BOOM.
As the Purple Silks shook and shuddered around them, Lord Anteos emitted a chirp that might have impressed a giant canary and crashed to the floor, eyes bulging.
'And for your information, Anteos,' the highcoin-lass told the agonized noble, as she tucked her charms back into the dress, 'Lord Brokengulf hired me to dance with him this night-just dance! The gown tore when the ceiling came down and he tried to shield me-which is far more than you'd have done!'
'Ah-hem-yes,' Brokengulf ventured hesitantly. 'Shall we go into the feasting hall? I don't much like the look of what's left of yon ceiling, and…'
His hired escort gave him a bright smile and her arm. 'I'd be delighted to accompany you into the feasting hall, Lord Brokengulf. Though we may have to go elsewhere to dance, after all.'
'I-ah-yes!' the old noble agreed awkwardly, hurrying her away through the roiling dust as fresh fragments fell.
Not far away, in the midst of the Gemcloaks as they hastened over against a wall, Faendra was gasping, her voice on the tremulous edge of tears, 'Can we get out? What's causing that? We're going to die, aren't we?'
BOOM.
'We all die sooner or later,' Phandelopae Melshimber snapped, 'but I'll be able to do so in much greater ease if you'd still your tongue for a breath or two! Let the men think!'
'Why the men?' Lark asked, her voice as sharp as the knife in her hand.
'Because they've probably been here before, Sweetness, and if they're like my kin, they'll know a few back ways out, that's why!'
'That's being caused by something striking the ground.' Korvaun Helmfast peered into the dust that was all but hiding the rest of the hall from them now. 'Something very large and heavy. And I'm afraid I know what it is. Beldar was right, and there's-'
'There's light yonder!' Roldo shouted, pointing. 'That's the feasting hall. Let's get there! Now!'
'Oh, I like that not,' Starragar muttered, as they started to move along the wall, rubble shifting underfoot. 'Whatever's causing that, 'tis getting worse.'
'Or there's more of whatever's causing it,' Roldo offered, kicking fallen stone aside. 'Some sound very close and others farther off.'
'Come on,' Starragar snapped. 'The rest of the ceiling in here could come down any time.'
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
