Forgotten Realms: The Nobles Books 1-4: King Pinch; War in Tethyr; Escape from Undermountain; The Mage in the Iron Mask

Forgotten Realms: The Nobles Books 1-4:

1. King Pinch 2. War in Tethyr 3. Escape from Undermountain 4. The Mage in the Iron Mask

[The Nobles 01] - King Pinch By David Cook

Title: King Pinch (Forgotten Realms: The Nobles, Book 1) Author(s): David Cook ISBN: 0-7869-0127-6 / 978-0-7869-0127-2 (USA edition) Publisher: Wizards of the Coast

Prologue In a far southern land, ten thousand people gathered in the afternoon haze, a miasma that started at noon along the shores of the Lake of Steam. From there it swelled through the streets of Ankhapur and cloaked the city in a moist cloud until sweat and air became one. No breezes fluttered the white banners on the rooftops. Not even the collective breaths of all those gathered could swirl the clotted air. Cotton plastered to flesh like a second skin, so that clothes hung limply on people's bodies. Ten thousand people stood waiting in the clothes of the dead and the lifeless. These ten thousand—the grandfathers, fathers, and sons of Ankhapur; the grandmothers, mothers, and daughters of the same—squeezed against the sides of the narrow streets, overflowed the balconies, and squatted in jumbles on stairs that coiled out of sight. They lined a single winding avenue, choked the streets that led to it, even crammed their boats along the quay where the avenue passed. At the edges of this mass were the kebab vendors with their sizzling meats, the wine boys who siphoned draughts from the kegs strapped to their backs, the fruit sellers pushing overripe wares, the gamblers who cunningly lost in order to win, and the ladies who profited from any crowd. A traveler, caught in the edges of the thronged multitude, would at first assume he had stumbled upon a festival unknown in his far-off homeland. Perhaps the hordes waited for the devout pilgrimage of a revered saint. Maybe it was the triumphal entry of a conquering lord, or, most wonderful of all, the perambulation of a revealed god before the very eyes of his worshipers. That truly would be a story for the traveler to tell upon his return to some distant home.

As he pushed his way farther in, though, the traveler would begin to have doubts. Where were the lanterns, the bright streamers, the children's toys he was accustomed to at every festival in his home? Was this the passing of a particularly dour saint, a victory too costly for the citizens to bear, or, worse still, the march of some vengeful death god whose gaze might strike down some unfortunate? There was no cheer or eager expectation in those around him, and as he plunged farther into the crowd, he would find only ever-increasingly somber face of duteous sorrow. Upon finally reaching the center of this dour crowd, the traveler would be greeted by masses of red bunting, great swathes of the brilliant cloth hanging listlessly from the balustrades and lampposts that magically light Ankhapur's nighttime streets. Were this the traveler's fledgling journey, he might be mystified by the colorful riot that hung over his head. His journey had brought him, perhaps, to a city of the mad—lunatics who lived out their lives as the inverse of all normal reason—melancholy in their joy, merry when others called for sorrow. Shaking his head, he would quickly resolve to leave Ankhapur, perhaps noting its dementia in the notebooks of his travels. This would not be the conclusion of a traveler more steeped in the whirling customs of different lands. He would look at the scarlet bunting and know that the language his own culture saw in them was not the language of Ankhapur. Before him was stretched a funereal display, just as black or white might symbolize the same in his land. If he were truly cunning, he would guess the nature of the departed. No crowds throng for the passing of a mage. The deaths of wizards are intimate and mysterious. Nor was it the passing of some once-beloved priest, for then surely the people would congregate at the clergyman's temple to hear the dirges his followers would sing. The passing of thieves and rogues no one mourned. It could only be the death of a lord, and one great and powerful at that. Nothing less

than the mortality of kings could draw the people into the humid afternoon, out to stand in the sun until the processional passed. Looking at the citizens with renewed insight, the traveler would see an old courtier in despair, his almost-realized expectations dashed. A young maiden shivers with tears, overcome by the memory of some forgotten kindness His Highness had bestowed on her. A one-eyed cripple, dismissed from the guard after his injuries in the last campaign, struggles to stand in the stiff posture of old duty. Farther up, a merchant leans out the window, his face a mask of barely disguised glee as he already counts the profits he will reap now that the oppressive lord is gone. As the traveler studies his neighbors, the procession finally arrives. The honor guard broils under its plumes and furs as it clears the streets. Behind follow the priests of all the temples, the aged patriarchs carried in shaded sedan chairs while their acolytes swing censers and drone their prayers to the skies. Finally there comes a great gilded cart, draped in a pyramidal mound of red silk and pulled by three ranks of sacrificial oxen, the first rank the deepest black, the second a hitch of unblemished white, and the third all perfect gray. As the ox cart creaks and lumbers through the cobbled streets, all eyes strain to see the throne that sits at the top. There, dressed in the robes and furs of state, immune to their crush and heat, is their late king. Only his face shows, chalky gray and hollowed by the final touch of death. A breath, held by ten thousand souls, is released as the cart passes each man, woman, and child of Ankhapur. The king is truly dead. The people begin to move once more, each citizen taking up again his course among the living. As the traveler passes through the crowd, a hand with a knife stealthily reaches for the strings of his purse. Years later, when the traveler speaks of Ankhapur, he will tell of the funeral of the king of a land of rogues.

