The City of Splendors

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Beldar Roaringhorn's friends and the three women vacated the club in swift tumult, leaving him alone in blessed silence.

For long breaths he simply stood and enjoyed the stillness, his back to the door so he could gaze the length of the room and just relax, letting his thoughts wander and his innards start to settle.

After a calming pause, he strolled across the room and poured himself some ale. Sniffing it appreciatively, he took a small sip, not trusting his roiling stomach to welcome more.

"You didn't hurt your eye in that brawl," a cool voice commented, from behind him.

Beldar froze. Then he made himself turn slowly. He knew that tone-one usually used by someone holding a weapon, who was exceedingly pleased that the person being addressed was not.

The servant girl was alone, and her hands were empty. By the look on her face, she didn't consider that one dented serving tray had settled the score between them.

Swallowing rising unease, Beldar mustered his most supercilious smile. "Weren't you off to mount a gallant defense of cheese or some such?"

The lass didn't rise to his bait. "You didn't hurt your eye in that brawl," she repeated.

Beldar set down his tankard. "Oh? And how could you possibly know?"

Lark smiled thinly. "After you fainted and fell on me, I passed much time with your head on my lap, while your friends argued with the Watch. Your wounds were right under my nose, and as I don't happen to own wardrobes full of gowns, just where you were bleeding was of some importance to me. You had a cut on your head above the hairline, but nothing more."

Beldar stared at her. He remembered few details of that humiliating episode, but-blast it! — she was probably speaking simple truth. The reason for her candor was appallingly clear. She'd been witness to his least shining moments, and with the instinctive cunning of the coin-poor lowborn, understood that he did not want his falsehood-or the events of that night in Luskan-to reach the ears of his friends.

"I assume your silence has a price?"

She nodded. "I need the services of a wizard who can truly tell the nature of magical things."

This was hardly what he'd been expecting. "Why?"

After a moment's hesitation, the lass half-turned away from him and then swung back, with a small silver charm in her hand that hadn't been there before. "I came across this and want to know what it can do. Find a wizard for me and pay his fee, and your friends need never know their gallant, noble friend sold an unwilling woman to a murderous half-ogre."

He couldn't quite suppress a wince. "I didn't know his intention."

"Not at first, perchance, but then you did-yet stood like a post as he dragged me away."

Beldar stared at Lark, seeking some defense for his behavior. The best he could muster was, "I broke no law in Luskan, and in all fairness, I should advise you that the magisters of this city have recently begun punishing extortion rather severely."

"I'm unsurprised," Lark replied softly. "Why else would you not parry my request with threats to reveal…"

She let silence fall between then until he gently finished her sentence: "Your circumstances when last we met."

"Aye. My circumstances.'' she said with soft, searing bitterness.

Beldar drew himself up. "Because, Mistress Lark, that would be as unworthy of me as it is of you."

A flush rose into her cheeks. "So you'll not help me?"

"I'll help you," Beldar replied, "but such aid is not to be construed as payment for your silence on this matter or any other."

Lark's smirk told him she saw his carefully worded parry for what it was: cowardice, dressed up in a magister's fine black robes, but cowardice all the same. And why should she think otherwise, when laws written to prompt men to own their words and actions were so often used to shrug off responsibility?

That was a question for another day. The wench was obviously determined to view any aid he might offer as silence-coin, and it was a reasonably cheap road to her immediate silence. Of course, those who wore black mail invariably made additional demands, but she was, after all, a woman, and common born at that. He could charm her into compliance long before her wits took her that far.

And if you can't charm her, a ghostly voice hissed deep in Beldar's mind, you can always kill her.

That notion was so absurd Beldar was able to brush it aside as absently as he might wave away a stingfly.

"It so happens," he told the unsmiling lass, "I know a wizard who just might serve our purpose…"

As the carriage pulled away from the offices of Dyre's Fine Walls and Dwellings, Naoni silently reckoned the cost of her impulsive extravagance. In her rush to leave the house, she'd snatched up the coinsack holding the entire profits of her latest delivery of gem thread. The fare for their hither-and-yon travels, plus gratuity for the patient carriageman, would devour nearly every coin.

