind her, Remy skidded onto the second story landing in time to see Soren, Volo, and most of the door to the study lying in a heap on the hallway floor. Soren groaned, rubbing a fresh bruise on her knee.

“What happened?” Remy demanded.

“The door hit me.”

Floon snorted, but Soren pretended not to notice. She tried to look regal--an impossible task from the floor and her very undignified position--and failed. “It

did

.”

Volo’s blue-clad arm reached out of the debris beneath Soren. “I

will

say, my friends, for the record, that your friend did in

fact

kick the door first.”

“It wouldn’t open!”

A quick inspection of the study revealed a ledger book, its final page splotched with ink and dented with heavy writing.

They’re gone, they’re all gone. Gone, all gone all of them gone never cominghomeallGONEgoneallGONE

.

“Lovely.” Soren rolled her eyes. “Saer Lingrin was mad as a hatter.”

Behind them, Volo began to turn his blue cap in his hands. “H-How do you find the house, Remiah?” he asked Remy as the two women began to descend the stairs. “I, I

assure

you that Lord Neverember will be more than willing to finance a loan to you, if you, ah, wish to take up, um, ownership of the house…”

Once back on the ground floor, Soren flipped the trapdoor closed with her foot. A wicked itch crawled up the back of her spine. She saw Remy’s expression before the answer left her mouth. “No. Under no circumstances.”

“It’s

perfect

,” the tiefling said, starry-eyed.

One glance out the window told Soren that their neighbor at the end of the alley, one gnarly-looking fellow named Fruhn, was glowering down the lane at all the commotion their little group was making. “It’s probably haunted.”

“It’s everything I ever wanted.”

Soren gave a silent plea to the heavens, yet Bahamut had no answers for her this day. Her prayer was interrupted as Remy wrapped another arm around her waist and spun them to face a nervous Volo and a slightly-amused Floon. “We’ll take it!”

“

You’ll

take it.”

Remy grinned, the matter settled, for better or for worse.

After much signing of paperwork at the Waterdhavian Bank & Trust, during which Soren pointedly tried to look anywhere but at Renaer Neverember, the tiefling dragged her back across the North Ward to ‘their new home’.

“Is this like that thing that happens when two women meet each other at a bar and--”

“--become roommates?” Remy finished for Soren over a rustic dinner on the one intact barrel they could find in the larder. She was grinning, but Soren, for the life of her, could not figure out why.

The wood elf snorted and crossed her arms.

They slept in the taproom.

A night’s sleep did not improve Soren’s mood. Not with the house swaying and creaking and groaning in the autumn wind. She had tossed and turned all the night through, barely able to sink into her mediation long enough to truly achieve peace. Usually up first, the ranger made her way groggily to the front door to answer a rather insistent knock as the sun made its first foray over the horizon.

The ancient door screamed on its hinges and she winced as she pulled it open. “Yes?” she said, rather more sharply than she meant to.

On the porch stood a street urchin with a letter held in his hand. “Uh…two copper for a letter delivery?” he squeaked.

Soren frowned. “We just moved in yesterday. Who on Toril is sending us mail?”

“Dunno, Miss. Two copper, Miss.”

Soren flipped the boy a silver and snatched the letter from his hand. The child scampered away, already testing the coin on his teeth, while she stared at the efficient, yet elegant handwriting.

Ms Soren Chandry & Miss Remiah Sinnah

Wax as red as clay snapped easily as she broke the seal. Soren shoved the door closed behind her, and the strong gust stole two gilded tickets from within the letter. Remy snatched at them as Soren tore open the rest of it. Fine, thick parchment unfolded to reveal a simple message:

Ms Chandry & Miss Sinnah,

You are hereby invited to attend The Fall of Tiamat at the Waterdeep Opera tomorrow night, as the guests of Lord Mirt the Moneylender. A coach will arrive shortly to escort you to the Perfect Stitch. Come in appropriate attire.

Cheers,

M.

“Well,” Remy said when she unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “That’s not good.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The shop’s bell rang silver and sweet as Soren and Remy stepped into the Perfect Stitch. It was not an especially large establishment, but the ranger could tell at once that it was made for more affluent clientele. Bolts of fabric lined the walls, so that the prospecting customer might feel the quality of silk, lace, and satin.

“Move half an inch and the whole place might as well be a dirt heap,” Remy grumbled, trying not to get too close to the racks of fine fabric. Both she and the ranger wore their adventuring gear; worn, stained, and full of the grime of daily living.

“Just don’t touch anything, then,” Soren said. She couldn’t help the way her eyes traveled over the expensive fabrics.

A rather stocky gnome looked over his spectacles at them from behind the counter. One cursory glance of the pair was enough to tell him what he needed to know. “I am afraid,” he said in a somewhat stuffy voice, “that you ladies may find our services somewhat out of your price range.”

Soren dug in her pocket and produced the two vouchers from Mirt’s letter. “We’re going to the opera tomorrow, courtesy of Lord Mirt. I believe,” she added, a little uncertain, “that the price of our garments are to be billed to his estate?”

The gnome blanched. He quickly collected the vouchers and made a hastily-scribbled note in his books. “Of course, erm, yes. If you’ll, ah, excuse me…”

Remy watched as the little man climbed down from the stool at the back of the counter and hurried over to speak to a colleague. They conversed in quick, hushed whispers before both owner and apprentice reappeared with the wide smiles of those who know a vacation is imminent.

“Pray, ah, forgive my rudeness,” the proprietor said, giving them a stiff bow. “Most adventurers wander in expecting

Docks Ward prices

, you see.”

The apprentice, a male sun elf, gestured to the mirrored fitting room at the back. “If one of you ladies would come this way, we can begin with your measurements.”

Soren drifted into the rows of bolts of cloth as Remy stepped into the fitting room. She ran her calloused fingers along the fabric swatch containing a cloth of gold square. For many long minutes she lost herself in its shimmer, playing with it in the light, until she heard the owner cough delicately just to her side. Blushing, she let the swatch fall back onto its sample ring. Likely the gnome had been attempting to get her attention for the last few moments.

“Lady…?”

“Chandry.”

He cleared his throat. “Lady Chandy, your friend is giving my apprentice measurements for a suit, made in just the latest fashion this season. Have you…ah, given any thought to what you might like?”

Soren looked back over her shoulder at the fabric swatches. “Price is no object?”

“That is correct, Lady Chandry.”

The ranger considered this. She wore a simple green linen shirt and brown leather armor. There was not a thing about her that looked remarkable--except her coin-gold eyes and the small smattering of golden freckles. What did it matter, if she was going to die anyway? No, that was no way to think. She would live so long as she still had breath in her body, and there was no reason not to enjoy what little time she had left.

Soren held up her hands above her head, as if she were touching her own dragon horns. “Do you think I could order a tiara along with my garment?”

~

“I

hate

banks.”

The wood elf looked over at her friend to see that, sure enough, Remy’s tail twitched back and forth uneasily. “I should think someone like you would be keen for a place like this.”

“Yeah, well, you’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Remy kneaded the envelope with Renaer’s letter of co-insurance. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story sometime.”

The lobby of the Sword Coast Trader’s Bank swept upward on high, marble pillars. The front oak doors spilled into a rotunda capped with a mosaic of a gold dragon lounging on a hoard of gems and glittering coins. Its body was so long that it circled the mosaic, beautiful sail-like wings outstretched as if they could capture both wind and sun. Soren found herself entranced, her coin-gold eyes reflecting that vision of treasure. She might have stayed standing there until she toppled over from exhaustion, if not for Remy grabbing her hand.

“C’mon,” the tiefling muttered, “the line’s moving. We can admire the artwork later.”

“Mm.” Soren let herself be pulled along without protest.

They trudged down a long line that wended its way through rows of clerks’ desks. Despite the marble walls and high ceiling, hardly a sound was made. No one spoke above a gentle tone, as if afraid to break that reverent hush. A tingle shivered up Soren’s spine. She could sense the wealth in the vaults beneath her feet, as surely as she could feel her own skin. Yes, there was always something sacred about a place like this. In the act of commerce and the changing of money from one hand to another.

But more than that, a cache of gold all in one place…it

did

something. Soren couldn’t put her finger on it. She couldn’t have spoken a number at which the tipping point occurred, but it was there all the same. Get enough gold together and it stopped being simple cash to spend. No, it became something

else

entirely. It became the dream of gold, heady and intoxicating. It could--and had--driven dragons to kill for the loss of a single coin. Men would tear themselves and each other to pieces over it. That much gold crept into the mind and poisoned the heart. Worse than any curse, more potential than any blessing. People craved it the same way they craved power, or religion, or obsession over any one person.

Gold could drive men mad.

Soren found herself strangely detached from that desire. She had no hoard--and would never have one, not ever again. The glitter fascinated her, but it was like she had lost a limb. A great chamber in her mighty heart cut out, until she was left with an elf-sized one. An elven heart, with elven desires.

Gold was worth its weight in bread. No more, no less. Its only value the good it could do. She knew without even having to pray that that was the answer Bahamut preferred.

Ahead of her, at the clerk’s counter, Remy stepped up to the window. She was greeted by an enormous half-orc teller in a very

small

office. Very delicately, he took Renaer’s paperwork and notarized it. “An honorable loan,” he rumbled quietly--at least, it was an attempt to be quiet. “Your ancestors would be proud.”

Remy’s tail tapped nervously against her leg. “Yeah, sure thing.”

With almost agonizing slowness, the half-orc pulled down several other sheets of paper of

very fine

quality. “Sign these,” he whispered reverently, sliding them across the marble counter to Remy.

She hesitated only a moment before setting her signature wherever it was needed. The tiefling glared at the loan paperwork as if that would quiet the unsettling feeling inside her. Nothing changed, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

“Your worthy bank notes,” the half-orc said, exchanging them for the stack of papers. Before Remy could pick them up, however, his meaty hand covered the stack of checks. “Send your repairmen here, we will show them honor in commerce.”

“Ha, yeah all right. Thankyouforallyourhelp.” She grabbed Soren by the arm and flashed a too-wide apologetic grin to the teller clerk. “Gotta go, lots to do, you know.”

The tiefling practically dragged her friend back across the threshold and out into the beautiful autumn day. She stared up at the cornflower blue sky, taking deep breaths. Before Soren could open her mouth to ask what was on Remy’s mind, a shrill whistle pierced the air.

“STOP, THIEF!”

Remy froze, her red cheeks draining of color until she was more pink than crimson. “I, I, I--” Her tail lashed violently, like a cornered cat.

It was over. It was all over. They had found her--

Sinrin

had found her--and they were going to drag her back to Baldur’s Gate. Back to the hangman’s noose, and she’d never see her friends again, never get a chance to explain what had happened,

really

happened, and--

Several yards away a Watch officer barreled through the crowd, tweeting his whistle. “Boy!” he shouted gruffly, his broad silhouette disappearing deeper into the market square, away from them. “Hey, you! Get back here, you stupid little--”

Remy stared, wide-eyed. It…it wasn’t for her, after all. Suddenly, she felt violently ill. She seized Soren’s arm and bodily hauled the ranger into a nearby alley. Almost as soon as they were out of sight of the main street, the tiefling thief emptied the contents of her stomach behind a barrel while Soren looked on with some concern.

“Remy, are you…are you all right?”

“Haha, she wants to know--urg--if I’m all right!” An unsteady laugh followed, punctuated by a few wet gasps. Her crimson arm shook as she clung to the barrel. She popped her head up, holding her raven-black hair away from her face, and shot Soren a smile she did not feel at

all

. It might have been the mania, but it was enough to make the ranger step back a pace. “Fine? Haha, I’m

more

than fine!” Remy blanched and quickly ducked out of sight behind the barrel again.

Soren crossed her arms. “You don’t

look

fine.”

“Nah.” Remy waved an unsteady hand in her direction. “Never been better.” She clawed her way up and rested her cheek on the side of the barrel, exhausted. “Ugh, remind me to never have genasi food for breakfast ever again.”

When the ranger’s penetrating stare didn’t let up, Remy rolled her eyes. “It’s just--Vecna’s Hand--it’s just the trauma,” she said, trying to wave off her friend’s concern. “Don’t worry about it. Now hand me that water skin.”

She gargled, swished, and spat onto the cobbles three times. Her large eyes seemed even more prominent now, crinkled with anxiety and what Soren would call no small amount of manic hysteria. “We went in, yeah. We went in and came out, and everybody’s alive. You’re okay and I’m okay, and now we--”

“You.”

“--

I

have money. Yeah. We’ll get the house fixed up. Make it a tavern. Earn some good, honest coin. Yeah.”

Soren raised a brow. “...and those unstamped silver bars in your pack?”

Remy made an exaggerated shushing motion. “Hey! Hey, what are you, stupid? You don’t just go saying things like that--”

All of a sudden, Soren felt a bolt hit her shoulder. At least, that was what she thought it, at first. In the split second between the impact and the splattering of something wet and cold on her face, she realized it could only be one thing; a tomato.

Her head whipped around, searching for the culprit. Beside her, she heard the song of steel as Remy slid her slender sword out of her walking cane.

Far overhead, Soren heard giggling. She snapped her gaze up just in time to catch the silhouettes of three faces peering over the building roof.

“Shit, we’ve been seen!” cried one of them. All three ducked out of sight, followed by the sound of scrambling.

“My shirt!” Soren exclaimed, more shocked than anything. Her coin-gold eyes narrowed. “You little--”

Remy patted herself down quickly. “Hey, hey now

my

coin purse is missing!”

Without wasting another second, Soren took a running start and leapt for the fire escape. A few bounding strides carried her up to the roof. She vaulted over the gutter and came down hard on the roof tiles, one hand clenched tightly around the ankle of a thin tiefling boy, perhaps no more than the age of ten.

“Give my friend back her money.”

The boy struggled, whacking at her fingers with a wooden sword. Surprised and stung, Soren let go. He scrambled to his feet. “Nuh-uh! We stole it fair and square!”

A moment later Remy hauled herself over the edge of the roof and helped Soren up to standing. “Would you look at that, three little thieves.”

Before them stood an unlikely trio; a dark-haired Illuskan girl, a stocky boy with a stuffed owlbear plush, and the tiefling lad. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye and a rather large,

outrageous

hat. “We’re not thieves!” the boy exclaimed, puffing out his thin chest. “We’re professionals!”

“Professionals, eh?” Soren crossed her arms and regarded them with a critical expression.

“Yeah, we’re the Ragamuffins!” The stocky boy put one hand on his hip. “We stole your purse, means now we gotta, we gotta, ex--take--ex--make you give us a cut.” He held the plush closer to his chest. “If you want it back.”

Soren laughed incredulously despite herself. “You little extortionists! Where on earth are your parents?”

“We ain’t got any!” The tiefling boy glanced at his female partner before crossing his arms. “And you gotta let us have some gold, those are the rules.”

Remy clapped her hands to her red cheeks, as one does when seeing an especially fluffy dog. “Oh, they’re so precious!”

“Precious? They took your coin purse!”

“Aw, but I didn’t even see them,” Remy said, as if that were a good thing. “There’s an inner string on it and everything. That’s decent thieving, that is.”

The Illuskan girl glared at the older women, her long hair dark and unkempt. She held herself very tall and said nothing, while the boys spoke instead. Remy turned to her. “And you must be the leader,” she said. “They look to you.”

“Yeah, Nat’s in charge!” the stocky boy piped up, eyes brightening when it didn’t seem that being in trouble was imminent. “I’m Jenks and this is Squiddly. We run the rooftops of Waterdeep--and we know

everything

.”

“Oh, do you?” Soren raised a skeptical brow.

Nat’s fingers flashed in a silent hand code, something the two boys immediately turned to pay attention to. As she did so, Soren noticed that the girl was watching their lips, not their eyes. She realized Nat was deaf, the girl’s sharp eyes missing nothing.

“Oh, it’s Thieves’ Cant,” Remy murmured to Soren. “Or close to it, anyway.”

Squiddly turned around when Nat was done signing. “Boss says you gotta give us two gold, and we’ll give you back your purse.”

Remy grinned. “How about five gold?”

At once, the Ragamuffins huddled up. They signed back and forth as the boys spoke. “Five gold? Five is more than two, right?” “Of course five is more than two, Jenks.” Nat’s fingers signed something quick in response. Squiddly nodded enthusiastically. “Better make it six, that way it splits right even.”

Soren looked over at her friend. “What on earth are they even going to do with six whole gold?”

“Buy cake, of course!” Jenks turned from the group, his round face indignant. “And snacks.”

“Don’t forget the peanut butter,” Squiddly put in. “You always get hungry and tired at the worst times. We gotta stock up.”

“Ain’t my fault I’m hungry.”

Nat signed sharply.

“Six gold,” Squiddly proclaimed. “And not a copper less.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Soren said before Remy could answer for them. “You could get something better than cake for six gold. A room at an inn?” She eyed them up and down. “Warm clothes for the winter?”

Jenks wiped his nose on his sleeve. “What’s gold good for, if you don’t get cake with it? Grown-ups are so

boring

.”

“Yeah, cake and faire games!” Squiddly chimed in. “When the Sea Maiden’s Faire arrives, we can play throw-the-bottle. I bet they have great prizes! They do every year.”

“Maybe they’ll have the dragon again!” Jenks clapped his hands and even Nat smiled a little.

That

got Soren’s attention. “Dragon?” she said. “What dragon?”

Jenks shrugged. “The Faire has a men--mena--a zoo. Trolls, giants, all kinds of monsters--even dragons!”

“A gold one,” Squiddly put in, “but it escaped last year and disappeared. Anyhow, there will be candy apples and cider and cake and toffees! What else are you supposed to spend money on?”

Remy shrugged genially. “He…does have a point. Six it is, then.”

It was twelve gold in the end. Six that Remy agreed to, and six more that were missing when she finally recounted her coins back at Trollskull Manor. “Those little shits,” she laughed, sweeping the shining pile back into her purse. “Peanut butter and cake, huh? What a way to live.”

“They

should

be taken in somewhere. The city’s dangerous. Children shouldn’t be out on their own.”

Remy looked over at Soren, who looked for all the world like a cat who appeared calm on the outside, but whose tail twitched back and forth with agitation. “I think they’ve got the basics down. They’ll be all right, they seem like good kids.”

“Mm.”

“Something on your mind?” she ventured, reaching down into her pack to adjust the fake liner that hid her unstamped silver bars.

Soren tapped her fingers on the table, nails clacking softly. “Dragons aren’t pets, or monsters. They’re not meant for cages. Not metallic ones, anyway.”

The unexpected vehemence caused Remy to pause completely. “Strong feelings much?”

“You could say that. Maybe I’ll tell you the story someday,” she said, echoing Remy’s earlier sentiment.

The tiefling shrugged. “I’m off to fence these bars. They’re too hot to carry--I mean, somebody will be looking for them,” she clarified, seeing Soren’s confused expression. “Why not explore the city while I’m out? Use some of what little money Volo

did

give us. Work out some of that…tension.”

“What are you saying?”

Remy chuckled. “I’m saying you’re too wound up. Relax a little. It doesn’t have to be zip-zip all the time.

Live

a little. What’s life without a little peanut butter?”

Soren rubbed her temples. “Or cake. Yeah, all right,” she drawled with a roll of her eyes, the thickness of her odd accent coming on strong
.
“Clothes won’t be ready until tomorrow, and then the opera. Lord Mirt will probably have a lead for us. I can relax until then,” she said, almost as if she were trying to convince herself.

“That’s the spirit!” Remy clapped her on the shoulder. “And I can recommend just the place for you while I…take care of some business.”

~

The shop’s bell rang with a high, tinny sound as Remy strode through the door. Nothing more than a general goods merchant--at least to the common eye. It had been more than a year since Remy had left Baldur’s Gate, and then in no small amount of hurry. That was enough time to lay low, to throw Sinrin off her trail and to start a new life.

Long enough to get to know Waterdeep's underbelly, and certainly enough to know that she didn’t want to get stuck between the Zhentarim and Xanathar going to war over control of the city’s streets. She’d tried the gang thing, and what had it gotten her? Her friends killed or locked up, and a sizeable bounty placed on her head. None of it worth the cost, not in the end. So she played it smart, rotated fences and picked pockets, sometimes taking up second-story work. She wasn’t the sort to hurt anybody. No more big heists, no grand plans--except the one she’d found herself stuck in with Soren.

Soren, now there was an elf with a stick up her ass, Remy thought affectionately. Stiff and unbending, the exact sort of person who always paid in exact change and over-tipped. The kind of woman who let nothing, not love, not doubt, not any amount of danger or blood or fear, stand in her way. Remy couldn’t blame her, really. Gods knew she would wade through fire for her friends too--if she even knew where they were in the first place, or if they’d made it out of Sinrin’s clutches alive. Oh, she and Soren might be on opposite sides well enough when it came to things like wealth distribution--though the ranger preferred to call it ‘stealing’--but if the past few days had been any demonstration of the woman’s resolve and character, Remy figured they were in it for a long time to come.

Once in the back of the shop with the fence, a rather bent old man with eyes as black and quick as a raven’s wing gestured for Remy to empty out her satchel for his appraisal.

It was important to start fresh.

A good impression was key.

New life, new friends, new house. A new

business

. That made her right respectable, that did. No more seedy inns or damp doorways. A real, honest-to-goodness

home

. She grinned, puffing up her chest a little. For once, for

just this once

, things were finally going her way.

The fence laid a thin hand down over the unstamped silver bars. “Where did you say you came by these again?” he asked, that hard gaze coming to her over a pair of horned spectacles.

“I didn’t.”

He tapped his long fingers on the metal. “This is a nice find, Ms. Orphan,” the fence added, using the street name she had given him. “A pity they belong to the Zhentarim.”

Remy sucked in a sharp breath but it got caught in her throat. “Ha,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Real funny. That some kind of ploy you use to force your customers to accept a discount?”

At the fence’s rough cough, a tall tiefling man came out from behind a curtain. He wore a sleeveless vest, and when he crossed his thick, muscled arms, Remy could clearly see the flying snake tattoos that wrapped around his biceps. So this was the fence’s muscle--in case things got ugly.

Remy had

zero

intention of letting it get even a hair’s breadth towards that possibility.

“Ha,” she said again, breaking out in a cold sweat. “Haha.”

Smirking but still with that serious glare, the fence looked down to his shorthand ledger. “I happen to know that the Zhentarim had one of their warehouses raided the other night down on Candle Lane. What else was stolen…let’s see…” He ran a long finger down the page, pointing to the items she had just laid out on his table. “Several rings, enchanted canvases with moving paintings, oh, and a great deal of unstamped silver bars. Now,” the fence added, slowly closing the book, “imagine my surprise when all of it simply shows up on my table.”

“Ha.” She was definitely sweating now, worse than a bull during high summer. The crimson line of her tail swished quickly, the largest betrayal of her anxiety but by no means the only one. “You haulin’ me in?”

“Are you admitting to raiding a Zhentarim warehouse?” he countered.

Her mouth could not have gotten any drier. “Nah,” she bluffed, waving him off with an unsteady hand. “You know how it is.”

“You just found these, then, I take it?”

“I sure as fuck did.”

“In the Zhentarim warehouse.” It was not a question.

Remy spread out her hands in a genial, nervous shrug. “Hey, if it’s not nailed down or on fire, it’s fair game. Those are the rules.”

“Mm.” The fence narrowed his eyes at her. Out of the corner of her vision the hired guild thug began to slowly crack his knuckles.

“Maybe the Zhents should lock their shit up tighter, is all I’m sayin’,” she laughed before she could drag the words back down her throat. Haha. What a fucking idiot. There she went again, fucking it up all over again.

“Boss was under the impression this shit

was

locked up,” growled the muscle in a heady baritone.

Remy waved away at him, her mouth running too fast now for the rest of her to catch up. “Yeah, but you gotta have

way

better security than that to stop me.” She snapped her fingers and grinned a grin she most definitely did

not

feel.

Shit fuck god damn fuck fucking

fuck

.

“That so?” the fence asked.

“Sure is. I’m the best new thing in town,” Remy said, jabbing a thumb at her chest. “Rising star of the mean streets of Waterdeep.” God no. Shut up shut up shutup!

The fence snorted. “Orphan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get the fuck out of my shop.”

Remy didn’t need to be told twice. She made to snatch back her satchel, thought better of it after the hired muscle shot her a Look, and scampered out the door. The tin bell clanged loudly in her wake.

She ran halfway down the street before skidding to an abrupt stop.

A moment later, the fence looked up as the bell rang. “What?” he snapped.

“I, uh.” Remy stuck her head back in the door, no small feat with her large sweeping horns. “About my cut--”

Whipped from the fence’s hand, the leather satchel smacked her forehead and fell to the ground with the clink of coin. Far fewer than all of that was worth--but it was better than losing her skin.

“What did I

just

say.”

“Yeah. Right. Sorry!” This time the door slammed so hard that the bell spun on its iron hook.

Paying no mind to anything else, Remy scarpered up the nearest drainpipe. She was several blocks away before she found a secluded chimney to lean up against. It was a long time before her heart stopped pounding.

“Gods, I’m a fucking

fool

.” She kicked the brickwork, which did nothing except cause her to hold her boot and hop about, cursing loudly. When the sting subsided she sank down and put her head between her knees.

“Oh Remy,” the tiefling thief grumbled to herself. “Already on the Zhent’s shitlist, with the opera tomorrow and everything. You’ve really put your foot in it now.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Long ago and far away, Soren stretched on her back under a summer sky. Cool water lapped at the edges of the flat-bottomed ferry. It made a soft sloshing sound that reminded her of the sea. Rolling hills bordered the Chionthar River, undulating softly into the distance; a verdant ocean of long grasses and neat farmland pastures divided by low stone walls. A gentle wind fluttered against Soren’s linen shirt and she watched the clouds pass through golden gates and into the lavender of early evening, eschewing the company of her traveling companions.

Ha,

companions.

As if they weren’t all in it for themselves, selfish and self-absorbed. There was that awful devotee of Sune, a tiefling who cared more about bedding various members of the Cult than doing anything to stop them. And then that insipid dragon-blooded sorceress, who seemed to be growing more blue scales the longer their journey went on. Soren put their inane chatter out of her head from her position of solitude behind a few crates, and tried to find some semblance of inner peace instead of annoyance. Only Nemeia, the tiefling war cleric, seemed to honestly care about the whole thing. Only her and Soren.

The ranger chewed her lip, staring out across the rolling hills. An impossible task lay ahead of her. Bahamut demanded that she be contrite for her vanity, her love of gold. So she must run the whole way north, following the Cult’s caravan of riches. Do whatever it took to stop Tiamat. Would it be enough? Would

she

be enough?

A nearby splash caught her attention as the ferry captain leapt easily from the deck and into the shallows. Powerful arms, bulging with muscled strength, caught the rope line and heaved the whole barge over towards the bank for its nightly mooring. The sunlight got caught in his copper scales, winking back at her with a metallic sheen. Broad shoulders heaved with corded effort. The dragonborn captain gave little thought to anything but his work, tying the rope around a wooden mooring post with practiced efficiency.

Soren swallowed. She hadn’t exactly been the best of company since the party’s near-capture in Berdusk. Only Nemeia had said anything kind to her, and even then they usually watched each other in silence across the fire, while that stupid Sune paladin prattled on about this conquest or that lover. Soren had spent the past few river nights on the roof of the captain’s cabin, as far away from her companions as she could get. Closer to the stars she could no longer fly under. Trying her best not to listen to the paladin throwing herself at the handsome dragonborn in an overt display of tittering idiocy. One he had not fallen for--yet.

“What’s that look for, eh shipmate?” Captain Bellblade’s gruff voice interrupted her thoughts and Soren found herself flushing. She hadn’t even noticed his approach. For a large man, he could move quietly enough when he wanted to.

Soren looked up…and up. Bellblade stood nearly eight feet tall, and his dragon-slitted eyes gazed down at her with a burning inner fire. “I…I like my space,” she mumbled. “I was only thinking. Didn’t mean to stare.”

“That so,” he said, but it was more statement than question. Bellblade lifted his straw hat and ran a hand over the crown of his head and the scaled dreadlocks that hung down to just below his shoulders. The dragonborn spoke gruffly, with all the refinement of a man who knew the value in the work of his hands--but had never stepped inside a schoolhouse. “And what’s a pretty thing like ya doin' starin' at a fella like me, hm?”

His rough attitude was another thing the paladin made snide, sideways remarks about, out of the corner of her thin mouth--when she was certain Bellblade couldn’t hear her. Big and stupid, with more love for ale and the river than sense, a thick seaman’s accent, and a tendency to call anyone of the female persuasion ‘woman’; all reasons for the paladin to harp on their host, only to turn around and sidle up to him at dinner, pouring compliments and fine wine to try to get her way. It always twisted Soren’s lip in disgust, watching her traveling companion serve Bellblade a revolving banquet of lies just to bed the man.

Their eyes had been drawn to each others’ several times, his and Soren’s own. And while the paladin and sorceress crowed like eager peacocks in a vie for his attention, Soren sat apart; silent, ever watchful for danger. Her gaze always caught by his as she took her perch on the crates and scanned the horizon. It was nearly like gazing into a reflection she had lost, her very own Mirror-Lake, but…

more.

She swallowed again. Bellblade had waded through the water until he stood nearly at the ferry’s edge. She could have reached out and touched the white linen shirt that now clung to his broad chest. Droplets of water ran down his arms, falling like sparkling crystals until they hit the river’s surface. In a rare display of embarrassment, the ranger looked away. Was she only imagining the heat in his expression? “...thinking you would make a handsome bull dragon.”

Bellblade threw his head back and laughed. The sight of his sharp, predator teeth made Soren shiver. “Yer paladin friend don’t have any shame seekin’ my bed.”

Soren

tsked

in disgust, the noise leaving her mouth before she could stop it.

“Not the forward type, eh?”

“No.”

The ferry sloshed as he leaned on it, sharp claws leaving grooves in the wood. Bellblade folded his arms and rested his weight on them, until they were of equal height. Soren could not help but notice how his shirt clung to him, revealing a defined and muscled chest. “Suppose yer the quiet sort, hm?”

Soren rubbed her arms. “I’m not…I’m not good with people,” she confessed. 
Bellblade shrugged. “Seem fine to me. Might be I like the quiet type. Might be I don’t like to play games…might be I’ve noticed yer watchin’ me. Ain’t often I get looked at like that. Less often a woman wants to do anything about it. The right sort of woman,” he added.
The ferry captain reached out and brushed her cheek. In any other circumstance, she would have refused his advances immediately. But

gods

, just to feel the touch of scales again. Soren closed her coin-gold eyes and leaned into his caress. His fingers were cool to the touch, still damp from river water and a boon on this warm summer evening.

“And what is the right sort of woman?” she heard herself asking.

He chuckled. “When I say, ‘the sort who can take me balls deep’, is generally where I lose ‘em, if I ain’t paying fer it in the first place.”

Now it was Soren’s turn to laugh, albeit awkwardly. Bellblade didn’t seem to mind. “You must not get much satisfaction, then,” she quipped. A rare smile spread across her features. Heat ran away with her, insistent and aching.

“You think a skinny wood elf will satisfy this old sailor?” Bellblade rumbled, the sound like thunder in his chest.

She grinned, and the dragon stirred awake inside her. “I think I might surprise you.”

~

They hit the cabin wall with a crash. Bellblade’s strength knocked the wind out of her, and before Soren could so much as catch her breath, the captain’s wide, warm tongue dove inside her mouth. She gasped sharply through her nose. The wood felt hard against her back, and Soren had to tilt her head far back to allow him a kiss in the first place. Her legs wrapped around his waist, but her face only came up level with his impressive, muscled chest.

Bellblade was not a man who wasted time. Off came the ranger’s clothes, all of it tugged forcefully from her body to land in a disorderly pile on the floor. He growled into their kiss, already grinding against his smaller lover. Soren moaned as he did so, and, gods, that sound set him on

fire

.

His knee breeches hadn’t even hit the deck before he was pressing the broad head of his scaled cock against her entrance. They met, body to body, and Soren gave a wordless cry of ecstasy.

She twisted, trying to bring him closer, all in a desperate attempt to be filled. The dragon inside of her gave into its instincts, washing her under and over with a need to mate. Nails scrabbled on his chest. Soren whimpered when she could not coax him deeper.

“Patience, woman,” Bellblade growled, and the primal heat in his voice set her to panting in eagerness.

Bellblade wrapped one large, clawed hand around her waist and used his impressive strength to pump the much smaller wood elf in a steady rhythm on his cock. Fuck, but she was

tight

. The whole of him ached to bury his shaft as far inside her as it would go, whether she screamed for it or not. Soren bore down on her lover, mewling with a desperation that Bellblade longed to fulfill.

Snarling, he pulled back from the wall. As though it were entirely effortless, he crossed the cabin and brought them to the straw mattress that served as his bed. Bellblade tossed Soren onto it and crawled toward her as though he meant to devour her whole. No one,

no one

, had ever made him feel this way--and her an

elf

of all things! Hunger raged inside of him, hot as a furnace.

That long tongue flicked out, warm and wet, to taste the salt of sweat on her thighs. Bellblade kept coming, shoving her legs apart as he did so. He dipped his head to relish the scent of her womanhood, lapping at it eagerly.

Soren thought she would go mad. A

dragon

, that’s what it was like! Being with her own kind again. Taking comfort in sharp teeth and scales. She writhed under Bellblade’s expert attention, hooking her legs over his shoulders.

How long had it been since her last mating flight? A century? Half? Soren couldn’t recall. She only remembered that none of them had borne fruit--and that she had been as selectively picky about her lovers as she had been vain about her appearance and greedy of her hoard. Many dragons had wanted her, courted her. Yet, to a soul, she had never considered them good enough for a permanent partnership.

As she gripped Bellblade’s dreadlocks, holding him tight against her center, his tongue diving in and out of her heat in a ravishing rhythm, Soren found herself wishing for...for more. With an effort, she pulled him up. Those burning eyes met hers, heavy with primal desire, and nothing more needed to be said.

Bellblade crawled atop her, reaching to bring their hips flush together even as Soren kissed every inch of his scaled chest that she could reach. He didn’t stop there, pulling her back farther and up, until he had her folded over in a mating press. Groaning, Bellblade let gravity do half the work for him and his hunger the other, sinking down mercilessly under he was sheathed fully inside the ranger’s hot cunt.

At the very moment he felt himself completely lost, all of his length swallowed by her passion, Bellblade forgot himself. He forgot to make allowances for her smaller frame, forgot to hold his strength in check. And he forgot that this lover had skin where scales should be.

Soren could barely think for the fullness. Tight, painful--but

oh

, so perfectly delicious. Madness, this was madness; but it felt, somehow, as if there was more than just lust here in the captain’s bed. That there was something else, something special, even if it was no more than mutual attraction. She growled at him, a low, rumbling sound that had nothing to do with her elven body at all.

Bellblade, before he could even comprehend what sort of noise it was that she had made, also surrendered to his instincts. He pinned Soren to the mattress and bit her shoulder hard. The scream she made only encouraged his every pistoned thrust. The straw mattress crackled beneath them as Bellblade chased his pleasure.

It ended abruptly, with a waterfall’s rush of scalding seed inside her. Soren whimpered, clinging tightly to him, her own body massaging his length, coaxing out the last of his release. For her. Just for her.

Bellblade crouched over the ranger, panting. His scaled forehead settled against her own, and when he could finally speak again he said, “Damn, woman. Yer somethin’ else.”

Soren laughed. It was a breathless and uncertain sound, as if she weren’t used to making it. She could not remember the last time she had done so.

“Yer sure I can’t be askin’ ya to stay on once we reach Elturel?” Bellblade asked. “I think the river life would suit ya.”

“You barely

know

me,” she protested. “You can’t be serious.”

“Bah, I know a good match when I see one.” He waved her concern away. “Ya don’t gotta say nuthin’ now. Got all the way north ‘afore we gotta be thinkin’ about that. But…dunno, seems it’d be better for ya than that group out there ya barely talk to anyhow.”

Soren cupped his strong jaw in her olive-skinned hand. She knew already what the answer would be. There was a duty to Bahamut she must fulfill, or her wings would be lost to her forever. Looking into his eyes, though, into the roughness and honesty there, she found that the denial stuck in her throat. “...I’ll think about it.” Refusing his offer, surely, would get easier with time.

It did not.

Every night, when the ferry tied off, and Soren could politely leave the paladin’s overbearing company, she and Bellblade found each other. Every night, she moaned while he rutted her. Every night, she lay at his side, listening to stories of life on the river or at sea. Soren cuddled warm and close in those moments, feeling something like a person again. Something like a dragon. And every morning Bellblade asked her the same question.

“Stay with me.”

But she hadn’t, in the end. She

couldn’t

.

“Ain’t no good at goodbyes,” Bellblade said gruffly, holding her small hands in his large calloused ones. The sunlight beat hot but dry down on their shoulders as they stood by the Elturel docks. “Ain’t much good at anythin’, ‘cept sailin’ and cursin’, and doin’ ya right.”

It was the first time her heart flipped over inside of her chest. The first time she would be looking back, over her shoulder, instead of ahead toward Bahamut’s planned, grand destiny. Soren put the nasty comments of her party’s paladin and sorceress from her mind. They were only jealous that the ‘cold, aloof ranger’ had found something worthwhile. And the paladin was spitting mad that Soren had ‘seduced’ the captain before she could. Devotee of Sune indeed.

“I hope I see you again,” Soren said, quiet and solemn. She squeezed Bellblade’s mighty hands. “When this is all over.”

“Ya will, if it’s meant to be.” He picked her up for one last kiss, one that lasted many minutes and had Soren’s gold-specked freckles standing out from her blushing cheeks.

It stopped all the protests that rose in her throat. The road ahead was dangerous, and deeply so. Likely, she would not return from fighting Tiamat, if it came to that. And if she did, she would be a dragon again, with a dragon heart and dragon wings. Soren knew that she would be able to change her shape back to…this, as so many dragons did. And yet, she could not help but feel a profound sadness. In these past tendays on the river, she had finally felt happy, selflessly happy.

“I’ll miss you,” she said. What else was there to say?

“Don’t worry yerself.” Bellblade squeezed her shoulders, and his smile warmed her despite the occasion. “All rivers run to the sea. When ya get back from whatever it is yer doin’, ya come find this old sailor and he’ll be waitin’ for ya.”

As long as it takes.

~

It was the memory of Rezmir’s dagger at her throat that pulled Soren from sleep. Long brown fingers caressed the light scar that traveled across her neck. A dream. It had only been a dream.

“Trouble sleeping, darling?”

She looked to her side, to the silver dragonborn courtesan she had hired for the night. The coinlad was a slender fellow, his beautiful horns adorned with jewels. Last evening they had started with dinner and conversation, the man easily avoiding any topics about himself and instead inquiring after her. Soren had not had much to say. His hands had moved to massage her aching shoulders--you could always tell an archer by their muscles, he’d laughed--which had naturally led to other things.

So polite.

So devoid of connection.

“Darling?” he asked again, sitting up beside her. “Are you well?” One delicate, pierced brow swept upwards in question.

Soren rubbed her arms, self-conscious. “...just thinking of someone, that’s all.”

The dragonborn regarded her with gentle curiosity as Soren rose and began to dress. “Someone you miss?” he said at last.

Her fingers paused in the act of straightening her tunic, before rolling it the rest of the way down her torso. "Yes. Someone...I miss very much." She thought of Nemeia, who had always been kind. Who had shared commiseration and camaraderie on that lonely road north. And she thought of Bellblade, who surely she would not see again, now. Not now that Bahamut’s duty for her lay here, in Waterdeep, far, far away from the Chionthar River…and her inevitable path to Null’s final judgment stretching the distance too wide to cross, even for a dragon.

And Soren thought, too, of Renaer. Of his copper hair and his gentle smile, and of the stirring of heat she’d felt when she looked at him.

Zarrakor would never have considered a human for a mate. Yet the ranger found that Soren--the elf, and not the dragon, for surely she would be the former only for all the rest of her days--hoped to find some happiness, at least.

Some peace in these, the last days of her life.

Perhaps Renaer would give that to her. Perhaps duty would keep her bed cold. Soren walked out into the crisp autumn sun, making fast for the North Ward. There was an opera to be had, chess pieces to move. Gold to uncover and return to the city.

What was there for her to do, but soldier on?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was a good day for Avran Fairweather.

A playful smirk danced at the corner of his sharp, expressive mouth. He ran his long fingers down his lover’s naked back. “Darling, you are…exquisite.” Before she could protest, Avran tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her to her knees, her back to his chest. They both knelt in the silk sheets, bodies flush together.

“You are incorrigible,” she gasped as his hands slipped around to cup her breasts. “And insatiable.”

The chuckle he let out was more of a purr. It rumbled deep in his chest and flowed through their connected skin. “Darling,” he scolded lightly, “if I were not so insatiable you would not love me quite so much.”

“I’m not--”

Without warning, Avran bit down, hard, on her shoulder. Whatever she had been going to say slid into a throaty moan. Avran began to move again, languid and slow, a pace well-suited to their final tryst of many that night. “Sweet Laeral,” he murmured against her skin. “Won’t you sing for me?”

Long silver hair whispered between them as she turned her head to meet his heated kiss. “Oh, you are a very bad influence.”

Avran met her lips hungrily. He did not release her until her need for air left her panting. “Am I?” he teased. “Oh, but you love it, darling.” This time he led them down to the sheets, pressing her cheek to the mattress while he worked over her. Avran gripped her bound wrists for a counterpoint purchase, and lazily chased his own release. He allowed the pleasure to build and ebb, drawing rather undignified noises from the woman beneath him.

The cool, grey light of early dawn filtered through the bed curtains. It spilled over a room richly furnished and elaborately decorated. All of Waterdeep laid out beneath the castle window. From this height one could even glimpse the walls of the great city. Up so high, however, the air was bereft of the scents of an early urban morning; fresh bread and damp cobbles.

“I could finish inside you, you know,” Avran groaned, clinging, as he always did, to that shelf of sanity that kept him from giving himself fully to a partner, however long or however brief.

“You would not,” Laeral snapped sharply, only for Avran to angle a few hard thrusts, delivering a shudder of electric passion right to her core. “You wouldn’t,” she panted, barely able to see out of her curtain of silver hair. “My reputation…”

That warm laugh of his shuddered through her, begging her to let go of her responsibilities just this once. “Are you telling me that the Open Lord cannot even prevent a pregnancy if I should…” His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Her fear and her pleasure, twined as they were, tasted

delicious

. Avran let the half-threat, half-promise linger in the air as he continued to make passionate love to the most powerful woman on the Sword Coast.

“...” He could tell from her silence, what she wanted to call him. Avran waved a scolding finger in her direction. “Hush, darling, lest your servants overhear.”

“Now, my dear Laeral, you are going to beg.” Avran nipped a line of fire along her shoulder and up to her sensitive neck.

This time it was her turn to surprise him. “I will do no such thing.” Laeral heaved with her body, intending to at least take the man off his guard. Give him something to think about.

Avran met her shift with one of his own, and in a moment they were facing one another, her still beneath his strong, lean frame, and his rigid prick back inside her. As he entered her once more, Laeral groaned. Perhaps it simply

was

best to surrender to the inevitable. She watched her lover out of slitted eyes as he grabbed her hips, intent on pleasuring both of them until she cried for mercy. Avran was not an unhandsome man. She did not know what she liked more about him, those angular elven features or the wicked, roguish grin that always seemed to be playing on his lips. His many earrings and the jewelry on his fingers sparkled in the shaft of silver dawnlight spilling in through the curtains.

The same face, the one that still made her heart skip a beat.

And yet so entirely different.

They shouldn’t be doing this. Laeral knew, morally and for the sake of practicality, she couldn’t continue entertaining this fantasy. But there was something about the forbidden, something about the roses and the gifts and the poetry under her window at night, something she did not want to let go.

It felt so good to be loved again.

Oh, Laeral tried to tell herself it wasn’t real. But that, too, got harder each time.

She did beg, in the end. Laeral clung to Avran’s strong shoulders, murmuring she-didn’t-know-what, so long as he kept going, so long as he kept doing

that

. That, yes

there!

Pleasure swept her up in its arms and sent her flying over a great peak. Her nails dug into Avran’s back, leaving trails of red on his tan skin.

Avran grinned, watching the Open Lord of Waterdeep fall over her own bliss beneath him. He followed soon after, waiting, waiting, until the last

possible

moment before pulling out. Short huffs became a moan as Avran spilled his warm release across his lover’s skin. No matter how much he teased, he wouldn’t leave behind a legacy. He wouldn’t run that risk. Never would a roguish man like him tie himself down with wife and children, or even just one lover, no matter what he said between the sheets.

Loyalty was for his work--and for himself.

Still, he knew, that was no reason to deny either adventures or lovemaking. And it certainly didn’t stop him from seeking what he wanted by any means necessary.

The sun hovered just barely below the horizon as he gave Laeral a passionate kiss goodbye. “Will I be seeing you at the Lightsinger Theater tonight?” Avran asked. He lounged on the windowsill, one knee cocked up, the other hanging down. Below him--far below him--lay one of the private, ornamental gardens that surrounded Castle Waterdeep.

“I’m afraid not,” Laeral said, crossing to her vanity. “There is to be yet another meeting regarding the gang activity in the city. It is not so easy to run a city,” she added, chiding him gently. “Not if one is meant to do it well.”

Avran gave Laeral a low nod with his feathered cap. He twirled the ends of his trim mustache for a moment. “I concur, my darling, heartily and completely! And your city is all the more grand for your stewardship.”

She gave him a disbelieving look, but could detect no insincerity. Again, that pause, her endearment for him on the tip of her tongue.

“Laeral, my sweet,” Avran said, catching her expression. He put a hand to his breast, to his fine silk vest, as if he were offended. “What have I to gain by paying you empty flattery? Truly,” he added, serious, “you have been so good to this city. You have been as devoted to it as you are beautiful. I can only aspire, honestly, I assure you, to look after my own as well as you do.”

Giving in, she rolled her eyes and returned to the window to kiss him once more. “Be on your way, then, before you go calling both of us ‘civil servants’ and embarrass yourself.”

Avran drew her in, hands roaming all over her body, before giving her a light swat across the ass. “As you wish, darling,” he said, eyes alight with mischief. With that, he swung both legs over the sill and enacted a levitation spell.

Laeral leaned out of the window, her free silver hair stirring in the autumn breeze. “Stay out of trouble, you,” she scolded him. “And if you can’t, make sure I don’t hear about it.”

With a wave of his feathered cap, Avran touched down to the ground of the garden below. He swept her a low bow. “As you wish, my darling white dove,” Avran said. “You will never even know I was here.”

Oh yes, he thought as he made himself scarce. It was going to be a rather good day indeed.

~

“Avran, old boy, you’ve done it again.” He leaned over the back of his dressing room chair, admiring himself in the mirror. Long fingers buttoned up his carnelian silk vest. “Bloody stunning work.”

Orange flames from a score of candles permeated the small room with a soft, halo-like glow. They danced anytime Avran moved, making the gold-leafed border of his vanity mirror shiver with burnished light. Several bouquets already rested on the few available surfaces; wishes of good luck from his admirers. A fresco of a pastoral scene circled the walls, its colors still vibrant as the room had no windows with which to pour in sunlight and fade them.

Tonight, ah yes, tonight was for

theater!

For art and passion!

Avran chuckled, flashing himself a wicked grin that suited his angular features well. He ran his fingers through his short, well-trimmed brown hair. “Absolutely

stunning

,” the rogue breathed. “Just the way to make my debut.”

The day had been spent leisurely, enjoying the autumn air. How wonderful it was to have nothing to do! He ought to try it more often. A man like him, however, often found that ‘nothing’ and business soon went hand in hand. Following his tryst with the Open Lord, he had moved on to Skullport for a tense breakfast with Liriel, then on to Ammalia Cassalanter’s bed once her husband Victoro had left the estate for the day. She had kept him later than planned--far later, he mused with remembered heat--so much so that he had nearly missed his afternoon ‘tea’ with Yalah Gralhund. Yes, he had given quite a bit of himself this day, taking his clothes off and putting them back on again. All to sate his appetite for lust--and information.

Soon he would ascend up to the great hall reception and rub shoulders with all the important nobles in Waterdeep. And, well, if a few pieces of jewelry made it into his pocket by the end of the night, who would be the wiser? After all, he was only an actor.

He adjusted the purple sash about his waist, its luscious fabric adorned with an embroidered peacock feather. Elegant, yes, its vibrant cobalt and sea-foam green standing out well against the background, so much so that the eye could barely catch the eight-pointed design in the behind the feather, done in the same purple as the rest of the silk. For a man such as Avran the true stage was not hidden behind the curtains, oh no. He much preferred swanning about in front of a captive audience in a social setting, rather than a scripted one. It made the end result all the more delicious. Why, even Esvele Rosznar was supposed to be in attendance this evening, her

and

Lord Mirt. Anywhere the Masked Lord went, surely Avran wanted to be as well.

The city of Waterdeep dreamed of gold, and none of them more ardently than Avran Fairweather. He grew hungry just to think of it; to picture Dagult’s vault opened before him, as welcoming as Laeral had greeted his advances that morning.

Avran suppressed a shiver of desire. Profit and ambition ran through him like ice wine, heady and sweet. Ever the aphrodisiac. A pity he would have no one to ravish about it until after the play was over. After all, it was hardly as if he could make love to his own riches, considerable though they were.

He chuckled, an amused, purring sort of sound. “Ah yes.” Reaching down to the vanity, he plucked up a long-stemmed glass of champagne and toasted his own reflection. In that twinkle of his eyes he caught a glimpse of the wicked spark that so enticed his lovers. Avran grinned. “To victory, then,” he toasted. “To Dagult’s buried treasure, and may the best man win!”

~

The crystal chandeliers of the grand hall glimmered overhead like the light of a thousand, thousand copper suns. Dull blue shadows clustered at the corners of the room. Gold bannister statues of the four seasons, depicted as voluptuous, naked women, stood mid-dance at the bottom and top of the grand marble staircase. Everywhere red velvet curtains hung in valances, framing gilded frescos from the scenes of famous plays. Richly dressed nobles seemed to practically float across the pink marble tiles; the sway of skirts and slashed sleeves making it look as though a flock of birds of paradise had taken wing all at once.

“Well, doesn’t

she

think she’s the queen of everything?” Ammalia snapped open her silk fan to hide her sharp sneer of disgust. Her jade eyes narrowed across the hall at Yalah Gralhund. “Lose a few hundred gold to the Black Viper and she thinks one door guard at the

opera

will prevent a ‘plotted assassination’. Stupid woman.”

Victoro laid a large, strong hand on her forearm. “Not to fret,” he rumbled in his deep, masculine bass. Lord Cassalanter held himself like a mountain, immovable and intimidating--but always waiting with a business man’s smile should the occasion call for it. “The Viper may try all he pleases with the likes of the Gralhunds--so long as he leaves us out of his machinations.”

“Darling,” Ammalia nudged him slightly, her gaze flashing a quiet warning. “We are not alone.”

Victoro raised his head to see Avran Fairweather making his way toward the couple. This time the older man could not help but let a grin, as predatory and earnest as the blade of a knife, curl under his mustache. “Indeed.”

The crowd parted around Avran like the sea before the prow of a ship. It was as if people did not even know he was there, though he walked so easily, with all the confidence in his step as a tom cat along the rail of a fence. Others simply made way for him. It was the stride, Victoro decided, as the nobleman settling into a muted, somewhat amused expression. Lord Cassalanter could always identify that one by his stride. Nonetheless, he held out his hand when the dashing rogue approached.

“A pleasure, my Lord and Lady Cassalanter,” Avran said, taking Victoro’s hand before sweeping Ammalia a dramatic bow. He made the gesture automatically, as if it were as natural to him as breathing.

“You will not be late to your performance?” Ammalia asked as he leaned in to kiss her cheeks.

Avran waved his hand dismissively. “Surely I can spare a little time for my favorite business partners. And friends,” he added, when Ammalia huffed at him. He cast her a wink.

Lady Cassalanter hid her face behind her fan, watching him over the top as she fluttered it oh so gently.

“My wife has told me you do not have any new leads on the item we requested you acquire for us.” Victoro let his hand fall to Ammalia’s waist, not liking the familiar way Avran had greeted her. “Might I remind you that we are running on quite the strict schedule?”

Avran flipped his feathered cap back onto his head, the jaunty flop to the side making him look very roguish indeed. “I can

assure

you I will have more details at our next rendezvous. I am many things,” he said to Victoro’s disapproving frown, “but a bad businessman is not one of them. You will have what you desire most.”

“Good,” Ammalia said, with more than a little finality. “We have several months ahead of us, still.” She rubbed Victoro’s arm, attempting to soothe him. “Worry not, my love.”

About to say that no worrying was necessary, Victoro opened his mouth, only to close it again, staring at something across the hall. “

Well

,” he scoffed, “I can see that the Neverember boy has made himself a match at last.”

Ammalia plucked up her opera goggles, the sides polished with strips of pearl and bordered in gold. She squinted through them, attempting to see details without having to move from their advantageous position on the balcony above the hall. “What, the tiefling? Looks rather…dull to me. Oh, but that

is

a nice-fitting suit.”

“No, my dear,” Victoro said, pointing Renaer Neverember out in the crowd. “The

other

one. Just beside him, the wood elf.”

“Hm. A bit ostentatious,” Ammalia mused. “Still, I suppose gold

is

in fashion this year. That silhouette, though. How very

classic

,” she said icily, as though she were very politely calling the other woman’s dress ugly and old-fashioned. “Wouldn’t you say so, Avran?” When the actor next to her did not respond, Ammalia lowered her pearl goggles. She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Avran?”

It was as if the world had gone completely still.

Every breath Avran tried to take caught in his throat, warm and sharp at the same time. The rest of the grand hall fell away and his long-fingered hands curled around the marble railing as he stepped up to the edge of the balcony. Copper candles became a burnished halo at the edges of his vision. Even Renaer faded away, just another part of the background.

The wood elf woman was a vision in gold.

And it seemed to Avran that the treasure he sought so hungrily had suddenly taken on an elven shape. Gold made flesh. Perfection gilded and set before him, awaiting the touch of his expert hands.

For a long, long moment, Avran watched Soren in something like a haze. No one else in the room--nay, in the world--existed. It was only the two of them; her the treasure, and him the thief.

Avran gave his excuses to Ammalia and Victoro, barely conscious of what he was even saying. Placing his hand on the cool marble bannister, he descended the wide stairs slowly, as if the distance between them was a thousand miles made into a few steps and he did not want to cross it too quickly.

~

It was one of those dusty fall evenings that smelled of stone and bark. A constant, cool breeze ruffled cloaks and skirts. Darkness sank into corners and alleyways, heavy in its shadows. Granite-grey clouds, haloed in silver by the moon, hurried quickly across her shining face. Tonight there was not even a hint of rain, no puddles to splash in the wake of carriage wheels. Only the ruts left behind from the most recent storm.

Renaer Neverember stood outside the Lightsinger Theater, fiddling with his cuffs. A royal blue capelet hung artfully over one shoulder. His long copper hair had been tied back with a blue ribbon, and it swung as he glanced left and right down the street, waiting.

At last he spied the carriage with Mirt’s coat of arms painted on the side. It left the cobbled road and pulled into the half moon drive at the theater’s entrance, the timbre of the horse team’s hooves ringing like silver on the smoother stones of the courtyard. Renaer left his spot by the foot of the entry stairs and made his way over, opening the door with a sweeping bow. “Miss Sinnah, Ms. Chandry,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to Waterdeep’s premiere house of drama and tragedy: the Lightsinger Theater.”

Remy was the first to emerge, her ebon-wood cane clasped rakishly in her gloved hand. She accepted Renaer’s assistance down the carriage steps, and gave her cane a twirl before using the pommel to tip up the brim of her new hat. “Well, if this ain’t a fancy party,” she said, giving a low whistle. The black hat fitted her sleek look, resting perfectly between her horns. Despite the jaunty angle of her grin, she was certainly dressed more like a noble than a thief. Grey trousers hugged her slight curves, fading in a crimson ombre until they reached the top of her serviceable black boots. She had chosen a crimson vest and a grey undershirt that faded into more crimson at her cuffs. All slim except for the bell-shaped cut to her sleeves. Hardly what one would have called an outfit to answer an emergency in or go adventuring with. Less noticeable, however, were the underarm gussets and the expert tailoring that allowed the tiefling thief the widest range of movement possible.

“Suppose I’ll have to be on my best behavior.” Remy chuckled. “Boring as that might be.”

Renaer shared her smile. “Well, do try to contain yourself.” He turned to reach back up to help Soren out of the carriage--only for his breath to catch in his throat.

For a moment it seemed as though Soren herself were made of gold. Her gold-stamped, kid leather slippers made hardly a whisper as she descended the carriage steps. She held her skirts in one hand, taking Renaer’s outstretched palm in the other. The long dress hung to fit her form, several centuries out of fashion with its wide neck that left her collarbone exposed and the ample skirts that rippled as she walked. But it was not the style of dress, classic and noble with its embroidered hems though it might be, that gave Renaer pause. No, the entire dress, down to the last square inch, had been made entirely from cloth of gold. A cape of the same fabric hung down her back, artfully cut and draped to give the illusion of a pair of dragon wings at rest. Still, Renaer looked up, past her glimmering golden freckles, past her eyes like two pairs of polished coins, to the diadem that rested amid her mahogany hair.

“Are those…horns?” he managed to say, suddenly finding his mouth very dry indeed. Renaer felt his cheeks flush in the cool autumn air.

Soren reached up to the crown of gold wire and fine chains that had been fashioned in the shape of her own horns. Although the horns were hollow, they ended in a polish cap, from which hung several thin, decorative chains that fixed to the forward part of the diadem. They rippled and sang softly as she moved. “Yes,” she said, somewhat self-consciously. “It’s not too much, is it?”

“N-No! Not at all,” Renaer assured her. “It’s just…you’re beautiful.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Remy waved a hand in front of his face. She coughed pointedly. “Let’s see about getting inside, hm? We’re, uh, everybody’s looking at us.”

Soren gathered up her skirt, trying her very best to pretend that that was not exactly the case. The taciturn ranger followed Remy’s lead up the stairs to the opera house. It was…strange, to do this in an elven body. To walk around in what was as close to her own skin as she could manage in this form. She could feel the eyes of every single person in the courtyard follow her up the stairs. Whispers assailed her from all sides.

“

Who

is that?”

“Darling, nevermind her name,

who

is she wearing, I want to know.”

“It is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Oh surely, and woefully out of fashion.”

“Well, you can’t say she isn’t dressed for the occasion.”

“--Neverember’s found himself his very own Dragon Queen, eh?”

Renaer brought Soren closer to him. “Don’t listen to them,” he said, quickly catching onto the ranger’s discomfort. “The dress suits you, really.”

“Yeah,” Remy put in. “If anyone’s mean to you, fuck ‘em.”

Renaer suppressed a long-suffering sigh.

Perhaps it would have sounded like a strange excuse, but Soren hadn’t ordered the dress in gold for the attention. In fact, she had hardly given a thought to what anyone else would think at all, except, perhaps, for Renaer himself. Soren had thought only of her own scales, for the chance to slip into her own skin; one jewel among many, for the last time. Let her sit among the rest of Waterdeep’s coins and gems of high society. Let her be herself but once more. So she, with all the natural regal bearing of a dragon, stepped up to the door.

“Ticket an’ weapon check,” said a rather large, burly half-orc, holding out his meaty hand to stop the trio.

“Unusual, normally it is up to the ushers to take tickets,” Renaer said, collecting their passes and handing them, along with his, to the guard.

The half-orc glowered down at them. “Gralhund’s orders.” He squinted at the tickets, bringing them close to his face before handing them back again.

Soren did not miss the brief press of Renaer’s lips. This truly was out of the ordinary, then. “Gralhund?” she asked.

“Lord and Lady Gralhund ‘ad their vault raided by some thief this past tenday.” The guard eyed them with suspicion. “I’m ‘ere for their pro-tec-tion,” he said, his annunciation slurring only slightly around his large tusks.

Remy, who was wearing no fewer than six daggers squirreled about her person, opened her arms with a theatrical sigh. “If you must, it isn’t as if we’ve come armed to a

theater

,” she laughed lightly. “People who interrupt a stage performance go to the

special

Hell.”

Soren held her breath as the guard gave Remy a light pat-down, only finding air again after he withdrew his hands. “Yer free to go in,” he said, and motioned for Soren to approach him.

“My good man,” Renaer interrupted. “This is quite unnecessary. Lord Mirt--

the Masked Lord

--has requested our presence specifically. Do you think anyone who can afford to dress like

this

--” He motioned to Soren. “--would be a thief?”

It was, Soren had to admit, a fair point. The half-orc allowed them entrance, grumbling all the while.

