Prelude

Reflections

	How has this happened?
	In one evening, I have been transformed from 
Piergeiron Paladinson, Open Lord of Waterdeep, into this ...
this inward-shrinking worm. Worse—-my palace, my city,
and my world have transformed around me.

	My palace slumps into sand.
	Waterdeep melts into air.
	Toril sloughs away.

... I blame it on the dust. The will of dust has changed.
The chorus of specks no longer sings, "I cling to thee."
Every mote has turned traitor. Rock becomes sand. Sand
becomes dust. Dust becomes nothing at all. The particles
have denounced their kinship. What once bound all to all
is gone....

	On, to sleep....
	I should have expected transformations. After all, I had
chosen to orbit a changeable star.

	Eidola. She is changeable in all things—mood and
mind, will and wont Only her beauty remains the same.
	
	I comfort myself with the thought of her beauty.
	Somewhere, her bright, silvery eyes look upon something. 
Somewhere, her long auburn hair casts its shadow
on some rock or blade of grass. Her smile, with its thousand 
mysteries and thousand thousand promises, some-
where enchants someone.

	I tell myself that somewhere, she breathes-
	She must breathe. Her beauty is eternal. It is the same
beauty that Shaleen had, the beauty that lives on in
Eidola....

	No, I must not think that.
	Eidola's beauty is her own.
	Eidola's beauty is immortal.
	She will not die like Shaleen.
	Will not die, or has not died? What sorrows fill the
transforming tense of words!

	Oh, to sleep....
	I met Eidola in a dream.
	I wore full plate armour. My white stallion. Dreadnought,
was resplendently barded. Even the summer woods had put
on their best: velvet mosses, pendulous cones, carpets of
gold.... Insects whispered in the heavy afternoon.
	A scream shattered the stillness. It was a high, helpless
sound. Someone was cornered, crying out in mortal terror.
	I halted Dreadnought. I listened. The woods were filled
with ghost echoes. Then a damnable stillness settled.

	Dreadnought huffed. His satiny back twitched.
	A rustling came in the trailside trees. With it came an-
other terrified scream.

	A woman, I thought... a beautiful, helpless lady
trapped in some old ruined tower... beset on all sides by
blackguards... the stuff of dreams.

	"Ho, Dreadnought," I called.

The great stallion was already galloping toward the
sound.

	When I saw the woman at the tree, I thought of
Shaleen. Her hair was the auburn of an autumn evening.
Her teeth had the gleam of pearls. She was armoured in
well-worn field plate.
	And, like Shaleen, she was anything but helpless.
	Ignoring me, the woman grabbed a tree in front of her
and shook it. Another scream came from above.

	I looked up, and saw a scaly kobold clinging there.
	"You can't have your money back!" the puny creature
shouted. It shook its lizard like head and angrily jangled a
coin purse.

	I stepped down from Dreadnought. I walked toward the
woman. "Unless that purse holds a fortune in gold, you'd
best let him go, Shaleen."
	She cast a silent reproof my way, and shook the tree
again.

In apology, I took out my battle-axe and began chopping 
the trunk. It shuddered with each blow and started to
lean. I wiped sweat from my face and chopped again.
Only when the tree crackled and fell did I look up toward
the kobold.

	It was gone. While I had chopped, the woman had used
a snip of jerky to coax the thief down. Now, woman and
monster sat side by side like old friends, eating meat and
watching me sweat

	I laughed and joined them.
	She had lured a kobold and a man.
	I became her willing captive.

	Her name was Eidola. Is Eidola. Is, is! What sorrows
fill me transforming tense of words!

	She is gone. My benevolent captor is gone. My changeable 
star has fled, comet like. or winked out altogether.
	Perhaps her will has changed with the will of the dust,
the fleeting and incomprehensible migration of minute attractions.

	Oh, to sleep-...

Chapter 1

Perils in the Palace

Laskar Nesher, a fat nobleman with an illicit logging
empire, led his family toward the gate to Piergeiron's
palace. The brown waistcoat he wore was just snug enough
to make him look like a bratwurst, and his jowls were red
from chafing on his lapels. A slender consort clung to his
side. She was half his age, one fifth his bulk, and twice as
quick with coin. Behind them trudged a teenaged boy who
oozed boredom and fashionable disaffection.

Laskar halted before the gate guard and presented his
invitation:

	Master and Friend Laskar Nesher. and Heir
Kastonoph Nesher:

	The honor of your presence is requested at the
marriage of Piergeiron Paladinson, Open Lord of
Waterdeep, and Eidola of Neverwinter, Descendant
of Boarskyr. The wedding will take place the Seven-
teenth and Eighteenth Days of Eleint, this Year of
the Haunting.

	Please arrive by third watch on the Seventeenth,
an hour before sunset. The feasting will begin at
nightfall, the masked ball thereafter, as stomachs
allow, and the nuptials at the stroke of midnight on
the Eighteenth. Sandrew the Wise, Savant of Oghma
at the Font of Knowledge, and Khelben "Blackstaff"
Arunsun, High Mage ofWaterdeep, will officiate.

	"Have you brought any weapons?" the guard asked
levelly.

Laskar said, "Of course not We'd not bring—"
"I suppose I'd best surrender this," broke in the youth,
handing over a sheathed dagger. "And while you're peace-
stringing mine, you might as well do Fathers, too.'*
	Laskar Hushed, even redder than before. He struggled
at his belt for a moment and handed over his once-hidden
blade.
	The guard finished tying the youth's dagger into its
sheath and did the same for the father's. "Anything else?"
Before Laskar could answer, a shadowy figure standing
in the gateway said, "No. Nor do they bear any harmful
magics."

	Startled. the Neshers turned. They had not noticed the
black-robed and grey-bearded mage. The wizard gave a
nod of approval to young Kastonoph.

	The lad returned the nod, blood draining from his
face. “Good evening. Lord Mage Arunsun," he managed
to say.
	"Good evening to you," replied the mage. "For your
honesty, you, young Kastonoph, can call me Khelben, or.
perhaps, Biackstaff."

	The lad stood a moment longer, gaping in disbelief.
His father quickly gathered him in and herded the youth
past the hawkeyed wizard and through the open gates.

	Beyond lay a hall, high and bright. Slender pillars ran
in colonnades along its sides. An elegant fan vault arched
overhead. Across the polished floor of marble, silken
gowns slid beside worsted robes of state. In one corner of
the room, citterns and gitterns and fifes serenaded the
guests, who added their happy babble to the music. The
place overflowed with the sounds of the best people conversing 
with their betters.

	"Another dull noble wedding." groaned Kastonoph—or
Noph as he was known to all but his father. His amazement 
was gone, replaced by a practiced mask of cynicism. 
"Common lads my age are out smiting dragons.
making tragic deals with fiends, and rescuing their lady-
loves from warlocks."

	Laskar rarely listened to his discontented offspring. For
decades, the man had heeded nothing but the jingle of
coins. "Please don't make your presence at this affair
more scandalous than your absence would have been."
Laskar had coined this turn of phrase some five years
back. He liked it so well, he used it every chance he got.
	Noph made a rude sign as he scratched his cheek.
	His father's consort knew the boy at least as well as she
did the man. "Noph, why don't you take a look about?
	There's no more dangerous company in Undermountain
than you'll find here in the palace tonight."

	Noph blinked at her. Though he hated Stelar for
openly squandering his father's money—-Noph's own inheritance 
the woman was perceptive, shrewd, scandalously fun, 
and at five years his elder, an honest beauty.
Noph knew she was trying to get rid of him, but he half-
expected she spoke the truth about the perils in Piergeiron's
palace.

	Nodding knowingly to her, he made a quick exit.
The heir of the Nesher estate had just rounded one slim
column of the room when be heard his father's voice ask,
"Where's that brat off to now?"
	Stelar's reply was appeasing. "Oh, off to save Faerun
again, I'm sure."

					*****

	The white-suited groom, Piergeiron Paladinson, and
his eight-foot-tall bodyguard, Madieron Sunderstone,
headed past banqueting tables filled with nobles and
guildmasters. Or, at least, they tried to head past. Every
one of the guests stopped Piergeiron to ask a favor.

	The guests had been sitting long enough to become entrenched 
and fidgety. Forks, knives, and other weaponry
lay tantalizingly close. Roasted boar taunted from steaming 
platters. The very air smelled of opportunity—all of it
just out of reach. This combination of heightened appetites 
and suppressed activities conspired to make the
guests aggressive, suspicious, and covetous of Piergeiron's 
attentions. Until they could feast on boar, they
would dine on groom.

First had been the Neshers—lumber money of the most
vulgar kind. Piergeiron noted the conspicuous absence of
their ever-prodigal son, Noph, the most pleasant member of
an unpleasant crew. Laskar Nesher ended his greeting with
a request to be moved closer to the elven nobles of the High
Forest. He hoped to "trick the longears" into bartering away
logging rights.

Ever the diplomat, Piergeiron answered with a tactful
version of, "Not if Ao himself commanded it."
The elves, perhaps not out of longear-shot, insinuated
that at Piergeiron's next wedding, he should avoid inviting
tree killers and stone hackers.

To that, the Open Lord replied enigmatically that many
current guests would be excluded, should there be a "next
wedding."

As to the stone hackers—dwarves who considered
themselves descended from Delzoun—they requested
only prompter refills of their ale mugs. Already, they had
drained a quarter barrel apiece!

Piergeiron sighed and ruefully rubbed his shock of
black hair. There would be a few more tufts of gray in it
after tonight. Surviving his own wedding, and making
sure the rest of the celebrants did, would be his greatest
feat of statesmanship yet.

"I will arrange for a tapped barrel to be placed on your
table," he told the dwarves before continuing on.
	Not all the annoyances were this harmless. After departing 
the dwarves and before encountering the next barrage, 
Piergeiron turned to his mop-headed bodyguard.

	"Keep your eyes sharp."

	That advice seemed ill-considered, given the sheepdog
locks dangling in Madieron's eyes, but the bodyguard
nodded dutifully.

	Piergeiron continued. "I've gotten wind of plots against
the trade pact. It must be sealed tonight. Some factions
would cause any disturbance to prevent it. But, more than
the pact, I fear for Eidola. Guarding me means keeping
one eye on her."
	Madieron's eyes struggled askew beneath his bangs.
"Got it, milord " he said.

	The Open Lord nodded dubiously. Madieron was a
good man, as steady, strong, patient, and smart as a rock.
Piergeiron was his close match in battle, but tonight he'd
supply the more cerebral virtues for the pair. Between the
two of them, they were ready for anything.

	A tremendous clangour of silver tea services and overturned 
platters rang from the end of the banquet hall,
along with a shriek that stilled the chatter and bustle of the
party.
	With none of their previous decorum, Piergeiron and
his bodyguard shouldered past the guests, who were too
busy gasping or rising to their feet to detain them. The
room went deathly silent except for the scud of chairs, the
clank of Madieron's war-shod feet, and the sound of
angry voices—three male and one... one...
	"Eidola," Piergeiron croaked out, rushing toward his
bride.

	His cry, hoarse though it was, settled all din for a moment. 
Piergeiron pushed past the wall of gawkers that had
formed around the disturbance. Beyond was a strange
tableau.
	Eidola stood at her place setting, fury on her face. Her
ire was directed at a little hooded fellow whose arms
were pinned back by a pair of door guards. The centre of
Eidola's magnificent gown was stained with tea—ruined
satin amid wet pearls and lace.

	In three rapid strides, Piergeiron had reached the
cowled man and flung back his hood. The face that appeared 
had a koboldesque quality—wide-eyed, feckless,
and scaled with acne—but it belonged to an all-too-
human wizard-

	"Forgive me," the adept pleaded piteously, tears running 
down his face. "I-I just wanted to help."
	"Help?" raged one of the guards. "Look at the lady's
dress. It is ruined!"

	The lad had the smell of honesty about him—honesty
in the form of sheer terror. Piergeiron laid a massive hand
on his shoulder and rumbled, "Speak, lad—the truth.
You'll be punished for whatever you've done here, but
will be punished for more than that if you lie."

