Chapter Text
“I’m sorry, my dear boy, but my hands are tied.”
Lord Fitzwilliam gestures broadly in a way that only makes it obvious that his hands are in fact entirely unbound. Xenk is, for once, familiar with the expression, but that isn’t enough to keep him from thinking for a painful moment of a far more cherished pair of hands, eternally tied with their red ribbon but forever lost to him.
There’s no point in dwelling on that now. He pushes the memory down, imagines packing it safely away in a chest, where it can’t do any harm. “There is nothing you can do?” he asks.
Lord Fitzwilliam shakes his head sorrowfully. “I’m afraid the terms of your father’s will were quite clear,” he says. His fingers skim over the neatly stacked pile of papers on the desk. “You’ve read it yourself.”
Xenk had insisted on that. Fitzwilliam had allowed it with a suspicious lack of protest, and Xenk had been unsurprised to find there was nothing equivocal or unclear in the document at all. He doesn’t know what trick the man is playing, but it goes deeper than mere obfuscation.
“I cannot inherit until I meet the requirements of the will,” he agrees. “I must therefore endeavor to do so as soon as possible.” It’s hard to even get the words out. This is the last thing he’d ever wanted.
Lord Fitzwilliam is regarding him with an avuncular smile that rings as false as everything else he’s said this morning. “Your father and I became quite close in the years before his death,” he says. “He spoke of you quite often, you know. I felt like I became very fond of you even before your return to the city. Please rest assured that I will do everything I can to be a responsible trustee to your estates until you’re ready to assume control.”
Xenk doesn’t say that he feels ready now. His feelings about the situation are irrelevant. “I must leave them in your hands, then,” he says.
“And of course Yendar House is yours for as long as you’re in the city,” Fitzwilliam says. He adds, in a painfully arch tone, “I’ve made arrangements for what I expect to be a suitable allowance, but if you find it’s not enough then you only have to ask. I know what you young men can be like when you come to town.”
It doesn’t matter how much the allowance is, there’s no possibility that Xenk will come begging for more. He won’t need to anyway. He’s used to making do with far less. “Thank you,” he says.
Fitzwilliam regards him seriously for a moment. “You mustn’t blame your father,” he says. “I know it may seem onerous, but he only wanted what was best for you.” He offers another familial smile. “And, if I may say so, I think he may have been on to something. Your devotion is admirable, but it’s possible to take such things too far. And besides, there’s your duty to the estate.”
Xenk breathes through the anger that threatens to flare up. He knows better than anyone what his duty to his family and estate is, and how badly he’s failed in it all these years. That doesn’t reconcile him to being lectured on the topic by Forge Fitzwilliam.
“I understand that my father meant well,” he says. It comes out a little too coldly for civility, but Fitzwilliam just gives him the same impenetrable expression of untrustworthy goodwill. “But to mandate that I marry before assuming control of my estates is . . . not what I had expected.”
“I can see it’s been a shock to you,” Fitzwilliam says sympathetically. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think marriage might in fact be good for you.”
Xenk had once stood before an altar and sworn to dedicate his life, not to another mortal being, but to his god. He knows there are those who are able to do both, and find a balance that only deepens their love and their faith. He’s never expected or wanted to be one of them.
“Perhaps so,” he says, rising. “Will that be all, Lord Fitzwilliam?”
For all he’s never had much interest in his father’s legacy, it stings, now, to stand on this side of the desk, dancing attendance on a man of Fitzwilliam’s stamp. Xenk lets the anger and hurt rise up through him for an instant, before packing it firmly away. Such pride is insignificant and will do him little good.
“Please call me Forge, my dear boy,” Fitzwilliam says. “We are, after all, very nearly family.”
Xenk will be damned to the nine hells before he calls this scoundrel by his given name. He bows shallowly—Fitzwilliam will probably take that as agreement, but it can’t be helped—and turns to stride away.
“One last thing,” Fitzwilliam says. Xenk stops obediently, glad that his face is turned away for the vital moments it takes him to master it. By the time he turns back he’s certain he’s back to his usual calm mask.
Fitzwilliam is studying the papers on his desk. He looks up and smiles gingerly, as if what he has to say is a matter of some delicacy. “I know you’ve been out of the city for some time,” he says. “You may not know many people your age, which will make all of this a trifle harder. If you would like assistance, I know several young people, all very eligible. I could introduce you.”
“Thank you for the obliging offer,” Xenk says. The idea of marrying a suitor chosen for him by Fitzwilliam is enough to make his skin crawl. “I will consider it.”
