City of the Dead

THREE

Everyone told tales of the great duels and the unfortunate spells that had once filled the City of the Dead and spilled into the streets of Waterdeep. And everyone, most especially her ancient relative Volponia, said to Sophraea that those days were gone. The Blackstaff had tamed the wizards, the City Watch kept the thieves from stealing too much, the guards prevented riffraff adventurers from creating unusual trouble for ordinary citizens, and even the young lords and ladies were said to be a much more staid and responsible nobility than generations past. Although the broadsheets were always full of some tale of wicked mischief among the aristocracy and very entertaining to read too!

"Scandals," Volponia had sniffed one morning, crumpling up an old copy of The Blue Unicorn that Sophraea had brought her, "not worth the ink on the paper. Some dressmaker going bankrupt. Some young lords teasing the Watch into chasing them. Huh! In my day, the misdeeds of Waterdeep's famous and infamous rocked the heavens, toppled rulers, and changed the very boundaries of kingdoms."

"Being so much older than the rest of us, dear Aunt Volponia," said Sophraea's grandmother Myemaw with the usual touch of acid in the honey of her voice, "you would remember such things."

"I remember you sashaying through that courtyard below with a berry pie in one hand and a loveknot of ribbons in the other hand, girl," shot back Volponia, with a snap of her elegantly manicured fingers at Sophraea's grandmother. "Back before you married my handsome nephew, back when you were the scandal of the neighborhood."

Sophraea's granny began to giggle. "Oh, and you in your tall boots, Volponia, stamping here and there and shouting like you were still commanding from your quarterdeck. Oh, we were all the scandals then!"

The two old ladies fell to chuckling over the gossip sheets until Volponia yawned and said, "I miss those days. When the mangiest dogs had a real bite behind their bark. Why even the ghosts of Waterdeep were grander creatures than the colored mists that float through the streets now!"

Inspired by this memory, Sophraea hurried upstairs to talk to Volponia about the strange light that she'd seen the night before and the bloody handprints on the family gate. The rest of the Carvers were still in-a buzz of argument over Stunk's visit and his proposal to tear down tombs within the City of the Dead, but the old lady would listen to her.

When a firm voice told her to '"hurry up and enter," Sophraea slipped around the door into the great room that filled three-quarters of the top floor of the tower.

With three sets of windows facing north, west, and south, even the usual pearly light of a cloudy Waterdeep twilight was sufficient to reveal every knickknack teetering on the dozens of small tables and shelves cluttering up Volponia's boudoir.

Volponia's bed was covered with embroidered silk quilts and had a canopy of tapestry curtains protecting the occupant from stray drafts. The bed also stood closest to the south window. The previous evening, when Sophraea had paid her last good nights to Volponia, the bed had been shaped like a wooden sled, covered with red woolen blankets and azure furs, and been positioned closest to the north window.

How or why Volponia changed her bed quite so literally, nobody knew. The old lady still owned a number of trinkets purloined from faraway places during her days as a pirate captain. Some, like the crystal bell that was always close to hand, kept her well-supplied with the comforts that she craved and made her a very light charge upon the family's resources.

The only demand that Volponia ever made was that the other turret bedroom, the one that shared the same floor with hers, "not be occupied by one of those great galumphing male Carvers. I love my nephews, my grandnephews, and my great-grandnephews, but they all take after my brother. He snored loud enough to wake every soul in Waterdeep and I have enough trouble sleeping without listening to such thunder every night."

So, as the only girl born in two generations and a silent sleeper, Sophraea occupied the other bedroom and received regular doses of Volponia's advice growing up. Also a fair amount of criticism as in "well, why are you standing dithering in the doorway. Step in or step out, but don't make a draft!"

Whisking her skirts around the tippy tables and wobbly china and crystal mementos with the ease of long practice, Sophraea hurried to the bedside and kissed Volponia's parchment dry cheek.

"I came to ask about a glowing light in the graveyard, not to be scolded," she said with mock severity as she plopped down upon the bed. The mattress was very firm, probably stuffed with horsehair, Sophraea guessed.

