BOOM. BOOM.

There was a shrieking, splintering crash somewhere overhead, and stones rained down in a thunderous torrent that thankfully shattered the floor into bouncing shards in a far corner of the vast hall.

"Where'd all the armed servants run off to?" Phandelopae asked. "And Beldar-what's he doing?"

"He's down in the sewers right now," Korvaun told her, "with all of Elaith's agents-the servants-fighting off some men who're trying to turn themselves into monsters and replace Piergeiron with a puppet Open Lord of their own right here this night. They intend to take over the city."

"Blast," Phandelopae swore. "I would have left this useless gown at home and brought my blades, if I'd known we were going to be-"

Lark opened her mouth to say something really rude and then closed it again and said nothing.

Korvaun, who was in the lead with Taeros just a stride behind him, staggered over some loose rubble and through the arch into a sudden bright absence of dust.

It was like stepping through a curtain.

Into bedlam.

On one side was all dust, falling stone and slumped bodies, and on the other: a grand hall free of dust and roof-falls but filled with a wild revel in full riot under the brilliant illumination of huge hanging glowlamps.

They halted at the entrance, staring around in disbelief.

"Behold Waterdeep gone mad!" murmured Roldo.

"Mind-magic," Taeros muttered. "It has to be."

The continuing thudding shook this new and only slightly smaller chamber, but their thunders were muffled and almost lost entirely in the din of all the shrieking, shouting, and crashing.

The Gemcloaks and their ladies stared around at three-no, four!-tiers of open, sculpt-fronted galleries rising to a lofty ceiling, surrounding rows and rows of glittering tables set with food and adorned with bubbling fountains of drink. The bell-like chiming of thousands of rattling tallglasses arranged around the fountains alone was hard on the ears.

In all directions, red-faced nobles and wealthy merchants were furiously wrestling with each other, monocles a-steam and jowls quivering. Some were waving toylike ceremonial swords at foes, and others were furiously chasing folk with evident intent to slay-at least as much as the intent of someone huffing and puffing and bellowing incoherently could be discerned.

There was no sign of Elaith Craulnober, but through an archway at the far end of the hall they could see the golden glimmer of a strong ward-spell, with the shadowy figures of Piergeiron, Madeiron Sunderstone, the wizard Tarthus, and a stout and ruffled someone who was probably Mirt the Moneylender just visible within it. Three of those four were standing and watching the chaos, but Piergeiron seemed to be slumped over in Madeiron's arms, senseless or worse.

Among the tables piled high with food and the fountains bubbling with sparkling drink, every noble seemed to be thinking-and shouting-that their various personal foes were attacking. They bellowed to absent bodyguards to rally around. If any message-magics were carrying these commands to distant ears, no one had yet responded.

Not that there was any shortage of violence. Some snarling carters, greengrocers, and carpenters were gleefully slugging noble teeth out of noble jaws and settling old scores with each other, as others scooped and gobbled handfuls of food, weirdly oblivious to the mayhem.

As Naoni and Faendra exchanged incredulous glances, someone running along a gallery leaped over its rail with a despairing cry. A bright, pursuing swordblade jabbed the air just behind his running legs.

Wailing, he plunged down through a glowlamp, which burst apart, scattering its magical radiance like a great shower of sparks, to crash onto a high-piled platter of sliced meat, and slither floorward in a greasy slide of meat, jelly, limply senseless noble, and ornamental rings of diced fruit.

Someone else shrieked in pain from the next gallery up, and a sword-with a severed hand still clutching it-spun out of the gallery-shadows, whirling down to its own smaller but still violent landing somewhere in the feast-spread.

Women could be heard sobbing and shrieking from under tables, and others were fleeing wildly around the hall-pursued, in many cases, by determined men.

"Lord Brokengulf, and Lady," Korvaun politely greeted the nearest noble, an astonished-looking older man who was shaking his head as he peered about, clasping a needle-like ceremonial sword uncertainly in one hand and the waist of a statuesque lady in the other. "Have you any idea what's caused… all this?"

"None at all, m'boy," Brokengulf snapped through lips that were thin with disapproval. "Folk seem to have taken leave of their senses, hey?"

As the quiverings and tremblings of the hall grew more frequent and severe, setting the glowlamps to swaying wildly, more folk shrieked and ran. A few strides from the Gemcloaks, a pair of gray-haired nobles faced off against each other with belt daggers, waving steel and shouting, until someone wearing a large sword thrust right through his body came hurtling over the edge of the nearest gallery to land in a loose-limbed crash atop a cart-sized platter of roast darfeather fowl in gravy.

The resulting splash blinded both nobles with gravy-spatterings that reached as far as the overlarge bodices of their wives, who were cowering under different nearby tables, watching.

Here and there about the galleries and under the tables were servants who hadn't joined in the rush to the cellars-maids and jacks evidently not in Elaith's pay-and they were all watching bright-eyed and grinning or applauding as the madness unfolded.

A roaring guildmaster-Azoulin Wolfwind of the Stationers-bounded up onto a table and proclaimed himself more than willing to sword any man within the walls who dared to challenge him, the first bellow of a rant that ended abruptly when someone shoved a halfling-sized flowerpot off a gallery railing above.

Wolfwind's heavy-as-a-grainsack collapse took down the table he was standing on, too, causing it to split in half.

Korvaun said briskly, "I know not what fell magic is causing this, but form a ring of steel, Gemcloaks. No one eat or drink anything-this madness might be born of a drug or poison."

"Gods, that's my father," Taeros gasped suddenly. "What's he-oh, Sweet Harbor, they're all here! All our parents; they all got invitations, didn't they?"

"And were told attendance would be considered their demonstration of loyalty to the Lords of Waterdeep," Roldo said, "or so said the invitation the Thongolirs received."

"I wonder," Korvaun murmured, "just who sent those invitations."

"Of course the beast-madness won't last forever," Golskyn told his son with an unlovely smile. "The spell's starting to fade now… which should just give us time to find our next Lord and let the lad save the day. Hurry, before those Watchful Order fools realize something's wrong inside their precious strong-ward and know the Paladinson no longer commands the Statues!"

Mrelder listened to this spate of nonsense in grim silence. Did his father think Piergeiron's guards credited the First Lord with this destruction? Had Golskyn forgotten Piergeiron no longer had the Gorget? Or was he utterly beyond clear thought?

The priest chuckled, strode a few restless paces, and then wheeled around to cry, "Move, boy! Move! Deepnight falls, Midsummer's here, and our day is come at last!"

Then Lord Unity threw back his head and laughed wildly. His mirth was loud, long… and utterly insane.