But now, the windows no longer mirrored the guests within the room. Instead, each window glowed with a pale pearly light, revealing another party that danced upon the terraces outside.
A grim company swirled behind the glass, corpses dressed in the finest fashions of Waterdeep, the fashions of yesterday, the fashions of one hundred years before, and the fashions of much earlier times. Slowly they pirouetted, mimicking the movements of the guests within.
Stunk squinted through the dark glass. With considerable effort, he kept his smile on his fat face.
“A bit of entertainment,” he said in a loud voice.
His wife appeared in front of him, tall, elegant, dressed in a gown that he was sure had cost him a fortune.
She looked annoyed, but then, she always did. In a voice lowered so that only he could hear it, she murmured, “In very poor taste. Did you arrange this?”
Stunk ignored her and reached out a hand to stop one of his men who was hurrying by carrying a tray of wine glasses. “It is only the usual ghosts. Nothing new. Make that clear to our guests,” he told the man.
Waving another servant to his side, he whispered, “Send a few of the men outside with lanterns. See if you can scare them off.”
The servant’s eyes widened but then he nodded and said, “We will try, saer.”
“Try?” Stunk growled. “Succeed, man, or find employment elsewhere.”
The ghosts outside continued to dance. The men dressed in disintegrating satin coats and breeches and high-heeled pumps bowed to their ghastly partners. The women dipped and curtsied, holding out their wide skirts of fading brocade trimmed in tattered lace. Beneath once elegant white wigs or confections of molting feathers, strands of hair drooped across their foreheads. They floated closer to the glass, mouths open in dark smiles, and their faces appeared to be nothing but shadows and empty eye sockets.
The guests within the ballroom came to a stuttering, murmuring, fearful halt before this show. With elaborate bows and curtsies, the dreadful guests outside ended their own dance. With languid elegance, they turned to face the ones within and raised their arms, shaking back silk and lace to reveal hands of rotting flesh or polished bone.
The ghosts took a deliberate step forward. All together, they knocked against the glass. Skeletal fingers curled into claws and scratched the windows while others beat against the panes. The sound resembled hail bouncing off the glass.
“It’s only a spirit mist,” faltered one young lady to her escort. “There’s nothing to those.”
“They look a bit more rotted than the usual spirits,” he muttered back.
“They look a great deal more solid too,” answered a friend, taking a quick gulp of his wine.
A glass shattered somewhere in the room, dropped by a nerveless hand, and all the guests jumped and then tittered at their fright.
“It’s just the usual ghosts,” someone said, prodded by one of Rampage’s servants whispering hasty instructions from his master. “Nothing to worry about.”
A woman seated at the gaming tables shrieked again. “That’s not any ghost. That’s my grandmother! Fanquar, Fanquar”—she shook the sleepy husband at her side—“do you think she knows I sold her favorite necklace to pay my dress bills?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Fanquar muttered as he slid deeper in his chair. “You practically ransacked the old lady’s jewel box before the corpse was cold.”
The corpses outside stopped their knocking. Now they pressed close against the glass, so ghastly faces could be clearly seen beneath the wigs and wide hats. They turned their heads from side to side as if seeking someone within the ballroom.
The guests inside drew back a collective pace.
“That does look like my uncle,” said one spendthrift young lord to another. “The one that wanted his art collection preserved for the glory of Waterdeep.”
“Didn’t you sell those statues to buy a new horse?” asked his friend.
“Well, yes.” The young noble shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “But I’m thinking perhaps I should give the tapestries to my cousin Lady Alshiraina. She has been wanting to do a public display for the children of Waterdeep, so they can learn their noble history. That might lessen the old boy’s frown.”
A wavering face flattened its nose against the pane, empty eye sockets turned toward the young noble. The face neither smiled nor frowned. It seemed to be waiting for something and in no hurry. The lack of expression was terrifying.
Glancing at the shadowed figure now stolidly planted on the other side of the fragile window glass, the young man’s friend gulped and blurted, “Give away the tapestries. An excellent idea. Perhaps we should leave to plan it right now.”
“Close the curtains, close the curtains,” Rampage Stunk bellowed at his servants. He snapped his fingers at the musicians, who sat open-mouthed and staring among their instruments. “Play, play loudly, or you’ll collect no fee tonight!”
The heavy velvet drapes hid the ghastly party outside the windows. The music rippled through the ballroom. A few guests, those most deeply in debt to Rampage Stunk, took to the dance floor again, prodded there by his servants.
But the rest of the uneasy crowd remained huddled against the mirrors, as far away from the windows as possible.
Behind the drapes, a rattling of panes could be heard. A shaking of the casements. Even the ominous cracking of glass.
With whispers and murmurs, the guests began to flee for the tall doors leading out of the ballroom.
Stunk stepped in front of one retreating couple. “Leaving so early? The evening has hardly begun.”
“Such a lovely party,” the woman murmured, looking toward the door.
“I did want a word with you,” Stunk said to the husband. The man was deeply in his debt and Stunk was sure the guest would not dare leave against Stunk’s wishes.