Faendra was also reconsidering the morning's adventure, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as the carriage bounced and rumbled. At Naoni's look, she smiled ruefully. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather walk. The novelty's worn thinner than the padding under these seats."

"Novelty's like silk and passion," observed Starragar Jardeth in the disgruntled way Naoni now knew to be his usual manner. "All three wear out quickly."

Taeros, who'd proclaimed himself in need of a nap, lifted one eyelid. "Speaking from sad experience?" he asked archly. "The fair Phandelopae, perchance, has turned love's silken embrace into threadbare rags? Take heart, man. I know an herb…"

"Most amusing," snapped his dour friend. "Save your herbs to impress the Dyres' prickly maid. You'll need all you can muster to win past the thorns on that rose!"

The Hawkwinter's eyes opened wide, and for a moment he looked ready to dispute Starragar's words. Then a puzzled expression crossed his face. He closed his mouth without saying a word and settled back into his seat. Though his eyes closed again, Naoni doubted very much he sought slumber.

She pushed aside sudden dismay. Lark was a sensible girl, too proud to dally with the likes of Lord Taeros. On the other hand, the man's tart wit was like enough to hers that they might…

No, surely not. Even if Lark were interested, Korvaun would remind his friend to observe propriety. If ever a man could be trusted in such matters, Naoni mused, 'twas he.

Or could he?

A small sigh escaped her. She'd been reared believing no man raised with a noble's sense of entitlement could be trusted in such matters. It was a conviction too deeply and painfully engraved to lightly abandon.

The carriage stopped by the Dyres' door. Naoni accepted Korvaun's hand to alight then counted out coins to the carriageman. It seemed she'd reckoned fare and gratuity correctly; he tipped his cap in thanks before shaking the reins and rumbling away.

The front door opened before Naoni reached its latch, to reveal Varandros Dyre wearing an expression that brought to mind a gathering storm.

"Where've you been? I was about to call the Watch and report you missing!"

"Just tending to errands, Father," Naoni replied soothingly.

She waved at the men behind her. "Lord Helmfast's here to speak with you… to ask you to release him, and his friends, from their promise to keep clear of the women of your household."

"Why?"

Varandros Dyre launched that word like a war-arrow, leaving Naoni blinking in sudden realization that she had no words to answer him.

These men have offered to help us spy on your New Day activities, Father, was fairly accurate, but hardly likely to sway him. These young nobles desire to make common cause with you, in working to unmask the Lords… No. The first, approving reaction of Taeros Hawkwinter to this notion was too flimsy a foundation for that-and her father would never believe it.

Help came from a most unexpected quarter. "It's been pointed out to me," Taeros Hawkwinter said dryly, casting a glance at Starragar, "that I may have some interest in your maidservant."

Dyre glared. "The girl suits us fine and is not for hire!"

Faendra giggled. "Father, you're not that old, to have forgotten how matters of the h… ah, such things go."

The guildmaster flushed, redness swiftly darkening to the deep, mottled blood-red of fury. "If you're even thinking of debauching my servant-"

"I assure you, goodsir, I'd not insult that woman if I were in full plate and defended by the City Guard's griffonback lancers!" Taeros declared fervently.

Puzzlement chased ire from the guildmaster's face, and he passed a hand over his forehead. "I'm in no mind for puzzles just now, young lord."

The deep weariness in his voice smote Naoni's heart. "What is it, Father?" she asked softly.

He turned tired eyes on her. "We've another death, lass. Jivin was found in an alley with a warning carved into his hide." He looked at Taeros with more worry than anger on his face. "You might have need of armor and lancers if you plan to keep company with my lasses."

Korvaun said quietly, "Some might hear a threat in those words, sir, but I doubt that's your intent."

"No," Dyre said simply, ere turning back to Naoni. "I bade Jivin watch over you lasses, as he was quick on his feet and knew the streets. They killed him to warn me off, that's plain enough, but 'twas me who sent him to his doom."

Naoni heard Faendra's quick gasp and whirled around. Faen's eyes were wide, and the hand she held over her mouth trembled. Naoni reached for her sister's other hand. The small, suddenly cold fingers curled tightly around hers.