	Blood drained from the young mage's cheeks. "Sire,
she'd told her maidservant that the tea was cold. I cast a
little spell to warm it—"
	"Spells are forbidden, as are loose weapons," Piergeiron 
said- "That alone is grave offence."

	"I know, I know," cried the lad miserably. "But I only
wanted to help. The maidservant was so frightened by my
hand gestures, she dumped the platter, all over—" his
trembling hand indicated where the tea had landed.

	Piergeiron scowled. This lad was either an accomplished 
actor or a novice adept. "Where is the maidservant?"
	The mage glanced from side to side, at a loss. "She was
here a moment ago. I could have sworn—"

	With an impulsive whirl of her tea-stained petticoats,
Eidola spun and hurried off to her chambers.
	"Guards, take this man to the dungeons for questioning," 
Piergeiron said. He turned to his ever-present bodyguard. 
"Madieron, you go with them. I'm off on private
business."

	The man-mountain nodded his haystack of hair and
followed the guards.

	Meanwhile Piergeiron turned and stalked after Eidola,
his heart rumbling strangely. "I'm right behind you!" he
called to his bride. He passed into the vestibule beyond,
Eidola's skirts rustling ahead of him.
	Before him and beyond Eidola, he spied the fearful
face of a serving girl. The lass gasped and bolted down
the hall. Eidola snatched up a torch from its sconce and
ran after her.

	Neither woman spared a glance back. The maid fled
around a comer. Eidola followed in a whisper of white
lace. Piergeiron could not keep up. He rounded the comer.
A dead-end hall lay beyond, and in it, Eidola, facing down
the maid.
	The girl held her hands out before her as though in
apology, but her fingernails were flexed, claw like.

	"Forgive me. It's just a little tea," the servant mewled.
*T got so scared when I spilt it—"
	"What is your name?" demanded Piergeiron, stepping
slowly forward. "Who hired you? When did you start?
What is your name?"
	Eidola did not even await a reply, lunging with the fiery
brand.

	The torch arced toward upraised hands that became
talons, with claws as long as scythe blades. Those claws
caught the burning brand and held it. The maid's smooth
throat transformed into a long, plate-covered thing with
hard shells and thick black hairs sprouting from it. The
woman's young face changed into the hoary-jowled head
of a greater jackal. Her livery split to reveal a canine body.
	"A shapeshifter!" cried Piergeiron. He drew his ornamental 
long sword. Halcyon, snapping the peace-strings
with a mighty yank, and dived between the beast and his
bride.

	The gnoll-creature raked Piergeiron with its brutal
claws. Razor-tipped nails shrieked across silver armour and
sent showers of sparks to the floor. A talon snagged on his
armour and tore free.
	The creature began a howl of rage. Piergeiron thrust
with Halcyon. The beast spun away. A jab that would
have split its heart lanced its side instead.
	The thing began to transform again. Its shaggy feet be-
came cloven hooves, its legs the haunches of a goat, its
belly bald and red....

Though the transformation swept over the creature in a
flash. Piergeiron struck again before the change was complete. 
His sword whirled through changing flesh and
sliced into the monster's dark heart. Blood as black as ink
shot forward, and the beast, in mid transformation,
crumpled.
	As it fell, Piergeiron drew forth his ornamental long 
sword. The blood in the filigreed etchings hissed like acid.
Beyond the smoking blade, the monster lay still upon the
floor-
	Piergeiron knelt beside the thing, his sword yet at the
ready as he checked it for breath.
	
	"It's dead," he announced solemnly.

	Piergeiron's bodyguard loped up behind Eidola and
skidded to a halt. He puffed aside his jagged bangs and
stared at the bride and groom, their hair wild and their
faces streaming sweat. Then he glanced at the slain beast
before them. Madieron turned as white as an albino rabbit.
	Up behind him came two more guards, startled and
breathless. "What is it?" gasped one.

	"Malaugrym, or so I guess," said Piergeiron. "The
Ones Who Watch. Shapcshifters from beyond Faerun.
They think this world their chessboard. They've brought
down many rulers with ruses less devious than—" He 
suddenly stopped in choked realization. He turned toward
his bride and embraced her. "You're safe. That... that
thing must have been stalking you when the apprentice
startled it. It must have thought he was casting a spell on
it, perhaps stripping away the disguise "

	Eidola lowered her torch so that it shed light on her
dress. She stared ruefully at me stain.

"Guard this body,” Piergeiron said to Madieron. "You
two, find the Blackstaff and Sandrew the Wise. They'll
want to check it over." He took his bride by the arm and
gestured down the hall. "Shall we?"

	Eidola nodded, and together the pair strolled away, as
though walking from a sunny picnic in a park.
	The two older guards turned knowing glances on the
bodyguard. "It's a shame, you guarding this dead thing
when you should be guarding the Open Lord"
	Madieron flushed beneath his haystack of hair. He
managed a half-shrug. "My orders." The corpse seemed to
be slowly changing shape, shrinking and turning grey.

	A friendly hand clapped onto Madieron's side. "Tell
you what. I'll go get the Blackstaff and Sandrew, Harl
here will guard the corpse, and you can get back to duty.
The Open Lord shouldn't be unprotected, what with monsters 
like this roaming the palace."
	Ever concerned about Piergeiron's safety, Madieron
blinked in obvious relief, shrugged again, and rushed
away after Piergeiron.

	Smiling sarcastically, one of the guards waved the lumbering 
warrior away. By the time he disappeared around
the comer, the waving hand had become a claw....

Chapter 2

Masquerades

Noph saw it all.

	He saw the maidservant flinch as the young wizard cast
a spell, saw Eidola and Piergeiron follow the shapeshifter
and battle it, saw the two guards form their hands into
claws and drag the body to the nearest jakes.

	And there was more. much more.

	Peering past the half-closed door, Noph saw the guards
fully transform into crablike things. Their eyes rose on
stalks above their horny skulls and their bodies became
hard and bristly. With their pinchers, they quickly shred-
ded the body. They ate what they could—muscle and
gristle and brain. The rest, they fed down the jakes, into
the infamous sewers of Waterdeep. Noph imagined he
could hear the masticating jaws of even nastier things
below.                   

	That was when he climbed up into the rafters.
	Now, the monsters transformed again, into two different-
looking guards. The men effetely dabbed the last spots of
sizzling blood from their uniforms. In smug satisfaction,
they nodded to each other and walked back toward the
party, strolling beneath the spot where Noph crouched.

	This noble wedding wasn't so boring after all.

	Noph waited until the beasts were long gone before he
tried to get down. Though he tried to imitate the silent
grace of a cat, one leg cuff caught on a nail, and he did a
complete flip before crashing to the floor. He was on his
feet again before he knew if he could stand, and looked
quickly up and down the hall. The shapeshifting guards
were nowhere to be seen, and no one else was about. He
stood straight and brushed himself off, well pleased
despite the fall.

	The sting of pride had quickly given place to the tingle
of anticipation. Mystery! Adventure! Paladins and
princesses and clawed villains!

	He'd been lucky so far, happening upon the culprits in
the midst of their crimes. Now, though, the trail had gone
cold. Where should he go next to unravel this mystery?
	Follow the money. That's what his father had always
advised. For Laskar Nesher, me money had led to disreputable 
lumber deals. For shapeshifters, the money would
lead to... the city treasury? No, someone wanting to get
to the treasury would have posed as a guard, not as a
maidservant. The only reason to masquerade as a maid-
servant was to get close to Eidola.

	Yes, Eidola, but why?

Some Waterdhavians thought her a bad match for Pier-
geiron. Some even felt the Open Lord should be removed
from office due to his lack of judgment. After all, the bed-
chamber is more persuasive than the council chamber. By
marrying Piergetron, this mystery woman could wield untold 
power over the city.

	There were whispers of a price laid on her head.

	That's it! Assassins! They'd infiltrated the ranks of the
servants and the guards!

	No, Noph thought a moment later. As appealing as it
was to think of noble assassins, a shot from afar could kill
more easily and safely than a monster disguised as a
chambermaid. Besides, as guards and servants, the shape-
changing creatures have had many other opportunities to
kill Eidola and haven't done so.

	They must want something else, Noph thought, and
must need to get close to Eidola to get it.... But why?

	Follow the money, Noph repeated to himself.

	The much-touted trade route to Kara-Tur—now there
was some money to be followed- Noph's father had said
that final approval of the route depended on Eidola. The
last holdouts against the pact were kin of Eidola, and they
would sign only after she had married the Open Lord. If
the marriage were prevented, the pact would not be complete. 
Then, the nobles and guilds would retain the economic 
dynasties they had worked so hard to build. That's
where the money led, to the nobles and guilds.
	“Ah, Father," Noph said to himself, *I’d not expected to
find your kind among the monsters tonight"

	Dusting off his hands, Noph set off for the banquet
hall. At long last, he was interested in talking with his
father's friends.

	When he arrived in the feast hall, be approached a band
of guildmasters who stood in the middle of the bustle, arrogantly 
smoking Maztican cigars and politely calling
each other fools. The half-drunk merchants seemed engaged 
in a contest to see who could be the most boisterous, 
obstreperous, and opinionated. They made easy
targets for an amateur eavesdropper.

	"... whole thing feels rushed, that's all. A mystery
woman from Nowhere—"

	"Not Nowhere, but Neverwinter"

"—Just as I said. from Nowhere, and a hasty wedding
and a hasty trade pact all rolled together—"
"That explains the haste: the Open Lord and Miss Mystery 
must have rolled together."

"—in which case all you can expect is a quick ceremony 
meant to cover for whatever bastards come crawling 
out of the woodwork, and by bastards I mean those
damned Kara-Turian dragon-lovers—'”

Noph moved away from that cluster. The man holding
court there was a drunken braggart, who greedily gulped
down misinformation and vomited it back as vintage lies.
There was no treason in his empty bluster, but also no truth.
To one side of the hall, standing aloof from me gossiping 
horde, Noph saw a circle of paladins, clad in glittering
silver chain mail. In awe he recognized among them Kern,
a mighty warrior despite his youth, and Miltiades, once
un-dead but now again among the living. Noph formally
saluted the group and passed on.

	Noph approached another group. He drifted nearby and
turned about as if admiring some particular beauty. This
conversation had a very different tenor:

	"—not at all like it was. What is the point of overland
trade? The oceans have been charted to Kara-Tur and beyond. 
We've felled enough forests to give us a matchless
fleet and now we don't want to use any of the ships? I
don't understand."

	“Think how we feel. Mate. You're a landlubber—sure
it's your money that sets sails on our rigs and get us where
we go, but if you're out coin, think what we're out. Out a
living, that's what. Used to be that seamen had a hard life,
sure, but now, no life at all."

	"Yes, which is why I thought, why wait? Why wait for
a politician to pave the way—no pun intended. We've got
all we need, just not official sanction. I thought, perhaps,
to make five of our merchant ships into warships, send
them down to grab the right bits of land—the capes and so
forth—capture them, put up outposts, and there you have
a water trade route...."

	Noph drifted away. These people were planning business, 
not treason. Certainly, it might be a fine line between 
the two, but Noph doubted these men were in
league with regicidal traitors.

	"—during the ball. ... The crossbow is already in
place.... I've said too much already-... No, we shouldn't
be seen speaking... wait until we're masked—"

	Noph paused, pretending to check the sole of his boot
for something stuck to it. He listened a bit more.
	The speaker was a woman, standing in the shadow behind 
a large, potted palm. Her voice had a strange burr
that Noph had never heard before—something vaguely
Calashite. He could see little of her appearance—only that
she was of extraordinary height, with lean shoulders and a
graceful figure.

	Abruptly, she moved away from the palm, toward the
great dance hall where the ball would be held. Noph
watched the sway of her red dress for a moment before remembering 
to put his boot down and follow.

				*****

	By the time Piergeiron had returned to the celebration 
after discovering the disappearance of the
shapeshifter's body—-dinner was finished and the dancing
had begun.

	It was a masquerade.

	Eidola herself had planned the masked ball, saying she
wanted to dance with the groom without courting bad
luck by seeing him before the ceremony.