Rooftops and Boudoirs "Crap! This wind stings like Ilmater's wounds!" a thin voice loudly groused from the darkness of night. "Quiet, you little fool!" hissed a second, deeper voice close by the first. "You'll tip us for sure with your whining." "Fine then. You work these knots with your fat human fingers," the other voice hissed back. His words were almost lost in a roaring gust. There was the furious snap of long cloaks lashing the air. "Just work, damn you, before we both freeze." The words were accented by the chink of metal grating against tile. A flash of light swept across the pair. "Down!" hissed the deeper voice. The light briefly illuminated two people—one large, the other absurdly small—perched on a precarious cant of rippled roof tile. The larger of the two was leaning heavily on a bar wedged in a crack between the terra-cotta shapes. The smaller one fumbled with a stout cord, knotting the end around a glazed chimney. "Relax. Just a lamplighter," the little one said. An icy gust rocked them, swirling their cloaks into fierce snarls. Wind was a property of the winter-stung nights in Elturel. Each night it rose up with the fading sun to sweep through the hillside streets of the city's High District. On a gentle night it was a dog's whimper, patiently waiting to be let in through every opened door and window. But there were other nights, like tonight, when it snarled like a ravaging hound. The hunter's wind, people called it then, and shuddered when they heard the noise as it bayed through the streets. Everyone knew the calls were the

hounds of Mask, and no wise man went out when the unshriven dead called to him from the street. At least not the honest ones. Poised on the high, tiled rooftop, the two shapes— large and tiny—continued their work. A chill blast shivered over them and they unconsciously shifted on their roost until their backs were carefully turned to the numbing blasts. Never once did they break their attention from the glazed tiles beneath them. There was another grate of metal on fired clay. "It's up. Are you ready?" hissed the larger of the two. The snap of rope as the smaller set his last knot was the answer. "Don't drop me this time, Pinch," the thin voice cautioned, only half in mirth. "Don't try to hold back the pelfry, Sprite-Heels. Saving the best stones for yourself's not being upright. I could've let the Hellriders take you." There was no humor in the man's voice at all, and in the darkness it was impossible to see his expression. He passed the knotted rope through the small hole in the roof tiles. Sprite-Heels mumbled an answer without saying anything, though his tone was suitably meek. Pinch, his partner, was not a man to cross needlessly. Sprite-Heels had tried it once and got caught cold at it. He could only guess Pinch must have been in a good mood that day, for the halfling was still alive. He'd seen, even helped, Pinch kill men for less provocation. He could say that Pinch just liked him, but he knew the old rogue better than that. Pinch didn't have friends, only the members of his gang. There was a faint slap as the cord struck the floor. "Down you go," Pinch said with playful cheer. He wrapped the cord around his waist and belayed it with his arm, ready to take the halfling's weight. Little folk like Sprite-Heels were small and short, which made them good for wriggling through tiny gaps made through pried up roof tiles, but

they still weren't light. Sprite-Heels for one was fond of his ale and cheese, which lent him an innocent-seeming chubbiness. That was all well and good for working the street, but the halfling was far from the lightest cat burglar Pinch had used. The halfling studied Pinch in the darkness and then gave a shrug, unable to fathom the man. Pinch was a "regulator," the master of his shifty and shiftless fellows. The air of studied threat about him was a mask worn too long, until Pinch knew practically no other. Indeed, pudgy little Sprite-Heels was not even sure he knew the real Pinch anymore. "Stop dallying," the rogue hissed. The halfling jerked into motion. Squirming his rear for balance on the tiles, he tugged off a pair of thick boots and flexed his furred feet. Barefoot was better for working the rope, but a terra-cotta roof in the winds of winter was no place to creep unshod. Pinch thrust the rope into the halfling's calloused hands. The halfling fingered the rope. "Why don't you go down, Pinch?" he finally asked with a brazen smile. "I'll steady you." Pinch smiled back with a grin just as predatory. "Bad knee—never any good at climbing." They both knew the answer anyway. "Get going. We're to be gone before the Hellriders come around again." The halfling grumbled, knowing what argument would gain him. He wriggled through the hole, snagging his cloak on the uneven edges. "Climbed up here well enough, you .. ." The grumbles grew inarticulate and then disappeared as the halfling descended into the darkness. Pinch's arms, wrapped tight around the rope, trembled and quivered with each jerk of the line.

