His meaning was unmistakable and offensive. Danilo had parried one insult too many on Arilyn's behalf, and he reacted as any man of his rank did when his lady's name and honor was maligned. He stepped forward, one hand instinctively dropping to his sword belt in anticipation of formal challenge.

This amused the mage. "I think not, young Lord Thann. You are unarmed. In more ways than one, I might add. If that fascinating horticultural display was typical of your magical talents, you would do well to leave the Art strictly alone, much less challenge an accomplished mage."

The irony of Oth's statement was nearly as powerful a challenge as the insult to Arilyn had been. Power thrummed through Danilo's mind, sang in his blood, and set his fingertips tingling. He could squash this supercilious toad of a man beneath one foot without leaving a smudge on his boots. The knowledge both tempted and repelled him.

Danilo inclined his head, the gesture of one gentleman conceding to another. "I think we agree, Lord Eltorchul, that an uneven challenge does no honor to either man."

For a long moment the mage stared at him, as if trying to decide whether Danilo's words held self-deprecating agreement or subtle insult. Color rose high on his cheeks, making his narrow face nearly as red as his hair. He answered Danilo's bow with a curt one of his own, then spun on his heel and stalked off into the swirling throng.

* * * * *

Arilyn crept along the tunnels, following the faint and rapidly fading trail. All her senses hummed with awareness as she rounded a corner, even though her moonblade's magical danger-warnings were oddly silent. She might not have perceived the ambush at all but for the flick of an anticipatory tongue, like that of a giant hunting snake.

She froze, understanding that the tren's vision required movement. When the creatures paid her no heed, she slowly melted back into the shadows for a better look.

Despite her sharp elven vision, several heartbeats passed before she could discern the creatures from the shadows in which they hid. Chameleonlike, they blended with the color and texture and even the heat patterns of the stone walls. There were five of them—tall, scaly, thick-bodied creatures that walked about on two legs. A stub of vestigial tail spoke of their lizard-man ancestry, as did the wide, cruelly curving mouths filled with sharp, reptilian teeth. All the creatures held long daggers, though the claws on their massive hands made such weapons seem redundant. One of them, the largest of the group and probably the leader, held a small, sickle-shaped knife.

Bile rose in Arilyn's throat as she understood the nature of the tool. The hooked blade was not designed to kill but to disembowel a living victim. The prey would still be alive when the creatures began to feed. Tren were highly effective assassins, voracious killers and feeders who left little trace of their crime. Dimly she saw a line of drool spilling from the corner of the tren chieftain's fanged maw as it anticipated the kill. All the creatures were poised for a sudden spring, yet they did not attack.

It was clear to Arilyn that the tren did not sense her presence. Well enough. She would bide her time and aid whoever fell unwitting into this trap.

A light hand rested on her shoulder, another grasped the wrist of her sword arm in the elven signal for peace. Arilyn whipped around, startled and chagrined that anyone could approach her unheard.

She found herself face to face with a tall, silver-haired moon elf—an elf she knew far better than she wished to.

Three

There was no sense in putting the task off—the rest of Isabeau's booty had to be returned. Danilo took a silver bracer from his bag and began to examine it for signs of ownership.

A short, sandy-haired man burst into the alcove, pulling up when he saw he was not alone. With his bulging eyes and scant, pointy beard, the man reminded Dan of a panicked billy goat. Resigned to an eventful evening, the nobleman rose. "Is something amiss, sir? Can I be of some service?"

The man sank down on the chair Dan had vacated and sucked in a wheezing, ragged gasp. "No. No, he's left. Just need to catch my breath."

The sheer terror in the man's eyes set off alarms in Danilo's mind. He knew full well who at the party could best inspire this emotion. "If someone offended you, the Lady Cassandra would certainly wish to know," he prompted.

"No need. Already been dealt with," the man said shortly. He gathered himself and rose to his feet. Squaring his meager shoulders, he gave Danilo a curt nod and then lurched into the crowd.

Danilo followed, his eyes sweeping the crowd for the slim, gleaming figure of Elaith Craulnober. The elf had, appropriately enough, chosen moonstone for his gem color. In a throng of jewel-bright reds and greens and blue, his silvery hair and the pale satin of his costume—milky white swirled and shadowed with blue—made the elf look like a living blade. Danilo wondered, briefly, if Elaith had deliberately fostered this image.

But no. That was unlikely, given his choice of gem color. The moonstone was a semiprecious stone, a powerful conductor of magic. It was often used in elven magic and was the magical cornerstone of the moonblades' power. Elaith possessed such a sword, though it had long ago gone dormant to proclaim him an unworthy heir. For many years the moonblade had been to Elaith a symbol of disgrace and failure. He had gone to great trouble to reawaken the sword, which he held in trust until his only daughter came of age. What could the elf's costume mean but a reclaiming of his honor?

On the other hand, why wasn't Elaith in the hall?

Why had the goatlike little man been so afraid?

Knowing Elaith as he did, Danilo could summon up any number of answers to the second query. With a sigh, he thrust the stolen bracelet back into his bag and headed toward the door. It might be wise to inquire of the grooms whether or not Elaith had left—and if not, to find him and put a stop to whatever mischief he was engaged in. For a moment Danilo understood his mother's exasperation with him. Thanks to his efforts, Lady Cassandra's guest list included a Tethyrian pickpocket, a reputed half-elven assassin, and a deadly elf who was, among other things, possibly the most successful crime lord north of Skullport.

"In order to exceed myself," he murmured as he strode through the garden, "next year I shall have to produce a pair of illithids and a red dragon."

* * * * *

Arilyn stared into Elaith Craulnober's amber eyes, startled into immobility by his sudden appearance.

"This is most unexpected," the elf said in a mellifluent voice that fell just short of song. "I had thought to find a rather different messenger."

She shook off his hold and fell into a battle-ready crouch. "If you've a weapon, draw it," she gritted. "Your 'message' is about to be delivered."

With a single, deft motion, Elaith drew two knives from sheaths hidden beneath his sleeves. His puzzlement and hesitation were clear even to her heat-reading vision.

The tren came on in a rush, and a mixture of comprehension and relief flooded the elf's visage. This was a foe he could fight without reservation. With the speed of a striking snake, he darted forward, blades raised high to intercept the first slashing blow.

Arilyn heard the clash of steel on steel, but her gaze was fixed upon the two creatures charging her. They held their knives in their massive fisted hands, blades pointed straight down for a quick, stabbing attack.

It was a difficult assault to defend against. Arilyn sidestepped the nearest tren and lifted her sword in a glancing parry, point slanted back over her shoulder. The descending knife slid harmlessly down her blade.