"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.