As he sat on the roof, back to a small chimney, every second in the wind and darkness dragged into hours in Pinch's mind. Time was the enemy. It wasn't the guards, the wards, the hexes, or the beasts rumored to roam the halls beneath them; it was time. Every minute was a minute of more risk, a chance that some ill-timed merchant next door would rise from his secret assignation and step to the window for air, or that on the street below a catchpole would look up from his rounds to stare at the moon. There were endless eyes in the dark, and the longer the job took, the more likely that someone would see. Pinch cursed to a rat that watched him from the cornice, flipping a chip of tile toward its pit black eyes. As the rat squeaked and ran away, Pinch damned Sprite for his slowness. There was another, Therin, who was a choice target of his oaths. It was he and not Pinch who should have been on the roof; that was the way Pinch had planned it. In fact it was all that damn-fool's fault for getting caught in a nip when he shouldn't even have tried. He hadn't the skill as a cutpurse to try for a mistress o' the game's bodice strings, let alone the purse of a Hellrider sergeant. Pinch was just pondering who was the right man to give an alibi for Therin when the line went slack through his fingers. Instantly he bobbed forward face first into the hole, catching himself before he plummeted to the marble floor thirty feet below. He strained to hear any sounds of scuffle or alarm, even the lightest tap of a soft footfall. There was nothing and that was good. So far everything was going according to plan. Sprite-Heels was living up to his name, now padding silently through the halls of the Great Temple of Lathander, making for the great holy relic kept there. Pinch had a plan, and a grand one at that. The relic was useless to him, but there were others who would pay dearly for it. Splinter sects and rival faiths were the most likely, but even the temple beneath him might be willing to pay to keep their honor

intact. It was by far the most ambitious thing he and his gang had tried yet, a far cry from the simple curbing and lifting they'd done in the past. Diving, like this, they'd done, but never on so grand a scale. It was one thing to house break some common fool's dwelling. Sending Sprite-Heels diving into the temple was quite another, almost as bad as cracking a wizard's abode. Temples had guards, wards, priests, and beasts—but the rewards were so much more. The plan was simple. The dark stretch of Sweet-sweat Lane, an alley that barely divided the temple from the festhalls on the other side, was where Pinch had plotted their entry. A few nights' pleasant scouting from the high floors of the Charmed Maiden had assured Pinch that the guards along that section were particularly lax. Still, Pinch shed a few coins so that two maids, Clarrith and Yossine, were sure to do their washing up in back, to draw off any curious eyes. Sprite-Heels had shimmied to the temple roof without a snag while Pinch took the rope and followed shortly thereafter. All went well. Once on the wall, the pair of rogues had scurried across the guard walk and plunged into a maze of gables, eaves, and chimneys until Pinch's estimate put them over the main hall. With a pry bar and a petter-cutter, they had pulled up the tile and carved through the lead beneath—and now Sprite-Heels was inside. Which was taking all too long. Pinch didn't like it. His calculations were right, and the halfling was certain to be over the altar by now. All Sprite-Heels had to do was grab the relic and whatever else he could put his hands on quickly, and get back to the rope. The problem was that Sprite was taking too long. Carefully, so as not to lose his windswept seat, Pinch leaned forward to peer through the hole. At first his eyes, a little weak in the night, saw nothing, but slowly the

inside divided itself into areas of profound dark and mere gloom. Straining, Pinch tried to interpret what he saw. "Infidel!" roared a voice just as the darkness flared with light. Pinch practically flopped through the narrow hole as his gaze was filled by a corona of blinding after-lights. "Seize the thief." roared the voice again, echoing through the vast empty chamber of the temple's great nave. In Pinch's blinking gaze, a small hunched blur darted across the broad marble floor. Close behind was a pack of clanking men lit by the brilliant flare of a priest's wand of light. The old rogue heaved back out of the hole, suddenly fearful he'd been seen and breathless with surprise. The rope, previously slack, jerked and snapped as a weighty little body grabbed it and scrambled up the line. "Pinch!" wheezed Sprite-Heels through lungfuls of air. "Pinch, haul me up!" The man seized the rope and heaved. "For the gods' piss, be silent!" he hissed through clenched teeth, too softly for anyone to hear. It was bad enough Sprite-Heels had blown the job, but he had to drag Pinch's name into it, too. Straddling the hole, Pinch suppressed the urge to drop the blundering halfling to his well-deserved fate. Do that and there was no doubt the little knave would sing hymns for the catchpoles. So he had no choice but to pull, heedless of the strain, until he drew up great arm-lengths of rope and the halfling was hurtling toward the temple's painted ceiling. "To the roof! Alarms! Blow the alarms!" came the muffled bellow from below. "OWWW!" came the more immediate cry as the rope suddenly came to jarring halt. " 'inch, lay aw a liddle! Yer bregging by dose!"

