Its pale skin was as smooth as a courtesan's, and the elf's left forearm, though slender, was slightly more muscled than the right. Lark knew of only one kind of work that left such signs, and it didn't involve serving tables.

The smile she gave Ezriel was wry. "Forgive me my misjudgment. I'll serve this fish to the hearthside table if you'll get their drinks."

The elf nodded and glided over to the bar. Lark watched her from the corner of her eye as she served the harake.

At a table near the bar, a trio of master tailors was laughing uproariously over their fourth round of mead. One pinched Ezriel as she walked past.

She whirled, left hand darting to her hip, and the flat warrior's stare she leveled at the tailor made her eyes look as cold as green ice.

Lark looked away quickly, laughing perhaps a bit too heartily at whatever cleverness the nearest harake-loving Calishite merchant had just said to her. She dodged deftly away from his groping hand-and froze as she saw Elaith Craulnober, sitting alone at a small table near the door.

He lifted one elegant hand in an imperious beckoning. Drawing a deep breath, Lark threaded her way to him, snatching up one of the small dishes of salt-smoked mussels that served as this night's thirst-starter.

"Evening, milord," she said brightly, setting the dish before him. "What may I bring you to drink with this?"

The moon elf eyed the grayish blobs with distaste. "The only fitting choice would be a large flagon of hemlock. Take this excrement away and bring me some deep-ocean fish, prepared as simply as possible. A bottle of elverquisst if you have it. If not, a pale wine, unwatered."

"Of course. Anything else?"

"What do you have?" he asked softly, his look making it clear he meant information, not seafood.

"Very little," she murmured, bending low to take up the spurned mussels. "Several workmen were killed or injured in the brawl, and Dyre's had time for little else, but someone followed his daughters-and me, of course-wherever we went today."

"Don't you find it of passing interest that the proprietor of Maelstrom's Notch has taken to hiring warrior-elves to befriend the help?"

"How did you-" She broke off abruptly, not wanting to offend him.

Elaith looked faintly amused. "She's as out of place here as a unicorn among cow rothe. No offense intended."

Lark bit back a retort. After all, hadn't she thought much the same?

"Give your shadow no more thought," the Serpent murmured. "I'll see to that matter. In return, I need you to relieve young Lord Hawkwinter of the silver-hued charm he wears about his neck."

As Lark nodded, it occurred to her that they'd been talking for longer than she could readily explain away. She glanced toward the steward-and met his hard, unfriendly stare.

Turning back to Elaith, she blurted, "Begging your pardon, milord, but perhaps you should pinch my backside, or… something."

Silvery eyebrows rose.

"To explain why I've been here so long," she explained hastily. "They expect serving wenches to parry men's advances. If there are none, some will wonder what else might have passed between us."

"I see."

His hand shot out as swift as any striking serpent. A quick tug at her wrist brought her tumbling into his lap. Before Lark could even draw startled breath, his lips claimed hers.

For a moment all she could think of was the shock of staring into those descending amber eyes. Now she knew precisely how a hare must feel as a hawk glided in…

There came a light caress down her back, as if the elf was writing on her with his fingertips.

And the world dissolved into darkness, in an overwhelming wave of something- something wonderful and terrifying at the same time-that swept over her like a sudden storm, and left her weak, shuddering, and bewildered. Blinking up at Elaith's dark smile, Lark fought her way free of… whatever it was and leaped to her feet, heart pounding.

"You used magic on me!"

The elf gave her an unreadable smile. "Or… something," he replied, his voice managing perfect mimicry of her own.

Elaith watched as Lark flounced to the bar, offended dignity in every stride. She held a low-voiced but heated conversation with the steward, during which his gaze shifted more than once between his mountainous brawl-queller and Elaith, as if measuring the bouncer's chances against the elf. Finally he shook his head. Lark pointed at one of the other serving girls, there was more talk, and the steward nodded.

All of this meant: No, he wouldn't have Elaith Craulnober thrown out, but he would allow Lark to send another lass to serve Elaith's meal.

The Serpent smiled approvingly. Yes, the wench was clever and quick-witted. Now if she proved light-fingered enough to get the slipshield from Taeros Hawkwinter without drawing attention, he'd be truly impressed.

The Gemcloaks were proving entertaining indeed. Young Korvaun Helmfast was unearthing information about Elaith's properties with impressive speed, digging into the Serpent's business with a determination usually managed only by dwarf miners. By now he undoubtedly knew Elaith held title to both the Slow Cheese and the tallhouse formerly owned by Danilo Thann-or to be more precise, those two piles of rubble. It would be interesting to see what young Lord Helmfast did with that information.

More interesting still was a slipshield right here in Waterdeep.

Did Taeros Hawkwinter know what sort of treasure he wore? Most likely not; its magic was nigh-impossible to detect.

Elaith twisted the small, silver ring that had first warned him of a slipshield at work, prompting him to seek out its bearer and confirm with his own eyes that a noble pup still wet behind the ears had the audacity to wear the winterhawk badge, the slipshield that had once protected King Zaor himself. The boy's family name, Hawkwinter, made a bad jest of one of Evermeet's great secrets.

Slipshields had never been plentiful. Borne only by royal guards of Evermeet who might have to act as a decoy for one of the royal family, they were so secret that, supposedly, only the ruling Moonflowers and their guards knew what a slipshield was. No one in Waterdeep-no one-should have been able to perceive the true nature of what the Hawkwinter carried.

Elaith knew it all too well. The silver ring on the smallest finger of his left hand allowed him to perceive slipshield spells. He'd left a similar ring behind when he'd fled the island kingdom all those seasons ago-it wouldn't have occurred to him, even in disgrace, to do otherwise-but Amnestria, his princess, his lost love, had brought him hers when she followed him across the seas, in hopes that it would help him remember what he'd once been.

Elaith thrust such thoughts from his mind to return to the puzzle of the slipshield. How had this so-secret creation of elves found its way to Waterdeep?

He lifted the goblet a nervous servant placed before him and sipped absently. So rare a magic; almost as rare as the humans of Waterdeep who might have dealings with fair Evermeet…

Laeral. Laeral Silverhand, the Lord Archmage's lady. She was a friend to Amlaruil of Evermeet. Perhaps the elf queen had granted this magic after the sahuagin attack to aid in the city's protection. It was unlikely anyone on Evermeet or in Waterdeep knew that a certain Serpent could detect slipshields.

Abruptly Elaith rose from his table and stalked out into the night. Its shadows swallowed him even before the angry steward emerged to send men rushing after the patron who'd paid not a nib.

They found no sign of the notorious elf, but the steward would have shivered to learn how close to him Elaith lounged, watching unseen as he waited with elven patience for the Notch to empty.