The woman caught her husband’s elbow. He looked at her and then at Stunk, and for a moment at the covered windows. With a bow and a face stiff with fear, he said, “I am at your service at any other time, saer. However, at the moment, my wife is feeling a bit faint and I really must take her home.”
Within moments, the room emptied. Soon there was no one left but Rampage Stunk, his pale wife standing alone by the banquet table, and his servants.
Stunk’s wife turned to face him and mouthed, “I told you that such entertainment was in poor taste.”
“Do you think I invited them? Are you quite mad, my lady?”
As Rampage Stunk began to rage, he realized one other guest remained within the room. At the far end, nearest the doors, stood Lord Adarbrent, rubbing his chin in a satisfied manner.
The old man plucked a full wine glass from a forgotten tray. With a deliberate smile, he toasted Rampage Stunk and drained it dry.
“An excellent party,” the elderly nobleman said and, with a final deep bow to Stunk’s wife, Lord Adarbrent left.
Letting out a howl of fury, Stunk swept the glasses off a nearby table, shattering them upon the floor. His servants fled. His lady wife with a disapproving shake of her head silently glided away.
“I don’t know how he did it. I don’t know who helped him,” shrieked Stunk, stamping his feet like a small child who has had a favorite toy snatched away. “But I will find out. And they will pay! They will pay in blood!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Leaplow Carver rolled his way home, just a little foggy from having had more than one drink. But a man needed to celebrate and soothe a heated constitution. And that bout with the big sailor who thought he was the best wrestler on land or sea had certainly left Leaplow sweating. Still and all, it had gone well. Leaplow had never been to sea, but he could safely say that he was the best wrestler within the walls of Waterdeep.
He rubbed his eye and winced. It would be black and swollen by morning. He should remember to ask Myemaw for some cold meat to cool it when he got home. Glancing at the yellow moon riding low in the sky, he considered his grandmother�
�s temper if he roused her out of bed because he’d acquired another black eye. Better to wait for morning, he decided.
People suddenly filled the silent street. A great crowd of revelers appeared, spinning all around him. The men and women were richly dressed and obviously returning from some masquerade in the northern part of the city. For some wore skeleton heads over their faces, bone gleaming under their broad-brimmed hats or finely trimmed wigs.
One pretty young lady grabbed at Leaplow’s hand. He started at the coldness of her touch. She must have been outside for a long time, he thought. But she smiled at him sweetly and tugged him into the dance.
Leaplow went with a kick of his heels and a happy shout. Because if there was anything he loved as much as fighting, it was dancing with a pretty girl.
Round and round the street they whirled, and the rest of the nobles jigged and bobbed with them.
The cobblestones rang under the pounding of Leaplow’s hobnailed boots, but the lady on his arm glided silently beside him. She drifted and spun, light as thistledown in the moonlight, and Leaplow chortled at her grace.
The dance swung up the street and then swirled through the alleys and the broad avenues.
Finally they reached a place that Leaplow recognized. A bell jangled over his head as they entered through the public gate into Dead End’s courtyard. The house’s windows were all dark, a sure sign that the entire family was sleeping.
“Shh, shh,” Leaplow tried to shush the party without realizing that he was the only one making any noise.
The pretty lady patted his shoulder and waved good-bye. Leaplow blinked and stumbled to halt, waving after her. But she faded through the gate leading into the City of the Dead and her party faded with her.
Leaplow slid down until he was sitting on the cobblestones of the courtyard. He found a lump of granite to pillow his aching head. With an enormous yawn, he began to settle back for a nap.
“How nice of them to bring me home,” was his last thought before he fell asleep.
And it wasn’t until morning, after his cousin Cadriffle woke him with a pail of cold water, that he noticed the iron gate leading into the City of the Dead was hanging wide open, the lock broken, leaving Dead End House unprotected and vulnerable to excursions from the graveyard side.
Sophraea sat beside her bedroom window, watching the night sky change from black to pale gray. For the past five mornings, the family had gone into the courtyard to find the Dead End gate shattered by the roaming dead.
At least now, nobody in the family doubted that real trouble stirred in the graveyard. But, at the same time, none of the Carvers could quite agree on what to do, except to keep quiet about the gate and try to fix the problem themselves. Especially since the broadsheets started publishing the threats of Rampage Stunk against any and all involved in the dead’s persistent attempts to invade his mansion.
Late the previous day, Uncle Perspicacity did what he had done on the preceding nights. He built up the fire in the forge until the heat reached the temperature he needed. And then, sweating and weary, he worked steadily pounding away the damage to the gate and strengthening the bars with added bands of metal.
While he worked, the other uncles stood around and argued with the aunts about what to do next. Some, like Judicious, thought the addition of chains and padlocks would be enough to keep the ghosts from breaking through. Others, like her aunt Catletrho, argued for more drastic steps, like bricking closed the opening. But the majority of the family was not quite ready to give up the entrance to the City of the Dead that was so handy for their work.
With their hands wrapped in rags to protect them from the still cooling metal, Leaplow, Bentnor, and Cadriffle had picked up the reforged gate, carried it back, and fastened it in place. Then Uncle Judicious added his locks and chains, checking everything more than once.