Together, the three of them entered the beautifully-decorated marble hall. Men and women drifted along in their own little groups, wearing all the latest fashions; slashed sleeves and velvet doublets, bodices tight enough to pillow a lady’s bosom, and shimmering brocades of all patterns. But it wasn’t the handsome garments all around her, nor the gold statues to either side of the stairs, nor even the whole sweeping opulence that attracted her attention. Soren stopped in the middle of the grand hall and looked up at the fresco on the ceiling.

“Karasendrieth,” she said, recognizing the silver-blue hue of the dragon that had been painted around the border. “And Corellon.”

The domed fresco arched overhead with muted beauty. Warm light from the chandeliers made the sunset clouds all the more pink and Corellon’s flowing yellow hair all the more golden. Little cherubs strummed lyres and harps, Karasendrieth holding one end of a flowing crimson ribbon that bordered the painting, and a naked elf with long silver hair holding the other.

“It’s lovely,” Soren breathed. The dragon in her could not help but admire, could not help but be pleased by the sight of beautiful things. She stayed standing there for some moments, her cloth-of-gold dress sparkling and winking like a thousand citrine stars given life. The refracted crystalline light off the chandeliers surrounded her, and her every movement produced a shimmering blink of gold.

“You can say that again.” Renaer swallowed, his attention captured not by the painting, but by the wood elf at his side. They were each so entranced that neither noticed Avran Fairweather’s slow, dream-like approach from across the room.

Before the actor could reach them, however, Renaer’s head jerked around at the sound of a nasally, high-pitched voice. “Well, if it isn’t Dagult’s boy, dragged in from the gutter.”

Soren found her reverie broken and she lowered her gaze, only to be met with the presence of a pair of nobles dressed almost all in black. The woman stood a good head taller than her husband, her brown hair brought tightly back into a bun. Gold embroidery bordered her slim dress, but it could not make up for the ugliness of her sardonic expression.

“Lady Yalah Gralhund, Lord Orond,” Renaer said, bowing to her only as much as was necessary for polite company. Only his eyes tightened at her insult, a thing that did not go unnoticed by Soren.

Orond scoffed at the formality, his short, pear-shaped body and curled mustache lending something of a…weaseliness to his presence. “At least he cleans up nicely.”

Yalah’s gaze traveled up and down the length of the pair, lingering on Soren’s dress. “Quite a fine piece of work on your companion. Alas, even gold can’t make a dockside whore presentable. Really, Renaer, haven’t you got better taste?”

Renaer sucked in a sharp breath, cheeks reddening.

Before he could say anything, Soren cut in. “At least I

have

gold,” she said flatly.

Yalah’s cheeks flushed a deep pink under her makeup. “Why, you--!”

“Sorry,” Soren continued, her shoulders stiff, and not sounding sorry at all. “I’ve better things to do than to argue with children.” She clasped Renaer’s arm and practically hauled him off, leaving the Gralhunds to splutter angrily behind them.

“You do not pull any punches, do you?” he said when they found themselves relatively alone by the refreshment table.

Soren rubbed her arms. “I’m…I’m not good with people,” she mumbled, “and I have no patience.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that.” Remy popped up beside the pair, grinning like a cat who’d found the cream.

The young lord clutched his chest, wheezing in surprise. “You can’t just

do

that! Where did you go? I didn’t even

see

you.”

“Well that’s the point, yeah? Anyway.” Remy surreptitiously opened her palm to show her friends a few pieces of jewelry.

Soren blanched.

“Where did you get those?”

she hissed.

“I stole them off of that bitch.”

“Remy, we are at a

party

.”

“Yeah, and?” The tiefling twirled the jewelry around for a moment before tucking it into an inner pocket. “She was being mean to you, it’s what she deserved.”

Renaer looked heavenward in a moment of silent pleading. “Miss Sinnah--”

“I know, I know.” Remy waved a hand at him. “We’re here on business.”

Social etiquette dictated that the guests mill about until the bell was rung for everyone to begin taking their seats. After all, Waterdeep’s wealthy families and nobility spent much of their time at similar such functions; receptions, auctions, art gallery openings, and, of course, balls. It was practically expected that they would take the time to linger and converse with the other guests. That, however, was the

last

thing Soren wanted to do.

Despite her loveliness, Renaer could clearly see Soren’s discomfort at all the attention. “Why don’t I escort you both to Mirt’s box?” he asked, his handsome voice kind and soft. Those green eyes met hers. “It’s quiet there.”

Soren gave him a small smile. “...I would like that, thank you.”

~

The world stretched out like a cat before Avran, the length across the grand hall both short and incredibly long at the same time. And, try as he might, he could never seem to reach her; this woman clad all in gold.

Perhaps he was just attracted to beautiful things.

Perhaps it was the expensive luster of her dress.

Perhaps the allure of power, for she held herself like a queen.

Or perhaps it was something very, very simple indeed.

Avran had never seen anything so lovely as that smile. Despite his excellent hearing, her voice eluded him. He saw only Soren’s dusted freckles--was that

real

gold, given flesh in her skin?--and her coin eyes, so alight with luster. So perfectly polished, as if they were each a worry stone upon which his thumb had long ago worn the face away.

No one

had eyes like that. No one in all of Toril, on the surface or under it--and he ought to know. She had no pupils at all, only two coins where her eyes should be.

The man who called himself Avran Fairweather had not been struck by such beauty in a long,

long

time.

He watched as Renaer led Soren away, back up the stairs. He watched as Remy’s attention was caught by the movement of Esvele Rosznar, who ducked down a side passage in the company of a surly-looking dwarf. The tiefling peeled off from Soren and Renaer, indicating that she would return soon, and that they ought not wait on her account.

It was as if he were wading through a dream, with Soren always ahead of him, never staying in one spot long enough for him to reach her. Oh, how delicious she would look, lying naked on Dagult’s hoarded treasure.

Many lovers had come and gone from his bed during his long life. In fact, he had had as many lovers as he had almost had adventures. And if there was one thing he enjoyed beyond the value of profit and the spark of ambition, it was a good and honest challenge.

The bell to call all the actors backstage rang just as Soren and Renaer disappeared down the wing toward the private boxes. Avran shook himself, as if he had awoken from a trance. Glancing once more back over his shoulder, he made his way down to his dressing room, already crafting his perfect introduction to the wood elf who wore a dragon’s worth of gold.

~

“--don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Remy paused, one foot still on the stair, the other on the landing. A short hall lay before her, carpeted in red, the playbills of past performances mounted and set behind glass like expensive pieces of art. The orange glow of candelabras placed at the T intersection of the hallway just before her threw distorted shadows up on the wall.

“Ye’ve been singin’ the praises o’ the Black Viper these past few tenday,” came the gruff voice of the dwarf from around the corner. His squat shadow stood solidly, barely cresting the wood trim on the wall. “Word on the street is yer knowin’ how to get a hold o’ the man.”

“Ridiculous,” Esvele retorted with a snort. “I know where he is no better than you do.”

The dwarf rubbed his chin. “Might be somethin’ in it fer ye, iffin ye deliver a message to ‘im. Five hundred thousand dragons is a lot o’ gold.”

“I don’t--”

“Xanathar knows yer family’s known fer bringin’ folk back from the dead, see? He’s thinkin’ that the last time the Black Viper was seen was over a hunnerd years ago. He’s thinkin’ somebody’s brought ‘im back.” There was a flurry of the hushed whisper of cloth, and a creak of leather. Suddenly, the two shadows were much closer, Esvele pulled down to the dwarf’s height.

Remy barely trusted herself to breathe.

Around the corner, the dwarf continued. “Xanathar’s thinkin’ he wants to hire the Black Viper. Find that big vault o’ gold for ‘im. Ye can deliver that message, can’t ye, missy? And me head’s thinkin’ ye only need a tongue to deliver a message--”

Remy bit back a yelp as she saw the dwarf’s arm rise, a shadowed dagger outlined, impossibly large, on the wall. If she could just get close enough, she could surprise the dwarf and lend aid to Esvele. Her very next step, however, caused the floor to creak under her weight. Out of instinct, Remy froze.

The two shadowed figures collapsed violently upon each other in a short scuffle for desperate dominance. A sharp crack of fist against flesh came, followed immediately after by a thick

thud

as a body hit the carpeted floor. Then the soft whisper of clothing against carpet as the body of the unfortunate loser was dragged away.

By the time Remy got up the courage to inch forward to peek around the corner, both Esvele and the Xanathar dwarf were gone. Far in the distance she heard the warming, harmonious notes of the orchestra calling everyone to their seats.

“Fuck,” she swore. “Fuckfuckfuck

fuck

.”

Cursing her lack of action--and the fact that she didn’t know which box was Mirt’s--Remy scampered back the way she had come, hurrying to catch up with her friends.

~

“Well, aah’ll be, if that dress ain’t gonna cost me a pretty penny!”

Mirt Asper was, perhaps, the largest man Soren had ever seen. He reclined back in a velvetous chair made especially for his enormous girth. His sandy-grey hair had been styled in waves that brushed his broad shoulders. A forest-green doublet with slashed sleeves covered his rather substantial torso, with trousers to match, the whole ensemble ending in a sturdy pair of roguish, black boots. Those pale blue eyes of his, at once piercing and jolly, seemed to look right through her.

“Lord Mirt,” Soren began.

“Never ya mind there, Miss Chan-dree,” Mirt cut in, his thick, drawling accent making her surname last twice as long as it usually did. “Have a seat here, now.”

Soren gathered up her glittering skirt and chose a chair closest to the edge of the balcony. Arrayed below her were the many crimson-backed seats of the audience. The stage extended in a gentle oval, below which sat the orchestra pit with its well-dressed musicians, tuning to each other in a long, raspy breath of warm notes. Gilded cherubs and naked muses framed the stage in burnished relief, the heavy blood-red curtains swaying only slightly as people no doubt moved behind them, readying themselves for the first act. A stagehand, all neatly garbed in black, took a long-handled wick and lit the footlamps at the front of the stage, each one of them giving off a little swirl of grey smoke before the beeswax burned clear.

“Now, Miss Chan-dree, young Renaer there tells me ya wear the mark of a proper Harper,” he said, gesturing for an attendant to pour them both a glass of wine. “But aah can't say aah remember bringin’ ya on.”

“I joined in Elturel, while chasing the Cult of the Dragon in 1487.” Soren sat straight-backed and attentive.

Mirt raised a bushy brow. “That so? Then this play might be jus’ a tad familiar to ya.” He plucked up the full wine glass with a delicacy that surprised Soren, indicating to the attendant that the whole bottle ought to be left with them. Draining most of the glass in a long swallow, Mirt set it back on the table and folded his hands over the heavy crest of his belly. “But it ain’t a matter of art that aah’ve asked ya here in reference to. No doubt ya’ve heard of Ole Dagult’s vault by now?”

She had, and said as much, Mirt nodding along with every word. “Whole dang city’s after the damn thing,” he said. “Rumors have been floatin’ a’hither an’ thither.” The enormous man looked to her meaningfully. “But we Harpers ain’t for knowin’ whether it’s

real

or not. hWhat we

do

know, for certain, is it’s causin’ a right fuss. Gangs makin’ war on one another, hWatch on edge, an’ so on.”

“It

is

real,” Soren cut in, almost surprising herself in her certainty. Below them, the orchestra began the overture in earnest. The lights dimmed, wicks turned down. A particular velvet hush fell over the audience.

Mirt studied Soren’s face as she watched the stage, watched the curtains rise, and the opera begin. A tall man emerged on a constructed precipice, a beautiful backdrop of clouds painted behind him. He wore a diaphanous tunic clasped with gold. Before he could open his mouth to sing, a quintet of actors emerged from the wings, moving synchronously. They took their place at the edge, their sweeping robes colored to represent the chromatic flight of dragons. Contrary to the evil goddess’ actual appearance, the man representing the black dragon flight stood in the center, while the red took up a spot to his right. As one they began to sing--in the giant tongue.

“And how can ya be so sure about that, Miss Chan-dree?” Mirt asked her quietly, his subtle voice audible to her, but not permeating beyond their secluded box.

She answered him just as softly. “That is what gold does, when there is enough of it all in one place. It drives men mad.”

“Care to elaborate for an old man?” Mirt rolled the waxed end of his mustache in thought.

One look, and Soren knew he had an inkling, perhaps, of what she meant. What she knew, instinctively, as a dragon, was difficult to put into small, human words. So small, so mutable. Squeeze the sensation of knowing down and out of her mouth.

“Gold…gathers,” Soren said slowly. “It becomes…magnetic. It galvanizes people to seek it, to fight to the death over even a penny of a larger hoard. If left for too long, it will seep into the stones, seep into bone and water and the dreams of men. Gold, that much gold, becomes a magic all by itself. Selfish, greedy magic.

Dragon

magic. They do not call the fever of gold ‘Dragon Sickness’ for nothing. Old Lord Neverember must have been a dragon, here.” Soren tapped her chest, and then her forehead. “Even if he did not wear a dragon’s skin.”

“And hwhat does that have to do with ya certainty?” Mirt asked.

Soren shrugged. “Dagult’s hoard, his treasure, has magic. It’s far more than rumor, now. It is a fever, and that fever will only get worse until the gold is found. The answer is obvious.”

“hWhat would ya do, iffin ya found that treasure, hm? Dagult stole that money from the city with hard taxes durin’ the Dragon War.” His piercing blue eyes seemed steely, Soren thought, guarded somehow.

“I don’t want it,” she said at once. “It belongs to the city, not to me.”

“Ya wouldn’t take any? Not even a penny?”

Soren looked down to the stage again, where actors dressed like the Cult of the Dragon were encouraging the cloud giant king to ally with them and summon Tiamat. A great song ended with his proclamation to do so, and the curtains whished closed with a creak of hinges. Four figures emerged in front of the curtain, providing entertainment while the scenery changed backstage. With a rush of emotion, Soren recognized the pink-painted hue of Nemeia. She leaned forward and gripped the railing, all thought of Mirt gone for the moment.

Gods, there they were! All four of them.

The insipid sorceress showing signs of cultist possession. That awful Sune paladin throwing herself at everyone in her traveling group in turn. Nemeia plowed straight ahead, each of her companions proclaiming their wants and desires on this road to stop the Cult of the Dragon. And--there, by Bahamut,

there!

--bringing up the rear was an actress dressed in the greens and browns of a wood elf.

“No,” she said breathlessly, answering Mirt’s question as she watched her former life play out before her on the opera stage. “I don’t want any reward.”

The curtains swished open again, this time with a swamp-painted background. A ballet number followed; cultists, lizardfolk, and Rezmir paying homage to their black dragon ally, Voaraghamanthar. Something in Soren wanted to look away as the ballet ended and the heroes rushed onto the stage to do a very well-choreographed battle with Rezmir. Her brow furrowed as she watched the members of her party get cut down--including herself. That was the hardest to witness; to see the ‘lifeless’ body of the wood elf fall at Rezmir’s hand. Only Nemeia survived, and survived well enough to sing an aria of vengeance.

Soren did not realize quite how hard she’d been gripping the box railing until the curtains swept closed on Nemeia’s impassioned plea to Torm. As the audience greeted the end of the first act with thunderous applause, she felt the pins and needles extend into her fingers and released her grip. Wincing, she attempted to massage some true feeling back into her hand. Somehow, in the past few days, Soren had never thought to ask anyone about the outcome of the Dragon War. And here she was, watching the story play out before her on stage. As if she had not been there. As if she had not been slain at that very castle, all the lifeblood pouring from her body and into the fetid swamp.

Somewhat self-consciously, she rubbed that pale scar on her neck. Mirt’s words came back to her, as if from far away. “--be a very rare soul, if that’s true.”

“I am a devout of Bahamut,” she replied softly, “and I have no use for gold. If it belongs to the city, then that is where it shall go.”

Possessed of a sudden urge for knowledge, Soren grabbed her program and flipped hastily through its pages. Giant was a language given to inventive description. As Mirt explained, their oral traditions generally called characters by a title that suited them best. The ruling giant Blagothkus, for example, was listed with the cast simply as ‘The King’. Running her finger down the page, Soren soon found the company of heroes, from which she could easily discern her own pseudonym:

Sulking Snapdragon.

Soren gave one of those soft sniffs of wry amusement. Snapdragon. How apt. As Bellblade had pointed out, she could barely contain her contempt for most of her party members. Had Nemeia actually succeeded the task Soren herself had failed in? Surely she had, for Laeral Silverhand ruled Waterdeep and not Tiamat. But had her friend survived such a deadly encounter?

Mirt adjusted his belt so that he might lean forward and peer out over the theater. The chorus of chromatic dragons--listed in the program as the Five Heads of Tiamat--took their place to the side of the stage once more, no doubt narrating Nemeia’s journey as she followed the Cult of the Dragon north to Skyreach Castle.

“Well, regardless of your certainty, Miss Chan-dree,” he said, “the Harpers need to make sure of the vault’s existence. And this old man knows there’s bound to be one person in all of Waterdeep who can vouch for whether the rumors are true.”

~

The Black Viper.

Avran Fairweather couldn’t believe his good fortune. When he’d first entered the stage, he had swept his gaze across the heads of the crowd. Surely, it wouldn’t be too difficult to find the woman dressed all in gold. And find her he had--in Mirt’s box, of all things!

If he hadn’t had songs to sing and lines to recite, he would have chuckled aloud. Despite the stinging brightness of the floor lamps that ringed the stage, he kept his eyes fixed on Soren. As the play went on, as Nemeia was joined by other adventurers and battled a great white dragon, and then as she and King Blagothkus traveled to the Well of Dragons to face Tiamat, Avran’s keen gaze missed nothing that happened in that box. Not a gesture, not an expression, not even a single word, escaped him.

He could read lips quite well, in fact. Avran went through the opera as seamlessly as he ever did anything, his hunger for information and intrigue growing with every sentence Mirt spoke.

In order to know if the rumors are true, what better way than to ask a thief?

The Black Viper was the thief who had never been caught, who had struck plenty of rich households of late, his largest target remaining the Cassalanters. One of the gossip broadsheets, the

Waterdeep Wazoo

, ran plenty of articles on the mysterious thief. The larger papers tended to ignore or understate the robberies, but not the Wazoo. It was best to start her search for the Black Viper there. The chief editor, a fellow Avran knew to be a one Gaxly Rudderburst, might know something.

Avran practically held his breath as Mirt continued, the rogue absorbing absolutely everything. His slender, pointed ears nearly pricked up as he saw the Harper’s mouth form the words:

the Stone of Golorr

.

Whispered in rumors by the Xanathar and Zhentarim, said to be a clue to the whereabouts of the vault, mention of the Stone of Golorr had

somehow

escaped Avran’s information network. To the hells with a cast party after the show! The handsome rogue had other,

better

things to do.

A beautiful, capable woman had crossed his path--one wrapped up in the same game as he, no less! Soren was a Harper and a fellow treasure hunter. Avran could not suppress a wicked grin. Heat and hunger flared within him in equal measure, stoked by the fires of his own inexhaustible ambition.

So intent was Avran on deciphering Mirt’s instructions, on constructing a web to weave that might bring that woman into his bed and Dagult’s hoarded gold into his hands, that he did not hear the soft scuffling on the catwalks above until it was too late.

~

“--where on Toril have you been?” Soren hissed to Remy, who sheepishly shuffled into the box and took a seat next to her friend.

The tiefling rolled her eyes. She wiped the sweat from her brow, her chest still rising and falling as though she’d been running.

“Look, this place is a fucking maze. I got lost, okay?” she mumbled before continuing in an urgent whisper. “There’s a--”

“For the entire opera?”

“It’s not important. Listen, Soren, I’ve got to tell you something. I saw--”

Onstage, a ballerina screamed.

~

Flogar Rathsbane leaned heavily against the staging ropes and wheezed. His mighty heart thundered in his chest. Sweat soaked the front of his shirt. It pattered off his brow to the walkway at his feet, joined by the sluggish splash of blood. Blinking hard, he drew the back of his hand across his face, clearing the smearing crimson from his brow.

The exit. He had to find the exit.

For over an hour that

horrible

woman had chased him through the opera house, always appearing just in front of him, always right where he needed to go. He was being herded, he knew.

Like a lamb to slaughter.

Muscles bulged, the Xanathar eye tattoos widening, as he took a hold of one of the secured staging ropes. He tested its strength before trying to swing himself out to the rickety catwalks over the stage. If he could just get across, find an exit--

any

exit would do--then he could escape. There was a door on the other side, a small access-way that would lead him up to the thin railing that circled the painted dome over the audience proper. That was where the staff were able to guide the chandeliers over to be lit before a performance. Perhaps, if he was lucky, there would be a hatch to the roof.

Flogar Rathsbane was unlucky.

Almost as soon as his weight was fully committed to the swing, his body in flight from platform to catwalk, something cut the counterweight. Up he went, clinging for dear life to the rope. Far below, the ballerinas spun like Calimshan dervishes. Every circle skirt a scythe of color, every point turn of their heads like the snapping of a marionette.

He cleared the next level of catwalks, vaguely wondering just how far up the staging went. Esvele was waiting for him there. Small, delicate hands, deceptively strong, seized him. Flogar fought, kicking out, hitting nothing but air as he dangled precariously several dozen feet above the main stage.

Esvele slung a line of rope around his neck, an ugly snarl on her otherwise beautiful, petite face. “How’s this for a message?” she growled low. “Give Xanathar my regards.”

Try as he might, Flogar could not keep his grip and fight Esvele off at the same time. He tried to tense his neck, to keep death at bay.

It came for him anyway.

A dagger sliced across his knuckles. With a rough, strangled cry, Flogar let go the rope he had clung to so desperately. The noose dropped, and him with it, and the screech of dozens of stringed instruments coming to a halt all at once covered the snapping of his neck. Dead before his blood even hit the stage.

“Ye gods!” Avran cried, his attention suddenly ripped from Mirt’s box.

The actors and dancers fell back with cries of horror. Almost as one the audience surged in a wave, a clamor of panic overtaking the room. Lady Gralhund fainted--or seemed to--draping across her rather portly and drunk husband in a most unbecoming way.

For a moment and a moment only, Avran was frozen. His hand halfway extended behind him, as if to summon something--before he remembered himself. Falling into his role once more, he retreated in feigned shock with the rest of the cast, stumbling ungracefully to the side as several Watch officers--both in uniform and not--rushed the stage. Sharp eyes roamed the darkness above the stage, catching sight of Esvele’s retreating cloak. The grotesque eye tattoos on the dwarf’s arms told Avran all he needed to know.

So long as it was not a planned assassination attempt against

him

, the rogue could care less. Avran the actor, however, would be properly appalled.

Already calls were being taken up by the Watch; that everyone remain where they were until the situation was solved--and until people could be questioned.

Well, the man who called himself Avran Fairweather had no intention of waiting around for

that

to happen. One look told him that Soren and Remy were missing from Mirt’s box, likely of the same mind as himself.

Glancing around to be sure he wasn’t observed, Avran melted into the shadows. He had a golden prize to catch.

~

“A

dragon

,” Remy said flatly. Her brows arched in an expression of dry disbelief. “Oh, pull the other one, Soren, it’s got bells on.”

Soren leaned back against the coach cushions, watching the dim night time streets of Waterdeep pass them by on the return to Trollskull Alley. On the return home.

Home.

Strange, that she should have found one, here in the last days of her life.

Lit lamps and patches of darkness passed checkered patterns over her skin as the coach jostled and rumbled its way over the cobblestones. “I am,” she said quietly. “Sulking Snapdragon…the ranger in the opera. That was my life, before…this.”

Remy shook her head. “Look, I’ve heard a

ton

of crazy shit, okay? But a dragon? And fighting in the Dragon War?” The tiefling made a vague gesture, as if she were going to attempt to refute her friend’s claim, but couldn’t find the right words to do so. “In case you weren’t paying attention to current events the past few years, you’d know that only Nemeia the paladin made it out of the war alive. It’s a well-known fact,” she insisted when she saw Soren’s doubting expression. “Only the paladin. The rest of her party fell in battle in the Mere of Dead Men.”

“I

know

,” Soren snapped, somewhat harsher than necessary. “I remember it all quite well, thank you.”

“It’s just--you can’t be.” Remy leaned forward. “The Cult--”

“The Cult got what they wanted!” Soren rubbed at her neck, at that pale scar across her throat. A few moments passed in uncomfortable silence before she continued, softer now. “...Rezmir didn’t believe me, either. She said…she said I was a coward. An insult. An unworthy sacrifice upon Tiamat’s bloody altar. And then…she…she cut…”

Soren squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t continue. She couldn’t make herself relive that moment. Begging Bahamut for one more chance. Pleading, as she heard Nemeia screaming. Weeping a smile of blood while Rezmir’s wicked, curved dagger flashed like a promise in the summer sun.

The two unlikely friends said not another word until the coach dropped them at the door of the dilapidated tavern they now called home. It stood ready for them, a banked fire in the hearth bringing some warmth back to limbs chilled by the autumn night. Soren crossed the taproom and delicately removed her horned diadem. She held it in her hands a long while, fingers tracing the wire outline of her horns.

“...holy shit,” Remy said after watching her in silence. “You, you really mean it. Bahamut’s help and the dragon thing, and--and the war. You really fucking mean it. Vecna’s hand. Fuck.” She whistled low and sank onto a stool by the bar. “I can’t imagine. So that’s what you’re doing here.”

“What about you?” Soren said softly. “You’ve got a Baldurian accent. Waterdeep isn’t your home.”

Remy snorted derisively. “Yeah. You caught me, guilty as fucking charged.” Reaching across the bar to the new stock that had been delivered that morning, the tiefling produced a bottle of Elverquisst. “I suppose I owe you an explanation, too.”

“You don’t have to--” Soren began.

Remy waved her excuse off. “Hang on, liquid courage and all that.” She took a hearty swig from the bottle before shaking her head sharply at its heady taste. Without asking, she passed it over to Soren, who did the same. “So there was this found family I was in, the Shiller's Row Gang.”

“A band of thieves,” Soren said with flat amusement.

“Too right. Anyway, we were gonna do this big heist, right? I was supposed to rob the bank, and this little fucker named Sinrin was supposed to rob an art gallery; prove who deserved to lead the gang. Well, it all went tits up.” The bottle rumbled across the wood as Soren slid it back over. Remy looked down the neck as if she could peer into the past. Another hearty swig went down before she set the Elverquisst back on the bar with a dull thud. “It was all a fucking set up from the beginning. This little shit, Sinrin, he didn’t bother stealing. Went straight to the Watch, I guess. There was a unit of guards waiting in the teller’s hall, ready to arrest me for high crimes against the city. ‘Cept this fuckstain waltzes in, all smug and pleased with himself, with the Watch Captain at his side.”

Seeing that Remy was not interested in relinquishing the bottle, Soren pulled out a dry white from behind the bar and popped the cork. “A thief went to the Watch?” she said, incredulous. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

“No, it fucking doesn’t, does it?” Remy growled, her tail lashing. “That morning it’s all ‘let’s see who’s the best gang leader’, then by that afternoon it’s ‘let’s arrest Remy for murder’. Asswipe.”

Soren nearly choked on her wine. She coughed, reflexively punching her chest a moment.

“Murder?!

How? You didn’t--”

Remy held up two forefingers and put them to her temple. “One of those Lantanese firearms, the kind that use smokepowder. He shot the Watch Captain right there.” Her brows knit together and her gaze moved back and forth, watching the scene play out again from inside her heart. “...and nobody moved,” she said slowly, almost as if the disbelief was as strong in that moment as it had been when the heist happened. “Nobody did a damned thing.”

“...must have paid them off,” Soren said gently. “You weren’t to know.”

The tiefling’s hand flushed a deeper crimson as her fist clenched tight in her lap. “...and I…I ran. My friends, the rest of my gang, they were stationed at other points in the bank. I ran…and I abandoned them.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I don’t even know if they’re still alive.”

Soren set her bottle down. Awkwardly, for she’d never been good with people for all her empathy, the ranger leaned over and closed a brown hand over Remy’s.

“Ha,” Remy continued, a ghost of a self-deprecating chuckle, staring but not really seeing the taproom or her friend. “Nemeia made it out, in the end. Maybe Bug, Shiv, and Andre got away, too. Things turned out all right for you, though. I don’t think divine intervention will help me much.”

Now it was Soren’s turn to give a wan smile. “I wish that was the case,” she said, somber and serious. This time she reached for a pair of mugs and filled them both to the brim with a hard pear cider and a pinch of cinnamon. “Let me tell you about my meeting with Null.”

“That some kinda dragon tax collector?”

Soren shook her head. “Not…exactly. I think it’s best I start at the beginning. Or, rather, when I stopped dreaming of gold.”

~

Soren hummed as she climbed the creaking stairs to her room. The door swung open easily and she bumped it shut with her hip. Although she didn’t truly need it, she set the one tallow candle on her dresser. Somehow the banked fire had made her room a little

too

warm, and she raised the window for a breath of autumn air.

A tall maple had grown up in the small green behind the tavern, and its thick branches extended in dark lines like fingers against the deepness of the star-studded sky. It rustled softly in the faint breeze, bringing with it a pleasing petrichor and the scent of woodsmoke and turning leaves.

Thus screened by the branches and their half green, half amber leaves, Soren turned back to the small vanity that stood at her bedside. She kicked off her golden slippers and watched her reflection as she took her time unfastening her earrings and other jewelry.

Within the shadow of the maple’s branches, a small, single mote of glowing ruby light became a pair of amethyst eyes. A black tom cat, handsome and sleek, picked his way stealthily closer to the window so that he might have an unobstructed view of the wood elf within.

The tom could barely suppress a shivering purr of excitement as Soren unhooked the fasteners on her dress, and the whole shimmering ensemble fell to pool in rich, liquid-like gold at her feet. Soren stepped out of it, her bare, freckled shoulders winking in the candlelight. Her small clothes soon followed.

Still humming, one by one, Soren began to undo her elaborate braids. Her long brown hair hung in rippling dark waves down her naked back. Section by section, she combed it straight, until it reached to well below her hips. Her body was toned, an archer’s corded muscles prominently visible along her arms. Try as he might, the tom cat could see no visible scars except the one on her neck, though he had arrived far too late to hear any of Soren and Remy’s earlier conversation.

Oh, but this elven woman was the dark beauty to Laeral’s silver. Rich, mahogany hair and olive skin--and those eyes! The tom could not get enough of those eyes. Twin coins, polished and gleaming. Would she taste of gold, too, he wondered. Or all of the earth and the forest, as wood elves sometimes did.

There was just…something about her. He could not quite put his paw on it--but there

was

something. The tom knew he ought to be doing other things; catching up on rumors and the like, but he found that he could not so simply tear himself away. A little pink tongue came out and lapped hungrily at his whiskered cheeks.

Silver glimmered within for a moment as Soren refastened her Harper chain earrings, for she had worn only all gold to the opera.

The tom purred, a very pleased hum deep in his chest. A quick-witted rogue and the beautiful ranger, poised to do his work for him. All he need do was to follow this wood elf and her tiefling friend, and Dagult’s gold would be in his possession faster than anyone could hope to steal it from his clever fingers. And if he fulfilled his lust along the way…well.

Let it never be said that he allowed opportunity or mutual gain to pass him by.

Ever did that one like to pull the strings, ever did he hunger and place his ambition first and foremost, and ever did he enjoy a delicious body in his bed.

The tom’s claws dug into the bark and he settled himself down, to watch and to wait and, what was more, to whet his appetite. After all, the chase was half the fun.

Yes, for Avran Fairweather, it was a

very

good day indeed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Timbers creaked in the early morning dawn, black against the muted grey sky. Four figures swayed ponderously in the breeze, a grotesque wind chime, except they made no noise. None but the aching of wood and the rasp of rope. Not any more.

It didn’t matter, Xanathar or Zhentarim. In the end, the bodies hung just the same.

Beyond the gallows several enterprising sun elves worked at constructing staging and ticket facades for the upcoming Sea Maiden’s Faire. Life, celebration even, went on.

Soren put her head down and kept walking.

The hot, sizzling smell of sausages pulled her along the edge of the square toward a food cart. She slipped in line behind several other elves, all of them of a people that needed less rest and therefore made certain times of day rather racially exclusive. Contrary to that usual rhythm, a burly dwarf bustled back and forth behind the counter, calling out orders as they came, spitting hot, off the pan.

“--think the good captain will be entertaining guests again this year?”

Soren glanced up at the small knot of young moon elves in front of her. They were clearly under their majority, given their slim build, and each of them wore the long black frocks of a potion-maker’s apprentice.

One of the girls giggled, her pale cheeks flushing pink. “Ooh, I do hope so! I hear Captain Zord is

ever

so accommodating. Perhaps I shall see if I can get my hands on the madam’s ticket before she sees it!”

“Naughty, you!” The other girl swatted her friend lightly on the arm. “He’s Illuskan!”

“Makes it all the better, doesn’t it? Naught but pirates and thieves up north. Oh, and well-muscled barbarians,” the girl said, her eyes shimmering, “and handsome sailors, and--”

As soon as the dwarf called out her order, Soren took her leave. The sausage was gone by the time her nose led her to a bakery, a side to-go window open at the edge of the shop. She gathered up two pasties, one for Remy, later, and one for herself now. Soren retreated to the shoulder of some municipal or philanthropic statue and perched there in silence with her food. The cool autumn morning air prickled at her skin, promising frost overnight. She pulled her leaf-patterned cloak tighter around her body, desperately wishing for her own dragon fire, her own internal heat, to keep herself warm.

The Black Viper.

That was who they had to find next. Only a thief would know if the rumors of Dagult’s vault were true. And to do that Mirt had recommended beginning their search with the Waterdeep Wazoo, printer of inquirer and outrageous articles. They might even have an ear to the ground on matters the more highly-curated papers wouldn’t dare to take up; missing children, an elf-obsessed murderer prowling the Docksward, or even cells of the Zhentarim fighting anyone they could get their hands on, whether that was the Watch, the Xanathar, or each other.

Slowly, the city of Waterdeep came to life. Noise filled the city like a breath, or a curtain of rain, arriving at a distance, but suddenly the morning light poured out and turned golden, and regular early-morning folk filtered onto the streets to give the whole place its lived-in feel. With her perch no longer quiet, Soren slid down, tucking Remy’s pasty into her knapsack. It was good to pause, to appreciate the world around her. She had always been a solitary creature, off in her  mountain cave, on her Mirror-Lake. To be around the press of so many people was…strange. Isolating, but in a far different way.

Soren paused halfway across the large square. An unidentified sixth sense sent the faintest whisper of a chill up her spine. Was that…?

Yes. Yes, she was sure now. That--that indistinct blob of color had been following her for the last few minutes. Tailing at the same pace, moving as she moved. Soren dug in her knapsack, pretending to check that the pasty wasn’t leaking inside her bag.

There it was again!

Violet. Brilliant violet and amethyst. Yes, and black leather, too, bordered with gold--

Soren turned sharply, braids flying over her shoulders as their gold fasteners clinked together. For a moment, she saw him. Rather, she saw

it

. A vibrant feather, something like a peacock’s, sticking up out of a large, outrageous broad-brimmed hat. The feather shivered in the autumn breeze. And below it--

Trollskull Alley loomed before her. Soren blinked the spots out of her eyes. When had she…? Hadn’t she been in the square, just now?

“Ah,” she gasped, scrubbing at her face. “Ngh.”

Surely, she hadn’t blacked out? Almost frantically, Soren patted her head, before cupping her hands to her ears. Nothing but the tide and rushing of her own blood came back to her. No tadpole-ache, no other lapse, nothing but a quick pulse. Yet she could not remember her journey across the square, nevermind the several blocks back home. How strange.

Above, high up and in the shady side of a chimney, the man who called himself Avran Fairweather stowed one of his many wands away in his cloak with a smirk. “Oh, darling,” he purred as he watched Soren make her way down the alley, “look at you so sharp. But mustn’t look just yet, my dear. It has to be

right

.”

He’d have to stage it all perfectly, of course. His flamboyant sensibilities would accept nothing less. And how very astute she was, as well! Beautiful

and

observant. Avran rubbed his long-fingered palms together. Oh yes, a test seemed to be in order. A test and then, of course, he would have to ingratiate himself to the golden-eyed wood elf and her tiefling friend--endear, even. Make himself the trustworthy sort.

Avran grinned.

What could be easier?

Movement below caught his attention, and his sharp brows rose with delight as he watched two surly-looking dwarves, common thugs most likely, arrive to stand watch in front of Frewn’s Tavern at the entrance of the alley. Both dwarves were certainly the rough type, looking for trouble--or, Avran noted with no small amount of satisfaction, as the pair turned their gaze on Trollskull Manor--looking to start it.

Perfect.

~

Soren had barely set her hand on the handle when the tavern door went flying open, hitting the side of the building with a loud

crack!

Several already-broken pieces of glass in the neighboring window tinkled as they fell inward. Remy appeared, eyes wide, her tail swished back and forth anxiously. “SOREN.”

The wood elf blinked, a bit startled and still off-balance from her encounter in the square. “Remy, what--”

“WE GOTTA GET A PRIEST.”

“But--”

Not willing to wait another second, Remy seized her friend by the collar and heaved her inside. With more strength than the ranger would have thought possible, Remy dragged her across the dusty taproom and right to the open arch to the kitchen. Pots and pans clattered, one of them cooking several strips of bacon--with no hand to hold it.

“See?” Remy pulled Soren close and pointed at the floating pots and pans.

With some difficulty, Soren managed to pry Remy’s fingers off her shirt collar. “Magic?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“It’s a

ghost

,” the tiefling thief hissed. “In

my

tavern! It isn’t even paying rent!”

“That would be because it used to be

his

tavern,” came a dry voice behind them.

Soren and Remy turned to see an older dwarf woman leaning heavily on a stout staff. Her dark skin showed many wrinkles, more frown lines than laugh lines. The dwarf’s long, poofy hair had been pulled back flat against her head to a dandelion fluff of white and silver frizz. Behind her, waiting patiently by the porch, stood a large steel guardian. It was so tall that both friends separately wondered how they had not noticed its approach. Both dwarf and guardian bore the seal of the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors.

“Ah, yes,” Remy laughed anxiously. “The inspector. I forgot.”

Much of her free time had been taken up with a long line of guild representatives and several meetings with Tally, the blind carpenter who was the owner of the Bent Nail, the business Remy had contracted to make the repairs on the tavern. Since Soren’s signature was not on the deed for the property, Remy had been making her way through each stack of paperwork on her own. In Waterdeep, it seemed, one needed a license for nearly anything; make wine, sell wine, sell

beer

, operate a tavern, sell alcohol

at

a tavern, make food,

sell

food, and an entire separate set of documents surrounding importing anything or hiring staff. It was enough to make Soren’s head whirl. Humanoids did so love to make their cities complicated. But Remy had soldiered through, insisting, despite her obvious anxiety at dealing with it seemed any figure of authority, that she didn’t need Soren’s help. Just as well for the ranger, who wasn’t certain she could have made it past the first page of legalese without her eyes crossing.

“Saer Lif was the previous owner of the tavern,” the dwarf, who introduced herself as Ulkoria Stonemarrow, said. “It used to be a pretty popular place.”

Remy looked back over her shoulder just in time to see two warm plates of bacon, eggs, and spiced potatoes slid across the bar and stop just opposite of herself and Soren. “Oh. And he’s, uh…friendly?”

“See for yourself,” Ulkoria grunted in her gruff, no-nonsense tone.

The dusty glass behind the bar fogged for a moment. Very carefully, as if someone were tracing their finger along the surface, Lif’s ghost spelled out the word,

Reopen?

Remy, never one comfortable with spirits, gave a less-than-enthusiastic thumb’s up in Lif’s general direction. “Yeah, uh. Sure. We’re reopening, yeah.”

Looking down with a disappointed frown at the pasty in her bag, Soren helped herself to a bar stool. If she concentrated just enough, she thought she saw a ripple of air by the glass. “Seems like he wants to help?” she said, sounding unsure.

Yes,

came the answer.

And that, according to Ulkoria, was that. The mage led them through the house, leaning on her staff as she walked. At the door to every room she traced a few glowing symbols in the air, all inevitably fading when they encountered no ill magic. In order for the tavern to be deemed safe enough to be open to the public, the Watchful Order had to sign off on the property. Remy clutched several papers in her arms, hovering just behind Ulkoria as the mage made her way very slowly down the hall of the second floor. Every guild it seemed, along with every license, needed Ulkoria’s signature and seal before any real restoration work could even begin--nevermind sell its first drink.

In the end, she warded the windows and announced the whole building clear--except Lif’s office and the basement. “Death creates an impression in the Weave,” Ulkoria grunted, making her slow way down the stairs to the storage cellar beneath the taproom. “And death,

bad

death, leaves the strongest impression of all.”

“Mikkary,” Remy whispered hoarsely. She crushed the papers even closer to her chest, her tail fluttering anxiously. This was her place now, the place she would keep her friends--and her old gang, if she ever saw them again. This would be their sanctuary and it would be a step up in the world--and a massive one at that. Despite explaining it to Soren, for all that the wood elf nodded in understanding and surely

did

, there was a stark difference between imagining a life on the streets and curling up, starving and wet, in a doorway and praying you didn’t get shanked while you slept.

“Mikkary?” Soren echoed, her light steps barely causing the wooden stairway to creak at all.

Remy stood by the stairs as Ulkoria made her way around the room, frowning and muttering. “It’s thick down here, can’t you feel it?” she said quietly.

It was a heavy thing, was Mikkary. Clinging to murder, to evil, to banal wickedness. It was the feeling of unease one got exploring a long-forgotten tomb or ruin. It was the prickling fear in a graveyard at night. A sixth sense driven by nothing in particular, nothing except

knowing

. A feeling of wrongness steeped into the stones.

There was a clattering of field stones as Ulkoria hooked the end of her staff around a poorly-bricked section of masonry. Grey rocks scattered over the floor, followed quickly by a rush of small, white bones.

“Well,” Ulkoria said a moment later, with her typical dry gruffness, when neither Soren nor Remy plucked up the courage to speak, “that’d be the source of it then.”

~

“A hag!” Remy griped, running her fingers through her black hair. “A

hag

of all things! In my basement!”

Soren nodded grimly. The two of them wound their way through the noonday crowd, making for the Waterdeep Wazoo at a steady pace. She turned a scrap of paper, rescued from the fourth floor fireplace, over in her hands. Despite the streaks of soot and the crumbling, blackened edges, the word ‘Cassa’ could just be seen at the bottom, along with several other cut-off names above it. The seal of Asmodeus, however, could not be mistaken for anything else.

“Ulkoria said it also used to be an orphanage. God, all those poor children.” The ranger shook her head.

“The bones were so

small

, Soren. It’s awful.”

“I know.”

Remy ran her fingers through her hair again, loosening some of it from her ponytail. The two friends grouped a bit closer together as they made a turn onto Stallion Street. “The Cassalanters are supposed to be philanthropists!” she said with a huff. “Not have their names on a contract with a hag and

Asmodeus

of all people.”

“One that apparently meant sacrificing children. And we don’t

know

it was the Cassalanters.”

The friends came to a stop outside the Waterdeep Wazoo, its name in neat gilded letters over the door. A creaky sign with a printing block of the letters ‘WW’ hung above. Soren pushed open the door, only to be greeted by the sharp, wet smell of ink and the thump-thumping of many printing presses going at once. She wrinkled up her nose, and let Remy lead the way upstairs to Gaxly’s office. As they passed an out-going bin, however, Soren paused. She plucked up the front page of this afternoon’s edition, only to read the words ‘

Devil Worship in Waterdeep: A Noble You Know?

’

“Well,” she said, glancing at the tiefling. “I suppose it is true.”

“And why wouldn’t it be, young lady?” huffed a fat little Illuskan man from the doorway of his office. “Had that story handed to me this morning, I’ll have you know. And by a very reliable source, too!”

Before Soren could open her mouth to ask any follow-up questions, Remy was quick to step between them. “Good afternoon, sir!” she chirped, popping off an excited salute. “Judging by your

immaculate

waistcoat, you must be the owner of this fine establishment!”

Gaxly Rudderbust harumphed and adjusted his belt with a bristle of his black mustache. “That I am! And who might you be, young tiefling? I don’t recall having an appointment with someone matching your description.”

“Barsinia Graves, sir!” Remy announced. “Fact-finder extraordinaire! And boy, have I got a proposal for

you!

”

Somehow, Soren marveled, the tiefling’s quick tongue got them into a private interview with Mr. Rudderbust, no further questions asked.

Remy took immediate command of the room, parking herself on the edge of Gaxly’s desk. She leaned over while the obviously-interested editor lit a fat cigar. “My associate and I,” she began, motioning to Soren, “are adventurers of a particular sort, you see. We excel at finding the unfindable, knowing the unknowable!”

“And just what,” Gaxly said with a cough of thick cigar smoke, “are you intending to find for me? What is it you think I am in need of knowing?” Despite his words, the glint in his eyes showed his keen interest.

“The

Black Viper

,” Remy whispered, making Gaxly take a deep, involuntary breath.

When the little man could speak again, he wheezed, “Do you

know

her identity?”

Her

, Soren noticed immediately. Everyone else had referred to the Viper as a man. Perhaps Mirt’s suspicions were right.

By the look of things, Remy had caught on as well. “Not yet,” she said, “but, we’re on the hunt for her. If you’ve any tips, we’ll do the hunting

and

write the article, and then

you

--” She clapped Gaxly on the shoulder for true dramatic effect. “--will have the story of the year. You’ll be printing broadsheets on triple time.”

~

“Surely, you don’t

really

believe Ammalia’s supposed evil twin sister is the Black Viper?” Soren asked Remy later, as they wended through the streets back toward home.

“And that she’s kept in a secret attic room, and has taken to vigilante justice in revenge? No. Still…” Remy glanced over Soren’s shoulder at the still-warm copy of that afternoon’s broadsheet. “But it’s the only lead we’ve got. Not to mention everything we found this morning.”

Soren nodded, her gaze scanning the headlines. A frown pressed her lips together as she saw the sensational title,

Dockside Slasher at Large! Elves Murdered in the Dock Ward!

She flipped to an inner page, following the story. “I agree,” she said, not quite paying attention. “If we need to question the Black Viper, and there’s a chance she’s at Cassalanter Villa, then I say we plan to continue our investigation there.”

“Place like that will have a lot of security,” Remy mused, tapping her chin. A fair, cool wind ruffled her sleeves and bent over the edge of the page Soren was ready.

Elven and half-elven folk should take caution in the district of the Dock Ward,

the broadsheet warned.

A lone killer or group of ne’er do wells appear to have made it their mission to strike out at any fair folk wandering the seaside streets after dark. The preferred method of murder being decapitation indicates a skilled individual. Most of those killed were walking alone. We urge our gentle readers to travel in groups and to take all care…

“What kind of person would do such a thing?” Soren muttered. She closed the broadsheet with a sharp look of disgust. “They weren’t even robbed.”

“It’s not a ritual thing, is it?” Remy asked hurriedly, being no stranger to the recent news out of Baldur’s Gate. “Bhaal is big on ritualized murder.”

Soren shook her head. “Doesn’t seem to have anything to do with that mess, thankfully. Just a lone killer. It’s sick.”

Oh yes

, Avran agreed, one part of his mind turning wheels as another tingled in anticipation. He’d have to talk to his men about all that business in the Dock Ward, but not now. Not when his prey was so close…so very close.

He slipped through the crowd behind Soren and Remy, barely a fleeting shadow. No hat, not this time. It had to be perfect, after all. The perfect moment when he’d finally reveal himself, reveal the game in all its beautiful entirety. Oh yes, show himself and claim his prize, all in one fell swoop. But not today, oh no. Avran rubbed his nimble fingers together. Today was for something else entirely.

Ahead of him, Remy let out an enormous yawn and a languid stretch. Lif’s ghost had interrupted her morning coffee routine, after all. “Well, if Ulkoria needs some time to meet with the Watch and a priest to get the house properly exorcized--consecrated--whatever, seems we’ve got the day to do some shopping.”

“We should use this opportunity to scope out the Cassalanter villa,” Soren put in, quietly enough that no one in the crowd, other than Avran of course, who had his ear cocked for that kind of thing, could hear her. “Do reconnaissance today and break-in tomorrow night.”

“Yeah.” Remy dug in her pockets. “Probably need to get some scrolls, too. Knock and Dispel Magic, and so on, depending on the…” She patted her belt again.

Soren, oblivious to her friend’s pause, picked up the conversation. “Good idea. You can shop, I can go by the place, ask a few questions. You’re not going to have Ulkoria expel Lif, though, are you?” she asked. “He seemed a decent sort, as far as ghosts go.”

“No, I…” Remy patted herself down again, a sharp frown pulling all her features into a scowl. “My coin purse! I’ve been fucking

robbed!”

She whipped her head around, black hair flying.

Soren, as if on cue, looked the opposite way--just in time to see a young child hurrying away from them. “There!”

Remy lifted her voice. “Hey! HEY, YOU! That’s my fucking money!”

“It’s

only

gold,” Soren tried to protest. She opened her mouth to add something else, that perhaps the child needed it, when two things happened.

First, the young boy, revealed by the crowd parting slightly, turned and thumbed his nose at them. He took off at speed then, toward the narrow mouth of an alley. A purple feather swayed against his back, from where it had been tucked into his belt. The sight of it ignited a rush of memory in Soren from earlier that morning.

Second, Remy cut her off. “Ohhhhh, you little bastard. Fuck the money!” she snarled. “This is about  honor!” Without another word, she gave chase, tail whipping as she ran through the crowd.

“Hey, wait!” Soren followed after, her boots pounding on the cobbles. “Stop, thief!”

“That never works!” Remy shouted before ducking into the alley.

Soren skidded slightly as she took the tight turn. “You never know,” she snapped.

Up ahead of them, the boy laughed. He did a quick turn in place, jeering at them all the while. Remy screamed in frustration.

Avran only laughed again, and ducked down a close. Oh, what fun indeed!

Buildings rose high to either side of the running trio. Old, leaning things that all but blocked out the sky above them, with laundry strung between balconies. While shop fronts might abutt the street, the backs and upper levels of those shops were often residential in nature. Avran vaulted with practiced ease over a set of shipping crates, likely a shop delivery, at someone’s back door.

Soren and Remy gave a leap, both banging their shins on the hard wood as they scrambled over. Cursing, Remy’s tail lashed and her leathers creaked as she hauled herself over the last box and landed hard on the other side. “Oh, you little shit. When I get my hands on you--”

The wood elf hit the cobbles only a moment after her friend and they rushed forward. Both women slid out into a busy main street, quickly sweeping the crowd for their quarry. On instinct, Soren turned them west. Trying to see above and between the daily shoppers, her gaze finally settled on a shorter, slender figure leaning against the side of a building.

Avran let a gold coin roll across his knuckles, clever fingers working their magic. He flicked the coin up. It spun in air, glinting in the autumn light--and when it came down it crossed Soren’s own, coin-gold gaze. “--I saw him go that way!” he cried, pointing east, back the way they had come.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Still a few yards away, Soren saw a clear path through the people around her. She sprang forward, crossing the distance between them with fluid, elven grace, Remy not far behind.

Avran let the coin rest on his thumb for a fraction of a second before launching it at the ranger. In that flash of movement, he was gone, his slight form already retreating down the alleyway.

The coin clipped Soren just above the brow--Avran Fairweather never missed, after all--but she did not even slow her stride. It stung, and she growled in frustration. “He’s bloody playing us!”

“You can say that again!” Wind rushed in Remy’s ears as she surged forward, putting on a burst of speed.

The silhouettes of buildings, fire escapes, laundry, and rooftops passed by as Avran led ranger and rogue on a merry chase. A joyous smile split his thin, angular features. Oh, was there anything better than the anticipation? The hope, the rush, the wild pumping of blood! He let another laugh escape him, this one entirely lost in the thrill of it all. What a muse he was! The thought arrived to him out of memory, almost a lifetime ago. Dare he allow himself such pleasure again? Oh, but he must! What else was life for, after all?

A muse? Yes. Yes! He would be all that and more, besides. What an ally he could be--what a lover--when the time was right! Maestro and muse all in one.

He had everything right where he wanted it.

The man who called himself Avran Fairweather always did.

“Wh--What does this kid

eat?

” he heard Remy wheeze behind him as she dodged yet another set of crates.

Soren was not so lucky. They skidded sharply around another corner and the ranger, so intent on her target--clotheslined herself on the edge of a pulley platform, made for hoisting goods up to a higher floor if a shop was on a second story level. She gave a bruised groan, waving at Remy not to stop. The wood elf took up the chase again, holding her aching rib. “Bloody hell,” she gasped, “he’s as fast as a groan man.”

“You can fucking say that again.” Remy leapt over a heap of garbage, Soren now several paces behind her. There was a nasty stitch in her side. If she’d known this was going to be the business of the day, she’d have done all her morning stretches first.

Avran tossed Remy’s coin purse from one hand to the other like a child’s toy. He lessened his speed--mustn’t lose them, after all--but only a little. What fun! But now came the test, the

true

test. They had kept pace with him quite well, no small challenge, he knew. Now it was time to see what steel and bow could do.

Seeing his destination ahead, the rogue flexed his fingers. With a heave no real child could have done, he let fly the coin purse up and over the wooden fence of a warehouse yard. One glance up told him that he’d made it in time.

From a nearby roof he heard a fierce hiss. A winged serpent spat at him, its long, dark emerald tail curled around the masonry bricks. Better run on, then, and come back around to watch the dance of battle. No sense getting tangled up where he didn’t want to be. How wonderful it was, though, to get others to do his business for him!

Remy gave a shout as her coin purse went up and over the fence wall. She took a few more strides forward, meaning to give chase until she caught the boy. From beyond the fence, she heard the muttering of frustrated voices.

“--kill that one, Boss says he’s got spies

everywhere

.”

“The elf then, get him away from that bloody half-orc and he’ll make a better target.”

“Keep it all away from the Faire, this stays in the city. With him outta the way, them Xanathar boys’ll be--”

Soren, seeing Remy’s forward momentum and focusing more on the blood rushing in her ears than any outside noise, attempted to work in concert. She came to an awkward halt as she turned into the warehouse yard, her boots spraying mud and dirty water.

As one, three men turned to glare at her. One wore half the tunic and armor of a Waterdhavian Watchman. The other two plainclothes, well-worn and faded. Each of them, to a man, had rolled up their sleeves to show Zhentarim tattoos; the curling lines of an elegant winged serpent.

Soren gave an awkward, breathless laugh. “Uh…sorry?” Her gaze darted to their tattoos, up to their hardening expressions, and then back down. “That’s not good.”

“Not for you, it ain’t!” growled the one in Watchmen’s armor. “Those what see things they shouldn’t’ve soon seen the inside of a box. Get’er, boys!”

“Well, shit.” The men were still some distance away, but closing fast. Soren knew the gap wouldn’t last. She managed one shot, the arrow piercing the leader’s chain. It was a longbow, made by wood elves to strike a stag--or troll--on the fly. Her frustration let fly with that single shot, a word of power forming in her mouth before she even fully realized what she was doing.

The arrow exploded, showering the ‘Watchman’ and his two companions with sharp thorns.

By the time Avran had shaken Remy and found a perch on a nearby roof to watch the fun, Soren was already pulling out her twin scimitars. A bolt sailed across the distance between the Zhentarim thugs and the ranger, deeply clipping her side. Blood sprang, warm and wet, down her hip and thigh.

Desperation after an already long run lent Soren a bit of battle fury. She launched herself forward, shoulder first, into the nearest fellow’s stomach. Up her swords came, slicing deep into the thug’s tricep. Another bolt, this one fired with the tell-tale “Ha! Gotcha!” from Remy, hit the man square between the eyes, dropping him dead in an instant.

The fake Watchman growled. “You’ll pay for that, girlie,” he spat. “Boss doesn’t like people poking where they don’t belong!”

For a big man, he moved far faster than Soren would have given him credit for. He came in with a shortsword and buckler shield, all raw power, all force and no finesse. Remy’s bolts spat off the side of his shield and he showed the ranger a grin of missing teeth.

“Uh, Soren--” Remy began, voice rising with anxiety as the last man charged her.

“Working on it!”

Soren cried out as the shortsword came down hard on her shoulder. The strength of it made her arm go numb and she followed the momentum down, tucking her uninjured shoulder into a roll to the side. Hitting the ground she went down on one elbow as she turned, kicking out hard at the side of the leader’s knee. A rather satisfying

crack!

was followed almost immediately by a snarl of pain.

Thinking he had her at an awkward angle, the man slashed down, aiming directly for her face. Soren, feet actually better positioned than they looked, her weight right where she wanted it, sprang in under his swing. She felt a lurch as her scimitars, angled up, thrust through cloth and skin. Her shoulder hit his stomach and she snapped up, kicking him backward.

For a moment the fake Watchman just stood there, staring down at himself as blood ran down the inside of his breastplate to pool in the mud at his feet. He looked up at Soren, eyes wide and face pale. “...c…unt,” he wheezed, crimson running out of his mouth.

“Go to Hell,” Soren spat, her blades bloody up to the hilts. She stepped back, panting heavily, as the leader’s guts emptied themselves, all pink and sickly and glistening, onto the ground. He toppled over without another word.

“H-Ho

ly

fuck,” Remy said, her cane up overhead with the thug’s sword deflecting off it. She hadn’t even had time to pull her sword from its casing as the man had rushed up on her.

The tone of her voice had the last man turning to glance over his shoulder. He saw the wood elf, blood darkening her green tunic and her leathers, take her first step toward him. At once he threw his weapon down and put up his hands. “I’m done!” he shouted, as Remy raised her arm to strike. “I’m done, gods, just keep that one away from me!”

Remy leaned in, her slender sword swishing as she prodded the tip up under his chin. “Maybe I will,” she said nastily, “if you’re willing to answer some questions for us.”

The thug had a hard time pulling his gaze away from Soren but when he finally did he found no comfort in the tiefling’s burning gaze. “Y-Yeah,” he stammered. “Anything you want.”

Relieved to not be the center of attention, Soren buckled over for a moment, leaning on her knees. It had been no easy run, after all. Damn, but that young lad had been

fast

.

“Maybe you can start by telling us who’s your fucking boss,” Remy spat, the tip of her sword leaving a pinprick of blood that ran down the sharp edge of the sword, a river with only one direction.

“C-Can’t say his n-name.” The thug spoke mostly through his teeth, trying to move his jaw as little as possible. Sweat broke out on his brow and soaked the armpits of his already stained tunic. “--e’ll p-put a spell on me.”

Remy snorted derisively. “What’s he look like then? What’s his fucking problem, eh? You can tell us that much.”

“You m-must be from outta town,” he began, clamming up as Remy’s blade left an impatient red line along the side of his neck. “E-Everybody knows him! Been around hundreds of years, cloned himself, glowing eyes, gold hand? No?”

The two friends glanced at each other. Soren shrugged.

“He, he’s the leader of the Zhentarim, right? The old Zhents. He w-wants what e-everybody else wants!” the man said, leaning away from the sharp point of Remy’s sword.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“D-Dagult’s gold! Manshoon wants--oh, oh

no

--” It happened all in a breath. There was a horrible dry and heavy sound. It began at his legs, the sensation of being covered in chalk dust. Blood cut off even as the petrification rushed up his body. “N-Not supposed to say his name, under, under the sun, I--”

The thug started screaming, batting at his thighs, his hips, his waist. Even his clothing froze, locked in place by the spell. Remy jumped back a pace, seeing that his winged serpent tattoo was glowing an angry red. Soren flinched as he flailed, his body finally going still as the stone seized his heart, crawled up his neck and froze in perfect, rough statued silhouette the drop of blood running down his skin. It climbed up and over his jaw, swallowing his eyes, his mouth, and finally his brain. The screaming took far longer to dissipate, however, the last wuthering of breath from stone lungs.

“Manshoon, eh?” Remy said quietly. She motioned to Soren that it was all right. No harm would come to them--they had no bindings or blood oaths tying them to the Zhentarim.

Warm autumn sun baked down on them. Soren’s boots splashed in the mud as she went to retrieve Remy’s purse. “Seems like things are heating up,” she said grimly, holding the injury on her side. “The madness of gold is…seeping…through the stones. Men killing…as if the light glinting off precious metal and the feeling of coins against skin could sustain them, breath for breath, blood to blood.”

“Here, let me.” In a few quiet moments, Remy had pulled Soren’s cloak across to cover the bloodstains. “We’ll make ourselves scarce. Can’t risk the Watch--the

actual

Watch--finding us on a murder scene.”

“We were…attacked.” Soren winced, the burning ache in her side and her shoulder only growing. “Have you got any healing potions?”

Remy pulled up her empty pockets with an apologetic look. “No dice, sorry.” She put an arm around Soren’s shoulders though, letting the wood elf lean on her if she wanted. “And it doesn’t matter, not really.

You

saw the Sergeant’s face the other night. Justice and compassion have nothing to do with the Watch.”

“They

ought

to,” Soren put in, letting Remy hand her back her bow. “People ought to be better than that.”

“Yeah, but they aren’t.”