He can’t stay here and listen to Fitzwilliam say another word. Without taking his leave or waiting for a dismissal, Xenk turns and walks away.
**
“Oh, miss, let me help you with that.”
Ed sweeps off his hat to bow extravagantly--the maid in front of him lets out a charming little giggle--and bends to retrieve the package she’s just dropped in the dust of the street. In the small window of privacy the movement affords, he hisses, “Any suggestions?”
“Pearl ring on her little finger,” the girl says immediately. “She’s already thought she’s lost it twice today.” She smirks, and adds, “Kept insisting the housekeeper stole it.”
“The one who’s been beating you girls?”
She hums agreement, and Ed nods his thanks. Maybe he’ll even be able to do some good with this one. He turns away to bestow a more courtly smile on the tiny old woman the maid was trailing.
“You indulge them too much,” she says, mouth tightened in disapproval. “She should learn to be less clumsy.”
“Lady Ysandria,” Ed says, offering her a less theatrical bow and lifting her hand smoothly to his lips. “I hope you’re well, ma’am?”
She sniffs disparagingly. “As well as anyone of my age can expect, but a young man like you won’t know very much about that.”
“You’re flattering me,” Ed says. He catches the slightly lost look in her eyes, and, because he’s not a complete monster, adds, “Which is not something many people do for someone like Edgin Darvis.”
“Mr. Darvis,” she says, and Ed pretends not to see the gentle relief in her face. She thinks she’s been covering up the memory lapses well, as if they aren’t an open secret amongst Waterdeep society. Ed’s not above using them to his own advantage, but he has to stifle a twinge of sympathy even as he slides the pearl ring into an inner pocket. It must be hard, not to be able to trust your own mind. “You missed my salon last night.”
And then sometimes she’s uncomfortably sharp. “I’m afraid I had a prior engagement,” Ed says. He leans in and adds, grinning, “I would rather have come to visit you.”
“Oh, get away with you,” she says, swatting gently at his shoulder. “As if you have any time for an old woman like me.”
“Ma’am, I am your most devoted servant,” Ed protests. “I live only for the slight hope of earning your favors, and for the fleeting pleasure afforded me by your company. I was very distressed to be denied it last night, I promise you.”
Ed might not feel much fondness for Lady Ysandria, but he is sincerely attached to her very useful connections, so he allows her to call him a shameless flirt for several minutes before he finally manages to summon a chair to take her home. He only escapes once he’s promised to go to her card party next week, but that’s fine. Her drawing room usually holds enough young idiots for him to fleece to make the evening worth it.
As soon as she’s safely out of sight, he strides off towards the owner of a rather discreet little shop in a somewhat less reputable part of town. He’s got a ring to sell, a housekeeper to frame, and a busy day ahead.
**
Xenk’s first morning in Waterdeep begins, as so many of his mornings have begun, with the earliest light of the dawn. Rather to his relief, his room faces east, away from the busy street and noisy square below. It’s still far louder than he’s used to, and there’s no escaping the knowledge that he’s surrounded by others, with nothing more than a brief illusion of privacy. But once he draws back the heavy curtains the morning light floods in, and he’s filled with at least a fraction of the calm, centered peace he’s known for so many mornings.
The familiarity makes it easier to lose himself in the well-worn prayers, half invocation and half meditation, with which he has started every day for the past ten years. He sinks down into the comfort of dedication and devotion, reassured in the knowledge that, no matter what else may have changed irrevocably, this remains.
It can’t be more than half an hour later that he hears the distant sound of a door opening, and then a quiet gasp of surprise. The sound is so unexpected--Xenk has slipped so far down into his meditations that he’s forgotten where he is--that he startles badly, eyes flying open and hand going automatically to the pommel of a sword that is no longer slung at his waist.
His new valet is standing in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise. “My lord,” the man says. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I didn’t know you were awake.”
Xenk bites back the unjust impulse to snap something harsh at him. Most nobles of Waterdeep are no doubt still asleep, waiting for their servants to come draw their curtains and bring them their tea and breakfasts. It’s not the valet’s fault that Xenk isn’t one of them anymore.
“I fear I am in the habit of rising early,” he says.
The man nods, as if committing the information to memory. “Of course, my lord. Do you wish for breakfast? Or shall I help you dress?”
For a moment, Xenk considers explaining his morning devotions, and asking to be left in peace. But in the prosaic face of his valet it seems impossible to retreat back into peaceful contemplation, and Xenk finds suddenly that he doesn’t feel equal to the explanations. He’s Lord Yendar now. Perhaps this is the first step to accepting that. “I don’t require assistance,” he says. He keeps the words gentle, but from the look on the valet’s face he’s made another misstep. It has been so long since he needed to take such things into consideration that he keeps forgetting.
