by Ed Greenwood
There was a moment of silence as the doorwarden traded glances with two men in lace-wristed finery inside the great door-men a head taller than most.
Oh, gods! Should she've said "I am expected," or mentioned Craulnober's name? Should she "Lady Evenmoon, of the Evenmoons of Tashluta," the doorwarden proclaimed, raising his grand voice just a trifle to give it a thread of excitement: A guest from afar!
A few heads turned amid the glittering chaos of elegant men and women standing talking amid deftly drifting servants with trays of tallglasses, but the overall din continued unabated.
Lady Lark Evenmoon of Tashluta let fall the hem of her gown with an elegant flick of her wrist and strode forward across gleaming emptiness toward those suddenly much needed drinks as haughtily and as gracefully as if she'd been doing it all her life.
"Korvaun's coming, surely?" frowned Beldar, surveying the glittering throng.
"He sent a servant with his regrets. Family business, apparently," Taeros murmured. "An odd excuse for a younger son whose proper business is carousing with his friends and tempting his parents to disown him. I've been threatened with that very fate thrice this tenday."
"Only thrice?" Beldar struck a pose and examined his fingernails as haughtily as an undefeated swordmaster. "Then my record, goodsir, stands."
Taeros smirked. "I'll continue my quest to unseat you, of course, but if our Korvaun continues to display such unseemly responsibility, he may take himself out of the fray entirely."
"Tragic," Malark declaimed, on the edge of mock tears. "Simply tragic. Just the three of us then." He rolled his eyes. "How shall we console our lonely selves?"
"In the usual manner, I expect," Beldar observed dryly. "Now remember, my gallant Gemcloaks: utter nothing about our host that you'd not say to his face. He's doubtless using one of those spells that lets you hear your name spoken, what words are said with it, and any reply."
Malark's eyebrows shot up. "I'll curse him inwardly then. What's he throwing this hurlygowns-prance for, anyway? To show us all he has spare coins enough to rent a villa just for a fling? Or to remind us all what jaded low-life dogs we all are, that he can jerk the leash and we'll come running in hopes we'll see the infamous Serpent do something infamous?"
"My guess," Taeros Hawkwinter told the backs of his fingers confidentially, as he inspected them for missed blotches of ink, "is that the far-traveled Lord Craulnober wants to show himself once more on the social ramparts of Waterdeep, to remind the, ah, darkest such ramparts that should they feel the need to hire someone to do something a little shady, he's… right here. Handy, as it were."
"Chatoyant," Beldar said grandly. "Simply chatoyant. Let's make our grand entrance before all the best wine's gone."
"So of course I told him to get on his horse and ride right back to Myratma-and take his hairy-rumped harem with him, too!"
Men guffawed and wheezed, and women tittered far too loudly and threw their heads back to let the conjured glowflames catch the full dazzle of the gems dripping from their earlobes and around their throats. Lark deftly slid her shoulder out from under an idly reaching hand.
"By Tempus, you take the maiden, Braerard! Fancy some dirt-neck from Tethyr thinking he can just ride through our gates and start acting as if he owned the place! Does he think we give two thin nibs if he calls himself a 'duke,' or some such? They'll be rolling in here calling themselves 'emperors,' next!"
Lark smiled absently at nothing at all and drifted on, trying not to look as if she was in any haste. More than one servant had already given her a puzzled look-as if they'd seen her before but couldn't quite place where. In Waterdeep, that could lead to a cry of "thief." She certainly wasn't the first person to come to a revel uninvited for purposes other than dancing and boasting.
Sun on the Mountain, but these old men thought well themselves! Judging by all the red faces and quivering jowls and-and wattles, most of them seemed to have mastered eating long ago, but judging from their vapid, vainglorious chatter, not much else.
Their gossip was a trifle more interesting than servants' talk, but of course that was because she wasn't familiar with most of the names and little catch-phrases yet. It didn't sound much subtler or grander than the boastful backstairs talk she was accustomed to.
"Brokengulf?" someone roared drunkenly. "Is that you?"
"Aye, what's left of me!" came the equally sodden response.
That jest, Lark thought sourly, was nearly as old as the man using it.
