The blue door on Copper Street was marked with a small plaque — *O. Steelquill — Mechanical Works — By Appointment* — and a flight of steps descending to a basement workshop that smelled of metal shavings and lamp oil. Caelith knocked and pushed through in the same motion, calling "Hello! Ott?" before the door had fully swung open.
The halfling at the workbench looked up. His eyes moved past Caelith immediately, taking in Corrin and Lylnyler before settling back on the paladin. Not surprised. The look of someone who had been expecting this visit and had been hoping it would not come.
"We're closed. Who sent you?"
Caelith told him: Roxley, in the Dock Ward. They were investigating a nimblewright — the one that had killed eleven people in Trollskull Alley two weeks prior.
Ott set down the brass assembly he had been holding. Carefully.
"Eleven people. I counted."
He turned a small gear over in his fingers. He had sold parts — mithral articulation, sensory crystals, duralite housing. A middleman with a winged-snake tattoo had given him a list and he had filled it without asking what the commission was for. He should have asked. The person who bought from him had known exactly what they were building. He was a supplier, nothing more. But there was only one being in Waterdeep with the fine motor craft to assemble something like that from raw components: a nimblewright at the House of Inspired Hands in the Sea Ward. Nim was its name. Nim had built itself, more or less — started decades ago by a Gondan artificer now dead, and modified so thoroughly since that almost nothing original remained. Nim did not speak but understood everything said to it. The Gondan priests had given Nim the freedom of their attic workshop and trusted it completely, which Ott considered naive.
Caelith said perhaps they could give Nim some sense of morality while they were at it.
Ott glanced at the armour, then back at Caelith.
"Good luck. It's not immoral. It just doesn't think that far ahead. You're not the first person to walk in here with a moral position and walk out realising the problem is more distributed than that."
Corrin said "Have a good day, fellow halfling" as they turned to leave.
"Have a good day, fellow halfling."
Ott grunted without looking up. The faintest twitch of something that might have been amusement passed across his mouth and was gone.
The temple of Gond stood in the Sea Ward, its roof crowned with a bronze contraption of gears and arms that turned slowly in the sea wind, catching the afternoon light. Inside, glass cases displayed the work of the faithful: a clockwork bird that beat its wings without stopping, a quill that wrote on its own, a miniature brass orrery turning through its slow cycles. Brother Vallin — a stout man in copper-trimmed robes — looked up from adjusting something on a plinth and went still when Corrin said they were from the Gray Hands and here to see Nim.
Vallin led them to a narrow staircase at the back of the building. At the top, a low door, slightly ajar. The sound of small mechanisms clicking softly beyond it. He knocked gently and said, almost to himself:
"Nim. There are people here who want to speak with you. Gray Hands. Please don't go out the window."
A silence. Then a single soft click.
The workshop beyond the door was dense with tools and components arranged with a precision that made Ott's bench look casual. Standing at its centre, watching the doorway, was a nimblewright — slender, jointed at every angle, face an expressionless silver mask. It did not move as they entered. Caelith introduced himself and said they hoped Nim could tell them about the nimblewright they had recently assembled.
Something shifted in Nim's posture. A slight settling — like a held breath released. They moved to the workbench without speaking, found paper and charcoal, and drew quickly: a jointed figure, a smaller figure beside it, an arrow pointing to the outline of a building. They tapped the smaller figure and pointed to themselves.
I built it.
They tapped the arrow and the building, then looked at Caelith and tapped the building again, more slowly.
It was supposed to go there.
Caelith asked whether the nimblewright had malfunctioned. Nim shook their head — once, deliberate. They drew the figure again, this time with a small object in its hands. Then drew the destination building with an X through it. Drew the arrow continuing past, off the edge of the paper.
It reached the destination. Then it kept going.
They picked up the charcoal again. Placed a small explosion above the arrow's path. Tapped it once. Set the charcoal down and went very still, looking at the wall rather than the drawing.
The party worked through the questions. Where was the nimblewright going now? Nim sketched a rough coastline, marked the city, drew a line heading north, then an underground complex at the end of it — marked with a small eye. They tapped the eye symbol, looked at Caelith, then drew a figure inside the complex and a second figure beside it, with a small oblong passing between them.
Xanathar. The Stone changing hands underground, north of the city.
Caelith asked whether the beholder was behind all of it. Nim tilted their head — a gesture that read as *complicated* — and drew three figures in a row: the winged snake of the Zhentarim, the House of Inspired Hands, the beholder's eye. An arrow from the first to the second to the third. The Zhentarim commissioned the work; the work ended with the beholder. Then a question mark over the arrow between Zhentarim and beholder: whether the Zhentarim knew that was where it would go, Nim did not know. And beside the Zhentarim figure, one more detail — a small bag of coins connected by a line. Someone had paid the Zhentarim to make this happen.
