The elf's silver brows rose. "Well said, indeed. You know the fair flower of our citizenry well for a foreigner."

He allowed himself a certain dark pleasure at the sudden panic that flashed into her eyes. "You must be enjoying our sea breezes, Lady Evenmoon. Tashluta's very warm during the Flamerule moon."

If the girl harbored any uncertainty about this matter, she hid it well. "Warmer than in winter, certainly."

Elaith chuckled at her deft parry. He swept one hand lightly toward her, subtly unleashing a minor spell. "Please be seated. Not on the carpet, preferably, though I can see why you were on the floor when I entered the room."

Her eyes were wary as she moved away from the desk and took the chair he'd indicated. "I'm not sure I understand, my lord."

"Why, you've lost an ornament, of course."

The girl's hand immediately went to the green ribbon around her left arm-precisely the response Elaith had anticipated. He suppressed a smile. Toying with this girl was the most pleasure he'd had all evening.

"I was speaking of your earring," he said lightly. Striding around behind the desk, he plucked from the carpet a hoop of silver wire, from which was suspended an intricately knotted web of gem-like threads.

The girl's brown eyes widened and her hand lifted to her ear. She'd not felt the earring vanish with his simple theft-spell.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the pretty thing.

Her eyes followed him as he went directly to the hiding place and touched the carved wood in precisely the spot that released the hidden panel.

The young woman relaxed noticeably, hardly the response he'd expected from someone whose secret message had just been intercepted.

Elaith skimmed the note, a report about some merchants seeking to unmask the Lords of Waterdeep. From its tone, it was apparent that this girl, or someone who paid her hire, was an agent of one of the Lords. He raised his eyes from it to meet her watchful gaze.

"For whom are you working, girl?"

Uncertainty flickered over her face, swiftly blossoming into suspicion. Elaith realized, to his surprise and delight, that she assumed he was her contact!

Logical enough, being as he'd shown familiarity with the hiding place. Folk who knew little of magic seldom stopped to think about the precautions taken by those who did. Elaith knew of every magic in this villa, including those borne by each of his guests. Magical toys of his own collected such information.

"Who do you work for?" he repeated, phrasing his query in less formal terms and, not incidentally, in a manner one of his magical devices would recognize.

He glanced at one of several portraits hanging on the wall. The nondescript image shifted, taking on the features of Texter the paladin-an image taken from the girl's thoughts.

Well, well. Little surprise there; Texter had long been on Elaith's private short list of suspected Lords. The paladin's business often took him north, and he was the sort to rescue maidens in distress. No doubt he'd extricated this girl from the clutches of a rough-handed patron, thinking her a set-upon serving girl.

"A reasonable question," he continued, staring into her increasingly suspicious face, "given your former employment. Our good friend Texter holds a far more optimistic view of human nature than I do."

Color drained from the girl's face. "What do you know of that?" she whispered.

In a heartbeat, he was standing over her, dangling the ribbon from her arm tauntingly before her eyes. Too late, she slapped a hand over the small brand burned into her upper arm.

"A mark of indenture," Elaith said softly, recognizing the shape of the old scar. "All too common on the docks of barbarous Luskan. Your mother was a tavern slut and owed more than she could ever hope to repay on her own. She no doubt rejoiced when her belly swelled with a ten-fathered bastard, and sold the babe at birth. I doubt you were much past childhood when you started plying your mother's trade."

To her credit, the girl did not weep or plead with him to stop. A question burned in her eyes, more painful to her than her revealed shame. "Did he tell you?"

Elaith did not need to ask whom she meant. Something held him back from naming the paladin as his source. His reticence was not, he told himself, prompted by a desire to save the girl from disillusionment and pain. It was merely-practical. Let her believe in her Texter's shining honor, and so let her continue to send and receive messages. Messages the Serpent would intercept and profit from.

"I have some… small magical skills," he murmured, giving her his softest smile. "You may rest assured: Texter did not betray you."

The emphasis was not lost on her. "But you might."

"If it affords me an advantage, certainly. That's why I make it a point to know the secrets of everyone in my employ."

She frowned, lips thinning.

"It's not escaped my notice that you've avoided your first trade since arriving in Waterdeep-in fact, you seem to want nothing much to do with men."

He let the ribbon drift down, and watched her snatch it deftly out of the air before adding dryly, "It would gladden my heart if more elven females would emulate your good judgment in such matters."

"I want nothing to do with male elves, either," Lark said bluntly.

He smiled, faintly amused by her presumption. "You'll have no quarrel from me on that score; it's hardly the service I require from you."

The girl shook her head. "I owe a debt of honor to Texter. It's him I'll serve, and no other."

"Is that so?" he asked mildly. "Whom would you serve if your tawdry past became common knowledge? The working-class respectability so dear to Master Dyre would demand you be summarily dismissed and loudly denounced. You'd be hard-pressed to find another position among respectable folk."

She regarded him with a mixture of anger and uncertainly, but said nothing. Merely watched him, eyes larger and darker. Waiting to hear her fate.

Elaith smiled pleasantly. "You wish to leave your past behind. Commendable." Time to twist the knife. "Also understandable. I can see how this knowledge could color your working relationship with an upstanding man like Texter."

"You son of a snake," she said softly.

Elaith's smile never faltered. "I'll ask you one more time: Who are you working for?"

A long, heavy silence followed as Lark wrestled with herself under his interested eye. Then she took a long breath and squared her shoulders.

"You," she said heavily.

The elf took her at her word. How could he not? The portrait of Texter had shifted again, and his own handsome face gazed out of the frame, amber eyes gleaming over a smile of supreme satisfaction.

The rumble and roar of falling timber was all around, unseen in swirling, choking dust.

"Taeros!" came a familiar Roaringhorn bellow. "Malark!"

Taeros knew Beldar was nearby, somewhere that way… but "that way" was all dust, fallen wood, and leaning beams.

Lanterns and candles had crashed down everywhere to start little leaping fires, and their flickering glows showed Lord Hawkwinter a swaying, swinging chaos of ropes and beams. Smoke was rolling and eddying energetically-and all around him wood was screaming.

Taeros wouldn't have believed splintering, rending wood could scream, but then, he hadn't known it could groan, either.

It was doing both right now, even more loudly than the frantic, sobbing screams of women blundering about in the alarmingly leaning labyrinth of pillars and sagging balconies. Men were shouting and coughing, and at least one fool had drawn a sword and was slashing wildly as he came staggering through the dusty gloom, as if sharp steel could slaughter dust.