Sophraea lifted her candle high, hoping to see the glitter of the tarnished brocade. For some reason, she was certain that it was important the shoe be found.
Farther down the hallway, she glimpsed something shining against the dark wood of the floor. In the light of her candle, Sophraea saw very clear footprints, the footprints of a lady dancing in circles. The footprints glowed with an eerie light and then disappeared.
Behind her, Sophraea heard soft footsteps. She whirled around, but there was nobody there. The candle shook in her hand, sending the shadows quivering across the paneled walls.
A distinct chill nipped her cheeks and Sophraea remembered Gustin's warning about ghosts being strongest at night.
She felt something brush her shoulder. Her candle blew out! Shivering in the dark hallway, she smelled a blend of melted candle wax and the thin drift of smoke from the wick. There was something else too. She stood very still, her breath shallow while she tried to recognize it. Yes, there was another scent, a mix of old brocade and the faint scent of rose oil.
Sophraea sprinted up the stairs, leaped into bed, and very firmly pulled the covers over her head.
Yet, even with her ears muffled under the pillow, she could still hear the dancing steps of the dead and their dreadful laughter as they made their way to a ball.
TWELVE
Aball was underway at Rampage Scunk's home, a very splendid party full of wonderful music, extraordinary food, and exceptional wines.
The fat man smiled to see so many rich guests under his roof, especially since he had hundreds of schemes to lighten their purses and make his own heavier.
Along the edges of the ball, there were a number of the shabbier nobles of Waterdeep, the kind with long lineages and very little coin. Rampage was glad to see them there too. They may not have wealth but they did have property, either houses in Waterdeep, or estates in the country, or even neglected family tombs in the City of the Dead.
Rampage knew that ready coin would part these nobles from their old family holdings. Most would not even guess at the true value of what they were selling. That made the fat man smile even more and even tap his feet in time to the sprightly tune being played by the very expensive band he had hired.
The fat man did not dance, although he could see his tall and elegant wife passing easily through the figures, nodding to her noble kin as she completed each movement. Well, that was why he married her, to draw even the most snobbish of the lords and ladies to his table and his influence. Family ties still bound this city together, and he would use any rope to twist a ladder for his own rise to power in Waterdeep.
More platters of steaming delicacies were circulated among the guests and taken to the gamesters playing for fortunes in the long tables clustered at one end of the ballroom.
"By the gods' bounty," cried one excited gourmet. "Isn't that roast cockatrice?"
All the best for his guests, Rampage Stunk believed, as he intended to take the very best from them. He grabbed a succulent bit from a tray passing him by and popped it into his mouth with a greasy chuckle.
At the very edge of the room stood Lord Adarbrent. As always, the old nobleman was dressed in black from head to toe and leaning on his slender dark cane, a deep scowl of disapproval drawing angry lines in his ravaged face.
Rampage Stunk smiled and nodded at him too, calling, "Good evening, my lord!"
That gentleman's scowl deepened, but his nod was civil enough. That was the man's weakness, Stunk thought, noble to the core and never rude in someone else's house.
Stunk knew his servants had been foolish enough to be caught in a fight outside Adarbrent's manor and he had whipped the instigators soundly for it. The old man hated him. It wouldn't do to give the Walking Corpse any more reasons to complain.
Not that anyone paid attention to Lord Adarbrent's complaints. Rampage Stunk had poured enough gold into the right hands to stop any ears that might be willing to listen to the Angry Lord's diatribes.
He was helped, of course, by all the recent events in the city. There was a certain amount of chaos among the Watchful Order. Not that they were to be ignored or trifled with, but the whole wizardly organization was a bit consumed with internal affairs. And the City Watch and the guards had their own problems to deal with, including some quite obvious threats to Waterdeep's safety and future security.
In such momentous times, Rampage Stunk found, very few cared about the occasional changes of property between the old nobility, now considerably diminished in wealth, and the rising merchant class, so nicely endowed with spare coin from the flourishing trade flowing through Waterdeep's streets.
