A tremendous clangour of silver tea services and overturned platters rang from the end of the banquet hall, along with a shriek that stilled the chatter and bustle of the party.

With none of their previous decorum, Piergeiron and his bodyguard shouldered past the guests, who were too busy gasping or rising to their feet to detain them. The room went deathly silent except for the scud of chairs, the clank of Madieron's war-shod feet, and the sound of angry voices-three male and one… one…

"Eidola," Piergeiron croaked out, rushing toward his bride.

His cry, hoarse though it was, settled all din for a moment. Piergeiron pushed past the wall of gawkers that had formed around the disturbance. Beyond was a strange tableau.

Eidola stood at her place setting, fury on her face. Her ire was directed at a little hooded fellow whose arms were pinned back by a pair of door guards. The centre of Eidola's magnificent gown was stained with tea-ruined satin amid wet pearls and lace.

In three rapid strides, Piergeiron had reached the cowled man and flung back his hood. The face that appeared had a koboldesque quality-wide-eyed, feckless, and scaled with acne-but it belonged to an all-toohuman wizard "Forgive me," the adept pleaded piteously, tears running down his face. "I–I just wanted to help."

"Help?" raged one of the guards. "Look at the lady's dress. It is ruined!"

The lad had the smell of honesty about him-honesty in the form of sheer terror. Piergeiron laid a massive hand on his shoulder and rumbled, "Speak, lad-the truth. You'll be punished for whatever you've done here, but will be punished for more than that if you lie."

Blood drained from the young mage's cheeks. "Sire, she'd told her maidservant that the tea was cold. I cast a little spell to warm it-"

"Spells are forbidden, as are loose weapons," Piergeiron said- "That alone is grave offence."