	The costumes were designed to provide complete
anonymity. At the entrance to the ballroom, a curtain had
been strung to make a dressing area between curtain and
doors. One by one, the guests entered the changing area.
donned loose grey robes over their clothes, and were fitted 
with full-head masks. The masks were grotesque—
hawks, toads, dragons, bugbears, dwarves, elves, humans,
gnomes—and they took their forms from all the creatures
of Faerun.

	By wearing these masks, the guests were, Eidola said,
transformed into every manner of creature in the world.
They became emissaries from Faerun to the wedding
couple, gathered to bless a marriage that would bring
peace and prosperity to all creatures.

	Such were the bride’s lofty justifications of this masquerade. 
In truth, as each guest pushed back the double
doors and joined the flocks of other grotesque beasts in
the ballroom, the masks did not create a peaceable kingdom 
so much as an exotic jungle.

	Piergeiron and Madieron stood in the dark dressing
space outside the ballroom. All around them were small
stands holding the heads of mammoths and pixies, treants
and tigers. Their ghoulish grins made the Open Lord
shiver.

	Piergeiron was a straightforward man, and he didn't go
much for elaborate charades. On the other hand, he had
had no hope of prevailing over Eidola when it came to
wedding arrangements.
	Out of a dark corner of the dressing space, a bald-
headed attendant slid toward Piergeiron. He pulled a grey
robe over the groom's shoulders and the hilt of his sword.
Piergeiron bristled. With assassins about, it was folly to
let his sword get so fouled.

	To add insult to injury, the costumer next appeared
with an especially repellent mask for him to wear.

	"A rat?" Piergeiron asked regretfully.

	The clothier's bulbous head nodded eagerly on his
skinny neck. "A Waterdhavian Sewer Rat. They are tenacious 
creatures. Brave. Almost noble... in their way"
	Piergeiron stared at the glassy black eyes of the mask,
the boars' teeth set in its maw, the mossy felt and pan-
tomimed garbage dangling between those teeth.... "Isn't
there something more suitable?"

	The clothier reached up to set the mask in place. "The
point of a masquerade is to be what you are not."

	Piergeiron stoically suffered the placement of the rodent 
head over his own. When it was situated, he hesitantly 
asked, "How do I look?"
	"Perfectly ratty," the man replied. "And what do you
think of Madieron?"

	Piergeiron looked up at his eight-foot-tall bodyguard
and saw the fey smirk of a pixie.
	The Open Lord broke into laughter. Madieron, unamused, 
unceremoniously thrust the man toward the
double doors.

	The Open Lord stumbled through the doors. The ball-
room beyond gleamed with crystal chandeliers and mouldings
of gold. Masked dancers swirled across the floor in a two-
step pavane. The ensemble of rebecs and fifes played a familiar 
dance cadence, though the tones they produced were
twisted in the new Sembian fashion. Measured harmonies
continually devolved into chaotic dissonances.

	Still trying to catch his balance, Piergeiron took two
full strides before stopping dead within the sweeping arm
of the pavane. He felt as if he had stumbled onto a clock-
work carousel. There he stood, frozen amidst radiant
motion. The procession of creatures was dazzling—
beholders, wraiths, lions, lizard men, griffons, owls, horses,
camels, basilisks.... Staring at their shifting multitude,
whirling in the dance, Piergeiron grew dizzy.

He dropped to one knee, struggling to see something
familiar. Wasn't this his palace? It felt as though he had
stumbled through a portal to some deviant jungle. Or per-
haps. a madman's mind.

	Hadn't Eidola planned this all?

	His eyes found no relief. The pillars that lined the hall
glowed with an ill green fight that made them look like the
ancient boles of green-sapped trees. Their acanthus-leaf
tops and the riot of carved plaster across the ceiling became
a dense canopy of foliage. The candles of the chandeliers
glowed in pendulous bunches of exotic fruit. They sent up
crazings of smoke, soot in place of pollen. Piergeiron wondered 
where these deadly spores would take root.

	The touch of a hand—a feminine hand—drew the
Open Lord from his crouch and set him into motion
among the others.

	Despite his dizziness, Piergeiron's feet fell into the
duple rhythm of the pavane. He held the hand of the
woman, an eel-headed thing, and swayed toward her and
away from her,

	"So, handsome," the eel said through her gill slits,
"when's a charming rat like you going to get married?"
	"Very soon, now," be replied, stepping sideways.
	He let go of her hand and clasped that of another. This
woman was a tall leopard. She moved expertly in the dance.

	"Is it you, Eidola?" Piergeiron asked.

	"Perhaps, Open Lord," the leopard replied enigmatically. 
"Perhaps."

	He pulled away from her, too. His feet moved faultlessly 
in the two-step pattern as he circled the room.
Sleepwalking. That was what this was. While part of his
mind wandered freely, another part, accompanied by his
feet, staggered and stumbled, carrying him deeper into
nightmare.

	Somehow it made sense. The guests were beasts. These
monstrous semblances were the faces of their inner
selves. Friend and foe alike, they were monsters.

Foes. What foolishness? Shapechanging malaugrym,
back-stabbing nobles, plotting guildmasters. As he glided
past ogre, beaver, and brownie, Piergeiron wondered if he
had a single friend in all the room.
Eidola. She was here somewhere.... He would find
her.

A pig-headed woman took his hand. No, she was too
short and unsure to be Eidola. Next came a puffy fat matron 
with the head of a hornet. A skeleton, an orc, a fly; a
will-o'-the-wisp, a squid, a rooster, a dog, halfling, monkey, 
tick.... Beneath those grey robes moved a multitude
of female arms—these too fleshy, these too lean, these too
weak. too hairy, too mottled....

Beneath the gold-gilded chandeliers, the details of the
masks drifted down robes and arms and legs. Fur, warts,
whiskers, rashes, scars, stains, tumours. Every detail of the
beasts came alive. They were real. Grotesque creatures
glided beside each other in a bizarre menagerie. Alien,
hypnotic, menacing, graceful....

A tall, yak-headed woman took his hand. Her doelike
brown eyes blinked realistically behind a thin mask of
black felt Her stubbled lips glistened with costume drool-
The woman's movements were so lithe within the costume 
that Piergeiron felt suddenly sure it was Eidola.

A deep-throated purr came from the mask. "I wish I
had known sooner how exquisitely you dance, Lord.
You'd not have had a free night in the past year."       

	Ah, this was his lady love at last. "How about a kiss for
the groom?" Piergeiron asked, regaining some of his old
spirit.                                            

	The yak-woman's eyes opened wide at the invitation
and she ducked her head down. A long yak tongue
emerged from between the creature's stumpy yellow teeth
and licked wetly across the rat's face.                 

	Piergeiron recoiled. The woman's head was no mask.1
She was a Zakharan yak-woman, wearing only a small
black mask as her costume. She was a real beast,  

	The Open Lord staggered away from her, gracelessly
breaking contact. He glanced dizzily around; nearly half,
the creatures in this horrific zoo wore small eye masks.
Perhaps they, too, were real. Perhaps every last fang,
whisker, and horn in the place belonged to real gnolls and
wyverns, drakes and sphinxes. Perhaps the staggering,
stumbling Open Lord had stepped through the wrong
doorway, and this was an infernal and endless dancer
through the Abyss.

	He drifted as if drunk. The dance churned around him.
The deadly whirlpool of monsters flung him one way,
then another, shouldering him up and dragging him
down,...

	And then, Eidolas hand found his.

	"It's you," said the rat-headed paladin.

	"At last." came the sharp reply from the lizard-headed
woman. "What's wrong with you? Are you drunk?"    
	Piergeiron shook his head, and his whiskers rattled
against boar's teeth. "I'm just flustered. That business
with the maidservant and all, and now this dance...."

	"Shake it off." Eidola responded. "The maidservant
situation was a huge bungle, and it's over. We've got to
move ahead. We've got to be ready for midnight."

	"Yes," Piergeiron said, still stumbling. "I'll try, but
even being near you flusters me."
	"Let's get out of this," she suggested. She led him in
the dance toward one corner. "The others are waiting."

	Piergeiron laughed once, vaguely, searching for some
meaning in her words. His misgivings deepened.
	Eidola's strong hand pulled him past a gaggle of geese
and a line of appraising canines, through a pillared arch,
and to a dark cluster of masked creatures.

	A sheep turned toward them as they joined the group.
'It's about time you two arrived. You'd think you wanted
to dance the night away and leave the real danger to the
rest of us."

	"Shut up. We're here. What news?" snapped the lizard-
headed Eidola.

	"Nothing new," said the sheep. “The imposter disappeared 
before the bodyguards could do anything about it.
Piergeiron's acting as if nothing's happened, and the ceremony 
proceeds apace."

	"Good." said the lizard. Only then did Piergeiron notice the odd, Calishite burr in her voice.
	This was not his bride. This was the leader of a group
of conspirators.

	Still holding Piergeiron's hand, the woman pushed past
the sheep. In one insistent motion, she drew Piergeiron
after her and shaped the other six into a circle. She directed 
the Open Lord into the centre of the ring and said,
"Listen, now." To the rat, she commanded harshly,
"Report"

	The others leaned toward the sewer rat and turned ears
of wire mesh and papier-mache his way.
He muttered, "Well, there isn't much."

	"If there isn't much, tell it fast," the woman snapped.
"You're wasting time."

He coughed. Masquerading as a noisome rat was difficult 
enough for the paladin. Doing so when he knew the
present company thought him to be someone else was
nearly intolerable. But doing all these things and lying
atop it all would be too much.

	Still, this was a conspiracy. Perhaps he could learn
what they were up to by playing along. He would not lie.
He would only stall,...
	"Everything's in place," he said evasively.           
The woman's scowl was apparent in her voice. "It's 
been in place for a tenday, now. Surely you have more
than that"                                        

	Piergeiron ventured, "The Open Lord suspects some-
thing"

	"Damn," said the sheep. "I knew it."
	"How much does he suspect," the lizard pressed.
	"He knows there is a conspiracy."
	"Damn, damn," the sheep said. "The whole thing "
	"Shut up," the woman advised. "Not the whole thing.
Not even the beginning. Of course he knows that much,
After the whole fiasco with the maidservant, even the
Thickskull could figure out that Eidola was in danger. But
what does he know about us, about our plot? What
specifics?"

	"What specifics?" asked Piergeiron hopefully.
	"Who is conspiring. Does he know who, and what the
plan is?"
	"Who?" Piergeiron replied, knowing he was against
the wall

	"Us, you idiot," snapped the sheep.
	"Well, he suspects you, for one," Piergeiron responded
to the sheep. "He is planning to tell the guards to keep an
eye on you."

"Damn, damn, damn!" growled the sheep.
"That's it, then," the woman said. "Terr, you're com-
promised, Check your head at the door and get out of
Waterdeep before dawn."

"There's more," Piergeiron ventured, trying to keep the
group together. He hoped to steer the conspirators toward
a smaller, less-public place, where he could corner them
and force them to remove their masks. "But not here.
There are too many listening ears...."

"Like these?" the sheep asked, dragging a smallish
tiger into the circle. "I thought he'd been listening." He
yanked off the head mask to reveal Noph of the family
Nesher. The thin nobleman struggled uselessly in the
rogue's implacable grip. "Ah, a rich-boy fink. I'll take him
with me, slip a knife between his ribs, and dump him in
the sewer."

In a rush of hand-stitched fur and grey robe, Piergeiron
flung off his costume and was Open Lord once more.
Mended peace strings snapped as he drew the long sword.
The knight rose to his full, impressive stature and bran-
dished Halcyon threateningly overhead.

"Release young Noph and drop to your knees!" the
Open Lord commanded.

	The sheep flung the lad into the belly of Piergeiron and
darted for the door.

	Piergeiron caught Noph in his free arm and meanwhile
swung Halcyon down to block the man's path. The sheep
did not stop; nor did the blade. Where they met, sword
cleaved through muscle and gut to bone.
	
	In the sudden spray of gore, Piergeiron drew back.
	
	The lizard woman was already gone, as were four of
her comrades. Noph flung a hand out to snag the fleeting
robe of the last. His fingers caught fabric, not the grey
robe but the hem of a red shawl beneath. The conspirator
ripped free, unstoppable, and in a single step disappeared
among the boiling crowd. Noph suddenly was released
from the paladin's grasp. He staggered, falling to his
knees and tightly clutching the clue in his hand.

