Mirt shrugged. "I presume so. Why do it, else?"

"Well, then, if our foes are sane and have enough wits to know anything about magic-and they must do, to move the Statues- they won't want to bring this place down."

"Oh?"

"Don't act the wide-eyed innocent with me, Mirt-you do it poorly indeed. You are a Lord of Waterdeep, no matter how secret you little boys like to keep such things, so you know about Ahghairon's wards-and all the embroidery Khelben and others have added since."

Mirt nodded. "The phantom city walls, the dragon-wards, aye."

"Aye, indeed. Such castings have multiple anchors. One is a stone in this building's foundation. If this place falls and those stones get shattered or shifted, spell after spell will collapse in a rolling, ever-increasing chaos only Khelben or Laeral can fix-unless Azuth or Holy Mystra herself happen to be strolling by."

"Barring that, the collapse comes, and what then?"

Amaundra shrugged. "Nothing much, perhaps. Wards that won't work when we call on them, later, city walls that won't appear when the orcs come howling… that sort of thing. On the other hand, the breaking spells might shatter others nearby, in magical mayhem none can predict-mayhap awakening spells any of Waterdeep's defenders can use or causing old enchantments to fail here and there."

"Making buildings fall, and all that."

"And all that, indeed. The problem isn't so much the wards we know about. It's all the ancient, half-forgotten, lingering Ahghairon-cast-this magics everywhere."

"Oh, tluin," Mirt growled.

"Oh, tluin, indeed," the magist agreed tartly, "which is a fine word for a woman to be using while she's lying flat on her back wearing only a bit of rag with three lusty men about!"

Madeiron Sunderstone promptly stood up, unbuckled his ornate revel-cloak, and laid it gently over Amaundra. "I believe the appropriate phrase is: 'The things I do for Waterdeep.'"

"That, young sir," came the tart reply, "is the appropriate phrase for us all."

"I thought they were just young ne'er-do-wells, wasting our coins and their days wenching, mocking and breaking things," Ulb Jardeth growled. "For once, I was wrong, and I don't regret my error one whit."

"Likewise!" Eremoes Hawkwinter laughed. "Gods, but that was splendid! Our new young lions, fighting for Waterdeep!"

"And some older lionesses, too," Lord Jardeth added, looking down at his wife.

There was dried blood all over Allys Jardeth's hand and bodice and dagger, none of it her own, but she was nestled in the crook of his arm quite happily, with none of her usual fussing about how she looked or who was wearing a better gown.

She grinned up at him. "So is it all over?"

"You sound disappointed," her proud husband observed. Lord Eremoes Hawkwinter gave the handful of surviving monster-men a hard look-where they were spread out bound on the floor, with swords held to their throats-and shook his head, frowning.

"We're still prisoners in here," he said quietly, "with the Walking Statues blocking all ways out, and there's something wrong with Piergeiron, or he'd be commanding them elsewhere. Moreover, the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, who could do the same with a wave of his hand, seems nowhere to be found. I've been hearing rumors no one's seen him for days-including some powerful outlander mages who came a long way to climb the steps of Blackstaff Tower. I'd say we're far from out of the shadows yet."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Lark almost swallowed her tongue in startled fear when the quiet voice nigh her ear said her name.

Her mewing jump brought her around, dagger up-to face Elaith Craulnober. He held a sword and a roll of parchment, and there was a small band of warriors behind him, one of them a silver-crested, scaled man who looked to be half a dragon.

"Well met," Elaith said dryly. He slapped the parchment into her hand. "A sewer map. Use it. Round up as many of these idiot humans as you can and get them out."

Then he was gone, and all his blades with him, leaving her staring at empty darkness.

Shifting stones grated and rumbled overhead.

Then something burst into sudden brilliance at her feet. Lark jumped back again, hissing out a curse, and stared at the lit torch that hadn't been there a moment earlier.

Then she swallowed, looked up to find three halflings from the Warrens nodding gravely to her with swords ready in their hands, sighed-and unrolled the map.

"Come," she said to Naoni.

Her mistress shook her head. "Taeros said to stay here. He'll not know where to find us otherwise."

There were more stony rumblings from overhead, and a spray of dust and small stones showered down around them.

"Go!" Naoni commanded.

Lark looked to Faendra, who slipped an arm around her sister's waist. It was clear that nothing Lark could do was going to shift either of Varandros Dyre's stubborn daughters.

Lark bowed to them, spun around, and trotted off. One of the hin plucked up the torch and ran with her. There were more rumblings and then a shout. She looked for its source and saw two bloody, bedraggled merchants and an old noble.

"Follow me," she called, waving the map. "I know a way out!"

They fell into step without argument, as the rumblings overhead grew louder-and closer.

Lark turned a corner and found herself staring at their source: a tunnel-team of dwarves, hastening to toss stones into a side-tunnel and shore it up. Those stones lay in a huge flood of light that was, yes, moonlit!

A street above had collapsed, and they were looking at the surface! The merchants swarmed past her with glad shouts.

Lark helped the old nobleman clamber after them, up the shifting drift of cobbles and building-stones. Then she turned back into the darkness to seek others.

It was what Texter would expect of her-and what she'd now come to expect from herself.

The voice in Beldar's head was growing stronger. He groaned. His beholder eye was pounding, burning, and his actions were no longer wholly his own. Against his will, he was stumbling through the festhall. He had little doubt who awaited him.

"Our labors being not done," he gasped aloud, dredging up fragments of a warriors' ballad a stern Roaringhorn tutor had forced him to learn years ago. "We fared forth, our swords ready. For perils broad and deep continueth, and we are beset…"

The inexorable mind-voice grew firmer, stronger…

"And no strength shall deliver us but our own, for the gods but watch, and are amused, and reward those who best entertain by their strivings…"

Beldar's memory failed him, and the thunderous pain rolled in.

He was staggering along a ruined, deserted gallery with sword drawn, just one more lost, wounded noble in a feasting hall full of lost, wounded nobles.

A door presented itself to his right, and he hurled himself against it.

It held, bruisingly. With a snarl, clutching his eye now, Beldar staggered on.

A second door also held, and a third.

The fourth burst open, spilling Beldar into a cluttered chamber-a storeroom? It was crowded with wardrobes, heaps of cushions, and several man-tall oval mirrors with suggestively carved frames. Beldar stumbled past them and over a low, padded-top sideboard-padded-top sideboard? Oh, aye, festhall, stonewits-into a little open area by a window.

Beldar Roaringhorn turned around to face the door, and took off his eyepatch.

It wasn't the battleground he might have chosen, but he would make the best final stand he could.