“Perhaps if you would bring me the blue coat,” he says, and the man’s face eases slightly at the familiarity of the order. He bows slightly and disappears into the dressing room.
The morning light is brighter now, falling in orderly rectangles across the floor. Xenk studies it for a moment, and takes one last breath in an attempt to bring a small part of his earlier peace back, before he turns and faces the day.
**
Ed dodges into the alleyway and weaves his way through the piles of rancid rubbish that litter the ground. He’s not enough of an amateur to risk a glance back, but as he hears the footsteps getting closer he ducks down behind the largest pile--which was a terrible idea, it’s covered in particularly ripe kitchen refuse--and holds his breath as he waits.
As he had already been starting to suspect, his luck is not in. The heavy footsteps pause at the entry to the alleyway, and he can hear the gruff voices of the watch raised in debate. Before Ed’s hopes can get up to high, the footsteps start getting louder again, and he knows someone’s following him.
Damn. He’d thought, earlier tonight, that he had a good chance of making it away clean from this one. He’s still not entirely sure where he went wrong on what should have been a foolproof job. Lord Harton was supposed to be away from home tonight, safely dancing the evening away at the Mianora’s ball. Ed had been counting on his notoriously negligent staff taking advantage of his absence to pursue their own entertainment, but either he’d decided to stay home or they’d kept an uncharacteristically close eye on the house in his absence.
Error analysis is going to have to wait, though. Ed breaks from behind his pile, giving it a good kick that sends the contents flying towards the guards making their way down the alley. While they’re still cursing and wiping away the worst of it--Ed’s really not making any friends tonight--he runs down the alley, looking frantically for a way out. It’s a dead end, of course, because he hasn’t been making any good decisions tonight. All he can see is the low roof of a shed in a nearby garden, and there’s no guarantee that he’ll be able to make it up to the top.
But if he waits here there is a pretty good guarantee that he’ll be arrested, with a few extra blows to make up for the garbage, so he launches himself at the shed, scrabbling frantically against the wooden walls until, miraculously, he makes it up to the roof. He narrowly avoids putting a foot through its decrepit planks--the owners of the fine house should be ashamed of the state of their outbuilding--and pauses for just a moment to consider his options.
The guards are already in pursuit, and Ed knows they’ve seen him. Down seems like a bad option. There’s a convenient trellis climbing the side of the neighboring house, so tempting that for a moment Ed worries it’s a trap, but he makes it up in one piece and crouches against the chimney to consider his options.
The guards are clustered below, and Ed realizes he must have been at least a little bit luckier than he’d realized. He’s turned around enough that he has to stare down at the wide street below before he realizes just why they aren’t chasing him. The large square in front of him has a large fountain at its center, which means this is Goldentree Place, where some of the wealthiest families of Waterdeep live. The watch won’t charge over the garden wall of someone rich enough to live here, even in pursuit of a thief.
That doesn’t mean they’ll give up, though. Even now, one is splitting away from the cluster, probably to go see if there’s a servant still awake to give them permission to enter the house. Another, more ominously, is knocking their crossbow. Time to go.
Ed keeps low, ducking below the roofline to make a less tempting target. He restrains the urge to stomp as heavily as he can--the only people he’d wake up are the servants in their attics, and they don’t deserve to have their few hours of sleep be disturbed--and leaps the narrow gap to the next building easily.
From there he loses several minutes to a blur of climbing, running, jumping. The houses in this part of town are so closely packed that it’s easy to travel this way, and Ed’s just starting to think he’s gotten away with it after all when he lands on the next roof and finds himself suddenly and abruptly frozen in place.
His momentum is so great that he falls forward, unable to even put out a hand to stop himself. He hits the roof tiles hard, and for a moment all of his attention is taken up with the terror of an uncontrolled fall. It only stops when, after a heart-stopping moment, he rolls against a large dormer at just the right angle for it to stop his fall.
The spell isn’t particularly complex or unusual, but hiring someone good enough to cover the entire roof with it must have cost a pretty penny. Ed’s not sure whose hospitality he’s currently appropriating, but they’ve gone to some lengths to keep people like him out of here.