	Piergeiron knelt beside the slain man, and both were
shadowed beneath Madieron, who had appeared out of
nowhere. The pixie held back a garnering crowd.

	Piergeiron pulled the sheep's head mask from the dead
man. He gazed down at a white, hair-lipped visage with
blond curls and a hawkish nose.

	"Terrance Decamber—undersecretary to the Master
Mariner's Guild." said Piergeiron heavily.

Chapter 3

A Meeting with the Lads

	With shapeshifters at large in the castle and nobles and
guildmasters plotting on all sides, Piergeiron could confide 
in very few, Eidola reduced the possible ranks even
farther. She routinely balked at Piergeiron's overprotectiveness, 
and even now she would certainly forbid him to
enlist the aid of others.

	But enlist he would. She did not need to know of her
defenders until she needed their defence—which might
be soon enough.

First, of course, was the inimitable Blackstaff. Khelben
was no shapeshifting imposter; the Lord Mage of Waterdeep 
had a way of dispensing with imitators. He had already 
been aiding in security; his cursory scans at the
gates had turned up plenty of weapons and minor magics.
Now Khelben sought much greater and subtler sorceries,
the sorts of elaborate wards that usually go undetected.
Such protections might hide a shapechanger, or a whole
platoon of them. The Lord Mage was even now combing
the crowd of guests, servants, and guards.

	Next came Madieron Sunderstone. Most shapeshifters
could not imitate creatures his size. Even to try, they would
have to overcome the blond-haired man-mountain—no
small feat. Besides, the man's combination of dull wits and
deep wisdom would defy duplication. Rergeiron was confident 
that the Madieron who had greeted him in his apartments 
this morning was the same man who stood by him
now—and would stay at his side until he met Eidola at the
altar.

	Then, there was Captain Rulathon, Piergeiron's second-
in-command of the city watch. This black mustachioed
warrior was no imitation, either, for Khelben himself had
teleported him in for the briefing. His expertise at subtle
reconnaissance was matched only by his knowledge of the
folk of Waterdeep. Few impostors could sneak past him.

	And, last—Noph Nesher. No shapeshifter would have
thought to take his form, and the noble youth had already
proved his worth. He had eavesdropped on various conspirators 
and had gathered the first hard evidence—a bit
of fabric torn from one of them.

Piergeiron, Madieron, Rulathon. and Noph met in a
small vestibule off the palace kitchens. It was just the sort
of unfinished and unwelcoming space that often hatched
conspiracies, whispered plans that would shake continents.

	Rulathon listened closely, his black hair flaring wildly
about his intent face. Noph tried to look equally focused,
though a thin film of sweat glistened on his white brow.
Madieron’s expression was ponderous and a bit vacant
amid the dark and rough-hewn rafters.

	The Open Lord recounted what he had learned from
the conspirators. "There is treason in it. It is no simple
matter of impersonating a maid or whispers in the corners.
It is a kidnapping plot, or assassination, or some such.
And as yet, I still do not know who precisely is behind it
all. At best, the shapeshifters are chaotic creatures working 
on their own, and Decamber was acting outside the orders 
of the mariners. At worst, these conspiracies might
reach deep into the ranks of Waterdeep's nobles and
guilds."

	“The mariners have plenty of reasons to block an over-
land trade route," Captain Rulathon noted grimly.

	"Yes," agreed Piergeiron," but so would many other
folk. Whoever is behind it all, I am convinced that the
trade route to Kara-Tur is key."

	"I came to the same conclusion," Noph interrupted.
The other three turned their attention on him, as he smiled
sheepishly. "It's where the money leads. Somebody wants
to prevent the signing of the pact—prevent it or control it.
I personally suspect the Master Mariners above all others."

	Piergeiron regarded the youth keenly. "Even if there
weren't shapeshifters running amok," he said, "I would
have had to be very selective in whom I put my trust. Out
of all Waterdeep, I have selected you three, and Khelben "

"But any of us could be..." Noph began. He broke off
with the shaking of Captain Rulathon's head.

"Be assured we are not, son," said the watch captain.
"Be assured and be glad. Our forms may not have been
stolen from us yet, but watch out! I imagine that before
the night is through, we will be running into ourselves
walking down the hall, or fighting ourselves on some stair
somewhere."

Noph swallowed loudly, simultaneously relieved and
dismayed.

Piergeiron picked up the thread of the discussion. "I
need each of you, my ears and eyes where I cannot be.
Rulathon, first and foremost, you must guard my bride
and see that no harm comes to her. Noph, you must watch
the guests for telltale signs of treason. Madieron, of
course, will be watching me. Khelben is already at work,
scanning the crowd. All of you have been doing these
things. Now I make your commissions official."

The Open Lord paused. A wave of exhaustion, unexpected, 
swept over him- "Friends, this is a maze from
which Eidola and I cannot escape alone. With plots upon
plots upon plots, perhaps we will not survive, even with
your aid."

"So you will still marry Eidola tonight?" Captain Rula-
thon asked.

"I will," Piergeiron replied, resolute. "Whatever these
plots, they are wrapped up in the wedding and in this trade
route. The conspirators' work would already be done if I
cancelled the ceremony now."

“I imagine your bride is of like mind," said the captain.
He turned. "Perhaps I should make certain of it," Bowing
once in farewell, he headed away, toward Eidola‘s chambers.
“I go to watch "

"Good," Piergeiron said. His very serious gaze spoke a
silent thanks to the tall warrior.

Then Piergeiron turned those same eyes—those that
had gazed into the abyss of Undermountain and across at
the glorious panoply of Waterdeep—upon Noph. "Rulathon's 
work is begun—and Madieron's and Knelben's,
also. I count on yours, too. If you help Eidola and me win
our way out of these traps, the whole of Waterdeep will
owe you a debt of gratitude."

The lad nodded seriously. In respectful imitation of
Rulathon, he said, "I go to watch." Noph turned and
slipped away down the hall, toward the sounds of dancing.

*****

"Your autographs here. Gentles " said the Open Lord of
Waterdeep.

He leaned over his large mahogany desk and placed the
much-signed trade pact before the last holdout delegates:
the Boarskyrs.

The two red-faced and burly brothers, Becil and Bullaid,
had inherited title and lands from a great-great-great-great-
grandfather Boarskyr—the man who'd built the first Boarskyr 
bridge. Each succeeding generation that descended
from this extraordinary man, though, had lost another
"great" Becil and Bullard were the inevitable result. They
could not be truthfully called good, let atone great

The brothers had not inherited their ancestor's enterprising 
spirit or even his common sense. Uneducated and
mired in penury, Becil and Billiard could use the opportunity 
and money the trade route would bring them. Unfortunately, 
they liked their backward backwater and wanted
to keep it as it was. Perhaps it was the only place they
truly fit in,

	Here, in Piergeiron's cherry wood-panelled study, the
two looked and smelled as out of place and nervous as
sheepdogs caught in me slaughter chute.
	Their mood was not helped by Madieron's looming
presence and his unscheduled groans of disapproval.

	"Look here. Your Fecundity, Laird Pallid." began
Becil, the slightly redder, burlier, and more verbal of the
brothers,

	"Lord Paladinson will suffice," corrected the Open
Lord gently.
	"Look here. Laird Pallidson," Becil continued, "we've
got a histrionical and advantageous bridge—that's sure.
You've got a compounded interest in it—that's sure, too.
And, if it comes to it. Your Feckless Personage is asked to
cross our bridge whensoever that you as an individuality
would like to do so, as would make us indeed felicitatiously 
happy. Really."

	"Thank you very much."

	Bullard interrupted, "How about I have a look at your
sword?"

	"How about you let us finish our business first?" Pier-
geiron replied.

"But as to Your Immensity going off and inviting the
rest of the world to circumnavigate our bridge," Becil 
continued obliviously, "well. now that's a pickle. And,
you know, even an Enormous Egregiousness like yourself
can make a pickle from a cucumber but not a cucumber
from a pickle, apples and peach pits marching to a different 
kettle of fish altogether, if you follow my thinking."
	"I do not"

	Bullard scooted his chair to one side of Piergeiron's
desk, and then pretended to be intensely interested in a
corner of the ceiling. His feverish eyes slipped for a moment 
down to Piergeiron's long sword, and his fingers
twiddled in anticipation.

	Madieron's own fingers did a little twiddling.
	"Well, for one thing," Becil prattled on, "it's not so
great a bridge. Your Obesity. I'd say even with you and
that pony of yours—Deadheart, is it?—
	"Dreadnought."

	"—Deadweight, right, thanking Your Monstrosity,
well, that much weighty preponderance might make the
whole thing go over into the river. Then we'd not have our
hysterical and advantageous bridge and you'd not have
your compounded interest, neither. You see, my brother
Bullard was the archipelago of the current edifice, and
just because he's got piles doesn't mean he knows about
pilings..."

	"I'd hold my tongue, Becil—" Bullard advised as he
shifted his chair around beside Piergeiron.

	"I'm sure our heiratic bridge would break under Your
ponderous Propensity and your pony. Dreadlocks, not to
I mention your bodyguard Matterhorn—"

	Madieron growled, splitting his disapproval equally
between the brothers.

Into the tense silence that followed this vocalization,
Piergeiron ventured, "The agreement allows for a whole
new bridge, one you two wouldn't need to build yourselves. 
And the bridge would have a toll, to enrich your 
family into perpetuity." Piergeiron thought but didn't add
that they could and should use that toll for educating future 
Boarskyrs.

	"But like we extrapolated " Becil continued, "we could
care less about the future. We could care more about the
present."

	"Once you go changing the present, all you've got left
is the future," Bullard noted, nodding enthusiastically.
"By the way, how about I get a look at your sword?"

	Madieron folded his arms over his chest and let out an
unappreciative hiss.

	"No," Piergeiron reiterated. He turned to Becil. "You
said you would sign"

	"We said we'd not sign," Becil corrected, "until you'd
been nuptualized to Eidola of Neverwinter—"
	"—our kin."
	"—and with kin of ours ruling Waterdeep—through
the allspices of Yours Truly (no, I mean Yours Truly as in
Yours Truly, not Mine Truly)—we know you will promulgate 
a present-tense orientational direction for our little 
village. Great High Commissary."

	If ever the mouse held the elephant at bay, thought
Piergeiron....
	He said with a bit more exasperation than he had in-
tended, "But I am marrying her!"

	"You're not married yet," Becil pointed out.

	Madieron released a moan that sounded as though it
came from a tree on the brink of toppling.
	Piergeiron felt a sudden insistent tugging at his sword-
belt

	“Peace strings!" Bullard proclaimed angrily where he
yanked on the hilt of Halcyon. He was about to brace a
foot on Piergeiron's back, but Madieron's own foot removed 
the man as though he were a dog and Halcyon an
unappreciative leg.

	As Bullard tumbled to the floor, he said, with no sign
of rancour. "Until the Brothers Borskyr see gold on your
finger, you won't be seeing their Xs on your paper."

	"A lot can happen between here and the altar—the viscerals
of life in the big city," Becil said. "No ring. no
sign."
	"How about I have a look at that sword—"
	"No!" shouted Piergeiron and Madieron in chorus.

	Becil slapped his brother's hand away, whereupon the
unflappable Bullard flapped. "Hands off, Im-Becil."

	"Im-Becil," murmured Madieron, and he chuckled to
himself. "I get it. Im-Becil"
"Shut up, Dullard!"

	"Im-Becil and Dullard," Madieron repeated, chortling.
As the blond giant laughed and the Boarskyr Brothers
engaged in a spirited slap-fight, Piergeiron thought once
again about building a five-mile loop around Boarskyr
Bridge and letting the town wither to nothing in the
shadow of the great caravan way. Still, Grandfather
Boarskyr had built in the best spot for fifty miles up or
down the river. Circumventing it would be more costly,
more time consuming, and more galling than even these
negotiations.

The Open Lord's musings were interrupted by Bullard,
who was seated and therefore had won the fight. "After
all. Laird Pallidson, we didn't become Boarskyrs by being
idiots."

