Myrin arrived at Kalen’s side and fell to her knees beside his sweaty, dirty form. “I’m sorry!” she cried, patting dust away from Kalen’s head and shoulders. “I didn’t mean—”
“Not your fault,” Kalen murmured. He smiled at her, and his eyes sparkled.
Fayne shivered. Those … that … gods!
She realized then that her illusion had slipped away. No one had yet noticed, all eyes intent on the duel. Fayne didn’t even care, until a small voice beside her asked, “Fayne?” She looked, and there was Cellica, peering up at her curiously. The halfling had entered with Myrin and picked her way through the crowd to Fayne’s side. “What are you about?” Cellica’s frown was suspicious.
Mind racing, Fayne grinned broadly. “I … ah …” Then her plans shifted in a heartbeat. “Cellica! Just the lass I was searching for. I have a small proposal for you—a favor that you might pay me, if you’re interested.”
Cellica’s eyes widened. “Aye?”
TWENTY
As they climbed down from the carriage before the Temple of Beauty and joined the fancifully dressed revelers waiting outside, Kalen admitted to himself that he was not pleased.
But when he looked at it honestly, he had no one to blame but himself. He’d known this was a mistake. How had he let Cellica talk him into this?
“Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t go as Shadowbane,” she said.
When Kalen had given her seven, Cellica frowned. “Well … give me one more.”
In the end, Kalen privately suspected she’d used the voice on him.
“Kalen?” Myrin asked at his side, calling him from his thoughts. “Is aught wrong?”
“No,” he said, taking the opportunity once again to admire how the red gown and silver hair suited her. She looked uncomfortably womanly, rather than girlish. He hadn’t said anything, of course, but that didn’t stop him thinking it.
Mayhap that was why he hadn’t argued against Cellica more effectively.
Don’t let yourself be distracted, he thought. You can survive the night. It’s just a ball.
He hoped there wouldn’t be dancing. Graceful as he might be, he was a soldier. He knew nothing of the world of courtly balls or dancing.
They entered through the foyer, decorated with images of the Lady Firehair and her worshipers—beautiful and graceful creatures, all. Fountains shaped like embracing lovers trickled wine. Windows of stained glass depicting scenes from Sunite history let in the radiance of the rising moon. Guests were gathered, laughing and flirting with rose-robed priests and priestesses. This, Kalen could handle. Only a ball, he thought.
“Sorry again,” Myrin said. “About yestereve—I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Kalen shrugged.
“I thought for sure you’d bring Fayne,” said Myrin. “She’s your … ah?”
“No.” Kalen looked at her blankly. “I know her about as well as I know you.”
“Oh.” Myrin held his arm a little tighter. He could have sworn she added, “Good.”
“Saer and Lady—if you’ll enter the grand courtyard?” A pretty acolyte gestured to a set of open golden doors carved with the visage of the goddess.
“Courtyard?” Kalen murmured, but he couldn’t argue with Myrin’s brilliant smile. She took his arm and pulled him along.
At least Myrin was happy.
Fayne was fuming. Kalen had taken that little chitling—not a real woman like herself.
The carriage started to turn onto the most direct thoroughfare, Aureenar Street, but Fayne wasn’t about to lose a single moment of style. Ostentation made her feel better.
“Keep around!” Fayne snapped to the driver. “Up to the Street of Lances!”
The man in his pressed overcoat tipped his feathered hat. “Your coin, milady.”
Since she had the carriage already, she might as well prolong her rich procession.
The carriage broke away from the loose train of vehicles and swerved northeast. Fayne smirked out the window, surveying the streets, the jovial taverns, and the folk walking.
Cellica, sitting across from Fayne, fidgeted her thumbs and chewed her lip. Their ride had included a visit to Nurneene’s for masks, and the halfling wore a plain white eye mask with her gold gown. She’d added a lute to represent a bard Fayne had never heard of, but apparently halflings knew their own history quite well.
“How long will this be?” She looked at Fayne anxiously.
Fayne laughed. “Enjoy it, little one! Not every day working lasses like us ride in style.”
“I appreciate you inviting me along, Fayne.” The halfling smiled halfway. “I’m just worried about—” She peered out the window.
“Oh, don’t fret!” Fayne insisted with a girlish smile. “I’m sure your jack can handle himself. That little wild-haired girl didn’t look so vile.” A touch dangerous, mayhap—but that was intriguing, rather than off-setting. If only the little scamp weren’t interfering!
“No.” Cellica smiled, apparently at the thought of Myrin. “No, she isn’t.”
Beshaba, Fayne thought, what is it that makes everyone cling to such pathetic waifs?
They continued north on the Singing Dolphin thoroughfare and turned east on the Street of Lances. Fayne grinned at onlookers, whose responding stares she chose to interpret as jealous. They turned south again on Stormstar’s Ride. At the end of the street, they saw the Temple of Beauty.
“Ye gracious gods,” Cellica murmured, eyes wide. She reached across for Fayne’s hand.
“Shiny, eh?” Fayne took Cellica’s hand automatically, and the halfling clutched her tightly.
Sune’s Waterdeep temple was best approached from Stormstar, Fayne thought, and particularly at this time of evening, when the last rays of the setting sun fell upon its ruby towers and gold-inlaid windows. And from the look on Cellica’s face, she was right.