They may yet succeed. The thump from Ed’s fall was almost certainly loud enough to rouse the household, and the spell’s got a good hold on him. If he can’t get free of it soon he’s going to find himself dealing with angry staff and a vengeful homeowner on top of the hotly pursuing watch, and he’s not sure he’s up for that tonight. Ed’s attempts to wrench free of the spell by mental brute force are unsuccessful. Lights are starting to shine out of the attic windows, and he can hear voices inside. He doesn't have time to waste.
He’s never been particularly fond of magic—too fussy, too much memorization, too prone to complications—but there’s one spell that’s served him well as an adventurer and a con, and he’s practiced it enough to cast reliably even under circumstances like these.
It’s hard to manage enough movement to hum, and singing is entirely out of the question. Ed spends a silent moment struggling, holding fast to his intention and his will, before he’s able to get out even the quietest strain of melody.
He’s always found that spells work best when he lets the music choose itself. As has happened so many times over the past fifteen years, what comes out this time is a lullabye. The tune is strangled and nearly inaudible, but Ed keeps the words clear in his mind--Hush a bye, don’t you cry, go to sleep--and does his best. It takes painful seconds, and he can hear urgent voices from the window just under him. It’s just creaking open when the spell sighs and fades away, almost as if he had put it to sleep, and Ed can move again.
He doesn’t waste any time. Anyone rich enough to afford this kind of trap probably has half a dozen more, and all he wants to do is get away in one piece. Ed pushes himself cautiously to his feet and leaps back the way he came.
It isn’t, all things considered, a bad move. The guards have arrived at the disturbed household by now, and seem thoroughly distracted by their attempts to get up to the roof. Ed keeps moving, doubling back several blocks and then, once he’s sure he’s lost his tail, cautiously descending to a balcony and, after a few careful minutes of waiting, the street.
Well, that could have gone worse. He’s not far from the shed where he’d stashed his evening clothes, and from there it’s only a few blocks to Lady Mianora’s town home. He’ll be able to change and go establish his alibi, dancing what remains of the night away with Harton’s cherished heirlooms safely in his pocket the whole time.
**
Xenk has never been gifted in hiding his feelings, and from the looks on the faces of the servants as they hurry out of his way he can tell his anger is showing far too clearly. He knows from years of experience that trying to moderate it won’t do any good--he doesn’t get angry easily, but has a hard time mastering it once it comes--so instead he just strides on, hurrying towards the nearest sanctuary he can think of.
He cannot stay another minute in this house, which is his in name only. Nor is he fit company for anyone. That leaves only two options, and he wouldn’t bring this fury into the temple of Ilmater even if he could bear to take himself there as a mere visitor.
So instead he makes his way to the stables. An afternoon riding through the woods near the city won’t be the same as the days he’s used to spending in the saddle, but at least it will get him away from Forge Fitzwilliam and the estate he has under his stranglehold, and right now that’s all Xenk really cares about.
The stables smell comfortingly of manure and leather, and Xenk finds the roughest edges of his anger bleeding away as soon as he steps through the door. It’s quiet, aside from the noises of the horses, and it’s the closest thing he’s known to privacy since he arrived in Waterdeep. He’d been planning to ask one of the grooms to saddle any of the riding horses for him, but in the peace of the stables he finds himself instead drifting from stall to stall, greeting the occupants.
It’s only once he’s halfway down the row that a voice from somewhere at the far end calls out, “Grumsby, come take a look at this, I think that idiot’s actually lamed her this—“
The words stop abruptly as someone pokes her head out of the stall and catches sight of Xenk. “Oh,” she says, a little blankly. “You’re not Grumsby.”
“No,” Xenk says, reluctantly turning away from the oversized gelding he’s been greeting--he should have known the privacy was no more than an illusion--to see a small woman, dressed in the dark green livery of one of the undergrooms. As she looks at Xenk, her eyes grow wide with recognition and, to his dismay, fear.
“Oh,” she says, very quietly, flicking her eyes down to the floor and keeping them firmly fixed there. “My lord, I’m so sorry, I thought--I’m so sorry.”
With her head bent at this angle, there’s no mistaking the horns that emerge from her cropped red curls, or the tail flicking anxiously at her back. Xenk’s surprised--he wouldn’t have expected Fitzwilliam to be open-minded, and the prejudice against tieflings runs deep--but tries to hide it.
There’s no reason to leave her in such apprehension, though. “Lame, is she?” he asks. “May I see?”
The groom nods and, in one nervous movement, gestures towards the last stall on the right. “She’s in here, my lord.”
“She” turns out to be a pretty bay mare, elegant even if not quite up to Xenk’s height. She probably moves beautifully when she isn’t, as the groom had said, lamed. At the moment, though, she’s heavily favoring her right foreleg, which is wrapped in a poultice but evidently still too painful to bear any weight.
