"What is it?" shouted Greyt.
The sickly-thin Claudir entered, robes carefully pressed and neat as always. He gazed imperiously down his thin nose at the Lord Singer buried under a small mountain of furs. "Important business, sir," he said.
"What could be so important?" Greyt threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He crossed to the window and yanked the latch open. The sun had not yet risen. The cold air surrounding his bare body sent shivers down his spine. "Especially before dawn?"
If Claudir minded or even noticed the Lord Singer's nakedness, he gave no sign. "There is a large group of townsfolk at the door," he said. "They have gathered in the square outside and wait upon your pleasure."
Greyt cursed under his breath, translating Claudir's words into tactical terms. "What is the general mood of the crowd?" he asked.
"They seem somewhat… ill at ease."
Greyt cursed again. "Angry mobs never 'wait upon your pleasure.' " He wrapped a blanket around his body. "Fetch my robe, yarting, and sword. I'm going out."
"Of course, my lord." Claudir bowed slightly. "Shall I send for several guards, two to escort you and half a dozen to filter through the crowd?"
"Naturally."
Claudir moved to leave, but Greyt stopped him with a call.
"And bring me a bottle of elverquisst after," he said. "I'm either going to toast a great success or the bodies of a dozen ignorant villagers. Or more."
"Of course, my lord," said Claudir with a bow.
The crowd gathered in the courtyard of Greyt's manor, spilling into the main plaza of Quaervarr, was just as "ill at ease" as Claudir had described. Almost three hundred villagers stood in the plaza; nearly a third of the town's population. Most bore weapons, whether new purchases or dusty heirlooms, and others carried the saws and axes they used in woodworking. Those who did not carry weapons carried torches. Frowns were smeared across most of the faces and angry shouts rang out from the crowd.
"Well, sounds like the Lord Singer's going to get it," a thin voice observed, as though to no one in particular. "This reminds me of that time in Newfort, when we-"
"Derst, must you bring that up again?" the hulking man by his side whispered. Facing away from one another, the two warriors seemed totally unconnected, and their soft words were lost in the crowd. "That was not the best of experiences, and I'd rather not-"
"As I recall, we had gathered before the Hero's Reward and called out Mayor Uhl-"
"The situation quickly turned on us, and we had to flee the town," said Bars.
"Well," argued Derst. "That was hardly my fault."
"Your plan."
"Well, if you'd remembered the horses-"
"You distinctly said: 'leave the horses behind. We'll be back for them later.'"
"No fair pointing fingers," argued Derst. "But since we're on the subject, if you hadn't exposed our identities-"
"If you hadn't slept with Uhl's maid Emmi, we wouldn't have had to hide our identities."
A smile crossed Derst's face. "Ah, Emmi," the roguish knight said silkily. "Bars, you know I can't resist a pretty smile and a well-rounded ankle-"
"I suppose you didn't notice her chest," murmured Bars.
"Well, a little," he admitted. "It was hard not to, with a bodice like-"
At precisely that moment the Lord Singer swept out from the double doors that marked the entrance to his manor. He stood upon the raised entryway overlooking the crowd in his golden robe of office, carrying his fine yarting under his arm. To all appearances, Greyt looked as though he had been up all night and might be heading out to a dinner party. Bars and Derst knew better, though. Greyt's eyes gave him away: red-rimmed and containing a hint of savage anger. The eyes of a tired man on edge.
"My neighbors and friends," Greyt said in his smooth baritone. "To what do I owe the honor and pleasure of this visit?"
At his tone, the crowd quieted, except for a few discordant shouts. Derst swore. Greyt's disarming manner had just that effect: disarming.
One man, however, was not so affected. Black cloaked, he stood tall in the middle of the crowd and spoke in a rumble.
"Lord Singer," he called. "We demand justice."
"Sounds like you, Bars," said Derst. "Always straight to the point."
The paladin did not reply.
"By all means," Greyt called back with a smile. "I didn't think you'd all risen early to bid me a good morning."
There were a few scattered laughs.
"Really? That's exactly the reason I'm here," murmured Derst.
"Derst, that wasn't funny," Bars muttered in reply.
"In Speaker Stonar's absence," the cloaked man continued. "You are our defender and our lord. We demand protection. The fighting on the streets must cease, and your soldiers-"
"I find that demand ironic," Greyt shouted back. The crowd was stunned to silence. "Especially coming from you, who are supposed to keep the peace, Captain Unddreth."
A collective gasp ran through the crowd as the earth genasi pulled back his hood. The scars and bruises of battle still decorated his face and, if anything, added intensity to his words.
"Your men spent all night searching for some stranger, swords drawn, injuring or frightening the townsfolk," Unddreth accused. "This cannot stand!"
"A 'stranger?' Walker is a murderer who has been attacking our people for days!" Greyt corrected. "Many men are already dead and you insist I call my rangers back-you demand I leave our lands unprotected? I do what I must to stop this killer-for the watch has found nothing but failure." Unddreth shivered at the barb. "You protest my methods?"
"Speaker Stonar would have-" Unddreth began.
"Speaker Stonar left us in our time of need!" Greyt interrupted. "He refused to protect us, either because he would not or could not. He fled to our noble High Lady Alustriel when his countrymen cried out for aid! I can only hope she sees his cowardice or discovers his culpability."
Confused frowns answered from the crowd and Greyt chuckled.
"Guilt," he clarified, and the people cheered.
"A bid to rule Quaervarr?" Derst asked skeptically. "That's not like-"
"I know," returned Bars. Anger coursed through him. He hated politics and its machinations, but he understood the game. Greyt played the crowd like a yarting. "Not like the Greyt we know. He hates this city."
Greyt waited until the cheering died down. "I cannot believe, however, that Stonar is behind this," he shouted. "He is a good and just man, with nothing but noble intentions. I refuse to believe he is anything but ignorant-an unwitting piece of the puzzle."
Derst and Bars shook their heads. Not a power struggle, then.
"I believe the killer is acting on his own," Greyt said, "A lone villain murdering our people!"
"He is no villain!" Unddreth shouted, but his words were lost in the hubbub of frenzied shouting.
"Stonar must be told!" came a shout from the crowd. "Cast a sending to Silverymoon right away and bring him, along with a unit of the Argent Legion-"
"Impossible," came a voice that should have been too soft to penetrate the noise of the crowd but projected loudly all the same. At the sound of that voice, the crowd parted around a cloaked figure. Bars and Derst looked and saw a shapely half-elf woman in a leather cloak, flowers laced through her shockingly light hair and feathers adorning the end of a gnarled staff she carried. Though the morning was chill, she wore only a light leather tunic and leggings. Her face, flushed in the cold, was young and smooth, but her eyes were both knowing and wise.
Bars was at a loss for words. "Who is yon lady?" he asked Derst.
"Now that's a woman," the knight replied. "The Lady Druid Amra Clearwater, of the Oak House. Powerful, skilled, and an excellent tumble between the sheets." The paladin gave him a sidelong, warning look. Derst cleared his throat. "I mean, so I've heard."