"A light in the graveyard?" said Volponia, hitching herself higher on her satin-covered feather pillows. "What was it?"

"I don't know," said Sophraea, "but it moved around the City of the Dead, from far to the north along the paths to our gate."

"Well, I can't see the City from my windows. Just a bit of the wall and watchtower. A dark night, last night, and a stormy one. I barely slept with all the rattle of the wind and rain. I'm sure I would have noticed any light if it had moved around the house."

"The rain woke me too. That's why I saw the light. It was definitely inside the City and never passed the gate."

"Perhaps it was the Watch upon patrol."

"No," Sophraea could be just as firm as Volponia. "I've seen the Watch chasing thieves through there before. Lots of torches and shouting, lots of lights. This was just one light, and it seemed to move around on its own."

Volponia frowned. "A haunt?"

"It didn't look like a spirit," replied Sophraea with the sophistication of a seventeen-year-old who had grown up in Waterdeep. "At least not the sort of ghost that you usually see. It was brighter, or moved differently. The things you see on the streets, the mists, they tend to float around. This looked like it went where it intended to go."

"Magic, perhaps?" Volponia speculated with a frown. "But it would take an unusually brave wizard to be casting spells in the City after dark. There are things buried there who don't like disturbances. And I can't see the Blackstaff being all that kind to anyone who meddled with magic inside the graveyard. Perhaps you should tell your father. He can always get a word to the right ear."

"Perhaps," agreed Sophraea, "if I knew what to tell him. It was just one light, and rather small. But there were these handprints on our gate today. Leaplow thought it was rust at first…"

"But?" asked the shrewd Volponia.

"I thought they were handprints, dark red-brown handprints, from somebody reaching from the City's side."

"The color of old blood?" Volponia spoke with the relish of a former pirate captain. "Just the sort of trick that ghosts like to play. Or those who mean you to think the dead are making trouble. You should talk to your father; Astute's no fool."

"He's busy. Stunk came today."

"A troublesome man, from all that your grandmother has told me," said Volponia. Although the old lady never left her bed as far as the family knew, she liked to hear the news and Myemaw was her major source of information.

"I don't like him," admitted Sophraea.

"If you really want to know what that light was, you should ask a wizard," Volponia stated.

"I don't know any," Sophraea replied. Then she thought of Gustin Bone, but she wasn't sure what he was. Did making all the laundry jump on the line make him a wizard? Maybe he was just an adventurer with some type of magic ring or conjuring piece. Such things were not unknown in Waterdeep.

"There's that old woman down on Coffinmarch, but everyone says she is crazy mad witch," Sophraea added, because she did know where Egetha kept her shop and she had no idea at all where Gustin Bone had come from or where he went.

"That's just your brothers' opinion of Egetha and that's just because she caught them sneaking around her back windows, trying to watch her conjure. But Egetha never did much more than sell beauty charms to old maids and protections for young men with mischief on their minds."

"Really, I didn't know that."

"Exactly how old are you? I keep losing track with your generation." "Seventeen."

"That's still too young for me to be discussing most of Egetha's stock with you. Go ask your mother if you're curious." Volponia fidgeted in her bed, obviously dismissing the topic to the disappointment of Sophraea's curiosity. But her next words caught the girl's wandering attention.

"The quality of magic may have sadly deteriorated from the days of my youth, as have a great many other things," said Volponia, "but there must still be a place where you can find a decent wizard for hire in Waterdeep."

"I'm sure I don't know where, Auntie," said Sophraea, "and I'm certain that I wouldn't know how to pay one if I did find him."

"When I was still captaining my own ships, you went to Sevenlamps Cut if you wanted a wizard, especially the cheap kind whom nobody would miss if they drowned or were eaten by sea serpents." Volponia sniffed. "If you asked around, you could find someone to hire out on the streets."

"Well, wizards cost money and I don't have that much."

"Promise to pay with a kiss." Volponia actually smirked. "Used to work for me when I was your age."