	Piergeiron couldn't help himself. "You became idiots
by being Boarskyrs."
	Red-cheeked, Becil struggled up from the floor. He regarded 
his brother darkly. "Pinky flicker."

	"How about I have a look at that sword?"

	"Dullard, ha ha," Madieron said, struggling to squelch
his giggles. "Ha ha."

				*****

	When Eidola emerged from her latest session beneath
the sharp-nailed fingers of hairdressers and face powderers. 
Captain Rulathon was waiting. He merged more
deeply with the shadows of the hallway. His always-intent
face was especially grave.

	The watchcaptain was not blind to Eidola's beauty. Her
gown was exquisite, her makeup flawless. The fortress of
hair, flowers, lace, and pins atop her head was a construct
worthy of any siege engineer. The gem that hung from a
silver chain round her slender throat glowed and sparkled
in the candlelight

	Yes, she is beautiful, Rulathon thought, but artificially
so. She is cold calculation instead of warm wildflowers.
Every face she stares into is a mirror. When she seems to
gaze lovingly into Piergeiron's eyes, she admires only her
own reflection.

	Beside and behind Eidola came a flock of chattering
manicurists and hairdressers—the attendants who had
worked the magic over her. They were each garbed in
the ceremonial satins and laces that marked them as the
retinue of the bride, though the ivory shade of their
dresses showed that they lacked her white virtue. The
Women pranced and laughed excitedly as they moved
along.

	In a shimmering rush, they were past. Rirfathon waited
a breath before he started out from the recess. A frisson of
intuition ran up his spine, and he drew back. A last attendant 
came scuttling up behind. She called out for the
others to wait and ran on toward their oblivious backs.
	As she flapped past, the watchcaptain thought for a
moment he glimpsed, beneath the ruffle of skirts, a trailing 
tentacle.

	A tentacle, he thought. One would think a hairdresser
would know enough to tuck away so telltale a thing.
	He stepped from the crevice, and pursued them through
the darkness of the corridor.

	Just before the wedding ceremony began, Noph cornered 
Jheldan- "Stormrunner" Boaldegg, First Mariner of
the Master Mariners' Guild. The sea dog stood in the
narthex of the palace chapel, and like the other guests,
waited to be seated for the ceremony.

	Noph casually approached the man. "An honest to
goodness sea captain," he said admiringly.

	The old seaman stared out from behind a fleecy white
mask of beard and eyebrows. Around a battered pipe, he
drawled, "Aye."

	"This is the closest I've ever been to real adventure,"
Noph pressed. "As the son of a nobleman, I read plenty of
stories of the briny deep. but have never gotten to sail out
on it myself."

	"Aye."

	Noph's demeanor suddenly changed from casual excitement 
to focused desire. "I want to go to sea."

	Captain Boaldegg fixed him with a stem look.

	"I wouldn't need a commission," Noph said quietly, all
the while glancing over his sshoulder. "I know you give officer 
commissions to some nobles—but I'd be willing to
holystone decks and haul sheets."

	The white-bearded sea dog blinked in consideration,
his scarred red face looking for all the world like a hunk
of granite. At last, he let go the blue pipe smoke he'd held
in his lungs and said, "Deck hands are abundant. We've
got plenty of them straight from jails and flophouses.
They don't ask much pay, try to avoid trouble, and know
their trade. Why should I bump one of them seasoned sea-
men to take on a load of noble trouble?"

	"Trouble?" asked Noph in an injured tone. "I wouldn't
make any trouble. Besides, I heard there's going to be
need for plenty more hands once ... once the trade pact
falls through "

	Though before, the seaman's eyes had seemed glassy
and amused beneath his eyebrows, now they were sharp
as arrowheads. "What makes you think me pact is jeopardized, 
lad?"

Noph returned the man's steely glare. "I know about
what you have planned. I know about... Eidola."

	Suddenly, the man's old hand—steel bars and cables—
seized Noph's arm. "You're coming with me, lad."

	“0h, no he's not," interrupted Laskar Nesher. From behind 
his son, he pried the captain's hand loose. "No son of
mine—no heir of mine—is going to waste his life with a
bunch of thieves and bilge rats. Get gone, old Boaldegg.
Troll the gutters and prisons for your shipmates "

	With that, Laskar Nesher drew his son away from the
glowering sea dog. For once, the merchant's eyes were focused 
on his son—focused and intent. "What's this all
about, Kastonoph?"

	"You wouldn't understand," Noph said truthfully.
Laskar managed to look angered, hurt, and understanding, 
all at once. He gripped his son's arm harder than had
the captain and dragged Noph to the relative privacy of
the crying room, behind the narthex.

	"I know you think me a copper-coddling miser, a fool
preoccupied with the flash of coins and unable to see true
riches,” said the man earnestly. His eyes were feverishly
bright. "I often think so, myself. But the reason for it all is
that I'm trying to build a dynasty for you. Yes, I am a fool.
In the process of amassing a fortune, I've made you despise 
anything you might inherit from me."

	"It's all right. Father," began Noph. "You don't have
to—"

	"But don't give up on me now. Son. At last, my frugality 
has paid off, has put me in a place where everything
will change for us. And it is all wrapped up in this wed-
ding, in the Lady Eidola herself."

	The nobleman paused, expecting another interruption,
but Noph was as silent and still as a statue.

Laskar gingerly began again, as if poking at a wound.
"I have certain... information about the Lady Eidola—
about her past... information she desperately wants to
keep from her husband "

	“Father." said Noph in alarm. The momentary empathy
he had felt for the man fled. "Blackmaii? Is this the future
you have planned for me?**

	"Don’t think of it as blackmail. I'm not asking her for
money—just for the assurance of work. There's going to
be lots of wood needed for bridges and corduroy roads
once this trade pact is finished, and I want us to supply
that wood."

	Noph's usually white face was now blotched with
red—disappointment and, worse, pity. "What have you
become? You'd commit extortion? And against the Lady
Eidola?"

	"It isn't extortion," his father blustered. "We'll be
working for every copper we make off this. And if you
knew about her what I know—"

	"Enough!" cried Noph in a sudden rage. "I can't stomach 
another word from you. I can't stand to breathe the
same air as you." Laskar tried to interrupt, but Noph swept
his hand up before the man "Speak, and I will empty my
stomach on you, I swear it. You nauseate me. I nauseate
me—the very fact that I am your son makes me sick. Let
it be punishment enough that I have inherited your
looks—do not add the burden of your deceits."

	He turned and stalked back toward the narthex, where
guests were lined up to be shown to their seats. At the
arched entrance to the crying room, he said, "I hope you
have enough honour to disown me." And with that, he left.

	Noph growled inwardly. No, his father was not in
league with the malaugrym or the mariners, or anyone
else seeking to stop the wedding. No, his father was not a
traitor or a murderer. Laskar Nesher was merely a petty
criminal in times that called men to greatness.

	Father has chosen his own road. Noph thought. I need
to do the same.

	"Sir, your name?" asked the liveried attendant by the
door.

	Noph hesitated, unsure what to say. At last, he murmured, 
"Put me down simply as Freeman Kastonoph,
friend and loyal servant of the groom."

Interlude:

The Silver Margin

Midnight has come.

The time for worry about plots is done.
Let the traitors do their worst.
They will have to reckon with me.
They will have to fight Madieron and Captain Rulathon.
The Blackstaff guards us, too, and even young
Kastonoph.

Whatever comes, I will marry Eidola; the Boarskyrs
will sign the pact; all the world will be forever changed.
	For better or for worse.
	I am already dizzy with change.

	I cling to the wooden chancel screen, fashioned of
twirled walnut. Walnut has its swirls. Disease twists these
into burls. We carve the burls into flourishes and filigree.

	One chaos is carved from another.
	I gaze through the screen. The chapel is carved into
pieces by it.

	I see fragments of a bright, crowded sanctuary. I see
dark pieces of the gathered guests. I see empty sections of
blackness where my bride will appear.

	Fragments and pieces...
	Rock to sand to dust to nothing at all....
	The sanctuary is slowly listing over.
	It will capsize before my bride stands beside me.
	We will be married on the ceiling.
	
	Cold sweat stands on my white cheeks. I am glad San-
drew gave me this bucket.

	I see a piece of my young spy. Noph strides solemnly
through the screen spaces. He fits himself onto an already
loaded bench.

	There is something different about him. His swagger is
gone. Even he is changed. He suddenly seems a man.

"Tomorrow, Iam a man."

I spoke those words long, long ago. The memory is as
strong and stinging as distilled spirits.

Shaleen is a silhouette against the dim gloaming.

She stands framed by a rugged wood doorway. Beyond
her hangs a hay hook. It is tangled with its block and
tackle. The barn slats glow with predawn.

	I rise. Hay drops from me. I shiver, feeling the cold
against my bare skin. I shiver again, with something else.

	This is a mistake. Nothing will be me same now. Nothing. 
She will forever be different. I, too. A yearning
shoots through me. I wish to return to the day before, to
our young and simple lives.

	I search in the hay for my breeches. The sound of my
hand is loud in the morning.
	"Come here," Shaleen whispers.

	I look up to her. She stands there, bare as the morning.
	"Come see"

	I nod. I try to rise, but my legs tremble. The loft's
planks are rough under my feet.
	I reach her.

	She, too, trembles, but her shoulders and back are
warm and solid in the darkness.

	"Look," she says. Her hand points outward.
Beyond the turbulence of the autumn forest, a slim curtain 
rises in the night It is the silver margin between dark
and day. 'Tomorrow."

	The sound of that single word makes my heart break.
“Tomorrow," I echo.

	Apologies and fears well up inside me, but no words.
There is only gushing emotion—shame, longing, regret,
passion, hopelessness....

	“Tomorrow, I am a woman," Shaleen says.

	She nestles against me. At her touch, the dread and fear
amalgamate into something greater, something new. My
trembling stops. I draw a long, contented breath.

"Tomorrow, Iam a man."

The music begins, unstoppable.

The trump sounds.
The drums cadence like thunder.
The fragmented sanctuary returns around me.
I am dizzy.
I am lost, here in my own palace, my own wedding, my
own life.

It is tomorrow.
Everything has changed, for better or for worse.

Chapter 4

What Once Bound All To All

The sanctuary glowed with the light of a thousand
candles.

They stood ensconced along the limestone walls. They
topped candle stands, lit aisles, and flickered in votive
constellations at the feet of statued heroes. They bathed
everything at the human level in suffused light, but left the
heads of the statues, the vault above, and every other
heavenly thing in darkness.

Benches of black walnut bent ever so slightly beneath
the burden of nobles, guildmasters, ambassadors. The
sanctuary was full, and only half the guests had been
seated. The others would stand in the narthex, craning to
hear and see.

	Pipes, trumpets, and drums blasted out the bridal
march. The ceremony had begun.

				*****

	It was too late to stop the shapeshifters.
	By the time Captain Rulathon had found Khelben in
the wedding crowd and warned him that one or all of the
bride's attendants were shapeshifters, Eidola was walking
down the sanctuary aisle.

	Khelben cast quick magics to win past the elaborate
wards that masked the women.

	"You are right. She is accompanied by eight monsters "
said the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, incredulously watching
the attendants sashay down the aisle.

	The shapeshifters glided along beside the bride. None
was more than a claw's length away from her, a breath
away from their prey,

	"What do we do?" Rulathon whispered. "Can't you
flash them all away into sifting soot?"

	Khelben grimaced. "No. They are too close to the
bride, and the guests. Still, we might have a chance if...."
His words fell to mutterings,

	Rulathon gazed intently at the mage's face.

	"It's a long walk up the aisle, girls," Khelben thought
aloud. "If I can't beat you, I may as well join you... .*'

	He murmured something else and swept an arcane gesture 
down his torso. With a pop that was barely audible
over the pipes and trumpets, the black-robed and grey-
bearded mage was replaced by a slim ivory-garbed attendant.

	The lass gave Rulathon a very Khelbenesque wink. She
hurried forward, her stride somewhat more businesslike
and determined than those of her comrades. She caught up
to the smiling cluster and began her own smile.