“No,” Soren conceded as they made their way slowly back across the city, “but they can be.”

~

A chill wind picked up, sending patterns of creeping frost up blades of grass and riming along exposed metal. It made the wooden steps of Trollskull Manor creak under Soren’s weight. She let out a long, warm breath that dissipated into mist. Naught but a few lights shone through the rippled glass panes of freshly-installed windows, letting ruddy, orange light spill into the street, bisected by deep, blue shadows.

Her body ached from that afternoon’s activities. Both she and Remy had meant to do more…but more had eluded them. Well, they had a lead, at least. It wasn’t a very good one, in Soren’s opinion. Gaxly’s cooked-up tale about Ammalia Cassalanter’s disfigured sister hiding in the attic pushed the bounds of believability…but what else did they have to go on? No, better to return after Ulkoria gave the all-clear. Better to return home and rest. Reconnaissance could happen tomorrow.

“Besides,” Remy had said, “I wanna make sure those goons don’t bother us. I

just

bought these windows.”

She was, of course, referring to the rough-and-tough pair of dwarves hanging around outside Frewn’s place. For some reason--business competition most likely--the man seemed to have taken it into his head that Remy’s tavern plans were a threat to him. Neither woman liked the look of the dwarves, either.

“They’ll throw bricks, mark my words,” Remy had said over an odd dinner of lemon-flavored flapjacks and light cream; an elven recipe Soren had recommended to Lif’s ghost. It was just as well, as both of them had felt too tired to think of cooking.

Soren had volunteered for first watch.

Ridiculous, that she had to do it outside her own home. Overhead, the bedroom light dimmed. The tiefling thief was snoring in minutes, the sawing sound of her exhausted sleep audible on the stoop.

Soren pulled her legs in, curling her hands around a warm, salt-glazed mug of cocoa. A cool breeze lifted her braids and tossed them about, but it only brought with it the freshness of the sea. The next day would be warmer, she thought. Not as crisp.

Almost hesitantly, she dipped her head to smell the deep, rich sweetness of the drink in her hands. She had never had cocoa before. There had been no room for luxuries while chasing the Cult of the Dragon. Soren sighed slowly, her gaze going somewhere and somewhen far away. But perhaps…perhaps if she had succeeded in her task, if she had paid closer attention, at least tried to be personable and work as a team instead of being obsessed with reclaiming her own scales...perhaps then she could have returned to Bellblade. Perhaps then she could have made a life of her own.

Fare thee well to lover’s heart and hand

River Chionthar, fare thee well

I am bound for distant Icewind Dale

It’s a place that I know right well

Her soft alto was barely any noise at all against the chill night breeze. A tune she hardly recalled the melody to, hummed in Bellblade’s rough voice, all teeth and salt and calloused palms--the way those sorts of songs should be. Soren pulled a wool shawl tighter about her shoulders, and for a long moment the ache in this small, elven body, the

cold

that it felt, filled her with a profound homesickness. Of course, she never would have had a life with Bellblade. Even if she had managed to defeat Tiamat--and that no small task of its own--even then…well. If she were still a selfish creature, thinking only of herself, would she have even wanted to return? The weight of seven centuries and more besides stole the rest of the song from her lips. All that time spent on gold, and for what? Nothing for it now but to run forward with all of her strength.

Bahamut could forgive her a moment of regret. He owed her that much, at least.

Yet all the wishing in the world would not bring her warm lover to her side. Somehow, she thought, every one of his copper scales, and every moment in his arms, had been worth more than a hundred, hundred coins.

A commotion stirred Soren from her reverie. Down at the end of the alley, she saw Frewn’s men start forward, axes in hand. Panic flashed through Soren’s breast. Her swords, where had she left--

All at once a loud yowl and a following shout split the air. Soren jumped to her feet, the shawl falling to the ground. The two dwarves hadn’t even fully crossed the opposite street before one of them tripped, falling face-first into the dirt. A black cat hissed, disentangling itself from the dwarf’s feet with typical feline grace.

“Oy, c’mere ye blasted cat--” The second dwarf, going to swat at the small beast with the side of its axe, soon realized his mistake.

Arching its back quite tall, its fur fluffed up like a spitting-mad sprite made entirely of soot, it clawed sharply at the other dwarf’s calf. He howled, hopping back and only falling over his companion. This one landed directly in a pile of cold horse droppings.

The black tom turned its eyes to Soren--glowing,

purple

eyes, she realized--and then sped off into the night. Shouting and cursing, giving no further thought to Trollskull Manor, the dwarves hauled themselves up and gave chase.

In all the commotion, a splash of hot cocoa landed on Soren’s hand. She looked away and quickly drew up her shawl, hissing and dabbing at the light burn. By the time she finally sat back down, the alley had fallen once more into silence. Soren waited, but the dwarves did not reappear.

A small, rolling query caught her attention, and the ranger relaxed to see the black tom come out of the shadows by the porch stairs. “Mrowl, yourself,” she said softly, extending the back of her hand for the tom to inspect.

Practically strutting, so pleased was he with himself, that Avran shoved his whole little black head against Soren’s hand. The low thunder of victorious purring filled the manor’s porch.

“Somebody takes good care of you,” Soren remarked, stroking the tom down the back. His fur was like silk under her hand. Shimmering coin-gold eyes scrunched up in a tired smile. “Or you take good care of yourself.”

A chuckle left her lips. “Thank you, anyway.” She extended a finger to get under his chin and Avran all but melted to it.

The rogue was practically vibrating, lost, yes! Lost he was in his own act. The helpful alley cat. He rather liked that. And he

really

rather enjoyed the sensation of Soren’s hand hitting all the places that made him feel warm inside. Through slitted eyes he observed her, that open and honest face. Her freckles sparkled just a little, he thought, when she turned to catch the candle light just so. A long breath of her scent, which was something like petrichor, and something like fresh wind and sunlight, nearly broke his resolve then and there.

But no, it had to be perfect.

Avran Fairweather had no hat to sweep from his head, no feathered cap to grace the ground, and no proper body with which to bow his way off stage. He merely lapped at her hand, the taste of her skin filling the form of the small black tom cat with a variety of heady desires--some of them illegal in all but Calimshan and the Underdark, and

all

of them passionate. With merely a thought, he enacted his innate levitation spell and began to rise as if some invisible being had grasped him by the scruff of the neck. The look of confusion on Soren’s face was nearly as delicious as she was.

Yes, he would surprise her yet.

“...a wizard’s familiar,” Soren murmured, finding no other explanation. It certainly explained the tom’s intelligence, to her reasoning. “Th-Thank you anyway,” she called softly after Avran, somewhat awkwardly.

Remy’s window opened and the disheveled tiefling stuck her head out. “Hey,” she grumbled, “what’s the matter with letting a girl get a little shut-eye?”

Soren’s coin-gold gaze merely followed Avran until he was well out of sight. “Nothing,” she said after a moment. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

What kind of sick freak goes running at four in the morning?

Soren. Soren was that kind of person.

Remy gave a theatrical, exasperated huff. She set down the note that Soren had left on the bar. During their griping the previous evening, the wood elf had mentioned her odd encounter in the square--those few moments of disorientation, the sense that she was being watched, always watched, and the vague memory of a purple feather, lost in a sea of crowded bodies. Soren had tapped her fingers on the bar, looking distant. Odd, it was all so very odd. Of course, the boy thief had had one of those selfsame feathers tucked into his belt.

And so, feeling queer and discontented, Soren had resolved to spend a part of the morning at the Yawning Portal, listening for any pertinent rumors.

“Well, Lif, I suppose it’s just you and me for the moment.” The tiefling glanced around the empty taproom, still smelling of fresh sawdust from Tally’s carpentry work. It would take a total of two tenday to truly fix up the tavern and get it ready to open.

Not for the first time Remy ran a hand over the property deed. Hers. All hers. It would be a place for her and all her friends, should she ever see them again. A safe place. A

home

.

All she needed was a name.

The Four Companions

Yes, yes that would do quite nicely. A way to commemorate her compatriots, even if they were still in Baldur’s Gate. A small, nervous smile twitched at the edge of her crimson cheek. The last news out of the city hadn’t been good; armies, cultists, and illithids. Remy shivered. That ugly son of a bitch they’d met in the Xanathar’s hideout was enough. And even one mind flayer was one too many.

She extended her empty mug and, after a moment, the coffee pot floated slowly over. Lif filled it, before bobbing back to the kitchen. Remy plunked it down on the bar, spinning to sigh over all the guild forms she had to initial now that Ulkoria had seen to the magical safety of the tavern.

I promised her rings for her fingers

Lovely flowers for her flaxen hair

I swore that I’d never set sail in foul weather

But stay by her side at the shore

Remy lifted her head, sleek black horns making it appear as though she had cocked an ear to listen. The singing continued outside, getting closer, and she spied a small group of figures approaching Four Companions. The porch steps creaked loudly and the door swung open before Remy could so much as take a stride across the taproom.

Farewell all you Calimshan merchants

Farewell to the land of the Fae

In strode a tall sun elf, strumming gaily on his lute. His smooth baritone filled the small, somewhat empty space with a fresh air of liveliness. As he wound his chorus to a close, the sun elf tossed Remy a playful wink before bowing low, one leg before him like a gentleman.

Farewell to the straits of the Moonshaes

And the treacherous coast of old Thay

“Good morrow to you, my esteemed proprietress!” the sun elf said, rising gracefully back to standing. Mischief glinted in his grin. He stood, golden hair flowing over his shoulders, the morning autumn light of the door at his back lining his silhouette in platinum. The man’s quilted cotton shirt looked more like a slim and form-fitting gambeson, and his striped, sage-green and sand-colored sleeves billowed as he once more slipped the lute’s carrying strap across his shoulder to his waist.

“A, uh, good morning to you, too.” Remy’s dark eyes darted as she saw the rest of the sun elf’s party arrive to stand behind him.

Like bodyguards, she thought.

There stood two women, a dwarf in the cloth-and-breastplate ensemble of a war priest, and a human in intricate armor. A red tabard spilled down her front, bordered in gold. There was no missing or mistaking the emblem embroidered into the tabard: a black flying serpent.

Zhentarim.

“Ha.” Remy laughed nervously. And just when Soren wasn’t here. She glanced to the side, gauging the distance between herself and the nearest window. As much as she hated to contemplate the thought of buying a

new

set of panes and sash from Tally, the truth was that she was alone and there were few exits from the building. Perhaps the delivery entrance at the back of the kitchen?

The sun elf spoke before she could fully conceptualize her plan of escape. “Miss Remiah Sinnah--or should I say ‘Orphan’?--it

truly

is a treasure to meet you in person. It’s not everyday one of my warehouses is raided and then that same person attempt to pawn the stolen goods back to me by way of my

own fence

.”

All the color--well, most of it--drained from Remy’s face. “Listen,” she said, folding her arms, “Xanathar’s boys had already decimated the place before we arrived. If you’re looking for a bard’s corner, forget it. We’re not even open yet.”

He grinned as the tiefling found her teeth. “If

I

wanted a job?” A jovial laugh split the air, though the elf’s companions kept their steely gazes locked on Remy. The fighter among them, the one with the tabard, had her hand resting just at the ready on the hilt of her sword.

At once all the friendliness left his demeanor and he spoke sharply, with a hard, flat tone. “Oh no, little thief, I think we have serious business to discuss, you and I. I am Davil Starsong, leader of the Waterdeep Zhentarim, and

you

, Remember-Thou-Art-A-Sinner-In-The-Eyes-Of-The-Gods, have no idea exactly how much trouble you and your ranger friend are in.”

~

Amalia stood naked by her bedchamber window, watching a retreating figure until disappeared into the early morning shadows. Crimson velvet curtains caught in the autumn breeze and flowed inward, caressing her body. For anyone else it would have been quite early, but for her it was quite late. The man who called himself Avran Fairweather was not a man easily satisfied.

She ran a thin hand down her collarbone, to the bruises and bitemarks that her lover had left behind. Despite her protests for him not to leave any marks on her skin, it seemed that the rogue had been unable to help himself. Something, she recalled him mentioning, to do with the ‘thrill of the chase’.

By the time Victoro entered her chamber, Amalia had returned to her desk, studying the spells she would need for the day out of a thick volume of red leather. She wore a warm dressing gown, but had not felt the need to close the window. No, she supposed the fresh air would do her good. Elsewhere in the house she could hear her children being woken by their nursemaid.

Victoro stepped up behind her and settled a large, strong hand on her shoulder. “...do not worry, my precious pet. We have time, as you have said.”

Sighing, Amalia set the heavy volume down in her lap. Her fingers lifted to thread with his. The silence dragged out, pulled in many directions.

At last Victoro stepped away, going to admire a view of the sprawling private garden below. He held his arms at the small of his back, ever the proper gentleman, only his harsh, goateed features and the burning in his gaze speaking to the darkness within. A sigh escaped him. “Was your meeting with the assassin to your taste last night?” he said, somewhat gruffly. Below, he watched as the door guard changed shifts.

“He still has not found the Stone,”  Amalia said quietly, biting back her own frustration. “I fear we may have to commit our own resources more forcefully to the search.” For if her lover was

not

abiding by the terms of their agreement, they would have spent money on his very

expensive

services--and she would have given of her body--for nothing.

Victoro snorted. “Ever is that the way of their kind. Liars, cheaters, and debauchers all.”

Amalia stood and swept to his side. “...we are not so different.”

Instead of answering that, Victoro retreated from the window and turned to his wife. “You know what to do?”

“I do,” she answered, searching his eyes, as she always did, the same conviction she knew he saw in hers. “I only worry for tonight.”

They shared a chaste kiss--one that lasted several minutes, but was nonetheless bereft of the…the

heated

passion with which Avran had worked on her. Chaste in comparison to her lover’s lust.

“You are adept at this,” Victoro reassured her. “When I return, I look forward to hearing of your success.”

Amalia could not help a sharp grin from spreading the corners of her mouth as she looked up at her wicked husband. “I will keep it for you, after the ceremony. The dagger will be stained with Harper blood tonight.”

Victorio echoed her smile with one of his own. “Then our Lord will be pleased. And what pleases Asmodeus, pleases me.”

~

Remy rubbed her brow, frowning as she tried to take in everything Davil had told her. Across the table from her--again, new by Tally’s hand--the Zhentarim leader had kicked his heels up and sat back as though he had not a care in the world. “That,” she said after a while, “is a

lot

of paperwork to sift through. How did you even manage it?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Davil removed a dagger from his boot and began casually under his nails. “I don’t have the full scope of it, just enough to know that the numbers don’t line up.

Something

has the Cassalanters moving money. It’s probable they’ve already found Dagult’s golden hoard and are trying to distribute their funds. The family seemed to be on the road to financial ruin a few years ago, but things suddenly improved. It’s only a pity their eldest son, Osvaldo, didn’t live to see it.”

“And Victoro’s going to be out of town tonight.”

Davil nodded. “Indeed, at some estate party outside the city. Amalia will be home, but from what my sources tell me, Victoro is the man to be concerned about. The Cassalanters make money

flow

here in Waterdeep. Whatever documents you can find for me, anything on whether they’ve located Dagult’s vault yet or not. Or, if they haven’t, how committed they are to searching for it. Either all this money is moving to cover up something, or to make room for a

substantial

deposit.”

“And you want me to do this why?”

“Oh,” Davil laughed, “because if you get caught, it’s no skin off my nose. The Zhentarim is already fractured into my men and Manshoon’s--yes, I can say it, yes I

know

about yesterday, and no, they weren’t mine--faction. All I know is that both of our Zhent forces, the Xanathar, possibly the Cassalanters, and…another player are making moves on the board. That treasure, you can try to confirm it with the Black Viper, as you said, but if the scent’s strong enough to even set the Xanathar off on a high-level chase like this…”

She scowled, brows and crossed arms drawing tight together. “--then it’s safe to assume that it’s real. Fuck. Spill blood in the water and sharks will come, I suppose.” Remy shifted, leaning back against the bar. “I don’t suppose I have a choice in this.”

Davil perked up a moment. “Unless you want me taking

this

--” He produced a wrapped scroll of paper from inside his gambeson and flicked it open. It wasn’t a spell, but a sketch-drawing, carved from a wood block and reprinted in who-knew how many copies. Remy’s own face, snarling back at her from a wanted poster. “--to the Watch.”

All the blood drained from her cheeks. Remy spat out her coffee and seized the wanted poster from Davil’s hands. “Where did you get this?!”

“Oh, they just arrived at the printers on a merchant caravan from Baldur’s Gate. Lucky for you the city’s in crisis over the Absolute cultists, or this might not have been all we received.”

“MURDER?!” Remy shrieked, the paper crumpling and ripping where she held it. “Twenty thou--” She stopped. Looked blankly into the far distance over Davil’s shoulder for a moment before returning to the poster. “

Twenty-thousand gold, Wanted for Crimes Against the People, Alive or Dead

. That little FUCK.”

Davil sipped his coffee, dipping a little whiskey into it from a flask on his hip, before thanking Lif’s delivery of a cream saucer and a small glass of drinking chocolate. He mixed all of them, stirring a spoon through it idly as the tiefling thief glared at the poster as if it were Sinrin Goldnose himself.

“...I take it you know what this is about?” Davil said after a satisfied sip of his drink.

“I most certainly fucking

do

.”

“Did you do it?”

The question stopped her. Remy looked up, scowling. “Shiller’s Row didn’t do that kind of work.”

Davil held up his hands to forestall any further comment. “Fair enough. I assume you’ll take the job?”

“...yes,” Remy said, not sounding in the least bit enthusiastic about the prospect.

“If you live,” Davil said over the rim of his mug, “you’ll have a place in the Zhentarim. We could always use good people.”

“

Competent

people,” put in the dwarf woman at his side.

Davil waved her comment away. “Yes, yes, same thing. In any case, Manshoon’s faction and mine are completely separate, if that sets you at ease about any of this. They want to restore their old power--

I

want stability and credibility. Both of those things make money; murdering each other on the streets does not. It only attracts unwanted attention. You do this for me, and you’ll have allies in the city--powerful allies--as well as our substantial information network. I know there were three more to the Shiller’s Row gang. I know many things,” he added with a wink. “The Zhentarim have many resources.”

Remy’s tail flicked, at once anxious and full of purpose. She could find her friends. Find them, and this time, protect them. She held out her hand.

“It’s a deal.”

Davil clasped his hand with hers. “I was so hoping you would say that.”

~

A tin bell above the shop’s floor clanged affrontedly as Soren stepped inside. Even in the middle of the day, the hushed room was dimly lit by a single glass-chimney lamp. Rows of bookshelves disappeared into the gloom, more books stacked in piles on the floor. The windows had been boarded up and everything she could see had the

feel

of grime about it. Soren pulled in her arms as a cat would tuck in its paws, so that she did not inadvertently touch anything dusty…or questionable.

“Hello?” she called, her thickly-accented voice swallowed by the volumes and volumes of paper.

The stubs of cigars littered any available surface that wasn’t host to a coffee mug or precariously-stacked sheaves of paper. She snorted, wrinkling up her nose. The air tasted of ash, acrid tobacco, and gin.

Before she could rethink her decision, a throaty croak startled her from under a chair. Soren nearly jumped a foot before a small grey, flat head poked out from underneath crumbling upholstery.

“Oh, don’t mind him, ma’am,” came a rough voice, “Buddy’s an old softy, really.”

The ancient tom, fat and thick as only an old cat can be, croaked another hoarse cry for Soren’s attention. When she reached down to him, however, his little pink nose flared. Hissing, revealing sharp incisors, the cat rumbled a low and threatening sound. He retreated underneath the chair, backside slinking, until he could watch the elf-who-was-a-dragon with suspicious, yellow eyes.

Another set of yellow eyes greeted Soren when she looked up. The black-haired human tipped his hat to her. “Ma’am. Private Investigator Vincent Trench, at your service.”

“Durnan told me you can find things,” she blurted out, feeling even more awkward than usual. Perhaps it was the cramped space. No dragon could ever have kept such an unsightly lair.

Vincent gave the lapels of his long, leather duster coat a professional tug. “That I can, ma’am. People, mostly, but I can research other things, too.”

“What does a…Private Investigator

do

, exactly?” Soren raised a brow.

He held up a hand. “Not get enough damn sleep, first thing. Second, I’ve got contacts--good ones. Lots of folks come to me for issues…somewhat

below

the law, if you catch my meaning. Messy stuff. And before you ask, yes, I’ve heard a few rumors about Old Lord Neverember’s clandestine use of Waterdeep’s tax money. No, I don’t know where it is, and I’m not getting mixed up in that, believe you me. Other work? Sure. Anything but the vault.”

Soren cocked her head. He was good at it, and she was bad with people, but…something about how smoothly he’d said that. It didn’t sound right. The man knew something, she felt, but likely not anymore than Soren herself did.

“Well…” She sighed. Asking about the Black Viper and the Cassalanters and the vault had all been on her list. But if he wouldn’t do the work, perhaps the Cassalanters, but the gold…and she didn’t have enough money to bribe him otherwise, and doing something like that hardly occurred to her in the first place. She cast around in her thoughts, and was almost surprised for them to settle on something at once. It would be even more awkward, she thought, to leave without getting anything. But she was already in the conversation, so…why not?

“Actually,” she began, hesitant. Soren fiddled with her hands. “There

was

something else. Some

one

else.”

From within the black leather duster, Vincent pulled out a small pad of grubby paper. He licked his fingers and turned to a new page, fetching down a graphite pencil from behind his ear. “I’m listening.”

“...Captain Bellblade Seastrider. In 1487 DR he was a river barge captain on the Chionthar. Between Elturel and Berdusk. We…lost contact during the Dragon War, but he was--” How to describe a man who had made her feel at home in his arms, but with whom her time had been so short? “--precious to me.”

Vincent made a few notes in what looked like dashes and swirls, but no real language Soren recognized. “Race?”

“Copper dragonborn?”

“Any tattoos? Piercings? Distinguishing features?”

Soren flushed slightly, but thankfully, in the dim light, Vincent didn’t seem to notice. Not half an hour later she found herself humming a sailing shanty as she strolled back down Trollskull Alley to the Four Companions, turning Vincent’s final question over in her head. She had asked about the Cassalanters, in the end, and told Remy so when she returned.

“--and he gave me this,” she said, furnishing a half-burnt scrap of paper that matched the same sort they had found in the attic. “But I can’t read it.”

Remy turned it around and read the elegant, yet hideous script. “That’s because it’s in Infernal,” she said with a low whistle. “Listen to this, ‘

--shall forfeit souls of children at the age of nine--items not furnished to the Arcanist of Power, Lord Asmodeus--provide to the same one short of a hundred souls and one short of a million gold’

.”

Soren closed her eyes briefly as Remy read, expression pained. “God. How horrible.”

“You can say that again. At least now we know what the hag was…doing here. Ulkoria left some notes on her paperwork. The manor was an orphanage once--” She paused a moment as Soren drew in a sharp, angry breath. “--until a fire burned most of it down. Lif took over and made it a tavern.”

“All those poor little ones.” Soren pressed a hand to her chest. “I can’t imagine…” It stoked something inside of her, something as alien as it was mortal.

Rage.

“...does it say who signed the contract?”

Remy turned it over. “No, that part’s burnt off.”

Soren produced the other scrap of paper from her pack. They pushed them together to find that, more or less, they lined up perfectly. She tapped the cut off names. “Cassalanters, it’s got to be.”

“Yeah…I heard they were involved in this vault shit, too.”

Soren sighed, pulling some of her dark braids over her shoulder. She petted them lightly, as she might buff her own scales. “The city dreams of gold. The bigger the dream gets, the more powerful the hoard becomes.”

“We should go after them. We can’t let this stand.” Soren nearly pleaded. “It’s not

right

.”

“Yeah…” the Tiefling thief said, something like hesitance in her tone. “Listen, Soren…it all goes deeper than that.

Way

deeper. Everybody in town, Xanathar, Zhentarim, Shard Shunners, everyone’s going for this vault.”

When the wood elf raised a quizzical brow, Remy waved her off. “Get your shit, I’ll tell you on the way.”

~

Have you, by any chance, seen a weird cat hanging about?

Only one with purple eyes, why? I figured it must be a wizard’s familiar, since it can levitate.

Vincent had made several very quick notes on his writing pad. He chewed on the eraser a moment before writing something deliberately and, after a moment’s consideration, circling it twice.

Levitate, eh? Well, just keep track of it. It’s been climbing all around the tree you folks’ve got out back there every night.

The tree?

Soren remembered herself saying, with a deep flush. Her window, after all, looked right out on the tree. That was her private space, and there was nothing aside from treasure that a dragon loved so well as its own corner, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world.

Soren kept her head down, pretending to focus on the last of her dinner, as she watched through the rippling, many-paned window that looked out from the Lucky Goose tavern to the Cassalanter Villa. Not too long ago most of the servants had left for the evening, and they were only waiting for the right moment to make their foray over the walls and onto the property. Across from her Remy did much the same.

“He said that, did he?” the tiefling murmured.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” Soren whispered.

The Lucky Goose was a public house for slightly more refined folk. To Remy that only meant that the tobacco smoked was more expensive and the liquor came in smaller glasses. “My guess is a wizard’s familiar, too. Anything else doesn’t make much sense. But yeah, now that you mention it, I’ve been getting that, that--” She gestured at the back of her neck. “--that

weird

feeling, you know.”

“When you’re being watched.” Soren nodded.

Suddenly, she lifted her head. “Speak of the bloody devil himself.”

Cool wind spilled down the street, bringing with it the promise of rain. Dark grey clouds scudded across the moon. A sort of witching hour.

The black tom trotted down the street as if he owned it. All of his ebony whiskers pressed forward. He kept his little black head down, tail swishing in anticipation. Ahead of him two guards lounged at their posts by the carriage house. Victoro had already left on business for the evening, that Avran knew already.

A single jump and a spell, and he levitated noiselessly to the roof of the carriage house. Tail vibrating, Avran crept forward, until he was crouched just above the guards. His large, purple eyes widened as they saw the glint of a finely-chained locket around the female guard’s neck.

Now, the time was right!

He looked up, catching Soren’s gaze and holding it. Even across the street, separated by distance, height, and the public house’s window, he could see her breathe in sharply, and sit up. They held each other’s gaze as the moments went past. He grinned, a very un-cat thing of him to do, and leapt.

The fine chain snapped as he’d predicted. Surprised, the guard yelped and swatted, striking out with her arm, but he was already off and running.

“What a little bastard,” Remy said, half in approval, half in shock.

“Indeed.” Shouting, both guards abandoned their posts and gave chase.

Soren and Remy looked at each other. They’d never get a better chance than this.

“I’ll get the tab.” Slapping a few coins on the table, Remy downed the last of her lambic, plunking it back on the table with a satisfying

clack

.

Soren gathered up their cloaks. “I’ll get the door.”

As one, putting the mystery of the black tom out of their minds, the two friends slipped across the street, no more than two swiftly-moving shadows in the autumn night.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It didn’t matter what the cost was, Soren was determined to pay it. Seek the greatest good. Seek justice for its own sake. Not the sort of self-righteous pride that came in a paladin’s stride, nor even the piety of a professing cleric. Not the kind of ‘justice’ or ‘goodness’ that started wars, that locked men against each other in a desperate struggle for vitality. Not the faith that allowed one to walk across hot coals, or demanded self-scourging to grow closer to spiritual emptiness. There would be no greater contemplating of the universe, of Purgatory or the gods.

There was only do or do not.

Succeed or fail.

It served the greatest good or it fell short.

So much to do, and she with so little time. So few grains of sand in the hourglass, and only two hands to bear them back to the Wing. To that bridge and Null’s ultimate judgment.

It was one thing for a man to steal bread if he was starving. Then, no crime had been committed. It was another for a man to move numbers in columns, smile as if he were a respectable fellow, and to cause a thousand, thousand little agonies. How many people had Victoro murdered with the single stroke of a quill? And Dagult Neverember too. How many had gone hungry? How many had had years ripped from their life by struggling to make ends meet, to choose between happiness and survival?

No dragon would ever do such a thing.

Oh, she was a creature of scales and fire and magic right enough. She had been vain and greedy and selfish. But she had never shaken hands while doing it. Never navigated a clever web of political intrigue to always come out on top, regardless of who she cut down along the way. To seek treasure and valuable things was in her nature, her very essence. All dragons were the story of dragons. She had never stolen and called it kindness. Men like Victoro and Dagult made the path of life sound so confusing, full of switch-backs and blind corners.

Where they spun a web she would cut a road. Straight through to the end.

Rage burned in her chest. Soren caught a glimpse of herself in one of the tall, gilded mirrors of the second floor ballroom. Her coin-gold eyes glowed, like motes of fire in the darkness. Lighting the way.

How many children, Victoro? Soren thought. How many did you feed to the hag to satisfy your lust for blood?

Behind her reflection she thought she caught the shimmering outline of a dragon. She was no paladin. This was no holy mission, no kind of test. It was do the right thing, or not.

Cut a road. Razor straight, with edges sharp enough to draw blood.

“--Soren?” Remy hissed frantically, “what are you

doing?

”

The ranger broke her staring contest with the mirror and, unnoticed by her entirely, the outline of the dragon turned with her. For a moment they were in profile, elf and dragon, and in that moment they were not so very different after all.

She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly and followed her friend down to the ground floor.

The enormous staircase wrapped around the wall, its spindles carved in patterns of repeating three, indicative of the city’s fine style of carpentry; swirls, leaves, and columns, one after the other until they began again. From the beginning of the grand hall below to the top of the landing, just before the ballroom, a brightly-painted scene extended in one, uninterrupted sweep of wallpaper from first floor to second. Nowhere did the scene of villas, gardens, and rows of lavender bordered by tall cypress trees repeat itself, entirely unique from its beginning to its end. Even the carved ‘ceiling’ that capped the stairs from below was a single piece of wood, two in fact, each at right angles to each other--likely pine imported from up near Mirabar. There was no fireplace in the grand hall either, Soren noticed. How rich did one have to be to advertise their wealth in every curled, carved leaf, in every inch of their living space? She was certain that if they had spent more time in the garden, she could have identified foreign plants that had been sent from places very far away indeed. At least a dragon had the decency to lay on their gold. At least that was what a dragon

was

; the urge to hoard and keep. It wasn’t about the

wealth

, it wasn’t about

status

. It was about something far more vital than that. But this? Soren shook her head as they crept toward Victoro’s office. This was all about

better than

. It was about

hunger

. She didn’t even notice that her lip had curled up over her teeth, bared in a silent snarl, until Remy looked at her strangely.

Remy put her ear to the door and then took the handle carefully, lifting the weight of the door off its hinges and ushering herself and Soren inside.

Compared to the opulence of the grand hall, Victoro’s office was comparatively subdued. Comparatively. The smell of leather and old paper filled the small room. Four bookshelves, two on each side, lined the walls leading up to Victoro’s large oak desk. In a stroke of luck, a pair of red velvet curtains had been pulled over the window. At least no one would observe them from the outside.

The two friends split into separate tasks. Remy went to the desk, pouring through Victoro’s papers and teasing open locked drawers with her thieves' tools. Soren, by contrast, ran her fingers over the spines of dusty tomes, looking for anything helpful.

“Financial records here,” she whispered, taking care to turn the pages quietly. “Everytime his assets dip there’s a…deposit from a client named only ‘A’.

Tch

. Must be Asmodeus.”

Remy hummed, pleased, as a secret drawer slid out in answer to her deft fingers. “Golden scroll case,” she said, low. “Ah--another ‘A’, on the seal. I think you’re right.”

Soren placed her palm to the pertinent pages and ripped them, carefully, out of the book. Hopefully she had done it well enough that Victoro would not notice later. The next volume she pulled down was a journal, bound in red leather. Soren flipped to the latest few pages.

Neverember’s dragons are the answer to our prayers,

read one entry.

Golorr is an aboleth, it all makes sense. At least the true vault is secure. Must explain the skulls to YG before our next meeting,

read another.

Remy visibly relaxed. “Well, that’s what Davil wanted to know. Best take that one,” she said. “But what on Toril is an aboleth?”

“Some folk think they’re creatures older than creation itself,” Soren whispered. “They’re something like enormous magical slugs with tendrils and lots of eyes and teeth. Very nasty. As far as Volo’s book says, they feed on the threads of the cosmos, and some people consult them as oracles.” Soren had just finished stowing the journal in her knapsack when they both heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps.

Breathless, ears straining, the friends soon identified two sets of footsteps and voices--both female. Soren pressed down on the door handle and, smooth and silent as a winter’s night, opened the office door just a crack. Holding a tray with a flickering candle, Amalia descended the stairs with a weeping maid at her side. Despite the girl’s nervousness, there was something else underneath it all--fear.

“F-Forgive me, mistress. I only, I was only checking in on the children. I heard a scream, and I thought--”

Amalia spoke, soothing and full of feminine camaraderie. “Emerda, dear, I understand. You feared for my safety.”

“It, I worried it was that, ah, the ‘gentleman’ caller you--” The maid stumbled over her own words, instantly admonished by the sharp kindness in Amalia’s face.

“My gentleman caller?” Amalia repeated with a sweetness that could have cut glass. “My dear, I have no idea what you’re talking about. But, regardless, you know the house rules. My office is off-limits to all staff.”

The girl, a tiefling with pale, lavender skin, hiccuped. She scrubbed at her face and Soren held her breath as the two women passed in front of the office. “I’ll get my th-things, mistress.”

Amalia patted her on the shoulder. “Oh Emerda, I’m not turning you out, dear. Listen, my husband is away tonight, and I find myself in need of some help downstairs. If you’re able to assist, I’m sure we can overlook this…transgression.” Their voices faded away as they continued down the hall. A moment later a door shut, and not too softly, either.

That maid is a dead woman walking, Soren thought.

She nearly breathed a sigh of relief, or would have, had Remy not waved at her frantically. The ranger didn’t know thieves’ cant, but it didn’t take much of Remy pointing at her own boots, and then to the bottom of the door, for Soren to realize that someone else was in the hall. Someone poised to enter the office, and perhaps take them by surprise.

Quiet as the grave, Remy took position by the door.

You open, I’ll grab,

she mouthed to Soren.

On the count of three.

In the back of her mind Soren wondered if this would be the person with the purple feather. As one they struck, quick as lightning. Remy pounced, seizing the figure outside and catching them by surprise. They rolled on the carpet and Soren swiftly shut the door.

A woman in black leathers and a half mask tumbled into the room. She and Remy fought for dominance in a flurry of limbs and quiet grunts of exertion. In a flash, both held a dagger to each other’s throats. Remy sat on top of the unfortunate thief, leaning as far away from the blade as she could get while also pressing hers up against the other woman’s neck.

“...you’re not Victoro,” the woman said hoarsely.

“Was it that obvious?”

“Lucky me.” The woman rolled her eyes before shooting a glare at Soren. “One move and your companion dies.”

Soren held up her empty hands. “You must be the Black Viper,” she began. “We’ve been looking--”

A bell of familiarity rang in the back of Remy’s mind. She relaxed, dropping her dagger to the carpet. “I know that voice!” she said. “You’re Esvele Rosznar!”

“And just how do you know that?” Soren said at the same time that Esvele said, “What’s it to you?”

Remy traded a glance with Soren. “We can explain.”

“It had better be good,” Esvele said drily, “I have work to do.”

Once she’d stood, brushed herself off, and all blades were sheathed, it wasn’t difficult to bring each other to speed. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about whether the vault is real or not--but I

do

know that the Cassalanters are up to no good. I was here the other night and heard screaming in the attic. Spooked me right cold. Decided to come back another night.” Esvele shook her head. “I don’t envy that maid.”

The professional thief tapped her chin. “Seems to me, given everything I’ve heard and everything you’ve come across, that the Cassalanters got a bargain from Asmodeus to keep them out of bankruptcy. The only catch, of course, was the price that he would take their children when the kiddos turned nine, unless they ‘sacrificed’ a million gold to him.”

Soren rubbed her face. “We’ll have to see if we can find some more evidence upstairs, then. Amalia may have a prisoner in the attic--since it certainly isn’t

you

. Any chance of you lending us a hand?”

“Look, I’m in this for the money. These rich fucks need a little bit of poetic justice. I…might be willing to work together, if the price is right.” Esvele’s gaze was piercing.

In the end, they agreed on a split of stolen goods and no interference with each other’s business after this was all said and done. On pain of retribution, neither Soren nor Remy would expose Esvele’s secret. Remy had looked at her friend who worshiped Bahamut, worried there might be some conflict over letting a thief escape with stolen goods. Soren only shrugged and said, “Stealing from the rich isn’t a crime.”

With a promise that they would meet up before tipping their hand to Amalia, the group split; Esvele making her rounds of the rest of the downstairs, and Soren and Remy heading up to the third floor. If there was a chance, however small, that whoever had been screaming could be rescued, it was worth the extra detour.

“You surprise me, Soren,” Remy whispered as they worked to silently remove the hinge pins from the double doors leading to the master bedroom. She’d taken one look at the lock and decided that it just wasn’t for her--especially since she didn’t know what else might be ahead of them. These

were

her good lockpicks, after all. “Isn’t Bahamut the god of

laws

and justice?”

Soren grunted under the awkward weight of the door. “He is, yes.” Together, they set both doors down on the hallway carpet, making hardly a sound. Since the lock between the double doors remained secure, there was no reason for any trap or alarm to go off. Regardless, both women paused to listen.

Remy gave a low, almost breathless whistle as they stepped into the master bedroom. It was the very picture of luxury; red silk sheets, expensive paintings of the Nine Hells, and--

“Come to

Papa

.” The tiefling woman grinned, rubbing her hands together. She stuck a foot under the dust ruffle of the bed and pulled out a golden chest. The screaming faces of hideous devils adorned the cover and all four sides. After only a moment’s looking, however, she shook her head and straightened back up, giving a stretch and a crack to her back as she did so. “Trapped all to bloody hell.” She pointed to the keyhole. “One wrong move and this whole room fills with poison gas.”

“Friendly sort, aren’t they?” Soren remarked drily.

Unceremoniously, Remy pushed the trunk back under the bed with her toe. “C’mon, there’s got to be something good around here--and you still haven’t answered my question.” She made her way through one half of the room as Soren took the other half, both steadily making their way toward the door to Amalia’s office on the other side. Along the way Remy handed Soren some of the Cassalanter’s crimson cult regalia, two sets, with golden masks and sacrificial daggers to match.

“Laws are made by men,” Soren said, trying her hand at the office door and finding it unlocked. “Justice is…it means doing what is right.”

“Ah, vigilante justice. Gotcha.”

“No, it’s--” As one they paused to admire the sweeping opulence of Amalia’s office. Her large oak desk was carved with dancing devils. On the black marble top sat a single, thick tome, bound in red leather. It gave off the faint scent of soot and sulfur.

“It’s more than that,” Soren continued quietly, noting a ladder in the corner that led to a hatch in the ceiling. Something tingled up the back of her spine, the sense that powerful magic was near. Without fear of traps or enchantments she plucked up the book and began to flip through its pages. Dry paper, burnt at the edges, whispered and crackled as they hurried by her piercing gaze. “That’s odd. It’s entirely blank.”

A raspy hush overtook the pages and they hissed like a serpent, almost battering at Soren’s hand with a life of their own. She cursed quietly, withdrawing her fingers where the paper’s edge had cut her. Instead of running down the book and dripping onto the carpet, Soren’s blood began to move sideways. Swirling out in sharp, incised script, those few drops of blood welled through page after page, until the entire book was full of writing and arcane equations.

“That’s Asmodeus, all right,” Remy said, peering over Soren’s shoulder.

The ranger held the book out and away from her chest with a horrified grimace. “What on Toril does it

say?

I can’t read it.”

“Lucky you’ve got me, then. It’s Infernal, but it’s a bit archaic--high-handed and lots of thee’s and thou’s. Let me see.” She took the book from Soren and flipped a few pages. “Hm. Something about a ritual of sacrifice. A large ritual, too. Binding death into miniature form…glory to he, the great Asmodeus, yada yada...distilling liquid despair--”

“Remy,” Soren said, that tense note of concern in her voice. From a desk drawer the ranger drew out a cigar box, each velvet depression filled with a thick vial of black poison. “It’s labeled ‘For the Founders’ Day Banquet’. My god.” She pressed a hand to her lips and closed her eyes a moment before stuffing that, too, into her pack.

The tiefling only shook her head. It was sick, was what it was. Founder’s Day was an enormous day of celebration, with free food given out to all comers and dozens of parties and fancy feasts held between the nobles, the Open Lord, and surely some members of the Masked Lords. Depending on the delivery method, hundreds would have fallen to the unrepentant, insidious dose of Midnight’s Tear many hours after the feast. Remy even pointed out the ritual in the book to Soren before safely stowing all evidence--and Amalia’s spellbook--away.

Again, the hair-tingling sensation of strong magic ran up Soren’s back. She unslung her bow, hooked it over one shoulder, and began to climb the ladder with a look of grim determination. Once her head was clear of the hatch it was as if she had pushed though a barrier of muting cloth, or risen to the surface through water. A terrible, pained scream echoed through the attic. Yowling and wailing, it went on and on.

Not an angry sound, though surely there was fury there. But a sound like the sort a tiger might make if it had a human mouth. A sound like anguish and agony all in one.

“Holy shit,” Remy said quietly once they opened the door. “That’s no prisoner--it’s their

son

.”

The Cassalanter attic took up most of the roof space of the grand villa. Great rafters vaulted overhead. Barrels and long-forgotten crates huddled in the corners, the floors around them littered with packing straw. In the center of the room, suspended by two long lengths of serrated chain, was Osvaldo Cassalanter.

Or, to be more correct, what

used to be

Osvaldo.

Given Victoro and Amalia’s good looks, Osvaldo was said to have been a handsome young man with a promising career ahead of him as his father’s presumptive heir. Now his flesh had been seared into a deep, mottled redness. His body had grown, twisting and warping until he bore the muscled shoulders and upper chest of a chain devil. Blood and ichor ran down his body from a dozen rusted barbs stuck in his skin. He wore only the tattered remains of Osvaldo’s breeches. Not even his face was truly visible except for a lipless, bloody grin and the roving wildness of one mad eye.

Soren drew in a hard breath, her chest heaving with shock. Fine hairs stood up all over her body.

Their own son!

Deep inside her, the rushing of all thoughts went quiet. Breath rattled in her lungs and each draught of air fed a bed of embers, like bellows to a forge. For a moment, something gold and molten glowed inside of her.

Rage.

Without a word, as if she were walking in her own dragon skin, as if each step was a promise, Soren started forward.

This.

This was NOT right.

“Bahamut.” She rarely prayed. What good would it do, when she already knew her fate? But this time Soren reached out, her fury like a wind. “Help me make this right.”

She felt it clearly, that fatherly voice. A touch on her heart and in her head. Just a moment’s presence, but it was enough.

What Asmodeus had taken, not even Bahamut could restore. If there was anything left of Osvaldo Cassalanter inside the mad devil, this existence brought him naught but suffering.

A blood-red light lit up the room. Two glowing hairline cracks appeared in the air. A pair of imps, one with a whip and the other with a scorpion tail, dropped, hissing, to the floor. Osvaldo began to shriek, hauling at the chains that kept him bound with all of his strength. With a screaming groan the wooden rafter gave way.

Soren was already diving into a roll by the time the Osvaldo’s first chain came snapping across the boards at her. A crossbow bolt flew over her shoulder, piercing the whip imp through the chest. It hit the back wall with a heavy thud and crumbled immediately to dust.

Coming out of her roll, a shout from Remy had Soren ducking again--and just in time. The hooked blade on the end of Osvaldo’s other chain came so close that its passage sheared off a few strands of her mahogany hair.

“Not sure I like his taste in friends!” Remy said, hurriedly trying to reload as the little scorpion imp gave a scree of delight and charged at her directly. Her fumbling hands dropped the next bolt.

The imp snickered.

Remy looked at it. She looked at her bolt, rolling away on the floor.

Drooling between its pointed teeth, the imp gathered itself to lunge.

“Not today motherfucker!” Without so much as bothering to remove her sword cane from its sheath, Remy wound up and struck the imp as hard as she could.

It staggered back, scraggling and screeching. Shaking the bleariness from its crossed eyes, it made to leap again, only this time to find itself launched halfway across the attic by Remy’s very well-placed boot.

Osvaldo roared, his chains chasing a path of destruction as Soren kited around the outer perimeter of the room. Boards and splinters went flying. Crates crashed open. Soren dropped her bow and reached for her twin shortswords, only to cry out in pain as one serrated chain lashed across her arm.

Growling, the ranger turned sharply inward. She was not afraid of death.

The chain devil merely grinned. It whipped its chains around in a grand show of finesse, meant to keep her at bay.

Soren ran straight at him. She dove underneath the whirling chains and drove her blades upward--into the pinions of his shoulders. The devil screamed, but his arms could not move. Sweat dripped down Soren’s brow, pattering on the floorboards along with her blood and the creature’s ichor.

“The man-creature,” wheezed the chain devil, black liquid dribbling through his sharp teeth, over his lipless gums and down his chin, “is

dead

. You fight for naught.” Breath rattled in its lungs.

“That man-creature was a

child

,” Soren snarled with uncharacteristic viciousness. In that moment, within her own breast, she was a dragon again; tines and spikes quivering with barely-contained fury. “He was

innocent

.”

But the chain devil only laughed. Around him, the deeper Soren’s swords pushed, the more limp his wavering chains became. At last, they clattered to the floor. The devil fixed Soren with a superior, triumphant look. “

I know

,” he said, and fell back with a heavy thud. No sooner had he hit the floor than the red form shriveled and shuddered.

Soren threw her swords to the side and went to her knees beside him. In her arms, what had been the chain devil became Osvaldo again. Thin, so thin, his rags hanging off his body like bandages. He bled, not from where Soren had stabbed the devil, but from where the chains had seared their marks into his skin. Through their rusted lattice-work she saw the face of the young man he had once been. Worn to nothing, but himself at long, long last.

“M…other…” Osvaldo’s voice creaked, as if he had been parched by an endless, hot wind. “I can’t see.”

Remy approached quietly as Soren took Osvaldo’s hand, her brows pulled tightly together.

“I’m here, my son,” Soren said, taking his battered hand in hers and placing them together on his chest. She could give him this comfort, at least. “You can rest now.”

“For so long, Mother…all I saw was fire. All…I felt were flames.” His breath came so shallowly. “Now it is only cold…and dark.”

It was the tiniest of gestures, but his fingers moved to brush hers briefly. Mother was with him now. Everything would be all right again. He was safe.

Osvaldo let out a long, soft sigh.

After a moment Soren reached up and closed his eyes. She took two gold coins from her pocket and pressed them into his palm, wrapping his fingers tightly around them. “Please, Bahamut,” she said in a raspy whisper. “

Please

guide this man’s spirit to his rest. Bring him peace.”

Warmth flowed from her hand. Soft golden light swept through the room, taking the taint of the Hells with it. There was the sensation of being gently buffeted by the wind off a pair of leathery wings. Bahamut was pleased.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Remy whistled. “Not literally, of course. Be nice if Tymora gave me a little more attention too, but--hey, Soren! What are you doing?”

Soren rose to her feet, her face a mask. Without a word, she collected her weapons and marched stiffly towards the hatch.

Remy followed after her, scampering down the ladder with a thief’s practiced physicality. Even hurrying, sometimes walking backwards, she found it difficult to match Soren’s stride. “Hey,” she said, breathless, almost grinning. “Hey, are we doing that vigilante justice thing? Are we doing that

right now?

”

“Osvaldo was a

child

,” Soren said in a harsh, low growl. “And all those little ones at the orphanage, they didn’t deserve this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Remy said, agreeing quickly. She’d never seen her friend so out of sorts, so…emotional. On careful feet she all but hopped down the grand staircase backwards, keeping a close eye on Soren. “Revenge and all that. But like, together we’re gonna commit a whole crime? Go after Amalia, I mean. We have the evidence we need, we could just--”

Soren strode across the ballroom and down the next set of stairs as if she didn’t care who saw or tried to stop her.

“Got it, got it,” Remy muttered. “Any chance we could maybe be a

tiny

bit more sneaky?”

“No.”

Protect the innocent. Do not fail in your duty. Serve the greater good.

Before, on the road north chasing Tiamat and the Cult of the Dragon, Bahamut had asked of her a monumental task. It was one she had died in the pursuit of. But now he asked so much more of her.

Serve the greater good.

What did that even mean to a man much less to a dragon?

Side always with what was right.

Priests and paladins had fallen for less, and what was she but a single woman, alone, with naught but her principles to guide her. How could she be certain that it wasn’t greed, that it wasn’t selfishness? To impose her will on others in the name of justice or a higher power was to be no better than so many people who slid or leapt toward evil.

But there had to be a line somewhere, Soren snarled to herself as she and Remy descended into the basement, past locked doors, past traps and puzzles. There had to be some rightness by which one’s choices could be judged.

Yes, she had hoarded. She had preened and been greedy and vain. She had satisfied her own lust for treasure, all those many long years ago--but that was what she

was

. Bahamut wanted better for her, it was true, but in the end she was a dragon. Not a human who walked around and pulled the life and livelihood from another with a jester’s smile. She had never

lied

. Had she been in Amalia’s or Victoro’s position, Soren would rather have died defending her own eggs than consign her offspring to such horrible torture.

The Cassalanters chose this. They knew full well the cost of the bargain--on both sides--from the moment the deal had been struck.

Unconscionable.

“You gonna be all right over there?” Remy asked over her shoulder. She knelt in front of a thick wooden door, fiddling her lockpicks on the iron keyhole. To the side of the door, someone had scratched a few lines in the old stone wall. It was a form of thieves’ cant, left behind for them by Esvele. A little cackle left Remy's lips as she swung the door open. “Holy motherlode,” she whispered after a moment.

The room itself was not large. Shelves lined its walls, each and every surface covered in gleaming gold bars.

“Ha ha,” Remy said in a high, jittery sort of way. “It’s like a bank vault in here.”

“Are

you

going to be all right?” Soren asked with a raised brow.

Remy waved a hand absently. “Yeah, just…fuck. Give me a minute.”

“Shall I leave the two of you alone?”

The tiefling thief swept the room for traps and then skipped inside. With a dramatic flourish, she snapped open her bag of holding. “You just let me satisfy my lust for gold and then we can both satisfy our lust for blood.”

“Damn shame I can’t take all of it,” Remy sighed. “I’d be kingpin of the North Ward in no time.”

“Or you could donate it to charity,” Soren said drily as Remy handed her only a few bars. “Clearly they meant to sacrifice all this gold to Asmodeus.”

Remy shook her head and clicked her tongue. “What a waste that would be. Good thing

we’re

here to help boost Waterdeep’s flagging economy.”

Soren and Remy left the vault, closing the door behind them carefully. Their bootsteps did not make much noise as they continued down the corridor, focused so intently on scanning for any more of Esvele’s marks. So focused, in fact, that they descended a narrow spiral staircase that led to the Cassalanter family crypts below without ever looking back the way they had come.

A small shape slipped along the walls, completely unnoticed. The flickering of the occasional torch created deep pockets of shadow through which the creature slunk. Only once it was truly alone did it make its way along the passage, the elongated and distorted shadow of its body thrown up against the opposite wall.

That shadow stretched and pulled until it was in the shape of a man--and not just any man, but one who wore an outrageous, broad brimmed hat. Black paws became black boots adorned with riding spurs. Despite the metal, despite the gold buckles and the sussuration of expensive leathers, the man who called himself Avran Fairweather produced not a sound.

He lifted the latch on the vault door, taking the weight off its hinges. Barely suppressing a chuckle he spun inside, the last flutters of his long cloak only just making it in before he closed the latch.

Too clever by half.

But then again, he was a very ambitious man. Nothing ventured, nothing gained--and Avran Fairweather made certain he

always

stood to gain.

Far below his feet the corridors beneath Cassalanter Villa wound like snakes through stone, heading ever downward. The crypts unfolded before Soren and Remy, lines of stone sarcophagi. Remy made a little noise of glee. They did not

have

to seek out treasure, but something had drawn Soren down this hall. Something had called to her, something important. Enough to warrant a detour when time already pressed in on them like a suffocating hand.

Just in time Soren grabbed Remy’s shoulder, keeping her friend from crossing through the archway that delineated the crypt proper. At her feet sat a worn tile, all scraped and scuffed, but nonetheless bearing the platinum emblem of Bahamut. “Wait,” she said in a harsh whisper. “We’re not alone.”

“Soren, there’s no one--”

Who dares disturb my slumber?

A wind rose in the crypt chamber, tossing old, rotting and hanging banners about in its breeze. In a whirl of dust, soot, and grit the air

bent

. Soren let out a quiet breath. “There,” she said. The bend in the air tore back as one’s hair is pushed from one’s face before a storm. It revealed the ghastly, milky-green form of a specter; once a tall and proud man wearing paladin’s armor, now a sunken face that was more bone and menace.

He strode forward, pulling a mighty hammer from his belt.
I am Caladorn Cassalanter, Open Lord of Waterdeep,
the specter said in a voice like grinding stones.
You pollute my halls with foul sorcery, kinswoman! Retreat like a coward or face your judgment.

“You know, we are just

really

sorry we bothered you!” Remy squeaked, snapping off a nervous salute. She tugged at Soren’s sleeve. “Let’s not, ah, impede on this gentleman’s good, uh, crypt a minute longer, yeah?”

“I am no Cassalanter,” Soren began.

Then you are an intruder, a thief!
Ripped from the air, several more specter-like figures appeared behind Caladorn.
And I will send you from these halls myself!
He raised his hammer with a mighty cry and sent its carved dragon head careening down towards Soren.

The hammer left a trail of misty smoke in its wake. Though it was clear he had swung with all of his force, the hammer’s arc met that invisible line between hallway and crypt. It stopped dead, as if it had hit a wall of stone.
Deceiver!
Caladorn cried.
You have trapped me here.

“

I

am a servant of Bahamut,” Soren said evenly. Her feet had not so much as moved an inch in the face of Caladorn’s undead fury.

You

serve the platinum dragon?

“I do.”

To what end do you travel my halls, then?
he asked suspiciously. Caladorn held up one gauntleted finger.
I shall know if you lie to me, elf-woman.

“Remy, show him the contract.”

“I still think this is a bad idea.”

Caladorn’s eyes widened as he read the scroll Remy produced for him.
Desecrators! Worshippers of Asmodeus in

my

house?!
He pointed one boney finger at Remy and Soren.
And you have come to rid these vermin from my halls, for what--profit? Glory?

“Justice.” Soren’s coin-gold gaze did not look away from the gloaming glow of his sunken eyes. “Amalia, she…she sacrificed her own son.”

Caladorn gave a wail of fury that made the fine hairs on Remy’s arm stand up. “We prayed for him!” the tiefling said hurriedly. “Well, Soren did. Same thing, really. His soul’s with Bahamut now, or however that works for you folks.”

Is this true?
the specter demanded.

“Osvaldo is at peace,” Soren said solemnly. “I only wish he could have known comfort in life. Death was the only mercy I could give him.”

There was a bristling of cold, frigid wind. Puffs of warm breath fogged before the two friends. In a shiver of buffeting air Caladorn and the rest of the specters whisked themselves into a whirlpool of mist. When it was gone and Soren and Remy were alone in the crypt again, all that remained was the paladin’s hammer. It hung in the air for a moment before falling to the stone.

End this,

hissed the last of Caladorn’s voice.

Set things right.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Frozen wind sleeted across the Spine of the World. Up here, where the air was thin and the gales could cut, the peaks of so many unnamed mountains scraped the belly of the sky. By day the sunlight off the snow could blind a man with its diamond brilliance. By night the already frigid temperature plummeted as if Auril the Frost Maiden had stolen the very spark and fire of breath itself. Only those truly foolhardy would be caught out in the wilds with a full adventuring party, nevermind alone.

Amalia seized an icicle and tore it from the spruce branch. Snow showered down her arm and across her bare collarbone, but she didn’t seem to notice. “SNAKE!” she screamed, launching the icicle across the clearing. “Villain!”

Instead of bothering to parry the improvised missile, Avran merely leaned his head to the side. It sailed right past him, only just missing the brim of his outrageous hat. “Is that any way to treat your lover? Small wonder Victoro hardly visits your bed.”

She snarled, hurling a stone at him. “You--you never intended to help us!” This one missed him by several inches.

“Correct.”

“You

used

me; my money, my body, my resources!”

Avran nodded in agreement. “You have me there, darling. Now, I really

do

hate to burn bridges like this, but in this case I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” He sighed dramatically and tilted his head again--the other way this time--as a jagged chunk of ice went hurtling by. “There’s a prize I’m after and I just can’t have you meddling in my affairs any longer. You understand.”

“Bastard! Get down here this instant! Oh, when Victoro gets his hands on you, you’ll

pay

--”

“I assure you I won’t,” Avran said, watching Amalia pace restlessly back and forth beneath his levitating form. Between his fingers he twirled a wand that, now that it had absorbed part of Amalia’s magical power, thrummed as if alive. “I’d love to stay and chat, but, well. You know how it is,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Places to go, people to swindle, vaults to uncover…women to bed.”

Amalia shrieked, the sound echoing through the empty valley. She launched herself at him, immediately falling forward through the ice crust and into the sharp cold of the snow bank below. Blood from her cut hands spattered across the white mounds her flailing made.

“I’d show you the way to Luskan, really, I would, but I’m on a bit of a tight schedule.

Do

look me up the next time you’re in town, hm?” With a wave of his wand and a wicked, lopsided grin, Avran disappeared.

Amalia screamed. She threw handfuls of snow at the place where Avran had been, beating her fists against the crust until they were properly bloody. It was no use, all her spells were gone. She might get them back after some rest but--Amalia shuddered and curled in, putting her back to the wind. Her rage burned hot, but not hot enough to keep her warm.

Grunting and cursing, she staggered to her feet and cast around that desolate mountaintop for a sign--

any

sign--of which way would get her down safely and back to civilization. Wish all she might, but sleep was a long way off. “Victoro,” she croaked, and her very breath felt like cold iron in her lungs. “My love, I’m so sorry…”

Wolves howled in the distance.

~

Several minutes earlier…
 
Well-kept flagstones paved the center aisle of the Cassalanter family chapel. A decrepit balcony ringed western wall, held up by thin, unsteady pillars. Most of the pews had long ago been smashed or fallen into disrepair. Iron-spiked candelabras and torches with hideous devil heads lent the large chamber a hellish glow. The center aisle led to a raised dais. At the back of it stood a once-proud statue of a handsome knight. Someone had taken a hammer to its face and to its desecrated visage attached a golden mask of Asmodeus. Twin iron spikes stood to either side of the dais. To one was tied the unfortunate maid Emerda, and on the other a young bard with sandy hair and a green tunic. A silver Harper pin on his breast gleamed in the firelight. Sweat covered his brow and a purple bruise shone livid on Emerda’s temple.

Several crimson tapestries ringed the dais, each depicting in graphic detail every sort of debauchery imaginable: bodies locked in sadistic lust; the copulation of men and beasts; the ravishment of women and devils; delicious tortures and tearing agonies; worshippers and heretics alike ripped apart in divine ecstasy.

Flexed like claws, Amalia raised her fingers in holy supplication. “O Grand Asmodeus, King of the Hells, Lord of the Ninth, hear my humble prayer.”

She swept out her arms and held them still. Her ladies’ maid, Tissinia, stepped forward and removed the heavy crimson robe from Amalia’s shoulders.

The sorceress stood naked on the dais before her god. Behind her, in the pews, a few minor cultists dressed in crimson red began to chant an infernal prayer. Their sonorous voices echoed in the high chapel with terrible purpose.

Without a word Tissinia removed a golden dagger from her robes and passed it to Amalia.

The dagger’s fine edge sliced a thin red line across Amalia’s palm. Ruby droplets well and ran down the heel of her hand. Tipping her head back, as tender as if it was her lover’s touch, Amalia brought her palm to her pale throat. Like a wound the redness spread, running down her collarbone now. Her head lolled as the rush of the ritual began to take hold of her, a few strands of hair come loose of its coif. She traced infernal letters across her bare breasts; a name.

Asmodeus.

“With my own life’s blood I call to thee, O Cloven One. I open the way.” The chanting rose in time with the strength and command in her voice. “To you, my Tyrant, my most holy Serpent, I offer both these souls in service to the power of your throne. In the name of our contract, accept these sacrifices--” she said, taking Emerda by the hair and raising her dagger high.

A thunderous crack of wood and iron shattered the holy ceremony. Both double doors flew inward with such force that they hit the pews to either side of the center aisle, the wood spitting splinters. Old dust billowed out from the doorway and bits of masonry crumbled from the balcony overhead.

“Cassalanter!”

Amalia whipped around, an ugly snarl on her otherwise beautiful features. “Who dares?!” Beside her, Tissinia hurried to cloth her mistress once more in crimson ceremonial robes.