"I'm not going to kiss some smelly old wizard, you wicked thing!"

"That's the problem with your generation. No imagination." The old lady rooted with one hand under the covers of her bed and pulled out a tarnished brass box, decorated with strips of faded green ribbons. She shook it and listened with a frown to the tinkle of the contents. Twisting one end of the box open, she emptied a single silver ring onto her covers. Handing it to Sophraea, she said, "There's probably half a wish still left in that ring and that might interest the right type of wizard."

"I don't know. A wizard might be more trouble than he's worth," Sophraea answered, still thinking about the twinkle in Gustin Bone's bright green eyes.

Fidgeting with Volponia's gift, she slid it on her middle finger. A plain ring, a little tarnished, with no fancy marks or flashing gems, it looked like one of those trinkets that the foolish bought in the cheaper parts of the Dock Ward. It was hard to believe that it contained any magic at all.

"Maybe I shouldn't worry about the City of the Dead," she said to Volponia. "After all, Leaplow is probably right, the dead don't bother Carvers."

"Especially if Leaplow restrains himself from punching them in the face," chuckled her ancient relative. The tale of Leaplow's misdeeds last spring had risen quickly to the old woman's chamber.

"But if someone is stirring up trouble, shouldn't I find out who?" Sophraea continued to twist the ring on her finger, but she kept looking out of the closest window, wondering if the light would reappear in the City of the Dead that night.

"Well, if you do make up your mind any day soon," Volponia said with a shrewd glance at Sophraea's wrinkled and rather worried forehead, "do let me know. It will give me something to fret over. I have so very few distractions at my age. It may be some time before Leaplow creates another scandal."

Sophraea smiled and slid from the bed. "I'll let you know if I decide to investigate, I promise. Do you want me to bring you anything?"

"No need," said Volponia, reaching for her crystal bell. "I'll ring up whatever I want later. And your grandmother will be along once her supper is done for a little chatter."

"Don't tell too many good stories without me," said Sophraea on her way out the door.

Volponia called her back. "Weren't you going to talk to Lord Adarbrent? About that letter of recommendation?"

Sophraea sighed. "He hasn't been back in almost a full month."

"He will be. He's just as obsessed with his final rest as that Rampage Stunk. So you're going to do it? You're going to take that job with the dressmaker?"

"It's an apprenticeship," said Sophraea for the umpteenth time. "And she won't take just anyone. You have to show that you have a noble sponsor."

"Sounds like a snob," Volponia had expressed this opinion many times too.

"She's considered the very best in the Castle Ward. And what am I to do? Stay here and sew shrouds?"

"Your aunts Catletrho and Tanbornen seem to enjoy it. As do a couple of their sons."

"Not me. I want to work with fine materials." "Some of the nobility like silk shrouds as much as silk shirts or sheets."

"I want to see my creations on the living!"

"That's harder for a Carver, I'll admit. Although, if your fancy dressmaker puts you to embroidering camisoles and petticoats, you won't see much of those either after they leave the shop. I doubt she'll have you dressing her best customers from the start."

"No, of course not, the apprenticeship is seven years. But her apprentices have established their own shops."

"Still seems a long time to tie yourself to someone who isn't family. And she wants her girls to live in the shop, I hear."

"I'll have a half-day free twice a month. I'll visit."

"Won't be the same," grumbled Volponia, pulling her blankets closer around her thin old body.

"Ah, don't," said Sophraea, dropping to her knees by the bed. She clasped one of Volponia's long, thin hands in her own equally slender fingers. "Everyone has been arguing against this. But you don't know what that shop is like. It's so beautiful, all those piles of velvet, silk, ribbons, lace, and embroidery. And little delicate chairs with gilded legs. None of the ladies ever talk in anything but the most genteel tones. There's no shouting or banging or kicking a stupid ball against the wall of the house at all hours! And nobody who works there smells of anything stronger than soap!"

"Can't say that about the Carver boys." Volponia patted Sophraea's dusky curls. "But we'll all miss you. That's why we fuss so."