A foot of line slid through the rogue's fingers and the weight on the other end bounced with a jolt. A small hand thrust through the hole and flailed until it gripped the edge. "Up—but slowly!" wailed Sprite-Heels from below. Pinch cast his gaze over the windswept rooftop, trying to guess how long they had. "Did you get it—the pelfry?" " 'Course I did!" came the indignant reply. The half-ling's arm struggled and heaved until his curly head popped into view. "Pinch, help me out of here! They're getting archers!" "Pass me the garbage—all of it!" Sprite-Heels looked at Pinch's out-thrust hand. "A pox on that!" he spat out as he lunged forward and caught the rogue's wrist in his tiny grip. "You'll not drop me twice!" Pinch didn't resist, but heaved his small companion through the hole. "I should take it, for the way you've bungled this job!" he snarled. "Bungled! You're the one who—" CR-RACK! A burst of splintered tile slashed across Pinch's arm. Wheeling, Pinch saw the silhouette of two guardsmen, one twirling his arm over his head. "Slingers! Down!" The man shoved the halfling as he dropped toward the rooftop. There was a whirring buzz just over his head and then his feet slipped out from beneath him. Unbraced on the pitched slope, Pinch skidded and rattled several feet down the tile roof before he was able to arrest his slide. The darkness beyond the third-story eave loomed ominously below. Pinch scrambled for purchase, his feet skittering across the tiles. Sprite-Heels was facing him, back pressed against the brick pile of the chimney. The only advantage gained in his fall was that the stack screened his attackers, but not seeing them hardly made them go away. Over the fits of the wind, Pinch and the halfling could hear the

heavy-footed clunk of the temple sentinels as they picked their way across the angled tiles. A throng of voices rose up from the courtyard below as the alarm leapt like an elemental spark through the temple compound. Pinch twisted around just in time for the brilliant glare of a spotter's lantern to sweep over the eaves. The wash of light swung their way, not quite on them but close enough to highlight the fear in Sprite-Heels's countenance. The rogue's sharp whistle jerked the wavering half-ling back to action. A snap of the head and a sharp gesture were all that Pinch had to do before his small partner nodded in agreement. The knowing eye and the sure hand were the language of all thieves. As if on a spoken signal, the pair sprang into motion. They barreled around the chimney, one to each side, and straight into the faces of the two guardsmen who'd been trying to creep forward with ox-footed stealth. "Clubs!" bellowed Pinch, letting loose the time-honored battling cry of Elturel's apprentices. The astonished guardsman flailed madly with his sword, the blade slashing the air over Pinch's gray-curled head. The thief didn't stop to fence but swung his balled fist in an uppercut beneath the other's guard. Knuckles slammed into hardened jerkin right below the breastbone. The guard sucked air like a drowning man; Pinch cursed like a sailor. The sword hit the tiles with a sharp crash and skittered over the eaves like a living thing while the guard took a floundering step back. All at once, he tipped precipitously as one foot found the burglars' hole and disappeared from sight. At the rim of his attention, Pinch saw Sprite-Heels was no less quick. As the halfling easily dodged beneath the tall guard's lunge, there was a flash of metal and a bewildered scream. Like a rag doll, the guard tumbled against the chimney, hands

clutching the back of his leg below his armored coat. Ignoring all else, Pinch scrambled up the wavering slope of tile and lunged over the ridge. Momentum skidded him halfway down and then he was up and running with short, acrobatic steps. He clambered over a gable and then swung precariously around the edge of a conic tower before he came to the dark and shadowed alley they had started from. Moving with greater care, he searched for their rope to the alley below. Just then Sprite-Heels tumbled over the ridgeline, coming from a different direction. "Anyone following?" Pinch demanded. Sprite-Heels grinned while he caught his breath. "Not a one ... of the patrico's men . . . not even a rat," he gasped. "And the pelfry?" The halfling reached inside his vest and pulled out a crudely forged amulet embossed with a stylized half-sun symbol. Pinch snatched the booty and pulled the startled halfling to his feet. "Right, then. To the rope." As they neared the line, Pinch instantly knew there was trouble. A noise carried over the wind that others, less keen, might miss. It was a steady creak, the sawing to and fro of a line. He signaled Pinch to silence and crept forward over the terra-cotta terrain. Sure enough, there was someone on the rope. It jerked from side to side as someone pulled himself up. Signaling Sprite-Heels to stand watch, Pinch carefully peered over the edge of the roof. Halfway below was the dim shape of a climber. From the bulky shape and the oversized helmet, there was no mistaking it was one of the temple's men. In the middle

of the alley was a pool of light where the climber's partner stood holding a lantern. "Pinch, they're coming!" Sprite-Heels hissed. As if to prove his warning there was a thunderous clatter of boots across tile. The pursuit was hard on, and their escape route was blocked. In a few more moments the climber would reach the roof, putting the two thieves between enemy swords. There was no forward and there was no back. With barely the touch of thought, a small knife seemed to materialize in Pinch's hand. The blade flashed in the lantern light as he reached over the eaves. A yelp of alarm burst from below. With a single swipe, the razor-sharp edge severed the thin silken line. The yelp became a squeal until it ended in a solid whump of flesh and steel. "At the back!" roared a voice from the top of the ridgepole. The vanguard of their pursuers was silhouetted against the shivering night, the wind furiously whipping their plumed helmets as they blundered forward. Fear making their thoughts fleet, Pinch and Sprite-Heels frantically cast about for an escape, now that their rope was gone. Suddenly Pinch saw dark, moving branches in the void of the alley between the somber temple walls and the garish lanterns of the festhalls. A plan formed in his mind; he knew it was a bad plan, but it was the only choice he had. "With me!" Pinch shouted to encourage himself. And then, even though he wasn't a strong man, the rogue scooped up the halfling around the waist. With three all-out strides and before Sprite-Heels could even squeak, Pinch leapt into the darkness, his partner tucked under one arm. With his other arm he reached out as far as he could and with his eyes closed, Pinch prayed. "PINCH! ARE YOU—" All at once the pair hit the top branches of the only tree in Sweetsweat Lane. Flailing

