The lamp was still burning in Renaer's room when they knocked. He opened the door coat off, sleeves rolled, a glass of amber on the desk behind him, and read the two of them in a single look.
"You're back late. Come in."
Corrin set the ring on the desk — crest up, the merchant's scales facing the light. Renaer did not pick it up. He looked at it for a moment, then turned it with one finger until the inner face caught the lamp. Something shifted in his expression. Not surprise. Recognition.
"Someone had this modified."
Corrin told him everything — the fake stumble with the beer tray at The Hanged Man, the lift, the tail east through the Trades Ward to the Raging Lion, the night clerk and the room key. Renaer listened without interrupting. When Corrin finished, he asked to keep the ring overnight.
By first bell, he had his answer. A jeweler's lens and better morning light had settled it. He handed the ring back across the desk.
"Inner casting. Winged snake, coiled, wings spread. Full confirmation — Black Network, senior grade. The scales on the outside are the cover. The real mark is in the band."
"Vajra first. Then the Raging Lion. You've got time if you move."
Blackstaff Tower received them early. The guard at the door recognised Caelith and sent word up without discussion. Vajra was in her working chamber — fresh blank parchment in front of her, the Blackstaff against the wall behind her, the window light still pale and low.
She looked at Corrin's hand, then at his face.
"You brought something."
Corrin placed the ring on the table without ceremony. Then he talked — the whole account, the same one he'd given Renaer, and Vajra listened the way Renaer had, without interrupting, reading it all in real time. When he reached the ring confirmation she turned it with one finger until the inner casting caught the window.
"Senior grade. That explains the file."
She picked it up, examined it, set it down precisely. The ring stayed on her table. She did not offer it back.
"Room 7. Key valid until noon. You have time, if you move before the second bell. The question is what you're looking for."
She moved to a flat leather case on the side table, opened it, and read from a list she did not hand over. Correspondence — anything addressed, anything ciphered. Cover documentation. A second signet or seal. Notes on Jalester's pattern — times, locations, descriptions. And specifically: any record of what the pair had gotten from the harbormaster. If the man had been to the harbormaster's office and come away with a name, Vajra said, he had written it down. Men like this always did.
"If there's a locked box, leave it. Locked boxes take time and leave marks. Take only what can be read and replaced — or what's small enough to vanish without the room looking searched."
Caelith asked what happened if they didn't need to be invisible about it. Bring in a pack of rats, he suggested — make it look like a pest problem, so when the pair came back the mess had an explanation that wasn't "someone searched our room."
Vajra considered it. She said it wasn't nothing. But trained operatives didn't believe in convenient explanations. The first question they would ask was whether the room looked like rats before they left. A good operative assumed the worst and moved on it — changed lodging, burned what they were carrying, went quiet. That said: if the pair's timeline was short regardless, if they were planning to move on the harbormaster question today or tomorrow no matter what, then it didn't matter whether they suspected a search.
"Your call on method. I want what's in that room. If you can get it clean, get it clean. If clean costs you the window, don't be precious about it. The key needs to be returned before noon — and the man leaves early. He may already be out."
Corrin asked if she'd rather they knock the pair out and bring them to her.
"No." A beat. "Two Zhentarim operatives disappear from a Trades Ward inn on the same morning someone searches their room. That is not a problem that stays in this room. That becomes a problem on every street between here and wherever they report to — and it becomes a problem for the man you're supposed to be delivering a fabricated report to in three days."
She set the quill down.
"These two are more useful to me operational and unaware than they are in a cellar. While they're still looking, I know where they're looking. The moment they go missing, I don't. Get what's in the room. Leave the room the way you found it, or the way you found it plus rats, if that's what it takes. But they walk back in this afternoon."
She was already turning back to the blank parchment before they reached the door.
"Before noon. Whatever you find."
Caelith went up first — the only one of them the pair hadn't seen. He climbed to the second floor corridor, walked to the end where Room 7 stood, and knocked three times. A pause. Movement inside, unhurried. The door opened.
Kaela. Sharp face, coat not yet on, hair not fully pinned. She looked at him with a flat, assessing look and said nothing.
"Good morning madam, sorry for bothering you! I'm looking for new members for the church of Torm. Can I tell you a bit more about my lord and saviour?"
A beat. Something moved very quickly behind her eyes.
"No."
The door closed. Footsteps moved back into the room. Not alarmed — finished. Caelith went back downstairs. She was in, and not leaving immediately, but she hadn't clocked anything that concerned her. The party went outside to wait.
