Through a glimmering of tears Faerun returned to him, and Mirt found himself groaning, rolling over, and peering at the bare feet of Amaundra Lorgra. The boots of Tarthus were right next to them, and above, the feasting-hall of the Purple Silks was still standing.
In a manner of speaking.
Boom-BOOM.
There was no sign of Elaith Craulnober. Nor were there Walking Statues at every window-though the ground trembled under the weight of their retreating footfalls, sending bits of the walls cascading down into dust at every blow.
"Hoy!" Mirt cried, causing Amaundra's head to jerk up. "We're free to flee this tomb-in-the-making! Get up, all of ye!"
Even barefooted Watchful Order magists of some seven decades of experience can move swiftly on their corns when they need to, it seemed-and in a few frantic, hurrying breaths of dodging falling stones, the five eminent Waterdhavians were outside and staring across the night-shrouded city.
The wall-lamps glimmered as always, and by their light the great stone guardians of Waterdeep could be seen resuming their usual places.
Piergeiron's eyes narrowed. "Who commands them? And just how by the Nine Hot Hells did whoever it was manage that trick?"
And then his gaze fell on the scrap of parchment Mirt held out to him, and the terse message written on it-the answers to his just-spoken questions. "Where," he asked softly, "did that come from?"
The old moneylender stared at what he was holding with a strange, perplexed expression, and then said slowly, "I've no idea. No idea."
A memory came into Mirt's mind then, through a golden shimmering: the wry smile of a certain elf.
Well, now, perhaps he knew the answer after all.