	It was a toothy grimace. Through it came a growled
warning, magically sounding in the ears of the attendants:
	Hello, shapeshifters. This is the Blackstaff speaking to
you. Congratulations for living this long. Stay in your
current forms and fall back behind the bride's train, and
you will live longer, still.

There was no sign that the creatures had heard him, except 
that their pace slackened. Eidola moved forward, out
of arm's reach.

	Unfortunately, thought Khelben, shapeshifters have a
knack for growing things longer than arms.

	Very good. Sisters, the Blackstaff hissed to them.
You've no doubt felt the spell blades I've conjured within
your bellies. As long as you make no sudden moves and
stay in your current forms, those daggers probably won't
cut anything vital.

	The pace of the party slowed even more.
	Khelben's smile deepened.

Now, let's chat about who you are and what you are
doing here. Piergeiron thinks you are malaugrym. I have
a notion you are somewhat worse. Am I right?

	Eight coiffured heads nodded on their lovely necks.

	I thought so. And as to what that something is... let's
repair to the crying room for a little talk....

				* * * * *

	Bagpipes shrieked their solemn songs, drummers
cracked sticks against skins, corpulent and decadent nobles 
turned about in their seats to gawk at the spectacle of
flower-decked maidens and flag bearers. The bride and
her attendants glided down the aisle. Benches groaned
when Waterdeep's powers-that-be rose on their own legs
to nod benevolently....

	Standing among them, Noph saw his father a few rows
back. Laskar's sycophantic smile was worst of all. His
teeth seemed to spell out the word blackmail.

	Noph felt ill. He looked away from his erstwhile father,
and also from the bride. Her secret past, whatever it was,
made her white gown a travesty. Surely there was some-
place in me sanctuary he could stare without getting sick.

	The Eye of Ao. The ancient panel of stained glass hung
high in the wall above the chancel. The huge eye was a
splendid piece of craftsmanship, backlit by a loft of flickering 
candles. The eye was luminous, alive. Even its pupil
glinted with capricious light.

	Its pupil? The Eye of Ao was supposed to have an
empty pupil. The hole symbolized the place of dark mysteries 
through which all mortals flew after death.
	How could an empty space reflect light?

	Then Noph saw: the triangular glint of light came from
an arrowhead poised in the opening.

	"Damn" Noph swore aloud.

	The nobles around him turned and glared. Noph turned
curse into a cough. The guests blinked and looked
away. Noph continued coughing, sputtering, gagging. He
pulled out a kerchief and tried unsuccessfully to contain
the fit

	"Excuse me," he muttered hoarsely, and pushed his
way toward the side aisle.

	Nobles happily let him pass, some shying from him as
though he carried a plague. In moments, Noph was free.
He hurried down the side aisle toward the nearest door. It
led to a set of stairs going up.

	Noph bolted up the stairs, hoping he could find his way
to the Eye of Ao before Lady Eidola flew through it in
death.

                           * * * * *

	Piergeiron stood uneasily at the front of the sanctuary
and watched his bride approach. She moved with constant, 
stately grace. The smile on her face seemed one part
joy and one part wry discomfort. He wondered if she felt
as troubled as he....

Something was very wrong here. Piergeiron could not
dismiss the dizzy dread. It was almost unbearable. Worst
of all, he could do nothing to combat it. He could only
stand, smile distressedly, and hope—hope that whatever
plots had been hatched would fail, or would not come into
being until he and Eidola were lawfully wed.

	Beyond Eidola, her attendants slowed and stopped.
They curtseyed once, their bodies rigidly upright, and
began to back slowly away.
Where were they going? They were supposed to accompany 
Eidola to the altar. Did they back away because
of some terrible danger about to descend on her?

	Piergeiron glanced up into the black vault, unseeable
above his bride. Were those leathery wings? Was that a
lashing tail? No he thought, only shadow play, only particles 
swimming in my eyes.

	Piergeiron steadied himself and looked back down, all
the while wondering what invisible monsters of fate hovered 
above them, ready to descend.

	The martial cadence of the bagpipes slowed. Eidola
took two final steps and stood beside him. The roar of
trumpets and drums ceased and echoed away.

	Bride and groom turned to face the podium that held
Sandrew, the Savant of Oghma. He gestured for the people 
to be seated. As the muffled sound of creaking
benches settled into silence, he spoke:

	"Friends, we are here to witness a union that will mean
joy and peace for all of us, but especially for this man and
this woman."

	I only hope he is right about that, thought Piergeiron. I
could use a few lifetimes of peace just now....

				* * * * *

	Noph at last topped the ladder and gently lifted the
trapdoor above him.

	"found it," he whispered to himself.

	Beyond the trapdoor was a small, candlelit loft. Its far-
wall was the stained-glass Eye of Ao. Countless candles 
lined the base of the Eye, and fire gleamed in its edges.

	Through the huge pupil came the murmurous sound of
Sandrew's homily on marriage.

	On this side of the pupil, though, was a cocked cross-
bow poised on a wooden stand. Its quarrel was trained
downward, pointing to the spot where Eidola and Piergeiron 
stood.

	Noph almost flung wide the trapdoor and rushed in, but
he noticed a string tied to the door. It was threaded
through an eyelet in the floor and then rose up to the trigger 
of the crossbow. He eased the door downward an inch,
and watched as the quivering line loosened. The trigger
settled back in its place.

	Clever. Whoever had placed this crossbow here had
rigged it to go off if the trapdoor was opened. Cleverer,
still, there was another string attached to the trigger. It
was tied to a clockwork mechanism. As Noph watched,

the string wound slowly around the clock spindle, and the
trigger tightened.

	"... The crossbow is already in place...."

	So, even now, the lizard-woman is conspicuously sitting 
in the crowd, thought Noph, with a solid alibi for the
moment when the quarrel flies and the lady or the lord is
slain....

	He had another minute at most—a minute to cut the
first string, climb into the loft, and cut the second.
	He reached for his dagger and pulled it forth—or tried
to. The peace strings held the damned thing in place. He
yanked harder, but he didn't have the strength of a Piergeiron to snap them. Groaning in frustration, Noph fiddled 
for a moment more, trying to untie the tangle.
	Thirty seconds ... The clockwork string tightened....

Noph reached up past the trapdoor, feeling for where
the first line was attached. His hand followed the string to
another eyelet that was screwed into the top of the door. A
yank on the eyelet told him this knot was secure.

	Nineteen seconds...

Noph gingerly rolled his fingertips across the string,
his nails slowly fraying the fibers apart.                 

	Eight seconds...                                 

A grunt and a yank. The frayed string broke loose of 
the eyelet. Noph flung back the trapdoor. It boomed
loudly, but he did not care.

	Two seconds . . . The crossbow trigger drew back,
trembling.

	Noph lunged for the clockwork mechanism. A crooked
nail in the floorboards caught his toe, and he fell.

One second ... The trigger clicked....

	Noph snatched the base of the crossbow stand and
wrenched it. The quarrel shot away. It pinged off the edge
of Ao's pupil and darted down into the crowd. A woman's
scream came up to him, followed by the shout of a man.
Noph leapt to his feet and peered out the pupil. Below, an
old dowager clutched a bleeding arm.

	The bolt had missed Lady Eidola and Piergeiron. They
were safe.
	"The whole of Waterdeep will owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Except that Waterdeep had confused the details....

Someone pointed up toward the Eye of Ao and
shouted: "Assassin!"

Noph went white. As other faces turned toward him, he
backed away into the dark chamber. He was no assassin.

He was the hero who stopped the murderers. Once the
people saw the evidence ... once they saw the stand and
the strings and clockwork mechanism, they would understand 
the truth....

The cries of the congregation were interrupted by the
I fuss of a line of smokepowder, lit by the candles beneath
the eye.

Smokepowder?
Boom!

Searing heat. Noph was thrown against a very hard
wall. He groaned and crumpled amid orange flames. They
died back as quickly as they had come. Bleeding, Noph
struggled to smother the fire on his cape.

Numbly, he realized what had happened. The woman
who had set up the crossbow had trapped it to explode

once it had gone off, destroying the evidence other crime,
destroying the evidence of Noph's innocence.
Crossbow, stand, and clockwork machine had been
blasted apart.

"Assassin! Assassin!" came the cries from below.

Chapter 5

Where Trust Is Placed

"Assassin!"

Piergeiron clutched Eidola protectively to him and
looked up toward the Eye of Ao. The crossbow bolt had
come from there. In the pupil of the Eye was the fright-
ened, hopeful face of young Noph.

	The Open Lord's heart sank. What treachery was this?
Noph backed quickly away, turning to flee.
"Guards!" called Piergeiron. 'To the Eye of Ao!"

	His command was interrupted when the Eye flared
brilliantly, as though it had ceased to be stained glass and
bad become the very flesh and soul of a god. Fire shot out
through the pupil, jetting twenty feet into the sanctuary.

	Piergeiron clutched his bride all the more tightly as the
holocaust roared overhead. He saw their shadows, cast
downward by the bright blast—an image malformed and
monstrous.

	Then the blast, too, was gone. Piergeiron looked up to
see a charred Eye of Ao, black smoke bleeding up into the
caliginous vault above. He stepped away from his bride
and drew Halcyon for the third time that day.

	"Forgive me. Eidola, but the duties of office call." Pier-
geiron said, bowing to kiss her hand.

	Already, sounds of struggle came from the Eye of Ao;
the guards had reached the would-be assassin. Kem and
Miltiades rushed toward the sounds, swords unsheathed.
Piergeiron looked the other way, where men carried away
the wounded dowager.

	He shrugged, "Perhaps my aid won't be needed, after all."
"Got him!" shouted someone in the Eye. "We got him!"

	During all this commotion, Sandrew, the Savant of
Oghma, had remained unflappable. "Shall I continue?"

	Hushed flashes and muffled booms suddenly came
from the crying room at the far end of the sanctuary.
Screams answered, and more flares, and a man's angry
voice shouting arcane words. Guests standing in the
narthex shied back from the sounds.

	A smouldering door barked open and spilled flames out
into the rear of the sanctuary. A gasp ran through the
chapel. Guests scrambled over each other to get out of the
way. A tattered and smoky Khelben Arunsun staggered
out through the opening and stopped to cough violently.    

"Knelben looks to need some aid," Piergeiron noted
mildly to Eidola.

She was apparently in complete agreement, for she had
already turned to dart down the aisle, dragging the groom
after her. Piergeiron had to step lively to keep from getting
tangled in her train.

They were halfway to the Lord Mage when lightning
jabbed from the doorway, struck him, glowed along hair
and teeth and bones, and flashed him away to smoke and
ash.

Wide-eyed, Piergeiron and Eidola ran all the faster.
Guards converged on the smoky scene.

Another Khelben fell out through the door his robes
ablaze. The guards halted, stunned. One young soldier
rushed in to pat out the flames. He, too, leapt back as a
fireball roared into being atop the writhing form.

Khelben was toasted, yet again....

"What is this?" Piergeiron shouted to his running
bride.

A third and fourth Khelben rushed from the crying
room. These two clasped hands and barged past the
stunned guards, dropping them to the floor. A whirling
swarm of magic missiles spun out the doorway, shot past
the guards, and pelted through the fleeing Blackstaffs.
Light blazed within, and me two, still holding hands, fell
in a burning heap together.

The fifth Khelben emerged from the crying room just
as Eidola and Piergeiron fought their way through a
stampede of guests fleeing up the aisle. Piergeiron
pushed ahead of Eidola and raised his sword.

"Hurl no more magics!" the Open Lord commanded.

The latest Khelben cocked a hairy brow at him. "That
would be inconvenient, just now." He turned and flung out
his fingers. A mystic hand appeared before the door, and
into it two more Khelbens charged. The hand closed on
them and squeezed, crushing flesh, bone, fabric, and
magic.

"I said, hold!" cried Piergeiron. He rushed up behind
the master mage and slid Halcyon beneath his neck.

"I suppose you did," replied the fifth Khelben. Cautiously, 
he raised his hands up into the air. "But there is
one more of me coming. You'll have to tell him, too."