for something to grip, the master thief dropped Sprite-Heels, who was squirming and howling enough already. The branches tore at Pinch's face, shredded his fine doublet, and hammered him in the ribs. Still he crashed through them, seeming to go no slower as momentum carried him in a sweeping arc toward the ground. Pinch was almost ready to welcome the impact with the earth when his whole body, led by his neck, jerked to a stop. His fine cloak that had been billowing out behind him had snagged on a broken branch. A cheaper cloak with a clasp of lesser strength would have torn right then or its clasp would have come undone, but Pinch didn't dress in cheap clothes. Instead the cloak tried to hang him, saving the patrico of the Morninglord the job. There was a brief second when Pinch thought his neck might snap, and then he realized he was still plunging downward—though not as fast. The one tree in Sweetsweat Lane was little more than a sapling, and under Pinch's weight the trunk bent with the springiness of a fishing pole. He felt as if he were floating, perhaps because he couldn't breathe, but there was no doubt the fall was slowing. And then, through a shroud of pain that narrowed his vision, Pinch saw salvation. It was as if Mask, god of thieves, had reached down and parted the branches to reveal the brightly lit patio of the Charmed Maiden just below him. Gurgling and kicking, Pinch fumbled his bung-knife from its wrist sheath and slashed at the cloth above him. The pop of threads breaking turned into a rip, and suddenly he was plunging as the branches whipped past him. With a loud crash, he bounced off a table, hurling trays of candied fruits and pitchers of warm wine into the air, and ricocheted into the warm and amply padded embrace of an enchanting lass of the Charmed Maiden. Not far away from him landed his smaller half, but with no less solid a thump.

"MAD!" Sprite-Heels howled over the shrieks of the Charmed Maiden's consorts and the outraged sputters of their clientele. "MAD, MAD, MAD! You tried to kill us! You suicidal son of a cheating apple-squire!" Sprite-Heels paid no attention to the panicked rush of the ladies or the bristling posturing of their gentlemen friends. They'd undoubtedly come out to see the commotion and were now getting more than their share. "Stow it!" Pinch snarled as he reluctantly freed himself from the young lady's arms. "It's our necks on the leafless tree if the Hellriders take us." Though battered and hobbling, Pinch nonetheless seized the halfling by the nape of the neck and half-dragged him into the back passages of the festhall. The pair staggered through the scented hallways, their haste increasing with each step. They passed locked doors where only soft giggles where heard, passed salons where dells awaiting the night's suitors adjusted their gowns. They hustled down the back stairs. As they neared the bottom, a chorus of shrieks and indignant cries filled the floor below. Over it all, Pinch heard the discordant clang of hand bells. "Hellriders!" The rogue thrust his little partner back up the stairs. "Second floor—end of the hall!" he barked. Sprite-Heels knew better than to argue. The chorus of hand bells was enough to say the watch was at the front door. The halfling could only trust the rogue's orders; gods knew the man had been here enough times. At the top of the landing, Pinch forced his way through the sweaty couples who surged from the richly draped rooms, dodging elbows as women struggled into their gowns and the hard slap of steel as men buckled their swords to their belts. Behind them the bells and the shouts of "Hold fast!" and "Seize him!" grew stronger along with the furious pound of boots as the Hellrider patrol mounted the stairs. Forced like rats to

flee rising water, the host of entertainers and clients crammed the staircase upward, so that it was mere moments before Pinch broke free into the near-empty hall. The rogue assumed his partner would follow; the halfling was able enough to care for himself. Pinch sprinted down the hall and painfully skidded around the corner. "It's a blank wall!" wailed the voice right behind him, and indeed the words were true. The hallway ended in a solid wall, albeit one pleasingly decorated to imitate a garden seat. The small niche with a marble bench, all draped in false vines of silk and taffeta, was charming enough, but completely without a door. "There's a way through here, Sprite. Maeve told me about it," Pinch assured. Even as he spoke, his long-fingered hands were swiftly probing the panels in search of some hidden catch or spring. The halfling snorted. "Maeve? Our dear sweet drunken Maeve—here?" "She was young once and not always a wizard. Now cut your whids and get to searching." From the commotion behind them, the Hellriders had reached the landing. The halfling ignored the command. "So that's how you met her. Maeve, a—" he jibed. "Stow it," Pinch snapped, though not out of sentimentality. He needed to concentrate and focus—and press just-so the spring-plate his fingers suddenly found. A small panel over the garden bench swung out, opening to reveal a well of darkness. An exhalation of dust and cobwebs swept from the gap. Pinch pulled the panel back and nodded to the half-ling. "It's jiggered; in you go." The halfling looked at it with a suspicious eye until the clomp of boots in the hall overcame his objections. With a lithe spring he was up and through the door. Pinch wasted no time in following, surprised that he could wriggle through the small opening so quickly after all the battering he'd taken. Grabbing the inside handle, he