“Poor thing,” Xenk murmurs, stroking her nose. If he’d known he was coming to the stables, he might have brought some treat with him. It seems shameful to visit without an offering. “What caused this?”
There’s a reluctant pause, before the groom says, “I can’t rightly say, my lord.”
“Can you not?” It’s probably unkind, but Xenk’s starting to have his own suspicions about what happened here. “You had an idea earlier, I believe.”
Her eyes fly up to his for just one horrified moment, before darting away again. “I’m sorry, my lord. I should never have said anything--I was expecting Grumsby--I beg your pardon.”
“There is no need,” Xenk says firmly. “Was it Lord Fitzwilliam?”
After a reluctant pause, she nods confirmation. “I have been trying everything I can do, but it’s a bad sprain and he’s not going to want to keep her in the stables if she can’t be ridden.”
“Mmm,” Xenk says. “Then we’ll have to see what we can do about it. What’s her name?”
“Flora, my lord.”
“And yours?” Xenk asks, wishing it didn’t sound so much like an afterthought.
“Doric.”
“Well, Doric, we can’t leave such a lovely lady like this.” Xenk reaches forward and puts one hand on Flora’s wither. “All will be well,” he tells her, and then he bends his head and begins the familiar prayer.
For an illogical moment he’s afraid it won’t be enough, that his god won’t be able to find him here in this strange world he’s fallen into. He should know to have more faith. As he murmurs the well-worn plea for relief, for an end to suffering, to become a conduit for Ilmater’s work in the world, he feels the usual warmth of grace passing through him and into Flora. It lasts only a moment. It feels like a lifetime.
Too soon, though, the light of the god fades, and Xenk steps back. Doric is staring at him, even though there would have been little for her to see, besides a man standing next to a horse. Next to him, though, Flora is tentatively shifting her weight onto the newly healed foreleg, already standing more easily.
“Thank you, my lord,” Doric says.
“I would do the same for any horse in the stable,” Xenk says, and realizes he means it. At least here he can do some good. “She is too fine a mount to allow such a man as Fitzwilliam to do her harm. You may tell him that she cannot be ridden until she is fully recovered.” At her alarmed look, he amends, “Or Grumsby may.”
“She was Lady Ishira’s favorite,” Doric says, in a tumbled rush, and for a moment Xenk’s breath catches in his chest.
Few of the staff have mentioned his sister to him. Xenk isn’t sure of the reason for their restraint, although he’s been grateful for it. Now, though, in the face of Doric’s very real gratitude, all he can think to say is, “Then we must cherish her all the more, for my sister’s sake.”
Doric nods, swallows hard, and says, “My lord, forgive me. Did you come here because you wished to ride?”
Xenk’s anger is, he realized, still present. Looking around the stable, though, he’s overcome with a longing he can’t quite resist. Faila won’t thank him for summoning her merely to wander the tamed forest outside the city walls, but it’s been years since he’s gone so long without riding her and he finds, suddenly, that he misses her deeply.
“Yes,” he tells Doric, “But you need put yourself to no trouble.”
There was a time, when he’d first earned her companionship, that he’d summoned Faila by name. Now, though, all it takes is a whistle, imbued with the right intention. A moment later she’s at his side, walking towards him with the usual vague suggestion that she has, somehow, just stepped around an invisible corner and come into sight.
This time, Doric is outright gaping. Xenk doesn’t have much attention to spare, though. Faila is butting her head into his shoulder with a wave of affection, exasperation, and the vague hope of a treat, and Xenk’s busy apologizing, in low tones, for forgetting to bring any apples.
“You may come meet Faila, if you like,” he invites Doric, who takes a tentative step forward. “Be kind,” he murmurs under his breath, but the command doesn’t seem to be necessary. Faila’s ears twitch forward in the way that says she approves of someone--interesting--and she lips delicately at one of Doric’s horns.
Xenk gives them a minute to get acquainted, but even before his patience runs out Faila’s already sidling sideways with nervous energy. Xenk pats her neck tolerantly--she flattens an ear in irritation--and turns back to the groom. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Doric,” he says.
“It’s an honor, my lord,” she mumbles, and then Xenk is giving into temptation and swinging himself into the saddle to ride away, away, away.
**
It’s late when Ed gets home, sometime long after midnight, but he’s not surprised to see a crack of light under the door as he approaches it. He raps briskly in the pattern that will hopefully keep Holga from dismembering him as soon as he opens the door, before unlocking it to let himself in.
