'Yes-let's…' Kalen swallowed. The spectacle dizzied him. 'Let's go there first.'
Banquet tables around the yard were stacked high with the bounty of the realm. Myrin found sweermeats and fruirs, honey and melon and tarts, breads of a score of grains carved in the shapes of animals, wines of a hundred lands, cheeses of dozens of creatures.
While Myrin piled her plate high, Kalen scanned the parry. Merriment filled the courtyard: the murmur of a thousand conversations, laughs, and whispers in our-of-the-way corners where inrimate encounters waited.
Damn, Kalen thought, seeing the lovers in their half-hidden alcoves. He glanced at Myrin-ar her slender posterior as she bent to inspecr some cheeses-and blushed. Amazing what a difference a proper gown made to Myrin-that and the silver hair, which went so perfectly with her skin like polished oak. The red silk forced Kalen to see her for the woman she was, and that scared him as much as pleased him.
A thought occurred, then, and Kalen shuddered. Gods-she might ask him to dance.
To distract himself, he tried to recognize the costumes. Kalen was no student of history, and he did not recognize all the masks and manners, but he remembered a few heroes from the chapbooks he had bought and occasionally scanned. Mostly, he knew them by their salacious parodies-little about their true lives-and it made him feel even more awkward.
Kalen stood stiffly, trying to quell a wave of panic that had begun in his stomach and threatened to engulf the rest of him. Too many folk-and too much Myrin.
Were she here, Fayne would have a great laugh about this, he had no doubt.
The herald's next call perked Kalen's ears. 'Ladies and lords, the Old Mage and escort, the Nightingale of Everlund,' he cried. 'Representatives of the Waterdhavian Guard.'
Kalen froze at the words and turned slowly around.
'Kalen?' Myrin asked, her mouth half-full, but Kalen didn't acknowledge her.
Instead, he stared at the woman he least expected to see: Araezra, walking the halls on the arm of Bors Jarthay. It was the tradition of Watchmen to wear their arms and armor to costume revels-for instant use if needed-but to alter the garb with a tabard or cloak that could quickly be discarded in the event of trouble. Araezra's tabard depicted a stylized bird in purple embroidery. She carried a shield painted with the same bird, and she'd dyed her hair a lustrous auburn.
He told himself he should be keeping his distance, since she was one of only a few who could recognize Shadowbane. Kalen ducked behind a knot of nobles praying she wouldn't see him.
Fortunately, Araezra was distracted by something Jarthay had said. The commander had shirked tradition and opted to dress as a buffoonish sort of wizard in a red robe and an obviously false beard. He looked more than a little drunk; in fact, as Kalen watched, Jarthay took a swig of something from a flask crudely disguised as a pipe.
'A moment,' Kalen murmured toward Myrin. Then he cut into the crowd, looking for a mercyroom or a broom closet or at least an alcove where he could lose the tell-tale helm. He could escape-he could…
When a hand fell on his arm, he whirled, thinking certainly it was Araezra.
'Behold, the day improves!' a woman said. 'Unveil yourself, man-and don't try to lie about your name, for I'll know.'
The noblewoman in question-barely more than a girl, Kalen saw-wore a tattered black gown and must have enchanted her hair, for as he watched, it writhed like a rustling nest of silver vipers. Her gown was cut cunningly and scandalously, with more gods' eye slits than dress. He knew her apparel from stories-the legendary Simbul, the Witch-Queen of Aglarond.
'Choose your words with care!' the girl said with a confident sneer beneath her half mask. 'I've been taking lessons from the greatest truth-teller in Waterdeep, Lady Ilira herself! I can hear lies in a voice or read them in a face…' She snaked her fingers across his mask. 'That is, I could read your face if you'd be so good as to unmask yourself.' Her hand retracted and she grinned at him-much like a cat grins at a mouse. 'For now, a name will do.'
Kalen stumbled in his head for a reply. 'But lady, my name-'
The girl smirked at his consternation. 'I don't mean your true name, good saer,' she said. She gestured to his outfit. 'I mean, who are you meant to be?'
That didn't make it better. He didn't have an answer for that, either.
'Lay off him, Wildfire.' The venomous lady's voice behind Kalen's back saved him, and he felt something take hold of his arm. 'I saw him first!'
Wildfire. He knew that nickname. He didn't remember the girl's true name, but Lady Wildfire, heir of House Wavesilver, was infamous for one of the sharpest tongues in Waterdeep. Kalen remembered Cellica telling him considerable gossip about her, and wished he'd listened more. As it was, he'd heard enough to thank the gods someone had saved him.
Until he looked around.
Kalen gawked ar a petite woman dressed in a gown composed of black leather and webbing-not much of either-rhat barely covered her mosr precious family heirlooms. Her skin was tinted black and her hair was snowy white. Her skin marched her garments perfectly, especially her thigh-high boots with heels as long as fighting dirks, giving her a height to match his. She fingered the handle of a whip wrapped around her waist.
It took Kalen a breath to recognize her: a drow priestess of the spider goddess, Lolth. He knew she wasn't really a drow, as she'd made no attempt to disguise her human features. This did not surprise him: lordlings and lordlasses were quite vain. The whip didn't match, either-it made her look more a priestess of Loviatar, goddess of pain.
At his side, Kalen heard breath catch and saw The Simbul's eyes light up with fire that was anything but magical.
'Perhaps you saw him first, Talantress Roaringhorn-but I claimed him first,' Lady Wildfire said in a low, dangerous hiss. 'I'm surprised to see you, after last month's scandal. If I recall-the Whipmaster and his… whip?'
Kalen knew Lady Roaringhorn as well-Cellica had mentioned aught of such a scandal, though he remembered no details. He did recall that these noble girls hated each other, and competed in all ways-for the best salons, fashion, marriage, anything that could be fought over. For Waterdeep entire, if it was on the table.
'A misunderstanding,' Talantress said tightly.
'Mmm. Aye, you leather-wrapped tramp,' Wildfire countered.
'Kindly note my utter lack of surprise,' Talantress said, 'that you're so crude.'
Wildfire hummed-almost purred-at Kalen. 'Mmmm. Buck-toothed tease.' She shot a glance at Talantress.
'Ah!' Talantress glared. 'That will be quite enough, slut of a dull-eyed dwarf!'
'Gutter-battered wick-licker!' Wildfire put her fingers to her lips and licked them.
'How unwashed!' Talantress's wrath had almost broken through her calm face, but she seemed possessed of as much self-control as Araezra. Her lip curled derisively. 'I wonder about those tales in the sheets about all those sweaty dockhands that loiter around Wavesilver manor. I'm sure they're very helpful with your… boat.'
'That's more than enough!' Wildfire's eyes flashed. She looked to Kalen. 'We'll let Lord Nameless decide.'
'What?' Kalen goggled.
Wildfire caught up his right hand and wound herself into his arm; her smile could cut diamonds and her glare was posirively deadly. If The Simbul of legend had half that sort of menace, no wonder she'd kept Thay so terrified so long. 'Choose,' she said coldly.
Talantress curled herself around his left side. Kalen was almost glad he couldn't feel much, or all that magic-black skin would drive him to distraction. 'You'd better choose me, or you'll regret it,' she whispered. 'I'll make personally sure.'
'Choose me? Wildfire purred in his other ear. 'I'm much more fun than she is.' Her tone shifted from suggestive to commanding. 'And my uncles are richer-and employ more swordsmen to throttle fools who spurn me.'
'Ah,' Kalen said, his mind racing to match his thundering heart.
'Ninny!' Wildfire said. 'You want me, aye saer?'
Talantress grasped Kalen's other arm. 'He's dancing with me?
