Most of the city's dead had been reclaimed, but a large knot of people still gathered at Arnagus the Shipwright's where the watch brought any corpses they recovered. So many were still missing, and many more than that were gone.

Hroman shook his head. "After something like this, it's only natural to start acting human again. It makes the world small again, and you only have to think about your own troubles-which don't seem too large for a time."

Pacys nodded. "You've grown wise, like your father. He'd be proud."

"I hope so."

The bard sat at the edge of a badly listing dock. Over half of it had broken off during the attack and rough splinters shoved out from the end. He noticed the dark circles under the priest's eyes. "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet. I've been working the night shift at the hospital, giving aid where I could, and last rites for those that needed them." Tears of frustration and near-exhaustion glittered in Hroman's haunted gaze. "We seem to lose so many more of the weak ones during the night."

"Yes," Pacys replied. "I think it's because the night is more tender, more accepting. A dying man doesn't seem to fight quite so hard when death is disguised as sleep."

"It's still death."

"Each man has his own race to run, Hroman. Even you can't stop that."

"No, but Oghma willing, I'll interfere with it whenever possible."

"Come," Pacys said gently, gesturing to the dock beside him. "Sit and share morningfeast with me. Several of the festhalls and taverns have remained opened night and day since they were able. Piergeiron, Khelben, Maskar, and several others of the city's officials and wealthy have opened their own larders to stock the kitchens of every establishment willing to serve a meal to those who are helping clear the city."

"I suspect a lot of graft is going on through the city while such generosity is being shown," Hroman said sourly. Still, he sat beside the old bard, stretching out awkwardly as he struggled to find comfort.

"The guard is policing the streets with a heavy hand, and even the most arrogant of nobles and merchants are rumored to be helping keep the distribution paths open and safe," Pacys said, removing the cloth that covered the basket he'd been given a few minutes ago. He'd played the yarting, trying to soften all the destruction and sadness that he'd toiled in for the last few days.

On the first day he'd helped remove most of the debris that clogged Ship Street and the nearby streets fronting the harbor. On the second day, since he was one of the eldest and suffered wounds of his own from the battle, he'd helped wash the corpses that had been recovered, getting them ready for burial. Most funerals were small things handled in the other wards. In the days since, the tasks had alternated between clearing away and recovering the dead.

"And how are you?" Hroman asked. "I'm forgetting my manners."

"Well."

"What about the wound in your side?"

Pacys stretched gingerly. A sahuagin trident had gouged his side, requiring a number of stitches, and there was the wound in his arm. Still, he appeared to be mending, though slowly.

"Troubling," the old bard admitted, "but not disabling."

Hroman glanced around at the battered and broken shops and taverns. "So many people lost everything they had."

"At least they live," Pacys pointed out, "that those material losses may be grieved over. They'll rebuild."

"In time," Hroman agreed. He scratched at a dried blood stain on his shirt. "So is this the song that you believed you were called for to sing?"

Pacys hesitated, searching his feelings again for the answer himself, finding mostly a brittle, hollow ache left over from the raid. He shook his head. "I don't know."

"I listened for a time just now," Hroman admitted, "before you knew I was there."

Pacys didn't refute the statement. He'd known the priest was there. A man living on the road, singing for his meals and lodging, such a man learned more than just pretty words and a lively tune.

"Your song truly is beautiful, old friend," Hroman said honestly. "I felt the pain of this city and the people who live here, and I felt the fear that still hangs about in the shadows." "There are too many songs like it already, and more coming."

Pacys drew a knife from his boot and cut slices from the small half loaf of bread he'd been given in the food basket. He covered the slices with ham spread made fresh that morning, then passed a sandwich to the priest.

Hroman accepted it with thanks.

"On every street corner," Pacys said, "you'll find a bard. They're all composing songs about the raid, even those who weren't in Waterdeep that night. They've come from far and wide, trailing word of the story back."

"This is what you believed you were called for?"

"Yes," Pacys said, "and I still believe that, but there is something missing."

"What do you mean?"

"I've worked on the song about the raid for days," the old bard replied, "and have it shaped much as I want it, but there's more."

"More? You're sure of that?"

"Yes. Even as much work as I've done on it, the song yet remains unfinished."

"How do you know?"

Pacys smiled at the younger man. "How do you know a prayer is left unfinished?"

"Every priest is trained on the elements of a prayer," Hroman replied. "There's the invitational, the declaration-, the body of the message, and the closing."

"Sadly," Pacys said, "many bards believe it's the same with a song or a tale. Jokes, however, may be so mechanically inclined, but even within that art there are a number of allowances. In your vocation, my friend, the mind trains the ear, but in mine it's the ear that trains the mind."

"You remain hopeful, then."

Pacys smiled. "I yet live, and my song is undone. I've been following it for fourteen years. I can't allow myself to believe that I've been led this far and there will be no crescendo."

Quietly and efficiently, Hroman bowed his head and asked a blessing on the meal. Pacys joined him, finding his spirits even further lifted by the sincere belief in Hroman's words as he asked for peace and healing to descend on the city.

When the priest finished, the bard glanced up and out at the harbor. The morning sun was nearer to noon now, and the water glinted with diamond-bright highlights. He watched as a small group of mermen surfaced beside a large fishing boat with a boom arm hanging out over the water. Ropes led down into the harbor, letting the bard know they were going to attempt another underwater salvage.

"We're missing so many things," Pacys mused.

"They'll be replaced," Hroman stated. "Oghma willing, and if the need for whatever's been lost is strong enough."

"I'm not talking about city things." The old bard offered the small cup of cherry tomatoes that had been packed in the basket. They were exotic, grown in Maztica, and proof that the most exclusive of larders had opened to feed the people who worked in the city. Hroman took a couple with a nod of thanks. "I'm talking about the song. We don't know who arranged the attack on Waterdeep, or why."

"It was the sahuagin," Hroman pointed out. "We all saw them. As to why, the sahuagin have never gotten along with people living on the surface."

"The sahuagin don't use magic," Pacys pointed out. "They don't like it, and they don't trust it. That night, of all things that can be said about it, was filled with magic. It's more than the sahuagin. There's an enemy out there who has aligned himself against Waterdeep… maybe more than just Waterdeep."

"I can only pray that you're wrong," the priest said.

Pacys nodded. "I pray that as well, but in my heart I know I'm right. This song is far bigger than any I've ever done. When I finish, we'll have to know who has commanded this thing and why."