They spread across the street — Corrin by a cart wheel, Lylnyler browsing a cloth merchant's stall, Caelith leaning against a wall and carrying on his Torm sermon for anyone who walked past. Eighteen minutes. Then Kaela came out: coat on, leather satchel, turned east without looking across the street. None of them registered.
Corrin went up with the key. Lylnyler stayed downstairs in the common room. Caelith stayed outside on the street, ready to announce Torm's arrival at volume if either operative returned.
The room was professionally tidy. Two beds made, two travel packs against the wall, a basin, a wooden chest at the foot of the far bed.
Corrin checked for tell-tales before he touched anything. He spotted nothing from the packs — spare clothes, travel kit, nothing identifying. He moved to the chest. Before touching it, he crouched close. A single dark hair lay across the clasp at a slight angle — left side, resting on the iron lip.
He memorized its position, set it aside, and opened the chest.
Three things inside. A folded travel warrant made out to "Aldric Sorn, wool merchant, Baldur's Gate" — the seal was real, but the ink on the name was newer than the rest of the document. A small leather journal written in dense coded shorthand, symbols he didn't recognise but could copy. And a loose sheet, plain Common, different hand from the journal — one line: *Harbormaster gave nothing. Name not registered. Try the Alley of Fallen Leaves.*
Corrin wrote the Alley of Fallen Leaves and Aldric Sorn into his own notebook. Then he worked through the coded pages, copying every symbol, every line, cramped and fast, until he had it all. Then he held the travel warrant up toward the window light and studied the name. Underneath "Aldric Sorn," in the original ink — different pressure, different weight — another name: "Maerun Stolt."
He put everything back exactly as he had found it. Then he took the hair and replaced it across the clasp, left side, at the same angle.
He locked the door behind him and went downstairs. On the way out, Caelith walked in and engaged the morning clerk in a warm, enthusiastic conversation about the principles of Torm while Corrin returned the key to its place behind the counter. The clerk watched all three of them leave with mild relief.
Room Seven — the Raging Lion, Trades Ward
They went back to Blackstaff Tower on foot, and Corrin briefed the other two on the walk — the hair on the chest, spotted and replaced clean, the warrant in two names, the coded journal copied by hand, and the loose sheet.
Vajra was standing when they arrived. Blackstaff in hand, dense notation on the table where the blank parchment had been.
"Report."
Corrin opened his notebook and placed the copied cipher pages in front of her without a word.
She read them properly — not skimming. Turned the page. Turned back.
"Where was this."
"Inside a chest in their room. Before you ask — yes, the chest had a hair on it, I placed it back exactly as I found it."
"The chest was locked?"
"No. Just the hair."
"What else was in the chest."
"A travel warrant — made out to Aldric Sorn, wool merchant, Baldur's Gate. Real seal, but the ink on the name is newer than the rest. And a loose sheet, plain Common, different hand from the journal. One line: 'Harbormaster gave nothing. Name not registered. Try the Alley of Fallen Leaves.'"
Vajra went still. Three seconds. Then she crossed to the narrow bookcase, pulled a slim folder, read it standing, closed it, and set it face-down on the side table. She came back.
"The Alley of Fallen Leaves."
"The harbormaster result closes one question. The fabrication can be finalised today." She set the folder aside. "The Alley of Fallen Leaves is a contact point. Not a location you find in a directory. If that note is directing them there, someone in Waterdeep left them that instruction — someone who knew the harbormaster was a dead end before they arrived. That note was not written in Baldur's Gate."
She picked up the notebook again.
"How clean is this copy."
"It's perfect. Every symbol, every line. I don't miss details like that."
"Good." She read on. "It's close. There are three symbols on the second page where the ink pressure changed — you were working fast or the surface moved. I can work around them. I've seen this cipher family before. Not this specific key, but the construction. Zhentarim operational shorthand, eastern branch. It will take me the better part of a day." She straightened. "I'm keeping this."
She told them what she needed next — three things. The Corvel Dast file, finalised and in their hands before the end of the fourth bell. The name "Maerun Stolt" checked against any Zhentarim file the Guild had surfaced — ask Jalester, who was already in the Tower. And the Alley of Fallen Leaves: do not go there. Not yet. Not until she knew who had left that instruction and when.
"The Alley of Fallen Leaves is in the Sea Ward. Runs between Pharra's Alley and the back of the Plinth. It is not on most maps. The name is local — the residents use it, the city doesn't. Which is why that note matters. Someone gave them that name who knows this city well enough to use it as a meeting point. That is not a Baldur's Gate operative working blind. That is someone embedded here. Forty-eight hours. Then I will tell you what I know about it."
She glanced up briefly.
"Don't walk past it."