Nobody cared in fact but one very cranky nobleman, who wandered the streets of Waterdeep, raging against the deals struck by Rampage Stunk. And nobody listened, really listened, to the rant-ings of Lord Dorgar Adarbrent. The fat man laughed and signaled for another glass of wine.
Rampage Stunk knew Lord Adarbrent had accepted his invitation simply to see who supported Stunk and who was likely to sell their family heritage to him. Very good, let the old man realize exactly how powerful Rampage Stunk had become. There was nothing that he could do.
Somewhere on the dance floor, a woman shrieked. Unlike the shouts and shrieks earlier in the night, this was a very shrill cry, one tinged with fear.
Stunk frowned, turning ponderously in his place to spot the cause of that cry. He hated to see his guests distuibed from the pursuits that would eventually benefit him. Stunk peered into the crowd, looking for a troublemaker. Was it one of the younger blades? Some of the half-elves had disturbing ideas of proper behavior at times.
Another cry, this from a man by the lower tone, and just as startled. Then another, and another.
"Look, the windows!" shouted someone from the dance floor.
Stunk swung his clumsy body around, knocking a wine glass from someone's hand.
Behind him a voice said, "Oh dear, I am so sorry," and so he knew he had bumped into someone of no significance. Without bothering to check, he clumped toward the windows.
All along one side of his magnificent ballroom, Rampage Stunk had installed great windows that ran from floor to ceiling. Earlier in the evening, they had let in the dying sunlight, sparking fire in the long mirrors that ran the opposite length of the room.
In summer months, of course, they could be pushed open, to allow the dancing to continue onto the long terraces of his garden. In winter, once the darkness set in, his marvelous windows served as second mirrors, dimly reflecting back the glowing candles and the shimmering costumes of his guests.
But now, the windows no longer mirrored the guests within the room. Instead, each window glowed with a pale pearly light, revealing another party that danced upon the terraces outside.
A grim company swirled behind the glass, corpses dressed in the finest fashions of Waterdeep, the fashions of yesterday, the fashions of one hundred years before, and the fashions of much earlier times. Slowly they pirouetted, mimicking the movements of the guests within.
Stunk squinted through the dark glass. With considerable effort, he kept his smile on his fat face.
"A bit of entertainment," he said in a loud voice.
His wife appeared in front of him, tall, elegant, dressed in a gown that he was sure had cost him a fortune.
She looked annoyed, but then, she always did. In a voice lowered so that only he could hear it, she murmured, "In very poor taste. Did you arrange this?"
Stunk ignored her and reached out a hand to stop one of his men who was hurrying by carrying a tray of wine glasses. "It is only the usual ghosts. Nothing new. Make that clear to our guests," he told the man.
Waving another servant to his side, he whispered, "Send a few of the men outside with lanterns. See if you can scare them off."
The servant's eyes widened but then he nodded and said, "We will try, saer."
"Try?" Stunk growled. "Succeed, man, or find employment elsewhere."
The ghosts outside continued to dance.
The men dressed in disintegrating satin coats and breeches and high-heeled pumps bowed to their ghastly partners. The women dipped and curtsied, holding out their wide skirts of fading brocade trimmed in tattered lace. Beneath once elegant white wigs or confections of molting feathers, strands of hair drooped across their foreheads. They floated closer to the glass, mouths open in dark smiles, and their faces appeared to be nothing but shadows and empty eye sockets.
The guests within the ballroom came to a stuttering, murmuring, fearful halt before this show. With elaborate bows and curtsies, the dreadful guests outside ended their own dance. With languid elegance, they turned to face the ones within and raised their arms, shaking back silk and lace to reveal hands of rotting flesh or polished bone.
The ghosts took a deliberate step forward. All together, they knocked against the glass. Skeletal fingers curled into claws and scratched the windows while others beat against the panes. The sound resembled hail bouncing off the glass.
