Taeros enjoyed verbal fencing, but in his opinion the Gemcloaks should have left their ladies behind this night. None of them were trained fighters. Naoni had insisted that if trouble came, her sorcery might be needed. Lark had made no secret of her misgivings but insisted that where her mistresses went, she followed. Faendra hadn't shared her thoughts on the matter.

He glanced back at the younger Dyre sister. Her strawberry blonde mane fell in shining curls down a gown of shimmering sky-blue gemweave. Her benefactor for that costly fabric was Roldo; Sarintha had given her blessing, so long as she wasn't required to rub shoulders with Waterdeep's great unwashed. Roldo and Faendra seemed to share an easy affection that left Taeros frowning inwardly. He begrudged his friend no warmth and solace, but what of Faendra? What could this glittering evening be for her, but the beginning of certain heartache?

Then the doorwarden was announcing: "Lord Roldo Thongolir and his business partner, Mistress Faendra Dyre, of Faendra's Fine Gowns."

A smile of admiring relief spread across the Hawkwinter's face. Faendra had come to this revel to declare herself her own mistress, not Roldo's or anyone else's!

"She sewed her fingers raw to finish that gown in time," Lark murmured. "Judging by the envious eyes of all the fine ladies she's outshining, she'll have enough orders in a tenday to pay Lord Thongolir back with interest."

The Purple Silks-the largest and most exclusive festhall in North Ward-had been closed for a month in preparations for this night, but it had been only this morn when the invitations had gone out, borne all over the city by no less than the City Guard in full uniform. Everyone who was anyone-and many wealthy and influential commoners, for once, too-had been personally invited to a freecloak revel to celebrate "the return to health of our beloved Open Lord of Waterdeep, Piergeiron the Peerless."

'Freecloaks' had until recently been the exclusive conceit of the oldest, grandest noble houses of Waterdeep. At such an occasion, guests arrived and promenaded in whatever finery they preferred. Thereafter, those who desired to retired to private chambers, to assume costumes and masks under the ministrations of skilled dressers and tailors, that were worn to the last bell-chime of midnight. After the unmasking, until dawn, the Silks would quite likely host the most wanton revelry Waterdeep would see this season.

Wherefore the street was full, an orderly line of couples stretching back out of sight, reputedly halfway to Dock Ward. Some were here for the food and fine drink, some to gawk and gossip, some to see if rumors of wanton orgies were true, and undoubtedly a few were here to make grimly certain beyond any doubt, by hard and direct questioning if need be, that whatever Open Lord got paraded before them really was Piergeiron himself and not some luckless dupe cloaked in spell-guise.

No sooner had they stepped into the high-vaulted forehall than a serving-lass stopped beside Lark to whisper, "Is this…?"

Lark nodded, rolling her eyes, and towed Taeros firmly away.

"What was that about?" he demanded.

"You're gaining a following among the serving women of Waterdeep. Some of their mistresses, too, I'll warrant."

"Well, naturally. Ah, could you be more specific?"

"The Queen of the Forest-your tale of the great tree spared because a woodsman loved its dryad. It's become a great favorite-I liked it myself. The end surprises, and tells truth about the treachery of love."

Taeros's stomach plunged in the general direction of his boots. "A favorite? One of my stories? But how-?"

"Crumpled parchments," Lark replied matter-of-factly. "A Hawkwinter maid found some of your discards and smoothed them out-parchment should never be wasted, Lord. She liked what she read and has been collecting them since, piecing together tales and passing them around. You could make an honest living with your quill, were you so inclined."

"All gods forbid!" he said, jesting to cover his embarrassment. "That sounds far too much like work."

"Hmmph," Lark replied.

Then they were in the main hall, and she said no more.

The floors and walls were of glossy-polished marble, the former expansive and the latter towering and draped in rich purple draperies, falls of gathered and pleated luxury larger than the sails of many of the ships currently crowded into Waterdeep's harbor.

Judging by the din and elbow-close crowding, all Waterdeep was here, talking and drinking excitedly in finery that bid fair to outshine many a royal court.

As the Gemcloaks swept forward with their ladies on their arms, Faendra was pleased to note how many heads turned to measure them. A fanfare drew her eye to a raised stage. On it stood Piergeiron himself, pale of face but as erect and tall as ever, clad in dazzling half-armor that shone with gems and glow-spells and undoubtedly with protective magics, too. Beside him, lounging with one elbow resting on the rather dubious charms of a carved mermaid statue that was slightly larger than life, was Mirt the Moneylender, in crimson silks hung with gaudy golden medals larger than his hairy fists. In the shadows not far behind the stage, slender and dark and half-smilingly watchful, stood Elaith Craulnober.

"He's here," Taeros murmured. "Let's hope Beldar's trust is well placed."

From the gasps and murmurs arising from behind them, it seemed others were far more alarmed-and, yes, scandalized-by the sight of the notorious Serpent than the Hawkwinter.

"Well!" One matron's voice cut through the chatter like a falling axe. "So 'tis true: they're letting just anyone in here!"

"That how you got in, Sharpfangs?" someone else drawled, and there were chuckles and titters amid the outraged feminine roaring that followed.

"Guildmasters!" an elderly voice quavered with indignation, on its way past. "Tradesmen! Has proud Waterdeep sunk so low? They'll be opening the doors to sailors next!"

After an initial admiring glance at the slender maidservant, clad in a simple black gown and free of all ornamentation but a single emerald ribbon bound high about her left sleeve, Taeros Hawkwinter had refrained from glancing at the Lark on his arm more than briefly. But he couldn't help but notice now how she stiffened beside him at the sight of Elaith Craulnober and how her hand tightened, just for a moment.

"Easy, lass," he murmured, as gently as he might soothe one of his falcons. "He's only one elf, and standing on the far side of two men who could best him in battle, either one."

Lark gave him a unreadable glance, then turned to take the tallglass of Midsummer wine a servant was offering her.

"Aha!" Roldo exclaimed. "Proper drinks! Delopae, are you going to-?"

"Balance two tallglasses on my bitebolds? I think not, Lord Thongolir-just as you obviously think not!" Phandelopae snapped.

"Though considering some of our fellow guests, such a show might meet with approval."

Whereupon Lord Starragar Jardath turned with a flourish and pressed his lips against hers, kissing Phandelopae into startled silence. Their clinch continued-as Faendra and then Naoni stared in astonishment-until the tall Athkatlan moaned and moved ardently against Starragar.

"Ah, the dour act melts them every time," Beldar Roaringhorn purred, stepping out of the crowd to run a teasing finger up the exposed and sleekly muscled Melshimber back as if her gown had been designed to lay it bare just for him. "Fair shine the Midsummer Moon on our meeting, friends! I see the fair Lark conquers all, as usual!"

"Well met, old friend," Korvaun Helmfast said firmly and heartily, reaching out an arm to embrace Beldar, who grinned, bowed floridly to Naoni, then rose to clasp Korvaun warmly.

"Full battle-steel this night, I see! The martial look-a fine choice!"