Starragar Jardeth lifted a hand. "The warning: What was it, exactly?"

Every face turned to him, incredulously.

"I mean no disrespect," the dark-cloaked lordling told them, "but if I'd seen someone in my employ so served, I'd not be of a mind to see past the outrage. One who stands apart may see clearly, and the precise wording may shed light on the intent-and the murderer."

Varandros Dyre stared at the young noble in silence for an uncomfortably long time before muttering, "Well said."

It was even longer ere he added, "Thorass, 'twas: 'The Wages of Curiosity.' I've been asking questions of late-never mind what about. Someone's warning me off."

"Perhaps we're not so far removed from this matter as Lord Jardeth suggests," Korvaun said slowly. "You should know, Master Dyre, that we've been seeking answers about the fallen buildings. A friend of ours died in the collapse of the festhall, he whose dagger you found. A good man, who shouldn't be judged by that one day's mischief at Redcloak Lane."

"So say you," observed Dyre, something also like sympathy in his tone, "and so you should say. Even if that foolishness told young Kothort's true measure, men should stand by their friends."

"We are agreed on that, and perhaps in other matters, as well," Korvaun said carefully. "These mysteriously fallen buildings may touch on matters that concern us both. If this is so, release us from our promise, and our swords are yours to command."

The stonemason blinked, staring at the young noblemen as if he'd never seen them before.

"I… I'll think on it," he said curtly. Giving them an abrupt nod, he pointed at his daughters and then imperiously at his open door, and strode off down the street.

Faendra whirled to face Naoni. "Jivin was following us!"

"Yes, Father just said so," Naoni agreed, puzzled by the fear in her sister's eyes.

"Lark… Lark told me not to worry about the man following us. She said he was being dealt with. Being dealt with! I never thought-"

"Nor should you," Naoni said firmly, ignoring the sick, sinking feeling in her own stomach. "We've known Lark nearly a year, and she's as reliable as the tides."

"Perhaps Mistress Faendra has cause for concern," said Starragar gravely, his eyes on Taeros. "You were wearing a silver medallion this morn, were you not?"

Taeros's hand flew to his throat. "It's gone! Blast it!"

"I saw you wearing it when you got up to leave the club-before the lass so tartly insisted on helping you with your cloak. I just noticed its absence now."

Naoni frowned. "That could be mere happenstance. Perhaps it fell off in the carriage?"

Starragar shook his head. "I was last to alight, and I always look about for items that might have been left behind. As for happenstance, is it also happenstance that your servant's been seen with Elaith Craulnober, the owner of those two fallen buildings?"

"Nine happy Hells," Taeros murmured softly. "The elf I hired to watch Lark hasn't reported back. I wonder if she's…"

"We'll look into it," Korvaun said briskly. "Mistress Naoni, where might Lark be now?"

"She implied she was returning here to tend to chores, but Father's worry rather gives the lie to that."

"Lark stayed behind to talk to Beldar," Faendra said confidently. "I looked back as our carriage pulled away, and neither had come down the stairs."

The nobles exchanged worried glances.

Naoni peered from one to another. "What? What is it?"

"Beldar hasn't… been himself of late," Korvaun told her. "I'd put it down to grief about Malark. Much as I hate to admit it, we may have another worry in common."

Beldar glanced back at Lark. "Take care. The steps are damp and slippery."

She put her hand on the mossy wall, her face ghostly green in the faint lichen-glow. Beldar took some satisfaction in her tense expression. Clearly, the wench had no fondness for tunnels and close places, or perhaps she was reconsidering the wisdom of blackmail, though she should hardly have expected a sordid transaction to be free of discomfort.

The look on her face when they stopped before the Dathran's skullgate was all Beldar could have desired. It turned to open fear when the front four "teeth" swung inward to reveal the way on.

"Well met again, Lord Roaringhorn," the dry and familiar voice came from the darkness beyond. "I see you are something more than you were… and something less. Come in, the maid first."

Beldar waved Lark forward. She clenched her teeth, climbed through the opening-and promptly squeaked in surprise at the touch of the warding magics.