A ninth Khelben darted from the door, halted in shock
as the guards caught him, looked around at the tableau of
drifting ash and dripping flesh, and snarled, "Unhand
me!"

The guards did. The mage straightened his rumpled
black robes and glared at Piergeiron. "Nice of you to get
involved."

The Open Lord said, "Guards, slay that man if he
makes so much as a sorcerous twitch." The guards moved
into position to do so. "Good. Now, what is happening
here?"

"Shapeshifters," the Khelbens replied in unison. The
fifth fell silent in Piergeiron's grasp as the ninth ex-
plained. "Somehow they disposed of Lady Eidola’s attendants 
and took their places. When I found them out, I led
them back into the crying room for questioning. One of
them attacked. They rushed for the door, taking my form
to confuse pursuit."

"If I am a shapeshifter" said the fifth, "why did I slay
two of my comrades with a crushing hand?”

	The ninth shook his head. "He slew only those two,
and in front of you so that you would believe him. I killed
the rest"

	"A crushing hand is no easy spell. Open Lord" said the
fifth.

	"Many shapeshifters know magic," the ninth replied.
"Your casting is no proof of your identity."

	Piergeiron ground his teeth together. "This is like
blind-fighting. I'm as likely to kill friend as foe."

	"Wouldn't it be better. Open Lord," said the fifth, "to
let a shapechanger free man to accidentally slay me Lord
Mage of Waterdeep?"

	He was right. Piergeiron released his hold on the fifth
Khelben.

	The mage staggered free, huffed, and then struggled to
straighten his robes. He glanced up in irritation at Pier-
geiron. "Thanks for the rough treatment. I have half a
mind—"

	Then, absurdly, his words were literally true. His head
split down the middle and fountained red upon all those
around. The Open Lord reeled back in surprise and revul-
sion, and the body slumped to the floor.

	Eidola pulled back from the slain form, the sword in
her hand dripping gore. She looked as surprised by her
action as did everyone else. Her wedding dress was
painted in crimson, and her hands trembled.

	"You were quite right," said the ninth Khelben, step-
ping toward her. "You knew I would never try to save
myself at the peril of the city. Gentles, if you would put
away your swords—“

	"Wait" shouted Piergeiron. "We still have no proof."
	Eidola gave him a look of injured pride.

	Piergeiron thought of all those in whom he had placed
-his trust—Noph, who turned out to be an assassin; Khel-
ben, who was eight parts shapeshifter to one part master
mage; and beautiful, mysterious Eidola, the spirit and
image of long-gone Shaleen.

	"Put away your swords," the Open Lord said, lowering
his blade. “The judgment of my bride is proof enough."
“That's good" said the Blackstaff. "The monster she
just slew would concur." He gestured toward the riven
head and body before them.

They all saw it, men. The body had returned to its true
appearance—a grey-hided humanoid creature with huge
eyes and a broad, spiky head.

	"A doppleganger?" the Open Lord gasped.

	"So it would seem" said Khelben, prodding the thing
with an iron-toed boot. "Not malaugrym, but dopple-
gangers"

	"But why?" asked Piergeiron. He turned to his bride
and clutched her hand. 'To kill Eidola?"

	"I doubt it," Khelben said dryly, shaking his head.
"They could have killed her a hundred times before now.
Besides, as our young friend Noph has shown, there are
much easier ways to assassinate a lady."

	"But if not to kill her" Piergeiron asked, "then why?"

	Khelben cocked a knowing eyebrow at the bride and
said, "That very simple question will take, I am afraid, a
very long time to puzzle out." He cast his gaze outward at
the stone-silent crowd, many of whom stood with candlesticks 
and snuffers and other improvised weapons in
hand. "And this is neither the time nor place for such
riddles"

	With a wave of Khelben's hand, Eidola's dress, make-
up, and hair were once again in perfect order. She looked
admiringly at herself, then glanced at her groom to see
that he, also, had been made over.

	Khelben addressed the crowd, "I fear I haven't spells
for all of you, so tuck in those shirttails, straighten those
gowns, and lick back those bangs. We've a wedding to
celebrate!"

	A wondering murmur circulated among the crowd.

	"Music!" called Khelben.

	The trumpets responded first, once again taking up the
bridal march. The drums added their cadence, and the
bagpipes growled to life.

	Khelben motioned to the guards to remove the body
and clean up the soot. They flinched at first from his flicking 
fingers, but then busied themselves about their tasks-
Arm in arm, bride and groom headed down the aisle.
striding to the martial strains of the wedding march. In
waves, the crowd shook off its stunned silence and
straightened its collective cummerbund. It even mustered
a smile for the wedding couple.

	Piergeiron tried to return the smile, but couldn't.
	He couldn't breathe.
	He couldn't stop swallowing.
	His head felt like a papier-mache mask.
	Oh, to sleep....

	This dread. This mourning. He had not felt such anguish
since the night Shaleen had died. The image of his first
wife again rose before him, filled his vision.

	Oh, to sleep....

The candles all through the sanctuary abruptly flared to
life. Their flames leapt up six feet into me air. The congregation 
cowered away from this new assault, and the trumpets 
and drums faltered into silence. In the agonized dying
of the bagpipes came human shrieks—

	Fiery figures formed in the flaring candles: warriors,
dressed in armour, their swords drawn.

	With a final flash, the flaming beings became solid
flesh. They dropped to me floor. With them descended a
heavy, preternatural night.

Chapter 6

Blind Fighting

	This is not the end, thought Noph, not by a long shot.
He had begun the evening a disaffected young noble.
Judging by others of his breed, he had been clearly destined 
to become a jaded and decadent middle-aged noble.
But something had happened along the way. Somehow
he'd caught a glimpse of what he was going to be and had
boldly worked to change it all.
	He had decided to be a hero.

	Why, then, was he imprisoned in a dungeon cell, awaiting 
trial and execution as an assassin?

	He had heard that such was often the lot of heroes—to
be misunderstood and branded villains. Only now did it
occur to him just how galling was such a fate. He had
been disowned by his father, had risked his skin to save
Lord Piergeiron and Lady Eidola, and at the end of it all,
had been labelled a monster.

	"Some hero I turned out to be," he told himself dismally.

	A scream sounded above, then shouts, and curses, and
the rumble of soldiers' feet. A man's voice came echoing
down into the dungeon. "Guards, everyone! Above!
Above!"

	The young soldier who had been sitting outside Noph's
cell was suddenly gone, his chair no longer leaning
against the wall but rattling dully where he had been.

	There was a new catastrophe in the sanctuary above.
	Noph's own voice echoed in his head: Some hero you'll
turn out to be if you give up now. They need you up there.

	From all of Waterdeep, the Open Lord had selected
Noph to trust—Noph and three others. Just because Noph
was accused of betraying that trust did not mean he was
guilty of doing so.

	Not yet, at least.

	He stood up. In the dim light sifting into his cell, he
began to study the walls and door for some means of escape. 
He'd get out of this cell, aid Piergeiron in the new
conflict, and find the woman with the burr in her voice—-
no, not just her, but her whole clan of assassins.

	A hero could do no less.

	As the shadows fell about him, Piergeiron wearily
drew his sword. He glimpsed Eidola's white face, eyes
wide, one hand clutching the gem at her throat.

	Next moment, the warriors solidified, flame to flesh,
and dropped to the floor. With their descent, a magical
darkness also fell.

	"Stay behind me," Piergeiron shouted to his bride. "I
don't want to kill you in this blackness."

	Others were shouting or screaming. The rumble of
their voices was augmented by the shuffle of feet and the
thud of stumbling bodies. Overloaded benches groaned
and began to topple. Bolts squealed as their threads were
shredded loose. One bench went over, and then another,
and two more. Blinded guests foundered atop each other.

	Those trapped beneath fallen comrades and overturned
benches soon seemed the lucky ones. Screams rang out as
the shadow warriors advanced into the crowd. The un-
armed and night-blind guests were no match for them.
Many Waterdhavians fell to swords and flails; more still
were simply shoved out of the way as the invaders came
on through the stygian hall.

	They're after us, Piergeiron realized grimly. Only now
did his dread find its true cause. He thought, one of us will
not survive this.

	The din of blind battle increased. The cries neared,
converging on the couple.

	A shoulder knocked against Piergeiron's waist. Some-
one blundered into his legs. Panting, he raised his sword
overhead, m this black crush of panicked guests, he could
accidentally slay his own people. An elbow caught his
jaw. Another body rammed into him. In moments, he was
up to his shoulders in struggling, fleeing folk. At the edge
of vision, he saw Kern attempting vainly to stem the tide.
The flood of bodies pressed hard against Piergeiron, and
he staggered. It was battle enough to keep to his feet in the
mad press. He reeled.

	"Eidola!" he shouted. "Are you still there?"

	He could not hear her answer over the commotion, but
felt her pressed, back to back against him.

	A man who had been rammed up beside Piergeiron
suddenly was gone, sprawling onto the floor. Then an-
other fell away, and another, until Eidola alone remained
with him. The roar of panic was still around them, but the
people had cleared away.

	"It's just us now. Eidola. They want one or both of us."
His blade sliced the air before them. "I wonder where
Khelben has gotten off to."

	Doggedly swinging Halcyon through a defensive drill,
the Open Lord cried breathlessly to the attackers, "Who
are you, and what business have you here?"

	"You know our business, I'm sure. Lord Piergeiron,"
came a nasty voice. The dialect was like that of the western 
Heartlands, but with a nasal edge. "As to who we are,
you must find that out yourselves."

	"You have us at a disadvantage. You know us, but we
do not know you. You clearly can see in this unnatural
night, but we cannot," Piergeiron said, angered by the
pleading tone in his own voice. He added in challenge,
"Unless you are cowards, you would not fight this way."

"Would you battle me, Piergeiron Paladinson, even in
this darkness?"

"If the way is clear of my countrymen, I would fight
and slay you, yes," growled Piergeiron.

	"The way is clear, Open Lord," came the reply. "My
warriors and I have cleared it. I challenge you to an honourable 
duel. My first officer will meanwhile fight your
bride"

	"I accept," said Piergeiron.

	He closed his eyes—they were no good to him in this
darkness anyway—and let his pure soul sense the presence 
of evil before him. Any true paladin, with concentration, 
could sense evil. Given practice, an elder paladin
could almost see evil with his heart. Piergeiron concentrated. 
A smallish image came to his mind's eye—the
faintly shimmering form of a warrior. Farther back stood
the warrior's comrades, holding back the crowd.

	In a whisper, Piergeiron asked Eidola, "Do you see
them? Do you sense them—with your soul? Close your
eyes. You can feel where they are—"

	She was still behind him, but only silence answered his
question.

	"You can do it, Eidola," the Open Lord insisted. "Summon 
the good in you"

	"Are you ready to die, Paladinson?" interrupted the
nasty voice.

	Piergeiron drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer
to Torm the True: Guide my sword, and guard my bride.
Then he turned toward the shimmering form. "Your evil
betrays you, shadow man."

	Raising his sword overhead, Piergeiron advanced on
the figure. Halcyon swept downward in a deadly arc, and
the shadow warrior jumped back.

"Not so blind, after all, eh Thickskull?" taunted the
voice.

	"There is blindness, and there is blindness," replied
Piergeiron, swinging the blade again. It rushed in and
rang off of a metal breastplate. At last, something to fight
against. He followed with a third stroke, and this time the
image seemed to wince.

	"First blood to me," Piergeiron noted calmly.

	"Last blood to me," responded the voice.

	Piergeiron was surprised by a stinging blow to his side.
He drew back, considering. This man was evil, but his
sword was not; of course it did not appear in his mind's
eye. That mistake would not be made twice.

	Piergeiron darted in, quick for a man his size. He
hurled a heavy blow down on his opponent. Sword rang
on sword, then grated away to one side. Piergeiron fol-
lowed the weight of his blade, turning its tip to drive in-
ward. The shadow warrior was too fast, though, batting
Halcyon away and sending out his own blow.

	The Open Lord ducked back, then lunged, landing a
second attack.

	"I thought I would regret having to kill you," the warrior 
hissed in pain, "But I will not regret it at all."
				