The great cathedral, palace, and pleasure dome towered over the noble villas alongside, shining like a beautiful star of architectural brilliance. Soaring towers and seemingly impossible buttresses made for a façade of true grandeur, which masked an open-air ballroom from which the sounds of revelry could be heard even from far away.
The halfling smiled wanly all the way until the carriage let them off.
“Aye?” Fayne grinned. “Pleased?”
But Cellica said nothing—she looked at her feet nervously.
The iron-faced dwarf attendant at the door looked at their invitation—which Fayne had forged—without any suspicion, then eyed them appraisingly. It was uncommon that two women came to a revel together, but hardly rare. “Who’re you lasses supposed to be?”
“Olive Ruskettle!” Cellica peeped, then she went back to staring at the temple.
The guard nodded—he seemed at least to have heard of the “first halfling bard”—then looked at Fayne. He handed back the scroll. “And you, lass?”
“Aye?” Fayne gestured down—black leggings tucked into swashbuckler boots, billowy white shirt and black vest, scarlet half-cape and matching dueling glove—and flipped her magic-blacked hair. She grinned through her scarlet fox mask. “I’m not … famous?”
The guard shook his head.
“Good,” Fayne said, and she kissed the dwarf on the lips. “Tymora’s kiss upon you!”
They skipped inside, arm in arm, Fayne pulling Cellica along.
“Your names?” the herald asked Kalen and Myrin inside the courtyard. Music wafted across the open space from minstrels near the central staircase.
Kalen hadn’t thought about such a question. “Ah—”
“Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon,” Myrin said without hesitation. Smiling beneath her gold mask and crown, she took Kalen’s arm.
The herald nodded. He peered at Kalen’s ragged old armor with a touch of distaste. At least Kalen had let Cellica buy him a new cloak. “Of course, your ladyship.”
He stepped forward and called to the assembled, “Alustriel of the Seven, and escort.”
Head
s turned—apparently, dressing as such a famous lady was daring—and Kalen felt Myrin stiffen. But most of the masked or painted faces wore smiles. There was even applause.
Myrin relaxed. “Good,” she said, clutching her stomach.
“Outstanding,” Kalen agreed, though he wasn’t sure he meant it.
She smiled at him in a way that made his chest tingle.
In the courtyard, Kalen and Myrin looked out over a sea of revelers dressed in bright colors and daring fashions. Kings and tavern wenches mingled and laughed around braziers, and foppishly dressed rapscallions flirted with regal queens and warrior women. Muscular youths in the furs and leather of northern barbarians boasted over tankards of mead, eyeing dancing lasses dressed in yellows and oranges, reds and greens, like nymphs and dryads. The dancers whirled across the floor while musicians struck up a jaunty chorus on yartings, flutes, and racing drums.
The ballroom was open to the night sky, and though the season was cool, braziers and unseen magic kept the courtyard comfortable—teasingly so, inviting revelers to disrobe and enjoy the headiness of Sune’s temple. And, Kalen noted, some of the revelers were doing just that.
They had arrived in time to witness the finale of a dance between two ladies. One—their hostess, Lorien Dawnbringer—wore gold accented with bright pinks and reds. The other, a dark-haired elf clad in sleek black, was unknown to him. They whirled gracefully, in perfect balance, arms and legs curling artfully. Most of the nobles were watching their dance, enraptured, and when the women finished and bowed to one another, the courtyard erupted in applause and cheers.
Lorien, panting delicately, bowed to the gathered folk. The elf smiled and nodded. They joined hands and bowed to one another. Then Lorien turned up the courtyard stairs and climbed slowly, turning to wave every few steps, as the elf lady disappeared into the throng of nobles.
Myrin tensed at his side. “The dance!” she cried. “We didn’t miss it, did we?”
“What?” Entirely too much dancing was still going on, Kalen thought.
“Lady Ilira Nathalan,” said Myrin. “And that priestess—Lady Lorien.”
Several nearby lordlings and ladies rolled their eyes at her outburst.
“Nay, nay,” said a youthful man at their side. He wore the simple but stylish robes of a Sunite priest. “You’ve not missed it. They dance again at midnight—Lady Lorien will return to dance with Lady Ilira, as the sun with the night. In the middle-time, enjoy yourselves.”
“Oh,” Myrin said. She smiled vaguely.
The acolyte took Myrin’s hands and kissed them. “Let me know if there is aught I might do to aid in this,” he whispered with a sly wink. Myrin blushed fiercely.
The priest took Kalen’s hands and paid him the same obeisance, to which Kalen nodded.
When the acolyte had gone, Myrin’s eyes roved the crowded nobles, as though searching for someone. She found something far more interesting. “Food, Kalen!” Myrin gasped. “Look at all the food!”
“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 sweetmeats and fruits, 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 party. Merriment filled the courtyard: the murmur of a thousand conversations, laughs, and whispers in out-of-the-way corners where intimate encounters waited.
Damn, Kalen thought, seeing the lovers in their half-hidden alcoves. He glanced at Myrin—at her slender posterior as she bent to inspect 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 at a petite woman dressed in a gown composed of black leathe
r and webbing—not much of either—that barely covered her most precious family heirlooms. Her skin was tinted black and her hair was snowy white. Her skin matched 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.”
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