pulled the door shut and plunged them into darkness. With one hand on Sprite-Heels's shoulder, Pinch followed as the halfling descended steps the human could not see. They padded downward as the thumping and thunder of the 'riders behind them faded, and then snaked through passages that wove beneath the city. In places Sprite led them through water that splashed up to Pinch's ankles and smelled so bad that he was thankful not to see what he walked through. Their escape was so hurried that neither had a light. Several times Sprite stopped and described a branch in the sewer tunnels. Each time Pinch did his best to remember the path, though his confidence grew less and less the farther they went. He was an "upright man" now, the master of his own cohort of rogues—years away from his beginnings as a sewer rat. At last they reached a landmark Pinch knew well from his underground days, a jagged gap in the brick casing of the sewer wall. From Sprite's description, Pinch could see it almost unchanged in his mind—the ragged curve of the opening, the broken tumble of bricks that spilled into the muck—from the day he and Algaroz broke through the wall to complete their bolt hole from the alehouse above. "Through there," Pinch ordered with silent relief. Up till now he had only hoped that Algaroz, who now owned the Dwarf's Pot, kept the bolt hole open. Pinch knew it wasn't out of sentimentality. Algaroz had good reasons for keeping a quick escape route handy. The dirt-floored passage ended in a planked door, tightly fitted into a wall. Designed to be hard to find from the other side, it took only a few moments of probing to release the catches and swing the hidden door slowly open. Muddy, smelly, and blinking, the two thieves stepped into the soft light of the alehouse's cellar. *****

It was several hours, almost near dawn, before a man of average height and average looks finally found his way to a table at the back of the common room. Still, he commanded attention. His clothes and manner stood him apart from all the rest. The man wore the costume of an aspiring courtier—a red velvet doublet generously trimmed in gold braid, cross-gaitered woolen hose without a tear, and a fur-lined mantle draped casually across his shoulders. The tangled curls of his graying hair were neatly brushed out and his thick mustache trimmed. Most wondrous of all, he was clean and bathed, which was far more than any other customer in the smoky ordinary. A few hours before he'd been crawling on a roof, but now gone were the dark and sludge-stained clothes from the night's escapade. The Dwarf's Pot, or the Piss Pot as some called it, was not noted for its fine clientele. Infamy more than fame brought a man here. Most of the lot were foists and nips who swilled down cheap sack and haggled with their brokers over the day's pickings. In one shadowed corner a dwarf pushed a few pieces across the table for a pittance of coin, while at another table a wrinkled old dame, a curber by trade, showed a wig and cloak she'd hooked from a window left carelessly open. Boozing hard near the entrance was a whole tableful of counterfeit cranks, those beggars who specialized in sporting their appalling deformities and maimed limbs to the sympathetic citizens of Elturel. Here in the commons, they looked remarkably hale and whole, no doubt due to the restorative powers of the cheap ale they swilled. Mingled among the crowd were the doxies and dells finally returned from their evening's labors. "Greetings, Pinch dearie," said the sole woman at the table Pinch joined. Though far past her prime, she still dressed like she once might have been—pretty and alluring—but years and drink had long stolen that from her. Her long brown hair was thin and graying, her skin wrinkled and blotched. It was her eyes, weak and rheumy, that

revealed her fondness for drink. "Well met to you, Maeve," Pinch answered as he pulled up a chair and joined the three already there. Across from Maeve, Sprite-Heels sprawled on a bench like a child bored with the temple service. He thrust a hairy halfling foot into the air and waggled his oversize toes. "You took your time. Find a distraction upstairs?" the little being mocked while at the same time breaking into a yawn he could not stifle. The fourth at the table, a big overmuscled man with farmboy good looks, snorted his ale at Sprite's tweak. He broke into a fit of coughing, the scarf around his neck slipping to reveal a thick scar underneath. "Pinch don't got no time for women. 'Sides, he's got Maeve." He snickered at his own great wit. "Ho, that's right. He's always got me, if I'd ever let him!" Maeve added with a laugh. Pinch let the comments slide, eying the man across from him. "Therin, my boy," he finally asked with only a little comradely warmth, "what happened? I thought the constables had you for nipping a bung." The younger man smiled knowingly. "Seems I had good witnesses to say it wasn't me with his hand in the gent's purse. By their eyes I was here, drinking with them at that very time." Sprite's boozy voice came from below the edge of the table. "Our farmboy's learned to hire good evidences, even if he ain't learned to nip a purse. Isha shame—always learnin' the wrong thing first." Therin rubbed at the scarf around his neck. "I've been hanged once. I don't need to be hanged again." "See!" came the hiccup from below. "Mos' men saves the hanging lesson for las'." Pinch propped his head on the table and gave Therin a long, hard stare, his face

