Downshadow (21 page)

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.”

Heads 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 ro 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 priesr. “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 rhem. “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 sweermeats and fruirs, honey and melon and tarts, breads of a score of grains carved in rhe shapes of animals, wines of a hundred lands, cheeses of dozens of creatures.

While Myrin piled her plate high, Kalen scanned the parry. Merriment filled the courtyard: the murmur of a thousand conversations, laughs, and whispers in our-of-the-way corners where inrimate encounters waited.

Damn, Kalen thought, seeing the lovers in their half-hidden alcoves. He glanced at Myrin—ar her slender posterior as she bent to inspecr 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-f, 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 ar a petite woman dressed in a gown composed of black leather and webbing—not much of either—rhat barely covered her mosr precious family heirlooms. Her skin was tinted black and her hair was snowy white. Her skin marched 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.”

“That’s more than enough!” Wildfire’s eyes flashed. She looked to Kalen. “We’ll let Lord Nameless decide.”

“What?” Kalen goggled.

Wildfire caught up his right hand and wound herself into his arm; her smile could cut diamonds and her glare was posirively deadly. If The Simbul of legend had half that sort of menace, no wonder she’d kept Thay so terrified so long. “Choose,” she said coldly.

Talantress curled herself around his left side. Kalen was almost glad he couldn’t feel much, or all that magic-black skin would drive him to distraction. “You’d better choose me, or you’ll regret it,” she whispered. “I’ll make personally sure.”

“Choose me? Wildfire purred in his other ear. “I’m much more fun than she is.” Her tone shifted from suggestive to commanding. “And my uncles are richer—and employ more swordsmen to throttle fools who spurn me.”

“Ah,” Kalen said, his mind racing to match his thundering heart.

“Ninny!” Wildfire said. “You want me, aye saer?”

Talantress grasped Kalen’s other arm. “He’s dancing with me?

“Me!” Lady Wildfire hissed.

All the while, Kalen watched as Araezra wandered toward them. He couldn’t get away, not with the ladies fighting over him. He was trapped.

“You should spare yon knight, ladies,” said a gentle voice behind them.

The soft and alluring voice—strangely familiar—froze him in place like a statue.

“Ilira!” Wildfire’s eyes widened, and she curtsied deeply. Her beautiful face broke into a genuine smile. “So good to see you.”

“Lady Nathalan.” Talantress gave her a false smile. “We did not ask your opinion.” Her tone was that of a noble addressing a lesser—an upsrart merchant, whose only honor lay in coin.

“Apologies, young Lady Roaringhorn. I only meant to warn of knights who wear gray and walk lonely roads.” A velvet-gloved hand touched Kalen’s elbow. “Like this one.”

Kalen turned. Lady Ilira—the eladrin he’d seen dancing with Lorien—stood just to his shoulder, but her presence loomed greater than her size. Perhaps it was the weight of years—like all elves, she

wore a timelessness about her that defied any attempt to place her age. Her face hid behind a velvet half-mask that revealed only her cheeks and thin lips.

Her pupilless eyes gleamed bright and golden like those of a wolf, with all the tempestuous hunger to match. Those eyes had seen centuries of pain and joy, Kalen thought. Wisdom lurked there, and a sort of sadness that chilled his heart and shivered his knees.

Ilira wore a seamless low-cut black gown that left her shoulders and throat bare but otherwise covered every inch of her body, highlighting and enhancing her skin. Her midnight hair was bound in an elaborate bun at the back of her head. She wore what he thought was a wide black necklace that broke the smooth expanse of her breast. He realized quickly that it was not jewelry—she wore naught of that but a star sapphire pendant looped around her left wrist—but rather a series of black runes inked in her flesh, which gleamed as though alive.

She had asked him a question, Kalt n realized. He also realized he’d been staring at her chest, and his face flushed. Not for the first time, he thanked the gods for his full helm.

“Is this not so, Sir Shadow?” Ilira asked again.

Why was her cool, lovely voice so damned familiar? Where did he know it from?

“It is,” Kalen said, because he could say nothing else.