Caelith asked why they needed to go to Jalester if he was already in the Tower. Vajra considered him for a moment — something passed across her face that was not quite amusement — then moved to the door and spoke low to someone in the corridor. Jalester would be down in a few minutes.
Jalester Silvermane appeared in the doorway looking rested. His eyes went to the party, then to Vajra's bent head.
"You wanted me?"
"Jalester! Friend, how are you doing? Have you heard about Maerun Stolt? Heard that name before?"
"I'm alive, which is more than I expected last week. Thank you for asking." He stepped in, glanced at Vajra — still writing — then back. "Maerun Stolt." He tasted it. "Not a name. A designation. 'Stolt' is an eastern branch operational title — it means something like 'the patient one' in old Zhentarim internal code. Whoever is carrying that warrant isn't using a personal name. They're using a rank." He looked at Corrin. "Where did you find it?"
"In a chest. From some Zhentarim people."
"Eastern branch using a rank designation instead of a cover name — that's not standard field work. That's someone senior enough that the name doesn't matter. The rank travels with the assignment, not the person. If the eastern branch has an active Stolt designation running in Waterdeep, this isn't a two-person fishing expedition. Someone back in their hierarchy decided this was worth sending a ranked operative for." He looked at Vajra. She had set the quill down. "How long have they been in the city?"
The party told him what the night clerk had said — three days. And the man had mentioned at The Hanged Man that he'd been in a few times that week.
"Three days. They were in the city before Xanathar gave you the task."
The room was quiet for a moment. What they now understood together: the Zhentarim coordination had run through the Gralhunds, through their operative Floxin, through the nimblewright. The plan had been to use the fireball as cover while Floxin took the Stone of Golorr from Dalakhar. But the Gralhunds had double-crossed them — handed the Stone to the nimblewright, which had delivered it to Xanathar. The eastern branch's operation had failed, and now they'd sent someone senior enough to not need a name to find out why.
Caelith said that if that was the case, Jalester was not safe in this city. He would need to hide.
"He's been here since yesterday." Meaning: already thought of.
"The Tower is as safe as anywhere in Waterdeep. The question is not where he sleeps — it's whether he can continue working. This is why the Alley of Fallen Leaves matters. The embedded contact is the one who knew the harbormaster was a dead end, who knows this city's unmarked streets. Find who that is — and we know exactly how much the eastern branch can see."
"And until then — I stay in the Tower."
Caelith asked how they were supposed to find the embedded contact without going to the harbormaster or the Alley.
"The cipher journal is the first thread. I need today to work through the key. Second — the Aldric Sorn warrant. Real seals come from somewhere. I can trace which office issued it. That tells me who in this city has the connections to produce legitimate documentation for Zhentarim field operatives. That is a short list." She set the quill down. "What I need from you today is simpler — stay available, keep Corrin's Guild candidacy warm in the Dock Ward, and be ready to move when I have a name. Come back at the eighth bell. I'll have the Corvel Dast file ready and whatever the cipher gives me."
Caelith said he could run some errands in the meantime.
"Torm's work is never done." Already back on the parchment.
The Alley of Fallen Leaves — Vajra deciphering the eastern branch
They were walking back toward the Manor — through the Castle Ward into the North Ward — when it happened. A woman came around the corner at a run, coat open, blade not yet drawn, followed by four men. Behind them, the sound of watch whistles.
She looked at the three of them blocking the narrow street and made her calculation in the time it took to draw a breath.
"Move. Now. Before the Watch gets here — you don't want to be part of this."
Caelith looked at her and did not move.
"I will do no such thing. Why are you running from the guards?"
She didn't have time to answer. The whistles were getting closer. She drew.
Caelith planted himself and raised his sword. The woman came for him — fast, experienced, not panicking. She hit nothing. Caelith's longsword caught her across the shoulder hard enough to send her back a step, and before she could reset Corrin had already moved. The halfling appeared from somewhere beside Caelith's elbow, struck once in the opening seconds while she hadn't yet registered him, and was gone — hidden again behind Caelith's bulk before the woman's eyes could find him.
The thugs were already swinging. They hit Caelith in clusters, working together, and he took the punishment without going down. Shield of Faith blazed into being around him — then broke when the blows found the gaps in his stance. He cast it again. Broke again. He kept fighting through it.
Lylnyler had not moved from the back of the group. His hands moved in a precise gesture, and a cube of spinning blades materialized in the air over the woman and one of the thugs — Cloud of Daggers, whirling and merciless. The woman walked into it on her first step and bled for it. When she tried to move clear, she had to burn ground she couldn't spare. The thug it caught did the same. Crossbow bolts from the other thugs came for Lylnyler in reply — two found him, one after another — and he did not move, did not lose his hold on the spell, took both hits and steadied, concentration holding.