“I do,” Soren said, striding forward into the torchlight. She pointed the dragon-headed hammer at the sorceress. Her stern face might as well have been set in stone. The rage that had been burning hot inside of her for the past several days blazed still--but cold. So very cold. There was no joy or passion or even satisfaction in this. “In Bahamut’s name, I demand you cease this ritual at once.”

“Bahamut?” Amalia spat, incredulous. She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, I know you. The woman in gold--from the opera! I suppose you come to cease our ritual. You must know, then, that all of Asmodeus’ enemies will burn forever in the Hells.”

The dragon-headed hammer began to glow with a silver-blue platinum light. Its luminescence grew until it might as well have been lifted from a blacksmith’s forge. And in that light Amalia saw two pinpricks like eyes behind Soren. A moment later and, noiselessly, Remy and Esvele stepped into the chamber, crossbows raised, the tip of each quarrel gleaming in the torchlight with deadly efficiency.

All around them the cultists drew their own golden daggers, the shuffle of many feet like the breath before a storm.

“I come to tell you that your son is dead.”

Amalia stumbled as if struck. “My…son!” Tissinia rushed to help her but the Lady Cassalanter only shoved her away. “

You

--” she snarled. “You killed my son!”

“No,” Soren said, and her voice rang clear. “

You

killed your son. I set him free.”

Amalia’s brown eyes flew open wide. Her bloody breast heaved and she bent double. Nails dug into her hair, scratching at her cheeks, her jaw. “You killed my son.” A terrible keening left her mouth, a gargling cry of anguish. “You killed my

son!”

Soren spat on the floor. Her coin-gold eyes

burned

. “No mother would do what you’ve done.”

The scream that left Amalia’s mouth reverberated with all the power of a ritual unfinished. Stones fell from the ceiling. As one, the cultists sprang.

Bursting into action, Soren heaved to the side. The hammer connected full-force with the chest of one cultist. Platinum light burst out from the site of impact. The man crumbled to dust before he even hit the floor.

One cultist saw the look on Soren’s face and thought twice. He skidded to a stop and made to run, only to get one of Remy’s bolts through the back.

Esvele kited around the south side of the chamber, deftly leaping over pews. Her rapier sang as it met the golden dagger of a female cultist.

With a savage cry Amalia seized Emerda and sliced the blade across the maid’s throat. Blood poured forward from the wound. Lady Cassalanter’s eyes glowed as she summoned forth the power of the Hells. An arrow sprouted from her breast but still she did not stop.

Soren clicked her tongue and dove to the side, a thrown dagger just clipping her arm. It stung something wicked, bleeding freely. There were simply too many of them. Even with Remy’s crack shooting and Esvele’s quick feet, just as it had been with the mindflayer, against a mage they were hopelessly outmatched. Her next arrow found Tissinia’s heart and the ladies’ maid fell over dead.

Fury rushing through her body like a gale, Amalia finished the summoning rite. A deep, ethereal gong shook the air. Heat poured into the room, heat and smoke that tasted of bitter ash and pungent sulfur. Red claws rent the air and pulled open a crack lit by hellish light. Through the crack stepped a pit fiend, its small eyes glowing with purposeful hatred. Its tail lashed through the pews, killing one of the remaining cultists.

“Oh, you have

got

to be fucking kidding me!” Remy panted. She held her hand against one side as she parried another cultist with her sword cane. Slightly off-balance with the crossbow in her other hand, she stumbled back against a pew. The next bolt went up, ricocheted off a candelabra, the wall, and ended its wild trajectory in the eye of the man chasing her.

Prepared to rush Amalia and leave the pit fiend for last, Soren took off. Heart pounding in her chest, she didn’t give a second thought to her own safety.

“Taste a mother’s wrath,” Amalia spat and spread out her hands in the well-known casting gesture any melee fighter eventually came to fear.

Remy saw it coming first, that little mote of light, like a firefly. She seized Esvele and bodily dragged her behind the nearest pillar. “Soren!” she cried, “SOREN!”

She was going to turn aside.

She

had

to.

But there was a mage with a whole host of who-knew-what spells at her command. All Soren could hope for was that she could make it through and engage Amalia at close range before her friends were killed. It was a risk she was willing to take.

Down came the coin.

Remy ducked back behind the pillar.

Soren threw her crossed arms in front of her face to absorb most of the blast. The mote hit her chest and the fireball exploded outward, incinerating the pews, several tapestries, and the bodies of the fallen cultists. Impervious, the pit fiend only laughed.

A gold dragon might have withstood it, but not the poor wood elf.

Soren’s seared and blistered body fell with a heavy thud on the flagstones. The air filled with the scent of smoke and burnt skin. Overhead the balcony cracked and gave way. Huge chunks of quarried basalt rock shook the chamber as they crumbled and fell all around Soren. Grey dust like soot and smaller stones showered over her prone form. She did not get up.

Remy screamed. Tail lashing, she struggled out of Esvele’s well-meaning grasp and vaulted over one of the remaining pews. Soren lay on the opposite side of the room, with a pit fiend between them.

“Not again,” she cursed, putting on a quick-footed burst of speed. “Not again.” It was like a prayer.

The pit fiend roared, saliva hanging between its irregular sharp teeth. It swiped a massive clawed hand at Remy, just barely missing her. The wind of its claws tore free a few strands of her black hair--but she was too far to reach.

Never since that incident with Sinrin had Remy run so fast. Not to abandon this time, but to

save.

Not again!

As she dodged claws and leapt over rubble, Remy tore a potion from her pack. She ripped the cork off with her teeth and, knowing that she had mere seconds, fell to her knees on the grit and slid the last few feet to Soren’s side. Panting hard, she hauled her friend onto her back and poured the contents of the potion down Soren’s throat.

Amalia’s hoarse laughter echoed through the chamber. “She’s

dead

, you fool! She’s--what--”

Remy spared a glance upward, only to see a small black shape zipping through the air like a missile.

From the balcony a large black bat soared through the chamber. Its glowing purple eyes left an after-image in the air as it dove toward Amalia. The creature hit her squarely in the face, draping its leathery wings over her eyes and mouth. She shrieked, trying to claw it off.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the bat vanished. Crackling with the octarine light of some sort of transportation spell, both the bat and Lady Cassalanter disappeared in a rush of winter wind and snow.

Beneath Remy’s not-so-tender ministrations, Soren began to choke. Remy withdrew the empty bottle and slapped her friend lightly on the cheek. “Hey! Hey Soren, you alive? Oh boy, you gotta tell me if you’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” the ranger croaked. She gave Remy’s forearm a firm, thankful squeeze as the other woman helped her to her feet.

The clasp turned into a quick-step maneuver as they both jumped out of the way of the pit fiend’s swiping claws.

“I have an idea.” The dragon-headed hammer glowed white in her hand.

“Oop,” Remy said, digging in her bag. “I know I have more potions somewhere, shame they’re cherry--”

“Remy!”

“On it!” The tiefling took off running right behind her friend. She out-paced Soren, skidding to a stop just opposite Esvele, both of them crouching in front of the fiend’s path. “I hope you know what you’re doing!”

So do I, Soren thought to herself.

She had the fiend’s full attention, after all, she was the reason Amalia had summoned it in the first place. It roared, bristling with licking flames along its back. The hammer hummed in her hand, almost pulling her forward as she ran. Bahamut was a god of many things. To serve him was to serve as a matter of fact, not faith.

But Soren

had

faith.

The belief that it would all turn out all right in the end, and the will to carry it through.

A power larger than her elven body took her the last few long strides. She closed the distance and leapt. Remy and Esvele hoisted her as one.

Soren soared through the air. For a moment it seemed as though time slowed. The fiend’s hateful gaze met her gold one as she drew level with it. Summoning all her strength, Soren brought the hammer down with a primal roar of divine, draconic fury.

The glowing hammer met the fiend’s skull in a flash of silver-blue light. It kept going, the power of Bahamut lending the ranger a mighty strength. That light was everything; Bahamut’s justice and Soren’s will all in one. The hammer split the pit fiend in half. It maintained cohesion long enough to gargle a vicious cry of disbelief. And then it burst into ash.

Soren hit the ground on one knee, the hammer still pulsing. Her whole body glowed with a golden light. As the ash of the pit fiend blew away, for a moment, it formed the outline of an enormous dragon.

Panting, Remy scrubbed at her eyes. Had she--had she seen a pair of golden wings? “I,” she announced, breathless, to the rest of the now-quiet room, “have not had enough coffee for this bullshit.”

“You are…

very

pretty,” the bard said, his words slurring as they tried to rouse him.

Soren and Remy--for the Black Viper had said that, no, thank you, she could deal with getting out on her own--leaned over the man’s form. The ranger straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “Look like anyone you know?” she said drily.

“Threestrings!” Remy said at once. “From the Yawning Portal!”

“Hey.” Threestrings nodded to Remy with a knowing, lopsided grin. “I like your horns.”

“You’re delirious.”

“And your ass. You’ve got a…” He gestured rather

heftily

in the air. “...a great ass.”

Threestrings reached to give her a friendly swat. Remy’s tail batted him away. He tried the other hand. She smushed her palm into his face to keep him at arm’s length. “

You

take this one,” she said to Soren. “I’ve got to make my report to Davil.”

“Easy does it now,” Soren said, hefting Threestrings over her back in a fireman’s carry. “God above, what do you

eat?

”

“No,” Remy said, “I think that’s just the lute. What’ll you do with him?”

Soren grimaced as she readjusted the bard’s weight to accommodate his instrument. “Take him back to the Harpers. They look after their own.”

The two friends made their way carefully past the dais to a low tunnel. Soren sniffed the air. “This leads outside. C’mon.”

“Had to be a way to get other upper class folk in here that wasn’t on street level. Figures.” Remy wrinkled her nose. “Smells like the sea.”

“A way out by the docks is still a way out. Now, the bat and Amalia; tell me everything.”

They emerged out into the drizzling rain. Soren’s breath fogged as she shoved and hoisted Threestrings up through the open manhole. Remy grunted, hauling at his arms. “The hell is in this lute anyway?” she huffed.

“Probably reinforced for fighting,” Soren wheezed, climbing out after and shoving the cover back into place. “Let’s lay low tonight, meet back at the tavern tomorrow.”

“Good idea. Do me a favor, will you?” Remy clawed damp hair out of her face. “Keep an eye out for that cat, too--I’m sure it’s the same as the bat. Whatever it is, it seems to be following you.”

Oh, don’t worry,

Soren thought to herself,

I’m onto him; who--or what--ever he is.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Rain poured down from the sky, plastering Soren’s dark hair to her head. She grunted, readjusting Threestrings. It had been no short walk to the block that held the Neverember estate. Again, she raised her fist and pounded on the servant’s door.

After what felt like ages, during which Soren had begun to shiver, she heard the rattle of keys. The door opened a few inches and a pair of brown eyes frowned up at her. “What’s all this racket for, young lady?” a stout halfling demanded. He wore the plain but serviceable garb of household staff. The older halfling looked her over with obvious, curmudgeonly disdain. “We do not accept solicitations or beggars,” he said stiffly. The door’s chain, currently taut, jingled as he made to close her out.

Soren caught the door with one hand. “Wait!” she pleaded. “For mercy’s sake, this man is injured. He needs help!”

“And we do not accept ruffians,” the halfling said, much more sternly this time. He pushed at the door but this time Soren stuck her foot in. “I say, be on your way, goodwoman, and trouble this house no further!”

“We--” Soren grunted. The halfling was stronger than he looked for a man of his advanced age. “--are Harpers! This is Threestrings and I’m Soren.”

“I do not care who you claim to be,” the halfling said, trying to kick her toe out of the way with his own. “This is no Harper safehouse, you are obviously confused.”

Soren shoved her whole weight against the door--and most of Threestrings’ as well. It gave under her push. She yelped in surprise as both of them went toppling through the entrance and ended up in a tangle of limbs and lute on the floor.

It was quite a nice kitchen, she thought, based on what she could see from her current position. The fall had reminded her of all the burns that her body had sustained. Despite the halfling valet’s attempts to lift her, Soren lay limp for a moment. Blood and grime and stone dust leaked over the tiled floor. Her breath came in shallow gasps.

“Out, out I say!” The halfling hauled at her sleeve, rousing Soren up to her elbows. “Leave the premises this instant or I’ll name you intruders and call the Watch!”

“Madrak? What on Toril is all this racket--oh.”

Soren looked up, her gaze traveling past the comfortable slippers, the crimson dressing gown, to the disheveled copper fall of hair and the green eyes that went with it of Renaer Neverember. She flushed deeply. “I was just--”

Despite Madrak’s flustered exclamations, Renaer crouched and extended a hand. His warm smile, the gentle pinch of his brows, all of that and more spoke of tender kindness. “You have a tale for me, I suspect,” he chuckled, helping Soren to her feet. “Madrak, see that Threestrings is cleaned, fed, and turned out at sunrise, will you?”

A younger halfling, whom Renaer introduced as Bramal and Madrak’s son, bustled in to help his father right the delirious bard.

“Don’t mind that old hin,” Renaer said as he steered Soren toward the parlor, muddy boots and all. “Tell your tale and then stay the night. We’ve plenty of guest rooms,” he added, a bit awkwardly, as Soren blushed. “And you look quite spent. Last Mirt told me, you and Remy were to check on the Waterdeep Wazoo’s rumor mill.”

“We found a rumor all right,” Soren replied drily. “And more.”

~

Lavender mist filled the dead-end alley. It seethed around Remy’s feet as if alive. Salty brine and cloying fishiness. In the near distance she could hear the sound of seabirds crying. The Docks Ward. She must be in the Docks Ward.

Remy turned around, her long tail lashing like an anxious cat. It was not the sound of footsteps that caught her attention, but rather the sixth sense of somehow not being alone anymore. “H-hello?” she called. “Look, I ain’t got any money.”

Now she could hear them properly, three sets of footsteps. The big and heavy strides, the quick quietness, and the easy efficiency that she knew so well.

“Tymora, no.”

Black hair hung down from between Remy’s horns as she backed up slowly against the wall. Almost as one they came out of the fog; a burly half-orc with a missing tusk, a thin scraggly-looking fellow with lank hair and unkempt scruff, and a drow rogue dressed in serviceable leathers. These were her three friends from Baldur’s Gate. People she ought to have been happy to see.

“H-hey, fam.” Remy swallowed. “Long time no see.”

Andre, the one human of their little group, stepped forward. “We’ve been looking for you, Remy. For such a long time.”

“I’m, I’m so relieved,” she managed, unable to look away from them. There was a strange bruise by Andre’s left eye and as she lingered on it, she thought she saw a little swelling. Come to think of it, they

all

had swelling about the eyes.

Haha.

“I wanted to come back for you,” Remy babbled, unable to stop herself. “But I had to get away from Sinrin, you know?” She laughed nervously. “He accused me of murder.”

“And who do you think hung for it?” Bug stepped closer, his deep voice as intimidating as it was unfamiliar--for the Flaming Fist had long ago cut out his tongue for thievery.

Remy’s stomach plunged into ice. All around her the fog got thicker, bubbling up around her waist. The brick wall was hard against her back. “N-no,” she said, desperate, “you’ve got it all wrong! It ain’t like that, it ain’t--”

She turned to Shiv, her quiet drow friend who had always been a steady presence in the Shiller’s Row gang. “You’ve gotta talk sense into them!” she insisted. “Shiv, they’ll listen to you!”

“I’m afraid that’s just not possible,” came a rough voice. Out of the fog strode a mean-looking, unkempt man. In one hand he held an oblong green stone with three eyes and in the other he held a pale, worm-like creature. A jagged scar ran down one side of his face and he sneered as he looked at Remy. “It’s time to wake up,

dear.

”

The little worm writhed in his grasp. It seemed to sense Remy’s nearness for it waved a few tendrils at her as the strange man walked closer.

“No, nononono--” Fingers would not respond to her commands, her legs wouldn’t work. Fuckfuckfuckfuckingtadpolesfuckingshitfuck--

“Goodbye, Remy,” said the strange man.

Wriggling madly, the tadpole latched onto her eyelid and screamed in savage glee. The last thing she saw was its throat full of sharp, needle-like teeth.

Remy woke up screaming. She leaned over the edge of the bed and retched until her stomach was empty.

~

“Do

you

know where your father’s money is?”

Renaer looked up at Soren from across the table. He was dressed again in that blue doublet that so perfectly complimented his coloring. In an almost-genteel way, he brought a starch-white napkin to his lips before answering her question. “I wish that I did,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“What would you do with five hundred thousand dragons if you had them?” She picked at the delicately laid-out breakfast; ham, two eggs over easy, sweetened cranberry jelly and toast.

He laughed and the sound was so handsome that Soren found herself smiling just from that alone. God, had she ever felt this way with anyone other than Bellblade? Aside from Madrak’s grumbling, staying at Neverember Manor had been a fine change of pace. They had stayed up, talking late into the night. Soren brought out all the evidence she’d collected at the manor and at Remy’s tavern to connect it all for him. Renaer listened with intent and seriousness, chin resting on his laced fingers. This would change the landscape of Waterdeep’s economy, he said, if word got out that the

Cassalanters

were a part of the Cult of Asmodeus. Soren didn’t disagree.

“Their children must be protected,” she urged

.

“So many little ones have already suffered for these people.”

Renaer had only looked at her with resigned sadness in his green eyes. “A contract with a devil is a contract with a devil…but the Harpers will see what can be done, you can be sure of that.”

There was more. Much more.

“And what would you use it for?” he said.

Soren blinked at him. “Nothing, of course.” She quirked a brow when he let out a soft chuckle of disbelief. “That money was taxes Dagult skimmed off the top while he was Open Lord.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It belongs to the people. I would give it back to the city.”

“‘Of course’,” he quoted her, shaking his head, but not unkindly. “You…you really don’t want it, do you?”

“Not a single penny.”

Renaer picked up his fork again and shoveled eggs onto it. “You continue to surprise me, Miss Chandry.”

“Soren, please.”

Was that a pink blush on his freckled cheeks, or was she just imagining it? “Very well,” Renaer said, and his smile was like the sunrise. “Soren it is.”

Rain had passed with the night and Soren stepped out to a brisk, sunny autumn morning. The scent of damp cobbles and fall leaves filled the air. Cornflower blue crowned the sky, punctuated by racing tufts of clouds. An easy cool breeze tugged at her clean braids and her freshly-laundered clothes. Inside her tunic and against her shift Soren pinned the citizens’ badge of the Watch Renaer had given her.

“To keep you safe.” His hand lingered on hers, leaving the badge in her palm. They might have stayed that way in the foyer, looking quietly into one another’s eyes, if Madrak hadn’t loudly cleared his throat and insisted that

perhaps

Miss Chandry should take her cloak and visit by the

front door

next time, if there even was a next time.

“Drop it and it will appear in my coat pocket,” he’d said. “I’ll know you’re in trouble and come to help.”

Things were heating up in the city, and there was no telling what Waterdeep’s various factions would throw at them next. If the different groups vying for Dagult’s gold weren’t already aware of Soren and Remy’s hand in the Cassalanters’ downfall, they soon would be. Anonymity would no longer protect them.

~

“I want to know who’s done this! Attacking Amalia and her husband directly? It’s unthinkable!”

Avran raised a finger. “I believe you mean improbable.”

Yalah Gralhund looked down at him, her thin face pinched into a frown. “Isn’t your mouth supposed to be

busy?”

The rogue traced his hand down her shapely thigh. He took a moment to dry his lips on a purple silk handkerchief embroidered in gold with the letters

JB.

“Indeed. However, I worry that my lady is not enjoying herself.”

“I’m enjoying myself perfectly well, thank you,” Yalah snapped.

“Then, pray, recline again and let me continue.”

Yalah lay back on the bed and crossed her arms in a huff over her small chest. If her husband wasn’t as incompetent in bed as he was with their finances, she wouldn’t be forced to seek pleasure elsewhere. Barely a few minutes had passed, however, before she began complaining again.

Avran grinned into his task. He knelt on an expensive Calminshan rug, both of Yalah’s legs over his shoulders. There wasn’t a consenting creature alive he wouldn’t bed if given half a chance. Sex was power and if Avran had learned anything over his long, long life, it was that power of any kind was worth seeking. Ambition, lust, avarice, and a rogue’s sense of grand adventure coursed through his veins. If the price was right, he would do any job, accept any contract. Provided, of course, that he emerge on the winning side.

The Cassalanters had paid him well to do reconnaissance he was already doing anyway--or picking up details as he crept after Remy and Soren.

Soren.

Now

there

was a woman he simply could not get out of his head. Surely she would be far more responsive than his current partner. He could just imagine those golden eyes of hers shining like coins as he set his lips to her heat and coaxed bliss from her body. Avran could not suppress a small groan as his erection strained against his breeches. She was so severe, so aloof and private. The rogue found he ached for the quiet ranger more with each passing day. He kept making excuses to himself to follow her when he ought to be taking care of other business. Lucky he

had

followed them into Cassalanter Manor, though.

Nothing

got in his way when he set his mind to it, and he wasn’t about to let Soren disappear from the chessboard before he’d had a chance to bury his prick in the ranger’s hot cunt.

Part of him fantasized which part of Soren he wanted to taste first. The other half of him listened intently as Yalah complained about everything under the sun.

Her Zhentarim contacts were stupid; her husband couldn’t even handle giving the ugly Urstul Floxin proper instructions. The money she’d thrown away trying to get a position as a Masked Lord was hardly turning a benefit in her favor. It was impossible to properly do business with the Zhentarim in the city, with them split between Davil’s faction and Manshoon’s. She didn’t know which of Manshoon’s many clones this was and she certainly didn’t care. As long as her money and her estate were protected, that was what mattered. Apparently the Blackstaff had been trying to find Manshoon’s secret tower and been unable to do so. Rumors about Dagult’s hoard were spreading like wildfire through the city. And--had he heard? Gryphon riders had cordoned off the Cassalanter’s estate! Word had it that Victoro was

furious

--but he hadn’t heard that from her.

Yes, Yalah was

always

good for information. She went to most parties and seemed to come across the best gossip.

Of course he would find out where Amalia had gone. Of course he would keep the Black Viper from striking her estate as well. And

of course

he would deliver Dagult’s hoard right into her willing hands.

Still hard and aching for Soren, Avran fixed Yalah’s dress and kissed her hand. “It has been a pleasure, as always, darling.”

Yalah somehow managed to look down at him despite him being the taller of the two. She sniffed. “Leave by the servant’s door, and for goodness’ sake, look like something else. I can’t have folk thinking I keep company with your kind.”

Avran whipped his outrageous, broad-brimmed hat off his head in a signature bow, letting the purple plume grace the floor. When he straightened up he was once again the man with short brown hair and a handsome mustache. He flashed Yalah a white smile. “Excellent thinking, my darling.”

He knew when to not overstay his welcome. Avran whistled his way down the street, one hand in his pocket fingering the silver jewelry he had managed to steal from her vanity. If there wasn’t quite so much to do, why, he might stroll his way down to Trollskull Manor and check in on his favorite pair of adventurers. As it was, however, his ship was about to come in and he didn’t intend to miss it.

~

“--and that’s what Durnan told me about the Gralhunds and Manshoon,” Soren finished, taking a swig of pear cider. She rubbed her temples. There was always far too much noise and commotion in the Yawning Portal.

Remy screwed up her face. “Making fifty clones sounds like a stupid waste of time. Anything else?”

Soren hesitated, flushing. When she wouldn’t immediately divulge, Remy batted her eyes pleadingly. “Aw, c’mon Soren.”

“The Bonnies think I’m…dating Renaer,” she muttered quietly, turning even more pink under her golden freckles.

“Well? Are you?” Remy perched forward in her chair.

The taproom around them looked nearly ready for business. Chairs and tables had been delivered, all fashioned by the Bent Nail. And that wasn’t all; beds, dressers, and a new desk for Remy had all shown up that morning. It was, Soren had to admit, starting to look more like a home every day.

“...no, but I think he likes me.”

Remy beamed at her. “Do you like him?”

Hurriedly, Soren tried to change the subject. “So, how about you? How was your afternoon?”

Remy groaned and kicked her feet up on the table. “Hey, it’s mine, I can lean back if I want to,” she said when Soren gave her a disapproving look. “It’s…not good news.”

The problem wasn’t simple. Lif, their friendly and resident poltergeist, had not returned after the initial investigation into the remains in the basement. Remy rubbed her face. “The stupid hag that left her mikkary on this place, the one eating children, has apparently banished or sacrificed his soul to Asmodeus. Which means,” she sighed heavily, “that his spirit is trapped in Avernus.”

“Oh,” Soren said. She frowned. “That’s…can we do anything about that?”

“Without a portal to the Hells? Not likely.” Remy snorted.

Soren leaned back as well only for Remy to gesture wordlessly at her until the ranger took her feet down. “Hey, I didn’t see you paying for this, eh?”

Yesterday’s issue of the

Waterdeep Wazoo

lay on the table between them. Gathering the crackling paper into her hand, Soren glanced at the headlines before setting it down in disgust. “More of that Dockside Slasher business in the Docks Ward last night. Robberies and giant rats in the Fieldward. Ugh, bad news on bad news.”

“We don’t have to fix

everyone’s

problems, you know.”

“It’ll still be a while until the tavern is ready to open. There’s no point sitting on our hands until then. We might as well help some folks out, continue looking out for clues.”

Remy shifted in her seat. “It’s not all bad, the first two ships of the Sea Maiden’s Faire, the

Heartbreaker

and the

Hellraiser

, arrive tomorrow. Then we’ll have festivities to attend!”

“We don’t have time for carnival games,” Soren snorted. “We ought to be productive.”

“We ought to

live

a little,” Remy put in. “All this doom and gloom with the Zhentarim and Xanathar’s Guild going after the vault--and who knows what other parties want their hand in it too--relaxation

is

productive.”

She was, Soren conceded, quite correct. Bahamut could forgive her a little rest now and then, here in the last days of her life.

“I dunno about you, but I’m heading down to the

Wazoo

after I write up an article for Gaxly on the Cassalanters.”

“Renaer doesn’t think exposing them will be good for the economy.”

“

Killing people

isn’t good for the economy.” Remy rolled her eyes. “And besides, I want my fucking money. I’ll take every cent I can get if I’m going to pay Neverember back on his loan.” Her tail lashed a bit, knocking against the chair. “Don’t like owing a debt that large to anybody, especially a noble.”

And, what was more, she needed something to take her mind off what Xeblob had said to her that morning. It was that damned purple mist from her dream. For whatever reason she’d been drawn back to that strange shop, looking for answers.

The old gnome looked at her--or rather, he turned the ‘eye’ painted on his bald head to look at her. Hookah smoke settled about him and billowed over the floor of his dark little shop like steam. She paid him in bugs. One bug, to be precise, one dagger, and one scrap of leather, all hastily painted purple.

“Your friends,” the odd little gnome said in his wheezing, far-away voice, “are looking for you.”

A cold shiver, like she was being plunged into an ice bath, crawled along Remy’s skin. “Well that’s…nice,” she managed. “Real nice, yeah. It’ll be good to see them again!”

“Oh…” The gnome shuddered and shook his head. He moaned and clapped his hands over his ears. “They are near! So near to her, yes, Xeblob knows. He knows many things. There are two, two of each. Walking in a dark place. Out, out of Baldur’s Gate they come. Xeblob sees! Wet, their thoughts are wet--and bloody, oh so terribly bloody. Yes.”

Remy had not heard much from Davil about the Absolute crisis going on down in Baldur’s Gate. These days she tried not to listen to news about her home city, just in case anything with Sinrin decided to pop up. She forced a grin she did not feel as she backed toward the door. “You know, you’ve been

real

helpful and I’m just gonna, we’re, I’ll just go.”

She turned to leave only to find the gnome’s small hand holding fast to her wrist. “Wait!” Xeblob pleaded, the eye on his head moving back and forth as he swayed. “You must--”

“I should

really

be going.” Remy tried to tug her wrist away. Damn, the little bugger was

strong.

“Your friend,” he hissed. “The golden one! Everyone will see what she is, before the end. Xeblob knows what is not spoken, yes! He knows the dark one will catch her, catch her. Oh yes, and wrap her all in spider silk. And they will make a terrible thing together, oh, great and terrible and beautiful.”

Remy gave a hard pull and Xeblob’s hand popped free. She retreated to the door, rubbing her wrist. “Hey, you do you, but maybe lay off the hard stuff for a while?”

“Beware the cat!” Xeblob called after her, the rusty bell ringing as she hurried out the door. “Beware the prince of silk and shadow!”

~

Remy turned up her collar. It had started to drizzle again. The air didn’t taste too thick with rain, but it would be a cold night regardless. She leaned her head back against the padded wall of the carriage. Now that she was a legitimate business owner, why should she bother to

walk

all the way to the

Wazoo

? The tavern was coming along quite fine and she’d seen enough folks glancing at all the work being done with curiosity.

She tapped a pencil against her red cheek. A notebook containing such scribblings as “hire cook”, “window curtains too frivolous?”, and several different font styles for the tavern’s name sat in her lap. The carriage rattled over some particularly hard cobbles as she tried to draw up the perfect layout for all the taproom tables.

A line of graphite smudged under her hand. “Shit.”

Outside, her ears caught the sound of cabbies calling to each other as her carriage approached an intersection. “Soren better be careful tonight,” Remy muttered, taking the opportunity to sketch a new layout as the vehicle slowed. She bent over her notebook, trying not to think about

anything

Xeblob had said--or Soren’s reckless disregard for her own safety. Trying to catch a killer by matching that very killer’s profile and wandering alone around the Docks Ward was just

asking

for trouble. Duty to the city, and all that.

The carriage lurched to a halt. Remy’s ears perked up at the sound of raised voices. Something, some street instinct, had her ducking just in time to miss a heavy crossbow bolt that shattered the carriage window and stuck fast in the cushions where she’d been sitting.

By the time she heard the heavy thud of the cabbie’s body sliding off the driver’s box, Remy was already moving. She shoved open the opposite door only to lose her balance as the carriage suddenly took off again.

A rough-looking half-elf swung down and landed on the edge, still clinging to the roof rail. “’Ello, Miss Sinnah,” grinned the man. “We’re just gonna go for a little ride now, compliments of Mr. Victoro.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Clouds covered the moon. Leaves stuck to cobbles, still wet from the day’s earlier rain. The scent of brine and the call of seabirds filled the air. Soren drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders and hurried on.

All around her the Docks Ward wended in a gloomy, endless twist of muddy roads and back alleys. The night air kicked up a thick mist that obscured objects and people more than a block away. At this hour most folk kept to the taverns and warehouses, either drinking or wishing they were. She’d begun her search at the wharf and steadily made her way inland, turning wherever her feet chose to take her. Soren passed windows glowing a soft orange from inner candlelight, full of patrons, ale, and laughter. Once or twice she glanced up to the second story level of a building to see couples engaged in lovemaking. But such comfort was not for her.

No, Soren thought as she leaned against the side of a building to fish a pebble from her boot, she’d had the brilliant idea of going after the Dockside Slasher. There was no plan, really, other than she fit the profile of the murder’s other victims; just an elf, walking alone.

Most of those killed already had been sailors or tradesfolk, but no adventurers. Perhaps it was a foolish assumption, but if she could help, if she could make a difference with her skills, then Soren hoped to put an end to this. She shuddered to recall the touch of Rezmir’s knife and rubbed at her throat. Each of the Docks Ward victims had been decapitated. It was not a fate she wanted to tempt a second time, yet here she was, doing just that.

Pulling her boot back on, Soren paused in lacing. Something, some sixth sense, tugged at her attention. Try as she might, however, she couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Her soles left prints in the mud as she hurried on.

High, high above the street level, in the lee of a large gable, several pairs of glowing red eyes watched Soren cross the street and disappear into another alleyway. Another set of eyes glowed across the gap between buildings. Signals flashed in the otherwise impenetrable gloom.

She is searching for us. Do we follow this one?

Only a brief pause elapsed before the reply came.

Fetch the others. It is time for the hunt!

Grins answered all around, savage and full of the light of hatred.

~

Remy held up her hands, one corner of her mouth twitching nervously. “H-Hey there, I, uh, I don’t know any Victoro--”

“Mr. Victoro wants to see ya regardin’

family matters.

Now, be a good girl’n come along nice and quiet-like.” The half-elf seized her by the collar and brought her close enough to his face that she could smell the beer on his breath. “Nuthin’ ta worry about, Miss. We’re professionals.”

“You certainly don’t

smell

like professionals.”

The half-elf snarled. Behind him cobbles and buildings clattered by. Shouts filled the air as people threw themselves out of the way of the careening vehicle. By the sound of arguing in the driver’s box, there were clearly at least two goons. Remy felt the opposite side of the carriage rock heavily in response to one of the men jumping down. Sure enough, the shadow of a large half-orc obscured the window. One tug was enough to tear the door from its hinges. It threw up sparks as he tossed it to the ground.

“Boss says we gotta bring ye in,” growled the half-orc around his rather impressive tusks. “Didn’t say nuffink ‘bout if yer legs was broken when we deliver ye.”

“You know, haha, you make a

very

compelling argument--

oh my god, is that your mother?!”

she gasped, pointing dramatically behind the half-orc.

He spat to the side and grunted out an unconvincing chuckle. “Me ma’s been dead these past five years. Nice try.”

“Your loss.” Remy shrugged.

“What?”

The half-elf clapped a firm hand on her shoulder from behind. “Don’t make this difficult, now.” He chuckled as Remy hung her head. “Tha’s right. We’re just gonna take a nice, quiet ride--”

Quick as lightning, Remy threw her head backward. The curve of her horns slammed against the half-elf’s temples with a sharp

thock

. She seized the half-orc by the collar and whipped forward, smashing her forehead directly into his nose. The movement had her seeing stars but she didn’t dare stop.

Some instinct had her kicking out, the well-placed blow catching the half-elf between the legs. He jerked back, losing his balance. A sharp, high-pitched noise left his mouth as he tumbled out of the open carriage door and hit the cobbles at speed, rolling out of sight.

The half-orc, blood streaming down his face, coiled his fist for a vicious punch. It hissed by Remy, narrowly missing her in the cramped quarters of the carriage. Strands of her hair ruffled in the breeze.

No one so far had remained standing after being hit with one of her headbutts. Remy laughed nervously. She smashed the hard ridge of her brow line into his face again, a third time. At last, his grip loosened enough for her to shake herself free.

She leapt out of the door, hanging onto the top rail. The wheels threw up sparks as they clattered along the uneven cobbles. Her black hair whipped out behind her. “Sorry!” she called as a promenading couple had to throw themselves out of the way of the high-speed carriage.

A curse from the driver’s box caught her attention. The thug driving the carriage hauled on the reins with all the expertise of a mason in an alchemist’s shop. “Slow down, ye daft beast!” he shouted, yanking hard.

The morgan mare gave a defiant whinny. She tossed her black mane, eyes wild.

In that frothing mouth and deadly hooves Remy saw her best means of escape. A quick glance behind told her that there was another carriage in hot pursuit, more of Victoro’s men no doubt, ready to do whatever damage they had been paid to do--plus a little extra on the side.

“Pardon me.” Remy flipped herself up into the driver's box.

A moment later the man went flying. His head cracked on the poles and breeching on his way down, tangling his arm in the straps. The thug hollered and flailed as the trace twisted his arm.

That

got the mare’s attention. Her iron shoes sent up sparks on the cobbles as she clattered to a halt. A shrill whinny left her mouth as she reared. “Unhand me at once, you brute!”

Despite the rush and the thunder of the carriage under her, Remy had to shake her head hard to clear it. Had the horse just--

“Jus’ wot I bloody need,” the half-orc growled, pulling himself up on the opposite side as Remy. “A bloody talkin’ horse.” His big, meaty hand clapped down on the driver’s box, making the wood splinter.

The mare managed to shake free the man tangled in her straps. She reared once more, powerful hooves coming down with heavy purpose. Bloody splattered across the road. A passersby screamed.

Remy looked several times in quick succession between the thug and the horse. “You know, haha,” she laughed nervously. “On second thought, let’s take a raincheck, yeah?”

The half-orc snarled and swiped for her. His fist met only open air.

Remy leapt for the mare’s back and nearly met the same fate as the last man. She wrapped one hand around the backband and pulled out her rapier with the other. “Hi, sorry about this!” she called over the mare’s frantic whinnies. “I’m a friend!”

“Brigands!” the mare cried, rearing again. Her deadly hooves pawed at the air. “This

explicitly

goes against my contract! Un

hand

me, I say!”

Clinging for dear life, Remy hacked at the connecting straps. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The constant jolts kept knocking the half-orc back in the driver’s box. Behind him, though, Remy could see the second carriage bearing down on their position. Right now, this horse was all that stood between her and a place at the end of Victoro’s ritual dagger.

“Hey, girl, listen--”

“It’s

Maxeene

,” the mare snorted. “Waterdhavian Chapter President for Equine Labor Rights.”

Remy gritted her teeth as a few of the straps came loose. She tossed her rapier between her hands and started frantically hacking at the straps on the opposite side. “Just my luck, a

union

horse,” she grumbled.

“I’ll have you know--”

“Maxeene, I don’t care if you’re Laeral-goddamn-Silverhand, we--” The loin strap finally gave. Its tension slapped Remy across the wrist. She cursed. “We are under attack!”

The mare shook her head, nearly whipping Remy in the face with her black mane. She pranced roughly, shying away from the collision trajectory of the other carriage.

It screeched to a stop, three human males jumping down from the footmen’s step and the driver’s box. “Get ‘em! Mr. Victoro wants the tiefling alive!”

Maxeene gasped, the sound sharp and high. Her brown eyes rolled, showing their whites. “

Union busters!”

she cried.

“Yes, yes exactly!” Remy clung to whatever vestige of sanity was going to get her out of this predicament. “Union busters! You--

we’ve

got to get out of here!”

One of the men, a fellow who had

clearly

never handled a horse in his life, rushed at them from behind. In the same instant, Remy’s rapier cut the tracing strap, severing their connection to the carriage. Only instinct saved her.

The entire world pitched forward as Maxeene sprang onto her front legs. Her hindquarters exploded into motion with all the force of a smokepowder bomb. The poor fool who’d been within striking distance received the full impact of Maxeene’s equality-driven wrath. He flew through the air as if launched from a trebuchet. A sickening crunch followed when his body met the cobbles, a full depression of a hoof in his caved-in chest. He did not get up again.

“I didn’t know horses could kick omni-directionally--” Remy began.

Maxeene whinnied again, shying away from the half-orc, who leapt for her reins. Her next, very well-placed hoof, caved in his entire knee. He went down screaming.

“The movement!” Maxeene gasped, shaking obsidian strands of mane from her eyes. “Friend! Remove my blinders. We must warn the others!”

Not daring to disagree at this point, it only took a few flicks of Remy’s rapier for the blinders to fall away entirely. “Warn who--”

“No time!” The moment her blinders fell away, Maxeene surged forward, taking Remy along for the ride--

--whether she wanted it or not.

~

It was not that Soren noticed someone following her, exactly. Her boots splashed through puddles, splattering mud against the worn leather. Every other step her bow bumped softly against her backside. In the thick sea mist, every corner seemed unfamiliar, every barrel became--however briefly--the outline of a would-be attacker.

Something had raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

It was the silence, she decided. Quite without meaning to, the length of her stride increased. Not even the Docks Ward was so quiet at night. There were taverns, late business, deliveries, friends wandering about town, beggars, and, of course, elves--who kept no schedule but their own.

Foolish! Here she was, a woman, walking alone. Only a dragon would think that a single killer, regardless of skill, could not possibly pose a danger. Stupid,

stupid!

What on Toril had she been thinking?

She was being hunted.

Only when Soren rounded a corner rather too quickly to find herself in a dead-end alleyway, did she realize that she’d been herded, as well.

Out of the corner of her eye, on the roof of the warehouse above, she spied three small, skinny-and overall

familiar--

outlines. They crouched at the top of a pulley beam that led down to a pallet and tied-down crank on the ground. The three orphans; Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly, peered over the eave like wayward young gulls, ready to fly into bravado or retreat at any moment.

Before Soren could call up and demand to know what they thought they were doing, and didn’t they know there was a killer on the loose, she became aware that her uneasy feeling had not originated with

them.

She whirled around, just in time to see a man all in black materialize out of the fog.

They were nearly of a height, she and he. He dressed in serviceable ebony leathers piped in silver. A Lantanese pistol and a shortsword hung at his hip. The emblem of a spider adorned the front of his chestpiece. A pair of blazing,

glowing

red eyes stared back at her. Before he even reached to lower his cowl, Soren knew what she would see.

“Drow,” she breathed, hackles rising in fear. On all of Toril there were few sights more terrifying, few people more sadistic or deadly than the drow of the Underdark. Sacrificers, mad evangelicals of the highest order, slavers, cold-blooded killers, all of them, to a man, dedicated to their wicked spider goddess.

“Very good, pretty little faerie,” the drow growled with a savage grin. His thick accent gave his voice an almost beautiful, musical quality, despite the hatred in it. “What is it doing, wandering all alone?”

Soren’s gaze caught the flicker of more shapes behind the drow. At first her heart leapt that it might be rescue, some well-meaning fellow citizen--until she saw the red pinpricks of light that informed her just how dire her predicament had become. Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. “Wh-What are you doing in Waterdeep?”

The drow at the front began a slow, predatory circle, forcing her to look away from his incoming friends. He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “We are the Bregan D’aerthe, the scourge of the Sword Coast. We do what we please, for coin or pleasure.”

The other men who came slowly, silently, out of the fog, all wore a similar uniform. She could read nothing on their faces, visages hard as stone. But their eyes…

…their eyes were hungry.

“You’re the Dockside Slasher.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been killing all those people.”

He smiled. A panther who knows he is about to eat. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Soren couldn’t help it. She took a step back, yielding ground.

The man looked positively animal, so naked was his bloodlust. He was a bit of a broad fellow, with a handsome, if severe, face. A long scar ran down one side of his jaw. There was a high song of sharpness and metal as he drew his shortsword. “Because,” the drow said, venom mixing with beatific certainty, “your kind

disgust me.

”

Soren swept the expressions of the other men and found no allies. No, they were all here to kill, to satisfy some perverse drow need for bloodshed. Her sweep passed by the cargo platform. If she could just get there and cut the cord on the pulley crank, the descent of the ballast would whisk the platform upwards. She might just be able to ride that to the rooftops and, if she was lucky, escape.

Bregan D’aerthe. Soren tried to focus in on her memory, to recall something.

Anything.

Wait, yes--there it was! A Harper briefing? No, a paper on Renaer’s desk! A dossier she had caught him reading that very morning on her way down for breakfast.

Disgraced noble sons and common men, all castaways from their place in the highly competitive world of drow society. They were a mercenary company, rumored to take any work, no matter how dastardly, always selling their services to the highest bidder. Once signed into a contract, once a target was given, they executed their mission with ruthless efficiency. With a leader shrouded in the greatest of secrecy, they weren’t the sort of people Soren wanted to get mixed up with under the best of circumstances. Even a good drow was merely a neutral ally waiting for a chance to strike, should the situation turn in his favor.

Soren had lived nearly eight centuries, most of it alone after her younger, hoard-collecting days. Mirror-Lake and its mountain cave had ever been her solitary home. If there was a drow on all of Toril who was truly a kind man, Soren had never heard his name.

The flat of the drow’s blade propped up her chin. Its razor’s edge so close near her throat that Soren hardly dared breathe. “Still, you are…” His red gaze flicked up and down, appraising her form. “...adequate. A fine prize for a decent addition to my purse.” A single dusky finger touched her cheek. Soren couldn’t tell what he hated more: her elven appearance or his own lustful response. “Perhaps you would make a good pleasure slave in Menzoberranzan.”

A chorus of low, chilling chuckles passed through the gathered men. “Which will it choose, I wonder,” the drow said, his lip curled in vicious superiority. “Death--”

“--or service?”

Later, Soren wasn’t certain how she’d managed to move that fast.

She spat in his face. His flinch gave her enough time--

just

enough--to reach the platform and cut the rope to loose the ballast.

In a hissing of hemp cord and the clunky whizzing of its salt-rusted pulley system, the ballast fell two feet before stopping entirely. The platform beneath her feet failed to move so much as an inch.

Nonplussed, Soren blinked.

“Haha,” she said, meeting the gaze of the enraged drow.

The gathered men moved as one, the click of their Lantanese pistols the only sound they made. On all of Toril, there was nothing so silent--or so deadly--as a drow. It played out in slow motion; the crouch before the lunge, the aim before the volley. Red eyes burning, burning into her. She might be able to kill one, seriously injure another, but she couldn’t take on a whole mercenary strike team all by herself.

At that moment, several things happened all at once.

The lead drow sprung, sword cutting through the mist like a dervish. Soren saw it arcing towards her. Her own coin-gold eyes looking back at her out of the sword’s reflection.

A rowdy cheer went up from the rooftop, followed by a wild clunking.

“You know,” Soren stalled nervously, “maybe we could work something o--!”

The ballast dropped like a two-ton brick. Halfway down, Soren felt her arm nearly jerk out of her shoulder. The drow’s sword caught the edge of the platform, splintering wood, as it shot into the air.

Soren fully expected to light upon the roof with all her natural grace. Instead, the hissing rope hit another knot, jerking her wildly before falling again.

Knowing she wouldn’t get a second chance, Soren leapt, half propelled by the platform’s momentum and half by her own. She clotheslined into the side of the eave. All the breath blasted out of her lungs, her chest burning.

The jump landed her right in front of Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly.

“Wow!” Squiddly exclaimed, his face as excited as it was terrified. “You’re gonna die!”

Soren scrabbled for purchase on the grey shingles. A resounding

crack

of smokepowder filled the alley. A moment later Soren felt searing pain as a bullet grazed her shoulder. Whizzing by with dizzying speed, several other lead shots missed her by mere inches.

The roof would be safe, they wouldn’t be able to follow her up--

“Wow!” Jenks echoed. “They can fly, too!”

Fear lent Soren strength. By the time she’d scrambled, in a very undignified way, to her feet, the kids had backed up.

Squiddly brandished a child’s bow with a toy arrow fitted in the notch. “Leave this to me, I can take’em!”

Nat flashed an urgent sign.

“Uh, Nat says we should--” began Jenks.

“There’s no time!” Soren shouted, seizing Squiddly by the arm. Another Lantanese bullet went streaking by her head. One glance over her shoulder was enough to confirm that the drow were, in fact, levitating towards them at all speed.

“RUN!”

~

Remy clung on to Maxeene for dear life. Sure, maybe the horse needed to come to terms with the way things actually worked, and maybe it wasn’t really polite to judge, but she was fairly certain that all horses, if not

this specific horse, needed

a psychiatrist.

The Chapter President for Equine Labor Rights had a great deal to say on their wild canter through a maze of back service alleys. As far as Remy was concerned, ‘union’ was just a fancier way of saying ‘guild’. But she did admit that ‘collective bargaining’ had a bit of a decent ring to it.

Besides, as long as Maxeene was in the process of trying to convince Remy to be a sympathizer to The Cause, she kept running. And as long as Maxeene kept running, Remy stayed alive.

She risked a glance back over her shoulder and immediately wished she hadn’t done so. Victoro’s men had horses of their own, steering them--albeit not quite as well--down the twisting streets. They were gaining on her.

Keep Maxeene talking, that was key.

“Does your organization include ponies as well as horse--ah, other equine folk?” she panted. Sure, she’d

seen

plenty of horses. But ridden one? Not in a million years.

“No!” Maxeene snorted, as if that were the most ridiculous suggestion. “Their body is smaller, so the Devil is greater within them.”

When Remy had escaped Baldur’s Gate, she’d done so by scarpering from the scene as fast as possible. Once on the outside, she’d hidden in the first available barrel, only to find that it was full of fish. Not daring to risk capture by the Flaming Fist, she stayed put until the barrel itself was rolled onto a merchant ship bound for Waterdeep. It had taken

days

to get the smell out of her hair and her clothes. Needless to say, operating a horse was as foreign to her as wings on a kobold.

They careened around a corner just in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding a crossbow quarrel. It smashed into a brick just shy of Remy’s head. The tiefling thief had enough time to redirect her attention forward, to the wide gap in buildings ahead of them. Maxeene charged ahead, heedless of the broad intersection directly in their path. Even from here Remy could tell that the evening rush hour was in full swing.

“Uh, Maxeene--” Remy tugged on the leather strap in front of her, desperately trying to bring the insane mare to heel. “Now would be a good time to slow down!”

“Negatory, comrade!” Maxeene whinnied, tossing her black mane. “Now is as good a time as any! Today, we are mere heroes, liberators of the masses; tomorrow we shall be union men!”

“What does that even mean--”

The mare bent her head into the run, her discordant strides becoming one coordinated motion. Maxeene’s hooves picked up the pace, and she closed on the intersection like a vengeful god. Behind them, Victoro’s men gave a shout as the mare soon outstripped them.

Maxeene and Remy burst out of the side street and into the congested crowd. Passersby cried out in alarm. Folk carrying packages rushed to get out of her way. A dwarf toppled over, spilling a sack of barley. Several carriages rattled as their harnessed horses whinnied in distress at the sudden noise and panic.

“Now is the time!” Maxeene declared, giving an impressive rear that nearly sent Remy tumbling off her back. “My comrades! My brothers!”

Remy clung to the mad mare for dear life. No sooner had she found her center of gravity, tail whipping through the air, Maxeene did some other daft thing, and the tiefling had to flail wildly to avoid being thrown to her death.

“What in Tymora’s name are you

doing?!

” Remy shouted.

One look over her shoulder confirmed that Victoro’s thugs were still in hot pursuit, taking advantage of the road block the crowd provided.

Twisting around and around as Maxeene pawed at the air, she caught sight of an alley on the opposite side of the road. Remy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Everybody MOVE!”

“Workers of the world, throw off your chains!” Maxeene cried, heedless to the parting mass of bodies.

“Now is NOT the time!” Remy shook the belly strap and gave Maxeene a few hard kicks. “We have to run or we’ll be killed!”

All around them mare and geldings began to buck and snort. Drivers, passengers, and riders gave shouts of fear, some scrambling to vacate their carriages.

“Come ON,” Remy hollered desperately. The clattering of their pursuers’ hooves rang on the cobbles. Too close. “The movement can’t succeed if you’re captured!”

That

got through to the mad mare. “Excellent thinking, comrade!” Maxeene wheeled about on her back legs, giving one last rousing whinny as she and Remy disappeared down the empty alley. “Resist the harness! Resist the bit! You have nothing to lose but your bridles!”

Remy laid low over Maxeene’s neck as they turned sharp corners. Yells and shouts of condemnation echoed after them. “Hurry, hurry!” she urged.

Maxeene scrabbled around another tight turn, onto a wider side street. “Good sir,” she cried, “make way! Make way for progress!”

“Oh fuck me.” Remy raised her head, fighting to see past Maxeene’s whipping mane.

There, making his way

verrrry

slowly across the empty intersection, was an old monk with a walking staff. Remy had to blink twice. Were his robes made of

gold?

He looked to be at peace with all the world and all the creatures in it, going along at the most sedate pace possible. Around his shoulders chittered and flew seven gold canaries.

In the split seconds before the distance between them closed, she tugged on Maxeene’s strap again. “Jump, for Tymora’s sake, JUMP!”

For the first time, the mare obeyed her. Not breaking her stride in the least, Maxeene bunched her powerful muscles and launched herself into the air.

Time slowed for Remy.

She squeezed her eyes shut. How would she explain to Soren that she had been piloting a crazy equine beast at just the right time to mow down a defenseless old man? The sensation of flying, weightless for a moment, engulfed her.

The old monk continued his walk as if he did not at all see the danger that sailed precariously close to his head.

Maxeene’s hooves shed dust as they crested the monk. The outer edge of her iron shoe came within a razor’s width of one of the canaries in flight. Wind from their passage ruffled the hem of the man’s robe.

As Remy felt them begin to descend, her eyes unscrunched. They hadn’t hit him! Maybe they’d get through this alive yet! Her eyes opened, only to be met with a dark shape that filled her whole vision.

Remy had not even a second to wonder at that before her face met the shop sign at full gallop. White-hot pain exploded in her skull and then all over her body as she tumbled, limp as a ragdoll, to the ground.

~

“Good thing we found you!”

“Yeah, you’re safe with us, now!”

Soren didn’t have a second to spare to glance at her pursuers. They were drow; deadly and efficient. Truth be told, she wasn’t certain if she was trying to escape slavery or death. Did it matter, with the drow?

She windmilled her arms, crossing a narrow gap between buildings. Shingles cracked under the impact of her weight. Soren ran on, accompanied on all sides by the orphan children. If they weren’t so very clever and very,

very

fast, she might have mistaken them for being helpless.

“What on Toril are you three doing down here?” she panted.

Jenks brightened up. “We were following you!”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah!” piped Squiddly. His whipping red tail gave him the best balance out of all of them. “We know the upper city like the back of our hands! We were gonna catch the killer!”

Jenks grinned. “We were gonna be heroes! Then there were six instead of one,” he added sheepishly.

“But it’s

dangerous,

” Soren pointed out, vaulting over a steep gable. Her larger, adult body had to work harder to calculate her strides to match the children’s; what could and could not take her weight. If only she had her wings!

“Duh!” Squiddly rolled his eyes. “That’s why we’re rescuing you!”

Nat ran at the head of the group. In all honesty, Soren was following the lanky Illuskan girl through the maze of rooftops and chimney stacks. She fired off a series of quick signs, not bothering to check if the boys--or Soren--received them.

Squiddly punched the air with both fists. “YES!” he crowed. “Peanut Butter Run!”

“Aw,” Jenks frowned to Soren’s left. “But, but!”

“Wait,” Soren gasped, running along a steep ridgeline. “Peanut Butter

what?

”

Ignoring her, Jenks made a face at Squiddly. “But that’s my Dock’s Ward stash!”

“Sod off!” Squiddly shouted from Soren’s other side. “I know you’ve got some in your robe!”

“

What

,” Soren said sharply, “is a Peanut Butter Run?” She ducked just in time to avoid a clothesline strung between two buildings. Her brown braids fanned out behind her. Always one for practicality, she secured her shortsword the moment she could spare a glance down at her scabbard.

“It’s what we do to get away from the Watch!” Squiddly said, not seeming too frightened by the six drow only a dozen yards behind them--and gaining fast.

Jenks reached into his robes and pulled out a glass jar of peanut butter. “But

Squiddly

,” he whined. “This is my special jar, it’s only for emergencies!”

“Anytime you get hungry is an emergency!” the young tiefling shot back at his friend. It was a well-trod rib, and neither of the lads yelled with anything other than brotherly annoyance. He glanced at their leader’s flashing fingers. “Nat says just do it!”

The skinny Illuskan girl only looked back once, trusting in her companions to follow instructions. She put on a burst of impressive speed, her bare feet practically spitting roof tiles as she turned a hard corner.

Soren soon saw why. The moment Nat ducked left, the ranger suddenly saw that a larger road separated this building and the next. There was no way to jump it, yet they would have to cross if they were to escape the Bregan D’aerthe. She banked left at the last moment.

Jenks took up the rear. With a sigh of “Aw, man!” he tossed the jar of peanut butter behind him.

It shattered on the roof tiles. Tinkling and cracking, the glass fell away. A large smear of peanut butter covered the roof in front of a blind dormer.

Running slightly slower so that Jenks could get in front of her, Soren’s head snapped around at the sound of an angry shout.

The lead two drow cut around the corner at top speed. What fear did they have of one lone elf and three surface children. How much trouble could they really be?

Soluun Xibrindas, leading his fellows in this merry hunt, gave a savage and hungry smile. The wood-elf’s look of fear was almost as sweet as the death he had imagined for her. They had managed to beat a hasty retreat from Baldur’s Gate--

before

the Absolute Crisis got into full swing--and he had not had the free time he was accustomed to, to hunt and kill as he pleased. Not that the Captain knew anything, of course. Soluun and those of similar mind were all sworn to the highest of secrecy,

especially

Teryn Duskryn. If their…‘recreational activities’ were discovered, Soluun had all the support he needed within their little clique to implicate Teryn instead as the catalyst for these games.

A few crack shots of his Lantanese pistol and Soren gave a cry. Blood ran down from where the bullet had clipped her shoulder, staining the back of her moss-colored tunic. Soluun’s grin grew even wider.

Run, iblith, while you can.

Her fear really was delicious. Perhaps he would savor it; have a bit of fun before ripping her life from her body. Would she scream when he took her? Weep as he and his fellows used her for their pleasure? Soluun could not suppress a dark chuckle. He hated surface elves more than he hated anything else. Oh yes, he would make the ranger beg for her life while he fucked her. And only once release was reached, only when her freedom seemed imminent, would he make the final cut.

Soluun drew even with the dormer, Teryn Duskryn hot on his heels.

One moment, he was happily undressing the wood elf with his gaze, and the next thing he knew, both feet flew out from under him.

Teryn crashed into Soluun with a violent curse. He scrabbled for balance on the peanut butter trap, but only for a moment.

In a heap of dusky limbs and web-patterned armor, both men went tumbling off the roof to land in the street below.

Soren looked back over her shoulder as Squiddly gave a vicious, exuberant cheer. “FUCK yes!”

“Language, young man!”

The remaining four drow ignored their fallen companions. The hunt was on, and between their drumming blood and the sight of their prey, they would stop for nothing.

Nat leapt out from the roof onto a taut ratline. She scampered across the street from on high, the boys and Soren close behind.

Soren was not certain the ratline would take her weight, but now was not the time to be doubting her guides. “Do you three know

everything

about the city?” she managed to ask once they were safely across.

“Everything worth knowing!” said Squiddly.

“Yeah!” said Jenks. “Like where to find the best pies!”

Soren smiled briefly. “I hesitate to ask,” she said, losing her mirth as she watched the Bregan D’aerthe begin to cross the ratline with more precision than she’d been able to manage.

“Nite Nite Fatty’s!” the boys cheered together.

They had gained a decent distance. Nat jumped over to a lower warehouse roof. Instead of heading alone the ridgeline, she veered across the middle. Soren followed, boots clanking on the sheets of tin.

A large square shape revealed itself in the dark, situated just beside a flat hatch. Nat skidded to a halt, motioning Squiddly to take the lead. As soon as all three had passed her she slammed open the latch on the square box, revealing the dovecote inside.

The moment the drows’ heavy footsteps rattled the roof, the unhappy doves burst out of their cage. Scratching feet and a flurry of angry beaks beat about their faces.

Rough laughter left Nat’s mouth as she sped off to catch up to her group. Soren gave her a passing pat on the shoulder as the young Illuskan girl zipped into the front position again. A few signs tossed Squiddly’s way and he saluted her smartly.

“Aye, aye ma’am!” he replied in his usual chipper fashion. He twisted around, running backwards for a few strides. The young tiefling blew a raspberry at the pursuing drow. “Nyah! Slowpokes! Can’t catch us!”

Another bullet screamed through the air, this one missing Soren by inches. Her shoulder throbbed from where Soluun’s shot had grazed her. Still, she dared not stop. Every breath seemed ripped straight from a forge, and her pulse pounded just as hard. One drow was enough trouble, but four? Nevermind six! She licked chapped lips. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach.

What if there were

more?

“Heads up!” Squiddly said.

Soren pulled her attention back to the task at hand. Ahead, striped fabric covered a rickety-looking balcony. Nat zipped across it, her feet perfectly placed on the thin supporting beams underneath. The children must have crossed it many times, judging by the grimy footprints at four separate intervals. Soren made it in two strides.

She looked back just in time to the very welcome sight of the four drow men crashing straight through the awning. They smashed into the little balcony below, breaking that as well. In a clatter of wood and daub the drow tumbled through the first balcony, a

second

balcony, a hoisting cable, and three separate lines of laundry.

Nat skidded to a stop and triumphantly tossed her black hair out of her eyes. She perched on the side of the roof and folded her arms down at the unlucky drow. Jenks and Squiddly joined her, looking extremely pleased with themselves.

“What did I tell ya?” Squiddly said proudly, puffing out his tiny chest. “Peanut Butter Run. Gets ‘em every time.”

The pile of drow, wood, and plaster groaned indignantly.

After a moment, one of the men managed to haul himself free. His burning red eyes glared up at the group, a reminder that the hunt was not over. Only the round had been won.

And then, perhaps not even that.

They began to extricate themselves, shoving boards aside in an effort to stand when a shrill whistle pierced the night air. “Assassins!”

A stout Watchman stood at the end of the road, his figure and helmet outlined by a rare street lamp. He had clearly heard the crash, and upon rushing to investigate found four of Lolth’s

very angry

children in an undignified heap. But a drow was a drow.

Brandishing his truncheon, the Watch officer started forward. His whistle cried over and over again, calling other guards to his position.

The Bregan D’aerthe did not stick around to answer any inconvenient questions. They bolted into the night, Waterdeep’s finest at their heels.

