"We are ever tasteful," Taeros purred, winking. Faendra giggled, and a faint smile rose to Lark's lips. Still wearing it, she gave Lord Roaringhorn a firm nod.

He smiled and nodded back. "I hope we shall all have a chance to-but hark! Eleven bells already? I must pay my respects to our hosts without delay!"

"About our hosts," Roldo said suddenly. "What if someone decides to put a dagger through Piergeiron in all this rub-elbows chatter? Or Mirt, for that matter?"

"No fear," Korvaun said quietly. "Not until swords are out openly, at least. Look you behind Piergeiron."

"In the shadows?"

"Aye; what see you?"

Roldo peered, as Taeros accepted drinks for them all, and deftly snared a platter of fancy-fish from a passing servant.

"Someone… no, two heads. Men, sitting down."

"Not mere men: Madeiron Sunderstone, the Lord's Champion, and the other is Tarthus, Piergeiron's pet guardian wizard. Near as deadly as the Lord Mage Khelben himself, they say."

It was at that moment that Naoni Dyre drove a clawlike hand into her sister's leg. Faendra squealed, gave her a glare and then froze at the sight of her pale face and horrified stare, and reluctantly followed it.

Across the cavernous but crowded hall, resplendent in gaudy flame-orange silks that would have looked better on him if they'd been cut to fit or he'd been a bit less, as ladies were wont to say, "ample of haunch," Jarago Whaelshod was proudly escorting a lush beauty the Dyres knew was a highcoin lady from the Lasheira's Low Lamps festhall, because she frequently needed Faendra to repair torn gowns.

The master carter had stopped to display his nicely gowned ornament to… someone else strolled out of the way, and Naoni and Faendra gasped in unison: Karrak Lhamphur, in a green swallowtail jackcoat of great lushness, that made him seem to be an officer of some unknown but far-behind-the-times navy. Lhamphur, too, had brought a beautiful female along, but at least he'd had enough measure of honor to have it be his wife.

The two New Day members were not much more damaging to watching eyes than dozens of the wincingly clad, overexcited, ill-at-ease tradesmen here in the Silks this night, but they could hardly fail to recognize the two daughters of Varandros Dyre… and worse: if they'd been invited and had seen fit to attend, so too probably had the Shark of Stonemasons himself!

"Father!" Naoni gasped. "He must be here, somewhere!"

"Gods, what if he sees us?" Faendra wailed.

"What of it?" Korvaun asked quietly. "You're both among the brightest flowers in all this hall, and do him proud. Moreover, you're conducting yourselves as ladies-though, Faendra, might I warn that ladies don't squeal?-and we shall treat you with all chaste honor, wherefore he should see nothing to cause him complaint."

"Indeed," Roldo put in helpfully. "Just act and speak as if your father's standing right behind you, henceforth, and you should be fine."

Lark and Phandelopae Melshimber snorted in unison at these words and then gave each other challenging glares.

"The Mistresses Dyre are greatly comforted by your helpful suggestion, I'm sure," Taeros Hawkwinter observed sarcastically.

Naoni and Faendra exchanged unhappy glances, but they'd have been far more upset if they'd turned in just the right direction at that moment to peer into the laughing, chatting crowd, and so behold a particular face that had gone from ruddy to white in an instant, upon commencing to stare at them.

Varandros Dyre was extraordinarily uncomfortable in his hired finery-Gods above, why did these collars have to itch so?-and too hot besides… and this din was deafening.

Yet the drinks were free and potent-firewine, by the Altar, the best that had ever raged down his gullet!-he'd never tasted smallmeats so fine, and Nalys was even more beautiful than he'd paid her to be. Quite the actress she was being, too, looking and sounding the part of a fine lady. None of the overloud haughtiness of the real noblewomen he'd observed here thus far. His daughters would doubtless be disapproving, but blast it, a man has to His gaze, roving across the noisy tumult filling the vast, crowded hall, fixed upon a distant face.

And froze with a gut-dropping lurch.

Naoni! His Naoni, looking as serenely noble and as beautiful as-as any ten women here, by all the Watching Gods! And there-aye, his little Faen was right beside her, standing in a little cluster of the Gemcloaks. Faendra might have been her mother, come back to life, and Varandros felt his throat tightening.

Oh, Ilyndeira, if only you'd lived to see this…

He could not stop looking at his daughters. In, yes, in awe. When had they turned so beautiful?

Someone stepped into the way of his stare, pointing. "Who's that yonder-the incontinent dragon?"

"Lord Tesper? No, couldn't be! What a costume!"

"I know the lady with him, I do, but can't quite… well, we'll know at the unmasking."

"Yes! How soon-?"

The floor beneath the chatterers trembled briefly, and someone let out a startled shriek. Dyre frowned. Well, at least the disturbance had shifted them out of the way, so he could look at Naoni and Faendra again, but… this was a big building; it would take a lot to make it shiver so. A spell?

There was another brief, heavy shuddering, soundless but strong enough to make someone drop a platter and evoke several screams.

"What by the Nine Hells-?" a shipwright snapped, nearby, as the chatter turned to voices rising in alarm and query.

Up on the stage, Piergeiron had stepped back, looking even more pale, and Madeiron and the mage were on their feet, peering around watchfully. Magic started to twinkle in the air all around them, and Elaith stepped quickly away from it.

Varandros Dyre didn't see what was happening on the stage and could have cared less. His daughters were over there, and something was very wrong, and-and Nalys was plucking at his arm and murmuring, "Varandros? This is-not right, is it?"

"No," Dyre snarled unnecessarily, as the tremors acquired sound-a ponderous, heavy thudding-and rhythm. Boom. Boom. Again, and again, for all the world as if Mount Waterdeep had decided to get up and start walking nearer… and nearer…

"They're trying to kill us all!" the shipwright shouted, before Dyre could. Folk were screaming all over the hall now, and running this way and that. Grandly garbed men were cursing and peering around wildly, more than one spectacularly gowned woman was swooning theatrically, and servants all over the hall were turning and peering at the stage.

Varandros started across the hall toward his daughters, towing Nalys in a grip so hard that she gasped in pain, but she hurried with him rather than protesting.

He found himself looking at Elaith Craulnober, who'd just sipped some wine and lowered his tallglass unconcernedly. As the rhythmic, growing thunderings got louder and tapestries and hanging lamps started to sway, the Serpent looked up and out across the crowd, smiled, then nodded, slowly and deliberately.

Right in front of Dyre, a servant cast aside his tray of tall-glasses with a spectacular crash, tugged at the gold shoulder-braids of his jackcoat… and drew forth a wicked-looking shortsword. Bending to draw a matching dagger from his boot, the platter-jack straightened with sharp warsteel in both hands and strode across the room.

Other servants were doing the same, everywhere in the hall, hurrying purposefully through the frightened crowd with drawn swords, converging on… an archway in the wall a little way along from the stage.

Nalys had worked here at the Silks! Shaking her as if she were a dusty mop rather than a regal-looking woman, Varandros snarled, "Where's that lead?"

The screaming and the thunderous shakings were almost deafening now, but Nalys put her mouth to his ear and gasped, "The winecellars-and below that, the sewers!"