guildmasters, magistrates, diplomats, secret lords
and not-so-secret lords, senior guards: the best and brightest of Waterdeep. A gleaming, glittering
forest of ermined shoulders, diamond necklines, high-coiffed hair, waxed mustaches, peacock
feathers, whalebone stays, and features held just so by toning salves, minor magics, and even tiny
clips and hidden strands of silk. The best and brightest.
Khelben had spent more than enough time among them to glimpse the monsters behind these
masks.
Lasker Nesher was here, lord of an illicit logging empire. He was one of the most vocal contenders
for the Open Lord’s seat, stirring the rabble of Waterdeep with speeches that were half truth and
all theater. Lasker had personally provided the bleached oak panels, rails, and bosses for the
chapel “and other important palace rooms, out of love for the great Piergeiron.” It was strange,
indeed, that all the milled, polished wood came bearing inexpert spells of clairvoyance and
clairaudience. Khelben hadn’t removed the clumsy enchantments, but instead had overlaid them
with spells that twisted all images and sounds into things menacing. Perhaps that’s why the loving
Lasker Nesher sat blinking between two new bodyguards, starched collar wilting against his
clammy neck.
Then there were the Brothers Boarskyr. Loudly devastated by the disappearance of their kin Eidola
of Neverwinter, the pair of oafs had used the misfortune as an excuse to move more or less
permanently into the palace. While they awaited news of their cousin, they ravaged the palace
stores of beef, sweetmeats, pork, and venison, and drank aisle after aisle of Piergeiron’s private
wine cellar. Both gained another pound each day they remained. The Lord Mage had grudgingly
provided enchanted saddles so the Boarskyrs wouldn’t break the backs of any more palace horses.
Khelben wished he could send the two back to their rickety bridge and let it collapse beneath their
combined enormity.
Plenty of other monsters sat in those pews, men and women as duplicitous and murderous as
Eidola herself. Khelben was glad she hadn’t returned and hoped she never would.
Not all the mourners here were monsters, the Lord Mage reminded himself. He watched a young
boy light a candle flanking the raised dais where the caskets stood. Beside the boy hulked the
man-giant Madieron Sunderstone, hair drooping in sorrow around his lowered face. Madieron had
taken his master’s death worse than most. As cheerful, powerful, and loyal as a sheepdog,
Madieron had guarded Piergeiron from swords and shafts aplenty. But this last attack had been
nothing he could fight, or, it seemed, even understand. The man had sat beside the gold and glass
casket from the moment the Open Lord was interred there. Khelben wondered if, like a faithful
guard dog, Sunderstone would sit beside it until he died of a broken heart. If there was such a
thing as a true heart, Madieron had one.
And what about Captain of the Guard Rulathon? The intense young man glared in amazed shame
at the coffin. He had shouldered the whole burden of the recent troubles in Waterdeep, blaming
himself for shapeshifters, the Unseen, and rampant conspiracies. It was clear the captain’s honor
would not recover from this blowunless Piergeiron himself rose from the casket to forgive him.
The dwarven goldsmith had really outdone himself with those caskets. Their gold sheathings were
elegant sculptures. At the four corners of the dais the smith had fashioned four tall golden
candlesticks, overtopping the plainer rows of commoners’ candles. Atop these man-high ornate
gold giants, stout candles now sputtered to life, as the acolytes drew reverently back.
Where had the smith gotten all that gold on such short notice?
The candles suddenly flared, each blazing six feet high. In the sudden roar of light and heat, four
menacing shapes formed
warriors! They leapt in
and not-so-secret lords, senior guards: the best and brightest of Waterdeep. A gleaming, glittering
forest of ermined shoulders, diamond necklines, high-coiffed hair, waxed mustaches, peacock
feathers, whalebone stays, and features held just so by toning salves, minor magics, and even tiny
clips and hidden strands of silk. The best and brightest.
Khelben had spent more than enough time among them to glimpse the monsters behind these
masks.
Lasker Nesher was here, lord of an illicit logging empire. He was one of the most vocal contenders
for the Open Lord’s seat, stirring the rabble of Waterdeep with speeches that were half truth and
all theater. Lasker had personally provided the bleached oak panels, rails, and bosses for the
chapel “and other important palace rooms, out of love for the great Piergeiron.” It was strange,
indeed, that all the milled, polished wood came bearing inexpert spells of clairvoyance and
clairaudience. Khelben hadn’t removed the clumsy enchantments, but instead had overlaid them
with spells that twisted all images and sounds into things menacing. Perhaps that’s why the loving
Lasker Nesher sat blinking between two new bodyguards, starched collar wilting against his
clammy neck.
Then there were the Brothers Boarskyr. Loudly devastated by the disappearance of their kin Eidola
of Neverwinter, the pair of oafs had used the misfortune as an excuse to move more or less
permanently into the palace. While they awaited news of their cousin, they ravaged the palace
stores of beef, sweetmeats, pork, and venison, and drank aisle after aisle of Piergeiron’s private
wine cellar. Both gained another pound each day they remained. The Lord Mage had grudgingly
provided enchanted saddles so the Boarskyrs wouldn’t break the backs of any more palace horses.
Khelben wished he could send the two back to their rickety bridge and let it collapse beneath their
combined enormity.
Plenty of other monsters sat in those pews, men and women as duplicitous and murderous as
Eidola herself. Khelben was glad she hadn’t returned and hoped she never would.
Not all the mourners here were monsters, the Lord Mage reminded himself. He watched a young
boy light a candle flanking the raised dais where the caskets stood. Beside the boy hulked the
man-giant Madieron Sunderstone, hair drooping in sorrow around his lowered face. Madieron had
taken his master’s death worse than most. As cheerful, powerful, and loyal as a sheepdog,
Madieron had guarded Piergeiron from swords and shafts aplenty. But this last attack had been
nothing he could fight, or, it seemed, even understand. The man had sat beside the gold and glass
casket from the moment the Open Lord was interred there. Khelben wondered if, like a faithful
guard dog, Sunderstone would sit beside it until he died of a broken heart. If there was such a
thing as a true heart, Madieron had one.
And what about Captain of the Guard Rulathon? The intense young man glared in amazed shame
at the coffin. He had shouldered the whole burden of the recent troubles in Waterdeep, blaming
himself for shapeshifters, the Unseen, and rampant conspiracies. It was clear the captain’s honor
would not recover from this blowunless Piergeiron himself rose from the casket to forgive him.
The dwarven goldsmith had really outdone himself with those caskets. Their gold sheathings were
elegant sculptures. At the four corners of the dais the smith had fashioned four tall golden
candlesticks, overtopping the plainer rows of commoners’ candles. Atop these man-high ornate
gold giants, stout candles now sputtered to life, as the acolytes drew reverently back.
Where had the smith gotten all that gold on such short notice?
The candles suddenly flared, each blazing six feet high. In the sudden roar of light and heat, four
menacing shapes formed
warriors! They leapt in
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