"I know," Sophraea said, springing up and hugging Volponia one last time. Every time she thought about leaving Dead End House, Sophraea couldn't help the stupid tears clogging up her eyes and making her sniff. She loved her family but she really could not see spending the rest of her life sewing shrouds. And she certainly wasn't big enough or strong enough to carve monuments or build coffins like some of her sisters-in-law.

Besides, if she lived in Castle Ward, there would be some distance between her and her overly protective relatives. She might even get to flirt with the same man more than once!

Much to Sophraea's surprise, Lord Adarbrent arrived at Dead End House early the next morning. Since they had first crossed paths in the City of the Dead, the elderly nobleman never failed to greet her courteously. More than once, she had heard him refer to her as "a good girl" to her father.

Of course, Sophraea was not sure that Lord Adarbrent actually realized that she was seventeen and fully grown. He still tended to offer her sweetmeats and pat her on the head, just as he had when she was five.

But she had a letter of recommendation all written. out for him in her very best hand and only one or two very tiny smudges from being carried around in her apron pocket for days on end. If he would only sign and seal it, she could apply for the dressmaker's apprenticeship in the Castle Ward.

Despite her best efforts, Sophraea could not attract Lord Adarbrent's attention. The old man had hurried across the courtyard with only the barest of bows in her direction to knock on the door of her father's workshop.

"Lord Adarbrent," said Astute Carver with genuine pleasure at the interruption. The two shared a passion for the history of the tombs contained within the walls of the City of the Dead.

Usually during a visit, the conversation would turn from Lord Adarbrent's current plans to the history of the City of the Dead. Lord Adarbrent greatly admired the Carvers' family ledger, which recorded all the details of their work and had often called it an "incomparable history" of the cemetery.

Once the old gentleman had found the design for a curl of seaweed carved by a Carver ancestor on a mausoleum's door. He told Astute and Sophraea where that emblem could be found etched in a certain family's crest. Lord Adarbrent then related how that twist of seaweed was linked to the long forgotten tale of a blue-skinned wife who came from Naramyr and vanished back into the Sea of Fallen Stars after her noble husband's death.

"They were a restless family after that," finished Lord Adarbrent one rainy afternoon as a much younger Sophraea perched wide-eyed and wondering on an overturned urn, listening to his story of the elf wife. "None of them could ever bear to see a ship making ready to leave the harbor, for fear that the lure of the wind and water would be too great for them."

Lord Adarbrent, Astute Carver often declared, was the only man in Waterdeep who knew the great City of the Dead better than the family. And Lord Adarbrent would hem and haw in his usual manner, murmuring "You are too kind. I have learned a great deal since I began my visits here."

That day, however, the elderly nobleman was almost curt in his exchange with Astute.

"I need to look over your ledger," he said far more abruptly than usual.

"Certainly, my lord," said Astute, pulling down the big book bound in black leather and setting it on his worktabie. "Can I fetch you a chair?"

"No need," said Lord Adarbrent as he waved him away. The old man leaned heavily on his gold-headed cane, carefully turning the crackling pages of the family's ledger. "He's gone too far… that upstart… this is a matter of honor."

Astute winked at Sophraea. In Waterdeep, old Lord Adarbrent was often called the Angry Lord for his mutterings as he stalked through the streets. Less kind souls also referred to him as the

Walking Corpse for his dour physique. The Carvers rarely saw that side of his character, but obviously something had touched off the nobleman's well-known fiery temper.

Finally, with a hiss of rage, the old man turned away from the ledger. "Venal cur." He glared out the workshop door as if he could see the person who annoyed him so through the walls and buildings of Waterdeep. "Well, that is what I needed to know."

He scratched his chin, a habitual gesture of contemplation for the old gentleman. "Now. What to do? What to do, indeed!" he muttered to himself.

With an obvious start of recollection, Lord Adarbrent acknowledged Astute Carver. "I am sorry, more sorry than I can say, that I must leave so soon after arriving."

"You are welcome here, my lord, whether for a short visit or a long one."

