Like a storm wind or Mount Waterdeep, Varandros Dyre loomed up fierce and unyielding. Just now, he'd lifted his snout sharply to gaze down the crowded street, toward the distant scaffolding that was their destination.

"What boar-buttock-brained idiot braced that mess?" he snapped, rounding on them as if his two apprentices were personally responsible for the sloppy lashings. Without waiting for replies, he whirled around and set off at a speed that forced them to trot to keep up.

"Baraezym!" he growled, over his shoulder. "Tell Jivin what's wrong with that scaffolding!"

The older apprentice peered. "Uh, broken boards… loose lashings." He frowned. "It looks almost as if it fell down, or came close to, then got dragged back up into place with ropes and braced with a few boards. Everything's…"

Baraezym flung up both hands, as if his fingers could snatch the words he wanted from empty air. He succeeded only in knocking a hat off the head of a hurrying sailor on his right and unintentionally slapping the cheek of a heavily cloaked woman on his left.

The sailor cursed as he leaned and snatched his hat out of the air before it could fall and be lost. The woman spun around to lessen the force of Baraezym's blow and said huskily, "Hey, there! I charge good coin for that, y'know!"

Baraezym's stammered apologies were lost in his own hurried pursuit of his master, and in Dyre's fiercely approving, "Exactly! Yon work's sagged and been hauled back into place, rather than rebuilt properly! Oh, heads are going to roll!"

The master of Dyre's Fine Walls and Dwellings stopped dead in mid-stride, so suddenly that Jivin nearly slammed into him. The Shark was staring up, but barely had time to gape before broken boards came tumbling down through the air. Trailing a startled shout, a workman plunged after them.

From high above Redcloak Lane the man fell, mallet tumbling, and disappeared behind the crowd filling the street with their hand-carts and shoulder-perched baskets.

The crash and clatter was surprisingly loud, and heads turned all over Redcloak Lane. Varandros Dyre was already racing through the gawkers, spitting a stream of unfinished, crowded-atop-each-other curses. When he fetched up against a close-harnessed team of three mules, it was the mules that were brought to a rocking halt.

Their carter spat a curse at Dyre as the builder shoved his way past, but Dyre's roared reply was so fierce that the man recoiled. Baraezym and Jivin gave the startled man apologetic grins as they hastened after their master.

They burst free of the press of bodies to find Dyre in the midst of a ring of workers, grimly promising a groaning man at their feet his healing would be paid for, every last shard and dragon of it. The man smiled, nodded, and promptly slipped into senselessness.

Varandros Dyre looked up with a black storm brewing in his eyes. He gave the grizzle-bearded carpenter a glare that should have spat lightning.

"D'you call that scaffolding, Marlus? For once I trust you to raise woodworks alone, just once, and you-"

"'Twas nobles again!" a worker burst out. "Young louts with bright cloaks and blades! Playing at being swordsmen! They had our works that side right down, an' chased us with swords and tried to burn the place down, too! This side just slumped 'n' hung, and we spent so much time getting the other up again…"

Dyre's eyes never left those of the carpenter. "Is this true?" he asked quietly.

Marlus nodded, his own anger red and clear on his face. "Every word! Glue ruined, boards broken, everything thrown down, and they laughed at us and tried to sword us, like we were little goblins running about for their amusement!"

Jivin waited almost eagerly for the explosion. The Shark was, he thought, more terrifying when he was calm and quiet.

"And the Watch? Did they happen along, perchance?"

"They did," Marlus said heavily, "and broke it up. If they hadn't, we'd never have got the fires out."

"And they took our happy noble lads where?"

"Nowhere," another worker said sourly. "They let 'em all go. Oh, the Watchcaptain was as cold as winter ice, but they went free, for all that."

"I see," Dyre murmured, strolling forward into the building site as if idly enjoying a walk across a flower-meadow. Hands clasped behind his back, he ambled through shavings, scorch-marks, and hastily restacked lumber.

"Mark me, Jivin," he said softly and suddenly, never turning to check if his younger apprentice was right behind him or seeming to care that a ring of men were moving as if glued to his shoulders, intent on his every breath. "Mark me: this is the last time a pack of noble pups will sport with my hard-working men. Young idiots, too coin-heavy to work and too stupid and bone-idle to think of worthwhile spendings of their time… so they work mischief with Varandros Dyre, and cost me coin. Oh yes, this is enough, and more than enough."

Baraezym and Jivin exchanged unhappy glances, silently and instantly agreed on one thing: they feared this dangerously calm and quiet Varandros Dyre far more than the loudly authoritarian one.

Dyre's boot struck against something sharp amid the shavings. He bent and plucked up a slender, finely made dagger. Its pommel was shaped like a spear point transfixing a star, and on both sides of the spear-blade was a complicated monogram of curlicues and interlaced letters.

Varandros Dyre was neither herald nor calligrapher, but he was a master at looking past fancy trimmings to what lay beneath. "M-K," he murmured, and raised both of his eyebrows as he looked slowly around at his silent, gathered workers. "This belongs to none of you, I trust?"

There was a general rumble of denial, but it was hardly necessary. No one among them could afford so costly a weapon, and none were foolish enough to carry a dagger that could have tumbled from the pages of some fancy tome of heraldry. The shaped hilt was clearly adapted from the proud device of some house or other.

And proud houses could be traced.

Varandros Dyre smiled, slowly and unpleasantly. For the very first time in his life, Jivin did not envy the nobility.

"It goes against my sacred beliefs," Golskyn said sternly, "to waste good money and evil monsters."

Wrapped in his long, deep-hooded cloak, the old priest was striding along the docks at a pace Mrelder, though taller, was hard-pressed to match. His father had stepped off a ship from Chult only a few breaths ago but had already found a dozen ways to express disdain for Mrelder's plans.

"There'll be no waste!" the younger man protested. "I've studied sahuagin for over a year and read all the known lore. I've been trying spells-"

"Trying spells!" the priest echoed scornfully. "Better you should approach the most fearful gods known to man and monster and in holy fervor demand what you desire."

"I'm no priest!"

"As well I know! You had to be a wizard, mucking about with bat dung and bad poetry!"

The young man repressed a sigh. "No wizard, either. I'm a sorcerer, Father."

"The whim of the gods at your birthing, nothing to boast about. A man is what he makes of himself, and you are still no different from the boy who turned tail and fled ten years ago!"

Mrelder looked around for something-other than his own shortcomings-that might capture Golskyn's attention. "Look, Father! See yon colossus standing sentry on the mountain? 'Tis one of the famous Walking Statues of Waterdeep. When I was last here, it looked like a gigantic man. In honor of the victory over the sahuagin and as a warning to other would-be invaders, Waterdeep's archmage re-fashioned it into a sahuagin."

The priest nodded approvingly. "Man into monster. Perhaps I might find common cause with this archmage of yours."