In the third exchange Lylnyler raised one hand and sent an Eldritch Blast directly at one of the thugs — force crackling through the air — and the impact drove the man backward into his companion. They went down together.
By then the woman was barely standing. Caelith had caught her twice, and the Cloud of Daggers had taken its toll across every turn she'd spent trying to flank. She was still on her feet when two City Watch guards rounded the corner at a run, spears leveled, calling for everyone to hold.
She looked at the spears. She looked at Caelith. She dropped her weapons.
The thugs followed, one by one.
"Yes! Take them — we kept them from fleeing for you."
The Watch guard with the spear looked at him.
"You with the Church?"
"I'm a paladin of Torm, nice to meet you. My name is Caelith Morn."
"Torm's paladin. Right. We've been chasing this lot for three blocks. You slowed them down enough for us to catch up. She say anything to you? Name, who she works for?"
"She just told us to move. But they clearly looked like criminals, so we didn't."
"Good call. We'll take it from here. The watch house is two blocks north on Suldown Street, if you need anything. Appreciate the assist, Paladin Morn."
Caelith asked his name.
"Renwick. Constable Renwick, North Ward watch house."
Mendever Street — the bandit captain confrontation
Renwick took them to the North Ward watch house on Suldown Street — a brief brick building, a desk sergeant, a corridor smelling of lamp oil. He sent them to a back room where Sister Maren, a compact woman in grey robes, healed them both without comment or ceremony. By the time Renwick came through the door with his arrest paperwork, they were whole.
He sat across from Caelith and asked for an account. Caelith gave it: commotion, five people around the corner, whistles from behind them, the woman telling them to move, the weapons coming out. Straightforward.
Then Renwick asked what the woman had said, specifically.
"She said this to us: 'The Watch doesn't care what we did. They care what we look like. And right now we all look the same.'"
Renwick wrote it down word for word.
"Did she now." He set the pen down. "That's someone who's run from the Watch before — or has reason to think she can talk her way out. We'll have a conversation with her about that." He looked up. "That's the report done. Five arrests would've been two if you hadn't been there. Anything else I can do for you while you're here?"
Caelith mentioned the Trollskull Alley fireball — two days ago, a property he owned. Did Renwick know anything about the investigation?
"Trollskull Alley. That's Castle Ward — Blastwind and Cromley caught it. Hard to miss. Fireball in a residential alley, broad daylight. Last I heard they'd ruled out accident. Someone cast it deliberately."
"You own property there. Were you present?"
"Inside the Manor when it happened."
"Then you're already on file. If anything comes to mind — anyone you've seen hanging around since, anything that felt off — go back to them directly. Safe travels, Paladin Morn. And next time you're blocking a bandit captain's escape route — try not to bleed so much."
Caelith and Lylnyler left the watch house and went their separate ways.
Corrin had gone a different direction entirely.
The smithy on Trollskull Alley was already busy when he arrived. Embric looked up from the bench — short, broad, the manner of a man accustomed to people asking him to do things faster than was reasonable.
"Help you?"
"I need a full plate armor for my fellow paladin. You've met him."
"The big one. Torm's man. Aye, I've seen him about the alley." He set down the thing he was holding. "Full plate's not shelf stock. I'd need measurements, the right steel, two weeks minimum for a proper fit. We're talking fifteen hundred gold for the materials and the work — and that's neighbor rate."
Corrin said it was a surprise — he didn't want Caelith to know it was coming. Could Embric work without measurements?
"A proper fit needs measurements. Bad measurements mean bad armor — chafing, gaps at the joints, restricted movement. For a paladin who fights in it, that matters. That said — if you can get me his height, chest, shoulders, and arm length without him knowing why you're asking, I can work with that."
Corrin told him Caelith was about five foot eleven.
"Give me four days. Eight hundred gold — five hundred now, three hundred on pickup."
Corrin asked about tomorrow — one day — and a Torm sigil engraved on the breastplate.
"Tomorrow. That's one day. Five hundred extra for the rush. And the Torm sigil — that's engraving work, another fifty. Thirteen fifty total. Seven fifty now, six hundred on pickup tomorrow evening." He looked at Corrin. "Deal?"
"Deal."
Embric took the deposit without counting it and told him to come after the sixth bell.
Corrin walked back up Trollskull Alley with lighter pockets than he'd started the day with. He'd have a cover story ready — a family heirloom he'd gone to retrieve, the Torm sigil already on it. It would hold up. It would hold up because Caelith would want to believe it.