Elaith Craulnober gracefully indicated a door. "That tunnel leads to a shop kept by a man who knows that anyone emerging from it is to be helped to discreetly depart the city. Trust in him, for he answers to me."
Mrelder gave a slight bow, in the manner of equals parting in mutual respect.
Elaith smiled. So much for the gratitude of the conquered whose life has been spared. He watched the cultists go, mulling over a feeling that Mrelder had taken some meaning from his words that he hadn't intended.
He turned, nodded, and watched his own forces swiftly scatter into their war-bands and plunge into various tunnels that led under the Purple Silk. Only when he was alone did he open a concealed door to take a hidden way to the festhall only he knew.
Old habits died hard, and Elaith would no longer deny the duties of his heritage and nature. He was a lord, wherever he chose to live and whatever he chose to rule. By his lights, he'd done Waterdeep many services this night-warning the First Lord of danger, standing guard over Piergeiron lest an enemy use the still-missing slipshield to approach him in the unreadable guise of a friend, casting magic that sent many of the revelers safely away from death from stone-fall, helping them find their way out of the tunnels, even culling some deadwood from noble family trees. He had one more service to give, though it irked him to yield such an advantage: the name and nature of he who would be Waterdeep's next Open Lord.
It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps Mirt and the rest knew their business better than he'd thought possible. Why else would they give such valuable magic as slipshields to a pack of noble pups?
Elaith hurried through the tunnel, a bemused smile on his face. Though he had lived long and seen much, this city never ceased to astonish and amuse him!
Suddenly, in silence and without any fuss at all, Amaundra fainted. Her eyes rolled up, her body quivered, and she stopped breathing.
"Wizard," Piergeiron snapped, springing up from where he'd been sitting, "you're killing her!"
Tarthus, lying flat on his back trembling uncontrollably, didn't look as if he could kill a fly. He stared up at the Open Lord with eyes of forlorn pain.
"I can't accept this any longer!" Piergeiron snapped. "I must fight for Waterdeep! It's my duty, and I'm needed! Drop the shielding!"
The golden dome persisted. Piergeiron repeated his order, shouting this time.
"N-no," Tarthus gasped faintly.
Madeiron Sunderstone laid one great, restraining hand on Piergeiron's arm and bent over the wizard on the floor. "I remind you that your oaths require you to obey any direct order from the Open Lord of Waterdeep."
"A higher authority forbids," Tarthus gasped, eyes still closed.
"What? There is no-"
Mirt waved a reproving finger in Piergeiron's face to quell lis outburst, then laid it to his own lips, and pointed down at Tarthus.
On cue, a very different voice came from the wizard's trembling lips. "Most of this last bell," it said in feminine tones all four men knew, "my strength has been holding the shield around you, Piergeiron. Tarthus has been obeying me-and in this matter, I am obeying Mystra herself."
"Laeral," Piergeiron breathed.
"Holy Mystra," Madeiron Sunderstone gasped, making a reverent gesture.
At that moment Mirt became aware that someone was standing just outside the shielding. A slender, handsome figure: Elaith Craulnober. Their eyes met.
Mirt lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. Elaith made a certain swift gesture. Mirt replied with another, and the elf confirmed the silent question with a nod.
They both made the chopping motion that signified agreement, and the moneylender shuffled forward, went down on one knee beside Tarthus, and firmly cuffed the wizard's head with one hairy fist.
That head lolled, the shielding went pale-and as Madeiron looked up and glared at the elf, clapping hand to hilt, Elaith calmly worked a spell.
Golden radiance fell away into dying sparks that flared into a sudden bright roaring that stabbed into every ear and eye and swept all Faerun away…
The first thing that Mirt the Moneylender heard was Piergeiron the Paladin groaning, "What happened?"
There was a low rumble of bafflement from Madeiron Sunderstone.
Boom.
Oh. That sounded all too familiar.
BOOM.
Through a glimmering of tears Faerun returned to him, and Mirt found himself groaning, rolling over, and peering at the bare feet of Amaundra Lorgra. The boots of Tarthus were right next to them, and above, the feasting-hall of the Purple Silks was still standing.
In a manner of speaking.
Boom-BOOM.
There was no sign of Elaith Craulnober. Nor were there Walking Statues at every window-though the ground trembled under the weight of their retreating footfalls, sending bits of the walls cascading down into dust at every blow.
"Hoy!" Mirt cried, causing Amaundra's head to jerk up. "We're free to flee this tomb-in-the-making! Get up, all of ye!"
Even barefooted Watchful Order magists of some seven decades of experience can move swiftly on their corns when they need to, it seemed-and in a few frantic, hurrying breaths of dodging falling stones, the five eminent Waterdhavians were outside and staring across the night-shrouded city.
The wall-lamps glimmered as always, and by their light the great stone guardians of Waterdeep could be seen resuming their usual places.
Piergeiron's eyes narrowed. "Who commands them? And just how by the Nine Hot Hells did whoever it was manage that trick?"
And then his gaze fell on the scrap of parchment Mirt held out to him, and the terse message written on it-the answers to his just-spoken questions. "Where," he asked softly, "did that come from?"
The old moneylender stared at what he was holding with a strange, perplexed expression, and then said slowly, "I've no idea. No idea."
A memory came into Mirt's mind then, through a golden shimmering: the wry smile of a certain elf.
Well, now, perhaps he knew the answer after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The strangest and most painful day of Beldar Roaringhorn's life was the day he attended his own funeral.
He wore Korvaun Helmfast's form, of course, his fallen friend's blue cape around his shoulder and a pale but composed Naoni staunchly at his side.
It was… odd, watching others mourn him. His family's grief was deep and genuine-and puzzling. How could they mourn someone they'd never really known? All his life he'd felt apart, ignored, even scorned, yet the senior Lord Roaringhorn spoke with tearful pride of his son's accomplishments, his swordsmanship, his riding, and his eloquent knowledge of law. The Roaringhorn heir confessed to feelings of envy-even inadequacy-that his fallen junior had been most fitted to inherit, to lead.
Nearly as hard to hear were the words of his friends-apologies for doubting him, praise for saving Korvaun Helmfast by giving him a potion that transferred his wounds to Beldar himself.
For that was the comfort every mourner held dear, and only three knew to be false: Beldar Roaringhorn had died that a friend might live.
Well, Beldar lived that his friend might live, and he stood in silent tears, iron-determined to leave a legacy that Korvaun would be proud of.
Only the Dyre sisters knew his secret, and Faendra had already cornered him alone, and told him in no uncertain terms that he would treat Naoni well or answer to her. Beldar needed no threat but rather admired the way she'd delivered it. The Dyre girls were superb-as fine as the magic that spilled from Naoni's clever fingers.