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{Fear disgust rage helpless rage revulsion}
[Narnra, be easy. You're not the only one who knew trouble in Waterdeep.]
Sweating and panting in that upper room in the house off Soothsayer's Way,
where old Nathdarr ran his school of the sword better with one eye than many men
can fight with two. Caladnei the only lass in the room, her desperate leaps and
nimble blade-work slowly turning his contempt into grudging admiration, until the
night when Marcon and Thloram burst in breathless to shout at her to flee with
them now!
While she worked to become better with steel, her companions of the Sash had
run riot spending their coins in the City of Splendors. Rimardo and Vonda had
foolishly tried to rob a noble, and his men had captured them and tortured them to
death, forcing from them the names of all in the Brightstar Sash ... as the noble's
guards had jeeringly told Marcon whilst trying to impale him in a tavern, less than an
hour ago.
He and Thloram had fought their way clear, with a mob on their heels and four
guardsmen in livery dead, and now the Watch had joined the hounding. If she still
had most of her gold, they knew where they could buy room together inside a crate
being loaded onto a wagon for transport out of the city this night.
Nathdarr's look of admiration had melted back into sour disgust. He was shaking
his head as they ran out the back way into the night but when the mob came
howling up to the front door of his training-room, he'd calmly put his sword through
one, two, and three of them before drawing breath.
Such fun. So did you outlive all the others then come running to Cormyr to
hide?
[Cruel, Narnra. I'll show you why I parted ways with the Sash. You deserve that
much.]
With Thloram dead and buried in the Rift, Marcon was the only one left of the
jovial band who'd plucked her up from her table at the Cracked Flagon. Oh, he'd
found replacements more blades and wizards than ever, younger and even more
apt to swagger than Bertro had been but the fun was gone. Too many sad
memories, too many absent smiling faces.
Wherefore she hadn't bothered to tell Marcon when Meleghost Telchaedrin had
sent word that she should come to him in private. If some decadent Halruaan wanted
to make an end of her, so be it. We all greet the gods sometime, and Caladnei was
past caring when her time would come.
The Sash was here in the Telchaedrin family towers to accept a commission.
Sarde Telchaedrin wanted them to hunt down a renegade heir before the bloodtaint
spell he'd crafted spread death to every corner of Halruaa. It was a task Caladnei
mistrusted, but the coin being offered was staggering another mark of suspicion
that her younger comrades in the Sash didn't seem to see . . . and Marcon obviously
didn't want to notice.
Lord Meleghost was an older uncle of Lord Sarde, considered "an odd one" by
the few Halruaans Caladnei had been able to mention his name to. In his younger
days he'd gone adventuring outside the Walls, bringing back strange tales of colorful
Faerun beyond the mountains. He was alone when she arrived in the high-vaulted,
empty marble hall, standing on a high dais by a great oval window as tall as six tall
men. Even beside it, Lord Meleghost was a very tall man.
"Welcome," he murmured without the usual elaborate courtesies, extending a hand
to her. "Thank you very much for coming, and please accept my assurances that I
mean you no harm and intend no deceit."
Caladnei blinked in surprise then gave him a smile and her hand together. "You
seem in haste, Lord a pace and a plain manner I must admit I find pleasing. Please
unfold your will to me without delay."
Meleghost nodded, peering at her over his long nose like an old and weary bird of
prey, and said, "As you wish. This commission is a ruse that will lead you into
disaster. Sarde is steering you into unwittingly attacking a rival family of our realm.
You should depart Halruaa alone now."
Caladnei nodded slowly. "I've been uneasy about this from the first." She took a
step forward and asked, "Why are you telling me this?"
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