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.
Mrelder kept his face expressionless, trying not to shiver.
The hall shook under ever-louder impacts, sending more flowerpots toppling from the galleries in a deadly rain. Many revelers were cowering under tables now or lying dead or senseless.
'This avails nothing,' Starragar snapped. 'Let's go hunt beastmen-after we find a way out of the hall and get the ladies to safety.'
'No!' Four angry women cried as one.
'We're in this with you,' Naoni added, 'until the end for us all, if that's what the gods grant.'
'Naoni,' Korvaun said gently, 'I don't think-'
'Precisely. If you did, you'd not speak such foolishness. Why would I want to be anywhere in all the city but beside you right now?'
Unexpectedly, it was Starragar who laughed and replied, 'Why, indeed?'
'We've got to do something,' Taeros muttered. 'The longer this goes on, the more of our kin will get hurt-or worse.'
The thunderous shakings were heavy enough now to throw some of the guests in the hall off their feet, and one of the drinks-fountains toppled over with a mighty crash. Starragar winced.
'That's a lot of good gullet-fire wasted,' he murmured. 'Whoever these beastmen are, they-Watching Gods Above, what's that?'
From the gallery just above them came an approaching series of heavy crashes, as if something wooden and very large was bouncing down stairs, toward 'Come on!' Delopae snapped, bursting between Korvaun and Taeros and racing to the nearest ascending stair. Ornate wrought-iron clawed at her gown as she whirled around its spiral, and she impatiently tore herself free and ran on, the others at her heels.
They burst up onto a gallery littered with bodies lying slumped in dark pools of blood just in time to see what was descending so ponderously toward them: a wardrobe the size and height of four armored men abreast, its corners already battered to splinters, that was rolling and crashing its way down an openwork stair from the floor above.
The shudderings of the impacts outside the Purple Silks were magnified up on the galleries-the floors flexed visibly, and pillars and walls swayed. The Gemcloaks exchanged worried looks, spreading apart to let the wardrobe crash past, and Roldo spun around to shout down into the hall below, 'Get back! Get out of the way!'
The wardrobe gained the bottom of the metal-shod stairs and sprang down onto the gallery with a crash that drove it deep into buckling floorboards-and buried it there, its ornate doors shattering and springing open.
Out through the greatsword-sized splinters and wood-shards spilled two limp, senseless bodies. The noble lass in the fine gown who was on the top of that ardent embrace was whimpering softly-but the gore-drenched, half- collapsed head of the lad in servants' livery beneath her lolled loosely, broken and forever silenced.
Faendra retched and turned hastily away-to find herself in the path of a tall, lurching nobleman who was feeling his way along the shuddering gallery, sword drawn and patrician face pinched with anger and disapproval.
'Young Helmfast and Hawkwinter, I see,' he snarled, as he came closer. 'Can't you striding young codpieces put your doxies behind you for even one night? Must you bring them here, to so soil our salute to Lord Piergeiron?'
He pointed with his sword at Faendra, and then at Naoni and Lark beyond her.
Taeros Hawkwinter stepped in front of them, gently striking aside that ornamental rapier with his own blade. 'Lord Dezlentyr,' he said firmly, 'you are as mistaken as you are rude. I must demand a full apology, upon this instant, or your honor is forfeit.'