Sophraea kept watch at the window throughout the night. As had happened on previous nights, she heard the gate shatter. Remembering the exhaustion etching lines on the faces of her family, she decided not to wake anyone. Instead, she’d go down to the courtyard first and see how badly the gate was damaged.
If the gate was destroyed, she would not hesitate. She would go into the City of the Dead and see if she could find out how or why the dead were so persistently marching through Waterdeep to the house of Rampage Stunk.
For the past five days, she had argued with Gustin, certain the answers lay beyond the wall and inside the graveyard, answers that could only be found after the dead had left their tombs for their nightly revelry. And for five nights, the wizard had stubbornly refused to venture into the City of the Dead after sunset.
But all his spells and investigations during the daylight hours had yielded no answers. With dawn so close, Sophraea decided, venturing into the City of the Dead should be safe enough. And, she thought, this time she would go alone.
Her mother would not approve. Her father would shake his head against it. Leaplow would say that she was too small to do anything. Not that Leaplow was any tower of sense or rational action! In fact, if she said anything about her suspicions that the trouble started at the Markarl tomb, the rest of her brothers, sisters-in-law, cousins, uncles, and aunts would add their contradicting opinions, just as they had for the past five days.
Sophraea sighed. No matter what she did, her family would have a dozen arguments against it and so worrying about what they would say was no reason to hesitate. She grabbed her shoes and pulled a cape over her sturdy winter gown.
Her bedroom candle was nearly burned down to a stub, but there was enough left to light her way down the stairs.
She moved carefully, carrying her shoes past Volponia’s door. The old lady was a light sleeper and as troubled as the rest of the family by recent events.
Sophraea avoided the centers of the treads where they were most likely to creak, tiptoeing on the firmer edges. The loud steady snores of the Carver males overrode any sound made by her soft footsteps.
Once down to the main level of the house, she made a quick detour through the kitchen. The banked-up fire left the room unnaturally cold and silent. In less than an hour, the Carvers would be up and the fire roaring, breakfast baking, the day starting properly. A Carver cat slid around the door and stared at her for a moment, waiting to see if she would produce any food, then slipped from the room on its own mysterious errand.
Prompted by the rumblings of her own empty stomach, Sophraea grabbed her shopping basket and stocked it with seedcakes from the pottery jar. After all, there was no reason to starve while wandering through a graveyard just before dawn, she reasoned. But another part of her overactive imagination scolded her for the delay, telling her that she was a coward, afraid of what she would find past the shattered gate.
Another bit of her brain whispered temptingly that perhaps the gate was still intact and there was nothing to be seen.
Sophraea shook her head to silence all the arguing voices and left the kitchen to continue down the stairs.
When she reached the outer door, she set her candlestick on the floor and worked at the latch with both hands. Once the door was open, she leaned out and listened.
A low wind rustled the branches. Otherwise there was no sound. She picked up the guttering candle, stepped outside, then eased the door closed.
She crossed the cobbles until she reached the gate. Stopping to listen, she turned and looked up and down the yard. Not so much as a shadow moved. Sophraea raised her candle and stifled a scream of frustration and fear.
It had happened again! Where the latch should be, there was a huge gaping hole. Small bits of broken metal littered the ground. The bars were bent or broken, hanging crookedly from the cracked hinges.
She slowly pushed open the broken bits of the gate. Perspicacity had done his usual excellent job with the repairs. The hinges didn’t creak.
When the opening was wide enough, she slipped through, determined to find answers. Perhaps someone living had passed this way during the night, someo
ne who was controlling the ghosts, driving them into Waterdeep. Bending over to hold her candle near the ground, she searched for footprints. Once before she had seen the tiny marks of dancing shoes. This time all she found were scuffs where the moss-slick stairs led down to the rain-darkened gravel paths.
She heard a distant sound of laughter, thin, high-pitched, or was it sobbing? She strained to tell where the noise was coming from. As usual her sense of the graveyard expanded until she knew exactly where she stood in relation to the Dead End gate, the tombs, and the paths running throughout the City of the Dead. All the public gates were locked tight and she sensed additional members of the Watch stood outside each one, looking in, wondering as she did which members of the noble dead roamed abroad.
The branches overhead shook with a rattle of leaves. Sophraea gasped, startled out of her trance, then muttered, “Look at me, panicking at a breeze.”
The breeze turned into a quick gust and blew out her candle.
She stood absolutely still, not blinking, not breathing. And then she heard footsteps, very quiet ones, barely crunching on the gravel of the path, and knew that someone was sneaking up on her. Moving silently, she pulled the snuffed candle out, dropped it into the basket hooked over her elbow, and tightened her fist around the top of the metal holder. It was a heavy candlestick with a wide base.
As the footsteps moved nearer, she raised her arm above her head.
She could sense him now, a presence behind her, something breathing, not a ghost.
As she felt rather than saw him reach toward her, she swung around. A hand grabbed her other arm and she bent forward to retain her balance, then kept swinging. The candlestick collided with solid flesh.
And a familiar howl sounded in her ear.
“Gustin?” Sophraea whispered.
The wizard staggered away from her. He gasped and doubled up, his arms wrapped around his waist.
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