“Well,” said Soren after she’d caught her breath, “What do you all say I treat you to an all-you-can-eat dinner at the Yawning Portal? And you can tell me everything you know.”

Squiddly put his arms around Nat and Jenks’ shoulders and gave them a squeeze. They did a triple-way secret handshake before Nat turned to Soren and stuck out her hand. Was it the ranger’s imagination, or did Nat actually look happy?

“She says,” said Jenks, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”

~

“Hungry little shits, aren’t they?”

Soren shoved playfully at Durnan’s shoulder. “You’d be starving too if you lived on the street,” she said. One of those rare smiles tugged at her lips.

The ranger leaned on the bar, watching as Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly inhaled a proverbial smorgasbord of everything the Yawning Portal had to offer. She propped her chin in her palm, nearly head to head with Durnan the bartender. Normally stoic folk who preferred actions over words, in the scant few tenday that Soren had spent in Waterdeep, she had found a friend in Durnan.

“I’ll leave this unruly lot in your capable hands,” he said, wiping out a mug with a clean rag. If Soren hadn’t known him so well, she would have said the old badger was smiling under his substantial mustache.

Squiddly leaned in with the others as Nat signed to them. He turned to Durnan, wiping sauce off his face with the back of his sleeve. “We want the hard stuff!”

“Yeah!” echoed Jenks. “Since we rescued Soren an’ all.”

Before the ranger could answer him, Durnan simply said, “Coming right up.” He turned away from the crowded murmur of the taproom. Deft fingers fetched three mugs from hooks on the bar ceiling. The children watched intently as Durnan took the mugs to a keg and poured from the spout.

He came sailing back and slid each foaming mug expertly down the bar and into the children’s waiting hands. “Don’t drink it too fast,” Durnan grumbled in his usual way, “or it’ll put hair on your chest.”

“Whoa!” said Jenks at the same time that Squiddly said, “Sweet!”

Another customer called for Durnan’s attention. As the bartender met Soren’s gaze, he winked. “Just a bit o’ sweet cider,” he whispered. “The little ones’ll be just fine.”

Soren nodded her approval. A bandage had been expertly applied by one of the Bonnies to her shoulder wound. Her leaf-patterned cloak hid the rest.

She swept her gaze across the taproom. There, in the corner, looking only a little worse for wear, sat Threestrings. He plucked out a melody on his broken lute, flirtatiously engaging the attention of a pretty woman. Other than the Harper, only Yagra Stonefist, Remy’s friend, caught Soren’s eye. A slim, blond elf in a blue doublet sat across from the burly half-orc, blithely playing cards with her in front of the fire.

He matched, nearly down to his buttons, Remy’s description of Davil Starsong.

Before Soren could let her curiosity get the better of her, she felt a tug on her sleeve. She looked down to see Jenks, his cheeks smeared with cake frosting. Almost on instinct, she took a rag off the bar and wiped his face clean.

“Miss Soren?” he said, a bit uncertain. “Nat says we’ve received suf--suffic--enough payment to talk with you now.”

Soren leaned to the side and looked in askance to Nat, and then Squiddly. “Payment?”

“Cake!” Squiddly proclaimed. “And desserts!”

“Of course. Cake.”

The four of them found a table out of the way on the second floor balcony. It was a dim little corner, and Squiddly pulled the small candle closer so that he could lean into its underlight and look as mysterious as possible. “All right,” he said, “shoot.”

“When Remy and I first met you,” Soren began, looking between the three of them. “You said there was a gold dragon in the Sea Maiden’s Faire last year. Tell me everything.”

The little buggers really

did

seem to know everything, Soren thought to herself later that evening. She could see why Remy found them endearing.

It had begun to rain. Soren pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders as she hurried down the long block that would take her to Neverember Manor. Given all that had transpired that evening, it somehow didn’t feel safe to return to Trollskull Alley. She turned the children’s information over in her thoughts, picking facts and perceptions out of youthful exuberance.

So the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors had collected the young Cassalanter twins and spirited them off to safety. No one had a clue where Amalia or Victoro had got off to, but as long as they stayed out of the range of her bow, Soren could not find them in order to deliver them to justice. Remy’s article would be run in the paper this tenday outing the Cassalanters as cultists of Asmodeus. That would have to be enough.

As for the gold dragon, the Ragamuffins knew little. It had come with the Sea Maiden’s Faire last year as one of its ‘exotic’ attractions, a juvenile captured in Chult.

That

had raised Soren’s hackles. Dragons were hardly beasts to be shown off as though they were trick ponies or mere carnival attractions. Captain Zardoz Zord, however, thought otherwise. He had filled his menagerie with all sorts of fantastic creatures, dragons included. The dragon was scheduled to be ridden by Captain Zord in the parade last autumn, but before it could be forced to participate, it had set a fire and escaped into the Docks Ward.

Special wards around the city of Waterdeep protected it from dragons. None could enter the city limits, according to that ancient magic. The wards had unfortunately been erected at a far distant time, one where sections of the Docks Ward were not inside its perimeter. Since the dragon’s escape, the children told her excitedly, there had apparently been sightings of something large and golden swimming under the fishing vessels in the harbor.

Soren was relieved that, at least, the juvenile had found its way out of the hands of its captors. If the chance presented itself, she promised to give Captain Zord a piece of her mind about the whole business.

And then there was the matter of the black tom cat with the glowing purple eyes.

“It talks?” she’d said, incredulous.

Squiddly nodded enthusiastically, his wide-brimmed hat bobbing up and down. “He said that he owned the whole town--”

“--but especially the Castle Ward!” Jenks finished for him. “We found him near the gardens of Castle Waterdeep.”

Soren frowned at that. “Have you ever seen the cat do anything strange? Change shape, fly--”

“Oh! Oh! I’ve seen it fly!” Squiddly said, mushing down Jenks before the young boy could speak. “And--”

A sharp hiss from Nat cut him off. She glared hard at the boys, who immediately made sheepish apologies. The girl had met Soren’s gaze, steely-eyed and firm, as if daring the ranger to ask another question. Surely, she knew more than she was letting on, but that wasn’t for

adults

to know.

The cat couldn’t be a familiar, then. It was far more likely, Soren mused as she avoided dark puddles in the road, that the black tom was a wizard or sorcerer. He certainly didn’t match the natural description of any fey creature or familiar she had been able to find in Volo’s book. Either that, or a shapeshifter of some kind.

Soren shook her head. There was little point worrying about it until she could catch the cat and ask him herself.

“Apologies for the late hour,” Soren said to Renaer a little later, once she was safely out of the rain.

The rich foyer had been wallpapered in a dark green with a repeating theme of sheaves of golden wheat. Milk glass oil lamps, turned low for the evening, glowed softly in a neat line down the hallway. An archway opened to the left, revealing a warmly-lit sitting room. From her previous night Soren knew that the parlor in turn connected to the dining room that ran along the north wall of the house. A braided wool runner lay in front of the door, one that darkened as water collected underneath her.

“It’s no trouble,” Renaer murmured with a gentle smile. Instead of the dressing gown of the previous evening, he still wore his handsome, trim blue doublet. Cream-white sleeves hung just so, giving the young Harper a rather rakish air. “Can I interest you in anything? Food, tea? I’m afraid we’ve already finished dinner.”

A loud

harumph

interrupted them. Madrack held out his hands for Soren’s cloak, which she hastily untied. “The Master may inform Miss Chandry that this is hardly a

rental establishment

,” he sniffed.

“Stuff it, old hin.” Renaer cupped Soren by the small of her back and steered her towards the parlor. “I assume another near-disaster has led you to my door again tonight?”

“Correct,” Soren sighed, sinking into one of the plush cobalt chairs.

Heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows, and the one lamp that Renaer turned up cast a ruddy orange glow over the china-blue and white room. Their shadows flickered high on the wall. By the time Soren was finished, Renaer’s copper brows had pinched close together.

“The Bregan D’aerthe,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You’re certain?”

“I noticed the dossier you had this morning,” Soren confessed. “And yes.”

“Sharp eyes.” Renaer leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.

After a long pause, Soren began to fiddle with the hem of her shirt. “...Lord Neverember--”

“Renaer,

please

.”

“...Renaer, have I done something to offend Madrack?” She rubbed at her arm, not meeting his eyes. “I…I’m afraid I’m not very good with people.”

That kind face of his softened. A creak and whisper of fine upholstery met her ears just before Renaer’s warm hand rested atop hers. “Don’t mind Madrack,” he assured her. “That’s just his way. He’s just been rather protective of me, well, not just recently. Ever since I was a boy.”

“From what I’ve gathered, you’re a decent fencer.” Soren raised a brow. “What need would he have to be protective of you?”

Renaer rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “...I was a…bit of a spitfire in my youth.”

“Renaer, you’re

thirty

.” Soren could not suppress a soft chuckle.

He gave a genial shrug. The difference between his lifespan and hers--even had she been a true wood elf--was large indeed. “Aside from all my Harper business, being a ‘hero’ of the city and all that, well. I’m afraid my father, Dagult--”

“The previous Open Lord. Yes, I remember. He was in charge of Waterdeep when I came through the city five years ago, chasing the Cult of the Dragon.”

Renaer nodded. He got up and crossed to the side board, pouring them both a small glass of brandy. “To warm you,” he said, handing the drink to Soren. His touch lingered, his closeness held just a little too long.

“Thank you,” Soren said, a bit awkwardly.

Now it was his turn to flush, the pink spreading underneath his freckles

.

Renaer resumed his seat. “Father tried to have me executed.”

Soren gasped. “No!”

“Yes,” he said, grimacing. “We’d never had a good relationship to begin with. When Mother died, she left everything to me. Ever since then, Father and I have lived apart. He could never return to the manor house where all those memories of his marriage were, and I did not want to be ground beneath his boot heel. Father is…an authoritative man. He expects immediate obedience. Madrack all but raised me himself.”

“But Dagult nearly signed your death warrant?” Soren leaned in, this time taking his hand in hers. “That’s, to condemn one’s own child--” She trailed off, speechless. How could anyone hate their own flesh and blood so much as to order their death--or cause it intentionally?

Renaer swallowed at her nearness, at the tenderness of her touch. He looked away, staring hard at the crown molding. “I was implicated in a plot to murder the next Blackstaff, Vajra. Luckily, I was able to save her life instead, but it was as good an excuse as any for my Father.”

“Dragons and heroes rarely get along,” she said, “but he could have at least given you the benefit of the doubt.”

“...dragons?” Renaer cocked his head, copper hair falling in waves over his shoulder. It shone in the firelight. “I suppose he was a dragon, in a sense. The way he treated Waterdeep, her people, his treasure vault.”

Soren smiled softly. This man, this Harper…he truly cared about the city. Almost as if he were trying to make up for all the harm Dagult had done. Responsibility, honor, duty. Renaer did the Harpers proud. It was only a shame his father couldn’t see it.

“I’m afraid I spent a good deal of my youth in public houses,” Renaer admitted. “Drinking, gambling, and, er, socializing.”

“You mean whoring,” Soren spoke without thinking. "Oh, I didn't mean--"

He laughed, almost as awkward as she felt. “Yes, but that’s not my prerogative these days. I have the Harpers to help, my properties to oversee, and my home to make ready.”

“Make ready?” Soren echoed. “For what?”

Renaer looked at her then, and the distance between them diminished, and it seemed to take a long time before he spoke again. “For a wife,” he said, “and a family.”

Soren practically floated up the stairs to bed. It hadn’t just been her imagination! There was something between them, she was certain of it now. And this place, this house, wrapped around her like a familiar embrace; soft and cozy. She could almost sink into it as she settled into the guest bed, relishing the feel of a down mattress for the second time in as many days.

It was…right.

For nearly an hour she basked in that feeling, in how easy it was to be in Renaer’s presence. But all good things must end. Darkness comes after sunset, and the autumn nights were long indeed.

Soren had no sooner turned down the lamp and curled up under the covers than reality stole back in, as cold and sure as the blade of any trained drow assassin.

When this business was over, when Dagult’s treasure was found, she was going to die. Soren’s soul was spoken for, and no amount of love or passion or truth could move it from Null’s grasp. For the first time since her visit to the Wing, a twinge of regret tightened in Soren’s chest. Death was coming for her and she sensed that it was not too long a way off, either.

What right did she have, to fall in love? To begin to adore someone who would only be devastated when the inevitable greeted her.

But by the same token, should she not love each special moment, each relationship, as fully as she ever would? Here, in the last days of her life, should she not

live?

Soren hugged her knees and stared into the dark. It was a long time before reverie found her, and even that turned into true sleep, as the worry of unanswered questions hopped like lightning between her dreams.

“Bregan D’aerthe, you say?” Durnan had murmured while he applied the bandage. “That’s a nasty lot, Soren. You don’t want to get mixed up with them.”

“It seemed like pure happenstance--ow!” She hissed as he tied the cloth rather tightly.

The old barkeeper shook a finger at her. “An older lass you may be,” he said in a low, gravely tone, “but I’m telling you here and now,

nothing

is happenstance with the Bregan D’aerthe. If they’re in the city, they’re here for a reason.”

“You make them sound like the boogeyman.” Soren raised a sardonic brow. A glance around showed that they were still alone in the back of the kitchen. Through the doorway to the bar, she could just see the Bonnies bringing plate after plate of sweets for the Ragamuffin gang.

“They are, or near enough.” Durnan kept checking the perimeter as well. He seemed…nervous, and Soren knew her friend well enough to know that

nothing

made him nervous. “Drow are deadly enough on their own, nevermind having a group of drow assassins.”

Soren grimaced as he tied the bandage for a final time. “Their leader is supposedly shrouded in great secrecy.”

For the first time, Durnan paused. The crows feet on his face grew deeper as he frowned. “I mean it, Soren. Stay as far away from the Bregan D’aerthe as possible. All I can tell you about their leader is that he is as cunning as a cat; as deadly as the sharpest blade; a master of puppets; and a clever tactician beyond measure. He can’t be out-maneuvered, out-thought. Not for love or money.”

“Please, Durnan,” Soren said. “You can’t really expect me to believe there’s a man out there as good as all that?”

“I can, and he is.” Wiping off his hands, the barkeeper pulled his apron back on. “That man is the meanest son of a bitch ever to walk out of the Underdark. Stay away from him and the Bregan D’aerthe, it’ll be nothing but trouble.”

Soren readjusted her shirt and cloak to cover the bloodstain. “Durnan, if this man is as clever and quick as you say, if nothing is a coincidence…what on Toril does he want with me? Why are his men hunting me?”

“I wish I knew, girl. I wish I knew.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I’m not who you think I am.”

Renaer paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “I…beg your pardon?”

“Before,” Soren started, staring down at her full plate, looking wretched. “Before things get…any more complicated. I thought it best you should know.”

The young Neverember gave a short, closed sigh. “Very well.” His silver fork rang softly as he set it down on the china plate. It was almost impossible to disguise his sudden surge of wariness. So much of his work as a Harper depended on truth, on the ideals he followed. This beautiful wood elf in front of him, well…

Renaer could hardly pick the moment that the warmth had arrived in his chest. Perhaps it was because she had risked her own skin to save him. Perhaps it was because Mirt had corroborated her Harper recruitment in Elturel back during the Dragon War. Or perhaps it was because he saw the same fluttering

something

in her as he felt in himself. More than once he had fallen asleep, haunted by Soren’s face.

They were a decent match. He was outgoing, she was shy. He was booksmart, she carried a ranger’s expertise. They shared the same ideals, spoke the same way. Of course they did, Renaer admonished himself, they were both Harpers, after all.

Unless that, too, had been an elaborate deception.

Golden autumn light poured in through the eastern windows. It spread across the white tablecloth, making the china glow. On the wall behind Renaer hung a lovingly-painted portrait of his mother, with a small, red-headed child on her knee. The faded outlines across the pastoral-green wallpaper spoke silent volumes; once there had been two portraits, the other likely of Dagult Neverember, but no longer.

Renaer squared his shoulders and raised his chin. What Soren had to tell him seemed quite serious, and he would treat it accordingly. Best this happen now, before he found himself too involved to extricate himself from a personal--not to mention compromising--disaster. He noted, however, that Soren had not requested her disclosure remain private. Still, he could not promise himself this would be welcome news. “Soren,” Renaer began, carefully but as kindly as he could manage. It was a kindness he hoped he still felt after she had spoken. “You know you can come to me with anything. Please,” he added, gesturing for her to continue.

“My name,” Soren said, her coin-gold gaze far away, “my

real

name…is Zarrakor.”

~

Remy’s eyes widened in private horror as her breakfast guest took the honey pot and all but upended it into his teacup. “Thanks again for getting me back home,” she said, watching the long waterfall of honey. It was almost like watching a carriage wreck in slow motion. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything else? Or, er, something for your birds?”

“Tea is quite fine, thank you Ms. Sinnah.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr…?”

“Marduk.” The monk in gold robes smiled cheerfully.

Waterdeep was home to fantastic adventurers and folk of all kinds, and still Remy had never seen anyone quite like Marduk, Grandmaster of Flowers. At first glance the night before, his robes had seemed to glow with an inner golden light. Now she could see that they were little more than humble yellow and cream vestments for his holy order. Road dust covered the tattered hem of his robes, revealing bare feet. What she had originally taken for a walking stick, but was truly his pole, leaned against the back of his chair. Remy had no doubts that Marduk was more proficient with it than his appearance suggested. Years of exposure to the southern sun had baked his tan skin to a healthy brown. He was entirely bald, with some type of faded silverish tattoo that ran over his scalp to disappear beneath the collar of his robe. Crow's feet appeared whenever he smiled--and Marduk was

always

smiling. Perhaps she had been mistaken about some aspects of his appearance during the previous night’s hurried chase, but there was no doubt about his eyes. It was almost, Remy thought to herself, as though she were looking at Soren.

Marduk’s smile crinkled laugh lines into being on his high-cheekboned face. No pupils dilated in response to the morning light and he had no irises to speak of, either. Just two eyes like pools of liquid gold. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought the man was blind. He certainly seemed that way--or at least wanted people to think that he was. “I wanted to thank you,” he said, still with that cheerful serenity, “for not running me over last night.”

Remy waved a hand, embarrassed. “Please. I’m just glad you’re not injured. That was not my horse, either,” she added quickly.

“Really? Fascinating.” Marduk lifted the teacup and began to drink the concoction that was by now nearly all honey. He had one of those faces--the calm sort, with a vague eastern look to him--that just made you feel like you could tell him anything. Like the warm presence of a kindly uncle to which one always turns to in times of hesitation or grief.

“So, what exactly is the creed of the Order of Flowers?” Remy asked around the edges of her bagel.

Last night was still a blur, a haze of heart-pounding speed, proletariat propaganda, and the sensation of flying through the air. She rubbed the bruise on her forehead. If she never saw another horse it would be too soon. Remy wanted to squint suspiciously at the peaceful monk across from her. She’d awoken from her sign-induced stupor to find herself in the familiar environment of her own tavern’s porch--and to Marduk, sitting patiently by her side, still smiling with that same, persistent cheerfulness. Obviously he had brought her home, but how he had known

where

to bring her was still a matter to be discussed.

“Honor and respect to righteous innocence.” Marduk relaxed in the newly-made chair and gave a warm sigh as he looked around the taproom. It was all nearly ready for opening night, though there was still that fresh scent of sawdust in the air. “Ms. Sinnah, if I may say so, I find myself curious about your run-in with the Cassalanters.”

Suspicion bristled up Remy’s spine. “I don’t have any connections to the Cassalanters,” she said. Or, at least, that’s what she

tried

to say. What actually came out of her mouth was, “Oh, you know, they were worshippers of Asmodeus. Victoro and Ammalia were planning on murdering 1,000 people just to save the lives of their children. Well, not

all

of their children,” she added, privately horrified at herself. “Soren and I snuck in, raided the place, and found all sorts of evidence.”

“Really?” said Marduk brightly. He held his teacup in front of him with both hands, his movements as delicate as the bending of a swan’s neck. “That must be quite fortunate for you. I understand Lord Victoro is looking for his wife. Would you know anything about her whereabouts, or, perhaps, her death?”

There was no…hint in his eyes that he would blame her if Ammalia had had what Sinrin had used to call ‘a little accident’. Still, she saw him visibly relax when she told him about the strange bat.

“It is important,” Marduk said, just as cheerfully as before, “that those who break the law are held accountable.”

“Of course, there are times when the rules

have

to be broken,” Remy put in.

The old monk, for surely he was an older man who merely seemed spry for his age, nodded slowly. “Perhaps,” said the Grandmaster of Flowers. “Perhaps. I suppose it would depend on a great number of factors. And whether someone was truly working for the greater good of all, and not just personal gain.”

Haha.

One of the canaries was looking at her, she was certain of it now.

They

flashed like true gold, winging up to inspect the rafters and back down again, to rest on Marduk’s slim shoulders.

Marduk sipped his tea-flavored honey. “Now, this female friend of yours. What was her name again?”

“Oh, Soren?” Remy said, dearly wishing her mouth would just stop talking. “She thinks she’s a gold dragon.” Mortified, she waved a casual hand, as if she were not truly in control of her faculties. “Some curse by Bahamut, yadda yadda.”

Marduk’s silver eyebrows raised slightly. It would have been a curious expression if it were not for the distinct impression Remy got that she was very suddenly being looked at by a

very

large cat. Marduk’s look was curiosity if curiosity could be whittled down to the moment experienced by a mouse when a proud tom gave her its complete and unwavering attention. “A curse you say?” Marduk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And do you believe her?”

“I do.” Shut up.

“And she is…well, this dragon friend of yours? Even though she is going to die,” he said, something in his gold eyes appraising Remy. Marduk was no longer smiling. “Despite all that, she is at peace?”

For Tymora’s sake, shut up shutup shutupshutupshutup.

“Seems that way, yeah.” She shrugged, as if embarrassed. “When you know the executioner’s coming for you, what else is there to do than to do your best, yanno?”

Fuck.

Marduk nodded at this. “And what about that other fellow?”

Remy choked on her coffee. “

What

other fellow?”

“You know,” Marduk said innocently, as if he were merely trying to coax it out of her. “It’s you, Soren, and--what is he calling himself these days--Fairweather?”

“Uh, I am pretty sure it’s just the two of us,” Remy laughed with a humor she did not feel. “I would have noticed if there was--”

Marduk didn’t seem to be listening. “Fairweather,” he said again. “A Mr. Avran Fairweather, if I recall correctly?”

“There

isn’t

any Fairweather.”

The old monk’s silver brows drew together in a puzzled pinch. “Oh, how strange. He goes everywhere with you. I could have sworn you three were working together…” Marduk brightened up considerably, his chipperness leaving no room for Remy to ask several sudden,

urgent

questions. “Ah, it’s just as well!” he said merrily. “The fellow’s nothing but trouble anyways. Best not to get mixed up in his business, if you know what I mean,” Marduk added with a conspiratorial wink.

“No, I do

not

--” Remy began, but Marduk plowed ahead before she’d even drawn in the breath to complete her reply.

“Many thanks for the tea--”

“Honey with tea,” Remy grumbled.

“--and blessings upon your establishment.” He paused. Outside Remy could hear the faint, rich ringing of chapel bells signaling the hour. “Ah, is it that time already? You’ll no doubt be wanting to get down to the Docks Ward soon, if you don’t want to miss all the festivities and excitement. Highsun will be here before you know it.”

“H-hey! Hang on!” Remy said as Marduk rose and swept to the door. “You, wait, you’ve gotta explain--”

Those kind, golden eyes looked back in her general direction. His seven canaries, all flashing in their golden plumage, swirled around him like a cape of glittering feathers. That long pole swept the ground in front of him, feeling the way. “Not to worry!” Marduk said cheerfully, “I won’t keep you!”

One tug on the door and it swung wide. A blustery wind pushed its way inside, ruffling the curtains, remaining sawdust, and Remy’s black hair. She blinked hard to clear the fine dust from her eyes. By the time she reached the door to call for him, though, the Grandmaster of Flowers had already disappeared into the warm autumn morning.

“Well, fuck,” Remy said.

~

“A dragon.”

“That’s right,” said Soren, a little apprehensive. She

wasn’t

very good with people, and the glazed, faraway look on Renaer’s face was not very encouraging.

He seemed to be turning her words around in his head, trying to make sense of them. “With wings?”

“Yes.”

“And scales?”

“Yes.”

“Fire breathing, and all that?”

“I did say

gold

, didn’t I?” Soren said wretchedly. “It’s…well, it’s not fine. Look. I can see this bothers you. If, if you don’t want to continue this, well, whatever this is between us, I understand…” Soren trailed off as Renaer put his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” she said for the fifth time in as many minutes. “For what it’s worth.”

Renaer lifted his face, copper hair waterfalling over his shoulders. “For what it’s w--Soren.” The young nobleman shook his head and slumped down in his high-backed chair. All at once Soren could see the dashing, eager hero he must have been only a few short years ago. Every trace of propriety and ‘ought to’ leaving his body in one go. “A dragon! By the gods. Ha!”

“...Renaer?” she said, uncertain.

“For fuck’s sake, Soren, I thought you were going to tell me you’re a

spy.

A gold dragon.” Renaer scoffed again, and Soren could now hear the laughter in his words.

A slight blush turned her cheeks pink. “...I suppose it is rather ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. Oh, the opera!” he said suddenly, smacking his forehead. “Your dress! How could I have mistaken it? And--”

The image of her, sparkling in the amber candlelight, returned to him. Soren’s tiara, shaped like sweeping dragon horns. The way she had known the name of the dragon in the ceiling’s fresco so readily. Her discomfort around ‘other’ humanoids, her strange accent. Changed by Bahamut himself…

No wonder her presence in the city was not prohibited by the dragon wards.

Renaer looked across the table at Soren. Somehow, it didn’t seem right. This woman before him, who by all rights should outlive him by several millennia…this creature of drive and light and strength, sent to correct his father’s wrongdoings. Below the sightline of the table, his hand curled into a fist. He couldn’t deny the feeling that was growing in his breast. No, he knew that now. It was tentative, buffeted by the wind of experience and the eventual heartbreak that lay before him. And he, Renaer Neverember, in the center of it all. What about him could possibly interest a

dragon?

What about him was so worthy of this woman’s last days?

There were so few dragons now.

Once, Renaer knew, Toril had been ruled by these creatures of scale and cunning. They were feared the world over and rightly so. To uncover a dragon’s humanoid disguise was to know such an intimate secret. What man did not tremble underneath a winging shadow? What adventurer’s blood did not run cold when confronted with such alien, magical intelligence? Their great eyes chains of fear, their wings a terrible thunder, their roaring maws a promise of certain death.

But now, in this Age, Soren might fly from one end of the continent to the other and never meet a male of her own kind.

Too few.

The magic, the power all dragons carried by sole virtue of their existence, so intrinsically part of the Weave. Part of Faerun.

What would happen, Renaer thought, when there were no more dragons?

All his boyhood he had read the stories and books in his mother’s library. Ancient legends of elven nations battling a flight of dragons so vast their wings put out the sun. Thousands and thousands sacrificed--and for what? Only the bleeding of high magic from the face of the world. Only the loss of something nameless and necessary.

It would be a sad day indeed, when that beautiful face disappeared from the face of Faerun. Could he, in good conscience, entertain the feeling in his chest, knowing it had a true and definite end?

Ah, but how was that any different from any other love or affection.

“...I do not frighten you?” Soren asked, searching his expression.

Renaer chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “Far from it. You’re certain my mortal company doesn’t bore you? I have but three decades to my name, you have nearly eight centuries.”

The flush on her cheeks only deepened. Soren looked down at her lap, rolling the scalloped edges of the tablecloth in her fingers. Something warm and tender leapt in her breast. “You’re certain my…mortal limitations do not scare you away?”

He leaned forward, extending his hand across the table. Soren took it, her brown fingers locking with his pale ones. “I think it is important to live while you’re alive,” Renaer said. “And if you wish to spend your, ah, your time with me, who am I to disagree?” He squeezed her fingers affectionately. “Today I am attending the opening ceremony for the Sea Maiden’s Faire. I would be honored if you would come as my companion.”

That tender thing in her chest cracked open. All her life she had been alone. Only now did she find friendship. Only now, so close to death, did she find a reason to keep living.

Soren scrubbed at her face with her knuckles. Renaer pretended not to notice. His skin was warm, his touch gentle. “...I will only make you sad,” she said.

“Then I shall try to make you happy.”

How cruel, that one should not truly understand the strength of the wind, the harsh battering of the sea, until one slipped, whole and complete, into a safe harbor. After so long at sea, a lighthouse spotted through a howling storm. It would not change the weather, but it might make the journey bearable.

Live while you’re alive.

She could do nothing less.

“Perhaps,” Renaer said, “there is some loophole, some way around your imperative. I will consult my mother’s library, and the Blackstaff, if Vajra is amenable. There may yet be something, some future for you.”

“You needn’t go to such trouble on my behalf. It, it isn’t, you are not my mate,” Soren mumbled, blushing deeper still.

This time it was Renaer’s turn for his cheeks to redden. He released her hand and combed his fingers through his long copper hair, somewhat self-consciously. “I would do the same for any of my friends.”

“Is that what we are to each other,” Soren said, soft as cotton on a warm summer day. “Friends?”

Renaer suddenly found the other end of the dining room quite fascinating. He stammered out something incoherent, his gaze settling on the door to the butler’s pantry.

Two pairs of eyes peeped out at him from a crack in the door. Madrak and Bramal, no doubt, eager to see if Renaer Neverember, one of Waterdeep’s most eligible bachelors, was finally thinking of settling down.

For several awkward long minutes man and woman said nothing to each other. By some unspoken consensus, Renaer and Soren resumed eating. The chime and clacking of silverware the only sound in the room, aside from the low whiffling of the turned-down lamps.

“That daft fool,”

Soren heard Madrak stage whisper to his son.

“She’s right in front of him, for goodness’ sake.”

Evidently Renaer had heard it too. They shared an embarrassed glance.

A small smile, shy and uncertain, crept its way onto Soren’s face. “Might this new friend of yours perhaps call you ‘Ren’?”

“Only,” he said, washed with relief and no small amount of fluttering in his chest, “if I may call you Zarri.”

~

“I call it, ‘The Cassalanter Conspiracy Cult’!” Remy spread her hands out wide, eyes shining with determined fire. “You’ll sell out faster than you can print, I guarantee it.”

Gaxly Rudderburst sat back in his upholstered green chair. His brown eyes moved back and forth, gazing into the middle distance. Underneath his impressive mustache his lips moved silently, calculating. He looked down again at the golden mask and red cult robes Remy had laid on his desk. “This--” he began, in the voice of a man who can’t quite believe his lucky break has arrived, “--this will change everything.”

“You bet it will!” Remy said, plopping down on the edge of his desk. “The whole broadsheet industry in this town will be looking to

you.

”

“My big break.”

She nodded, head bobbing up and down excitedly. “Prestige.”

“Respect.”

“Exactly!”

Gaxly ran his short fingers over the crimson robe, lost in thought. “And the Black Viper?”

“She’ll be making a substantial deposit into the city’s coffers.”

“Remarkable,” he muttered. “Truly remarkable. And your friend, the wood elf. You’re certain she doesn’t want any money?”

The orphaned tiefling thief pressed both hands over her heart and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Swear it on my mother’s grave,” Remy promised.

Remy practically skipped her way out of the Waterdeep Wazoo. Sure, it had been a weird 24 hours, but now 200 gold coins clinked in several hidden pockets about her person. And if being 200 coins heavier wasn’t an indication that she had a good day ahead of her, then nothing was.

She slipped the just-cooled copy of today’s afternoon edition that she’d filched off the press line and glanced at the headlines. A hot buttered roll made its way expertly out of someone else’s hand and into her mouth as she hopped aboard a dray bound for the Docks Ward. After last night’s shenanigans, she’d probably be safer in a crowd if Victoro’s men tried to give her kidnapping her a second go.

Dockside Slasher found?

cried the opening headline in rather large print.

Four drow assassins chased by the Watch, public urged to exercise caution. Two more dead found early this morning, both employees of the prestigious House Sesso Shipping Company--

Remy’s eyes skipped over the Watch report. As long as it wasn’t Soren’s body being found in some alleyway, she wasn’t particularly interested. Speaking of her missing companion; she reached into her knapsack and exchanged the broadsheet for a thick letter. It was addressed to Soren, but Remy opened it anyway.

To Miss Chandry,

it began in elegant, flowing script,

you are very cordially invited to an evening aboard the

Eyecatcher

as the personal guest of Captain Zardoz Zord. A private dinner and refreshments will be served. Formal dress encouraged but not required.

I remain, your most humble servant,

--Z

Queer that such a letter should arrive on

her

doorstep during her breakfast with Marduk, with Remy none the wiser that anyone had so much as entered the alley, nevermind set foot on her front stoop. The letter felt thick between her fingers. Remy upended it, catching several black rose petals. She blinked at them for a moment, only then registering the spicy scent of expensive cologne emanating from the paper. Her nose wrinkled.

Ah,

it was from a man.

Xeblob’s more-than-cryptic warning rose to mind. Remy turned the letter over in her hands, comparing it with the generic flyer she had received yesterday along with two admiralty tickets. It

also

invited her to a dinner on the

Eyecatcher

.

First that crazy old gnome spouting nonsensical rubbish about some shadow prince, then Marduk’s warning about a certain Mr. Avran Fairweather, and

then

what appeared to be a flirtatious invitation by Captain Zord--and all of it aimed at Soren! Not to mention Marduk himself. Remy doubted Soren would appreciate all the attention. The wood elf was positively conservative about everything else; she would hardly enjoy such interest.

She tried to put it behind her, to tell herself that it was all just coincidence. Remy ran the black petals between her fingers before stuffing them back into the envelope. Underneath her the dray clattered on, bumping and rocking as it made its way in the direction of the Docks Ward. The question--the

real

question--nagged unceasingly in the back of her mind.

Who the fuck was Avran Fairweather?

~

“Zardoz Zord?”

“The very same,” Renaer said.

Soren held onto Renaer’s elbow as they walked up a set of marble stairs that lead to a terrace overlooking the city. “All right,” she said, glancing around at all the neatly-cut topiaries before leaning in closer to her escort. “So the fellow’s a pirate. And Laeral Silverhand puts up with him

why?

”

“Because,” Renaer murmured, waving across the castle grounds to a friend as they approached the terrace, still speaking out of the side of his mouth to Soren, “Father left the economy in shambles. Laeral

needs

Captain Zord, whether she wants to admit it or not. The Sea Maiden’s Faire has infused the city with new life, new trade right before the winter quarantine. We cannot get by without it--ah, here we are.”

A warm sea breeze picked up Soren’s braids and tossed them all about. She crested the final stair to see several other finely-dressed men and women milling about. A long table had been set out with finger food; marzipans, small sandwiches, shrimp, hand pies both sweet and savory. Neatly-dressed servants in the city’s heraldic colors of blue and yellow poured small, fluted glasses of champagne. Waterdeep swept out in a grand, nearly-unending landscape of rooftops and winding streets below the terrace. Up here there was little to impede the view. The largest city in all the Realms, no matter where one looked, spread like a colorful patchwork blanket beneath them--with the only swath of green lawn being the City of the Dead.

Soren found her gaze pulled, almost like the point of a compass, out to sea. A thick fog crept over the water. It obscured the distant islands and lighthouses to even the most discerning eye. White clouds billowed and curled over deep blue waves. It was the same mist that had obscured the Docks Ward the previous night. Curious, that it had not burned off with the dawn.  She shaded her eyes against the sun.

“Well, if it isn’t Waterdeep’s own personal dragon queen,” came a droll voice behind her. Soren turned sharply--perhaps a bit too sharply--to see a young, dark-skinned woman with hair as beautifully windswept and wild as sable dandelion fluff. Youthful though her dimples might be, there was a…weight behind her eyes. A sadness, perhaps.

“Ah, Soren,” Renaer coughed delicately in an attempt to get his friend to stop staring like a hawk. “This is Vajra, the Blackstaff. She is Waterdeep’s most accomplished mage and an old friend of mine. Vajra, this is Soren Chandry, the, ah, the woman I was telling you about.”

The woman who was both old and young at the same time gave a dry chuckle.

“What do you mean ‘dragon’?” Soren asked, blunt and to the point as always.

Renaer winced but Vajra didn’t seem to mind. “Hells, girl. Renaer, didn’t you tell her?” When he blushed she shook her head. “The

opera

,” Vajra said, as though it should be obvious. “Your dress? You lit up that place like a dying sun. The whole town can’t stop talking about you!”

Soren turned pink under her freckles and looked away. “That…” she mumbled, “that wasn’t the point.” It had been for

her

, that dress. As close as she would ever get to her own scales again. There would be no more days of flying.

“Well, for whatever reason you did it,” said the Blackstaff, “you’ve certainly gotten peoples’ attention. Thank you, by the way,” she added. “For the help with the Cassalanters, I mean. Bad work, but it had to be done.”

Soren nodded.

A significant look passed between Vajra and Renaer. “We’ve been trying to catch them at their game for years, but it never quite panned out. Chalk it up to traditional Waterdhavian bureaucracy.”

“Now that that’s been settled,” Soren ventured, “what will you do now?”

Vajra cast her eyes heavensward in a gesture that was so like Remy it put Soren immediately at ease. “Try to find Dagult’s fucking gold, what else? Something tells me this madness isn’t going to get any better until that mystery’s solved. I’m trying to ferret out Manshoon.”

“No easy task.” Renaer grimaced.

“Miss Chandry--”

“Soren, please.”

Vajra grinned. “Soren, then. I’m getting close to the bastard, I can sense it. Not long now and I’ll have him. You and your tiefling friend stand by, I’ll reach out when I need the help.”

Her smile was infectious. Soren returned it modestly, but she returned it all the same. Beside her, Renaer beamed.

A loud trumpet of pealing thunder split the cloudless autumn sky. High above, from a tower courtyard, three gryphons took off. They were magnificent beasts; two bustling with small spots and whorls, the front one a brilliant white that all but glinted in the high noon sun. Each gryphon banked in perfect sync with its fellows. Eagles’ talons rent the air as great wings buffeted it, the gryphons circling in a tight gyre to land on the terrace not far from a row of comfortable chairs the servants were setting out in front of the terrace railing.

“Don’t look now,” Vajra muttered. “It’s the Witch Queen of the North.”

Soren cast her a confused glance.

“Later,” Renaer whispered.

Three people dismounted from gryphonback. From the saddle of the leopard-spotted gryphons came two shrouded silhouettes; sleek, sexless figures cloaked in plum-colored robes and silver masks whom Renaer pointed out as two of the many secret Masked Lords of Waterdeep. The masks, he said, kept the Lords anonymous so that their identities could remain a secret.

“If you ask me,” Soren murmured back to him, looking unimpressed, “a democracy without accountability is a recipe for disaster.”

The young Neverember barely controlled his grimace. “No argument there. At least this way they can’t be bribed.”

“This way,” Soren countered, “you cannot see

who

is bribing them.”

Sliding gracefully to the ground from the back of the white gryphon, stepped an exceptionally tall woman. Flowing, swan-white robes with gold trim whispered as she swept across the terrace. Her eyes were the color of the sky on a cold winter’s day. Even her hair, done up in a coiffure nearly as elaborate as Soren’s own, and falling down her back in rippling silver braids, gave off a stiff air of formality and greatness. As she approached, however, a smile spread across her refined features. If Soren hadn’t recognized the woman as Laeral Silverhand, the Open Lord of Waterdeep, she would have taken that grin as the smile of any eager adventurer.

“Lord Neverember,” Laeral, in much the same warm tone as she might have said his given name, “it is good to see you out and about after your arduous ordeal.”

They bent together, exchanging a brief la bise in the habit of old friends. Renaer cleared his throat as he straightened, noticing once again Soren’s unmitigated stare. “Ah, Miss Chandry, this is L--”

Laeral waved off his introduction with a welcoming nod in the ranger’s direction. “Soren, yes? I understand you are new to Waterdeep. How are you finding the city? Are you settling in well?”

Soren’s brain screeched to a halt. Something inside her cried out that this was a very important moment, a chance to make a good impression with someone whose assistance she may very well need later. A part of her knew she should be gracious, but she hadn’t the faintest idea of what a gracious person might say. Despite the freshly-laundered clothes and last night’s warm bath, Soren had the distinct impression that she was speaking with a wise silver matriarch, one who had many accomplishments behind her and a larger hoard to preside over, besides.

“Why have taxes in the city remained so high if Dagult is no longer Open Lord?” Soren blurted out, the question so eager to get off her tongue it did not even ask her permission to be spoken.

“

Soren,

” Renaer hissed in embarrassed admonishment. “Lord Silverhand, please forgive--”

Laeral held up her hand and Renaer fell quiet. “The governance of a city such as Waterdeep is quite complicated,” she said, appraising Soren with that frigid gaze.

A gentle breeze off the ocean, uninterrupted by the city and still smelling of salt at this height, danced its way across the terrace. It ruffled Laeral’s robe of the magi, disturbing her collar just enough for Soren to catch sight of a dark purple bruise just under the woman’s clothes. The ranger looked away from the lovebite quickly, desperately finding anything else to focus on.

“No,” she said. “Folk like to say that things are complicated. It’s quite simple, really. Difficult, perhaps, but doing the right thing is never complicated.”

“And you believe that by not lowering the taxes Dagult Neverember imposed during the Dragon War, I am…” Laeral politely trailed off, inviting Soren to take the invitation--though it felt more like bait.

Soren crossed her arms, her shoulders squared. “It is not the fault of the people. The high tax rate should not continue.”

“Unfortunately, old Lord Neverember put me in a ‘difficult’ predicament,” Laeral said evenly, quoting Soren’s word choice back to her. “By ferreting his funds away, he has created a dearth of money that would normally be allocated for maintenance and municipal services. I must keep taxes high to bring funds in for that purpose, to keep the city’s economy functioning properly.”

“People who are not taxed so highly spend more money. That

is

a way of raising the required revenue, if I understand the principle correctly. More money spent becomes more money for the city to use as it must. Otherwise you simply draw things out and perpetuate the problem.”

Laeral’s unreadable expression twisted into a small, dry grin. “Well, Lord Neverember,” she said to Renaer, “you’d better keep on your toes. Make your friend a Masked Lord and very soon the Harpers will be out of business. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The Open Lord swanned off across the terrace, leaving Soren a little off her ease at so abrupt an end to their conversation.

Vajra watched Laeral go and whistled low.

“Am I missing something?” Soren asked as Renaer tucked her arm in his once more. Her brows pulled together while her date ushered her to a set of chairs overlooking the city’s robust harbor.

“She said she admires your dedication to being so…forthright,” Renaer said, seeing Soren seated in her chair before he took his beside her. “Not many people would--”

Soren shook her head. “That is because I am not good with people,” the ranger insisted. “I simply do not understand the perspective that leads her to an incorrect conclusion.”

Renaer’s hands were warm as they twined with hers. He kept his voice low, leaning over the arm to speak to Soren where none of the others would hear. Soren found herself heated by his presence, the brush of breath close to her skin. “When you are in such a position as Laeral’s, when you hold so much power, it is

very

difficult to find people who will speak so concisely of their opinions or desires.” Soren opened her mouth to protest but Renaer overrode her. “Everything has a price. Laeral must often consider the hidden agenda of those who are speaking to her.”

“But I don’t have any--”

“I know,” Renaer said, squeezing her hands. “I know you don’t.” He gave a little shake of his head. It would have been one thing to try to explain this ‘intrinsic’ quality of humanoids to an elf. It was entirely another to contemplate explaining it to a dragon. What must it be like, to see the world unadulterated and utterly naked? Renaer supposed that the actions of mortals would seem very strange to a creature that was no more and no less than what it appeared to be. Silently, he hoped Soren could see that he understood her, see it in his smile, in a gentle touch to her cheek. That coin-gold gaze was slowly coaxed toward him. “Remy and I both know you have the city’s best interests at heart. Give Laeral time to know you. Politics is often a game, she must be cautious.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“No,” Renaer agreed. “But giving my father’s gold back to the city will go a long way to undoing the damage he caused.”

“I only hope,” Soren said, knowing full well that the personal cost would mean her life, “that we find it quickly. So that no one else need suffer.”

Turning her attention back to the mist-filled harbor, Soren missed Renaer’s pained expression. He searched her face for…he didn’t know what. Fear? Hesitance? No, none of those qualities befit a dragon. “Are you so eager to die?” he asked her softly. “Do you not wish for a future?”

“I live on borrowed time already. I should have died in that Xanathar hideout--”

“--at an errand of

my

bequest. It is my fault, my

family’s

fault, that you are in this predicament at all.”

“--or on the parapet at the end of Rezmir’s knife,” Soren finished, her response barely a whisper. “That I have this chance…”

Renaer scoffed quietly. “To bend a knee.”

“To

help

,” Soren said. “It is more than I deserve. The longer I delay, the more others suffer. Why should I seek to avoid my own fate?”

He took her chin in his warm hand. “You would be missed.” Renaer brought her closer, his brow gentle where it rested against hers. To such an assertion, Soren had no response. Perhaps, she had never considered that her presence would be noticed, that

who

she was--and not only

what

she did--would be remembered. Either way, her lips were sweet and soft, and the young Harper found something in his chest running away with him, despite knowing exactly where the road would lead.

~

Remy cackled to herself as she scaled a warehouse drainpipe with amazing ease. Her tail whipped joyfully behind her. The climb took her above the press of the crowd. Down here in the Docks Ward every street and every alley were packed as thick as fish in a barrel. Rubbing shoulders had added a little bit more weight to her pockets, though she’d been careful to only pick folks who could afford to lose what she took. She wasn’t

completely

heartless.

The mood of the crowd was infectious. With all the gang fighting and talk of a hard winter coming, the Sea Maiden’s Faire blossomed, as welcome a distraction as any holy day. Food stalls had sprung up, seemingly overnight, their colorfully-painted boards advertising everything from bread bowl chowder to skewers peppered with Calminshan spices. One particular indulgence, grilled pineapple with a spicy kick, recalled memories of visiting the Faire when it made port in Baldur’s Gate every summer. Midway booths with games of chance and skill with prizes to be won, seemed most concentrated down by the harbor itself. Although the Faire had not yet properly opened, plenty of local townies were clearly eager to get the festivities underway.

A thick fog blanketed Waterdeep’s famous harbor. It had begun the night before. Now, the pale mist obscured even the most familiar of wharfs. A little of it had leaked into the city, too, and Remy found herself shaking droplets out of her hair by the time she made the roof. Gryphon riders, ostensibly the city’s cavalry, flew in predetermined patrol far overhead.

She fished a half-eaten apple out of her knapsack and took a place on the warehouse roof’s ridgeline. From this vantage Remy could see above both crowd and weather. The entire apple, core and all, made its way into her mouth.

Now, this was the life. Warm sun and a home to return to when the night got cold. A new friend (who hopefully wasn’t dead), a legitimate business, and Sinrin’s ugly face as far away from bothering her as it could get. A handpie soon followed the apple, Remy devouring the sausage bits and gravy as eagerly as any farmer after a hard day’s labor. She’d barely eaten much since the previous evening, and something about Marduk’s obsession with entirely too much honey had briefly put her off finishing her breakfast.

“My kingdom for Lif,” she groaned, already missing the tavern’s native poltergeist. Somehow, without him, morning coffee just hadn’t been the same. That and she’d oversteeped Marduk’s tea--not that he’d noticed.

Yes, with the Absolute Crisis raging in Baldur’s Gate, Sinrin’s shadow was unlikely to reach much farther than Wyrm’s Rock, nevermind Waterdeep.

All at once a great

boom

erupted from the bay, a flash in the fog bank. Crackling fireworks zipped into the air, trailing black smoke, and burst in a thunderous array of sparkling colors. Now, with the Faire heralded in in proper style, the fog shorn itself away from the wave caps as if it had been cut by a knife. That fissioning white mass turning in ever-sweeping tides back upon itself.

The prows of two proud ships dove out of that retreating mist, their bows cutting a froth through the water. In heaving synchrony emerged both enormous galleons. Any other nation would have considered them ships of war, and each vessel, right down to her cables, dwarfed all other crafts anchored there in the harbor. The moment their figureheads--a unicorn and chimera--burst through the fog bank, the whole of the city shook with a great cheer. There had been no small anxiety that the ships had made it safely out of Baldur’s Gate, their last port of call. But now, to see them carousing through the waves toward the pier, all thoughts of worry vanished.

Hats flew into the air and many a child waved crimson, lavender, and gold-colored pennants in joyous exultation. Even Remy leapt to her feet and gave a swelling hoot of excitement. A different harbor, a different city, but still it was the same! The Sea Maiden’s Faire, an event that had always served to fill the Shiller’s Row crew’s pockets,

meant

something. More than a full purse it inevitably meant that the streets would be filled with happy folk and that there would be, for a time, a city that would seek nothing but merriment and good business.

Almost as if they were actors on a grand stage, the sailors and deckhands emerged with the ships’ beams, clinging gaily to the shrouds. They cried out to the crowd that was swiftly packing the pier, smiles all around. Colorful costumes rippled in the light autumn wind, flashing stripes and discs of beaten gold. As the ships exited the fog bank completely the rest of the mist curled away and dissipated altogether.

The chimera figurehead animated briefly and roared as the crimson-sailed galleon sailed sedately into her dock. At once deckhands began dancing down the shrouds to tie off the ship. Many hands made more than light work; the sailors all but dancing as they tossed cables to one another. No sooner was she at anchor than a great gangway put up. Parade floats rolled their way down to the wharf while members of the Watch urged the crowd to keep to a respectable distance.

If Remy stood on tiptoe, she could just make out ghostly fantastical figures dancing in the air all around the ship with purple sails. And, was that, did she spy

silver

trim winking along the edge of each stretch of canvas? The tiefling thief shook her head in wonder. Captain Zardoz Zord must be an incredibly rich man indeed to afford

three

ships so adorned, nevermind just the two.

Was it her imagination, or did the unicorn figurehead sport a familiar wooden fellow upon its back? She shaded her eyes, squinting against the sun. Yes, yes it was him! Brown leathers and a green cloak, for who on Toril did not know the face of--

All at once Remy found her view of the ship blocked by an enormous swath of red fabric. Taking her hands away from her face, she looked up and up…and up.

The illusion of a man from the waist up towered over nearly all the buildings in the Docks Ward. It hovered for a moment in between the two galleons before throwing out his arms to the city.

“WATERDEEP!”

The crowd erupted, the noise of celebration nearly deafening. Before Remy could quite take in his features, however, the flit of banking wings caught her attention.

A mouse does not live long if he does not learn to recognize the shadow of the eagle. Even the clever barn cat bewares the hawk; as the fish colors his armor to avoid the falcon.

So it was that Remy recognized the tightening gyre of gryphon riders forming above her. For a brief moment her logical mind rejected what the thief in her already knew. Surely,

surely

, their attention was not focused on

her.

Why should it be? There were hundreds of thousands of tieflings living in Waterdeep.

None of them had a 20,000 gold bounty on their heads, she reminded herself.

One of the riders, wearing a feather-crested helm, pointed his long spear down in Remy’s direction. The Faire’s opening announcement and the cheers of the crowd fading into the background. As one, like a flag unfurling before plummeting towards the earth, the gryphons dove.

Ha. ha.

Fuck.

Remy began to run…

~

If there was a definitive idea of what a pirate might look like if he sprang, fully-formed, from the most hearty of seaman’s tales,

that

was Zardoz Zord.

He was a swarthy-looking fellow, broad and chiseled in his handsome features. Long, brown candlestick curls, going grey at the temples, fell in waves over his shoulders. A thick mustache, waxed at the tips, spread wide over his smile as he greeted the crowd. His eyes were the brightest blue, nearly like foxfire, though that might have been the cornflower sky behind him. The man, Illuskan by his thick, northern accent, wore a crimson shirt that opened low enough in the front to expose a rather unseemly amount of chest hair.

As the owner and captain of the Sea Maiden’s Faire flung out his arms in greeting, the crowd below the terrace roared with such a din that Soren heard it even from so great a distance.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and all those in between,” he crowed. “I, Captain Zardoz Zord of Luskan, the illustrious City of Sail, hereby welcome one and all to this year’s Sea Maiden’s Faire!”

“Bravo!” Renaer clapped, grinning at the spectacle.

Vajra nodded in scholarly recognition of so well-executed a spell. “Gets more full of himself every year, doesn’t he?” she said drily to the Open Lord.

Before Laeral could open her mouth to respond, Zardoz’s giant illusory image wagged a paternal finger at the city. “Now don’t you all go thinking I’ve forgotten your favorite acts! There will be feats of wonder such as you’ve never seen! Alluring sirens to tempt your souls! Games of chance to test your skill! Fantastical creatures from far and wide! This year will be a Faire to remember!” he exalted, to yet still more applause. “Our humble, little circus may make port in Luskan, we may visit Neverwinter and Baldur’s Gate, but there is no city that can compare to Waterdeep; the Jewel of the Sword Coast!”

“Together, we will bring adventure and wonderment to

your

doorstep--and we owe it all to the one, the only--”

Please, god no.

Soren’s ear twitched. Even with the rush of the high sun wind, the din of the distant crowd, and the cheers all around her, she could have sworn she heard another voice, quieter. A sound that ran beneath the others.

“--the brave, the beautiful--”

For fuck’s sake. Don’t, don’t you dare.

Zardoz’s large spectral hand flung out in the direction of the Waterdeep Castle terrace upon which Soren and the other officials sat. “--Laeral Silverhand!”

Kill me.

Soren’s glance found her first, a quick dart of a look. The Open Lord leaned on the arm of her high-backed chair, the fingers of one hand discreetly over her mouth. From just the angle Soren sat at, she could see the woman’s lips move. It was only for a moment, but as Laeral resumed her polite, stately smile, Soren saw pale fingers flutter over to the woman’s collar, quickly covering the edge of the lovebite on her skin. And then it was gone, that strange moment, and Laeral was clapping heartily with the rest of them.

“Hm, that’s odd.” Renaer rubbed his chin.

Soren managed to tear her gaze away from the Open Lord. “What is?”

“Those gryphons,” Renaer said. He pointed a way’s off, in the direction of the airspace over the Docks Ward. “They come out in large numbers like this to keep the peace during big events.”

Although the esteemed and long-winded Captain Zord continued his boisterous speech, the gryphon riders put on patrol to deter crime had begun to circle over a warehouse block. If they had merely been hawks, Soren would have thought they were hunting something.

“--ready to face the wonders and challenges that lie ahead?” The crowd in front of the ships answered in a hearty cacophony. Zardoz punched the air and struck a dashing pose, tossing his brown locks back over his shoulder. “Then, my good people, without further ado, LET THE FESTIVAL

BEGIN!”

His illusory image exploded into a shower of crackling, golden fireworks. Just as the glow of those colors flashed and fizzed, the gryphon riders dove, talons out and wings tucked.

“Huh,” Soren said, cocking her head to the side. “I wonder what that’s about.”

~

Remy hit the ground running. Her heart hammered in her chest as she ducked through the crowd, shouldering her way through--but against the tide. Cobbles slick from the condensation off the fog bank impeded her progress. Under an eave; she had to get inside a building. Anything to keep them off her trail.

“Ugh, rude!” an old woman shouted as Remy shoved her aside.

Overhead, a gryphon screamed.

“Not sorry!” she called back over her shoulder.

Panting from the effort of trying to find a way through the throng at speed, Remy hooked a corner and scrabbled to a halt as she saw a mass of wings and fur land on the other side of the alley. She cursed, limbs flailing as she nearly over-balanced.

“You, stop!”

Remy’s yelp echoed as she almost lost her footing. Scrabbling and scraping, she kicked up mud and straw. Like a bolt shot from a crossbow, she launched herself back the way she had come.

Had to--blood pounded in her ears--had to get off the street. Stop running.

Running only attracted attention.

“Hey!”

Remy’s deft fingers lifted a grey woolen cap from a man’s head. “Actually sorry about that one!”

Back toward the wharf was the

last

place she wanted to be. The deeper into the city she got, the more places there were to hide.

The door to a fishermen’s tavern creaked loudly as she hurried her way inside, and not a moment too soon. Blown-glass windows rattled when a small contingent of Watchmen ran past.

“I saw her go this way!”

“You there, keep an eye out!”

Most fishermen were still out on the water at this hour, and so the tavern was mostly deserted. A few older gentlemen, their faces lined and weathered from a life at sea, played cards over a pot of steaming coffee. The whole place stank of stale ale and humanoid sweat. Only a distant humming told Remy that the cook must be in the kitchen, busy chopping up ingredients for the evening’s meal. Even with her good vision, her eyes still took a few minutes to adjust to the gloom. She edged across the taproom, relieved that the card players did not seem to notice her at all. The whole world could probably crumble around them and they would hardly know anything had happened. But then again, old sailors were like that.

It was the work of a few easy moments to slip her way into the kitchen, and not a moment too soon. Out in the taproom, the rusty iron bell clanged several times in quick succession as three Watchmen entered the tavern.

Remy danced on tiptoe behind the rotund cook, all but holding her tail to keep it from bumping something accidentally. She shimmied between racks of root vegetables and tried not to gag from the cloying stench of brine and fish in a slop bucket. A cook’s stained apron--far too large for her--made it onto her person as she stole out the back.

Not a moment later she heard a gruff voice raised in conversation with the cook. “You seen this woman, eh?”

“Wot? I ain’t nevah seen that teef’lin in me life.”

“She’s wanted for serial murder. Sir, if you’ve noticed

anything

unusual--”

“Wot’s all this, then? I pay me taxes, I do!” A loud clunk shook the grimy windows, perhaps the reverberation of a massive cleaver hitting the butcher block. “I pays ta not get Wotch all up in

me

business, when a man ain’t nevah done noffink--”

Remy glanced up and down the dark, narrow alley. Only a mangy calico cat alone of the alley’s other occupants--a snoring drunk and muttering vagrant--bothered to notice her at all. “Sorry about this,” she whispered breathlessly to the cat as she heaved up a manhole cover. “Wish I could pet you, but, well. You know how it is.” The cover slipped a little and she cursed, bruising her fingers as it scraped on the cobbles. “Got the law to outwit. Busy schedule and all that.”

Two of the Watch officers burst into the alley. A few blocks down, closer to the water, another pair emerged. “She’s gone this way!” one of them cried.

Clinging to the storm drain ladder, Remy listened as the first pair, then another, and then still another pair went by. Some look-alike, or some sheer chance of luck, come to aid her in her time of need.

“Thank Tymora,” Remy gasped, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Acrid and cloying in such a small space, with the sun as warm as it was, the air in the sewer could only have been more offensive in late summer. There was no going back by the overland route, and it was clear that heading back to the Four Companions was out of the question. Damn Sinrin! Damn him and anyone who ate the bullshit he served them.

First things first. She had to navigate her way to safety. Just follow the Shardshunner and Thieves' Cant markings. Couldn’t be

that

hard, right?

She’d get to the Yawning Portal, meet up with Davil. Tell him everything about the past 24 hours. He had to know that Victoro’s men--and now the Watch as well--were hunting her. The only problem was getting there.

Remy tied a cloth over her face. It helped, but only a little. Resolving to find a place near the Yawning Portal to stash her funds so that, should she be caught, all her hard work didn’t go to waste, Remy set off. She hurried off, her strides more quiet and confident than she truly felt. It was a long way across town, and she had to take care to avoid any accidental forays into the Undermountain. Unfair that such a good day be cut short by unfortunate circumstances.

Tomorrow would be better, she was sure of it.

It was not.

~

“Magistrate Aluther is a ruthless judge. He prefers executions first and questions later,” Ulkoria grimaced.

“Are you saying Remy is already in custody?” Soren whispered, her brows pinched together in concern.

She, Renaer, and the two mages, Vajra and Ulkoria, stood clustered together on the terrace. Laeral Silverhand had likewise drifted off into a private conversation with the two Masked Lords. A few others milled about, taking in the ornate gardens on this warm autumn afternoon. Soren had meant to catch up with the Open Lord, the question

Are you acquainted with Captain Zord

all but ready on her tongue before Ulkoria had arrived, hobbling at speed straight for her, and rearranged Soren’s immediate priorities.

“No,” the old mage answered gruffly, “but she soon will be. Sergeant Staget is keen for a promotion and he won’t stop until he’s found your friend and delivered her to the Halls of Justice.”

Well Soren remembered

that

unsavory fellow. All thoughts of a date with Renaer pushed aside, she adjusted the position of her bow for running. “Tell me where to find her.”

~

“Would you like to explain what in the Hells you’re doing here?” Davil demanded, his feet still kicked up on the table of his private backroom at the Yawning Portal. “I assume you’ve been outside,” he added drily.

“I didn’t know where else to go!” Remy snapped, her tail twitching nervously.