"Very kind, very kind, I'm sure." The old nobleman hesitated in the workshop doorway, as if trying to decide where to go next.

Given the gentleman's mood, Sophraea wondered if she should wait to ask him for his signature. A kitten wandered out from under her father's workbench, part of the latest litter deposited there by the Carver's striped mouser. The black-and-white furball tangled its tiny claws in her hem and purred. Even as she reached down to disengage the kitten, Sophraea decided she could not put off asking Lord Adarbrent for another day.

The customers' bell clanged. Two men entered through the street-side gate, the long and lanky Gustin Bone and the hairy doorjack of Rampage Stunk. Lord Adarbrent took one look at the latter man and spun sharply on his heel, striding across the yard to the gate leading into the City of the Dead.

"My lord," Sophraea started forward, dropping the kitten back with its littermates and pulling her letter out of her apron pocket. Two of her cousins carried a newly polished coffin out of

Perspicacity's workshop. Sophraea dodged around them.

But she was too slow to catch Lord Adarbrent. He plunged through the gate and charged into the City of the Dead. Sophraea ran down the moss-covered steps leading to the gravel path, intent on catching the old man. But even as she rounded the Deepwinter tomb, she lost sight of Lord Adarbrent.

With a sigh, she stuffed the letter back into her apron pocket and turned back toward home. The next time, she promised herself, she wouldn't hesitate. She'd catch his lordship just as soon as he set foot in the Dead End courtyard and she would get that signature. She just couldn't spend the rest of her life waiting. She needed to make her dreams happen.

Yet, looking back at Dead End House looming over the cemetery's walls, Sophraea felt the usual pang at the thought of leaving home. The long windows glowed a warm yellow, a Sign that the aunts were already lighting the lanterns to chase away the late afternoon gloom. She could swear that the wind brought her a sniff of wood smoke and supper cooking from the house's crooked chimney.

As Sophraea retraced her steps, a faint sound caught her attention. A whisper of a noise, not nearly as loud as the rain beginning to patter on the dead leaves littering the pathway or the wind scratching the branches together.

Sophraea stood perfectly still, listening. It faded away even as she concentrated, the sound of a woman sobbing, a very young woman sobbing as if her heart was broken, "lost… lost… lost."

The crunch of very real feet on the gravel distracted Sophraea. Gustin Bone was hurrying toward her.

"There you are," he said with a smile lighting his bright green eyes. Then, as he took in the Deepwinter tomb behind her, those same eyes widened. "Ah, this isn't your kitchen garden."

"Of course not," said Sophraea, a little impatiently, distracted by trying to tell if the whisper she'd just heard was the usual moan to be expected in the graveyard or something else. "This is the City of the Dead. Why would you think it was our kitchen garden?"

"I saw you go through that little gate in the wall," Gustin continued, "and I thought… I mean, the big houses in Cormyr, they have gardens walled off where people grow their herbs and vegetables."

"We have a solarium on the second floor of the house for herbs," Sophraea informed him, still only paying half attention to the young man. "And we buy our vegetables in the market."

Gustin slov. lv spun in place, taking in the multitude of tombs, the memorial statutes, the ornamental and somber shrubbery, and the urns stuffed with flowers weeping shriveled petals onto the ground below. On the roof of the closest tomb, grotesque carved figures hung over the edge, peering down on the pathway.

"But this is the famous City of the Dead!" he exclaimed; "Aren't all the gates guarded by the Watch? And aren't the gates into it bigger?"

"The public gates are very large and guarded, of course. But this is our gate, the Dead End gate. It's just for the family," said Sophraea marching back toward their gate. "To bring things through. It would be a terrible nuisance if we had to go all the way to the Coffin march or Andamaar gates just to take a marker to a grave."

"And what were you bringing here?"

"Nothing. I was trying to catch…" Sophraea skidded to a stop and scowled at Gustin. "It's none of your business. What are you doing here?" She emphasized the "you" in the exact same suspicious tone as Myemaw used when saying "And what are you boys planning to do tonight?"