coldly blank. "There's some who'd say you're just bad luck, Therin. Maybe not fit to have around. It was you supposed to be there tonight." His mouth curled in a thin smile. "But then, your bad luck seems to affect only you. It was your neck for the noose and your money for the evidences. Sprite-Heels and I did just fine, didn't we?" "Ish true, Pinch, ish true." The halfling heaved himself up till he could look over the top of the table. He was still spotted with the muck of the sewers. Fortunately the air of the Dwarf's Pot was so thick with wood smoke, stale ale, and spiced stew that his reek was hardly noticed. Right now Sprite-Heels breath was probably deadlier than his filth. "Wha'd we get? I' didn't look like more 'an a cheap piece of jewelry." Pinch scowled at the question and waggled a finger for silence. That was followed by a series of quick gestures that the others followed intently. Magical.. . important. . . temple . . . wait for money. The gestures spelled it out to the others in the hand-talk of thieves. From the quick finger-moves, they puzzled it out. Clearly what they'd taken was of great importance to the temple, so important that it was going to take time to sell. Pinch's sudden silence told them as much as his hands. The rogue was suddenly cautious lest someone hear. That meant people would be looking for what they had stolen, and Pinch saw no reason to openly boast of what they had done. Even Sprite-Heels, fuzzy-minded though he was, understood the need for discretion. The three turned awkwardly back to their mugs. "What's the news of the night?" Pinch asked after a swallow of ale. They could hardly sit like silent toads all through the dawn. Sprite collapsed back onto the bench since he had no answer. Therin shrugged and said with a grin, "There was a job at the temple. Somebody did them good." He, too, had nothing to say. Maeve squeezed up her face as she tried to remember something the hour and the

drink had stolen away from her. "There was somebody . . ." Her lips puckered as she concentrated. "That's it! There was somebody asking about you, Pinch." The rogue's drowsy eyes were suddenly bright and alert. "Who?" The memory coming back to her, Maeve's contorted face slowly relaxed. "A fine-dressed gent, like a count or something. Older, kind of puffy, like he didn't get out much. He was all formal and stuffy too, kind of like a magistrate or—" "Maeve, did he have a name?" She was rambling and Pinch didn't have the patience for it. The sorceress stopped and thought. "Cleedis .. . that was it. He was from someplace too. Cleedis of..." "Cleedis," Pinch said in a voice filled with soft darkness. "Cleedis of Ankhapur."

Janol of Ankhapur It was one of those statements that could be understood only with mouths agape, and the three did so admirably. Maeve blinked a little blearily, her slack mouth giving her the look of a stuffed fish. From out of sight, Sprite-Heels suddenly stopped hiccuping. The grumbling of a drunk as he argued the bill, the clatter of dishes carried to the back by a wench, even the slobbering snore of an insensate drunk filled the silence the three scoundrels created. It was up to Therin, naturally, to ask the obvious. "You know this Cleetish?" he asked, wiping his sleeve at the drool of ale on his chin. "Cleedis—and yes, I know him," was the biting answer. This was not, Pinch thought, a subject for their discussion. " 'Swounds, but ain't that a new one. Our Pinch has got himself a past," the big thief chortled. By now Sprite had hauled himself up from his sprawl on the bench. Though his hair was a tangled nest of curls and his shirt was awry, the halfling's eyes were remarkably clear for one who only moments ago was half done-in by drink. Still, his words were slurred by ale. "Wha's his nature, Pinch—good or ill?" The little thief watched the senior rogue closely, ever mindful of a lie. Pinch tented his finger by his lips, formulating an answer. All the while, he avoided the halfling's gaze, instead carefully scanning the common room under the guise of casualness. "Not good," he finally allowed. "But not necessarily bad. I haven't seen him in a score of years, so there's no good reason for him to be looking for me." "From Ankhapur, eh?" Therin asked more ominously, now that the drift of things was clear. "Where's that?" Pinch closed his eyes in thoughtful remembrance, seeing the city he'd left fifteen

years ago. He tried to envision all the changes wrought on a place in fifteen years, see how the streets would be different, the old temples torn down, the houses spread outside the outdated walls. Still, he knew that the Ankhapur he imagined was as much a dream as the one he remembered. "South—too far south for you to know, Therin," the rogue finally answered with a thoughtful grin. It was no secret that Therin's knowledge of the world ended about ten leagues beyond Elturel. Pinch could have claimed that Ankhapur drifted through the sky among the lights of Selûne's Tears for as much as Therin knew. Still, maybe it was the remembering that made Pinch more talkative than he had ever been. Home and family just weren't topics of conversation for those of his trade. "It's the white city, the princely city, built up right on the shores of the Lake of Steam. Some folks call it the boiled city. Take your pick." "So who is this Cleedis, Pinch?" Maeve wheedled. "He seemed like a gent." "An old, foolish man," Pinch answered offhandedly to end his reminiscence. Maybe there was more to be said, but the rogue offered no further explanation. Sprite, his judgment decidedly impaired, was not going to let Pinch slip away. "So wha' do we do? We goin' to meet with him?" The other poured a blackjack of sack and gave Sprite a jaundiced glare. "You're not doing anything. This fellow's looking for me, not you. We've had success tonight, and it calls for some drinking. Here's to my little diver!" the rogue raised his leather mug for the toast, and the other three quickly followed. "Here's to Sprite," Therin and Maeve chorused. "Aye, here's to me," the halfling burbled happily. He buried his childlike face deep into the overfull mug of wine, greedily tipping it back with two hands until the drink streamed down his chin.

