Korvaun filled a tankard to the brim. A thunder of booted feet below bespoke more arrivals, so he filled another three.

"A sad day, when Waterdeep's lowlives run in packs like wild dogs," Starragar grumbled. "'Tis time to run blades up a few backsides to teach some lessons!"

"Hear, hear!" Roldo echoed, raising his tankard.

Korvaun frowned. "What lessons?"

Starragar looked up from his ale. "Quelling talk of the Lords all being nobles working hard to enrich nobles, for a start. You should hear what they're snarling in the taverns! Some hold the Lords-yes, the Masked flaming Lords of Waterdeep!-to blame for the festhall collapse!"

Roldo frowned. "Festhall?"

"The Slow Cheese," Beldar Roaringhorn snapped, striding into the room to clasp Roldo's forearms in welcome. He continued straight to the three tankards, drained one without pausing for breath, and stared at the other two. After a moment, he picked up a second and drained it just as quickly.

Korvaun regarded him in puzzlement. Accustomed to servants, Beldar seldom gave thought to menial tasks but was as attentive to his friends' comforts as his own. It was unlike him to help himself to a tankard obviously meant for someone else.

"News travels fast," Taeros observed, limping into the room and leaning hard on a silver-handled cane. Sinking into a chair, he grimaced as he stretched one leg out before him. "Alas, faster than I do."

Korvaun frowned. "What befell?"

"An unfortunate choice of words," Taeros replied in a strangely flat voice. "The Slow Cheese fell. We three were inside at the time."

"Three? So where's Malark?"

"Dead," Beldar said bluntly.

A heavy silence descended.

"I left him," the youngest Lord Roaringhorn added angrily. "I left him there, and the whole damned festhall fell on top of him."

Taeros stirred. "If there's blame in this, Beldar should shoulder none of it. He was occupied with matters of lesser importance in the grand schemes of the gods, namely, carrying me to safety." His voice broke. "Don't think me ungrateful-never that-but Malark was worth two of me."

"As to that, Malark outweighed two of you," Korvaun pointed out, his voice gentle. "If Beldar had left you lie to help Malark, all three of you might have perished, and Faerun would be poorer by two good men."

"The matter before us now," Starragar said grimly, "is avenging our friend's death."

Roldo gripped his swordhilt. "I'm ready." He looked to Beldar, awaiting their leader's word.

Roaringhorn set down his tankard and smoothed foam from his mustache before turning to Starragar. "You'd know the men who attacked you if you saw them again?"

Starragar's lips tightened in a deadly smile. He nodded and held out a hand, palm down. Beldar strode over and put his hand atop Starragar's. Roldo followed suit, and the three waited for Taeros, who fought to rise from his chair with the unfamiliar assistance of the cane.

Korvaun frowned. "Might I remind you that these men did not kill Malark? They should be reported to the Watch, certainly, but not hunted down merely because we can't take vengeance on a fallen building."

Taeros gave up the struggle and fell back into his chair. "So, you suggest?"

"Caution. Whatever we do shouldn't embrace bloodletting in the streets."

Roldo's hand rose from the clasp to hover uncertainly. "Then what?"

"I know not," Korvaun admitted. "Yet."

He watched his friends' hands slide part and found himself transfixed by Beldar's dark glare. Worse than the anger in those Roaringhorn eyes were the uncertain looks of the other Gemcloaks. He'd challenged Beldar's hitherto undisputed leadership, but offered no path of his own.

Yet.

As Taeros Hawkwinter limped between the last pair of impassive, gleaming-armored guards, he cast swift glances at the four men who'd walked the length of the grand hall in perfect step with him, limp and all.

No man, he swore silently, had ever been gods-blessed with better friends than these. When his father's grim old manservant had stepped into the Gemcloaks' clubhouse bearing Eremoes Hawkwinter's summons, the Gemcloaks had insisted on accompanying Taeros, though they'd all felt the sharp tongue of the Hawkwinter patriarch before and knew what was coming.

Taeros swallowed. The painted shield that had for years hung over the door of his father's office, displaying the Hawkwinter arms, had been replaced by a bright new tapestry. Its royal blue field positively glowed around the black silhouettes of two mailed fists holding wind-tossed banners. A large silver star gleamed high in one corner.

They stopped together before it. Beldar was already scowling. "Real silver, look you! That gnome weaver will answer for this! She swore to sell gemweave to me alone until spring."

"Silver's not a gem," Starragar pointed out, predictably contrary.

"Nevertheless," Beldar muttered.

Taeros knew stalling when he heard it. "Wait for me here, lads. If I'm not out in three bells, go in and offer to bury what's left of me."

Four mouths opened to protest, but he flung up his hand to silence them. "We've just lost Malark, and none of you are minded to shrug away unearned abuse today. It'll be hard enough for me in there, and I deserve the accolades my loving father heaps upon me." He lifted one black brow. "And need I remind you we stand in a garrisoned armory, full of loyal Hawkwinter men impatient of any challenge to their employer's will and well-being?"

"Good points all." Beldar clapped his friend's shoulder. "We'll wait here."

Taeros gave Beldar his cane to hold, squared his shoulders, and pushed open one of the great metalshod doors.

His father looked up, face darkening. His briefest of glances at the three men flanking Lord Hawkwinter's desk-veteran warcaptains who'd been in Hawkwinter employ as long as Taeros could remember-had them bowing in silence and striding out past Taeros without a glance.

The youngest Lord Hawkwinter tried to match their confident swagger as he advanced on the desk, but his swollen knee throbbed with every step.

"Limp if you must," his father growled. "No sense doing more damage to that knee."

Taeros came to an abrupt halt. "You've heard about the festhall."

"The Slow Cheese," Eremoes Hawkwinter snapped in disgust. "A low alehouse where 'dancers' disrobe while drunken emptyheads toss coins at them. No fitting place for a noble of Waterdeep to die. Better a man of honor die of heartstop riding some unmarried lass-at least then his family can claim he died trying to extend their lineage!"

"I'm sure Lord Goldbeard regrets the fact of his son's death more than the manner of it," Taeros replied in acid tones.

Eremoes waved a dismissive hand. "The Kothonts are herders and trappers, not men of battle. Better's expected of you."

His son bowed. "Then give me your blessing, Father, and I'll set out forthwith to study upon a more glorious end."

"Still your tongue!" Lord Eremoes Hawkwinter roared. "It's barely highsun, and your foolish words this morn will last us all season!" He snatched up a sheet of bright new parchment. Through the closed door, Taeros heard Roldo groan; the Thongolir heir knew only too well what was coming.

"A broadsheet, Father? Since when do you heed anonymous scribblings?"

"Since I received on good authority the name of he who printed this-this rhyming dung, and more importantly, the fool who paid for that printing." Lord Hawkwinter shook the broadsheet.

"That fool," he added sourly, making the parchment rattle, "seems to be me. Now, is this your work, or hired you some other half-wit to pen it?"

Taeros bowed sardonically. "'Tis mine own. Merely a small tribute to the royalty of Cormyr; no harm in it, Father."