Come to think on it, there weren't a lot of young nobles here, beyond a few girls trailing their mothers around like pale-faced, gem-drenched lapdogs. As yet Lark had seen no sign of the handsome Elaith Craulnober-or any elves for that matter, moon or otherwise.
Suddenly Lark froze. Across a glittering expanse of flashing, winking gemstones displayed by women who apparently believed no one should be seen in public wearing less than half her own weight in gaudy jewelry, she saw three of the Gemcloaks absently taking tallglasses and crowns of smoked mussels off passing platters as they strolled together. They looked uniformly bored.
In that boredom lay danger; they'd be looking around for something to amuse themselves. Lark faded a few steps to the left to hide herself behind someone, and so brought herself into the lee of two red-faced, bristle-mustached old patriarchs in full spittle-spraying career. Lost in their jovial roarings, they were both clutching huge goblets in each hand and flicking flash-snuff rings all too often. Through the resulting threads of smoke they peered at her, leered in unison, and reached out together (transferring their goblets to one hand with a deftness that bespoke long practice), intent upon fondling the newcomer.
Lark stepped out of reach, seized with a wild urge to snatch those four goblets, empty them over the dyed and powdered coiffures of their owners, and then use the massive metal cups to do a little fondling of her own-hard, and where it would hurt.
The two promptly forgot her. "Scared?" one of them bellowed. "By Bane, sir, we were! Guides didn't last two breaths before they were off like spring rabbits, shrieking like a lot of gels seeing Piergeiron in the baths! Second night out, and us left alone, with all our food and kit gone with 'em! That's when we found the tracks, of course! And the blood!"
"Dragon?"
"Dragons. Three of 'em, at least! Big ones. Talons as long as my arm, and-"
Someone was grinning at her around a dragonslaying elbow. Lark blinked and then swallowed again.
It was the redbearded Lord Kothont. Malark, that was his name. His eyes were shining almost as brightly as his emerald cloak.
"Well, well! You do look familiar, Lady-?"
"Battle-axe," Lark told him smoothly. "Old Lady Battle-axe."
Malark's eyes twinkled. "Am I to take it that both edges of your tongue are as sharp as the weapon you refer to?"
"You may take it elsewhere, my lord," Lark told the back of her hand airily. "I give you fair warning-I've been told betimes that my knee is as sharp and as swift as any weapon you might care to name."
"Ho ho!" Malark chuckled, genuinely amused. "I take great care in naming my weapons, to be sure, but I like even more the names friendly ladies give them."
Lark gave him a very direct stare and murmured, "So go to your friendly ladies and collect some new names. I fear you'll acquire nothing so useful from me." She let him see a twinkle in her gaze to go with her bright and brittle smile to leave him nothing to flare into anger over.
Yet it seemed Lord Kothont was far from anger. He saluted her with something that might have been admiration in his eyes and cocked his head to give her an almost fond smile. "You offer rare sport, My Lady Battle-axe. I look forward to renewing our converse at revels to come-many of them, I hope-yet it seems your desires lie elsewhere this night."
"You should presume nothing as to my desires," she said coolly. "They are not one whit as obvious as you deem them to be."
She lifted her chin and stared him down, prompted by a surge of pride beyond anything she'd known before. She
would not run from this man or any other. It was essential that she stand her ground, that it would be he who moved away.
Malark laughed almost as if he knew that too, gave her a wave of his hand, and strolled off-leaving Lark suddenly aware of two bloodshot, rather frowning gazes.
"You're not Lady Battle-axe," Old Dragonslayer said accusingly. "Rode her back in oh-six. Impudent young wetbottom."
The two old warriors then turned their backs on her, leaving Lark wondering if they meant she was impudent-which seemed most likely-or Lady Battle-axe had been, back in oh-six. 1306? Gods above!
Suddenly in great need of a drink, Lark headed for the nearest platter. The liveried, carefully expressionless servant bearing it would have orders to circle back to wherever the pouring-pantry was when less than a fifth of the drinkables were left, and his load was approaching that now.