To his relief, Holga doesn’t seem to be in an imminently murderous mood. She’s sitting in front of the fire with her whetstone and a knife, meditatively sharpening the blade. Various weapons are scattered around her, organized in some way understood only to herself.
That’s not a great sign. They’ve lived together long enough for Ed to know this pattern. When things feel out of control, or a promising mark has slipped away, or she’s worried about something, Holga sharpens her weapons, finds something to oil, or, in really harrowing moods, tests various edges. She seems to find it comforting, which Ed supposes is fair enough. There must be a certain amount of reassurance in being well-armed, if you’re someone like Holga.
“That good a day?” he asks her, nodding at the nest of weaponry.
Holga grunts a greeting. “Had better.” To Ed’s relief, she stills the whetstone before looking up at him--he’s always worried, when she doesn’t, that she’s about to lose a finger--and asks, “Any luck at that party of yours?”
Ed shrugs. “I’ve also had better. Drunken young lordlings have no business being this lucky at cards.”
“That’s because you’re not cheating,” Holga informs him flatly.
Ed sighs. They’ve had this argument before, and they’ll have it again, but he really isn’t in the mood tonight. “They’re not bad kids,” he offers, a little weakly. “Just stupid. Besides, if I can’t win fair and square against idiots like that then I have no business taking their money.”
Holga gives him a look that clearly communicates her feelings on Ed’s ethics, and he hastily changes the subject. “Tell me something good happened today.”
“Stopped to talk to Simon,” Holga admits. The usual mild disdain is gone from her voice, which is actually pretty promising. “Asked me to pass on some news to you.”
She waits, smirking, until Ed realizes she’s not giving in and asks, grudgingly, “What kind of news?”
“Newcomer in town,” Holga says promptly. “The heir to the Yendar estate, whatever that means.”
Holga never goes to the part of town where you’d encounter people like the Yendars, but Ed can picture the vast house almost immediately. Showy facade, showier garden. Former heir killed a year ago in some tragic accident, old Duke dead a few months past, although there’s been rumors of a new heir on his way. “Really?” he asks, trying to feign nonchalance.
It doesn’t work on Holga—it never does—and her smirk deepens as she says, “Just came home, I guess. Some paladin, I heard, who's been out wandering the world.” She pauses, then adds, “That’s not the funny part, though.”
“There’s a funny part?” Ed demands suspiciously.
“His father’s will says he has to get married to inherit,” Holga adds, with a crack of laughter. “I tell you, there’s something wrong with these nobles.”
Ed’s brain is whirling so fiercely that he can’t manage more than a half smile in response. “Ed?” Holga demands, but she knows him well enough that when he holds up a hand she pauses, eyebrows raised expectantly, to let him think.
“This is it,” he says, insistently, once he feels like he’s got at least a faint grip on the corner of the thing. He rises, the energy of the new idea propelling him back and forth across the room while Holga watches skeptically. “This is the one. Just think about it,” he says, before she can protest. “Newly arrived back in town, so he doesn’t know anyone. He wasn’t raised to be the heir, he won’t have had training in managing an estate. Gods, he’s a paladin, he probably thinks the best of everyone. He’s perfect.”
“And you’re going to, what, convince him to marry you?”
The question is so unexpected it stops Ed in his tracks. “What?”
Holga gives him an equally blank look in return. “What?”
“Why would I marry him?”
“I just said he needs to get married,” Holga pointed out. “And then you started getting all--” she gestures. “You.”
“I’m not going to marry him,” Ed says. “I’m not going to marry anyone.” Not again. Not after he knows what it can cost.
“Then what?” Holga demands, which Ed has to admit is a fair question.
“He’ll still need friends,” he says. “Mentors. People to guide him.”
“Sure,” Holga agrees, although she still sounds skeptical. “But how does that help us?”
“It will,” Ed says. He can already see it. A newcomer to the city, with no friends and no real allies, not sure how to make his way in this world. He’ll need friends, eventually even cronies. Someone who can show him around, play a friendly game of cards with him, introduce him to the right people. Someone he can trust, who can get on such terms of easy familiarity that they’ll get access to his house, his belongings, his generosity. There are so many possibilities. Ed can figure out exactly which one he’ll pursue later.
“This is it,” Ed says. “Holga. This could be it.” He has to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. “One big score and we could go home.”
Something in Holga’s face softens at the words. “Home,” she echoes. “That’d be good.”
“Trust me,” Ed says. “This is going to work.”