Then Caelith asked whether Nim had known about the fireball — the eleven dead.
The nimblewright went very still. Then shook their head. Slowly, emphatically. They drew the explosion and put a large X through it, pointed to themselves, shook their head again.
Not my design. Not my intention.
Then drew the nimblewright figure with a mark on its head, tapped it, then touched their own head. Something had been added to the nimblewright after it left this workshop.
Nim set the charcoal down. Then — one moment, just a moment — touched the drawing with one hand and bowed their head. Straightened. The small private grief of it was unmistakable.
Brother Vallin asked quietly whether Nim was in trouble with the law. Caelith said he did not think so — negligence, perhaps, but not intent. Vallin exhaled. Nim watched this exchange, and the tilt of their head afterward was softer than it had been all conversation.
Caelith added that the priests should be more careful about the commissions Nim accepted. Vallin agreed immediately. And Nim — unexpectedly — nodded.
Caelith asked the question that mattered most practically: if they found the nimblewright, could they stop it? Could they send it back?
Nim picked up the charcoal again. Drew the nimblewright figure with a maker's mark on its chest — pointed to their own chest.
My mark. It knows me.
Then drew a gesture: an open hand, palm facing down, pressing slowly toward the ground. Demonstrated it — held the open palm up, pressing downward — and watched Caelith until Caelith had it right. Then drew an arrow from the nimblewright back to the House of Inspired Hands.
Yes. You can send it here.
One more detail: the Stone drawn as a separate shape, with an arrow pointing away from the nimblewright.
Get that away from it first.
Caelith asked whether the Stone was influencing the nimblewright's behaviour. Nim went still with the charcoal. Drew the Stone with lines radiating outward toward a figure's head — the Stone reaches into what carries it — then drew the nimblewright with the same lines, a question mark over its head. Whether the Stone had changed the orders, Nim did not know. But they drew the original route — a clean arrow from workshop to drop point — and then a branching jagged line, the second path, ending in the explosion. The branch point was the Stone.
This is where it stopped following my design.
Caelith asked whether Nim had anything that might contain the Stone's influence. Nim opened small drawers one at a time, methodically, for almost a full minute. Then held up a small brass disc, palm-sized, etched with a close geometric pattern. Hesitated. Raised one finger —
wait
— and drew the disc on the paper, then a question mark over it, then the Stone beside it with smaller, weaker radiating lines.
This might help. Nim isn't certain.
Caelith took the disc and said it was better than nothing, and thanked them.
Nim held out the disc and Caelith took it. Then — something that had not happened once in the entire conversation — Nim placed one hand briefly on their own chest and inclined their head. A small, deliberate bow.
Brother Vallin said, quietly:
"I don't think it's done that before."
Caelith had one more question. He asked what Gralhund Villa meant to Nim, if anything.
Nim went still in a different way — not the stillness of thinking, but the stillness of recognising. They drew the villa outline. The winged snake beside it. Then a separate figure inside the villa walls, apart from the Zhentarim figure. A smaller figure. They tapped it.
Someone else was there. On the inside.
An arrow from that figure to the nimblewright, bypassing the Zhentarim entirely. Then the inside figure again with a question mark above it — Nim did not know who. After a moment they added a small circlet or crown above the question mark.
Someone with status.
The walk from the Sea Ward to the Castle Ward was short. The guard at Blackstaff Tower recognised them. An attendant led them to the receiving room. Vajra Safahr was standing when they entered, a scroll in one hand.
"You found Nim. Tell me everything."
Lylnyler gave the account. Ott had sold components and named Nim. Nim had assembled the nimblewright on Zhentarim commission, and the nimblewright had been sent to Gralhund Villa to collect the Stone of Golorr — Urstul Floxin had brought it there from the body of Dalakhar, and someone inside the Villa had ensured the handoff. The fireball had been part of the operation, cover for the theft. The Stone was now heading north to a drop near the last berth of the Sable Moon, and from there to Xanathar's lair. Caelith placed the dampening disc on the table and demonstrated the shutdown gesture: open palm pressing slowly downward. Nim had wanted the nimblewright back intact.
Then the last piece: the inside handler at the Villa. A figure with status, directing the nimblewright directly, bypassing the Zhentarim.
"The Stone and Meloon are heading to the same place."
Vajra was still through all of it. She looked at the disc. Then at Lylnyler.
"The second handler in the Villa. Did Nim know who?"
