[i]Basheba curse the whole situation[/i], he thought. Malcador was not an assassin, but he had seen hard men and professional killers work before. He had expected more stabbing. Then again even if she went in there and promptly stabbed two of them, they would still have a fight on their hands. Briefly he pondered sprinting past everyone and then turning the door into a block of ice with his cone of cold spell, but he wouldn't betray the pretty drow or her dog-sized spider. As much as he might feel the thought creeping in, something held him back, for good or ill. Damn, he hated having a conscience, as small and weak as it was. 

He had to admit the guards were hard men. He had expected a few of them to squeal and fall out of their chairs at the sight of a spider that size, but they drew their swords after the briefest hesitation. As the smoke poured in, noting that, at least, was a very smart play, he wrapped a cloth around his handsome face in anticipation. Drawing in a deep breath, he steeled himself and watched the chaos unfold. Webbing shot out, covering the arms and hair of the guards who had not had the foresight to keep their helms on. The dark maiden waded into them, going about her deadly work with impressive efficiency. The wizard knew it wouldn't go her way if he did not help, but he had a distinct fear of blades entering his body and had given up on physical combat after the academy. Even with his past of running the streets, without a weapon and against armored men, he did not like his odds. 

Instead, an instant read of the room had Malcador's eyes catch the man that was still just waking up. He was not only drowsy, but was taking in a lungful of fresh smoke and staggering away from the fireplace, desperately trying to find clear air where his eyes could focus without stinging. He dropped his near empty bottle to roll across the floor and feebly reached for the sword at his belt. While the other men turned, trying to find the source of the commotion and the location of the spider, Malcador sprang from the lip of the stairwell and charged the staggered guardsman, hitting him from behind with the entirety of his weight and driving him to the floor in a heap. Immediately he felt a bruise welling from a piece of plate slapping into his forearm, but he yanked the helmet off and grabbed the man's head of hair before he used all his strength to slam it into the ground thrice, each time hitting audibly as the cries of alarm rose across the room. He grabbed at the hilt of the sword in the now limp hand, and withdrew it from his scabbard, rising with an arming sword in one hand as a duelist, or more aptly, a battlemage might. 

He kicked the head of the fallen man one more time and then ran in to the flank of the confusing melee, trying to decipher just what was happening. The smoke and the webbing and the assassin's whirring blades made it difficult to ascertain, but he still waited as long as he could for a well-made strike, suddenly seeing a bare neck out of the smog. Malcador stabbed at it, but missed. Luckily he made a pull cut and gashed the man, who cried out in pain and turned, his eyes wild and his face screwed up from the smoke and pain. Malcador desperately blocked a clumsy cut from him, before cutting his hand, causing him to drop the blade. Malcador stepped forward and smashed the pommel of his sword into the man's face. He fell like a downed tree. It was a lucky exchange of swords, but he wasn't going to complain.

"Assassin! Let's get out of here!" Malcador cried, drawing a small modicum of the other men's attention. He backpedaled out of their line of sight behind the smoke, but he had to admit he was also finding it difficult to breathe and see his surroundings. He lowered himself to the floor in a crouch, deigning to make his escape before he saw the fallen bottle had rolled into the wall. He went for it, glad to see it still had enough of the swill to be useble for the spell. "Let's go!"

He began a full sprint across the remaining half of the room, making for the door, sword leading in case he had to use it in his flight. If Arlocke gave him a bit of webbing, they would be gone in twenty seconds.