**
It turns out to be harder than Ed expected to even get an introduction to the new Lord Yendar. After all the gossip flying wildly around Waterdeep, he’d expected every host in town to invite the man to every party, ball, and salon in the next few months. But if he’s invited, he doesn’t come. Ed faithfully attends his usual rounds of social duties and keeps his eyes open, but there’s no Lord Yendar to be found.
Ed’s never been particularly good at the long con--he so rarely has the patience for it--but, driven by the enduring conviction that this could be their break, as well as the stubborn refusal to prove Holga right, he waits it out for one tenday, then another. It’s long enough that when Simon passes along the invitation for Lady Wellspring’s ball, Ed’s more preoccupied with gathering intelligence on the most recent courtships--they’re nearing the season’s critical point for proposals, and anyone who pays enough attention can clean up in the betting at the clubs--than finally chasing down the elusive Lord Yendar.
Which is probably why the man is one of the first people he sees when he walks into the ballroom.
At least, he’s fairly sure it’s Yendar. Ed can recognize nearly every noble in Waterdeep on sight--living by his wits in this kind of high society leaves him little margin of error, and he’s studied hard--but this man is a complete stranger. He’s dancing with The Honorable Mr. Wellspring, the eldest son of the house, which is an honor few people at this ball will be able to claim tonight. There’s a small knot of young people clustered nearby, as if waiting casually, who are clearly only lurking in the hope of being asked to dance themselves. Ed could be wrong, but he’s almost sure he’s not, and--
--And, ok, Ed might have made some assumptions coming into this. From the way everyone in Waterdeep has been talking about Yendar’s new heir, Ed’s been expecting someone not much older than K--not much older than a teenager. But even from across the room it’s obvious that Lord Yendar is much older than that, perhaps only a few years shy of Ed’s own age. He’s not, crucially, the inexperienced youth Ed’s been picturing.
Even more startling, though, is how unreasonably handsome Yendar is.
He’s moving through the steps of the dance uneasily, a little clumsily, but even that isn’t enough to hide it. Yendar is unfortunately tall, nearly as tall as Ed himself, with deplorably broad shoulders that his well-fitted blue jacket only accentuate. His face is set in a reserved frown, distant and unapproachable, but it’s a regrettably attractive one, dark eyes steady on his partner and unnecessarily shapely jaw set at a determined angle.
It’s all so far from what Ed expected that he feels a surge of what even he has to admit is unwarranted irritation. It’s bad enough that Yendar isn’t a vulnerable boy in need of an experienced mentor, ripe for some opportune plucking. Worse that he looks like this. Yendar doesn’t need a fortune. Even penniless, he’d do fine for himself around Waterdeep.
It’s tempting to give in to his exasperation, but the situation might still be salvageable. Yendar is still new and inexperienced in Waterdeep society, after all, even if he’s older than Ed expected. The rest isn’t really relevant. There’s no reason the plan won’t still work, as long as Ed can get anywhere near Yendar tonight.
Which might be harder than it seems, because as soon as the dance is over Yendar’s at the center of a discreetly diffuse cloud of unmarried young people--some quite a lot younger than him, Ed notices with disapproval--until he eventually emerges with one of them on his arm. They join the set forming down the length of the ballroom, and Ed retreats against the wall to make a plan.
He’s far enough lost in thought that he doesn’t notice the approaching footman until a familiar voice, just over his shoulder, asks, “Champagne, sir?”
Ed turns to see Simon, rumpled and uncomfortable in badly-fitting livery, looking as astonished as he feels. “What are you doing here?” he hisses, making an ineffectual effort to plaster his bland footman expression over his surprise.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” Ed asks, making a show of considering the glasses. “This is what I do. Why are you here?”
“They needed extra staff for the ball,” Simon says. “Good wages, too, I’m getting paid two silver tonight.”
“Two silver,” Ed says, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “That’s great.” He can’t keep Simon here much longer or they’ll be noticed. Ed digs in his belt purse as if looking for a suitable douceur. Simon has many uses, but one of the most reliable is his capacity to know whatever gossip is going around Waterdeep’s servants. “Look, I’m here to meet Xenk Yendar. Is that him?”
Simon glances around, far too obviously. “Yeah, that’s Lord Yendar.” He looks back at Ed and gives him a frankly offensive grin. “Why, are you hoping he’ll marry you? You’ve got a lot of competition there, Ed.”
“I am not--why in the nine hells does everyone keep assuming--I just need to meet him,” Ed manages. “That’s all.”
He pulls out a copper piece and hands it to Simon, who looks unimpressed but pockets it anyway. “Thank you, sir,” he says, in what passes for his version of a polite murmur, and takes his tray of glasses away to go harass some other guests with champagne and unfounded allegations.