Beldar joined her. The old witch was standing with her black Rashemaar mask in her hand and her keen blue eyes bent on Lark. "Welcome, child. I sense in you a great longing to know. Tell Dathran what you seek."

Lark handed over the charm. The Dathran passed it from one wizened hand to the other.

"Stolen," she announced, her voice devoid of judgment. "More than that, I cannot tell."

Lark swallowed. "Is there… magic about it?"

Dathran closed her eyes, and her face took on the expression of one who listens to distant voices. "None," she said slowly.

"So you can tell me nothing about it."

"Only that you fear the use that might be made of it and need not, yet. Perhaps I can tell something of its history, if that would ease your mind."

When Lark nodded, the woman began to chant. A soft, humming haze gathered around the charm but faded at the end of the incantation.

Dathran handed it back. "I learned one word, nothing more: slipshield. Holds that any meaning for you?"

Lark shook her head and slipped the charm into the bag at her belt. "No, but I thank you for trying."

A high-pitched chuckle came from the gargoyle-like figure perched on the mantel. Lark caught her breath as the small gray form she'd thought a mere carving flapped batlike wings and showed its fangs in a leer.

"You needn't thank her," the imp mocked. "You have to pay her."

Beldar handed over a palmful of coins and ushered Lark out of the Dathran's lair. When they emerged from the skullgate, he seized her arm and spun her around to face him.

"What's this about? From whom did you steal this, and why did you think it might be magic?"

Lark tugged free and stepped back, lifting her chin defiantly. "You keep your secrets, Lord Roaringhorn, and I'll keep mine."

Beldar's first inclination was to let the matter go; after all, what cared he about a silver trinket? Yet a dark, hissing murmur in the back of his mind wanted the charm.

Without another thought he seized the bag at her belt and tugged sharply. Its strings broke, Lark lunged for it-and he backhanded her across the face.

She reeled, face showing none of the astonishment Beldar himself felt. Before he could offer a word of apology, she hauled up her skirts in obvious preparation for a groin-high kick.

He sidestepped into a crouch to shield the Roaringhorn family jewels-and astonishingly, the lass punched his face, hard.

Blast! He dropped the bag to clutch his bleeding nose. Lark snatched up her property and raced away up the stairs, as nimble as a sewer rat.

Two high-pitched, evil chuckles arose behind the skull-wall, but for once Beldar's thoughts were not of his own humiliation.

He, a noble of Waterdeep, had robbed a commoner. He'd struck a woman. By any lights, these were not the deeds of a man destined to be a death-defying hero!

You are something more than you were… and something less.

The Dathran's words haunted Beldar as he trudged up the steps into a future that had never looked so uncertain.

"Ah… Master Dyre?"

Varandros Dyre glanced up sharply. "I'm starting to dread news unlooked-for," he growled, letting fall a sheaf of building plans onto his littered desk. "What is it this time?"

The man at his office door was a senior framer who'd been with Dyre's Fine Walls and Dwellings from the early days. A calm, capable worker, Jaerovan was first hand of his own crew for nigh a decade and well worthy of that trust, a man of prudence and few words. It took much to bring any expression at all onto Jaerovan's old boot-leather face, a face that, just now, looked very grim.

Varandros lifted an eyebrow. "Well? Out with it, man!"

"Another building's down. One of ours."

Dyre's mouth dropped open.

"On Redcloak Lane," Jaerovan added, before the guildmaster could snap the inevitable question. "The one Marlus was-"

Varandros Dyre went as white as winter snow. His fist crashed down onto his desk so hard that the massive piece of furniture shook, with just a hint of splintering lacing the thunderous boom of his blow.

Then Dyre was moving, snatching up the swordcane Jaerovan had only seen him carry twice before and striding for the door like a storm wind. The framer hastily got out of the way.

As he strode past, Dyre snapped, "Have your men spread word to all my workers: Be sharp of eye and fleet of foot, for this may not be the last message the Lords of Waterdeep send this day!"

Jaerovan gaped at the Shark's swiftly departing back. "The Lords-?"

"This is a blade meant for my guts," Varandros Dyre muttered to himself as he hastened down the street, leaving his doors standing wide open in his wake and servants scuttling to close them.