Caelith said Nim had not. Lylnyler added that they had drawn a question mark and tapped it several times.
"Do you think it's Yalah?"
"Lady Yalah Gralhund."
Vajra said the full name as though she had been holding it for some time. The Watch had found enough at the Villa to confirm Yalah had been coordinating with the Zhentarim — until it had suited her to stop. She had been cooperative with the investigation. Carefully, selectively cooperative. She had not mentioned a nimblewright.
She picked up the dampening disc and turned it over.
"Which means she either doesn't know Nim talked to you, or she's decided that thread is buried. Either way, she's protecting something. The question is whether it's herself or someone above her."
She set the disc down and looked at the three of them. Xanathar's lair was not a place to walk into unprepared. She knew the Skullport approach. She had two operatives she could offer: Jalester Silvermane — reliable under pressure, familiar with the undercity routes — at no cost, Gray Hands business. And Yagra Stonefist, if Yagra was willing. A half-orc who had been inside Xanathar's territory and come out; she would want a thousand gold, probably, but she was worth it.
The party did not have a thousand gold on hand. They would speak with Yagra directly. Jalester would meet them at Trollskull Manor at dawn.
She went to her desk and wrote briefly. Three potions of healing changed hands — one for each of them.
"Jalester will be at Trollskull Manor at dawn. I'll brief him tonight on what you've told me."
She looked up as they turned to leave.
"Find Meloon. And get the Stone away from Xanathar before he works out how to use it. Don't let it touch any of you longer than necessary. Nim's disc may help. Don't trust that it will."
The walk from Blackstaff Tower to the Yawning Portal took them across the Castle Ward in the early evening. The tavern smelled of woodsmoke and old ale and the faint mineral damp that rose from the well at the centre of the floor. Yagra Stonefist was in the corner, back to the wall, a half-empty tankard in front of her. She clocked the party the moment they stepped inside. Her eyes went to Corrin specifically.
Caelith went to the bar first, bought four beers, and brought them to Yagra's table.
She looked at the fresh tankard, then at Caelith.
"Paladin who buys drinks before he asks for something. Talk."
Caelith laid it out: the Stone of Golorr, the northbound route, Xanathar's lair. A Gray Hand joining them at dawn. They wanted Yagra at that table too.
She said the name correctly and without ceremony. It had been making noise for weeks. She looked at each of them, landing on Corrin last. The party who had come back from the Xanathar sewers alive — word got around. She had been in that lair. She had come out with fewer friends than she went in with. She turned the tankard slowly on the table.
"What's the offer?"
"A lifetime supply of beer at Trollskull Manor."
Yagra looked at him for a long moment. Then she laughed — short, surprised out of her.
"A halfling offering me beer. That your opening or your closing? Because if it's your opening, I want to hear the closing."
Caelith leaned in. He was not selling. He was stating: they were going in with or without her. The odds would be greater with her at the table. He meant it plainly, and she heard it plainly.
She said she was not doing it for beer. She was not asking for gold upfront. She looked at Corrin.
"You come back with the Stone. You get whatever's in that vault. You pay me a thousand gold from what you find. If you don't come back, we're both past caring."
Lylnyler asked what if there was not a thousand gold in the vault.
"There's half a million gold dragons in that vault."
A beat.
"I'll take my chances."
She kept her hand on the table. They shook.
"Dawn. Where?"
"Trollskull Manor."
She stood, rolled her neck once, and walked out without looking back. Durnan, behind the bar, had not reacted to any of this.
They came back to the manor in the last of the evening light. Gwynda's crew had stopped work for the day, and the building was quiet in the particular way of construction sites after hours — tools set down, timber smelling of fresh cut, dust still hanging in the cold air where they had been working on the upper floor. The common room was habitable now, barely, in the way of a place where comfort was being built rather than already present.
They ate, and then — without quite deciding to — they sat down with what they knew and began to plan. The route north. The underdocks. What Jalester Silvermane would bring that they lacked. The shutdown gesture, reviewed once more. The disc in Caelith's pack. The detector in Corrin's hands. The potion from Vajra, tucked away on each of them.
Something else happened that evening, harder to name. The weeks of investigation — the alley, the fireball, the sewers, the villa, the trail of components across three wards of the city — had changed them. Not in the way of dramatic revelation but in the quieter way of accumulated competence. Caelith's voice carried a certainty that had not been there in the autumn. Corrin moved through unfamiliar rooms the way he moved through rooms he had studied for a week. Lylnyler, who had kept his power at arm's length since they began, had stopped flinching at it.
By the time they slept, the three of them had become the version of themselves that the next morning would need.
Jalester Silvermane was at the gate at dawn.