"Far be it from us to spread gossip," Korvaun responded archly, lifting his tallglass.
"Far indeed."
They clinked glasses in an ironic toast, not incidentally spilling more foam, and sipped again.
Suddenly Beldar touched his eyepatch, and his face cleared. "They're gone for the moment, gods be praised," he muttered. "Doubtless driven off in sheer disgust. Now heed: I may not have time to repeat this."
Korvaun leaned close. "Speak!"
"Come to the revel, Gemcloaks all, ready for trouble: Real weapons, not fancy show-blades. Expect to fight men with monster claws and tentacles and such, two score or more, led by a mad priest who wants to put his own thrall on Piergeiron's throne: Me-did I not say he was mad? His son's a sorcerer, and they can move the Walking Statues to do their bidding. Through me."
"Marvelous," Korvaun replied loudly, slapping the table and sitting back as a serving lass saw the state of their glasses and hastened up with fresh wine. "Simply splendid!"
When she was gone, he hissed, "Beldar, we should tell the Palace at once! Piergeiron plans to attend the revel!"
"Tell them what? That I'm hearing voices? I'm sure they'll drop everything to listen to an idle young blade so stupid he'd allow his own right eye to be cut out of his head and a beholder eye enspelled into its place! Something that's strictly illegal, according to magisters' case-law, by the way. Did I mention that?"
"No."
"I suppose I also failed to mention the halfling I killed last night, when the eye was controlling me."
Korvaun stared at his friend. "Surely a mage or priest could prove your words true-and break this hold over you."
Beldar shook his head. "I've tried. A onetime witch of Rashemen lies dead not far from here, as does a barber whose only fault was greed. I'll not be responsible for more deaths. This is my fate, and I must put it right."
"We'll stand beside you, of course! Yet twoscore monster-men! What can our four swords-five if you can stand with us-do against such foes?"
"Little, but perhaps we can offer our assistance to someone with more experience in such matters."
"Oh? Who's this great champion?"
Beldar stiffened and grew a wide, sickly smile at the same time. "You'd never believe me!" he chortled, slapping the table.
The unseen listeners must have returned. Korvaun could not quite force a smile onto his own face as he downed his wine, rose, and said quietly, "There's no man alive I'd trust more than you."
And with a merry wave he turned away, letting his friend's unseen tormentors make of that what they would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"Lord and Lady Manthar," the doorwarden of the Purple Silks announced grandly, as that impeccably garbed couple swept imperiously past.
He blinked at the next pair stepping up to the threshold, winced visibly at what the male half of the couple whispered into his ear, and declaimed: "Delvur Morrowlyn, proud vendor of garderobe seats, with his, ah, bedmate Lahaezyl, twenty dragons per night!"
Delvur and Lahaezyl grinned broadly, clasped arms, and sailed into the waiting tumult every bit as serenely as had the Manthars.
There were some titters from folk waiting on the steps-those who weren't looking darkly scandalized-and one of them belonged to Lord Taeros Hawkwinter.
"My, but our hosts have fine senses of humor," he remarked to Korvaun, who stood just ahead of him with Naoni Dyre, as everyone ascended a step and the doorwarden made ready to announce Elphoros the Fishmonger and his fourth wife, Burdyl. "'The city entire' evidently means just that! This should be a Midsummer Eve to remember!"
"And just what," Lark inquired in a low but icy purr at his shoulder, "do you mean by that, Lord Hawkwinter?"
Taeros grinned into her glare almost fondly and murmured, "Ladylark, you almost behave as rudely as a noble. I'm looking forward to an evening of being raked by your verbal claws, but could you not at least wait for due cause? 'Tis more sporting that way."
"Lark," Naoni Dyre said quietly, before the servant could make any reply.
"Mistress," Lark responded stiffly.
"Gods deliver me," Roldo Thongolir murmured, staring up into the sky from the step below Lark and Taeros, where he stood with Faendra Dyre on his arm. His wife had crisply informed him he could attend the revel with anyone he desired to, but if it was going to daggers drawn all night, Roldo knew he'd be seeking solace in emptied goblets-lots of them-rather than enjoying dances-lots of them-with Faendra.
"How common," sighed Starragar's date, from the next step down, as they all moved up again. Phandelopae Melshimber was a distant cousin of her Waterdhavian kin, but her years as one of the most frigidly voluptuous beauties in all Athkatla had stolen nothing from her arresting looks and tall, spectacular carriage. Her gown was of the deepest black shimmerweave, her curves magnificent, and she drifted up the steps with deft grace despite wearing almost her own weight in glittering falls of precious gems.
Taeros enjoyed verbal fencing, but in his opinion the Gemcloaks should have left their ladies behind this night. None of them were trained fighters. Naoni had insisted that if trouble came, her sorcery might be needed. Lark had made no secret of her misgivings but insisted that where her mistresses went, she followed. Faendra hadn't shared her thoughts on the matter.
He glanced back at the younger Dyre sister. Her strawberry blonde mane fell in shining curls down a gown of shimmering sky-blue gemweave. Her benefactor for that costly fabric was Roldo; Sarintha had given her blessing, so long as she wasn't required to rub shoulders with Waterdeep's great unwashed. Roldo and Faendra seemed to share an easy affection that left Taeros frowning inwardly. He begrudged his friend no warmth and solace, but what of Faendra? What could this glittering evening be for her, but the beginning of certain heartache?
Then the doorwarden was announcing: "Lord Roldo Thongolir and his business partner, Mistress Faendra Dyre, of Faendra's Fine Gowns."
A smile of admiring relief spread across the Hawkwinter's face. Faendra had come to this revel to declare herself her own mistress, not Roldo's or anyone else's!
"She sewed her fingers raw to finish that gown in time," Lark murmured. "Judging by the envious eyes of all the fine ladies she's outshining, she'll have enough orders in a tenday to pay Lord Thongolir back with interest."
The Purple Silks-the largest and most exclusive festhall in North Ward-had been closed for a month in preparations for this night, but it had been only this morn when the invitations had gone out, borne all over the city by no less than the City Guard in full uniform. Everyone who was anyone-and many wealthy and influential commoners, for once, too-had been personally invited to a freecloak revel to celebrate "the return to health of our beloved Open Lord of Waterdeep, Piergeiron the Peerless."
'Freecloaks' had until recently been the exclusive conceit of the oldest, grandest noble houses of Waterdeep. At such an occasion, guests arrived and promenaded in whatever finery they preferred. Thereafter, those who desired to retired to private chambers, to assume costumes and masks under the ministrations of skilled dressers and tailors, that were worn to the last bell-chime of midnight. After the unmasking, until dawn, the Silks would quite likely host the most wanton revelry Waterdeep would see this season.
Wherefore the street was full, an orderly line of couples stretching back out of sight, reputedly halfway to Dock Ward. Some were here for the food and fine drink, some to gawk and gossip, some to see if rumors of wanton orgies were true, and undoubtedly a few were here to make grimly certain beyond any doubt, by hard and direct questioning if need be, that whatever Open Lord got paraded before them really was Piergeiron himself and not some luckless dupe cloaked in spell-guise.