"What, by all the watching gods…?" a grizzle-bearded carpenter demanded in bewilderment, shouldering between his suddenly idle trustyhands to gaze down and try to discover why they'd all stopped work.

"Foolblades," an older worker spat scornfully, hefting his mallet. In response to his employer's sharp, inquiring frown, he added in explanation, "Young wastrel nobles. At play, as usual."

"And when foolblades play," another worker grunted, "things always get broken."

The carpenter leaned forward and bellowed down at the Gemcloaks, "Ho! Be off with you! Yes, you!"

Malark seemed not to hear. "Well, then," he said grandly, continuing the game, "only one solution remains to men of honor!"

"Indeed," Taeros replied politely. Four blades sang out of scabbards to join Beldar's already-bared steel, and the Gemcloaks drew themselves smoothly into two lines, facing each other in mock menace.

Someone hummed a mock fanfare, and one man from each line glided forward to stand blade-to-blade. With matching grins, Beldar and Taeros indulged in a mocking, finger-crooking parody of the elaborate lace-wristed courtesies of old nobles. Grand flourishes were made, bows performed, and blades crossed delicately, steel kissing steel.

"Insomuch as thy tragic and injurious delusions must fall, have at you, miscreant," Beldar intoned, stepping back to strike a dramatic pose made resplendent by his ruby cloak.

"And to rescue all Faerun against thy grievous and ever-burgeoning errors, have at you," Taeros replied, his fierce grin belying the haughty styling of his words.

With a whoop, Beldar lunged and charged, hacking hard twice at Hawkwinter steel as he came, the drive and direction of his assault seeking to back Taeros over a handy bucket.

Taeros, who'd marked that hazard before crossing steel, sprang over it without looking down. In a swirl of amber finery he retreated nimbly into the litter of boards, chopping-blocks, dangling ropes, and sawhorses that crowded the building's ground floor.

Beldar advanced, kicking the bucket at his Hawkwinter foe. If the bucket chanced to contain fresh and very sticky mulehoof glue, and if Taeros happened to be adept at sliding aside and letting such missiles hurtle past him to strike and topple a leaning sheaf of boards, and thence ricochet hard into the face of the first charging worker to come thundering down a rickety temporary stair, well, that was merely the will of the gods, was it not?

And if the Gemcloaks burst into the wood shavings and barrel-littered worksite with enthusiastic roars, wild slashes, and kicks that upset most of the barrels and toppled an entire run of thankfully unoccupied scaffolding with a deafening crash into the stout stone wall of the shop next door, well, that too was as the gods willed and merely to be expected when the future champions of Waterdeep's honor took the field with blades bared and battle in their eyes.

"Ho!" Malark boomed cheerfully. With wondrous economy of movement he parried two blades as he landed a kick to Starragar's ornately filigreed codpiece.

The midnight-cloaked Voice of Dissent went staggering back, but his yelp of pain was not quite the sob it might have been. The freshest flower of House Jardeth had experienced this particular favorite Kothont attack a time or two before and protected himself accordingly.

As it was, Starragar's helpless retreat took him crashing through and over the low, stout brazier kept alight to warm and soften the carpenter's peg and wedge glues, sending it and an array of battered glue-pots flying.

Flames were springing up here and there among the thick-fallen shavings by the time the carpenter and four of his largest trustyhands came clattering down their temporary stairs with roars of rage, hurling mallets as they came. If a foolblade got knocked senseless or lost a nose to his own foolishness, well that too was in the hands of the gods.

With a whoop Beldar Roaringhorn sent Taeros sprawling over a pile of boards. Emptying a small belt-flask in a single quaff, he spun around in a ruby-red swirl to slice through the stout rope lashings holding the lowest flight of the temporary stairs in place.

Under the weight of onrushing workers, that run of steps plunged to earth. So great was the force of its landing that it rebounded hard and high into the air, then slammed down again amidst splinterings of protest. Those crashes smote the ears almost as hard as the toppled workers hit the board-and-shaving-strewn floor. Almost.

One laborer struck a litter of lumber with a helpless curse that rose into a howl of fear as a trio of propped beams toppled over onto him. They slammed down on the man and then rolled away, leaving him bruised and groaning. Enraged, another trustyhand leaned down from the floor above to send a drop-bucket swinging hard at the back of Korvaun Helmfast's head.

Taeros saw this peril approaching on the end of its stout rope and lunged into a frantic dive that took a startled Korvaun safely to the floor with him. It was merest mischance that someone had left dressed boards atop a row of sawhorses there and that their sudden arrival dislodged the end horse, making the boards dance and rattle with force enough to spill the carpenter's crate of precious hand-forged longnails.

The noisy clatter of that outpouring swept the carpenter into white-hot, shrieking fury. He charged at Taeros and Korvaun heedless of obstacles.

Accordingly, several sawhorses and an entire handcart of wooden pulley-blocks were sent flying, sweeping several workers from their feet to slide and roll helplessly. One man's tumble took Starragar Jardeth's feet out from under him, and the watching gods alone willed that Starragar's flailing blade severed a vital anchor-binding of a scaffold still alive with laborers pounding along its boards and hastening down its ladders.

In a sudden and sickening cacophony of shrieking wood, a corner of that scaffold buckled and swung out from the building, spilling mallets, nails, boards, off-cuts, and shouting trustyhands down into Redcloak Lane, where, a staggering Malark Kothont could not help but observe, as he smote aside a furious laborer with the flat of his blade and puffed his way back into the flame-flickering heart of the deepest shavings where Taeros and Korvaun were enthusiastically thwacking a roaring carpenter with the flats of their own blades, a delighted crowd was beginning to gather.

"Ho!" Malark shouted sportingly as he came, his sword cutting the air with mock ferocity. Workers were fleeing in all directions now, having little taste for fencing sharp steel with battered hand-mallets.

As the worksite speedily emptied of cursing, sweating laborers and Malark bore down on the still-raging carpenter, the blare of a Watch-horn arose to the north: the single note of one patrol summoning another. Redcloak Lane would very soon host more Watch officers than a bugbear had fleas.

Malark halted, abandoning his sport with a shrug. No one had been slain, though if this fool of a carpenter didn't stop snatching gouges and chisels from his belt and throwing them at Taeros Hawkwinter, that might well change…

Malark's speculation was abruptly cut short by a flying chisel. He ducked low then turned his dive into a somersault, bringing both of his boots up hard and fast into the carpenter's gut. They sank therein with satisfying thuds, hurling the retching man away into a pillar, which, being a fresh and temporary prop rather than a stoutly anchored timber, promptly gave way.

The slow but gathering-in-strength groan that followed was truly impressive and heralded the sagging of an entire section of still-charred ceiling. Gemcloaks scampered away with excited shouts but were forced to turn in swirlings of bright finery as the peg-popping, wood-twisting shiftings overhead caused the already leaning Redcloak Lane scaffolding to turn and crumple a little more.