"They'll have my house down next! My lasses to an inn… my oddcoin chest removed to safety… then muster the New Day. And buy a good sword!"

A dozen dockworkers, stripped to the waist and deeply browned by long labors under the suns of many summers, tossed bales of Moonshae linen and wool into waiting carts, swinging the heavy bundles as easily as a street juggler tosses matched balls. With every bale, they sent rumors flying though the air with the same practiced ease.

"Crashed right down into the street, it did! Took old Amphalus and his oxcart, beasts and all, and left 'em bloody paste on the cobbles! They're hawking pieces of what's left in the Redcloak Rest and the taverns all down Gut Alley!"

"Can't Dyre's men lay two blocks together straight? Or is he crooked enough to skimp on stones or deep pilings?"

"Neither, they're saying! 'Tis the Lords, setting their men to work with picks-and conjured gnawing things, too! — to dig out the pilings and bring everything down! For daring to say we should all know who's behind every mask and how they vote! They're going to ruin him!"

"Aye, and crush the rest of us! Stupid dolt, can't he see they wear masks for a reason? The gods don't make enough gold to let us pay the bribes we'd all have to, once everyone knew who every Lord was, to get 'em all to rule our way-and outbid every other jack in Waterdeep, who'd be payin' just as hard to buy votes into fallin' their way! Serves him right, I say!"

"Oh, does it now? What of the rest of us, who happen to be trading inside a building he worked on a dozen summers back or just passing it by on the street below when the Lords decide to work a little justice on him? What did we do to be smashed down alongside him?"

"Grew up in Waterdeep, What! Got on with earning coins like greedy little packrats, an' never looked up to challenge those ruling the roost! So now the Lords hold it their right to go on doing just as they please, an' slapping down anyone who dares to question! We've done it, jacks, all of us! So have we the spine, I wonder, to stand up now an' undo it?"

"How?"

"By standing forth an' dragging down a few men in masks, that's how! Or stringing up Old Lord Fancyboots, the only Lord we all know!"

"I thought he was already dead!"

"So 'tis said, time and again, but have we ever seen a corpse, hey? That strutting paladinspawn has more lives than a troll! My sister Hermienka works the laundry in the Castle, an' she seen him yestermorn, stalking about bigger than life."

"You've the right of it, Smedge: A corpse is what's needed! If we can't find the Hidden Lords, get the one we know. That ought to lure the rest of 'em out!"

There was an uncomfortable little silence.

"That's… that's lawless talk, that is. You sure you're Waterdeep born?"

"So my mother says, an' I doubt she'd've reared me on Ship Street if she'd been able to claw up coin enough for us to get out the gates an' live anywhere else! So don't be trying to wave my words away as some dark outlander plot 'gainst the Deep!"

"Why talk of stringing up poor Piergeiron's corpse, then, if you love Old Stinkingstreets so much?"

"Use your head, man! If they can take down Varandros Dyre-a guildmaster, mind-while we stand and stare and do naught, what's to stop them coming for you next? Or you-or you? Or me? When the walking fish came, we fought! When the orcs came, years back, we fought! Well, these're just as bad-and they're inside the walls with us!"

The chorus of curses that followed was heartfelt, and the hearts were not happy.

Sunset was a bell away as Naoni left the cool green shade of the City of the Dead behind and stepped into the Coinscoffin. Merchants' Rest, more properly, but only haughty folk ever called it that. Down its tiled, high-vaulted, echoing forehall she walked, not looking at the statues of the mighty, and stepped through the everglowing arch she'd hated for years.

Her next step was bone-chilling, as always, and then she was shivering in a wooded garden, on a path somewhere far from the sound and bustle of the city, heading for a familiar glade.

All around, flanking the ribbons of winding paths, was a rough pavement of small, flat stones set into the ground, so numerous that the open space between the trees looked very much like a huge cobbled courtyard. Naoni was in the Guildbones.

Every stone was a life gone, and every grave was covered with a row of them, for guildworkers and their families were buried in layers. Some guildmasters were wealthy-and arrogant-enough to buy grand, statue-guarded vaults in the forehall before their passing, but Naoni's father had been a long way from guildmaster when his wife died.

