J. King: The Diamond

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 blow-unless 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 flaming unison from their conflagrations, dropping to the floor in the midst of the astonished throng.

"Not again," hissed the Blackstaff. Scowling grimly, he rose from his bench, taking to the air with a gesture. Where wisps of nobles' breath had circled undisturbed in marble-vaulted air, the great, black-draped figure of Khelben now hung. Hung and then swooped, his sable cloak dragging unceremoniously across bald pates and careful coiffures. Mantled in swirling magic, he rushed down on the four warriors like a striking hawk.

In the discordant, dying fall of glauren and trumpets, half of Waterdeep heard him growl, " Don't use gold from bewitched candlesticks!"

As though these words were a call to arms, the chapel burst into furious motion. Captain Rulathon and men of the Watch flooded up the aisles as the congregation recoiled from the caskets, streaming toward the doors. Many of the hurriedly departing had barely survived the first onslaught of fire warriors a month ago. That had been a wedding; who could guess what dread mayhem was coming to this funeral?

Into the chaos of charging Watchmen and cowering nobles Khelben descended, alighting in a whirl of black cloth and magely fury just before the caskets.

A seasoned-looking warrior in gilded armor was the closest flame-borne intruder to the Lord Mage. His warhammer flashed out.

Lightning cracked from Khelben's fingertips. The weapon spun free of the warrior's hand and clanged, hissing and scorched, to the new carpets.

Another warrior-a scrappy-looking young fighter, this one-reached a hand for Khelben's throat, something bright and sharp swinging up beyond his shoulder for a fatal blow. There was a sound like broken, falling icicles, and the fighter froze. His hand hung rigid in the air, just shy of Khelben's throat.

The Lord Mage spared no glance for the stilled man. He was dodging the third warrior, a leather-garbed man hauling hard on a scourge. With a wave of wriggling fingers, Khelben awakened the gold filigree of Piergeiron's casket. Sculpted vines on its flanks came suddenly to life, whirling out to entrap the man in a tangle of living gold.

The fourth warrior, an olive-skinned rogue, was caught in the arms of Madieron, who'd roused himself from his despair, face white with fury, to take a captive. The invader had gone slack in Sunderstone's grip, a sword dangling whitely to one side.

No, not a blade-an arm bone. The man's left arm was bare bones from the elbow down. The rest of him Khelben recognized.

Startled, he hissed the man's name aloud: "Artemis Entreri!"

Perhaps it was not the right thing to say in the presence of terrified nobles. Fresh shrieks came from the crowd, and they shied back with more frantic scramblings over pews, like cattle who've smelt the slaughterhouse maul.

Rulathon and the Watch surrounded the caskets and those who battled about them. Trained not to interfere with the Blackstaff, the Watchmen stood at the ready, trying to look menacing and capable.

Khelben drew in a deep breath. Black eyebrows bristled above steely eyes. He stared at the gold-armored warrior. "Kern?" The man stood stunned, shaking his lightning-struck hand.

The mage glanced next at the young fighter, frozen in place. "Noph?" With a wave of his hand Khelben dispelled the binding that held Noph and sent the golden vines retreating from the third man.

"Trandon?" It had been shackles, not a scourge, that Trandon had swung. "You certainly know how to make an entrance," Khelben growled, inwardly glad for any delay in the funeral. Their conversation, now that lightnings were not in play, seemed to have caught the attention of many mourners before they'd quite reached the doors. Damn them. "What are you doing here?" The Lord Mage's tone was irritable.

Noph's reply was equally blunt. "Just where exactly are we?"

"The Palace of Piergeiron Paladinson," snapped Khelben, "in the chapel. At the funeral of the Open Lord."

Noph swayed, and a sick look passed over his face. "We're too late then."

"We come from far Doegan," Kern put in, "from the company of paladins sent to rescue Eidola from her kidnappers. We've seen a king slain and a fiend war fought-"

"'Fiend war'?" gasped someone in the crowd. One rotund baroness staggered in a magnificent faint, flattening a knot of nobles behind her.

Khelben nodded. "I've sensed much, and suspected more-but reports are best given away from tenderand overeager-ears." He gestured for Kern and Noph to follow him, and for the Watch to bring Trandon and Entreri.

A snide voice rose above the excited whisperings of the crowd: "Hold, Lord Mage. This is just the sort of nonsense we've put up with for the past month."

Khelben did not trouble to hide his grimace. Lasker Nesher might have been Noph's father-but he had also become a one-man political pox on Waterdeep.

"You say the Open Lord is dead," Lasker said, looking to see that the crowd was listening, "and then that he isn't. You delay the funeral and meanwhile rule in the stead of the Paladinson. You know of fiend wars in the south-and the gods alone know what else-and tell not one of us, and now you seek to keep secret the first real report we have about Eidola of Neverwinter?"

The chapel had gone quiet save for the satiny echoes of Nesher's voice. Waterdeep listened-intently.

"And who are we?" Nesher continued, his voice rising to become its own trumpet. "The lords and merchants, guildsmen and nobles of this fair city! We are the Magisters and the Watch, and all folk who've labored on at our posts though our bright leader is dead and a dread mageling has stepped in to hold power indefinitely. We're not 'tender ears.' We are the people! Piergeiron's people! The people of Waterdeep!"

There were shouts of agreement. Nesher's eyes flashed. "We have a right to know what's happening, not only in the back rooms of our palace or in the streets of our city, but in the lands all over our world!"

A general cheer rang out. "Do not spare us this news, Lord Mage: let the paladins tell their tale!"

Nesher has rallied them again, Khelben thought. No, duped is a better word. He has the power to lead them, cheering, off a cliff.

The Blackstaff halted Kern and Noph, gave them a half bow, and with a wave of his hand toward Nesher, said calmly, "A general report of your activities is requested." The metallic glare from beneath his brows made it clear the two had best be truthful but discreet.

The gathered eyes of Waterdeep turned to the golden paladin, the apparent hero of the hour.

It was Noph, though, who spoke first. "Well, we started right here in the palace: Kern, Miltiades, Jacob, Trandon, Aleena Paladinstar," he smiled in remembrance, "and a few others… Paladins, mostly, and me. We sought the fastest route to the Utter East, from whence, Khelben told us, Eidola's kidnappers had come. As it turned out, that route was right under our feet." He stamped on the polished floor.