Her progress was halted abruptly by a familiar, dark-eyed gaze. Beldar Roaringhorn had lifted his head from the excited gabble of a green-haired matron-Sune look away, WHERE do these women get such dyes? Or the blind idiocy to think such hues flatter them? — to stare right at her.
She froze for a moment, and then realized she dare not show such a reaction. She forced herself to stroll casually forward and claim a glass from the tray. Sipping at the wine, Lark stole a glance at the Roaringhorn lordling. Yes, he was still looking her way.
So was Lord Hawkwinter-Taeros-standing at Beldar's shoulder, but Lark realized their regard held nothing more threatening than mild interest. There was no hint of recognition on either face, even though Beldar had met her twice before, under circumstances she considered memorable.
She let out a small sigh of relief. They were probably among the legions of nobles who didn't look closely at female servants who weren't thrusting bared charms under their noses. As a "noble guest," she was apparently worthy of closer scrutiny. Moreover, she was their age, and if no buxom beauty, a "stranger from afar" offered some small novelty.
Despite her tense nervousness, Lark understood their boredom. If this was what nobles did at revels, 'twas hardly better than the interminable orations of the worst opinionated windbag merchants who came around the shops-and those men at least had work to do that would eventually call them away, and their blustering and whinings with them.
Malark Kothont was well on his way back to rejoin his friends, and Lark decided it would be very much for the best if she was no longer in view when he reached them. Any comment about the young lass with the delightfully sharp tongue would draw attention she'd rather avoid.
"I don't believe you've ever met the third Lone Lady Ammakyl," someone gushed nearby, and Lark rolled her eyes and moved away. Three maiden aunts at once? That would be a delightful household to work for!
"Ohhh, yes, ahahahaha!" a man brayed, loudly and falsely enough to make Lark wince.
And wince again at her own stupidity. Gods above, had she lost her wits along with her own clothes? As a servant, she had the sense to keep her thoughts from her face. She twisted her lips into a vapid smile and lowered her bared shoulders into a more relaxed posture.
The great vaulted hall was filling up rapidly, which meant that some of the early arrivals, who wanted to avoid rivals or cut dead those with whom they were feuding, would soon start to leave. This didn't have the feel of a relaxed revel, where debauchery might soon break out. The grand folk of Waterdeep were uneasy because their not-yet-seen host was Elaith Craulnober, the notorious Serpent.
Right now might be her best chance to slip away. She was to leave her report in the study that overlooked the grand hall from the seaward side-and this had to be the grand hall.
She caught up to the servant, left her emptied tallglass on his platter and deftly procured a tallglass of something she could at least see through, and tilted her head back to idly survey the hall as she sipped.
Quite used to such self-absorbed behavior, the servant slipped around her and moved on, with neither of them having so much as glanced at each other's faces, which was a good thing, because the man's dwindling form looked familiar. She'd probably worked alongside him, cleaning up after some other revel elsewhere.
Lark raised her glance and her glass again-and spotted what she was looking for. The hall sported a promenade or continuous balcony, overlooking the crowded floor from all sides, and a second level above that of separately jutting balconies. One of them, on the seaward side, was larger than most and was glassed in. All was in darkness on both of those upper levels; the Serpent obviously wanted his guests to crowd and mingle beneath the glowflames and the chandeliers, to make it clear to all just how many of Waterdeep's best and brightest his invitation could bring.
"Eltorchul! Eltorchul! Hoy, Bunny-Ears! Over here!"
Lark winced at the deafening bellow and swiftly turned her back. If people looked this way, she would just as soon have them look at her bared back than her face. There were none in this city who'd recognize it, as she wasn't in the habit of baring her spine in noble mansions or anywhere else.
"Why, I was talking to Lady Hiilgauntlet just the other day, ahaha, and she told me-"
Lark began drifting toward the seaward wall. Now if I was an ascending staircase, where would I be? Close enough to a garderobe to serve as an excuse, it was to be hoped…
"What a sly little snake you are, Bedeira. How many hang-tongued men have you demolished as thoroughly as you did poor Laeburl, I wonder?"
"Forty-six, my lord," came the gloating reply. "Care to be my forty-seventh?"