More than that, Naoni knew he'd have to resign the mastership the moment Master Blund recovered from brain-fever. He'd been chosen as acting guildmaster purely because guild rules prevented anyone with standing in another guild-and Varandros Dyre was a member of the Stonecutters and Masons as well as the Carpenters and Roofers-from permanently warming the master's chair, so no one had to fear he'd try to keep it when the Hammer returned.

So like the stillbirths of the lowliest apprentices' wives, Naoni's mother "rested" in a simple wooden box with two sailors below her, a carter and a wool-carder above, and layers of dirt and lime between them all. Years from now, this glade would be dug up to make space for the newly dead, and any bones left put into a common vault. The markers would be given to descendants, unclaimed ones to the stoneworkers.

Playing in her father's workshop, Naoni had spent much childhood time wondering about the forgotten lives graven into such stones. Few folk knew nearly every building in Waterdeep contained at least one of them. Small wonder tales of ghosts abounded in the city!

Naoni knelt, placed a small spray of blueburst on the marker that read "Ilyndeira Dyre," and then sat back on her heels to wait for memories of her mother to ease her heart.

Or, perhaps, firm her resolve.

Ilyndeira Dyre had loved a noble and come to grief because of it. Naoni had known this since her twelfth summer, after her mother's death, when she'd found Ilyndeira's hidden journal, letters, and a few sad little keepsakes. Her mother had never forgotten, and Naoni had sworn she'd never forget, either. Yet when she looked into Korvaun Helmfast's steady blue eyes, she found herself in danger of breaking the oath she'd sworn over her mother's grave.

He seemed a good man, and growing into his own before her eyes. Quiet ways and all, Korvaun was fast becoming a leader of men; she'd seen his friends' faces when they looked to him, and she was only a guildsmaster's daughter and housekeeper, a simple spinner of threads. He was courteous to commonborn women, and had honored a servant girl at the funeral, before many nobles. None of that swept away the fact that he was a noble of Waterdeep.

Everything was happening so fast. Father had come roaring home, bellowing orders and all but dragging them from the house! She'd barely had time enough to seize her spinning tools before he hustled them to an inn. Faendra, of course, had been pleased at the novelty and the prospect of some leisure, but Naoni wanted silence and solitude, the solace of soft shadows, in green places like this one. Grand folk had their private gardens and arbors, but this garden of the dead was the only haven available to the likes of Naoni Dyre.

So she sat in silence, waiting for the quiet green peace to find its way into her heart.

"Another building's down! The Lords did it!"

Heads turned as the shout rang back off magnificently carved tomb walls.

The City of the Dead was crowded with folk escaping the stink of Dock Ward fish-boilings and a harbor dredging. There had been many mutters of "The New Day, they call themselves!" and "Piergeiron's dead, and they've shoved someone else into his armor to fool us! He crossed some Hidden Lord or other, and they killed him for it!" and even darker sentiments as peddlers and stroll-cooks moved through the throngs.

There was a restless mood in the parklike cemetery. The Watch patrols, walking their usual patrols, felt it. As angry talk swelled around them, they kept their mouths shut and pretended not to hear, where at other times they'd have stepped forward to warn and remonstrate.

Nor were they the only ones treading lightly in the cemetery. Highcoin folk who might on other occasions have loudly called on the Watch to chastise and more, kept their peace and walked warily, listening instead of airily voicing opinions.

"The Lords are driving Dyre down, building by building!"

Heads turned.

"What's that? What building?" a merchant bellowed, in a voice that rang out like a warhorn.

"The Lords are smashing the New Day!" someone else shouted, bringing inevitable calls of, "What's the New Day?"

Folk were gathering quickly, striding frown-faced from bowers behind more distant burial halls. In the darker shadows of the tombs, half-seen ghostly shapes stirred restlessly, called forth into the sunlight by the sudden anger and fear riding the air.

"The Lords are against us all!" a man roared, waving his belt-knife.

A woman standing near shrieked, "They can blast down all our homes, and take our coins from among our bones, and build anew!"

"They're hunting Varandros Dyre in the streets right now," a breathless cap-merchant gasped, trotting up the cobbled path from the nearest cemetery gate. Others, standing near, took up that cry.