Sensing her discomfort, the small winged serpent Davil had gifted Remy after her report on the Cassalanter villa, poked its tiny head out of Remy’s color. Its dark tongue tasted the air. The creature was still young, and it was also entirely white. It had decided that instead of riding somewhere more seemly, it much preferred the warmth of the tiefling’s body to any wicker basket. Once it had assessed Davil and knew him as a friend it withdrew again, slithering down around her forearm where it could be hidden, easily mistaken for a bracelet.

Remy had named her Noodle.

Davil rubbed his temples. The handsome sun elf lounged on a large cerulean sofa, flanked on both sides by his personal guards, remnants of his own adventuring party, the Doom Raiders. A long table had been set out, and it was covered in food, the remnants of dinner, and key papers for his faction of the Waterdeep Zhentarim. Yagra sat halfway down, on temporary break from her shift on guard duty. She tore into a drumstick, gristle snapping between her tusks.

“Were you followed?” Davil sighed.

“No,” Remy answered with certainty. “I took the sewers.”

“Yes.” Davil sat up and gave her a thin smile. “I can tell.”

Remy rolled her eyes at him. “I didn’t exactly have a chance to change into my courtly best.”

At that same moment, Soren hopped off a dray along with several other adventurers who had been headed her way. She matched her pace to theirs, hoping to disappear into the crowd the second the doors opened. Despite the warmth of the late afternoon, the tilt of the season was already promising a chilly night. The scent of stout ale, roasting meat pies, and many bodies rolled out into the street as she grabbed the doorknob. Soren swept the perimeter as she held the door open for the woman behind her, and nearly choked as her blood froze.

Two blocks to the north, a formation of five Watchmen swung around the corner. A quick glance to the south confirmed the same; all in all, ten men in shiny brass plate advancing on the Yawning Portal.

Soren ducked inside. She navigated the crowd with difficulty, minnowing through the early dinner press of patrons.

“Durnan!” she hissed for the barkeep’s attention.

A sturdy-looking goliath, soaring far above Soren, shoved at her shoulder. “Oy, I was here first--”

Mugs clanked all around her. There was barely standing room at the bar. A dull hum of conversation drowned out Soren’s inner thoughts. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Already been waiting ten fucking minutes--” he began.

Soren shoved a hand in her belt pouch and pulled out a small handful of silver and gold coins. “You can wait two,” she said, to the goliath’s grumbling acceptance.

“What is it, lass?” the old barkeep said, a polishing cloth already deep inside a rinsed tankard. “You look right spooked.”

She leaned forward, braids swinging. “There’s no

time

. Where’s Davil Starsong?”

Durnan’s mustache bristled back and forth. “You know I can’t answer that one, Soren,” he said, matching her quiet whisper to quiet whisper. “Ask the Bonnies, perhaps--” Like all good bartenders, hairdressers, and ladies’ maids, a good secret--even an open one--slipped in one ear and never exited.

“Dammit, young man, I don’t have the

time.

The Watch are coming--”

His bushy dark brows raised like two surprised caterpillars at the words ‘young man’. “Watch?” Durnan said. “Here? What for? No one’s thrown a punch yet this evening. ‘Sides, I pay them to keep out of my business.”

“Well, then somebody’s paid them

more

,” Soren snipped, exasperated. “What rooms, Durnan? Please, it’s to help a friend, I swear.”

He told her, coming around the bar to steer her in the direction of the staircase. “There’s an escape panel in the wall, tell Davil to get his sunny elven ass out of my tavern.” His eyes crinkled up at the edges as he gave Soren a pat on the shoulder. “Get along, lass. Quickly now. Ah, but that randy tomcat doesn’t deserve you.”

Soren didn’t need to be urged twice. A long stride broke her from the old barkeep, her mind only just catching up with Durnan’s words by the time she was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Randy tomcat? Surely he didn’t mean Renaer. But then who--

A loud crack of wood below told her she was out of time. Soren crossed the balcony, catching the flash of yellow and green tabards below as Watch officers pushed their way through the crowd.

Up ahead a door swung open noiselessly. Out strode a tall, female half-orc, her raven-black hair done up in a serviceable topknot. “Hey,” she groused, making a rude gesture at Soren. “This area’s restricted.”

“Excuse me.” Soren never broke her stride, heading right towards the door Yagra had come out of.

Growling, Yagra threw out a grey arm, heavily tattooed with the emblem of a winged serpent, nearly clotheslining Soren across the chest. “I

said--”

“I know what you said,” the wood elf shot back.

When it was clear she wouldn’t get to Remy and Davil without a fight, Soren dove into a roll. Her whipping braids barely missed Yagra’s swinging fist.

Inside the room, Davil jumped to his feet as Soren threw open the door and stumbled across the threshold. A livid bruise blossomed on her face from where Yagra’s second fist had connected. “What is the meaning of this!” he demanded. “This area is private! Yagra, get--”

“Soren!” Remy hurried to her friend. “Thank Tymora! I thought that maybe the Dockside Slasher had--”

“Not, not for lack of trying,” she gasped. Soren waved her arms frantically, shooing them all. “R-raid,” she croaked. She was going to have to tell Durnan to do something about the steep angle of that staircase. “Watch! Remy, the Watch are--”

Davil’s eyes grew wide. “RAID! Everybody out!”

The room burst into a flurry of motion. A female dwarf swept the papers off the table in a flutter of pages. An inkwell spilled, staining the wood before it rolled off the edge and smashed on the floor. Chairs clattered as they were overturned, each Zhent eager to save his own hide. Remy seized Soren by the hand, ready to follow Davil and get them both to safety.

“NOBODY MOVE.”

A door on the other side of the common room burst open, cracking into the wall so hard it splintered and hung off its hinges. Watchmen poured inside, all goldenrod yellows and myrtle greens. They leapt on the scattering Zhentarim, a burly dwarf tackling Davil to the ground.

“This way!” Remy whipped around, only to run face-first into a wall of muscle and brass.

Cigar ash fell on her black hair.

“Sergeant Staget,” Remy spat. Behind her a man howled as a Watch truncheon slammed downward, breaking his knee.

“That’s

Captain Staget

to you, little girl.” A foul cloud of cigar smoke blew in her face. He ground out his words like chewing gravel. “Trying to run, are ya? I’ll add that to the list.”

Despite herself, Remy gave ground. “

What

list?” she said at the same time that Soren spat, “Whose boot did you have to kiss to get

that

promotion?”

Captain Staget advanced across the threshold, throwing an unconscious Yagra Stonefist to the floor. She landed in a crumpled heap, stepped over like any other worthless pile of trash. “The one they’ll read at yer hangin’,” he said with a grin. “You Zhents are under arrest.”

Soren scoffed. “On what charges?” she demanded.

Another guard advanced on her with a pair of irons. She shoved him away. “I’m no Zhent!” the wood elf said, digging out the shield badge Renaer had given her. “I’m with the Harpers, with the Citizen’s Wat--”

Staget swiped up the badge in his thick, square hand. He turned it, letting the copper wink in the glow of the candlelight. It matched his own badge down to the last detail and carried the same authority. “Then you’ll hang as a traitor, as well as an accomplice.”

“But--”

The captain slapped her. Staget dropped the badge and broke it beneath his boot heel. “Clap’em in irons, boys,” he said with a wide grin. “These folk have an appointment with the gallows at sunrise.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They had raped justice.

Taken her by the throat and beat her into submission. By all accounts she should have cried out. Perhaps she did.

In any case, as in every case, justice fell to her knees at the feet of powerful men…

…and her broken self made not a sound.
 
Iron bars rattled as the bailiff drew open the cell door. “Get up, you!” he barked.

Soren sat on a sad, deflated pallet. In most places it was stained the dark brown of old, bracken blood. Scratchy tips of straw poked through the thin fabric. A corner had been gnawed away by mice, the stuffing falling in a disorganized trail from the pallet back to a crack in the wall. The cell was little more than a square box. Walls of well-mortared stone surrounded her on three sides, with a line of iron bars across the side facing the hallway. There was not even a high window with which to see the street. No, this was the block for dangerous criminals. Petty thieves, nuisances, and vagrants got stored in bulk, some cells so full during festivals--or cold, winter nights--that there was barely room to sit down.

It stank of piss.

Torches guttered in their brackets, the walls stained black with soot behind them. Wet dripped from the apex of the small, domed ceiling. The floor was uneven fieldstone strewn with muck and mud. In the center of the dark cell there was a drain. If Soren had been so inclined--and if it hadn’t also served as her privy--she might have been tempted to see if it fit her. Escape from injustice ought to have been her imperative.

But Soren was too angry.

“Hold still, girl,” one of the guards warned, coming toward her with a pair of iron shackles and a truncheon. “One wrong move and ye won’t make it ta the gallows.”

They had taken all her gear, stripped her naked and given her a prison shift to wear. Even her smallclothes had been searched.

“Wot’s this?” said the petty officer, a thin human male. He held up the platinum, dragon-headed mace. “That’s the Cassalanter family crest, it is!”

The man leered at her. “Shall I put down stealin’ as well, eh?”

Soren only stared at the wall. Her back ramrod straight, lips pressed into a thin line. When the dwarf patting her down stepped back, he proffered a rough linen shift and a ratty pair of laced shoes. She dressed with slow, efficient movements. Silent, unprovoked for all their prodding. Eventually the booking guards gave up, and turned their jibes to Remy for their amusement.

“Hey! Soren!” Remy hissed as the bailiff took the wood elf roughly by the shoulder and drew her out into the grimy, ill-lit corridor. “Hey, you don’t have to taken any of their shit--”

“Quiet, you!” The forward guard clubbed the bars with his truncheon. Remy fell back, lest her fingers be broken. “No talkin’ ta other prisoners.”

Remy spat at his feet. “Pig.”

A glance passed between the friends. Only for a few seconds, and not a moment longer. Soren’s nod was nearly imperceptible, but it was there, just before they whisked her away. Remy relaxed, but only by degrees. She knew Bahamut was a god of justice--and that her ranger companion was

very

devout. The wind might howl, but the mountain would not break; it would not even bend. Soren, she knew, cared about more than the law.

She cared about what was

right.

And if it did not serve the greater good, well, then there was no point doing it at all. They would find a way out of this mess, even if Soren had to cut a straight course through solid stone to do it.

~

“Durnan!”

Chill wind rippled through the Yawning Portal’s open door. A tall, swarthy man with a waxed mustache and an outrageous broad-brimmed hat swaggered across the threshold to the delighted cheer of several tables. Captain Zardoz Zord basked in the attention. A long crimson coat hung loosely off his strong shoulders, gold braid a warm contrast to his bare, muscled chest. Bare enough, anyhow, except for two decorative bandoleers that crisscrossed his midsection. He threw out his arms and swept up the Bonnie twins in a rough, cavalier embrace. “Ah, come and kiss me!” the pirate king cried.

The girls shrieked playfully. Soft red curls spilled over heaving bosoms as they both, nearly in sync, tried to disentangle themselves. The younger twin came away first, pulling Zardoz’s hat down over his face before grabbing her sister. He had barely pulled it up again when they kissed his rough cheeks, leaving a trace of rouge behind, before skipping away.

Shouts of greeting and merry jibes fell upon the captain. He returned them all with a flourish of his hat and a low bow that had the plume gracing the floor. “My good people!” he said, grinning and showing gold incisors, “your entertainer and lover has returned! A round of drinks, on me!”

Dust dislodged from the rafters as a hearty cheer all but shook the tavern. Durnan pressed his lips together. He put away the glass he was polishing and began to wipe down the bar.

Three men entered behind the captain. One hovered near Zardoz’s right hand, a handsome young gentleman if there ever was one. Short black hair covered his head, tossed perfectly into a poet’s wind-swept locks. Bright, green eyes surveyed the crowd and he blew a kiss in Threestrings’ direction.

The other two men brought up the rear. They were

not

smiling.

One had a strong frame and a square jaw with a jagged scar running down the side. A limp affected his step, likely the reason for his scowling countenance. His companion was equally athletic, his features more angular. He carried his right arm in a sling.

“This is your fault,” murmured the man with the limp. “If you hadn’t said anything, we wouldn’t be here.”

“If you hadn’t insisted on chasing that woman, we wouldn’t have to have nursemaids,” snapped the man with the broken arm, just as quietly.

The fellow with the poet’s byronic, handsome features, turned his head at the whispered conversation behind him. He nodded to them sharply. “Captain Zord wishes to sit,” he said in a rich tenor.

Grumbling, the other two men followed suite. They shouldered their way ahead and--only a little stiffly--shooed the other patrons away from their stools.

Captain Zardoz Zord arrived at the bar surrounded by admirers. Somehow, in as many strides as it took to cross the Yawning Portal’s tap room, he had acquired no fewer than twenty three prospective lovers; a male sorcerer with a pretty face and prettier blond curls, a gnome druid wearing the mark of the Emerald Enclave, a male drow in a city clerk’s uniform, a female dwarf sporting an elaborately-braided red beard, an aarakocra in the splendid plumage of a blue jay, an elven woman with coin-silver eyes and a tight silver dress, her male companion in ratty, carmine ringmaster’s garb, a stout barbarian, a sea elf woman wearing a shell necklace as a breathing charm, two cheerful halfling adventurers bearing the shield of Torm, a junior gryphon rider, clearly off-duty, a pair of female goliath mercenaries, all in black leather and wild, crimpy brown hair, a lavender tiefling, a plain-looking lass in a maid’s apron, a priestess of Ilmater hand in hand with a female cleric of Loviatar, a hearty blacksmith with dark soot still on his cheeks, a nun, and a set of fire genasi triplets.

“Ladies, gentlemen, my darlings--

please

.” Captain Zord waved his hands lightly to clear up the space around him. “There is

plenty

enough of me to go around, I promise you that! We will wine, dine, and take our

pleasures

--” In the crowd there were several swoons. “--with each other. But for now, the good Captain Zord has business to see to.”

He fluttered his be-ringed hands again, graciously ushering himself some breathing room. “Off, off with you now, my lovelies. Shoo.” Zardoz laughed as the two female mercenaries growled low in his ear, murmuring sordid wishes for a future liaison. “Soon,

soon

, I swear it! Come now, the sooner I am about my business, the sooner we may enjoy each other. Fel, take care of these sweethearts for me.”

The bar was clear of patrons. On one end lounged the man with the limp, at the other was the fellow with the broken arm. The poet-looking gentleman--Fel--stood a few strides away, where the admirers gathered. He brought out a small black book and a pencil. “Captain Zord has an extremely busy schedule,” he said, his voice a rich and clear tenor. “We will be procuring a room upstairs. If folk would please provide me with their names, I will arrange…”

Captain Zardoz Zord turned from his entourage without another worry. There was no consenting creature, man or woman or otherwise, that he wouldn’t take to his bed--and well they all knew it. He made a habit of making his appetites known at any port of call, however brief. Not a day went by that he did not find his prick buried inside

some

lovely thing. And for all of that, all this past tenday not a tumble went by that he did not find himself wishing for one specific,

exquisite

lover. If only his hands could caress brown skin, fluttering over golden freckles. If only he could wind his fingers in those tight, elaborate braids; entice that dark hair to tumble out to fall in a curtain down her back. If only he could taste those lips that never smiled, coax them to open for him. If only he could wrap Soren in a passionate embrace, and pour all his hunger, all this wanting and

needing

inside her.

The wait was becoming unbearable.

Zardoz, who had been Avran Fairweather at the Lightsinger Theater that morning, J. B. Nevercott taking in a shipment of fascinators and cockades before lunch, himself during the opening ceremony, and someone entirely different in Laeral Silverhand’s bed all afternoon, clapped his thighs as he took a seat in front of the Yawning Portal’s esteemed proprietor.

“Durnan!” he said, grinning like a cat. “My old friend! The best-connected man in Waterdeep!”

The old barkeep did

not

look impressed. “Evenin’, lad,” he said, his white rag making practiced circles on the bartop. “What’ll it be?”

“Where is my beautiful prize tonight?” Captain Zord’s pale eyes sparkled with mischief.

“You have plenty to keep your bed busy, lad,” Durnan replied gruffly. “Leave off and let the poor woman be.”

Two dark brows swept upwards. Zardoz leaned one elbow on the bar with a look of incredulous fascination. “Oh, what’s this?” he said. Was it jealousy--no, protectiveness, Zardoz decided. He wouldn’t have survived long in his chosen profession without the ability to read others, and read them well.

“Miss Chandry’s a decent lass.”

“Am I not a decent man?”

Durnan snorted. “She’s got her own life. There’s no need for you to whirl in like you do, only to cry off the moment your fun has finished.”

“Cry off--” Captain Zord shook his head. His candlestick curls cascaded over his bare shoulders. “You make it sound so, so,

crude.

” One hand pressed over his heart. “Durnan, you wound me. I am a romantic man. There is no greater honor than to be wooed by me.”

“Soren is a devout woman. You can have anyone--literally,

anyone else.

”

Zardoz laughed. “Oh, but the challenge! Think of it, Durnan; the chase, the thrill of the hunt!”

“People are more than prizes to be won,” the barkeep said evenly. “I’m telling you, lad, keep your distance. That woman isn’t for you.”

“Of course they aren’t. But still, all the same. She’s a sharp thing, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

Like a brothel on fire, Durnan thought, but did not say aloud.

“Old friend,” Zardoz said, leaning closer over the bar. “I cannot think of any reason

not

to pursue her, unless Miss Chandry fancies the fairer sex…?”

Durnan shook his head. “You know it ain’t my place to say, lad. One way or the other.”

Captain Zord chuckled. He rolled a platinum coin along his knuckles. “I’ll catch her,” he promised, watching his own reflection in the dancing metal. “And she’ll be happy to be caught. There isn’t a woman alive I can’t bring to my bed. Oh, she’ll come all right, and she’ll leave when

I’m

satisfied--but not before.”

The old barkeep snorted. “Ha!” he said gruffly. “You’d have better luck convincing Bahamut himself to lie with you. How can you be so certain?”

“Why, I’m

me

, of course.” The man who was a pirate king, who was dashing actor, haberdasher, lover, mercenary, and randy tomcat all in one seemed completely convinced that he would need nothing else to secure Soren’s affection than his own, not inconsiderable charm. He would, he promised himself, have the girl

and

the gold. “Why does it matter to you so much whether I woo her or no? You’ve never tried to steer me off anyone else.”

Durnan’s rag, which had long since polished the wood bartop until he could see himself in the varnish, circled to a stop. “Because I know

you

,” he said, fixing Captain Zord with a look of stern, almost fatherly disapproval. “Soren’s a lonely lass, sir. As it stands, I doubt she even knows you exist. Let her be.”

Zardoz leaned both elbows on the bar now. A story ran like a current under Durnan’s words and the captain meant to dive in, find the blood and the marrow of it. This woman had captured him. If it weren’t for her complete focus on her goal, if they had actually met face to face, Zardoz might have suspected foul sorcery. As it was, he had only his own hunger to blame. There was something about her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was tantalizingly familiar, and Captain Zord was certain he would know what it was the moment he tasted her. But he felt pulled, drawn in by a gravity he couldn’t explain. It was more than her severity, her private nature--all that he had dealt with before. How could someone be so reserved, so resourceful, so sharp and quick, and yet have no secrets? For all that he could tell, the woman he observed was exactly the woman Soren was at her heart--and that was quite a rare thing. Not that he believed it for a second, of course. Experience, near-on five centuries of it, told him it was never that simple.

Everything

had a price. Everyone had an agenda.

But Soren didn’t.

She didn’t want any money. She ran at danger like a descending valkyrie, like Bahamut’s own right hand. Yet she was no cleric, no paladin. She kept no shrine, attended no temple. Soren did not have bravery or courage, no, not as any other man would have named them. What she had were facts, what she wielded was

certainty

. It was not so much faith as it was motion, and when she moved--when she had run straight on at Ammalia Cassalanter--it was as though she expected the world, which was all twisted and backwards and swathed in shades of grey, to bend itself out straight and true before her next foot hit the ground. Making the road ahead of her as she went.

Lonely…but perfect all the same.

What would happen when their bodies met? When he could have her in his arms and find the answers to his burning questions already on fire inside of her.

The front door opened in a rush of cold air. Dry leaves scattered over the threshold.

“Durnan!”

Fighting his way around the throng of Captain Zord’s admirers, Renaer emerged, panting and breathless. Pink ran high in his cheeks and strands of his copper hair had come loose from his long queue. A serviceable rapier bounced on his hip. “Durnan!”

“What is it, lad?” The old barkeep looked up with a frown.

Somehow the young nobleman managed to slip past both Fel

and

Teryn Duskryn. Renaer closed the distance between him and the bar. He leaned on it to catch his breath, ignoring Captain Zord as if the flamboyant pirate king was just another customer. “I came as soon as I heard. Vajra says it’s almost time--the towers, statues, Manshoon, all of it--”

“Whoa, slow down there.” Durnan raised his hands. “Easy now, Ren. We’ll batten down here. I can manage with the Bonnies and my help, if it’s going to be as bad as all that. Don’t worry about us.”

“Soren,” Renaer panted. “Where did they take Soren?”

Durnan made a gesture with his rag, north across town. “Halls of Justice. You’d better be quick, son. Manshoon isn’t a patient man.”

“Thank you!” Renaer said breathlessly, shoving off from the bar and heading backwards at speed, completely missing Captain Zord’s open-jawed stare. “Durnan, I owe you one!” he called over his shoulder before turning and rushing out back the way he’d come.

Durnan whistled sharply. The high sound cut through the general murmur of the crowd. Not a few moments later the Bonnies arrived. They scurried to Durnan’s side for several instructions and then hurried off again.

“--and what the devil was

that?”

Zardoz demanded, almost scoffing in disbelief. “You won’t tell

me

, but you’ll tell--” He glanced over his shoulder, where he could just spy Renaer out the window as the younger man leapt on a bay mare and rode off. “--Dagult’s boy?”

Chuckling to himself quietly, as if it were some private joke, Durnan set his rag down and gave the captain a good, long look. “That, lad, is your competition. And now, unless I’m mistaken, you and your boys have work to do.”

~

They took her to a dark courtroom. It was massive. Polished oak covered almost every single surface. Hard benches ringed the official well in a horseshoe. A small fence divided the well from the audience, with only one swinging gate. The walls, the floor, and even the ceiling were all paneled in wood. Her steps echoed in the silence, the creak of the boards competing for dominance. It was easy to imagine that here, with court in session, it would be nearly impossible to focus on any one, whispered conversation. The judge’s bench loomed tall over everything else. Briefly Soren wondered if the view made him feel superior.

How easy was it to forget the dignity of the accused, the suffering of the victims?

This was no temple, no sacred place.

If she lived to the morning, Soren promised herself she would stand for no honors, observe no respects.

Corruption was as good as a gag. A pat on the back behind closed doors became a whip. Lies a dagger to wound the soul.

No potion could repair such damage. No rest could appease it.

So this was where Waterdeep’s ideals went to die. The dragon in her could taste the mikkary in that room. It was a place where there was murder done--a violation battered home with apathy, a final breath choked away with the firm, heavy hand of bureaucracy.

A temple stained with blood.

Soren squinted as the bailiff brought her into the judge magistrate’s office behind that exalted bench. Bright candles dazzled her vision after the nighttime shroud in the courtroom.

“Good evening, Miss Chandry.”

She looked up as the door swung shut behind her. The bailiff had delivered her and now he waited, like a dog to be called, outside.

It was quite a spacious office, all told. Bookshelves lined both walls, with diamond shelves for scrolls. All of them enormous, leather-bound, and entirely uninteresting. The room smelled of dust and old leather. A single window, eight-paned, looked down on the receiving yard below. Before her stood an antique desk, the kind with green suede fixed to the top by brass tacks.

Magistrate Judge Yosolos Aluther was a thin scarecrow of a man. He stood at the window, one long-fingered hand holding open a thick, velvet curtain so that he might look down on the yard. In his other hand he held a glass of red wine. A sharp, hawk-like nose made a striking profile against the moon. The white tassels on the shoulder of his black robe sighed as he turned.

“So good of you to join me. Please, sit.” Aluther gestured to a hard chair in front of his desk.

Soren remained standing. “I would like to speak with counsel,” she said.

“May I get you a glass?” he asked, holding up his own wine glass. “Excellent vintage, 1372, good body. Perhaps water?”

“I would like to speak with counsel.”

Aluther waved dismissively. “Yes, of course. But first there is a matter we must discuss in private. I am certain you are anxious about this whole business.” Here he paused briefly before crossing to his desk. “No doubt you are eager to put this…unpleasant accusation behind you. Understand, the Watch has been overburdened with these gang riots. You must forgive Captain Staget if he seems a bit…overzealous.”

“I would like to speak with counsel.”

The magistrate smiled thinly. “Bailiff,” he called. When the man opened the door a crack, Aluther said, “Do send for counsel for this young woman, would you?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The door closed again.

Soren’s sensitive elven ears heard no creak of wood, no treaded beat of officer’s footsteps. There would be no counsel coming. She raised her chin a bit, not even so much as nodding to indicate that she was making an attempt to play along. No, this man would not have his satisfaction. Not if Zarrakor had anything to say about it.

“You are new to Waterdeep, are you not? As such, I would understand if you are not very familiar with our laws,” Aluther said, opening a drawer on his desk. He removed a brown paper bundle and slowly undid the string. Out tumbled the red robe of one of Asmodeus’ cultists, a golden mask and ritual dagger, the dragon-headed mace, and Ammalia’s spellbook. “Lord Cassalanter has lodged a very serious charge against you and Miss Sinnah: murder.”

“I would like to speak with counsel.”

“As you are no doubt aware, Lady Cassalanter is missing. Her husband is beside himself with grief, hoping for any news of her location. Several servants and other folk were found dead at the Cassalanter Villa during a dinner party. In addition to this, almost everything of value was removed from their property, including the disturbance of the sacred family tomb, and--is this not curious--every single bar of gold from the family vault.”

That

had not been their fault. A muscle jumped in Soren’s jaw as she fought to keep her face impassive. Whosoever had taken that gold had made away with a very large sum indeed. It was a question she would not have an answer to for some days yet, but in that moment she could only assume that the money had made its way somehow into the coffers controlled by the fellow in front of her--or into whatever funds were keeping Victoro hidden.

“I would like to speak with counsel.”

Aluther frowned, his face pinching together like hardening cement. “Miss Chandry, I am not certain you understand the severity of the accusations facing you. Murder of a noble is punishable by death. There will be a noose open for you on the gallows by sunrise…unless you are able to help me solve one particular mystery.”

When Soren did not answer, the magistrate continued. He pulled out a paper on which was written an affidavit in very elaborate cursive, with a blank line for a signature at the bottom.

“I know this has all been a terrible misunderstanding. You are, after all, with the Harpers and a friend of young Lord Neverember; hardly the profile of one capable of such things.” Aluther tapped the affidavit. “Confirm here, by your mark, that these items were placed upon your person by Miss Sinnah, that she has implicated an innocent woman in the continuance of her heinous crimes, and all ill will shall be forgotten. You will walk out of here a free woman with all your belongings returned to you and this incident expunged from your record.”

Soren took a deep, steadying breath.

Gold dragons were not like other dragons. Every region had a wise matriarch or patriarch who was elected by his or her fellows. They served as advisor, protector, and mediator on all matters concerning their local flight. The dragon so elevated was called the King or Queen of Justice and, on the

extremely rare

occasion that Bahamut named a Chosen, he had never yet picked the right hand of his will on Toril who had

not

held that highest office. And, granted, there was a great commotion made about what was lawful and following the rules of the land and so forth. Respect for order. Acquiescence to honor and chivalry.

And still, Soren would throw it all overboard if it was not

right

.

Soren had what could only be described as a complex, labyrinthine mental equation for determining what served the ‘Greater Good’. It was not written down in any law book, only etched on her heart like a searing brand. Some creed she knew as certainly as she knew her own scales. The way forward formed under her feet as she ran to meet it.

“...I would like to speak with counsel.”

She had the immense satisfaction of watching a purple flush of rage pass over the magistrate’s face before he was able to compose himself.

“Bailiff!” Aluther snapped. “Take Miss Chandry to solitary confinement. See that she is not to be granted her last meal, mail, or visitors.”

They walked her back through that wide, silent courtroom. A river of blackness and whispers. If she could talk to those boards, those benches, Soren wondered what they would tell her. All down the marble-tiled passages of the upper floors. They dragged her along, keeping a tight, meaty grip on her biceps.

Instead of turning down the dim corridor that would lead to her previous cells, the guards hauled Soren past a private storeroom, a set of large double-doors, and down a long hallway all with single doors. One of these opened with a hideous squeal of rusty hinges. The bailiff’s keyes jangled as he grabbed Soren by the shoulder and shoved her inside.

She gave a gasp as, rather than her foot meeting solid stone, she fell ten feet through the darkness. A cry left her lips, the first sound she’d made in hours, as her ankle crunched underneath her. It sank and would not support her weight. Shooting pain lightninged up her nerves. Her braids trailed on the ground as Soren doubled over, breathing hard.

The bailiff looked down at her from the doorway. Each solitary cell was little more than a square box sunk ten feet into the floor. There was no drain in this one. Even if her ankle hadn’t felt like it was spitting sparks, making it to the top of the wall would require a running start, at best.

“Captain Staget wants to see this one,” the bailiff gruffed at his companion. Iron clanged as he slammed the solid door shut. “...in a few hours…teach a lesson…” Despite their close proximity, Soren could barely hear the guards as they moved off, deeper into the prison.

Finally, unobserved, she pulled herself into a huddle against the wall and hugged her knees. She hissed as her fingertips gingerly inspected the swelling. It was hard to tell whether or not it was broken, fractured, or simply twisted. Soren panted, grunting as she pulled the hob-nailed prison shoes off her feet. Working in almost total darkness that gave her very little distinguishing markers, she began to tie the laces together by feel.

Perhaps it was just the anger. Perhaps it was the pain. Whatever the case, she felt a word of power make its way up her hoarse throat. It fell from her lips, and her fingers hummed for a moment as the spell infused the shoes and laces. That finished, she sat back and leaned her head against the wall. Pearly light from her palm dulled the throb in her ankle. Like an army officer imprisoned by an enemy country, escape--alive and with Remy in tow--was now her only imperative.

All she had to do was wait.

~

Cold iron rang and rang, a battering cacophony of billy club against prison bars. Remy shot straight out of sleep, gasping in deep, ragged breaths. “What,” she snapped, “the actual

fuck

.”

“Good evening, Miss Sinnah.” The bailiff stood back and the thin, boney figure of Magistrate Aluther came into view. Wan torchlight threw hollow shadows on his sunken cheeks, his hawk’s nose an axe head of darkness that met the edge of his mouth.

It hadn’t been a very good sleep, anyway. One glance across the way confirmed that Soren had not been returned to her cell. A chill gripped Remy’s chest. Instead she combed a hand through her matted black hair and gave the judge what she hoped was her best sour expression.

“Guests after visiting hours, how thoughtful.”

Still bearing deep creases between his brows, Aluther folded his hands in front of him as though he were a priest providing counseling. “The infamous Remiah Sinnah,” he said. That thin smile was back, like a rat who knew what sin was marching boldly through a packed larder. “It does my heart good to see despicable and wicked creatures like yourself properly behind bars, where you belong.”

“Yeah, and where does that leave you?”

Wisely, Aluther did not answer. He merely smiled all the wider. “You are quite popular, Miss Sinnah, even moreso than I had originally imagined. Lord Cassalanter, the Xanathar, and Mr. Goldnose are all

very

interested in what happens to you now.”

“So much so that they’re willing to pay you a small fortune to get their way,” Remy said, not impressed. Man, couldn’t people who liked money and power be less…predictable about it? After a while it was just

weird

that that was all folk seemed to do. Was it enjoyable? She really couldn’t tell.

There was no

art

to it. No finesse.

“In the morning--”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll hang. Big points for originality there.” Anger sat in her stomach like hot lead. If only he’d come closer to the bars, maybe she could singe his robes a bit. Give him a little scare. Didn’t need to be a big one, even. Just something to wipe that fucking

smirk

off his face.

Aluther straightened up. “No,” he said. “Some other tiefling, gagged and hooded, will take your place beside your friend on the gallows come sunrise.”

Remy nearly choked, but the magistrate wasn’t finished.

“

You,”

he added, to her growing horror, “will be put on transport down to Baldur’s Gate. Lord Cassalanter paid more for you but, well.”

“But

what?”

Remy spat, anxious for a reason she couldn’t yet name. If she’d had anything to eat in the past 12 hours, she would have been sick.

The magistrate spread his arms as if it were a benediction. “Perhaps you will make it there alive. Perhaps you will be beset by those Absolute cultists en route. I hear the road from here to the Chionthar is practically crawling with either drow or illithids.”

Ah, there it was.

“...unless you’d like to beg me to meet Lord Cassalanter’s justice instead?” He smiled at her. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“Listen,” Remy said, too angry and too

finished

with trying to skulk away from Sinrin’s shadow. “I don’t like cops on a good day, and crooked motherfuckers like you least of all. So you can pucker up and kiss my infernal ass.”

Magistrate Aluther looked at her for a very long time. Cold wetness dripped from the top of her cell into a groove on the floor. A rat squeaked somewhere in the wall. “Goodnight, Miss Sinnah,” he said, turning to go. “When you eventually reach Avernus

do

give Asmodeus my regards. Pleasant dreams.”

~

He had never felt so much like his father.

It took Renaer more than two hours to get across town from the Yawning Portal. The Watch was out in force tonight. Renaer avoided them on instinct. A traffic issue had overtaken the main thoroughfare--something to do with an unusual amount of horses all taking a sudden and deep, abiding offense at their tack, halters, bits, carriages, owners, and riders at once. By the time he arrived in the Halls of Justice yard, it was long past midnight. The second bell was just ringing in the building’s belfry. It ought to have been a low, somber sound. Instead, it was high and shrill. The ringing did not stop, but went on and on long after the hour had been chimed.

Renaer reined in his bay mare, her breath huffing out like smoke in the profile of the torchlight. Her hooves clattered on the cobbles. They drew even with the night guard’s station. “Good sir!” he called. “I have business with the night clerk. Fetch him here at once!” All of Renaer’s intent focused on his task, on getting to Soren and Remy. The mare felt his eagerness, his hurry. She snorted and paced around, Renaer having to keep turning to face the sturdy dwarf who had answered the door.

“Night clerk’s a busy fellow,” the dwarf replied gruffly. There was always someone on duty to process paperwork, just as there was a night warden to keep order in the prison. Waterdeep was a city with over a million souls, her needs nearly as numerous as the crimes committed inside her walls.

“It--” Renaer closed his mouth on the forming protest. No, now was not the time for politeness. Channeling his father’s blood, the young nobleman held his head high. He was, among other things, a rogue and a Harper. Acting and noble intent came nearly as naturally to him as selfishness had come to Dagult. “Then you may tell Magistrate Aluther that you delayed Lord Neverember,” he snapped, “on a matter of civil urgency.”

The dwarf nearly ended what had been, up until that moment, a fairly decent, if boring, career. Saving his compatriot the embarrassment, a moon elf guard rose from his place at a table covered in cards and silver coins. “Come, I’ll take you.” He took his truncheon and lantern off the wall. To his colleagues, he said, “Somebody send a runner to the Warden’s office and figure out what in the damn Hells that bell is going off for!”

“Sir!” Several Watchmen scrambled to follow his order.

A struck match briefly illuminated the elf’s pale, angular features as he lit the lantern. “Come, my Lord,” he said as Renaer dismounted with as much upright dignity as he could muster and tied off his mare. “If you would follow me, please. I hope your business is brief, that klaxon is for emergencies only.”

~

Submit.

A dry wind whispered through the night behind Soren’s eyes. It rustled leaves of thoughts and scattered silence. Something shivered across her consciousness, cold and hungry.

Obey.

Keys jingled in the near distance, coming closer.

Soren stood, wrapping her fingers in the knot of laces that connected both of her hob-nailed prison shoes. Her wrist swept in an experimental circle. The shoes flapped awkwardly. Almost at once she increased her speed, changing her grip so that she could spin the shoes as if she were readying a sling with stone shot. Within seconds she had the shoes spinning silently, the passage of air the only sound in the cell. She would only have one chance at escape.

~

A few hallways away, Remy crouched at her cell door. Her tail flitted anxiously behind her, keeping her balanced lightly on the balls of her feet. Reaching up into the dark black hair at the nape of her neck, Remy drew out a set of lockpicks from their place pinned to the inside of her hair tie. Without a moment to lose she went to work. It only took mere moments for her to force the lock open.

Ha, easy as pie!

Too easy, as it turned out. One step out into the corridor and she heard the unmistakable creak of hinges and raised voices from down the hall. She flitted back inside, arranging everything as it was. There would be no way to know the lock was, in fact, picked, unless someone tried to open the door without first checking it. Remy pressed herself against the cell bars to get a better look.

Captain Staget marched through a set of broad double-doors, that damned cigar of his trailing smoke. He gave Remy a knowing grin. “Miss Sinnah,” he said, “if it isn’t your lucky day.”

“Let me guess,” she said drily, “Yule has come early.”

The captain blew smoke in her face and she coughed, hacking as she waved the thick cloud away. “Precisely. Seems the Xanathar’s a bit keener than the others to see your corpse for himself. He’s paid me a small fortune to deliver you and your elf friend to him, cold as if they’d put you in the mud yesterday.”

“I assume you’ve weighed the Xanathar’s gold, then,” Remy said, for how could the answer be anything other than personal gain, “and it’s enough to get you far enough away from Victoro, Sinrin,

and

Waterdeep’s arm of the law.”

“By this time tomorrow I’ll be setting sail for Calimport with the prettiest whore in the Docks Ward perched on my knee.” Staget chuckled, but there was no humor in it for Remy. “Or maybe I’ll go to Luskan. I hear they need unscrupulous men like me. Either way, I’ll be rich, Xanathar will have the location of Dagult’s vault, and you’ll be, ha, in pieces.”

Remy narrowed her gaze at him. “Why’s the Xanathar bothering us for if he’s got the location of the vault?”

Obey.

The command swooned her nearly off her feet. Remy hung against the bars for a moment. She watched as several other Watchmen passed Captain Staget and continued deeper into the compound. In the distance she heard the rattle of keys in the direction of the solitary confinement cells, and the sound of raised voices--Davil’s voice!--from farther down the corridor.

Staget dropped his cigar, crushing its breath with his heavy boot until the heat gave a final, dying hiss. “Why, from you and your ranger friend, of course,” he said to Remy’s horror.

“Even

if

I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”

He laughed, a rough and thoroughly unpleasant sound. “The Xanathar has his ways…and his experts.”

“--I’m sure you’re all having a nice chat,” came the familiar, sardonic drawl Remy was swiftly learning to associate with Davil Starsong. “But if you could perhaps get me a bit of room service while you’re up, since you two seem to have nothing better to do.”

Davil appeared, his wrists and ankles cuffed. Two guards had him by the arms and were dragging him down the hall. A livid bruise ran from Davil’s temple to his ear, and there was clearly tacky blood down the side of his neck and starting to crust into his collar.

Staget spat at him and trod on the sun elf’s foot. “It’s scum like you that always piss me off,” the large man growled. “Always so high and mighty before interrogation, then screaming like an orc pup caked in shit on their way out.” He ground his heel on Davil’s ankle.

“Disgusting.”

To his credit, the experienced Zhent only made a wincing grunt. It burned like Hells fire but Davil would be damned to one end of the Abyss and back before he’d give Staget the satisfaction. Both guards began dragging him again, though he seemed somewhat less vibrant than before.

Get me out of here, dammit,

he whispered harshly to Remy, adding, just as she would have in his place, that final comedic sting.

Or what the fuck am I paying you for?

You had to hand it to the man. He was defiant and saucy to the last inch, the last stitch on his prison shift.

The guards hauled him over the threshold of the door. Staget pulled out another cigar and struck the match off the corridor wall. It sparked for a moment, a dying sun in a mass, abandoned grave.

Where justice went to die, indeed.

The captain had just brought the new cigar to his lips, inhaling thick fumes, when Davil began to scream.

Chains rattled and scuffled shrieks of protest rose swiftly to a fever pitch. There were not even words. If Remy had not seen Davil be hauled into that room with her own two eyes, she would have taken that sound to be the sour howl and violent bucking of a dying gnoll.

“What,” she said, taking a breath for a bravery she most certainly

did not

feel, “is in that room?”

The Abyss might not be so bad a destination after all.

“What’d I tell ya?” Staget raised his voice, gesturing in another set of cronies while Davil’s screams painted a high tapestry of abject fear across every nerve in Remy’s brain. “Xanathar has his experts. C’mon over here, boys, let’s see if you can give your little tiefling friend a lift. Wouldn’t do to spoil introductions by being late, now would it?”

Ash fell in great, grey flakes from Staget’s cigar as he motioned two thin figures into the torchlight. He didn’t need to say anything for a river of cold ice to envelop Remy completely; stomach, heart, and tongue. “Why don’t you say hello to a few old acquaintances who’ve been

dying

to see you again,” the horrible man laughed. “Step forward gentlemen, no need to be shy.”

Words and years and the copper taste of

wrongness

stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Out from the shadows, gaunt and hollow-eyed, came Shiv and Andre; Shiller’s Row back together again.

~

No sooner had the door opened to Soren’s solitary cell than she let her missile fly. The sling-shot bundle of hard-soled shoes and suede lacing whirled through the air. A black-eyed sun elf leaned over the lip of the drop, “C’mon, you--”

The shoes broke his nose. No sooner had the physical shock of initially hitting a solid object than the laces wrapped around the guard’s head like a child getting boxed on both ears at the same time.

And then they exploded.

Sharp thorns shot out in all directions, pitting the stone and turning the guard’s body to little more than tattered meat.

Putting on a burst of speed and momentum, Soren bunched all her muscles and ran at the wall. Three short strides in she leapt almost straight upwards. Her bare feet found just enough of a grip on the sides of the steep stone pit. She pushed off that and soared over the edge to land, deeply crouched, in the doorway to her cell. Soren pushed the guard’s body aside and seized his light crossbow.

Down at the end of the hall she saw Captain Staget leaving the high security bloc and enter the room with the double doors. Smoke from that awful cigar trailed him, mixing with the sooty haze above the torches. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, and whistled sharply. Three guards half out of their uniforms appeared at his side, Xanathar tattoos all up their arms. “That one’s next,” he said, grinning, pointing at Soren. “Bring ‘er in!”

In the distance she heard screaming.

Submit.

Soren grimaced. Hitching the crossbow up she slipped a quarrel into the groove and cocked it.

The first guard, the dwarf who had patted her down at booking, saw the mess his compatriot had left behind at Soren’s feet and charged. He covered the distance between them quickly.

But not quickly enough.

Soren’s first shot sprung from the crossbow with enough force to crack mortar. Its snapping string sheared a few hairs off of one of her braids. The bolt zipped through the air and buried itself with a satisfying

thock

between the dwarf’s eyebrows. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The ranger was up and moving then. Her second bolt went wide, missing the second crony by a few inches. She tisked and sighted down the end of the crossbow. The next quarrel got him in the throat. He fell, spurting and gurgling blood.

Ready and spoiling for a fight, the third guard came on. He slashed at Soren with his shortsword, the grazing tip leaving an arc of blood on the wall.

Soren ducked and rolled. A long braided cord hung down from a circular hole in the ceiling. Beside it, written in common, elvish, and dwarvish, were the words

Emergency Alarm.

The worst it would do was bring more guards that would put her back in solitary confinement. The best it would do was bring help; specifically, people not involved in either Staget’s or Aluther’s schemes. Soren refused to believe that

everyone

present worked at the Halls of Justice for their own personal gain. Surely someone had to actually

like

keeping the peace.

The bellpull felt solid and heavy in her hand. She pumped it with all her strength.

With a shout, the third guard leapt on her from behind. There was a mad scrabble, heavy and desperate, where Soren struggled to keep his arm from choking her. Snarling, she cracked her head back into his nose.

The guard released her, coughing blood. Stars popped in his vision. “All right, girl, that’s--”

She heaved backward, the crosspiece of her weapon smashing into his face. The crossbow clattered to the ground, but Soren’s hands were already moving with all the force of a descending valkyrie. Her clasped fists hit the side of his stomach, blasting the air out of his lungs.

“REMY!” If nothing else, they would have a better chance of escaping together.

Wheezing, blood pouring down his face, the guard slashed a neat but lucky cut across Soren’s shoulder.

The ranger turned, bringing her fists up again. They hit the underside of his jaw with a stiff

crack!

He heeled over, crashing against the stones like a splitting barrel.

She tossed her hair out of her eyes. The door at the end of the hall had closed again, Staget having retreated to the safety of the interrogation room.

“REMY!”

The tiefling thief could not answer her.

Shiller’s Row, all together again. Remy tried to swallow, but a hard lump choked her throat.

I thought Sinrin got you, too,

she wanted to say.

Remy wanted to say a lot of things.

I found us a home.

They’d never need fear the rain or the first nips of winter. Never wonder where the next meal was coming from. Never have to worry about losing fingers one at a time if they were caught. Never have to tiptoe along the rooftops or set a long fuse or pay protection money to another gang.

Remy’s red fingers wrapped around the bars.

They had a home. A

real

home.

And none of them would ever have to run away ever again.

She could have shouted for joy. Instead, several unhappy facts lined themselves up immediately to be presented to her.

“H-Hey guys…” Remy said, so excited and so terrified at the same time that she felt sick. “Where’s Bug?”

Shiv and Andre did not answer. Always one for aloof silence, Shiv the drow said nothing. His red eyes bored into Remy and she did not like what she saw there.

Emptiness.

Andre was a scruffy-looking fellow, lean and lanky with a quick mind and quicker hands. There were several knicks on his palms and a splotchy burn mark on one side of his face. Where the traditional tools of the trade would not get them, their munitions expert certainly would. He’d come to them out of Calimport on a prison ship. Something to do with smuggling materials restricted to the House of Gond.

Remy wasn’t certain if he’d ever apprenticed at one of their temples, but Andre had done more than obtain a small vial of smokepowder that he kept with him at all times. He knew how to use it. Before what Remy now referred to as the ‘Bank Incident’, Andre had even managed to land a job at Felogyr’s Fireworks down in the Lower City.

That was Shiller’s Row in a nutshell: Shiv the lookout, Andre the demolition and traps man, Remy the charm, and Bug their muscle. Sinrin had been the planner. That’s what that awful little gnome was always doing, making plans. Well, he’d made them all right, and now here they were.

Some cold feeling slithered down the back of Remy’s neck.

“Where’s Bug?”

she said again, when her friends did not answer.

At some point before he’d just been generally absorbed by the Shiller’s Row gang, Bug had had a run in with The Law. This altercation had not gone very well but it was always a little unclear as to why. What Bug did was smash things, as any good, cement-muscled half-orc was wont to do. He smashed things

very

well. So well, in fact, that the Flaming Fist had cut out his tongue as a punishment. He spoke almost exclusively in Thieves'’ Cant and a series of private signs known only to their little group.

Bug, bless him, was two paddles shy of a rowboat. After finding him hungry (and irritable) for lack of work and food, Remy and Shiv had more or less forcibly adopted eight feet worth of golden retriever. He quickly found his spot at the table and had, as far as Remy was able to tell, a decently positive outlook on life. Things and people were smashed heartily in the name of friendship, and when there were smiles all around, Bug was happy.

He just…couldn’t be left on his own. Bug needed to be supervised.

It wasn’t that he was the sort of man who was good at hard labor with very specific instructions and nothing else to distract him, it was rather that, without his home and his people who understood him and his routines--even if they varied--he had a tendency to become lost. And a lost Bug was soon a very distressed Bug. He had all but imprinted on the rest of Shiller’s Row, and Remy hoped for Bug’s sake that Sinrin had not taken advantage of that trust.

That nightmare sprang back to life, almost before her eyes. Neither of her friends, people she had thought dead, people who were closer than family, people she loved--who were

Home

more than Baldur’s Gate had ever been--said a word. Strange bruising by their eyes looked waxy in the torchlight.

Around the corner, Remy heard the distant sound of scuffling, followed by the echoing clanging of an alarm bell.

“REMY!”

Her head snapped up. Gingerly, she drew breath to respond. Then Shiv seized the iron door and hauled it open.

Both men leapt at once, Andre pinning Remy’s arm painfully behind her back. She gave a frustrated scream and tried to stomp on his foot, but he was too quick for her. “Soren!” she cried. “SOREN!”

At that moment, three things happened one right after the other.

First, the wood elf rounded the corner at a dead run and launched herself at Shiv.

Next, four more guards, these all with Xanathar tattoos up their arms came out of the interrogation room. The women were late being brought in and Staget could just barely be heard above Davil’s screaming.

And finally, the sound of rushing and clattering descended the stairs at speed, preceding the breathless and rapid arrival of Renaer, a moon elf nightwatchman, and several of his colleagues.

Shiv hit the ground hard and Soren tumbled with him.

Despite being wrenched around in

completely

the wrong way, Remy kept screaming, “Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him! It’s Shiv!

Don’t hurt him!”

“What the Devil’s all this, then?” shouted the moon elf. “Xanathar’s boys in

my

Watch?” A lieutenant's stripes were bright and clean on his shoulder. He turned to the men that had come in with him. “Arrest them!”

Everything erupted into chaos. Shiv kneed Soren viciously in the gut, his handsome, angular face fixed in a determined grimace. The ranger brought her acquired crossbow to bear across the back of his head. A call from Renaer caught her attention.

“Zarri, here!” he cried, tossing her the bundle containing her belongings.

Warmth swept through Soren. It went all the way from her chest out to her chilled, sore fingers and her bare feet. He was here! Renaer had found them, he had come! She wanted to run and kiss him. Instead, she strung her bow. Her adventuring gear could wait, the important thing now was--

A black-fletched arrow screamed through the air, a dedicated missile that somehow avoided the frantic rush of all other targets and buried itself deep in Soren’s right shoulder. She fell back with a cry, pain shooting lighting down into her fingertips.

“This is the Halls of Justice, not a slaughterhouse!” shouted the moon elf. He jumped into the fray of guards fighting guards and forced the bowman to close quarters.

“A-Andre,” Remy banged her fist against her friend’s forearm. “You’re ch-ch--” The words would not come out. Swooning wasn’t in her nature but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel moderately lightheaded.

Renaer’s rapier sang a silver song as he unsheathed it. He made to jump in, to try to reach Soren, but a Xanathar guard struck out at him with a scimitar. With muscles well-honed from long practice, Renaer whipped it up in a perfectly-executed parry. The clash of metal joined the grunts of pain, shouting, and scuffling in the corridor.

A flurry of blows followed, each one seemingly faster than the last. One hand rested at the small of his back; a gentleman’s pose. It would have been handsome if not for it being completely ridiculous in any setting outside a formal duel. But it served him and served him well. Only one man tried to rush him, Renaer’s other hand coming around and throwing a dagger with such precision that it buried itself in the back of the unfortunate fellow’s throat. He went down without a sound.

Bracing her grip on Andre’s forearm, Remy twisted toward the wall. She ran straight up it, using her friend as leverage. Andre overbalanced with a surprised grunt and they both hit the floor with enough force to crack a rib.

The moment the scuffle ceased, Renaer rushed over to Soren and fell to his knees beside her. “Don’t worry, Zarri,” he panted, escaped locks of copper hair sticking to his cheeks, “I’ve got you.” Without hesitation he ripped off one pale sleeve and set to dressing her wound.

Soren almost didn’t notice the pain, not even making more than a grimace as Renaer broke off the shaft and pulled both halves of the arrow out of her shoulder. “How did you find us?”

Obey.

The dry voice, at once commanding and insistent, rustled through the folk still standing. Renaer winced and the moon elf lieutenant had to lean against the wall of the corridor for a moment before the feeling passed.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” he said, “We have a mindflayer close by.”

“It’s,” Remy gasped, pointing at the double doors. “It’s in that room.” The fall had knocked Andre unconscious and she rolled off his body, feeling a bit sick to her stomach.

All the guards Staget had sent lay dead or dying. Blood had smeared on the dark stones. “You, go fetch reinforcements. Hurry!” the lieutenant said to his most injured colleague. The man ran back up the stairs. He did not need to be told twice.

“We can explain,” Soren said, still looking a little pale, as Renaer helped her to her feet. She could not take her eyes off his bare arm. It was toned and strong, and covered with hundreds of freckles.

The lieutenant waved his hand. “Lord Neverember has explained the situation to me,” he said. “I believe you were arrested unjustly and without cause.”

Remy did not know what was wrong until she realized it was silence.

“Davil!” she gasped.

It was the work of a few moments for her and Soren to don their gear. Soren and Remy’s explanations of Aluther’s offer caused the lieutenant to frown deeply. “Tyr’s beard,” he muttered. “We will see what can be done about that, when this crisis is through. Disgusting to have men act such away in this holy place.”

Soren lowered her green linen tunic over her shoulders and secured her leather armor, only to catch Renaer blushing and looking away. She coughed awkwardly, extending an arm. Without a word he reached over and tied on her bracers. They fit perfectly, not a pinch to be found.

Remy knelt down beside Shiv. She put her cheek to his chest, black hair falling in a glossy, obsidian waterfall. Down, deep within, she heard the wind of his breathing and--

In the rush of rain, years and leagues away, she remembered an attic. A high, vaulted attic in one of the warehouses down by the pier. Easy roof access, disused crates blocking the view to her little corner. Two shapes, a drow and a tiefling. Shiv’s chest bare as Remy bound a wound on his bicep. Grey light filtered in through the grimy glass, painting everything in silver-blue. Her lips moving, his little smile.

The Underdark. He was saying he’d never been to the Underdark.

Shiv had…stayed. At first, just to recover. Then, because he wanted to. Remy had been relieved.

That was the beginning of it, of the Shiller’s Row gang. Soft-spoken Shiv, never raising his voice, drily witty when he needed to be, preferring the quiet duty of lookout over the carousing air of the city streets. It was the rain. He said he liked the sound of the rain. Mixed blood kept his eyes from stinging in the sunlight. The name for the child of a drow and any other race was still ‘drow’, after all. Lolth liked it that way.

Remy remembered the way her little hideaway had slowly gathered some of his belongings. His cloak, fletching for making his own arrows, his spare boots, his lockpicks. And later, when they found an abandoned house in the lower city, when their little group had been joined by Andre, before Sinrin had come along.

One evening where she kept catching his quiet gaze from across the table, firelight jumping in his crimson eyes. The pad of his thumb on her lower lip. How nothing needed to be spoken. Hands that were dexterous, gentle. Bodies wrapping slowly together, lives and fates intertwining, like ivy and brick.

He’d just…always been there for her. His bow to aid her, his eyes to watch out for her, and long nights with his breath at her back. A kind of bulwark.

Never asking for anything more than she was willing to give. But so solid that neither of them ever needed to ask.

It was Shiv who had told her to run, at the bank. He had wanted her to be free, even at the cost of himself and the others. It was only…he raised his voice so rarely. Broken free of the paralysis Sinrin had put her in, Remy had run without thinking twice.

Friends.

Of course that was what they were. Of course. She could just about convince herself it was true. She’d avoided it, putting it all into words, for a very long time.

Friends.

And now--

--there was a

gnawing

inside.

Soren was almost surprised when Remy raised her head and tears ran down her red cheeks. “H-He’s breathing,” the tiefling said, “b-but…”

“Here, let me.” Soren bent to listen. She cursed. “I’m not sure…tadpole, perhaps? If there’s a mindflayer about…” The ranger gently patted the bruise around Shiv’s left eye. “I think this insertion was recent.”

Remy messily wiped her nose on the back of her arm. “It’s that fucker from the sewer,” she spat, rising unsteadily. Breathing hurt and her eyes stung, but she was too angry to care. “Bet you a thousand gold. The same one that sent that brain puppy--”

“Intellect devourer.”

“--to kill you. Why you had to, mngh, make that deal with Null.” Remy winced. She must have cracked a rib after all. “Hey, Soren.”

The ranger grit her teeth together as she tested the draw on her bow. Her shoulder screamed at her, but she couldn’t let that stop her now. “Yeah?”

Submit.

Remy’s rapier did a deadly figure eight in the air. “I bet…I bet that hospital can help Shiv and Andre, too. The sooner we make calamari out of this motherfucker, the sooner everyone can come home.”

The combined force of Remy and Renaer’s righteous indignation nearly cracked the double doors right off their hinges. They flew open, revealing two well-muscled Xanathar guards and Captain Staget. At the end of the room, a bloody and nearly incoherent Davil sat strapped to a chair. Xanathar’s illithid advisor, Nihiloor, bent over the unfortunate Zhentarim leader, its tentacles probing his face.

Almost the moment a crack appeared in the doors that was wide enough to see through, Soren let loose her bowstring. Her cream-colored eagle-fletched arrow sprouted from Staget’s chest. The furious captain was already turning with a roar of rage when her second arrow took him in the throat. Soren spat on the ground, ignoring the agonized throbbing in her shoulder. Blood wetted the front of her tunic, flowing freely despite Renaer’s bandage.

The lieutenant said a prayer, a bright shaft of moonlight spearing the mindflayer. It turned with what could only be described as a gurgling hiss.

SUBMIT.

Soren’s next arrow, already loosed, struck its chest. The ranger sank to her knees, clutching her head. A terrible rushing blackness, hated and familiar, rose to claim her. Thoughts broke off and swirled away from her, like a sand bar crumbling beneath her feet in the powerful ocean tide.

A dragon!

She heard its naked hunger in her mind.

Renaer slashed open a guard’s throat and kicked away the other. The fellow stumbled backwards, only to end his career on the end of the lieutenant’s sword. Glancing between the crumpling Soren and the mindflayer, Renaer made his choice. “Remy!” he called, catching Soren’s unconscious body before she completely hit the ground.

“Already on it!”

Driven by an anger she did not even know she could feel, Remy ran straight out toward her target. She watched as the mindflayer seized Davil by the hair, revealing wicked, pointed teeth. Her lips bared in a snarl that became one long yell. Almost as if that sound sustained her, she reached the creature at top speed, cocking her crossbow as she went. Two well-placed strides and she ran up its chest and jumped, firing a killing bolt directly down its throat.

Remy landed on the other side, tail lashing, breathing hard. “F…

holy fuck,

” she wheezed into the sudden silence.

“Well done,” Davil croaked. “Top marks.”

“Thanks, glad you’re alive.”

He snorted and then winced. The mental torture had taken its toll on him. “You took your sweet time.”

Remy shrugged, hauling herself to her feet. “The scenic route was more interesting.”

At the other end of the room, Renaer shook Soren roughly. “Zarri?” The ranger did not move. Breathless from worry, he took the lieutenant’s proffered health potion with a grateful nod. Tearing the cork off with his teeth, he tipped the entire contents down Soren’s throat.

She was weightless, suspended in a painful haze. Purgatory. This had to be Purgatory. For many long minutes all seemed grey and washed. Gradually, though, what had at first appeared to be a halo eventually resolved itself into Renaer’s face. A big, silly grin floated across Soren’s lips. “You’re cute,” she said, the words slurring only a little.

“Ah, she’s delirious.”

Soren reached up, grabbed Renaer on either side of his face, and pulled him down into a warm kiss.

“On the other hand,” he mumbled, “she might be entirely sane.”

“Oh, that’s just gross.”

Renaer managed to extricate himself from Soren’s lips. “Vajra?” he said, looking over his shoulder.

A soft greenish mist diffused the room, filling it fast. From within the oddly-shaped nebula came a disembodied voice that was decidedly

not

impressed. “Neverember, you have the

worst

timing.” The cloud condensed and resolved itself into the life-sized, shimmering image of the young, fluffy-haired Blackstaff.

Suddenly remembering the issue that had brought him to the Halls of Justice with such urgency, Renaer helped Soren climb awkwardly to his feet. “It’s time, isn’t it?” he said. “Has Manshoon made his move?”

“You bet he fucking has.” Vajra sounded tired already--or just done with the wizard’s bullshit, Soren couldn’t tell which. “I’ll explain when you get here.”

“Get where?” Soren asked.

Renaer patted a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Blackstaff Tower, where else?”

“We can’t go!” Remy insisted, panic rising. “What about my friends? What about Davil?”

“Yes,” the sardonic sun elf replied, rolling his eyes from his place still in the chair. “What

about

Davil.”

Soren held up her hands. “Wait, wait. What about Manshoon means we need to go to Blackstaff Tower? Oughtn’t we to go after the man himself? What on Toril is he doing?”

“Oh, you know.” Vajra waved her hand with the air of someone who knows too many facts and has no idea how to disseminate them efficiently. “He’s trying to raze the entire city to the ground. If you don’t come to Blackstaff Tower now, the casualties will be off the scale. Waterdeep will

never

recover,” she added with such absolute certainty that it sobered almost everyone.

In the following silence, Remy grumbled. “Almost wish that fucking horse was here. She’d fight god for half a pail of oats and win.”

“Which god?” Soren asked quizzically, trying to catch up to what her friend meant.

Remy rolled her eyes. “Take your pick.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Cracked lips opened. A trembling hand raised in the washed autumn light.