"It's only a spirit mist," faltered one young lady to her escort. "There's nothing to those."
"They look a bit more rotted than the usual spirits," he muttered back.
"They look a great deal more solid too," answered a friend, taking a quick gulp of his wine.
A glass shattered somewhere in the room, dropped by a nerveless hand, and all the guests jumped and then tittered at their fright.
"It's just the usual ghosts," someone said, prodded by one of Rampage's servants whispering hasty instructions from his master. "Nothing to worry about."
A woman seated at the gaming tables shrieked again. "That's not any ghost. That's my grandmother! Fanquar, Fanquar"-she shook the sleepy husband at her side-"do you think she knows I sold her favorite necklace to pay my dress bills?"
"Wouldn't be surprised," Fanquar muttered as he slid deeper in his chair. "You practically ransacked the old lady's jewel box before the corpse was cold."
The corpses outside stopped their knocking. Now they pressed close against the glass, so ghastly faces could be clearly seen beneath the wigs and wide hats. They turned their heads from side to side as if seeking someone within the ballroom.
The guests inside drew back a collective pace.
"That does look like my uncle," said one spendthrift young lord to another. "The one that wanted his art collection preserved for the glory of Waterdeep."
"Didn't you sell those statues to buy a new horse?" asked his friend.
"Well, yes." The young noble shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "But I'm thinking perhaps I should give the tapestries to my cousin Lady Alshiraina. She has been wanting to do a public display for the children of Waterdeep, so they can learn their noble history. That might lessen the old boy's frown."
A wavering face flattened its nose against the pane, empty eye sockets turned toward the young noble. The face neither smiled nor frowned. It seemed to be waiting for something and in no hurry. The lack of expression was terrifying.
Glancing at the shadowed figure now stolidly planted on the other side of the fragile window glass, the young man's friend gulped and blurted, "Give away the tapestries. An excellent idea. Perhaps we should leave to plan it right now."
"Close the curtains, close the curtains," Rampage Stunk bellowed at his servants. He snapped his fingers at the musicians, who sat open-mouthed and staring among their instruments. "Play, play loudly, or you'll collect no fee tonight!"
The heavy velvet drapes hid the ghastly party outside the windows. The music rippled through the ballroom. A few guests, those most deeply in debt to Rampage Stunk, took to the dance floor again, prodded there by his servants.
But the rest of the uneasy crowd remained huddled against the mirrors, as far away from the windows as possible.
Behind the drapes, a rattling of panes could be heard. A shaking of the casements. Even the ominous cracking of glass.
With whispers and murmurs, the guests began to flee for the tall doors leading out of the ballroom.
Stunk stepped in front of one retreating couple. "Leaving so early? The evening has hardly begun."
"Such a lovely party," the woman murmured, looking toward the door.
"1 did want a word with you," Stunk said to the husband. The man was deeply in his debt and Stunk was sure the guest would not dare leave against Stunk s wishes.
The woman caught her husband's elbow. He looked at her and then at Stunk, and for a moment at the covered windows. With a bow and a face stiff with fear, he said, "I am at your service at any other time, saer. However, at the moment, my wife is feeling a bit faint and I really must take her home."
Within moments, the room emptied. Soon there was no one left but Rampage Stunk, his pale wife standing alone by the banquet table, and his servants.
Stunk's wife turned to face him and mouthed, "I told you that such entertainment was in poor taste."
"Do you think I invited them? Are you quite mad, my lady?"
As Rampage Stunk began to rage, he realized one other guest remained within the room. At the far end, nearest the doors, stood Lord Adarbrent, rubbing his chin in a satisfied manner.
The old man plucked a full wine glass from a forgotten tray. With a deliberate smile, he toasted Rampage Stunk and drained it dry.
"An excellent party," the elderly nobleman said and, with a final deep bow to Stunk's wife, Lord Adarbrent left.
Letting out a howl of fury. Stunk swept the glasses off a nearby table, shattering them upon the floor. His servants fled. His lady wife with a disapproving shake of her head silently glided away.