"They'll kill us all, if they think we're of the New Day!"

"What's this 'New Day'?"

"Get home and get your coins before they bring the walls down on your children! Fetch your swords! This is it!"

"The Lords are hunting the New Day! The Lords are after us all!"

"What by all the blazing Hells is the New Day?"

That exasperated outlander's shout was lost in the rising roar of angry Waterdhavians drawing belt-knives and gathering nose-to-nose to shout rumors into dark truths, and dark truths into war-cries.

A Watch horn rang out-then another-and suddenly the crowd knew its foe.

Heads turned, eyes peered, pointing arms shot out-and in an instant the Watch became the hunted.

"This-this is not right!" an old noble growled, reaching for his sword. "Give me that, man!"

And he plucked a Watch-horn out of the hands of a paling, stammering officer and blew it as hard as he could, in the old, frantic dah-DAH, da-DAH blast that meant Aid! Aid here! All aid here NOW! That call was echoed in the streets around the City of the Dead, and helmed heads turned, peering down from the towers of the city wall along the east side of the cemetery.

"They're coming for us!" a cobbler shouted, waving a stool around his head like a club. "They'll hunt us down! Fight for your necks! Fight for your freedom! Fight for Waterdeep!"

"For Waterdeep!" the roar went up, as furious as any beast's howl, and all Watchmen within reach died in a few panting moments of furious hacking.

Watch-horns were sounding closer, now-and the high, clear song of a City Guard muster-horn rang out from a wall-tower.

Some folk cowered, but others bawled defiance and fury, and ran at all who stood against them. The old noble's blade bought the whimpering young Watchman a few moments more of fearful life ere they were both hacked down. Then everyone was running, racing amid the tombs as Watchmen and armored Guardsmen with drawn swords burst into the cemetery at every gate. Women and children screamed and wept and ran wildly across the sward, men snatched up cobblestones and funeral urns and turned to fling and overwhelm anyone in uniform-and swords were snatched from failing hands to be swung against the law-keepers.

"The New Day!" someone shouted. "For the New Day! Down with the Lords!"

"They killed Piergeiron! For Piergeiron!"

A fat man swung a captured Watch blade so hard that it burst apart in shards and sparks around him as it bent the sword it struck and drove a tall Guardsman head-over-booted-heels down a short stone stair into bushes, where shrieking women, clawing and kicking, overwhelmed him.

Guard-horns sang out over the tumult as astonished commanders stared open-mouthed over the sea of angry citizenry.

"'Tis a bloody war! A war within our gates!" one snarled, and blew the horncall that would summon the Watchful Order. Surely this fury must be spell-driven…

A few frantic breaths later, he blew his horn again, this time the call for his men to rally around. It was soon accomplished, for anyone who'd dared stray too far from his fellows had already been slain.

"This is madness!" he shouted, to those who were left. "If we try to stand, we'll be butchering fellow citizens until it's too dark to see! So: Sword-ring, blades out, and walk steadily back to the gate we came in by! We'll form a shield-wall outside the Deadrest!"

With his horn he told Guardsmen elsewhere what they was doing as screaming, curse-spitting citizens crowded close around his men again, striking with bench-slats, lamplighting poles, and anything else long enough to outreach a Guard's blade.

Hardened Watch and Guard officers cursed in amazement as they fought their way back to the gates.

"They've gone mad! Mad!" one snarled, and others nodded grimly, their eyes wide in sweating faces.

"That's it," a white-haired Guard officer snapped from his saddle, as blood-drenched Guardsmen staggered out through the gate in front of him. "Form two shield-walls, funneling back that way! Arrest all who leave, and at sunset, close this gate!"

The woman sitting cold-faced on the horse behind his lifted her hand in a swift gesture, and a sudden blue glow swirled around the officer's mouth. Abruptly, the sounds of other men shouting came out of it, and another cold order, from unseen lips: "Spread the word. I, Marimmon of the Guard, do so order: round up all who flee the City of the Dead before sunset-and close the gates at that time on those who don't. Fell magic's at work among the tombs! Ghosts or no ghosts, I'm not having this butchery spill out into the streets!"