Lark's progress thankfully took her out of hearing whatever reply Bedeira was offered-and even more thankfully, showed her broad stone steps, flanked by suits of armor far too ancient to have living men inside them, within the third archway in the wall before her. The light was dimmer here, and inevitably the gossip was more whispered and vicious-and some hands were wandering.
Lark stepped around a couple so lost in rapture that the feminine half of it was using her chin to hold up her own gathered gown. Beyond them was the arch that opened onto the stairway.
Glass in hand and affecting the frown of a well-bred lady who was beginning to feel some urgency in a search for the nearest garderobe, she stepped through the arch, glanced up the stair, and discovered something else.
There was not a guard to be seen, and over a landing far above her hung the paired blue and red lanterns that proclaimed: Garderobe Here.
Gasping a relief she didn't quite feel, Lark started up the stairs.
"You look as bored as I feel," Taeros murmured to Beldar, deftly avoiding a drunken Brokengulf maiden aunt. The aging beldame seemed bent on changing that status before the evening was out; she reeled past, twittering and clutching at all and sundry.
Beldar inspected the dregs in his latest goblet and told them, "I am hideously bored. One thinks of the notorious Serpent with the spice of danger, not-so-veiled elven insults, a whiff of things illicit-and a lot more elverquisst than I've seen yet." He waved a hand to indicate the room all around and added, "But this… this is our parents, chattering about their petty politics and intrigues. As harbor-filling usual."
To underscore his judgment, Beldar nodded his head toward old Laranthavurr Irlingstar just as the craggy-faced old bore's monocle made another of its inevitable plunges from its cheek-top perch into the grotesquely large snifter in the eldest Irlingstar uncle's hand. Droplets of luminous green liquid arced up in all directions in the wake of its loud "plop," and Aeramacrista Gauntyl, whom he'd been lecturing about proper precedence when dealing with "those new-coin think-far-too-well-of-them-selves visitors from Amn," drew hastily back from the shower with a little crow of alarm that she clumsily transformed into a titter.
Her retreat caused her to jostle Mornarra Cassalantar. Exaggerated exception was taken. Cutting words erupted.
Taeros rolled his eyes.
Beldar was rather gloomily regarding a glistening emerald droplet that had just landed on the back of his hand. "Calishite aumbruril. How three decades back!"
Taeros chuckled rueful agreement. "Shall we flit elsewhere, then?"
"Decidedly. There's a dance on at the Slow Cheese. Find Malark, will you?"
"Consider him found. Behold our royal blade-besieged, as usual."
Taeros pointed with his fresh goblet at a solid ring of noble matrons, all waving ring-laden hands expressively and spouting nonsense as fast as they could draw breath. The two Gemcloaks could just see Malark's rather weary smile over the fantastic coiffures of the shortest noblewomen. It seemed silver galleons were fashionable at the moment, for no less than three such vessels were sailing through cranial waves of artfully dyed, pinned, and stiffened hair.
As they watched, Malark's smile slid just a trifle more. Taeros made a sympathetic sound, tossed his goblet in the general direction of the nearest servant, and strode into the press of loud laughter, overwhelming perfumes, and glittering, gleaming "my taste is even worse and more expensive than thine" garments. Trills of alarm erupted and flower-bedecked fans swatted at him, but he forged on.
"Come, Lord Kothont," Taeros announced firmly, arriving at his destination, "'tis past time we attended to your prize pegasus. You know the poor thing goes mad if you don't dose it by four bells past dusk!"
"Goes mad?" one matron crowed delightedly. "How so, young sir?"
"Dose it?" another shrilled, her plump face gleaming with the avid fascination of one whose own ills were legion, endlessly fascinating, and entirely imaginary. "What sort of medicine?"
Malark was already grinning helplessly at the fancy Taeros was so glibly spinning and continued to do so as the youngest Lord Hawkwinter laid hands on his shoulder and started steering him out of his twittering prison.
"A secret distillation," Taeros confided grimly.
"Secrets, my lord? Come now! You dare keep no secrets from us, your elders and betters!"
"Very well," Taeros said sweetly, turning to survey the bright-eyed host of over painted faces as Beldar, not quite wearing a smirk, took Malark's other arm. "'Tis a distillation of… the blood of noblewomen."