				* * * * *

	The cell door proved rotten around its barred window.
A repeated series of kicks to the bars at last tore them free
of the spongy wood. The iron dropped to the ground and
rattled loudly.

Now, Noph needed merely to wriggle through....
After a lot of shimmying, a few select curses, and one moment 
of panic when he was stuck halfway in and halfway
out, Noph won free of the door and rolled out onto his
shoulders. He let out a blast of air as he landed.

	"Better my shoulders than my head," he muttered.

The reborn hero stood and brushed himself off. He
took a deep breath. "Time for some true valor."

With that thought, Noph strode to the dim, winding
stairs and climbed upward, toward the screaming above.

This dungeon is deep, he thought, breathless. The steps
seem to wind forever. It didn't take half as long to be
dragged down here... of course, other legs did that work.

After his fourth circuit of the stairs. Noph saw a light
above. The roar of battle had redoubled. By his sixth cir-
cuit, he reached a round doorway. Noph darted through it
into a hallway. He halted, panting.

Which way to the sanctuary?

After a moment of indecision, he followed the echoing
cries down the hall. In no time, he had reached the narthex.

Ahead of him, a shimmering curtain of darkness
stretched across the doorway. A few nobles staggered out,
their hands groping blindly forward. When they entered
the light, the folk blinked in astonishment before gathering 
their wits and darting away from the sanctuary as
quickly as they could.

Bring them out. That's what a hero would do here.
Lead the people from the darkness into the light.

One more deep breath, and into the crowded chaos he
plunged.

			* * * * *

Khelben writhed beneath an agonizing weight. It had
fallen upon him just when the shadow warriors appeared.
It had fallen with the very weight of the palace itself.

He had seen only the flare of candles, figures taking
shape out of flames. Then, as the warriors became flesh
and leapt to the floor, the terrific crushing blackness had
fallen atop the Lord Mage of Waterdeep.

He gasped, air seeping damnably slowly into and out
of his lungs. He struggled to hold to consciousness, all his
spells lost beneath numb fingers.
Whatever magic had brought these warriors here, it
was ancient—a sorcery that could shatter worlds.

* * * * *

Noph had made numerous forays into the wheeling
black chaos of the sanctuary. Because of his efforts, hundreds 
of guests had fled to safety. Their battered rescuer
did not even waste time watching them flee but rushed
back for more souls.

It was dangerous work in that unnatural darkness. Each
time Noph grappled a given guest, he was paid back with
a royal pummelling. In a battle at midnight, saviours and
slayers are hard to distinguish. In payment for his assistance, 
Noph had received two black eyes and a broken
nose, as well as bruises and scratches ail over his body.

Once he had wrestled a guest into the light, though, it
was a different story. Some were almost penitent. A few
even apologized, or kissed him on the very cheek they had
previously punched. All of them, though, quickly turned
about and pelted for the nearest exit.

	Noph returned to the sanctuary. Plunging back into the
darkness felt much like diving into a cold sea where
sailors drowned amid frenzied sharks.

	This time, though, when his hand caught hold of a
woman's arm, she shouted out with an unmistakable
Calashite burr, "Let go of me!"            '

	"Ah," he replied. "Music to my ears."

	With newfound energy, Noph wrestled the woman into
a headlock—he imagined her still with a lizard head—and
hauled her kicking and screaming into the light.

	Instead of letting her go, he dragged her onward, and
down the steps of a very deep dungeon.

				* * * * *

	Unsure where the warrior's blade would strike next,
Piergeiron countered with a wide sweep of his own. Steel
edges rang against each other. Piergeiron twisted Halcyon, 
entangling the man's weapon. He struggled to fling
the sword to ground, but the shadow figure held the pommel 
tight. Blades slid and scraped, pushing off to one side.

	Piergeiron stepped up next to the warrior and stomped
on his foot The shock and pain jarred the man's hand
loose. Piergeiron twisted his foe's sword free and flung it
to the ground. Then he kicked the warrior's good leg out
from under him and swung Halcyon to bear on the man's
throat.

	"Surrender, all of you, and I will spare this one," Pier-
geiron commanded.

	Laughter came from the circle of warriors around. "Go
ahead and kill him. Its your right, and we never liked him
anyway"

	“I will fight every last one of you" Piergeiron warned.
"I will slay every last one of you."

	More laughter. "Open Lord, if your soul can see so
well, why don't you take a look around?”

	He did, sensing the ring of warriors, twenty strong, on
all sides of him. "So you have us surrounded. If you were
men of honour, you would come one at a time to fight me."

	"Maybe you can see us with those paladin eyes of
yours," jeered one of the warriors. "Maybe you can sense
the presence of evil all around you, but what about the
presence of good? What about your bride? Where might
she be?"

	Piergeiron whirled, his hand out. "Eidola? Where are
you?"
	There came no response except the guffaws of the warriors.
	"Where is she? What have you done?"

	The shadow warriors were withdrawing, their circle
widening around Piergeiron. The Open Lord charged the
nearest one, skewering him with his sword. As the man
fell dead beneath him, Piergeiron pulled Halcyon free and
rushed onward. He stumbled over a fallen bench and the
bodies beneath it.

	The warriors continued to retreat, picking their way
through the wreckage of the sanctuary. Piergeiron thrashed
forward a few steps more, but was dragged down again by
smashed wood and groaning forms.

The invaders had reached the far walls of the chamber.
Each turned and stood, stationed before the ensconced
candles. Their bodies suddenly leapt up, forming six-foot
high flames.

	Piergeiron shielded his eyes from die sudden light, as
did the remaining stragglers and dying victims in the ruined 
chapel. Then, with a pop, the candle flames shrank
inward and disappeared. Darkness again settled over the
smouldering ruins of midnight.

Chapter 7

For Worse

	"Anything yet?" asked Piergeiron. He leaned against
a wall of Khelben's laboratories and watched the slow
dripping of the mage's Kara-Turian water clock. Aside
from requesting updates, Piergeiron could well have
been a statue.

	"I said five more minutes " Khelben noted testily. The
Lord Mage was stooped over a pile of books that were
sprawled open atop each other.
	"It has been four minutes thirty-eight seconds." the
Open Lord noted dully.

	"I said five minutes." Khelben repeated.

	Piergeiron said no more, still pressed against the cold
stone wall.

	In the remaining twenty-two seconds, Khelben flipped
me pages of several tomes, consulting charts and tables.
When ten seconds were left, he looked up irately at his
friend. With an off-handed flick of his wrist, Khelben cast
a slow spell upon the water clock. Its constant gurgling
slowed until it was nearly stopped. There was no reason to
slow Piergeiron as well. The man could not be slower and
still live.

	Khelben sighed, and worked another two hours. When
he was done, he dispelled his enchantment.

	Piergeiron blinked. "Ah, five minutes."

	"Here it is," replied Khelben. "I've been searching ancient 
texts for references to spells or artifacts characterized 
by their dweomer draw. What crushed me to the
ground was a sorcery of great magnitude."

	"And?" Piergeiron asked listlessly.

	"I found three possible artifacts, two of which were un-
likely due to the—"
	"And, which one?" Piergeiron asked.
	"A Bloodforge. It was a Bloodforge that created that
army."

	"What is a—"
	"It's an artifact of great antiquity, a device that can
form armies out of min air."
	"Each candle was a Bloodforge?" asked Piergeiron.
	The mage shook his head in consideration. "No, but
each was linked to a Bloodforge somehow. They allowed
the forged warriors to gate into the palace and back out
again." He cleared his throat. "As far as I know, the only
place where Bloodforges are found is the Utter East."

	"The Utter East?"

	The mage nodded. "The candles confirm it. They were
an engagement present sent to Eidola from an unknown
benefactor, who suggested their use in the wedding.
Though the giver is unknown, the crate in which the
candles came is stamped with border seals that stretch
from Waterdeep all the way down to the Utter East."

	"Even if I have to travel the whole world, I will find
her" said Piergeiron wearily.
	
	"And what of Waterdeep when you are gone? What of
the trade route and all the other programs you have
worked so hard to implement?" Khelben pointed out.
"Running out across half the world is a job for the young,
Piergeiron. For those with nothing better to do. Send
someone else."

	"How could I?" the Open Lord muttered. "How could I
trust Eidola to anyone else?"

	"Are you so arrogant as to think you are the greatest
warrior in Faerun?"

	Piergeiron looked chagrined.

	Khelben went on, "And isn't trust something that has
set you in good stead until now?"

	Piergeiron dropped his head toward his chest and
slowly nodded.

The Blackstaff stood at the door to Piergetron's drawing 
room. His knuckles rapped lightly on the frame.
	"Open Lord, I have brought him, as you requested."

	From the plush darkness of woolen carpets and velvet
drapes came a faint summons. "Come in."

	The wizard silently drew back the door and, with a
smooth wave of a hand, gestured the lad forward.

	Noph had looked better, certainly. Both his eyes were
black, his nose had been set with sticks and torn cloth, and
his lip was split in two places. He favoured one leg as he
came in, a crutch jammed under his arm. Though Noph
had publicly abnegated his nobility and subsequently
been disowned by his father, he still carried himself with
the bearing of a nobleman as he bowed deeply before the
Open Lord.

	No, not the bearing of a nobleman, but that of a hero.

	Piergeiron's own wounds were in interior spaces.
Though the body that slumped in the chair before Noph
was the same well-dressed and athletic figure as before,
Piergeiron's eyes were as dark and empty as the burned out 
Eye of Ao.

	"Ahem," Khelben said, standing there beside the lad.
"Open Lord, remember, you wanted to see him?"

"Yes," replied Piergeiron. He offered no more comment.

Khelben's black brows drew down, and he prompted,
"Something about rewarding his heroism.... Beyond releasing 
him from the dungeon...."

"Yes."

The master mage turned toward the tattered lad. "The
Open Lord is in need of your service, Kastonoph. He
needs men he can trust, especially now."

Noph nodded humbly. "I could use the work—"

"It's more than just trustworthiness. If it weren't for
you, the crossbow would have gone off as those rogue
mariners had planned, and we would have had no idea
who had done it"

"I can start right away—“ Noph said.

"You single-handedly foiled a guild plot against Lady
Eidola. You caught the ringleader, squeezed a confession
from her, and rounded up the others—not to mention the
scrap of cloth that was the chief evidence against the second-in-command.
If it wasn't for you, we would have
thought the assassins from the mariners guild were in
league with the dopplegangers or the agents from the
Utter East. You and you alone solved the one mystery that
has been solved here—"

Noph wore a wondering look as he studied the Lord
Mage's face. "If your concern is money, I wouldn't need
more than bed and board—"

"Damn it, son—you're making this only more difficult," 
snapped Khelben. His eyebrows thickened like twin
storm clouds. "I am not accustomed to being a messenger
boy for the Open Lord, or anyone—"

"What the Blackstaff is trying and failing to say," interrupted 
Piergeiron quietly, "is that I owe you a deep apology. 
I placed my trust in you once, and it was well placed.
I should not have doubted you"

Noph coloured, unsure how to respond to the apology of
the Open Lord of Waterdeep. He waved a dismissive
hand. "Bygones."

"And not only do I and all Waterdeep owe you a debt of
gratitude, but we have further need of your heroism. We
yet do not know what the dopplegangers had plotted, or
for whom they worked. And we have no idea yet who
those shadow warriors were, where exactly they came
from, and where they took Eido—" The Open Lord's
voice, until then a thready whisper, was choked away into
silence.

	"He wants you to aid a group of paladins we are gathering 
to rescue his bride," Kbelben supplied. "Would you
be interested in such an appointment?"

	Something of Noph's former spirit returned. "I go to
watch"

Postlude

Wrong Side of the Mirror

	Oh, to sleep....
	It is all I want to do.
	This weariness is the sort mat denies sleep.

	Perhaps if I slept, I could keep the dust of my pulverized 
world from filtering down through my eyes and mind
and into my very soul. Perhaps if I slept, I would be let-
ting go like the very dust itself. After all, what once bound
all to all is gone now. Everything solid melts into air.

Shaleen, it is as if you died again.
	What has happened to me, to the Open Lord of Water-
deep?

	What once bound all to all?
	Oh, to sleep....