“...Bahamut…”

Strong, scarred fingers squeezed a rag into a wooden bowl. Thick drops rattled onto the surface. In a hush of whispered linen, the rag was brought to the sweating brow of a female wood elf. “No, lass,” came a rough man’s voice. “Just Durnan will do.”

“...how long?”

She had a strange accent, this elven woman with golden freckles. All stretched and warped, as if she was trying to form words in a different mouth.

“Depends,” said the tavernkeeper, “on the last thing you remember.”

Tears ran down the sides of her face, making dark tracks on tan skin. Her voice was so quiet. A thin frown line appeared between her brows. “...I was dying.”

“Well, there’ll be no more of that. Do you know where you are?”

She shook her head a little.

“You’re in Waterdeep, in the Yawning Portal.”

A soft sound, half a laugh she did not feel. “Someone…brought me back.”

Durnan slipped an arm around her shoulders and helped the wood elf up enough to take a bit of warm broth. Her body trembled, he noticed, hands barely able to hold the cup. “Back from what?”

“The war…” she croaked. “Did…did Tiamat…”

“Stopped at the Well of Dragons.” Durnan forbade any further discussion until her broth was finished. “That was nigh on five years ago, lass. Do you remember anything else?”

It had been the first, cold rainy night of autumn. The most recent caravan had just left and the Yawning Portal was far less full than usual. In fact, it was nearly empty. Even Threestrings was dozing in the corner. Durnan, who had been wiping down the center ring of tables, had looked up when the door blew open, yellow leaves stirring over the threshold. That was when he saw them, the monk and the girl.

What exactly the yellow-robed monk had said, Durnan did not now recall. But he did remember the blood. It covered the wood elf’s front, dark and wet. He distinctly remembered thinking that if the blood was all hers, and if she was still alive, that she wouldn’t be for much longer. She hung in the monk’s arms, half dead and looking like she’d been dragged from one end of Avernus and back again. A fatherly sense of urgency jumped to life inside of him, and he just about turned over his own tables to cross the floor and take her out of the monk’s arms. She felt…light. Too light.

“Take care of her.”

It was the only thing he could remember the monk saying, and then Durnan was alone in the middle of the taproom with the elf woman in his arms.

“Five years,” she croaked as Durnan brought himself back to the present. “Five years. God. I…”

Durnan dabbed at her forehead again. “What’s your name, lass? You’re welcome to stay. The room’s yours, ‘til you get back on your feet.”

Her eyes opened at last, coin-gold and metallic. The old adventurer, well-versed in the strange and fantastic ways of the world, knew her at once for a dragon. “...Soren,” she said hoarsely. “My name is Soren.”

“Your

real

name, lass.” Durnan took her by the hand, his rough palms finding her archer’s calluses.

“Zarrakor.”

He squeezed her palm. Her fingers fluttered, and she had barely the strength to raise her other hand to look at it in the grey rush of light through the window. Five years. So Bahamut had heard her, after all. Durnan stayed by her while she wept ugly, tired tears. She was safe, he said. Nothing would hurt her here, not if he had anything to say about it.

“...and…my wings?” she managed, seeming very small there in the bed, surrounded by pillows.

Durnan shook his head. What Hells had she had to come through to say such a thing to a perfect stranger, to be beyond caring who knew what she was? Looking at her bound wounds, the old tavernkeeper had some idea. Not the whole story, not yet, but enough to know--or guess--what hadn’t been said. “I’m sorry, lass,” he murmured. “If you had them, you wouldn’t have got in past the dragon wards.”

Soren pressed her eyes shut. Another line of tears welled and fell. “But I’m alive,” she said, in a voice that was somewhere between emptiness and relief.

“Aye, lass,” Durnan said, “that you are.”

~

Mystra had restricted the High Magics. There would never be another Karsus.

A pity.

Gold glinted in the carmine light. A metal-clawed hand opened, the fizzing and humming lightning of intense magic reflected in its overlapping plates. The din in the tower was deafening, but that hardly mattered to Manshoon. Power, raw and sizzling, stormed against the high, inner walls of his private fortress.

All mages had to have a tower.

Somewhere, it was written.

Far from a crude metaphor, as some bards liked to tell it, the need for a tower was wrapped up in what made a mage down at his most fundamental level. They would gravitate to places of power, to these grand spires. Conduits for the arcane arts.

Manshoon thrust his staff of power into the air. Simple words could not do justice to the violent boom that followed. Intention mated with greed, with complete and total madness. They combined at top speed, carrying the archmage’s will frying and tangling and screaming out of the tower. Brilliant, blinding light cracked and zigzagged across the peach-colored early morning sky. It arced over the dome of Waterdeep’s protective wards and came down upon the peak of a nearby mountain with all the unstoppable force of a knight’s heavenly lance.

Waterdeep

would

be his!

No matter that the mindflayer could not get him the location of Dagult’s vault. Manshoon had but to level the city, to raze Waterdeep to the ground. He would haul the gold from its resting place even if he had to topple every brick, crack every window, block by block, until it was resting in his empty hands. The city would rue the day it had spurned him! Even Blackstaff Tower--Khelben’s little ‘gift’--would be subsumed by his brilliance. Forget him, forget Laeral Silverhand! Waterdeep would greet its new lord with open arms and slave to serve his every desire.

Somewhere, far outside the city, stones and dust toppled off the peak of the mountain his spell had struck. Below the surface, nestled in the dark twists and mazes of rock that surrounded a goblin colony, something stirred. A wee, ugly-looking goblin paused in his daily tunnel patrol. He looked back over his shoulder as the ground began to shake and rumble, and screamed. What had once been a sheer wall that he had passed perhaps hundreds of times split at the center. He dropped his pike and ran, shrieking.

A great eye opened.

~

The light compressed them. One moment they were all there in the prison, Renaer promising that he would get Shiv and Andre over to the Hospice of St. Laupsenn. The next, the entire world thinned to one, long kaleidoscope of octarine brilliance. It was like falling through phosphorus, through the glowing fire that danced on the masts of ships at sea. It was like tasting sound. Kissing mortality and coming away with only sunlight. Colors screamed by them as they fell, weightless but feeling the sheer of the wind all the same.

It was pure existence, pure thought. Soren spread out her wings and dove through the tunnel of raw, magical power as she would a raging storm.

Someone was yelling.

With an audible

crack

of air and light and dizzying disorientation, Soren, Remy, and Davil Starsong came hurling out of the teleportation spell at top speed. Soren cursed as she rolled. Remy’s horns saved her, just barely, from cracking her skull against the obsidian floor. Davil was still screaming when they exited. He flopped over onto his stomach like a half-dead, undignified fish, and vomited out the contents of his last dinner at the Yawning Portal.

“I…” he heaved, “

hate

wizards.”

“Great,” said Remy, from somewhere on the floor. “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind for your birthday. No wizards popping out of cakes for you; check.”

The tiefling propped herself up on her elbows and looked around. “Hey, Soren, you all right?” she said, noticing a wet streak on the ranger’s face.

“I’m

fine

.”

She had seen her wings! It was brief, yes, but… Soren scrubbed at her face. She managed to scramble up to a sitting position as Vajra beckoned them from deeper in the tower.

“You go,” Davil wheezed. “I’ll stay here, hold down the fort.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Remy said a little while later, hurrying to keep up with Vajra’s long strides, “Manshoon wants to be the Open Lord of Waterdeep?”

The young Blackstaff led them through the tower’s dark, obsidian corridors. Her staff bore the head of a strange creature, its appearance shifting between wolf and dragon as they passed through pockets of light and shadow. Shifting silver runes decorated its length, and Remy had the distinct impression that it was whispering.

“I’m not even sure Manshoon knows what Manshoon wants,” Vajra said, her dark, dandelion-wild hair bouncing as she moved. “Sure, he’d get to play dictator for a while, but I’m not certain how long the Lord’s Alliance would let him.”

Soren looked questioningly at Remy. “All the city-states have a council together,” the tiefling said, “except Luskan.”

“Why--”

Vajra waved her hand and a set of enormous doors opened, echoing ponderously. “That’s a question for later, I’m afraid. We don’t have much time.”

Behind her, Remy whispered. “There’s a

lot

of piracy, but then like--okay, so, this guy Drizzt Do’Urden--”

“Who’s he?”

“

Oh

boy.” Remy made a face. “You don’t know who Drizzt Do’Urden is?” she said in a tone that made it clear how ridiculous the answer

no

would be.

Soren frowned. “Why should I?” she snapped, a bit more sharply than she meant to. Realization dawned that she had not eaten in nearly 24 hours, but the words had already been chosen and she was tired. “Who is that, some kind of politician?”

“He’s a…folk hero?” Remy said, with an air of slight uncertainty. “Let me explain.” Remy raised a finger and then, looking at Soren’s expression, thought better of it. “Maybe I should sum up?”

“Remy, I am not interested in human heroics.” Dragons were, after all, naturally disinterested in humanoid affairs. Eight centuries she’d spent on her remote mountain, near a logging village whose name Zarrakor had never bothered to learn.

“But--”

Hearing them whisper back and forth, Vajra shot a Look over her shoulder. “Is this conversation important?”

“No,” said Soren at the same time that Remy answered, “Yes.” The two friends looked at each other.

“Well, then kindly hurry the fuck up.”

~

Sunrise cracked like an egg over the city of Waterdeep. Yellow light the color of peachflesh spilled across rooftops and gables. It began, golden and pink, at the highest points, slowly growing warmer, giving all the signs of a warm autumn day under a brisk sky. Patchwork countryside spread out in a harvest quilt. Shorn fields boasted standing sheaves of wheat, orchards swarmed with apples, winking red beneath the green. The rolling fields gave way to forest, all on fiery display in her fall finery.

A single road wended its way east, past a run-down old windmill, a cream-colored ribbon into the distant foothills. Gradually, a line of dust appeared on the horizon. A sound like an avalanche became apparent, a constant rumbling and snarling of rock and stone.

Inside Renaer’s kitchen, a small, rhythmic rattling began. Bramal hurried after a set of decorative plates, but the ground was shaking too constantly. A teacup--an antique from Renaer’s mother--tipped on its side. It rolled off the shelf and smashed on the floor.

The same scene played itself out all over Waterdeep. One tower guard looked down at the ripples in the surface of his coffee. When the rest of his tableware began to likewise jostle, he hurried to the window. Within seconds the guard was up and sprinting for the belfry. Desperate chiming was soon taken up across the city.

Out of the dust and the morning mist still clinging to the hills and fields, came a shape so enormous it cast its own shadow a league ahead of its path. A wedge-shaped head snapped its sharp maw at the earth, ripping up trees and boulders. Cascading dirt, it fired a house-sized boulder at the walls of Waterdeep. The stone drove a deep gouge in the earth where it landed and rolled, still a mile from the wall.

It was called a zaratan, Vajra had explained, a tortoise-shaped earth elemental. And if Soren and Remy did not stop it, Manshoon would not call off his spell until the tortoise had leveled the city.

Soren first became aware of screaming. Her eyes opened to find her vision disturbed by the slatted visor of a knight’s helm. At her feet, miniature people were scattering in all directions. “OH,” she said in a big, booming male voice. “SORRY.”

The giant statue of the Honorable Knight rained dust and soot as Soren rolled her shoulders. She was standing sentry in an alleyway, with a longsword at her side and a shield resting against her calf. Well, in all actuality she was in Blackstaff Tower, projecting her consciousness through a glowing, emerald orb. Until they succeeded or their statues were destroyed, Remy and Soren could move as if the colossi were their own bodies.

Something in her chest told her to stop being so practical.

Magic follows intent,

Vajra had said. When Soren next opened her eyes, the visor no longer obscured her vision.

Across the city, in the Castle Ward, Remy likewise came awake inside the body of the Hawk Man. She stretched, mortar and stone raining from her clawed limbs. Large wings fanned out, smacking into the chalet-built buildings on either side. Beams cracked and walls bled plaster as a row of homes to either side of her were demolished. “SORRY,” she said hastily, “SORRY, SORRY.” Buildings and other architectural accoutrements cascaded off her limbs. Remy winced as people cried out in pain and alarm. Glancing southward, she could only just spy Soren’s statue awakening as well beyond the tip of Mount Waterdeep.

“Incoming!”

Soren’s head snapped up as something whistled through the air. It was a boulder the size of a small hill, hurtling toward the city with killing speed.

Gritting her teeth in a snarl, Soren felt her instincts pull taut. They cried out inside of her as she took those first few steps forward. Steps that became strides as civilians threw themselves to either side of the street.

How

dare

he?!

How DARE Manshoon! This was

her

city!

It was the knight who ran forward, wind and breath, as if nothing made of stone could ever move that fast. Each step stamped an impression into the cobbles, each stride shook the earth. Soren felt her blood pound in her ears, felt her braids whipping behind her as she gave herself fully to the colossus.

Straight ahead and the world bent to let her sprint. Straight ahead, like nothing else mattered. Whether the statue’s life was tied to hers was not a question she had had time to ask Vajra, but she ran anyway.

The dragon brought her shield to bear.

Trailing dirt like a comet, the enormous boulder arced over the wall and descended. Not slowing her charge in the least, Soren braced to meet it.

It was like being struck with lightning. The crash rippled through the knight’s body as if the colossus was a living thing. At the absolute last moment, Soren angled her shield, using the boulder’s own momentum to ricochet it back over the wall. Tearing up grass and field as it went, the boulder dove into the ground just outside the East Gate and did not stop rolling until it reached the river.

Another boulder, this one smaller but still large enough to crush anything in its path, was already flying from the zaratan’s mouth, headed straight for the Castle Ward.

Trying to contend with wings that she wasn’t used to, Remy stumbled through another row of houses before she got her gait under her. She made it to the boulder’s intended intersection just in time.

A screech left the Hawk Man’s mouth as the colossus caught the boulder. Remy took its own momentum, spinning around. With a mighty heave, she let fly. The boulder sailed up and over, just barely skimming the sightline of the western wall before a great plume of water went up from the sea.

Now a little dizzy, Remy scrambled for the eastern wall. She was of the same mind as Soren in that moment; the city would be in ruins long before the tortoise elemental reached the gate if that barrage continued. There was nothing for it but to engage the creature at close range.

Looking back once, her gaze zeroed in on a flurried, magical storm racing along the spire of Ahghairon’s Tower. From this distance Remy could just make out the glowing profiles of a silver wolf’s head and a black wolf’s head, chasing each other up the outside of the tower. Manshoon and the Blackstaff fought a magical battle for dominance. Multi-colored lightning arced and hissed, spitting sizzling octarine light into the air.

Transfixed, Remy tripped on the last stride, crashing through the wall. Guards ran along the partition, scurrying for safety as the great stone structure warped and buckled underneath them. A haze of dust and rubble rose behind her as the Hawk Man made its first steps outside the city.

Soren cursed as a set of narrow streets suddenly appeared between her and the edge of the city. “MOVE!” she shouted desperately, urging the tiny people to get out of her way.

Her first leg collided with the side of a tall row house. Soren cursed. By the angle she had to travel, Soren knew at once that if she was going to make it in time, before the next barrage, she would have to demolish the entire street.

Stone punched through plaster and beams, houses shattering and toppling around her shins. The screams and cries of pain and panic sent an arrow right through her breast.

Ahead she could already see the tortoise spitting another enormous missile. At least

she

had done her best to keep to the hastily-cleared street; if that boulder landed, however, whatever block lay in its path would be crushed beyond repair.

Soren vaulted the wall, swinging her legs up and over. That section of the parapet crushed under her weight and a long crack boomed as it appeared below. But the wall held.

Putting on a burst of speed, she crossed the first few farms in a matter of seconds. Soren leapt, legs cycling wildly. The knight took the boulder full-force in the chest. It went crashing to the ground, driving a deep groove into the earth.

All the breath exploded out of her lungs. Back in Blackstaff Tower, Soren sagged at her sconce for a moment, dazed.

Remy pulled ahead, seeing a new boulder hurtling straight for a small farmhouse. The tortoise had aimed low. She fell to her knees, skidding through field and garden. Remy slid until she was even with the house. Her wing snapped up at just the right time; rock and debris shattering harmlessly against the impromptu shield.

A rock back and leap up had Soren crouching on the balls of her feet. She took off like an arrow, drawing even with her companion. Her stride did not even slow as they approached the lumbering elemental. Soren could see its beady, bloodstone eyes. They sparked with discharged arcane energy.

Diamond claws rent the earth, all but collapsing the road and countryside beneath its bulk. Stoney scales covered its stout, powerful legs. Its shell, comprised at the outer edge of dark dolomite, rose swiftly to a peak of granite and gneiss. Trees and dirt clung to its back, rockslides cascading as it moved. Underneath flashed a pale belly of sandstone and flaking shale.

Soren whipped her shield up and lowered her shoulder. The collision of colossi cracked and boomed over the valley. Trees swayed and fault lines of stress appeared beyond the ring of confrontation. The tortoise roared as Soren’s shield sheared off part of its shell.

It tossed its head, snapping large jaws that missed the Hawk Man by only a few yards. Another roar, this one of dominance.

Both Soren and Remy had to throw up their arms as jagged lightning shot up from the ground. Back in Blackstaff Tower, Remy could all but taste the ozone in the air.

Shaking herself, Remy gave a wild yell as she tackled the tortoise to the ground. It fell in a cloud of dirt and rage. Soren piled onto the same side, and swore she could feel rock trembling through her teeth.

The elemental gave a mighty heave, shoving itself back on its feet and taking both statues with it. Earth gave way to its crunching maw and Soren cursed as the damage she’d caused to its scales began to reverse.

“Remy!” she shouted from her control pillar. A wind of unleashed magic snapped and crackled throughout Blackstaff Tower. Whatever Vajra and Manshoon were doing must be intense. It was an all-out, no holds barred knock-down fight between the two mages and the sooner it ended, the sooner her skin would stop feeling fizzy.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” The tiefling’s tail lashed. Enough arcane energy lashed around them to put Ramazith’s Tower back in Baldur’s Gate to shame. “On ‘three’--”

In the valley, the tortoise dove for another mouthful of field.

“THREE!” Soren yelled, not bothering to wait.

Both friends heaved together. Soren wedged her shoulder under the shell, her feet gouging deep furrows in the earth. Remy’s claws had better purchase. Giving a savage scream, Knight and Hawk Man shoved and strained until the protesting elemental had one whole side lifted off the ground. A final push and the zaratan rolled onto its back with a sound like an avalanche.

The tortoise’s stubby legs flailed in the air as its jaw snapped at nothing. Screeching and bellowing, its whole body rocked stubbornly as it attempted--and failed--to right itself.

“We’ve made it angry!” Remy shouted.

She wasted no time. One leap brought her up onto its belly. Remy tore into the shale and sandstone with the Hawk Man’s claws, throwing clumps of rock any which-way.

Soren blinked hard to clear the sweat from her eyes. How could adrenaline be pumping through her veins like a forest fire while she was standing perfectly still?

The Knight backed off from the range of that snapping maw. She drew her sword and swung it over her head with a savage battle cry. It cleaved the zaratan’s thrashing head from its neck, the stones and rock returning to inert earth.

Remy’s Hawk Man was breathing as hard as she was. “Is it over?”

“I think so.” Soren rolled her shoulder.

They left the tortoise’s broken mound where it lay and trudged back to the city. All along the wall guards moved like busy ants. In the distance, Ahghairon's Tower was once again still. Remy climbed back through the hole she had made as carefully as she could. She kept her wings tight to her body, very slowly edging through the streets until she reached the Hawk Man’s resting place.

Soren drew up short of the wall. The broken section was so large that it would take all of the following summer to repair. Such a disadvantage left Waterdeep vulnerable. Instead of returning to the Honorable Knight’s alleyway, she took up position with her back to the gap. The Knight held his shield and sword at rest, but ready, as if it were a suit of armor on display. It would stand sentry at the wall until such a time as it was once again needed.

~

“No time for a nap, my dear.” A familiar hand shook Soren awake.

She blinked groggily from her spot on the floor of Blackstaff Tower. The blurry cream and copper image above her resolved itself into a smiling Renaer Neverember. She took his offered palm and got woozily to her feet. “...and Manshoon?”

“Well,” said Renaer with a sideways shrug, “this clone has been dealt with. No doubt he has others elsewhere, doing their own dastardly business. But we can safely say that, aside from a little resistance, most of the Zhentarim should come back under Davil’s banner. Vajra’s resting,” he added when Soren cast about in askance. “An archmage’s duel is nothing to sneeze at.”

Nearby, Remy was equally as indisposed. She groaned, rubbing her eyes. There were hardly any lights in the chamber and already it was too bright. “Ugh, what hit me. I’m so hungry I could eat a fucking horse,” Remy said. “And for me, that’s really saying something.”

Renaer and Soren each took one of her hands and hauled Remy to her feet. “You’ll be happy to know there will likely be a substantial reward from the Open Lord for helping to save the city.” Renaer smiled.

“I want a full fucking pardon,” Remy said at once.

Soren only shook her head, the look in her eyes a private one. “I don’t want anything.”

“My dear--”

When had he started calling her that? “Ren,” Soren gently insisted. “I don’t want any money. No ceremony, no praise. Please. The city is safe, that is all that matters.”

Renaer looked at her for a long time. “It is important to accept gifts when they are offered,” he said at last. “Perhaps not to you--but to the giver it means a great deal, even if it is only thanks.”

He extended Soren his elbow with a charming smile. “But I know your oath. Would you at least let me take you to lunch?” Renaer asked. “After all, I believe you owe me a date.”

A sweet feeling fluttered in Soren’s breast. “You know, I think I do.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I said, give it here.”

Remy held back the port bottle, leaning until it was out of Davil’s not-inconsiderable reach. The chair creaked under her. “Not until you tell me who Marduk is.”

Davil sighed, the sun elf slumping back in his chair. The restorative meal at Blackstaff Tower had done nothing to lighten the bags under his eyes or make him look any less exhausted. Remy was beginning to think that was just how the sardonic leader of the Zhentarim looked when he wasn’t actively trying to charm someone. The situation had been explained. Rather, Remy had done her level best to summarize everything she knew had happened over the past few days. With Soren spending the day with Renaer, she only had half the story.

“Fine.” He waved for her to pour him some of her best porter. Only once the red liquid was splashing into his glass did he speak. “Marduk is the head of an order of monks, known as the Grandmaster of Flowers. A strange title, but don’t let that fool you. He led a whole temple against Tiamat at the Well of Dragons.” Davil drained his glass all in one go.

Remy listened intently, pouring into the proffered cup.

“Keep ‘em coming. I want to forget yesterday ever existed.”

When he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, Remy prodded. “Yeah, but is he like, trustworthy?”

“Is anyone?” Davil snorted.

“He’s definitely not sane,” she said, thinking of the massive quantity of honey Marduk had consumed.

Davil fixed her with a flat look. “Remiah,” he said, holding his empty glass out again, “

nobody

is sane.”

She gave an awkward shrug and just passed him the bottle. Watching him drink right from it, her tail tapped against the leg of her chair. “What I mean is, he said we’re being followed. More to the point,

Soren

is.”

“Your ranger friend?” Davil looked incredulous. “She’s rather a dull one, isn’t she? What would someone want with her?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Remy sighed. “By some fellow named Avran Fairweather.”

Davil’s ears perked up. For a moment it looked like he recalled something, some tidbit of crucial information. “Never heard of the man,” he said, to Remy’s immense disappointment.

“You’re certain?”

“A lot of people--the right kind of people, people in my sort of business--are interested in Dagult’s gold.” Davil spread his empty hands with a laconic shrug. The interest of petty thieves and general ne’er-do-wells was hardly his concern. Doubtless, small-time operators would be looking into their competition.

Remy sat back in her chair.

“Did you double back for the Cassalanter’s gold?” Soren had whispered to her quickly over breakfast at Blackstaff Tower.

“No, why?”

The ranger leaned across the table, trying to get a private word in with her friend while Renaer was helping Vajra to bed after the mage had expended so much effort destroying Manshoon’s clone. “Magistrate Aluther said someone had emptied the Cassalanter vault behind us,” she said. “It wasn’t you?”

“I wish,” Remy had said, rolling her eyes.

Soren had sat back, obviously troubled. Remy knew how she felt.

Only once they’d separated for the day had the tiefling thief remembered Marduk’s words at all--or Xeblob’s ominous warning. A day enjoying the faire would do them both good. Remy’s tail twitched anxiously. Dagult’s gold was still out there, waiting to be claimed. And if they didn’t run into trouble hunting it down, it was now almost assured that trouble would find

them.

~

One of the colossi had run right through it, tearing down most of twelve buildings. Rubble and smashed belongings littered the street. Crying and wailing echoed in the alley. A cloud of dust and fine mortar still filled the air. The guts of each house slumped unevenly down into the road, creating a small mountain that reached up to the second floors. One man was still wandering around, blood down the side of his face, and a dazed look. A woman was crying, her arms full of two sobbing children. Neighbors had pitched in to help, but it wouldn’t be enough. And through all this chaos moved Soren. She lighted up the piles of rubble, coaxing down those who had been cornered on an upper floor. Strong arms reached for, and handed down, a screaming baby, an elderly woman, and a young man whose leg had been broken. White dust from the collapsed houses soon covered her clothes, but the wood elf hardly cared.

“Here, now, little one,” she coaxed, ushering a small elven child to jump into her arms. “I’ll catch you.”

Renaer also extended a hand. His brilliant smile and sparkling green eyes were kind, and nearly impossible not to trust. When the child would not budge, he climbed a bit higher; surefooted as any rogue on the loose rubble.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Soren shushed the crying girl as Renaer picked her up by the waist and deposited her wholly into Soren’s arms. She patted the girl’s shaking back, lifting her as if it were no effort at all. “Easy, now.”

Gradually the shaking stopped and the girl only clung tightly to Soren. Something warm filled her chest in the same breath as something sad. It was with a little regret that she passed the child off to the girl’s anxious mother, who swept up her daughter in a flurry of tearful, relieved kisses.

“You’re a natural at that,” Renaer remarked when she came to join him at their waiting carriage. “Have you ever thought about having children of your own?”

Soren flushed, taking his hand up and settling herself down onto the cushions. He came up after her and wordlessly passed a damp cloth over for her to brush off the plaster dust. When she didn’t immediately answer, Renaer changed seats and tucked himself in beside her. His arm was warm where it touched her waist, and the line of his body, too; so reassuring. Sweet. “I’m sorry,” Renaer said, glancing at his lap with a soft, humbling smile. “I suppose it must be a sensitive topic, since you have your…your meeting with Null looming on the horizon.”

“...I always figured I’d have time,” Soren replied quietly. “I was always so picky with my lovers, the bull dragons who sought my attention.”

Renaer coughed a bit at that. Mating and courtship were so different for their species. Humans did not often speak of copulating so…bluntly.

“There were a few mating flights,” Soren continued. “But none that produced a clutch of  my own. I…I never found a bull who…” She searched for the right word. “I wanted perfection, because I thought

I

was perfect.”

“You regret it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Soren shrugged, trying to ignore the feeling growing in her breast, demanding attention. Renaer didn’t allow her that reverie. Warm fingers found her cheek, her chin, turning her face until they were nearly nose to nose. “If you had the opportunity,” he said, almost breathlessly, “would you?”

“You are hardly perfect, Lord Neverember.” His touch made her smile despite her melancholy.

“And are you still seeking perfection, Miss Chandry?”

Heat fluttered in her chest. Renaer’s gentle teasing drew her back out of her shell. “...no,” Soren said quietly. Her hand settled over his.

“Good.” Copper hair brushed her arm. Renaer’s lips were a warm invitation, one Soren surrendered herself to. “I could never be without fault or scar,” the young Harper admitted, his usual good humor a bit solemn, “but I think I could make you happy.”

“Yes,” Soren murmured before Renaer swept her up in his arms. “I rather think you could.”

~

Floon practically had to drag Remy out of the tavern with both hands. “Aw, chin up, Remy. I’m sure Bonnie will take good care of them.”

The tiefling thief kept checking back over her shoulder to see Bonnie waving to them from the front porch of

The Four Companions

. Her wide smile was almost enough to bely any worry--almost.

“But are you

sure--

” Remy began.

“I’m sure,” said Floon. “C’mon. Andre and Shiv probably wouldn’t want you to fret.”

How right he was, Remy thought as they both hopped a packed dray bound for the Docks Ward. Andre wouldn’t have appreciated her wringing her hands and Shiv even less so. While she and Soren had been busy saving the city from Manshoon, Renaer had rushed the beleaguered Shiller’s Row Gang over to the hospice. By the time she arrived back on her own doorstep it was to find both friends tucked away in clean blankets upstairs. She wasn’t sure how Renaer had managed it, but Bonnie had agreed to take up the vigil while Remy got some well-earned rest.

“It isn’t,” the twin waitress had said with a shy smile, “as if they’re going very far.”

Remy had to admit that was true. Shiv and Andre were pale and wan, looking far the worse for wear than her or Soren. She had expressed a thousand thank-you’s for Bonnie’s assistance, babbling something about how she was sure Bonnie’s twin--also named Bonnie--at the Yawning Portal and Durnan would be missing her, and perhaps Remy should stay a little bit after all, when Floon had appeared and cajoled her into fresh clothes and out into the bright autumn morning.

~

Soren let out a long, slow breath. The shortbow trembled in her hands, tension singing through shoulder and forearm. Her limbs were corded, so delicately dusted with winking golden freckles. Sunlight and shadow bisected the bow’s crescent as it bent under her will. The wind of her own lungs and the slow, purposeful drum of her blood muted all else. A breeze buffeted her bangs and they whispered across her forehead.

If Avran himself had beheld her in that moment, his infamous control would surely have crumbled at last.

It was said that the eyes of an eagle could spot a field mouse up to a league away. A hawk on the wing could spy fish in their shifting coats of mail beneath the surface of a rippling lake. But neither of them compared--could ever compare--to the sharp, golden gaze of the highest creature of all. Talons to rend, wings to batter the wind, teeth that ground up gems like sweetmeats. Her wings had once brought thunder. Her claws could tear apart stone. The fire behind her teeth could bring all viciousness to bear, draw soot from house and ash from tree. But those golden eyes, unchanged for all of Bahamut’s interference, narrowed like a falcon pinpointing his kill.

Renaer had barely time to offer Soren any encouragement. No sooner had he opened his mouth than her arrow let fly. The hay bale behind the target shuddered violently. In the sudden silence Soren’s previous arrow, now split down the middle, dropped softly to the ground. She had left naught but a small, round hole in the padded target where the bull’s eye should be.

“Games of chance and skill indeed!” Renaer cried as the carnival onlookers and the game’s attendant took up the cheer. “Marvelous, my dear, bravo!”

Soren flushed, accepting a clay badge from the attendant as a token of her success. “Enough of these,” the young tiefling man told her, “and you may redeem them for prizes.”

The pad of her thumb swept across the rough imprint of a barrel. “Thank you,” she said, embarrassed. “I’ll be certain to hold onto it.”

Renaer hooked his arm in hers and steered them back onto the main street. Streamers and banners of all colors snapped in the morning’s hearty breeze. It was cool, still, and cooler in the long shadows of warehouses and taverns, but under the sun it was plenty warm and the air was fine.

Such skill!

he thought, glancing over at Soren. It was almost a pity she didn’t want to be noticed. Try all she might to disguise herself, the woman on his arm shone as bright as the sun.

They were in no hurry at all. After all, they had the whole day ahead of them. Soren leaned her head on his shoulder, both hands so tenderly holding his arm. Content as a cat in a sunbeam.

The merry notes of a quick jig twirled through the crowd. Harper and ranger found themselves drawn to the gay song, to the laughter of small children who whirled about, no sense of timing, only joy. The bard, dressed in bright stripes and diamonds, tapped her foot as she fiddled. By unspoken consent they stopped altogether to listen.

Soren clapped her hands in rhythm. Her smile was still shy, but present.

Without warning Renaer took her by the hand and pulled her into the circle, away from the comfort of the sidelines.

“Ren, what are you--” she began, stumbling a little.

“Dance with me!” he insisted, his smile so infectious that Soren could not help but return it.

She laughed. The sound of it jumped, warm, right through his bones. “I don’t know how!” Soren insisted.

“I’ll teach you!”

Her feet felt clumsy under her. But the air was so fresh and the laughter of children so sweet and Renaer’s copper hair swept like a wing over his shoulder. She could not help

but

dance. Give herself to music and excitement all together.

The jig set ended in a whirl of feverish swirling and the tapping of many feet. Flower petals came loose from a nearby archway and rained on the street. A few of them settled into the ranger’s hair. Without thinking, knowing that he would regret it always if he did not do it now, Renaer took Soren by the waist and pulled her into a long kiss.

Soren’s heart jumped to her throat. Renaer’s lips were warm--

very

warm. A heat she had not felt in over a century leapt to life within her body. Suddenly, as it is with love, very little else mattered.

He tried to draw back, to apologize for not asking. Soren had other plans. She threw her arms around him and met him, passion for passion.

Oblivious to everything else. Not noticing the cheers and the whispers. Pushing everything else aside.

How good it was to be alive.

“--is that

Lord Neverember?

”

Renaer nibbled at her lip. His hot tongue was in her mouth, his fingers gripping her linen shirt so tightly.

“--Dagult’s boy, I heard--”

More flower petals settled on his shoulders, winking pale between wings of copper hair. Soren’s nails stung deliciously, even though his clothes.

Hot, she was hot all the way down. The longer he kissed her, the more she burned. An amphora filled with heady wine, feelings and desires she had long ignored leaping to the forefront.

“--oesn’t the boy have any

decency?

”

Soren swam in that feeling. The world was off-balance, like the churning surf dissolving a sandy shoal at high tide. Sunlight crowned them both. All at once, she could not get enough.

Soren bit him.

Gasping, Renaer withdrew. The color was high in his pale cheeks and his green eyes alight and eager. “We,” he managed, “we should see the rest of the Faire.”

How they disentangled from each other, Soren never knew. All she could feel was a powerful hunger, awoken and ravenous, in her breast. “Mm.” No other answer would come to her lips.

Together they stumbled away from the flower arch, deeper into the Docks Ward. Soren and Renaer passed many games of chance and skill. A few they wandered into, hearts beating hard and exchanging looks between them as a stoker works a furnace. Crowds--the closeness normally something Soren hated--did not bother her.

Tokens clinked in her pocket as Renaer let a few silver fall into the admittance plate of a rather intricate barrel maze. It spanned the whole of one wharf, just near the

Heartbreaker

. Inside its stacked walls the air was cooler and the sound of merrymaking was muted.

“Always pick one direction and stick with it,” Renaer told her. “And eventually you’ll find your way out.”

It wasn’t a few turns in, the sounds from outside truly faded now, however, when Renaer pulled Soren into the shadows and pressed her against the wall. This time he left off her lips and trailed a fiery line of kisses down her long throat. She gave an involuntary gasp, that heat making her clench her thighs together.

“Tell me,” he murmured low, as hungry as she, “tell me you want this.” Renaer’s deft fingers tugged at her shirt, trying to free it from her leggings.

“We--” Soren panted. “We’ll be seen--”

His hands were broad and strong where they met her skin. That touch sent a delicious shiver up her spine. “I must know, Soren--sweet Zarri--do you, with me, do you--”

She nibbled at his neck, running her fingers through his copper hair. It was cool in the shadow of the barrels, but Soren did not feel it. “Yes,” she murmured, the sound muffled through hair and cloth and delicious skin. He tasted like autumn light. “...just, just not…not here.”

By a thin margin Renaer regained his composure. He took Soren by the hand, his quick steps through the rest of the maze as light and sure-footed as a fencer’s.

A bored-looking teenager lounging at the maze’s exit plopped a blue jester’s cap on Renaer’s head. Its tin bells rang loudly every time the Harper moved.

“I think it’s rather fetching,” Soren teased him.

Renaer tilted the hat at a rakish angle, flashing her a heady smile. Somehow, between the maze and the arm-wrestling contest he’d won earlier, he had only succeeded in becoming more handsomely disheveled. They wove their way through the celebrating crowd in high spirits. Renaer fished a length of ribbon from his satchel and tied up his sleeves, tightening the knot with his teeth.

He propped both fists on his hips, forearms strong and freckled, as he watched Soren toss a rag goblin into a goal net on the other side of a carnival game. Beaming, she came away with a stuffed toy in the shape of a chimera. This time, Renaer only leaned down and gave her a peck on her slender, pointed ear.

Soren’s breath caught in her throat. The heat inside of her was becoming unbearable, the presence of so many watchful eyes a hindrance to passion. “Let’s,” she said, having to say it twice to speak past dry lips. “Shall we investigate the menagerie?”

It was not hard to find the tent itself. The long red roof had been sewn with rippling braided tassels and painted with an emblem of the Sea Maiden’s Faire.

“After you,” Renaer beamed as he held up the flap for Soren to go ahead of him.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior. Just enough midday sunlight leaked through to give everything under the tent a soft red glow. Inside the menagerie a long path wended through the tent, thick curtains enclosing different sections, almost as if they were strolling through a living museum gallery.

Inside a stout cage there was a rather large owlbear with a small fez on its head. It was curled up, cooing in its sleep. Soren took her steps cautiously, the soft breathing of dangerous creatures suffusing the air around her.

An allosaurus--whose plaque went on to mention many fascinating facts about its home and behavior in Chult--snorted at Soren, but made no move to rise from its comfy spot amongst the leaves and bracken of its enclosure. Some of the attractions, Soren noticed, were behind glass. Better that than have a visiting child lose a finger.

Her senses were on edge, singing high in the presence of other predators. One dire wolf, pure white and positively enormous, drew in her scent sharply. Its eyes dilated and it lifted its head, growling low.

They

knew. Bahamut’s change of her body could fool the people of Faerun easily enough, but Soren was still a dragon for those who had the ability to sense it. Even the mindflayer had been able to know her for what she was.

Renaer’s deft touch brought Soren back to the moment. He pulled her into a dark corner, far from all the enclosures. The heavy flap of fabric that cordoned this storage area off from the walkway whispered in a voice of muted canvas. Something wild and excitable twinkled in his merry, green eyes. That light danced in him as he pressed their bodies close.

“Soren.” Renaer’s broad hands cupped her face. His rapier’s scabbard clinked on his hip. “You…you make me feel more like a scoundrel than a gentleman.” The thin silver chain of her Harper earrings ran over his fingers like a flashing waterfall. He kissed her all over in a sudden rush. “I’m, I’m sorry if it’s too fast, I…” Renaer trailed off, heady in the heat blossoming between them. “It is only…my

heart,

Soren.”

Her palm slid down to his chest, to the feeling of thunder beneath her fingers. Of a drumbeat that matched her own.

“I…I know we are so different,” Renaer continued, searching her expression. “I know I have not c-courted you as I should, I apologize, I--”

She leaned forward, and kissed the gentle corner of his mouth. There was nothing else in the world. Not the Faire, not Dagult’s gold, not Null’s death sentence--hurtling toward her like a falling star. Nothing.

“What…what if I want you to be a scoundrel,” Soren whispered. “What then?”

What would you do with me?

Renaer swallowed, hard. “I think,” he said thickly, in the voice of one fighting desire for every inch of ground, “we ought to return to the manor.”

~

“--yanno, you can’t help that you were born beautiful,” Remy said, striking a superior pose in front of the small gaming audience. “Just like I can’t help that I was born a big fucking liar!”

“Oh, bravo!” Floon cried, edging his way through the crowd. He stepped lightly so as to keep the two cones of flavored, shaved ice from falling to the ground. “Good show, Remy, good show, I say!”

She waited while the insult contest game’s attendant pinned a clay badge on her vest. “We’ll have to pool our badges with Soren tomorrow,” the tiefling said, hopping down and plucking the cone out of Floon’s hand. “See what we can get at prize redemption.”

Floon strolled beside Remy, one hand shoved in his pocket, while they took in the Faire. It seemed as if there was a minstrel on every corner. One man juggled knives while his companion spat fire to the general applause of the crowd. Streamers filled the air, periwinkle and rose. Waterdeep surged through the Docks Ward, pulsing as if alive. The whirl of music and moving bodies and cobblestones would have been enough to disorient anyone.

Remy whipped her neck around at the sound of a loud shout. Behind her, several yards away, a red-face woman at a pie stand was shaking her fist. The colorfully-painted sign above her stall read

Nite Nite Fattie’s

.

“You damned kids!” she hollered at a retreating figure. “Get back here!”

Remy gave a chuckle as she spied a tall, rail-thin man in a long trenchcoat beating a retreat at speed through the crowd. The stout legs of a young child stuck out from beneath the coat. Likewise a pair of thin, pale hands clutched the trenchcoat tightly as the top figure, sporting a set of horns and a rather rakish, outrageous hat, held aloft three steaming pies. Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly were soon out of sight. No Watchman responded to the woman’s yelling--and thank goodness, too. Remy had had enough of the law in the past 24 hours to last her a lifetime.

That, inevitably, brought her back to Shiv and Andre. He had looked so drawn and thin, her drow friend. The bruising hard and dark around his eye where the tadpole had been extracted. How lucky, to have been in time. How lucky, to have him at her side again. To give them all a roof to sleep under.

A

home.

How lucky.

“Remy!”

She came to with a start, realizing that she had been following Floon with no real attention to her surroundings. Rolling her neck to loosen it, Remy did a subtle, cursory check of all her secret pockets. A single brush of her arms against her sides was enough to confirm that everything was where it should be. Good.

Floon led her to a carnival game down near the end of the Docks Ward. He stopped, beaming, throwing out his arm as if he were presenting her with a grand prize.

“...Naked Pig Wrestling?” Remy read with a snort. She glanced beyond the hastily-erected fence. Inside it was one beleaguered-looking festival attendant with a broken arm in a sling. The man was scowling deeply. Next to him, entirely naked, sat a jolly, middle-aged halfling, completely covered in mud.

“C’mon by, eh?” said the halfling cheerfully. “Give ye a run fer yer money, I will.”

Remy had to pull her lips into her mouth to keep from laughing. She watched, giggling, as Floon began to strip. By the time he’d gotten his shirt all the way off, though, and his lightly-freckled chest was bare to the autumn sun, she wasn’t giggling anymore. The man

was

handsome, she thought. And he was kind of dumb.

But in a cute way.

The tiefling took her place on an audience crate, about as far away from the scowling attendant as she could be. Perhaps he’d lost at lots for this post. In any case, she was here for the fun.

“Bwahaha! Feast yer eyes!” the halfling squealed, waving his ass at Floon.

Now shirtless and without his boots, Floon chuckled. He tried to block his vision. “I say,” he said. “What are the rules of this one?”

“Catch me, truss me, and shove me in yon barrel!” the halfling man crowed. His bald pate was already streaked with dried dirt from his last excursion. “I’ve never lost yet!”

Floon laughed. Smiling, he began confidently, “Well, good sir, perhaps today is the day you’ll meet your match--”

And that was when the halfling tackled him to the ground.

“He

did

tell you that he was the reigning Neverwinter wrestling champion for three decades, didn’t he?” Remy said later, barely able to contain her laughter.

Floon ambled like a scarecrow down the pier. “I think I missed that part,” he said. Or, at least, that was what he

meant

to say. His entire body, from head to toe, was plastered in thick, brown mud. In order to keep the foul stuff from getting in his mouth, what he actually said was, “Aye ‘ink aye ‘is’d ah pah.”

“Don’t suppose you brought a change of trousers?” she teased.

“...’og.”

Still laughing, the two friends found themselves a dock with a ladder. Floon blundered back and forth from one side of the pier to the other, debating where to jump in.

“It’s the same water,” Remy chuckled. The scent of brine and fish was stronger here. She reached up and dusted off the tips of her horns. On windy days their ridges always caught little grains of dirt. When Floon seemed more apt to surrender and just take the ladder down--despite the fact that he’d muck up the rungs with mud anyway, and defeat the whole purpose of getting clean--Remy straightened up and extended a hand. “Here, let me.”

“...’ank ‘ou.”

She took a grip on his forearm. Then she grinned.

Floon’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake.

Humming to herself, Remy twirled her friend and gave him a light shove in the direction of the harbor. Floon went over the side in a muffled scream, one hand extended to give her the middle finger. A great splash went up from below.

“You alive down there?” she called cheerfully, propping one foot up on a pylon.

A mass of bubbles and white water threshed open to reveal Floon, bobbing clean as a whistle to the surface. He gave a sharp cry at the water’s cool temperature and whipped his long red hair back out of his eyes. “You!” he called up. “Remmiah Sinnah, you are a

menace!

”

“Just doing my job!” she said heartily. “Cleaning dirt off the streets of Waterdeep.”

Floon scrubbed at his arms, blinking to flush the salt water from his eyes. “You’re horrid! An infernal beast of the highest order!”

Her tail bounced merrily behind her. “Oh yeah? Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Will you go out with me?”

Remy blinked.

By now Floon could see her fairly well. His arms made wide circles as he tread water. The cold wasn’t so bad, once one got used to it. “I like you!” he said. “Will you go out with me?”

“I h-heard you the first time.” Remy flushed, her red cheeks turning a darker shade of rose. She stood back as he climbed the ladder, offering him his dry, clean shirt while he wrung the water from his hair. “Don’t,” she said nervously, “don’t you have other girls to choose from. Pretty girls?”

“Maybe,” Floon said, drying off his face and neck. He gave her a hopeless, earnest smile. “But none of them saved me from certain death.”

Remy nodded. “I see. So it’s gratitude for me hauling your ass halfway across town to the hospice.” That was better. Yeah. That she understood.

Floon looked at her, watching the embarrassed expression flit across her face, trying to hide as if

it

was nervous. “I…I don’t have much going for me,” he said. “But I like spending time with you. Would you…” He trailed off, looking for a way to circumnavigate her sudden apprehension. After all she had told him--and the silent glances at Shiv’s door that even

he

could read--he knew that it must be difficult to let someone new get close.

“You, ah, you don’t have to answer,” he said, pulling his shirt back on over his head. With his bare chest away Remy seemed to relax a little. “But there’s a party in a few nights, at House Sesso. They

always

have good cheese on the sideboard. And the wine?” He made a kissing motion with his fingers. “To die for.”

“And you want me to come with you?”

Floon nodded, almost too enthusiastically.

“I’ll think about it. Will there be stuff to steal?”

“Oh, probably,” he said. He offered his arm to her, turning their feet towards the

Four Companions

. Towards home.

Remy’s tail bounced along happily behind her. Floon was warm and kind and steady by her side. The sun was bright. They’d saved the town from Manshoon. It really had been a good day. “Then I suppose I will go with you--er, just for the cheese, you understand.”

“Of course,” said Floon.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Wood elf perched deliciously on his hips, her legs wrapped around his waist, Renaer fumbled at the front door of his own estate. The other hand remained, firmly grasping Soren’s ass to keep her aloft. Anything for this precious woman he was so passionately lost in.

Madrak barely got the door open before Renaer stumbled inside, kissing Soren all the while. “I say!” the old halfling cried, incredulous. “Lord Neverember! I expected better of you.”

Panting, Renaer readjusted his grip and nibbled at Soren’s neck. “Dammit you old hin,” he said. “Let me have this.” His jester’s hat fell to the ground, bells tinkling softly.

Renaer did not let go. The heat,

her

heat, was splitting him. Demanding worship and attention. He carried Soren--who planted kisses all over him the whole way--through the house, passing parlor and dining room. If not for the weight of the woman in his arms, he would have taken the stairs two at a time.

Madrak came after, alight with protests. Yes, he wanted his master to settle down, to produce heirs and find a spouse worthy of the Neverember’s storied crest. But to make love

before

marriage? To indulge in carnal attraction--and not just with some dockside whore, but with a common adventurer who could be here today and gone tomorrow--was unthinkable.

“You must not sow your wild oats!” Madrak blustered, keeping up with Renaer’s longer strides despite his advanced age. “Master, think about what you are doing! What about her pedigree? Her dowry?”

“Not now, Madrak,” Renaer mumbled, his face buried in Soren’s dark hair. She smelled like the forest on a summer’s day, heady and sweet. As only pine and dappled light could be. “I’m busy.”

The old halfling tugged on Renaer’s pant leg, but without enough strength to slow his master’s advance toward the bedroom. “What--” he panted, “what if you get her with child? What then?”

Soren made a small, deep sound. It rippled up Renaer’s skin and the freckles on his forearms danced as he gripped her all the tighter.

“That’s the point, Madrak,” he said, all but growling into Soren’s neck.

Madrak spluttered. “Lady Haventree’s soiree! You cannot bring a common adventurer-for-hire into polite society. It is unheard of, unorthodox!”

“Then I shall simply have to bring my fiance, instead.”

“

Master Neverember--”

Renaer had reached his room. He shoved the door open with his foot and hooked his elbow on the inside handle. “Good

day

, Madrak.”

Blessed silence washed over them. In the hush and the pleased quiet of the room, Soren murmured, “Ren…you barely know me.”

He set her down gently, coming to embrace her almost at once. “I know all that matters,” Renaer said, his tone kind and matter-of-fact. “And I know you must live while you are alive.”

“I will make you a widower--” Soren began, gasping as Renaer’s expert fingers unbuckled her leather armors and archer’s gloves. These fell onto the woven, burgundy carpet with barely a sound.

“Then you must come back to me,” he said. Renaer cupped her face again, their gazes emerald and gold dancing together. “You must come back to me,” he repeated, a whispered, pleading imperative. Soft, like a kind of wishing. Putting off the heartbreak. Pretending that it did not loom on the horizon.

Renaer’s suite was, other than the downstairs parlor, the largest room in the house. The burgundy carpet spread from wall to wall--or nearly so, as it stopped a few feet short of a shallow fireplace. Paintings of Mount Waterdeep and the harbor, the grand city gates, the peaks of the Starmounts, and Wyrm’s Rock graced the walls. An old wooden writing desk, clearly ancient and passed down through generations, was piled high with a scattered mess of letters, forms, and correspondence. In the middle of the room with the headrest against the wall, was a wide and luxurious canopy bed. Navy blue curtains were drawn back to expose the comforters and blankets of rich blues and reds that were neatly dressed atop a mattress of down and wool.

Their clothes fell into a mess at their feet. Renaer barely had his shirt up over his head, escaped wisps of copper hair bouncing out of his queue, when he caught sight of Soren undoing the lacing on her tunic. She pulled it off, bare arms winking with muted gold freckles, and paused, clutching the fabric to her naked chest.

“Are you shy?” Renaer murmured, teasing, taking one edge of the shirt between forefinger and thumb.

“Yes,” Soren admitted. “A little.”

How had it all happened, anyway? She wasn’t quite sure, now, but the ‘why’ of it all seemed very far away. “And you are my scoundrel, aren’t you?” she said. One brown hand splayed on his chest.

“As you are my Zarrakor.”

Her own name was like a shock of electricity throughout her body. Something had happened. Something she wasn't truly in control of. It was like falling but still flying at the same time. Joyful and not fear, but the

rush

. It was a feeling bigger than her chest could rightfully contain, and certainly too big for the small body she now inhabited. Soren rested her forehead against Renaer's, panting. It had been so long. Too long since she had tangled and mated with a male of metallic scales. But it was more than that. The part of her that was still a dragon wanted to devour this man; not his flesh, but everything about him.

His…sweetness.

Kindness.

Space--arms--to hold all that she was.

A teasing bite on his lower lip, sharp. She turned her kisses lower. His neck tasted like the soft brine of sea salt from their afternoon at the docks. His copper hair smelled of the fast-moving fall wind. No, she didn't dream of gold, but a riot of autumn colors. The last colors of the land before the deep cold of winter, beautiful defiance in the face of death.

“I’m, I’m not--” Soren bit down on Renaer’s neck, every inch of her alive. “Ren,” she whispered, her voice urgent, gripped by an imperative she could not name. “

Ren

. I need you.”

I'm not finished yet.

The bite to his lip, her head ducking to his shoulder and feeling the sharp pinch of teeth to his neck. It triggered something inside of him, something hungry. He was Lord Renaer Neverember, sole remaining heir to the Neverember name in Waterdeep, responsible for its reputation and example. But now, in this moment, with this woman, it was all left at the door.

A surge of survivor's adrenaline returned to him after a long day. He had not slept in over 30 hours, having used every ounce of his energy since the previous day in service to this woman who shared his company. To attend to her, to find her, to warn her, to rescue, even. His body was tired, but his soul leapt alight with new purpose. His heart was full to bursting, the want and need and worship welling up inside of him.

“Soren,” he coaxed, nibbling at her jawline. “I need you yesterday. Your skin, your taste, all of it.” His nose pressed under her ear to take in her scent, committing it to memory.

As his mouth tasted her skin, lips and tongue touching the edge of the pale scar that crossed her throat, Soren held her lover tightly. Her breasts crushed to his chest, only the shy fabric of her shirt between them. At this moment, she was never more grateful for the steps that had led her here, to this room, to this moment. To all the moments still yet to come, however few they might be.

Rubbing her cheek to his chest, his shoulder, as a cat might, she kissed the broad plain of his chest. Warm, gods, he was so

warm

.

Almost daring, she slipped from his grasp. The back of Soren’s knees hit the bed and she crawled up it to the plush valley of pillows. Brown braids cascaded over her bare shoulder. Heart pounding, Soren slowly folded the linen tunic in her hands, each new crease revealing more of her naked chest as the fabric square grew smaller.

Renaer did not take his eyes off her as she stripped, discarding stockings and smallclothes until she was gloriously nude before him. A hard tug on the laces of his trousers and they, too, dropped to the floor. Renaer stepped out of them, his hands coming up to close the bed curtains behind him. Let the world wonder. This was for

them

. Strip away the ranger and leave the woman. Strip away the gentleman and leave the scoundrel.

“Come,” Soren said, inviting him with a torch of a grin. It was a dragon’s smile that greeted him, heady and eager. “Come and get your prize.”

“I think you’ll come to me,” he said, chuckling. One pale hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged Soren to the edge of the bed.

Renaer stood over her, his athletic hips freckled all the way down. A little patch of curling red hair spread in a neat, masculine diamond over his chest. Soren only caught a glimpse of his manhood--standing at rigid attention--before he dropped to his knees.

Coils of heat unfolded from her sex as Renaer buried his face between her thighs. He trailed kisses down her mound of soft, brown curls. Nuzzling them aside, he lapped gently at the light sweetness of her body. Something like sweat. Something like desire.

Something like gold.

Panting already, Soren’s head hit the sheets. She arched under Renaer’s touch, moaning loud enough to surprise herself. Surely, Madrak and Bramal would hear her. Even belowstairs in the kitchen. But Soren had no thoughts to the outside world. No worries about now or later. Renaer's tongue lapped at her ready sex, her lover already drinking hungrily from her body. Waves of heat rolled through her with each expert flick of his tongue, each suckle of his lips on her clit.

Her fingers tangled in his copper hair, nails scraping along his scalp. "Ren--" Her long legs curled over his shoulders, bringing him closer. She never even touched herself. What dragon would?

Pleasure such as this was a rare and alien experience.

Soren found herself rocking against Renaer's expert mouth, seeking the bliss he provided. One hand left his hair to clench the bedsheets. Her body undulated with each eager breath. Moans spilled from her lips and in the dim interior of Renaer's room her coin-gold eyes seemed alight with lust and hunger.

Surely, surely he would keep going, as the coils of heat tightened and began to shudder and squeeze her core. Until she spilled herself open to him, and stopped holding herself back so desperately. In her panting, her bracing and her eagerness, her head tossed back and forth on the pillows, loosening her braids until they threatened to spill from her carefully-arranged style. "Ren, Ren, I want," Soren reached down and tugged at him. Not that relief. Not yet. The frenzy of hunger wasn't finished with her, nor she with him. She felt keenly that she must save it--but could not articulate why. "I want you, I need you."

He released her sex from his mouth before lowering her hips back down to the bedding. "And you’ll have me."

Renaer crawled up between her legs, slowly chasing Soren back up the bed. While her thundering heart eased, he caressed her face. “Soren,” he said, soft. “Soren.”

A dragon. A real, damned

dragon

--and in

his

bed!

How long did they have? Weeks? Days?

Did it matter?

She lowed at him; a strange, dragon sort of noise, deep in her chest. It sent a rippling shiver through his body.

“May I worship you?” Renaer whispered, half-propped on one elbow above her. The rest of his body was a pleasant weight on her chest. “May I join with you?”

The pad of his thumb to the plush of her lower lip. “Lady Neverember, won’t you let me love you?”

Her brown arms curled around his bare chest, nails tracing along his back. She nodded wordlessly. The slickness coating her thighs guided them together. Renaer’s prick sinking into her heat with a feeling very near relief.

At last.

Connected and entwined, firm and yet serpentine. So unlike the desperate, plowing frenzy with which she and Bellblade had met each other. Like and unlike. For much like her time on the river barge, Soren simply couldn't imagine a safer, sweeter feeling than to be right where she was.

As she was.

Her voice lilted down the scale to some sort of humming purr. She looked up at Renaer, coin-gold eyes bright in the candlelit gloom of the four poster bed. "..."

What she felt she didn't rightly have words for. She didn't know what it was. She'd never loved anything before. Well, nothing that wasn't her own reflection, anyway. And vanity was not love. What did love even taste like, on the tongue? What tremors did it even send through the body? How would she know? "Ren...you…”

A kiss to her brow. “Hush,” he said, “you don’t need to say anything.” Only he had noticed the tears slowly welling in her eyes.

She shook her head. There was something she had to say. To make him understand.

Soren threaded their fingers together, twining her long legs around his hips, so that they might surge and rock together like the tide. Long ago, there had been a bull dragon who had sometimes come to see her. He'd been quite handsome, Soren remembered, (not as handsome as she) and she'd let him rut on her--so long as he didn't tarnish the polish on her scales. It was a strange, funny memory, especially now, but she remembered one spring in particular. Flying up until even she could feel the cold. Locking claws with her partner, locking wings tight against her body and simply--joining as they plummeted toward the earth.

She braced against her lover's weight with their joined hands, and gathered Renaer as close as she could bring him. As if she were locking claws in a mating dive. "--you make me feel like flying," she said, with all the same softness and glow as if she had said,

I love you

.

"Then we fly, my darling," he replied with a purr. This beautiful woman, this mystery in his life, he couldn't expect to understand or unlock every story hidden in her eyes, but he did understand how he felt when she was near. He felt exposed, pulled out of hiding, free as himself. Without want of title or coin, it was an attraction far more valuable than any other he had experienced. Or rather, any other except...

Her legs tightening around him, feeling her feet anchor against his lower back and the pull of her hands, returned him back to this perfect moment. He began to rock and sway against her, leading the dance they lost themselves in. The music was a shared chorus of gasps and moans, each time he fit perfectly inside of her, and with every withdrawal his lips returned to her neck, kissing and adoring the mark that ringed it from collar to collar. It was no imperfection, but a badge of survival, a symbol of her strength, and it was as beautiful as every other inch of her.

Heat coiled deep inside, in the molten place between her hips. Soren brought her legs in with every thrust, encouraging Renaer to seat himself as deep as he could possibly get. With her hands captured by his, their forearms bracing together, Soren could only arch her back. Could only roll her body to meet his.

Ah, let Old Lord Neverember keep his hoard, his dream of gold. All the gold that would haunt Renaer's thoughts, waking or sleeping, were Soren's eyes. Burnished and glowing with centuries of experience. Swimming with lust and lost in the joy of the freefall. No thought but the moment, no need but the Now.

Striving, striving, as that coil wound tighter and tighter inside her. Her braids were a mess, her long dark brown hair in complete disarray across the bedspread. Soren chased that tightening coil, the rolling of her hips becoming more and more insistent, more desperate.

“Ren!” she gasped. “Ren, inside--” Soren tore one hand free of his and knotted it in his copper hair, pulling him down for a fierce kiss.

Soren fell over the edge of herself, her every moan drowning at the back of Renaer's throat. Her tight, wet sex rippled and squeezed as she bore down on her release. His name tumbled from her lips, divine and begging.

It was all the encouragement he needed.

They came together in uncoordinated bliss. Messy, Soren arching to meet him. Sweat slicking Renaer’s hair. A bruising, bite on his shoulder, just above his Harper tattoo. This handsome copper bull, mounting her so tenderly. She lost herself in sensation, in the sudden, tight fullness of her cunt as the young nobleman’s seed swelled to fill her.

At last, panting, Soren let her head fall back, braids pooling on the sheets. Sweat filmed across her skin. The space between them was slick and hot as a forge. Renaer’s green eyes sparkled down at her as he caught his breath.

What would become of that smile when she was gone? Soren reached up and cupped his face

And, for that matter, whatever had become of Bellblade? It was a strange little arrow to her heart, like a mirror’s shard pointing a reflection right to the feelings that had been growing ever since her meeting with Null. Subtly, quietly, arriving without her permission, just as her adoration for this man had done.

Renaer leaned down and frantically made to kiss away her tears. “My dear,” he said, trying to get her to look at him, “Whatever’s the matter? Have I hurt you?” When Soren shook her head, he caressed her cheek anxiously. “Then what is it?”