As outrageous as Simon’s assumption is, Ed realizes with a slowly growing horror that it’s also a useful warning. He had a dozen acquaintances here who would introduce him to Yendar, and every single one will also leap to the conclusion that Ed’s joining the throng of his suitors. Hell, anyone who sees him pursuing Yendar at all is going to think that, which is an idea that’s too unbearable to even think about.
Well, all that means is that Ed is going to have to use unconventional methods. Ed’s great at unconventional methods. It’s going to be fine.
In fact it’s going to be better than fine, because at the end of the next dance Yendar gives him the gift-wrapped opportunity he needs. Ed watches with idle curiosity as the cloud of potential partners condenses around him, and is mildly surprised to see Yendar emerge alone, leaving a dozen disappointed young nobles behind him. He strides towards the doors to the garden, just a little too quickly for propriety, pausing only long enough to grab a glass off a nearby table.
Somehow, looking at Yendar, Ed doesn’t think he’s the type to be overcome with the warmth of the room. An escape from his many pursuers, perhaps? Unless Yendar is spectacularly dim-witted he’s going to know what they’re all after. Maybe what he needs right now isn’t a suitor, but a friend.
And, Ed’s willing to bet, something stronger to drink. In his hurry Yendar had taken only a glass of lemonade. Ed thoughtfully takes another flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and makes his own way out to the terrace.
A dozen softly glowing balls hang over it, just bright enough to create concealing shadows without doing much to illuminate what’s in them. The terrace is wide, running the length of the ballroom and studded with potted trees and clusters of chairs, and it takes Ed more than a few seconds to find the silhouette he’s looking for.
He has the uneasy feeling he’s already been spotted, but shoves it aside to walk across the wide stones to the darkest corner--and why had Yendar decided to hide over here?--and offers, with his best charming smile, “Champagne?”
There’s a pause that’s just long enough to get awkward, and then Yendar says, “Thank you, but I do not drink alcohol.”
He doesn’t sound hostile or cold, which would at least give Ed grounds for a counterattack. Instead, his voice is flatly uninterested, as if Ed and everything he stands for is entirely beneath his notice. That might be why Ed finds himself shrugging, un-proffering the glass, and taking a long swig from it himself.
He knows it’s the wrong move even as he’s doing it--antagonizing Yendar is unlikely to lead to the kind of friendship Ed’s hoping for--but he’s never responded well to judgment. “You’re missing out,” he says. “Lady Wellspring keeps a great cellar.”
“I am sure she does,” Yendar says, in an even less promising tone.
Ok. There’s still time to turn this around, and too much at stake to throw this aside in a fit of pique. It’s too bad that Ed got one of the judgy paladins, instead of the ones that think the best of everyone, but he’s too good at this to give up now. Ed pulls the smile back out and says, “You’re newly arrived in Waterdeep, aren’t you? How do you like it?”
“It is a very pleasant city, with amiable society,” Yendar says, in a tone that carries a comprehensive distaste for Waterdeep, its inhabitants, and Ed most of all.
Ed’s not a native of the city and has never felt particularly fond of it, and he should be able to shrug it off. He’s so out of patience with Xenk Yendar, with his jaw and shoulders and the unyielding stick up his ass, that he says, with more of an edge than he really intends, “So amiable that you’d rather hide out here in the dark than bother to dance with anyone?”
There’s a pause. Ed’s usually good with silence, but this one is fraught enough that he’s about to speak up just to end it when Yendar finally says, “I wished only for a respite.”
Ed’s finally gotten the reaction he was looking for, which is at least a good data point. Yendar’s bored politeness is gone, replaced with an almost palpable chill as he goes on, “You will forgive me, sir, if I am direct. I am certain your attempt to provide companionship is very kind, but you will no doubt understand that when I came out to the terrace I was not in search of company.”
Well. Apparently even this perfect paladin, who’s too good to drink a glass of champagne with Ed, has his flaws. With manners like this, he’s going to be lucky to find a willing spouse even with all of his wealth and rank. Ed gives him a shallow bow. “Then I won’t intrude on you any longer.” As he turns, he can’t help adding, with a nod towards the ballroom, “What a disappointment for Waterdeep’s most desperate fortune hunters, though, to be deprived of making their attempts at such a prize.”
There’s no response from Yendar, which probably means Ed’s won. As he stalks back towards the ballroom, downing the rest of the spurned champagne, he realizes that he never even told Yendar his name.