"I don't know how he did it. I don't know who helped him," shrieked Stunk, stamping his feet like a small child who has had a favorite toy snatched away. "But I will find out. And they will pay! They will pay in blood!"
THIRTEEN
Ieaplow Carver rolled his way home, just a little foggy from having had more than one drink. But a man needed to celebrate and soothe a heated constitution. And that bout with the big sailor who thought he was the best wrestler on land or sea had certainly left Leaplow sweating. Still and all, it had gone well. Leaplow had never been to sea, but he could safely say that he was the best wrestler within the walls of Waterdeep.
He rubbed his eye and winced. It would be black and swollen by morning. He should remember to ask Myemaw for some cold meat to cool it when he got home. Glancing at the yellow moon riding low in the sky, he considered his grandmother's temper if he roused her out of bed because he'd acquired another black eye. Better to wait for morning, he decided.
People suddenly filled the silent street. A great crowd of revelers appeared, spinning all around him. The men and women were richly dressed and obviously returning from some masquerade in the northern part of the city. For some wore skeleton heads over their faces, bone gleaming under their broad-brimmed hats or finely trimmed wigs.
One pretty young lady grabbed at Leaplow's hand. He started at the coldness of her touch. She must have been outside for a long time, he thought. But she smiled at him sweetly and tugged him into the dance.
Leaplow went with a kick of his heels and a happy shout. Because if there was anything he loved as much as fighting, it was dancing with a pretty girl.
Round and round the street they whirled, and the rest of the nobles jigged and bobbed with them.
The cobblestones rang under the pounding of Leaplow's hobnailed boots, but the lady on his arm glided silently beside him. She drifted and spun, light as thistledown in the moonlight, and Leaplow chortled at her grace.
The dance swung up the street and then swirled through the alleys and the broad avenues.
Finally they reached a place that Leaplow recognized. A bell jangled over his head as they entered through the public gate into Dead End's courtyard. The house's windows were all dark, a sure sign that the entire family was sleeping.
"Shh, shh," Leaplow tried to shush the patty without realizing that he was the only one making any noise.
The pretty lady patted his shoulder and waved good-bye. Leaplow
blinked and stumbled to halt, waving after her. But she faded through the gate leading into the City of the Dead and her party faded with her.
Leaplow slid down until he was sitting on the cobblestones of the courtyard. He found a lump of granite to pillow his aching head. With an enormous yawn, he began to settle back for a nap.
"How nice of them to bring me home," was his last thought before he fell asleep.
And it wasn't until morning, after his cousin Cadriffle woke him with a pail of cold water, that he noticed the iron gate leading into the City of the Dead was hanging wide open, the lock broken, leaving Dead End House unprotected and vulnerable to excursions from the graveyard side.
Sophraea sat beside her bedroom window, watching the night sky change from black to pale gray. For the past five mornings, the family had gone into the courtyard to find the Dead End gate shattered by the roaming dead.
At least now, nobody in the family doubted that real trouble stirred in the graveyard. But, at the same time, none of the Carvers could quite agree on what to do, except to keep quiet about the gate and try to fix the problem themselves. Especially since the broadsheets started publishing the threats of Rampage Stunk against any and all involved in the dead's persistent attempts to invade his mansion.
Late the previous day, Uncle Perspicacity did what he had done on the preceding nights. He built up the fire in the forge until the heat reached the temperature he needed. And then, sweating and weary, he worked steadily pounding away the damage to the gate and strengthening the bars with added bands of metal.
While he worked, the other uncles stood around and argued with the aunts about what to do next. Some, like Judicious, thought the addition of chains and padlocks would be enough to keep the ghosts from breaking through. Others, like her aunt Catletrho, argued for more drastic steps, like bricking closed the opening. But the majority of the family was not quite ready to give up the entrance to the City of the Dead that was so handy for their work.
City of the Dead w-4 Page 13