He had called her

Lady Neverember.

This…it just had to be real, and it just had to be right. And very few things had felt as beautiful and right as those words; Lady Neverember.

It just had to feel like flying.

All rivers flowed eventually to the sea. Wasn’t that what her dragonborn lover had said? That they’d see each other again? For the man who had once been home in the middle of a lonely war, for the man buried inside her now, who would

be

a home to her…

Soren buried her face in Renaer’s neck, holding him as if he would dissipate into so much smoke. “Oh, Ren,” she hiccupped through her tears. Private tears, not meant for anywhere but this room, this bed, this hairline crack in her resolve. Certainly not tears meant for Bahamut.

“I’m not finished yet,” Soren whispered fiercely. Renaer held her tight.

I don’t want to die.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Remy, get off the floor.”

The tiefling thief sprawled out on the taproom boards as if they were a delicate fainting couch. “Another tavern!” she cried dramatically, one hand to her forehead. “Soren, I’m bereft.”

“Hmph, unlikely.” The ranger sniffed.

“Cheating on me with another establishment--what has our friendship come to?”

Soren rolled her eyes. “Did you actually miss me?”

“Hey!” Remy snapped her fingers reproachfully. “These are some high-quality histrionics.”

Soren extended a hand, which Remy took. “Trust me, it’s not your best work.”

Morning sunlight streamed in through the window, decorating the taproom with squares of warm yellow. A light breeze dusted through the street, scattering ads and playbills. The sounds of sawing and pounding mingled with the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer filled the little alleyway that Remy and Soren were coming to call home. The two friends sat around their usual table, Soren holding a mug of tea and Remy a tall stein of coffee. It had been too many days and nights since they had had time to catch each other up and there was much to say.

“Well, it looks like you put them off their game,” Remy said, tapping that morning’s edition of the paper. “No mention of the Dockside Slasher--or his drow friends in today’s news.”

Soren nodded. “With the Faire finally in town, I’m certain they have their own patrols to keep things safe in the Docks Ward. Captain Zord’s reputation hangs on the Faire’s success. He wouldn’t want it muddied with

murder

.”

“I cannot tell you how fucking relieved I am to hear that they’re

just

drow.”

“

Just drow?”

Soren shook her head, incredulous.

Remy stabbed her finger at the table, making her point. “Look, in Baldur’s Gate, weird murders equal

bad shit

. But drow? Pffft.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Sure, they’re all insane spider cultists, but who knows, maybe it was for Mommy Lolth’s birthday or something. Just as long as it’s not for Bhaal, that’s the only thing that matters.”

It was, Soren had to admit, a valid point.

“Even so,” Remy continued, “you’re lucky the kids were there.”

“They’re a…surprisingly capable bunch.” Soren caught her rippling reflection on the dark surface of her tea. For all that had come after it, running headlong into the Bregan D’aerthe had sent a chill down her spine. She couldn’t imagine what led any one person to serve an evil deity--nevermind an entire culture of thousands. “I’m just glad the run-in was happenstance. Imagine if they’d been after me on purpose! If I see another drow again--er, your friend Shiv excluded,” she added when Remy opened her mouth to protest. “--it will be too soon.”

On purpose.

“Oh,” Remy said, eyes going wide. “Oh, OH!”

She shot up from her seat, bucking the table and making Soren spill tea all over her lap.

“

Oh

, Remy!” Soren hissed, scooting back and flicking hot tea off of her hand. “What’d you go and do that for--”

The tiefling slammed both of her hands on the table. Her tail lashed in the air. The sound of her excitement caused both Bonnie and Floon to peek into the taproom from the kitchen. “Soren!” Remy said, plowing right through her friend’s admonishment. “Someone’s after you!”

“--surely next time you could--I…what?”

“Someone’s after you. Look here,” Remy said. She felt all about her person and then produced a much-crumpled letter addressed,

To Miss Soren Chandry.

Looking dubiously between Remy and the proffered letter, Soren took it between thumb and forefinger. “Someone’s after me?” she repeated.

“I was at Xeblob’s shop, and he said--”

“Remy, the man is

crazy

,” Soren began but Remy was already shaking her head.

Beware the cat! Beware the prince of silk and shadow!

The memories came back to her all in a swirl of lavender mist. Something clicked in Remy’s brain. “That fucking cat!” she cried, making Soren flinch. “It’s him! With the purple eyes--he’s the one who took Ammalia Cassalanter!”

“I thought you said a

bat

--”

“They’re the same, I’m sure of it now! He must be the one who took all the money in the Cassalanter’s vault--that’s what Magistrate Aluther was talking to you about!”

“Oh!” said Soren, her eyes going wide. “But why would a sorcerer’s familiar--”

Remy’s crimson hand cut through the air. “That’s because he’s no familiar. He isn’t even a sorcerer. It’s Avran Fairweather, bet you a thousand gold.”

Soren shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

Turning her chair around, Remy straddled it backwards. She leaned over the backrest. “Soren, do you know a guy named Marduk?”

Again, just like when she’d mentioned Avran to Davil, Soren had the brief look of someone who vaguely recognized the name put to her. Her coin-gold eyes raced back and forth across the middle distance. At length, though, she came up empty. “No, no one. I don’t know any Marduk.”

“Well,” Remy said, much to her trepidation, “he certainly knew

you

.”

“...but he’s not the one who’s after me?” Soren asked hesitantly, once Remy explained the strange monk in yellow robes. “And you

told him

I was a dragon?!

Remy,

” she admonished, a bit embarrassed, “that’s

private.

You can’t just tell people that sort of thing--they’ll come after you, with pitchforks and spears!”

“If it’s any consolation,” said her friend, “he seemed like he already knew. Look, if I’d had any choice over the words coming out of my mouth, I wouldn’t have said a thing. Soren,” Remy said, when the wood elf still looked upset, “you know how I am. You know how it is in my line of work. Respect is the letter of the law. I would

never

sell you out like that under my own power.”

Soren frowned, but at length she nodded a little.

“In any case, he didn’t seem like the pitchfork sort--and we have bigger problems on our hands.” For a reason she couldn’t quite explain, Marduk didn’t seem the sort of man to sell out her friend’s identity for coin or gain. Avran Fairweather, on the other hand…

Remy motioned to Floon, who brought her a few old bills. The tiefling turned them over and began to scribble on the back. “Marduk said this Fairweather guy is ‘always with us’. So, who have we seen the most since all this shit started?”

Soren’s coin-gold eyes widened. “My god,” she said, “you’re right!”

“First, there’s some black cat with purple eyes who scares off Frewn’s dwarven goon squad. Oddly intelligent, flighty--in a literal sense.” Remy drew a little squiggle of a cat in graphite pencil and circled it. “Then Mr. Trench, private detective extraordinaire, tells you that the cat’s been hanging out by your window at night.

Then

some fucking kid with a purple peacock feather steals

my fucking money--

”

“Purple?--” Soren began, and then closed her mouth on her question. The image of a purple feather, bouncing over the rim of an outrageous, broad-brimmed hat, returned to her in a flash of memory. “Oh!” she said. “Oh! A couple days ago, in the main square, I thought someone was following me. But when I turned around…suddenly, I was here again, in the alley.”

Remy pointed the end of the pencil at her. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about! All this weird, shady shit. Purple eyes, purple feathers; must be his calling card. Then he helps distract the guards at Cassalanter Villa--”

“--and kidnaps Ammalia!” Soren finished for her. “He must have doubled back and used us as cover to get the gold. But you think they’re all the same person?”

“They’ve got to be,” Remy replied. “It’s the only way all this makes sense. The bat certainly wasn’t the Black Viper, since she was already fighting with us. So it’s got to be someone else, a rogue maybe.”

Soren tapped her chin. “And Marduk said this man’s name was Avran Fairweather?” It certainly fit. Clearly the man had been shadowing their steps for the better part of a tenday, but it only started after--

“The opera!” she gasped. “He must have seen me at the opera!”

Remy’s pencil dropped from her grasp. It rolled off the table and clattered on the floor, not that she seemed to notice. Her tail lashed once, twice, before she all but burst into motion, sprinting for the stairs. “Hang on!” she cried, making the whole ceiling shudder as she took the steps up to her room two at a time.

Fresh sawdust rained from the ceiling as, in silence, Soren, Floon, and Bonnie turned their heads in unison as Remy made her way down the second-floor hallway. There was the slam of a door and the sound of bureau drawers rattling. At last, in the distance, Soren heard a faint cry of triumph.

Remy reemerged, waving a creased playbill. “I

knew

it!” she cried. “I knew I’d seen his name fucking

somewhere

!”

By the time she’d crossed the taproom she had it folded to show the acting credits for the play they’d seen. “There!” Remy all but slammed the paper down on the table, making it shake so hard that Soren nearly lost her tea again. “See for yourself.”

Soren craned her neck to see, reading it upside down.

Mr. Avran Fairweather -- Voice of Tiamat, Black Dragon Head

There was a long silence as Soren recalled the opera stage. She had been more focused on Mirt, on watching Sulking Snapdragon. On remembering the feel of Rezmir’s cold blade slicing through her airway. Choking on the blood. Begging to live.

“Yes,” Soren said at length. “The heads were out of order, I remember that. The black was in front, when it should have been red.”

So, they were being followed by an actor, a rogue on the hunt for gold--and for Soren. And he was very clearly a man, and no black tom cat at all. Soren grimaced. She would far rather have preferred him to be a magical familiar spying on her, than a man doing so directly. It was time to close her curtains at night, not that she’d been here the past three evenings running. But

what

he might want with her was another mystery altogether. Both Marduk and Vincent Trench had observed Avran’s behavior, though Soren could not recall ever seeing the monk before. His name tasted familiar, as did his description, as though he were an old friend from whom she had long ago become estranged.

“Did Xeblob say anything else,” Soren asked distantly, “in this prophetic warning of his?”

“He said that this man--not Avran by name, mind--would…would catch you,” Remy confessed, watching her friend for any sign of unease. “And that you would make something terrible together.”

Soren nodded slowly. “A deal. Bah, of course. He must want Dagult’s gold.” The ranger set down her teacup and rubbed her temples. If it was Lord Neverember’s money Avran was after, then he’d better get in line. Half the city was already after it. But if she and Remy were successful at their investigation, then Avran would be right behind. It was an ingenious plan, if a bit lazy; getting someone else to do all the work for him.

A scowl crept over her face. Not all prophecies came true, and she doubted Xeblob’s very much, but it still made her nervous. What on Toril could be so dire, so important, that she would defy Bahamut’s decree? What could make her give gold that rightfully belonged to the city away to a common thief?

They both all but started in their chairs as a loud knock rapped at the door.

“I can--” Remy began, but the ranger waved her away.

“You’re the wanted criminal,” Soren whispered. “I’ll get it. Who’s to say it’s not the Watch?”

Remy stuck out her tongue. “Who’s to say it’s not Mr. Fairweather, come to introduce himself at last?”

In fact, the door opened to reveal perhaps the second-most handsome human male Soren had ever seen. He had a slender, athletic stance and a silver rapier on his hip. Raven-black hair floated about his head in the style of a fetching poet, rustling a little in the autumn breeze. A pair of bright, bottle-green eyes looked out at Soren with good-humored intelligence.

“Ah!” the man said, sweeping a tricorn hat off his head. Soren’s glance caught the flash of a black and silver cockade pinned to the left side of its upturned brim. He gave Soren a wide grin. Something about it, so welcoming, so practiced, put her at once off her ease. “Captain Fel’rekt Lafeen, at your service.” He held out his hand.

Soren stared at it.

When she did not take his hand, the handsome young man settled his hat back on his head. If it hadn’t been for his obvious human features--if he hadn’t removed his hat--she would have taken him for an elf. Something in the way the man stood, delicate and purposeful. “Miss Soren Chandry, I presume?” he said brightly. “I am the captain of the

Heartbreaker

, of the Sea Maiden’s Faire. If this is not a bad time, perhaps I could collect your answer to Captain Zord’s request?”

“His request.” Soren blinked at him, nonplussed.

“You have not seen it?” Fel’rekt said cheerfully. “It is no matter. You are a popular socialite, I am certain. Well, if your evening is not otherwise occupied, Captain Zardoz Zord will be putting into Waterdeep on the

Eyecatcher

this morning. He wishes for you to join him for a private dinner aboard his ship--”

“No.”

Fel’rekt choked.

Soren raised a single, unmoved brow as the human captain spluttered a little.

“I, ah, I apologize,” he said, giving a nervous chuckle. “I must have misheard--”

“You did not.”

It was as if the entire world had screeched to a stop. Normally completely unflappable, Fel’rekt found himself floundering. Soren’s response left little room for reply--and Captain Zardoz Zord had been

very explicit

in his instructions.

“A raincheque, then? I understand, your schedule must be rather full--”

“No.”

Captain Zord had been

certain

. He had been confident of her reply. He wouldn’t have wasted Fel’rekt for such a task otherwise, not when there was so much else to be done. Not when it was the young man’s job to report all that he had seen and heard during his interaction with Soren--down to the smallest detail of her tone, her expression--back to the head of their motley crew. It was, perhaps, the one time Fel’rekt could recall that Zardoz had been

wrong

.

“Madam,” he pressed politely, as though he had not truly heard her, “if you can but tell me when you might be available, it is no trouble, I can arrange whatever--”

“Good day, Captain Lafeen,” Soren said, and closed the door in his face.

Once out of view, Soren spun around and pressed her back to the door. She jerked her head toward the window.

Remy took her meaning at once. She sidled up to the nearest window, finally signaling when Fel’rekt left the porch. The man looked bewildered, puzzled, fussing with the brim of his tricorn hat. “See?” she hissed. “This is what I’m talking about! Is this a thing?” she added, demanding anxious answers from her friend. “Does this happen with dragons?”

Soren deliberated the question. Yes, it could sometimes happen with dragons. An obsession to serve, a gravity of power and influence that attracted worshippers and cultists alike. But she was no longer a dragon. And, to her knowledge, she’d had no prior contact with Captain Zord to incite such a desire.

That morning’s newspaper held a decent hypothesis to their query. There, several pages in, was an article entitled

‘Golden Debutante Steals Lord Nevember From the Marriage Pool’

. Soren grimaced at it. Her frown only deepened when Remy shoved not one, not three, but

five

letters addressed to her from Captain Zord alone--not to mention a host of others that she tumbled out of a sack and onto the table.

“What

is

this?” Soren asked the room in general, shock warring with disbelief. “One social event,

one

! And

this

is the result?”

She flicked her way through the pile of letters. Black rose petals fell through her fingers as she ripped open invitation after invitation from Zardoz. A warm scent; spiced, earthy, and undeniably

masculine

reached her nose. “You’d think he was courting me,” she half-laughed, though it wasn’t in humor.

“Maybe he’s trying to leverage your connection to Renaer?” Remy ventured. “Gain private sponsorship for the Faire?”

Soren shook her head, but did not disagree. One by one she held up the letters for her inspection.

--pleased to offer you a substantial discount for our services. If you see fit to patronize our establishment over The Perfect Stitch, you will not be disappointed. Visit JB Nevercott’s Haberdashery on--

--Rongquan Mystere, esteemed owner of the Seven Masks Theater, invites you to his private box for the premiere showing of Luskan’s latest theatrical masterpiece,

‘Saer Jack Triumphant’

--

--be willing to accept the gift of a marvelous nimblewright, to grace your fine establishment--

--wear this Damaran bloodstone, as befits your stunning beauty--

--breakthrough performance of Mr. Erystian Demarne--

--honor with your presence--

--attend to--

--grace us--

--give--

--me--

Soren put the letters down and sat back. For a long while she said nothing. The papers rustled as Remy drained her stein of coffee. Another knock came on the door, this one more polite, and Soren did not even return from her distant thoughts as Remy rose to answer it.

Two young halflings, both with brown eyes and short, curly hair, looked up at Remy. “Er, we can come back,” said the female, “if this is a bad time?” Dark wisps peeked out from under her kerchief.

Remy raised a brow. “If you’re here for the tavern, we’re not open yet.”

She made to close the door but the male halfling stuck his foot in. “Wait!” he said. “I’m Kelso Fiddlewick. This is my sister, Danika. We--we’re looking for work.”

That

made Remy stop. She leaned jauntily on the doorjamb. “I’m listening.”

“We’re from the Fieldward,” Danika explained, her rosy cheeks made even moreso in contrast to her grey head-covering. “Family business is all full, so we thought we’d look for work in the city. I’m, I’m a decent cook! And Kelso is good with customers. He can wait tables.”

Remy took the end of her tail and dangled the spade lazily. After such strange circumstances surrounding Soren--and Fel’rekt’s visit--she was loath to take anything at face value. “There are plenty of places to work in the North Ward. Why come to us?”

Danika turned a nice pink. From her faded and much-patched apron she brought out a crumpled advertisement. “We saw these in the main square. It said you’re opening soon, and that you’re looking for help.”

“Ah!” Remy’s smile returned. “Good to see my entrepreneurial efforts are paying off! I bet it’s hard for Fieldward folk to find work in the city?” She nodded when Kelso looked down at his shoes. “Tell you what, make us something to take to the Faire, and if you do a good job, you can consider yourselves hired.”

The twin halflings grinned. “We won’t disappoint you.”

~

“So, you were snooping.”

“I was

not

snooping.” Soren pulled a face at Remy. “What was I supposed to do, wake him up after four hours?”

The two friends strolled side by side through the Docks Ward crowd. Gut Alley opened up before them. The Sea Maiden’s Faire, now into its third day, was in full swing. Jolly festival-goers packed the streets. Hastily-erected merchant stalls vied for space with a host of carnival games. Pennants hung on washing lines over the road, lending a gay atmosphere to an otherwise dreary afternoon. The morning’s bright sun had all but flown, replaced with a melancholy, hazy greyness. It had done nothing to dampen peoples’ spirits, though, and as Soren and Remy approached the Splintered Stair inn, music, bells, and drums of all kinds brought the ward to life around them.

Soren dropped a few coins in the footman’s hand and led Remy up the creaking outer stairs to a rooftop patio. They settled in to a table under a garlanded arbor, the inn’s tall size making it a perfect spot to watch the

Eyecatcher

come into port. Today, as it was two days ago, a thick mist sat on the water, obscuring the view of the islands, the lighthouse, and the sea gate on the other side of the harbor.

“Did Dagult’s account book say anything about

who

Aurinax is?” Remy asked once they were seated. She kept scanning the sky, reflexively, on the lookout for any purposeful behavior from Waterdeep’s Gryphon Cavalry. At least Soren had heeded her concerns and found this place where they might enjoy the

Eyecatcher’s

arrival in peace.

“No,” Soren said. She bit her bottom lip a moment, debating something. “All I know is they were friends, and it seemed he was involved with Dagult’s money somehow. The notes are all in some sort of code and I couldn’t understand them very well. But…Remy, Aurinax is a gold dragon name.”

Remy almost choked on her hand pie. The halfling twins had made several lovely, delicious chicken and gravy pies to take with them to the Faire. Soren had devoured hers already, too hungry from lack of breakfast--and dinner the night before--to model any sense of restraint. Renaer had been too busy with her and

she’d

been too worried about not thrashing the china off the table that morning to think much of eating.

Humming appreciatively, Remy lapped gravy off her crimson fingers. “Damn, okay,” she said. “Those hins have themselves a job for sure. Fuck.”

She wiped her hands meticulously on a napkin, which she then folded and put in her pocket, before turning back to Soren with one incredulous elbow set on the table. “You wanna run that by me again?”

The water-walking ring Soren had chosen at prize redemption gleamed in sinuous silver and sapphire as she turned it on her hand. Last night she had awoken long before dawn, as an elf naturally needing less sleep than Renaer, and availed herself of the extensive personal library in his private office. She was, understandably, more than a little miffed to discover that Dagult Neverember was still alive. The fellow had taken up Neverwinter’s ruling seat for himself since his exile from Waterdeep, although there had been a brief kerfuffle over his sovereignty surrounding the resumption of the High Sun Games. Pages upon pages of family history passed her by, all of it pointing to some obscure reference that Dagult--if not his only heir, Renaer--had the inherited rights to call himself Neverwinter’s King.

It was the gold she was after, or rather, the trail of it. Soren went digging through dusty ledger after dusty ledger, looking for answers. Only the waning moonlight permeated Renaer’s study, but it was all one such as she needed to see by.

Dagult’s latest tax raise on Neverwinter pointed to one thing, and one thing only: even if he knew where to get his previously ill-gotten gold, he had no way to access it.

Patterns began to emerge from otherwise routine ledger columns. Next to numbers that could only be the extra tax revenue he’d stolen, over and over, Dagult had written the name ‘Aurinax’. It was a dragon name, a

gold

dragon name. That much Soren knew at once. Most dragons knew of each other, by name, reputation, or from experience. There were so few of them, now. But Soren was struck again with the uncertainty that had plagued her since the Dragon War five years ago.

Her dragon self had been so vain, so self-centered, that she had never even bothered to learn the name of the nearest village. Borders and the politics of men did not interest--or hinder--her, and so she had ignored them wholesale. It was a detriment, now. Not only because she did not know where she might find her own hoard, her own home--even if she had wanted to return--but because her own reflection had been far more important than paying attention to silly things like what year it was.

Dagult was just as full of sin as Zarrakor--though his vice had been greed, not beauty.

Shaking her head, Soren leafed through journals and papers detailing Dagult’s involvement with the retaking of Gauntlgrym. Her fingers sighed against the pages as they whispered over the initials

BD

--

Bregan D’aerthe.

“You sure you want this man as your father-in-law?” Remy said when Soren was finished. “He sounds like a fucking asshole.”

Soren coughed, embarrassed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Remy rolled her eyes. “Yes, you do,” she said. “Where else have you been the past three nights than at Neverember Manor?”

“It’s, ah, it’s not like that,” Soren mumbled quietly. It was exactly like that.

“You’re a worse liar than Floon. Tymora’s left tit,” Remy said, raising her long-suffering gaze to the heavens. “Every day I am tested by complete amateurs.”

Soren snorted, taking a half-pint of sweet clover mead from a passing waiter. “I may not have taken priestly vows, but I do recall Bahamut having a tenet about upholding justice in accordance with the law of the land.”

Remy spluttered. All her protestations came to an abrupt halt and she pointed an accusing finger at Soren. “You’re smiling, I see it! Am I a joke to you? Was that a joke, Soren, eh?” Her tail lashed, but in no real anger. “Chased by the Gryphon Cavalry, fearing for my

life

, almost dying in prison--and this is how my best friend treats me? A dragon, making fun of a tiny, defenseless tiefling like me! Have you no shame?”

Before the ranger could answer, a searing scream echoed across the harbor. Soren whipped herself around to look, just catching the ascent of a compact flare, trailing smoke. It burst into chattering golden plumage; a thousand, thousand bright and flashing stars.

Almost in the same breath a great voice boomed out across the bay. “CITIZENS OF WATERDEEP!”

Rather than the crackling magic of Manshoon, rather than the outdated and overdressed Cassalanters, rather than the wide, beady eye of an insane beholder, there appeared above the harbor the colorful image of none other than Captain Zardoz Zord himself--larger than life. The city erupted into a cheer so loud, Soren could have sworn it shook the plaster from every building in the Docks Ward.

“IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE THAT I ANNOUNCE THE RETURN OF THE ONE--” Zardoz grinned with all the vitality of a man half his age. “--THE ONLY, CAPTAIN ZARDOZ ZORD!” His brown, candlestick curls bounced as he swept out his arms in a grand gesture. The cheering went on for several minutes. Captain Zord’s image plucked his plumed hat from his head and extended a deep, theatrical bow to the city. The plume, had it been real, dipped so low that it would have dragged through the water.

Straightening once more, Zardoz continued to hype the crowd.

Below his gargantuan floating image, fire flashed in the fog bank. More fireworks streaked into the air, each exploding in a clap of thunder. Fog swept from the wave caps, rolling back and dissipating in a crowning circle all around the magnificent silhouette of the

Eyecatcher.

The great ship heaved through the water, her silver sails rippling in the breeze. An enormous, carved rose at her bow spat sparkling fireworks that trailed back along her sides like smoke and embers from a dragon’s nostrils. The figurehead shifted shape, becoming a nude woman, her arms outstretched in greeting. Deckhands scurried along the ratlines, hauling in those tugging sails. Once secure, the galleon came about, bearing her broadside to Waterdeep proper. Her hull gleamed so brightly it was as if the sun had decided to come out and play after all.

“Wahey!” Remy crowed, clapping enthusiastically with the rest of the roof’s patrons. “Strange to see it in Deepwater Harbor and not the Chionthar, but I’ll be damned if it’s not a spectacle every time!”

Although she couldn’t hear it from this distance, a long chain rattled as the anchor gave way. It sparkled with hundreds of encrusted gems before sinking beneath the surface.

“The boys and I have a running bet,” Remy said, completely ignoring Zardoz’s continuing speech. It wasn’t much different from the first one he’d given--and she’d heard it all before, besides. “What percentage of that anchor’s ‘gems’ are painted quartz and which are glass--”

“...no,” Soren said in a strange voice. “It’s real.”

Senses that had been kicking Remy for attention for the past several minutes finally asserted themselves. The tiefling looked over at Soren to find her friend sitting oh so very still, her entire body at rigid attention. Her golden gaze remained fixed on the

Eyecatcher.

“Hey, is this a…dragon thing, too?” Remy waved her hand in front of Soren’s face. “Hello in there?”

Again, as with coming under Marduk’s rather singular gaze, Remy had the sudden impression that she was looking at a

very large

and

very dangerous

cat. Soren’s coin-gold eyes deepened in their color, and had she any pupils to speak of, they would have been blown black from the intensity of her focus. Even here and now, in this shape, she felt her crest rise; the tip of every scale and claw quivering with nothing less than absolute attention.

There had been a handsome silver bull dragon who had once courted Zarrakor. He had been

very

persuasive, Soren recalled. Flying in complicated tricks to show off his prowess. Bringing her treasures scoured from the most dangerous dungeons for a thousand leagues in any direction. Coaxing her into his secure lair, like a wary wild cat, and showing off his hoard for her to lay upon. Zarrakor had accepted him as adequate. All because she could not find a gold bull who met her exacting, selfish specifications. All for a clutch and eggs of her own. And all to sate the desire his presence ignited within her. A portion of his treasure would be hers, the silver had promised. Whatever square inch they bred upon would be hers for the claiming. In the end, she remembered, they had writhed together like two serpents; dunes of coins rearranging themselves as the larger silver took his golden lover to bed.

But there had been no eggs that spring, nor any other.

Zarrakor had returned with the melting of the winter snow, her nest of heated stone and beaten coin empty of its hoped-for precious charges. She found the silver dead, his rotting body pierced by adventurers’ spears; claws cleaved for potions; scales worked from his hide like a butcher cutting up a carcass of so much meat. There was no more treasure. The invading little beasts had raped it all, stealing the hoard, power, beauty, and life-giving substance of it as if it were only dull, unfeeling metal, and not the essence of a dragon’s very life. Zarrakor abandoned the mountain in a grief-torn frenzy, and when every knight, every mercenary, every adventurer lay dead beneath her claws, she had retreated to her Mirror-Lake to bide the centuries in solitude. For a creature of such perfection, whose very coat was a king’s ransom, a merchant’s treasury, there would be no little coins for her. No eggs to heat with the fire in her breast, no storytelling under the starlight.

She would be beautiful, but she would have nothing.

It was like that again, now.

Something about Zardoz Zord’s golden ship, something about those silver sails and that gem-encrusted anchor, something about it tasted familiar. This went beyond mere ‘richness’. It went beyond petty, unimportant things like wealth. Like numbers in a ledger. What Zardoz had was not a treasury. It was not something that could be counted. It was a

hoard

unto itself, and it had a magic all its own.

There was only one explanation, then, for Zardoz’s interest in her. There was only one thing this display could mean, one ritual it was meant to convey.

“Toril to Soren! Come in Soren!” Remy waved a hand in front of her friend’s face again. “Hey, you’re scaring me. Snap out of it.”

“...I’m here,” Soren managed. Her mouth felt dry. “It’s just…very…attractive.”

Remy looked incredulously between Soren and the

Eyecatcher

. “The…boat?” she ventured. “Captain Zord? Soren, c’mon. You said Renaer proposed to you. Don’t go haring off after this casanova just because he’s stuck circus glitz and glass on some oversized rowboat--”

“We…we should get up to the big top,” Soren managed. “All the sea brine…I think I feel sick.” If she’d been in her dragon shape, every inch of her would have been shuddering with anticipation and excitement. As it was, her stomach was doing somersaults. Every instinct in her body demanded she march right down to the quay, commandeer a longboat, and row her way out to the

Eyecatcher

so that she might assess this Captain Zardoz Zord for herself. At least then, if she saw him face to face, skin to skin, she would know him for what he was--

“You look like shit.” Remy put an arm around Soren’s shoulder and all but forcibly steered them down the stairs.

No,

thought Soren,

I look like I’ve seen a dragon.

~

There was a drow riding a unicorn.

If Soren’s eyebrows could have gone any higher, they would have disappeared into her hairline. All around her the crowd gathered to watch the parade leave the Docks Ward surged with excited merriment. Pennants waved enthusiastically and small children scuttled at the parade’s perimeter either gathering candy thrown from the various floats or picking pockets. Soren had not wanted to bother seeing the parade in the first place, but Remy had insisted. Crowds made her uncomfortable, she’d said.

“But it’s

tradition!

” Remy widened her eyes until they were as big as tea saucers--or tried to, anyway. “The floats only get better every year. I haven’t been to the Faire in

ages

! Soren, you’ve

got

to.”

Somewhere, somebody was playing the accordion--badly.

Beside her, Remy was going nuts. “That’s him!” she kept saying, waving enthusiastically at the drow on the float. “That’s

HIM!

”

Soren, who could not--and did not wish to--understand the fuss surrounding one single drow, squinted up at the cheerfully waving figure like an old dowager inspecting the handiwork of a new maid. Her ranger’s instincts told her at once that the unicorn, at least, was real. “Remy, that is

clearly

a young woman. Unicorns only allow maidens to--”

“Do you gotta be such a sour puss?” Remy made a face. “No, it’s gotta be him, they--hey, go bother somebody who looks rich, okay?” she said, gently but firmly waving away the ghosting hands of a young pickpocket. “Yeesh, kids these days--

practice your finger work!

” the tiefling called to the child’s retreating back.

Soren shook her head ruefully. Two peas in a pod, indeed.

The float with the drow drew abreast of them. It was a real drow, of that much Soren was certain. A

half

drow, she corrected herself, and definitely a young girl; at that wonderfully-celebrated age where girls could be mistaken for boys without their whiskers in--or so all the best stories said. She wore a blue-glowing scimitar on her hip and waved at the crowd with an exuberant smile. The unicorn stood wonderfully still, especially given that occupying the rest of the float was the single largest black panther Soren had ever seen. Its yellow eyes glowed with arcane magic and every time it roared the gathered revelers went

wild

.

Next came a float done up to look like the Spine of the World. A very fat gnome wore the curly wig of a halfling, waving about a little wooden mace. He was joined by a raven-bearded dwarf with a one-horned helm, a young barbarian lad who was clearly little more than the carnival’s strong man who insisted on making muscular poses and winking at the women. At the crown of one of the sculpted mountains stood a woman in archer’s garb, her curly red hair like a waterfall at sunset falling unbound down her back. Despite the mage’s tattoos on her arms, her muscles flexed powerfully as she drew back her bow and shot an arrow that burst into a hundred colored streamers. She stood as straight as a northern pine, so like visiting royalty that Soren supposed the archer must be a part of the circus’ shows of skill under the main tent. Only someone sure in their prowess stood like that.

As the float passed, Soren felt a prickling feeling wash over her skin. Bearing the mermaid figurehead from the prow of one of Zardoz’s ships, the next float carried a large tank of water decorated with sea shells, nets, and aesthetic bits of driftwood. A siren lounged against the side, strings of pink and beryl-colored pearls winking in the depths of her long, blue hair. She opened her mouth and--

“Hey!”

Remy’s arms were unexpectedly strong as they yanked Soren back into the press of onlookers. Both hands locked around the ranger’s middle and Soren stumbled, finding her footing again only with difficulty.

“What…” She winced, rubbing her temples.

The siren’s float rumbled on, several men climbing the nets. Their glazed eyes and feverish proclamations of love had Soren turning pink under her freckles.

“Tell me I wasn’t--”

“You were,” Remy said, much to Soren’s disappointment. Once safely off the thoroughfare, she bent to remove bits of cotton from her pointed ears. “Sorry, forgot to tell you. Gets people every year.”

An announcer’s voice, magically enchanted, boomed above the noise of the crowd. “Ladies, lieges, and gentlemen, you know our heroes close to home but our next guests hail from far and wide. Let us give a hearty and warm welcome to Minsc, Grandmaster Kane, and the one, the only, King Gareth Dragonsbane of Damara!”

Much in the vein of Soren’s insistence that the drow on the unicorn was no man, Remy made a face as the next float approached. “Oh, that is

not

Minsc,” she griped, crossing her arms. Hers was the solitary boo in the shouting crowd. Remy cupped her hands to her mouth. “THAT IS A

RAT--

”

“I think that’s enough fun for the morning,” Soren said, taking her friend by the shoulder, fully intent on steering Remy towards some food before making their way to the big top’s opening show. It would take the better part of the next few hours for the parade to wend its way through the city, past the House of Inspired Hands, and into the main square. A length of time during which Soren hoped to spend finding decent seats in the big top’s balcony, away from the press of the crowd. Something was itching at her mind, begging for attention. But she couldn’t concentrate on it, not here. Not now.

A flash of gold caught her eye.

Soren looked up--they were still on the edge of the street, closest to the parade--and met the gaze of a bald monk dressed all in faded, yellow robes. He wore a sash declaring him

‘Grandmaster Kane’.

Gold, coin-tinted and metallic, filled his eyes as though he were blind. Seven canaries, flashing like flecks of fortune in a miner’s pan, settled on his shoulders and the top of his staff. They locked eyes. For all that he seemed to be an almost infirm, old man, the back of Soren’s neck bristled.

Marduk.

Before she could open her mouth to say anything, the float was moving on. Marduk waved at her, smiling cheerfully, before Soren’s vision was taken up by a large throne at the rear of the float’s festooned bed. It looked carved from dragon bone and exceedingly uncomfortable.

The man sitting on it seemed to agree with her assessment. He was quite the dour fellow, really, scowling out at the crowd as if he hated everything and everyone. Tanned skin that bespoke of Calminshan heritage was crisscrossed with different scars. He wore his black hair serviceably short. There was a fanciful jeweled dagger at his belt and a sword across his lap that shed dark ash whenever he moved.

Two men dressed like grand adventurers--one with his arm in a sling, the other favoring one leg--stood to either side of him. They didn’t look like they were having a great time, either. Nonetheless, the crowd cheered.

Soren frowned. There was something about ‘King Gareth’s’ bodyguards. Something familiar. Something that tasted of mist, salt air, her own pounding heartbeat, and the taste of blood behind her teeth as she pushed her body to its limits.

Remy was still shouting after the fake Minsc when the horns began to trumpet. “Oh!” She shook Soren’s arm, wresting her ranger friend from the threshold of realization. Remy was practically jumping up and down, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet. “Here he comes, Soren!

Here he comes!”

Unused to the Sea Maiden’s Faire, as Remy had grown up with it, Soren found her attention easily pulled by the next attraction. And that was when she saw him at last:

Zardoz Zord.

The rogue’s heart thundered in his chest. Crowing in a gay show of dressage and performance, the enormous diatryma underneath him trotted up the street, bridle and harness jingling with silver bells. He need not fight to keep his balance, for to ride the beast took almost as little effort as breathing.

A fresh autumn wind cooled the sweat on his bare chest as Zardoz stood in the saddle of his mount. Candlestick curls tossed in the breeze and his dazzling rainbow cloak fluttered out behind him. Grinning and unable to stop himself, Zardoz flipped upside down. The crowd went wild as he held a single handstand for several long and bumpy yards.

Yes! This was what he loved! To be seen and admired in all his prowess! What a perfect game, he congratulated himself all while blowing kisses at whatever handsome and beautiful faces he could pick out of the crowd. Give the people a show, give them what they thought they wanted to see, and no one would even think to look beneath the ‘surface’, beneath the sparkle and the glamor that hid his plan in plain sight.

Flipping back into the saddle, Zardoz had no sooner righted himself than he saw Soren.

Time slowed as he approached, his diatryma all but frozen mid-stride. A shock rolled through her, to finally come face to face with the man who sought her private company. Bright, sparkling eyes met Soren’s golden ones and she heard her own breath, loud, in her ears. Her heart pounding in time to the great bird’s feet hitting the cobbles.

Zardoz Zord was no dragon.

She knew that at once. Or, at least, if he was anything else, he was so close that it hardly mattered.

Heat swept through Soren and left her breathless. No doubt she would chide herself for it later.

And then the moment was gone.

Zardoz Zord passed them by. Soren tried hard to quiet her thundering heart. In no way did she find the man himself attractive. But there had been something about him, something…sharp and cunning, something attentive.

Hungry.

She hardly had time to gather her thoughts before the next float approached. It sported five dancing and differently-colored heads with costumed actors underneath. Streamers ‘roared’ forth from the many mouths of Tiamat. Soren wrinkled her nose in disgust, so heady and shaken from the exchange with Zardoz that she did not notice a banner which read

‘Thank you to all Veterans of the Dragon War’.

It was that grimace that finally shook Remy from her celebrating. She looked between Soren and the float, now spewing red silk lava, and made her decision. “You know,” the tiefling said, taking her friend by the arm. ‘Maybe some lunch would be a good idea after all.’

She tugged Soren away from the road, back through the crowd and toward a back alley, unaware that Captain Zord did not take his eyes off Soren until the ranger was well and truly out of sight.

~

“I’m not eating that.”

“It’s

traditional

.”

“Remy, it’s disgusting.”

Soren kept her arms tightly folded, resisting any attempt of Remy’s to force the grilled skewer stick into her hands. She turned up her nose at the proffered ‘delicacy’; a skinned and barbequed rat, slathered with some red sauce.

“You’re going to catch something.”

“

You

just don’t know how to have fun.” Remy made little smacking noises as she tore into the dark meat. “Oh, that’s proper seasoning.”

Soren rolled her eyes. “That’s

ketchup

.”

“It’s a

dwarven

staple, what are you, racist?” Remy shrugged when Soren refused the second skewer. “Oh well, more for me.”

The main city square, not too far from Trollskull Alley, was filled with colorful tents, all lined up in neat rows off the main thoroughfare that led to the big top. In the very center stood an enormous oval tent, red as rich as freshly-spilled blood. A contingent of men in sailor’s and laborer’s slops hurried to put the finishing touches on the stage setting Zardoz Zord would take up when the parade eventually wended its way to its finale. Even here, setting up last minute fences for lines, securing stakes and cables, Zardoz’s men moved with an uncanny grace.

Before she could think more on it, Soren was distracted by the sharp crack of a nearby whip. She turned and came face to face with the largest,

broadest

minotaur this side of any labyrinth.

He was a rich, chocolate brown all over, with hands wider than any strong man’s. The minotaur’s broad, muscled chest was without cloth, the fur shorter but no less dark. He had a masculine squareness to the back of his jaw, but his face ended in a bull’s snout. A gruff of hot air left him as his nostrils flared, making the steel ring hanging from his black nose sway in the wind of his breath. Thick hooves crunched in the dust. In all ways he appeared a beast, but for an undeniable intelligence, shining deep in his dark eyes.

The bull’s horns framed the grey clouds as Soren looked up, up his chest and into that strange and monstrous face. “Oh, I--”

Again, the whip cracked. This time it snapped across the minotaur’s back like black lightning and his fierce, agonized lowing vibrated painfully in Soren’s inner ear.

“Stupid beast!” cried a woman’s voice. “Are you blind?

Move!

”

Still lowing, the minotaur stepped around Soren. Over his shoulder he carried a thick cable rope. It rasped against his shoulder and roughened his hands as he strained to haul a wooden construction sled upon which rested a large pile of canvas, steel poles, and an iron cage that held a thin, scabbed, and barely-conscious displacer beast. Its dull, cataract-yellow eyes looked out at Soren, unseeing.

The mistress cracked her whip once more, the long line of buckskin flaying open a red welt on the minotaur’s back until ichor flowed. “Move, brute, or there’ll be no meal for you!” Her almost-white hair hung like a pale snake down her back. She raised her arm again and the bits of barb fixed into the whip’s striking end glinted wickedly against the grey sky.

In a flash, Soren had the other woman’s forearm in her grasp. She grunted, one foot braced on the cobbles, for the strength of the whip’s downward stroke had been stronger than she expected.

Two silver coins looked back at her suddenly, the other woman nearly snarling.

“Release,”

she hissed, the sound laced with command.

Soren let go at once, her hand obeying without permission. “You--” she began.

“It is no business of

yours

,” said the woman in the silver dress. She spat at Soren’s feet. “Ugly thing.”

Bristling, Soren opened her mouth to retort. She could almost feel the heat behind her teeth, as surely as the other dragon felt cold.

The pale woman made a dismissive gesture and spoke a word of power. An ache swept through Soren’s bones and, for a few brief seconds, she felt too frigid--or too numb--to move. By the time the feeling passed, and she could rub her limbs to warm them, the woman and her unfortunate minotaur charge had moved on, back into the press of the crowd. Just between the passing of city folk Soren caught sight of a collection of ramshackle tents, some sideshow carnival that was setting up along the square’s perimeter.

Before she could take a step forward, Remy grabbed Soren’s sleeve. “Hey,” she said, quiet but urgent. “Hey, Soren. We have bigger problems.”

And then she felt it.

Magic.

Overlaying everything. Once the realization settled over her, the taste of it was unmistakable. Soren wondered how she had missed it, the subtle sensation of buzzing arcane power against her skin. She swallowed and shook her head to clear it. They would have to discuss the sideshow carnival later.

“What is it?”

They had wandered closer to the big top. Remy jerked her head in the direction of a group of men in sailor’s slops working to secure a section of iron stakes. “

That

,” she said, indicating the quickly-moving fingers of almost every man who worked in silence, “isn’t Thieves’ Cant.”

Soren didn’t see the problem. “Maybe it’s a sailor thing,” she said, though it was more a question.

Remy shook her head. “It’s…I think it’s a drow thing.”

The words ‘but they’re not drow’ queued themselves up to leave her tongue but the breath to save them never left Soren’s throat. Now that she was attuned to its presence, the buzzing on her skin was a constant sensation of powerful magic, a strange lack of stillness and serenity inside her body.

Illusion

magic.

Something heavy, something that tasted like lead and her aching lungs, dropped into her stomach. All at once she recalled the men on the float on either side of ‘King Gareth’. The man with the scar down his face. It came to her all in a flash.
“What is it doing, wandering all alone?” The touch of the drow’s fingers on her cheek, so cold. His grin, sharp and predatory. Air tasting of old sea brine and yesterday’s rain. How she had known that no amount of calling for help would have saved her--whatever her fate. The way those glowing red eyes appraised her body, lips forming the words, “Which will it choose, I wonder? Death…or service?”
Remy shook Soren sharply, rousing the wood elf from her terrifying reverie. “Hey, you okay? You’ve gone all white.”

It took several tries for Soren to wet her lips enough to speak. “The Bregan D’aerthe,” she whispered to Remy.

“You think so?” the tiefling replied nervously. “Surely, they can’t

all

be…”

“Remy,” Soren said, giving a subtle nod that invited her friend to look around. “All of them, all the official Faire staff; they’re all

men

.”

The two friends skirted the crowd. In the distance, they could hear the merry music and roar of the crowd that said that the parade was quickly closing on the square. If there was going to be any reconnaissance, they would have to do it quick. They could not, under any circumstances, be caught, Soren insisted. She had been very adamant about that.

“Maybe it’s some kind of House war,” Remy hissed some minutes later as they scrambled under a bit of canvas. It had been no easy feat getting past the perimeter, nevermind navigating the veritable maze of animal cages, personal performer’s tents, and the hastily-erected barracks for staff in order to find the back of the big top.

Soren pressed herself up against a tall cluster of crates. Straw had been scattered over the ground to soak up the rain and keep the square from turning into a mire of muck. The entire backstage portion of the big top had been covered with more crimson canvas, shrouding this off-duty area so much that it might as well be dusk. The ‘room’, made by four square walls of canvas, boasted a low seating area with grey, wooden furniture and many silk pillows. There was a serviceable vanity on the far side and a table at which four men were already a game in companionable silence. It was no lanceboard, nor the three-tiered landscape required for dragonchess. A grid-like web pattern covered its surface, opal and moonstone strands fixed between smooth obsidian tiles. The pieces, carved from different-colored quartz, made their moves only after each man had deliberated carefully on his tactics.

Ducking down, she placed her eye to a gap in the crate’s slats. Just as she did so, there was a peal of laughter, voices, and the staccato trumpeting of practicing horns, as a new group of men threw aside the connecting curtain. Most of them sprawled at once over the pillows with groans of relief. They wore the red and gold uniforms designated for the staff who worked in the big top. Soren couldn’t blame them; directing customers, handling animals, and just generally running about an enormous circus tent, seeing to all of its duties, must be exhausting. A casual discussion began, most of it complaining about exactly that.

Remy put her lips to Soren’s ear and whispered, voice a little unsteady. But the men on the other side of the crates had to contend with the general scuffling and shouting of the big top and they did not hear her. “You catch that accent?”

Soren nodded. It was almost impossible to miss. The men spoke the common tongue, but again, there was that musical quality; beautiful and foreign.

“Captain Zord invites you…”

It made no sense, the ranger thought as a shiver ran up her spine. There was no reason this many drow--she counted the number of Faire staff to be at least in the dozens, with the actual amount certainly higher if one considered the crew complement of all three ships--should be on the surface. According to Remy’s whispered history lesson, to which Soren could only afford to give half an ear, drow outside of the Underdark had been mercifully rare until sometime in the 1300’s. They were more of a boogeyman, a tale made to frighten children. Except in the north, where drow raids on villages, steadings, and small settlements were common a few times a decade, their appearances were not something one generally needed to be concerned with. Everyone knew they were ruthless killers. Everyone knew that those not killed on their raids were dragged off, back to the Underdark, where who-knew-what happened to them. Remy’s explanation that no, things were different now and a few of them lived peacefully on the surface, fell on deaf ears. To see a drow topside, nevermind so many of them, was cause for the greatest concern.

No, if it was a House war, there would be women among them, fearsome priestesses garbed only in spikes and spidersilk. Even if little was known about their culture, their fanatical, xenophobic hatred for other races and the matriarchs who ruled and slaughtered at Lolth’s whim were no secret.

An all-male band certainly fit the profile of the Bregan D’aerthe. But that had been on Harper paperwork; it was not normal, every day intelligence. Even the Harpers’ information had been lacking. They could not name the leader of such a group as easily as one could, say, name Manshoon as the impetus for the Zhentarim. Soren was willing to bet that the average grocer would not have known the mercenary company’s name--or known that the Bregan D’aerthe existed in the first place.

The two women shifted, crawling slowly through the maze of supply crates that girded the outer edges of the backstage tenting. Soren, lost in thought, very nearly scurried across a main pathway. Remy pulled her back just in time.

“--going to ask, I

know

he will!” came a man’s handsome, but distressed, tenor. “What am I supposed to say?”

Two figures strode around the corner, making for the private lounge. It was almost completely dark here, each set of curtains lined with black wool to keep the sunlight out. From her position among the crates, Soren could only see two sets of ebony boots, piped with silver.

“I’m telling you, Fel, it’s damned Crenshinibon all over again. The man’s

obsessed

,” said the other man, trying to comfort his companion. “Doesn’t he remember why we’re here?”

“He does, he does,” the first man assured him. “It is only, the Captain was

very

specific. I’m concerned he may move on to more…

personal

methods--”

Their boots stopped just on the other side of the crates, conversation going silent as they returned to communicating in that foreign sign. Heart thundering, Soren held her breath. The two men, most certainly drow, were only a few feet away. God, let them not be caught. Not here and now. Not when there was so much left to do.

Not when that Dockside Slasher was still alive, well, and likely interested in taking liberties, if not in vicious revenge.

Soren hated to admit that her heart raced, that she could detect the tin taste of fear in her mouth. That voice was familiar. Hadn’t she--

Fel.

That was what the second man had called his friend.

Fel’rekt Lafeen.

Suddenly Soren was cold all over. Captain Zord wanted

her

. The memory of masculine cologne and velvet-soft, black rose petals returned to her. Yet the realization that should have followed her memory was immediately replaced with the gleam and sparkle of the

Eyecatcher’s

jeweled anchor, dropping into the harbor. A golden ship, a flashy pirate lord from a city of crooks and thieves.

Dagult’s gold.

Oh God, it was all so fucking

simple.

And there Zardoz Zord was, in broad bloody daylight, playing the handsome rogue. Pretending to be, at large, exactly what he was on the inside: a thief, looking to pull off the century’s greatest heist of them all.

Had he hired the Bregan D’aerthe? Had they signed a manifest to work for him, their identities hidden even from the man in charge? Zardoz was so public, so irrepressibly flamboyant. He could not--she could not possibly comprehend; her mind rebelled at the very thought that he would be anything other than exactly what he appeared to be.

It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? Almost laughably so. Infiltrate the city along with the Faire, learn who else was vying for such a glimmering prize. And then, when enemies had been dispatched, move in for the gold. Strike like a pirate, like a drow surface raid, and come away with a sum so large it gave off its own, maddening magic.

Brilliant.

Soren let out a long, quiet breath as the men moved away. She shook her head, thoughts swirling. Give people a show, a glittering dazzle of fireworks, fun, and Faire games, so that they would never pay attention to what else might be happening. Robbed as blindly as if they’d been country folk pickpocketed en masse in a city crowd.

She shouldn’t have worn that dress. Shouldn’t have been so selfish.

Whatever drow spy had seen her at the opera must have made several incorrect assumptions about Soren’s wealth.

Ransom.

Of course. Either Captain Zord meant to seize her for ransom, or, like the overdone Cassalanters, he had pegged Soren as competition for Dagult’s gold. So they had someone--or several someones--who could move undetected at any level of society.

Soren pinched her brows. No, that wasn’t it. That couldn’t be it.

Avran Fairweather. It had to be him. He had followed them, tailed them, even been at the opera reception--though she didn’t recall seeing him. That damned cat had helped them find a way into Cassalanter Villa and had ripped Ammalia from the battlefield all together. He was the spy, she was sure of it now. He was the one reporting to Zardoz Zord. Surely, her dress had attracted some attention from among the peerage and those who serviced them, but that wasn’t Avran’s game. Had the man seen her in Mirt’s box? From the moment of Renaer’s rescue, or so Marduk had said, Avran had always been one step behind them, walking in the shadows.

All this time, as close to her as clothes were to skin.

Even dressed in her linen and ranger leathers, if Victoro’s men could find Remy’s carriage, then it went without saying that they both--and Soren in particular--were being watched by the pirate king.

Anonymity no longer indeed.

Finally registering Remy’s urgent tugging on her sleeve, Soren quietly scrambled from her half-propped place behind the crates and followed her friend back the way they’d come. Whatever Captain Zord and his employed drow wanted from her, be it money, ransom, or information, Soren was determined that they would not get it from her today. Time to leave before they overstayed their welcome.

“He must think the gold is an easy target,” Soren said, low, to Remy as they took their seats in the big top’s bleachers about half an hour later. The cacophony outside all but permeated the big top as the parade reached the square. Within minutes the held open, double-flap curtains would admit the floats for a final circle around the arena, before retiring.

Remy swung up her tail by the arm to keep it from dangling down into the dark space below the bleachers. “Makes sense,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “All the years they were in Baldur’s Gate, there were a few ladies in the circus crew. Not many, mind, but enough that it was never, like, weird. Yanno?”

Soren nodded absently. A bright and shining brass band came trumpeting and drumming in from the square. The crowd around her burst into applause. Somebody whistled sharply behind her and Soren flinched.

One by one the floats arrived, horses prancing in fine parade fashion. Their tack was festooned with ribbons and bells, the silver sound lost in the roar of the crowd. Bouncing plumes affixed to their foreheads undulated like willow branches in an autumn breeze. Each float made a circuit around the big top’s sandy ring before proceeding through another set of open flaps at the back of the tent. Although she and Remy hadn’t gotten that far, Soren could only imagine the coordinated chaos that would take place back there; driving teams bringing floats to predetermined positions, moving people and staging while performers readied to entertain the people of Waterdeep. Carefully executed and well-practiced, but chaos all the same.

“I don’t know,” Soren said with a thoughtful sigh. Everyone around them was so excited that she and Remy could speak at normal volume now and not risk being overheard. A bastion of stillness in a wave of bodies. “It might be that Dagult’s hoard is so large its calling extends all the way to Luskan.”

Remy opened her mouth to reply when two black shapes burst in from the square. “Well,” she half-chuckled, “I’ll be damned. Everytime I see the man, he’s upped the ante.”

Snorting fire, their crimson tack like bands of blood, two nightmare stallions galloped side by side down the aisle to the center ring. Atop them, standing as steady as a seasoned naval officer in a raging storm, was none other than Captain Zardoz Zord.

The crowd

exploded

. Cheers erupted on all sides and Soren scrunched up her freckled nose as the man behind them whistled again. People leapt to their feet, hollering. The sound and vibration of stamping feet put an unpleasant rumble in her teeth. At last, putting her hands over her ears, she turned to Remy. Even her friend was clapping. Soren had to shout to be heard. “Is it always like this?”

“Pretty much!”

Zardoz hailed the crowd, sweeping his arms out as the nightmares began to carefully separate. With uncanny grace for a human, he somehow kept his upright posture in an impressive split. Candlestick curls bouncing, Zardoz leapt nimbly onto the back of just one stallion as the second broke formation and trotted into the exit at the back of the tent. The pirate king proceeded to ride around the ring a second time, whipping his strong body through a series of complicated gymnastics. Almost halfway around, he flipped into a one-armed handstand on the nightmare’s back and held that pose as the infernal beast rode by at top speed.

Soren clapped politely. The cold feeling, the knowledge that they were surrounded by a small army of drow, did much to dampen her joy.

“Must be all that sailing!” Remy shouted. She motioned to Zardoz, who somersaulted off the nightmare’s back to the feverish screaming of the circus goers. “You think he’s one of them?”

Soren raised a brow. Her coin-gold gaze narrowed as she scrutinized this pirate, this rogue, this…

dragon

of a man.

“No,” she said finally. “Drow hate attention. He wouldn’t be one. Not in a million years.”

Below, Zardoz bowed and basked in the admiration all around him. His great heart thundered, blood pounding in his ears. Sweat soaked his bandoleers and still he solicited applause.

This!

This

was what he lived for!

The perfect game.

Everything he wanted, right at his fingertips; girl, gold--and all he could buy with it. Legitimacy for Luskan, a permanent place in Laeral’s bed where he could work the wheels of Waterdeep from the shadows, the list went on! The shadow prince of the Sword Coast. None would be able to deny him that title; in fact, none would know he even had it!

Zardoz’s sharp eyes caught the glowering look ‘King Gareth’ tossed his way from just beyond the backstage curtain. The other man turned on his heel and pushed his way through the hurrying staff and performers. He would not be back, Zardoz knew. That one could only accept so much humiliation.

Who are you?

I am he who rules the world, don’t you know?

The outcome of this little adventure was practically decided already.

Busy with his self-congratulations, Zardoz noticed the small pocket of stillness way up in the bleachers.

There she was!

Soren; his wood elf prize!

Zardoz swept the ground with his outrageous, broad-brimmed hat, letting the plume trail in the sand. He bowed and blew her a hearty kiss.

Soren rolled her eyes.

Two women in front of her fainted.

A thrill like white lightning crashed through him. Was--was he being

ignored?

If she had been within striding distance, Zardoz would have thrown away his plan and kissed her, then and there.

Ignored?!

Him?

He grinned all the wider. Oh, but she set him on

fire!

Never did the severe ranger ever do what he expected.

Of course

, he chided himself, making his way backstage while a troupe of gymnasts entered the ring in spectacular fashion.

Of course she would prefer a more intimate, quiet encounter!

“Well, Fel?” he said, taking a towel from a steward and rubbing it over his neck and chest. “I trust you have good news for me?”

Back in the stands, Soren snorted with disgust. “Does the man not have any shame?”

“Soren, it’s

just

working the crowd.” Remy glanced around them, at all the women and most of the men, all convinced Zardoz had blown his kiss at

them

. “Gotta hand it to him, though. Man’s got charisma out the ass. Back in Baldur’s Gate he--”

When her friend didn’t answer, Soren glanced over.

Remy was sitting with her head cocked to the side, concentrating. Trying to pick out a single sound amid a sea of noise. At the edge of hearing were two low voices, both with that musical quality, beneath the bleachers.

“--Boss wants--letter to Castle Waterdeep at once.”

“--won’t be disappointed--will have her answer--return--”

Soren caught a glimpse of a figure’s rich uniformed doublet, and the retreating wink of black and silver.

Drow.

The soft hairs at the back of her neck stood up, just as her crest ridge would have, had she been in her natural shape. It seemed the leader of the Bregan D’aerthe was in the city after all, and he had his eyes on far bigger prizes than Zardoz Zord. Remy did not have to beckon twice to get Soren up and following her.

Across the flashing, vibrant ring of flips and acrobatics, Captain Fel’rekt Lafeen could not have looked more miserable if he tried. He worried his tricorn hat in his hands. “Sir, you see, it’s--”

“It’ll be a candlelight dinner, very romantic,” Zardoz was saying, taking a bit of chilled wine off a passing tray. He had given considerable thought to his first night with Soren, picking up and then discarding a thousand ideas. “She likes simple things. I can keep it simple.” He chuckled, lifting the wine glass to his lips. “Simple and easy. Why, I’ll have her in bed before the tenth bell, mark my--”

“She’snotcoming,” Fel’rekt said, getting it all out in one, breathless go.

Zardoz nearly spat out his wine.

“What?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Fel’rekt groaned. He gestured across the ring. “Sir, I hate to say this, but I think Durnan might be right. Perhaps, just perhaps, you ought to…consider…leaving the wood elf woman…alone?” It was more a question than a statement, but at least now it was said.

Zardoz blinked at him, disapproving. He put his hands on his hips. One Look was enough to put fear into the hearts of lesser men. “Out with it, Fel,” the captain said after a long and very uncomfortable pause.

“Some of the men have…concerns.”

“Do they.”

“About the mission.”

“Yes.”

“And the faerie woman.”

Zardoz frowned, his robust, brown mustache only enhancing the displeasure on his features. He’d had people killed for disagreeing with him, for interrupting him, for getting in his way. But a poor captain he would be indeed if he did not heed the voice of a trusted advisor. “Soren and her tiefling friend are making swift progress toward finding Dagult’s gold for us. All that need happen is to gain their trust--”

“You want to fuck her. Her proximity to Dagult’s hoard is irrelevant.”

Again, that hard, cold stare.

“Sir,” Fel’rekt urged him. “When we leave Waterdeep, do you aim to take her with us? To kidnap her by force? The men won’t stand for it. The risk to our security, with a

Harper

, it is too great.”

Zardoz listened quietly. After a moment he said, “Fel, do you trust me?”

“Of course, sir. With my very life.”

“Then trust me in this.”

Fel’rekt pinched the bridge of his nose. “As you say, sir.” So

this

was why Beniago only drank tea, said it calmed the nerves.

“You say she refused me?”

“She did,” Fel’rekt said, and told him what had happened.

Zardoz rubbed the handsome stubble on his broad chin. He glanced back out across the ring, easily picking out the place in the bleachers where he expected to see Soren and Remy. Instead, again, to his surprise, they were gone. He grinned, a hungry look that spoke to dark and unmentionable desires.

If he could not tempt Soren to him, then

he

would simply have to go to

her

.

~

It began to rain.

The courier had stopped at a stable several blocks away. He crouched in the musty dimness, exchanging his crimson doublet for a plain shirt and trousers from a stashed sack. Still busy picking straw from his clothes, he did not even notice the careful creeping of elven and tiefling feet until a bag of heavy ball bearings came down hard on the back of his head.

He keeled over softly, landing with a soft

thump

in the hay.

Remy plucked up the small letter from where he had set it down. She unfolded it with careful fingers to reveal elegant, sophisticated script.

Darling Laeral,

Know that any time apart from you is but an arrow to wound my heart. Every night with you is a confirmation of what I already know to be true: we are uniquely suited to one another. You have been too long without a lover, too cold without a gentle hand to warm you. With me, you need be only a woman. I know you worry for your reputation, and for your city--as do I for mine! Let us dine together tonight and take one another’s love and counsel. We may yet be of assistance to each other, to ease burdens of skin and welfare together.

I await your swift reply.

Ever your companion and friend,

--Jax