Gustin reacted just like her brothers. He shuffled his feet and mumbled, "Nothing… I just saw you and…"

"Oh, come on," said Sophraea. "If you want to see my father about your statue, he's in his workshop."

"Of course," said Gustin briskly. "That's why I'm here. To see your father."

Sophraea shut and latched the Dead End gate. "He started your statue this morning," she said, "selecting the stone and roughing out the shape. My brothers Leaplow and Runewright will do the preliminary work under his direction and then he'll add the fine details later. It's a handsome stone he picked. I think you'll like it."

"I do want to see it," said Gustin following her to the workshop. "I have heard that he's very good at his work."

"The best in Waterdeep," said Sophraea with no small pride. "All of the Carvers are. Well, except Leaplow, but he can be good when he thinks about what he is doing. But my father and my uncles are the most skilled. They know how important their craft is. It's the last gift the living give the dead, a box to house the body, a stone to mark their passing, so they make their work beautiful."

"I never thought of it like that. And what do you do?" Gustin Bone asked-

"I'm not in the business. I'm going to be the first Carver to leave Dead End House and become a dressmaker."

"Gifts that the living give the living." The young man dodged around a stone cherub with a broken wing waiting for repair and a stack of lumber seasoning for spring coffins. A Carver cat curled atop the lumber gave him an inscrutable look as he passed by.

Sophraea giggled as she pushed open the door of her father's workshop. "I guess you could call it that."

Inside Astute Carver and her uncle Perspicacity were pouring over some long scrolls. Rampage Stunk's scruffy knave was still there, leaning insolently against Astute's workbench and cleaning his nails with a long thin dagger. Sophraea could clearly see the stiff black hairs sprouting on the back of the man's dirty knuckles.

"We should have Myemaw look it over too," said Perspicacity, "but I think it is legal."

"I am afraid that you are right," agreed Astute. "But who would have thought that a family could sell off their deeds like that?"

"It's property," said Perspicacity. "Just like a house or any land, I suppose. And it's not like this one was close to them or would even remember who was lodged inside. The seller is a fourth cousin on the distaff side, I think. I'd have to look at the ledger to be sure."

"Well, they do say Waterdeep is changing and changing fast. But who would have thought…" Astute noticed his daughter and the young man close behind her. "I am sorry, saer, but I am just finishing some business here. Give us a moment more."

"No rush, no rush at all." Gustin bowed slightly in the direction of all the men in the workshop. Stunk's servant ignored him but Perspicacity gave the younger man a friendly nod. Gustin turned away to examine Astute's chisels and mallets, all neatly hanging from rows of hooks set into the rough plaster walls.

"Tell your master that we will begin the work as soon as the materials arrive," Astute instructed the servant.

"He will be displeased by any delays," growled the man.

"He would dislike hasty work done with shoddy materials even less," replied the unruffled Astute. "Stunk only wants the finest, and that takes time, as any good craftsman knows."

The servant shrugged one shoulder. "Very well, I will give him your message." He stowed his dagger in his shirt. Passing by the Carver's open ledger, he paused to read a page.

"That's a curious book," he said, flicking over the pages much more quickly than Lord Adarbrent. "A lot of old names. My master likes old histories. He might pay you something for this."

"It is not for sale," Astute said with great finality and, turning his back on the hirsute doorjack, began to chat with Gustin about the stone that he had selected for the young man's statue. Perspicacity joined the two men in their discussion.

Only Sophraea noticed the servant tug sharply at a page in the ledger, digging in his yellow fingernails.

"Stop that!" she cried, attracting everyone's attention. "You will rip it!"

The hairy man backed away from the book, his hand snaking toward the dagger in his shirt as the two big Carver men advanced upon him. Behind them, Gustin's eyes glowed like twin emeralds.

"Leave me alone," whined the servant. "I didn't do anything."

Astute snapped the covers of the ledger closed and put the book away on a high shelf. "Go on. Your business is done here."

The servant hurried to the door, barking in a whisper to Sophraea as he passed her, "Meddling girl, you'll be sorry."