The eyes of the patriarch of House Dezlentyr flashed fire, and he growled in disbelief. 'Why, you young pup! D'you know who I am?'
Another thunderous impact made the gallery shake deafeningly around them, as if in reminder that family pride was far from the most urgent matter at hand.
'I know,' Taeros said coldly, 'that you're a bloated pig-bladder of a man whom someone should have let the air out of years ago!'
The Hawkwinter sword darted out, sending the patriarch's rapier clanging out and down into the hall-and then its flat struck Dezlentyr's broad rump, sending him staggering with a roar of pain.
He fetched up on against the gallery rail not far from Delopae Melshimber, who gave him a sweet smile, knelt before him as he sneered uncertainly at her-and then caught hold of both his legs under his knees and thrust him up and over the rail.
Lord Dezlentyr's landing was marked by a satisfying crash of rending wood, as he demolished no less than three chairs… and in its wake the Gemcloaks and their ladies became aware something had changed in the hall.
Thunderous impacts were still shaking the great chamber-more and more loudly, as boards and ceiling-tiles fell-but the fighting, shouts, and capering had died away, leaving bewildered faces everywhere. It was as if folk were awakening from a dream-or a mind-magic that had seized them all.
'W-what befell?' a graying merchant in rich emerald silks asked roughly, staring at the blood all over his hands. None of it was his own.
A noble lying under the sprawled bodies of two others asked weakly, 'I-is it time for the unmasking yet?'
The Gemcloaks and their ladies traded frowning glances.
'Is it time for the unmasking yet?' the noble asked no one in particular again.
Someone burst into sobs as they discovered someone dear to them messily dead. Everywhere bewildered folk in bedraggled finery were emerging from under tables and behind tapestries, to mill around and stare at each other, asking what had happened.
'Is it time for the unmasking yet?' an unregarded voice demanded dazedly.
Beyond them, the golden radiance of the shielding-spell grew brighter. Piergeiron, the Open Lord of Waterdeep, was striding unsteadily into the room, leaning on the mighty strength of Madeiron Sunderstone. The dark-robed wizard Tarthus and the flopping-booted Mirt the Moneylender came in their wake.
'Nobles of Waterdeep!' Piergeiron called, his magnificent voice rolling out across the hall. 'The city needs your valor and your blades! Great evil attacks Waterdeep from below!'
'Is it time for the unmasking yet?' the quavering voice asked no one again.
'Yes!' Piergeiron roared. 'Arise, just as you are-fancy-costumes, finery and all-and go out through yon arch into the other hall and down into the winecellars! For your proud names and your forefathers, strike hard and strike true! Smite and slay those you know not, who seek to ascend into this hall and slaughter us all!'
The nobles stared at the Open Lord, as the pale-faced Paladinson drew his own sword. The shielding-spell made it flare golden as he swung it on high and cried, 'For Waterdeep!'
All over the hall, monocles dangling on ribbons and faces flushed, old Lords of Waterdeep brandished their own blades, or belt-knives, or chair legs and roared back, 'For Waterdeep!'
Lord Brokengulf was the first to start running, his hired lass sprinting along at his side with his dagger flashing ready in her hand… and then all the nobles were hurrying, men and women both, roaring wordlessly and awakening glow-spells on blades as they went, racing out into the other hall in a howling stream.
'How does he know foes of the city are attacking?' Naoni demanded with a frown. 'You said Beldar didn't warn-'
'Mayhap someone else did,' Korvaun replied. 'Or perhaps no warning was needed. I doubt yon shielding stops Tarthus from hearing the spell-sent words of other Watchful Order wizards. They always work scrying magics when the Open Lord appears in public, and no doubt saw something sinister.'
'Speaking of which…' Delopae Melshimber said urgently, pointing across the hall at the gallery above theirs.
Flame had just blossomed there, spitting from a torch held high by a familiar figure leaning over its rail. The elf all Waterdeep called the Serpent pointed at the last of the disappearing nobles and then spread his hands and addressed those still in the hall, uncertainly hefting belt-knives and swords of their own. 'The hall trembles ever- more-perilously around us! And behold: The fine Lords of Waterdeep all flee into the wine cellars, whilst we remain here. What do they know that we don't?'
There was a silken edge to the Serpent's voice that suggested magical persuasion was at work-powerful magic, judging from the chorus of angry and frightened yells that rose in response, and the general stampede after the nobles.
The wizard Tarthus glared up at Elaith Craulnober, but he merely smiled, stepped back into darkness, and vanished-as another thunderous crash shook the hall.
'The hall's coming down,' Korvaun said in sudden understanding, 'and the elf, bless his black heart, is getting the people out!'
A fierce grin engulfed Taeros's face. 'Then it's the tunnels for us, after all.'
They worked their way swiftly through the chaos. The stream of running tradesmen and crafters was melting to a trickle, leaving a handful of revelers whose avarice was more powerful than Elaith's compulsion. Greedy hands plucked swords and daggers and gems from those who'd never need them again.
Then Faendra Dyre stiffened and cried, 'Father!'
The man who'd just come staggering out of the dust-filled archway into the other hall was dazed, his face covered with lines of dusty blood, and he did not seem to hear her. Yet under the stone-dust that made him almost entirely gray-white, it was Varandros Dyre clearly enough.
'Come on,' she said, in a voice that was almost a sob, and flung herself at the stairs back down out of the gallery. The others exchanged dismayed glances and followed her.
'Dyre! What happened to you?' Jarago Whaelshod rose from snatching a dagger out of a sprawled noble's sheath and blinked at the stonemason.
Karrak Lhamphur was hastening down the hall with two swords in his hands to join them and the words, 'Who's this?'
'This' was the highcoin-lass Nalys, a lit lantern in her hand and a worried frown on her face, stepping out of the dust to seek Varandros. He wheeled around, embraced her with a fierce grin, and growled, 'Lead us, gel! The winecellars!'
She nodded, smiled, turned-and the three New Day stalwarts plunged into the swirling dust a pace ahead of Faendra's rush across the hall and shouts of, 'Father! Father!'
A fresh booming swallowed her cries, and with an ear-splitting crash brought down the uppermost gallery onto the one below, all along one side of the feasting hall.
The wizard Tarthus shouted something to Madeiron. The Lord's Champion snatched up Piergeiron as if he was an infant rather than a tall and well-muscled man, and hurried back through the arch with Mirt and Tarthus close behind.
And the dust swallowed them.
The smiling weaponmaster stepped away from the sewer-wall he'd been leaning against.
'Here we stand, all mustered as the Master commanded! And may I add my pleasure at hearing of your safe recovery, Tincheron. The Master can call on powerful healing.'
Golden eyes remained cold, and massive silver-scaled shoulders lifted in a shrug. 'Indeed,' the half-dragon said curtly. 'You know your orders?'
'Hunt down and slay every monster-man we see. Otherwise, butcher older nobles and all guards wearing the livery of noble houses. No heirs, and no servants.'
'Correct. As we're being so talkative, Lurlar, know that Lord Craulnober doesn't want the noble houses destroyed, only weakened. Younger nobles are far more… pliable.'
'Corruptible,' sneered one of the roughblades Lurlar had mustered.