Pinch took a judicious draught of his wine, while Therin and Maeve drank long and hard. Even before the others had finished, their master stepped away from the table. "I'll look for you in the usual places," Pinch advised. "Finish your drinking and keep your eyes and ears sharp. The patricos are going to be looking hard for their thieves. It won't do to have any of you scragged now." "As you say it, Pinch," Therin murmured dourly as he set his blackjack on the greasy table. Brown Maeve nodded her receipt of Pinch's caution. Sprite was silent, already insensate and snoring on the bench. Gathering his mantle tight, Pinch stepped over the sleeping dog by the door and walked out into the bracing dawn. The muddy lane was flecked with clumps of long-lasting snow that clung to the patches of daytime shade. Right now it was neither light nor dark but the point where time hovered between the two. The false dawn that dimmed out the lower stars was fading, replaced by the true dawn. Here though, the sun's first light struggled against the winter mists common to Elturel. How like Ankhapur, Pinch thought as he watched the hovering frost swirl through the night alleys. The comparison had never occurred to him before, not even when he'd arrived fresh from the south. Travel had all been new, wonderful, and terrifying then; there was never time for such frivolous speculation. The man shook his head with a snap of his curly hair, as if to shake loose these romantic notions and rattle them out his ears. Such thoughts were all fatigue, and he could not allow himself that luxury of rest. First there was Cleedis. The Five-League Lodge was far from Pinch's normal haunts. It perched halfway up the slope of Elturel's High Road, halfway between the base world of the common man and the uppermost crest of nobility. In Elturel, a man's address said much for his status. Chaperons in their salons counted how many streets a prospective suitor was

from the top of the hill. Ragpickers always claimed their gleanings were gathered from the very summit of Elturel, an artless lie their hopeful customers accepted anyway. For Pinch, all that mattered was that the best pickings were found in the streets that looked down on the city. Of course, the higher streets had the most watchmen and wizards, too. It was here that the city's leaders lived in aeries at the top of the great High Hill, the temples of those gods currently in favor clustered around them. Farther down, those merchants who aspired beyond their class vied for the choicest—hence highest— streets left to choose from. The Five-League Lodge had done well, holding practically the last address before the realms of the privileged crowded out all others. By the time Pinch reached the block of the inn, the morning vendors were already straining their carts through the streets. Eelmongers and bread carts competed for attention, along with the impoverished prestidigitators who went from door to door offering their skills. "A quick spell to clean your house, a word to sweeten your wine? Or perhaps, madam, you're looking for something to make your husband a little more amorous. I can do these things for you, madam. It'll only take a few coins . . . and he'll never know what happened." Pinch knew these old tricks well. Tomorrow the house would be dirty again; in a few days, the husband would be as doltish as ever. The wizard wouldn't care. Some probably wouldn't even remember, the grinding scramble of the day drowned away by cheap wine in taprooms like the Dwarf's Piss Pot. That was the way things were—everybody out to make their coin. It was the hypocrites who pretended to live above it who irritated Pinch. He'd dealt with constables, trusties, watchmen, even executioners, buying them with a few gold or silver coins, and yet they still pretended to be pure and unimpeachable. That was a joke; nobody was beyond gold's reach. Rogues knew the lies and self-deceptions men

used, and made their living trading on those weaknesses. Perhaps that was why Pinch stayed in the bottom town, unlike other upright men who pretended to the ranks of the gentry. Down among the common folk, at least a man knew his business and wasn't ashamed of it. Pinch abandoned his ruminations at the door to the Five-League Lodge, a sprawling compound of timber and stone. He stepped through the door and into the common room, this one a good deal cleaner than the place he had just left. The hall was empty save for a single charwoman cleaning the floor. Her dress hung in greasy tatters, far out of keeping with the fine appointments of the room. "Girl, come here," Pinch commanded as he took a chair. After a start of surprise, the woman hesitantly shuffled over. As she drew near, Pinch laid a silver coin on the table and idly pushed it about with one finger. "Do you have a guest named Cleedis?" The charwoman's gaze was fixated on the promise of the coin. "The one that looks like an empty money sack? Aye." Another coin, matched by a scowl, was laid on the table. "That's the one. Where?" "Up the stairs to the best chambers in the house." With a deft tap he scooted the silver toward her and she snatched it up before it had even stopped moving. Coin in pocket, she hurried to disappear before the chance of blame arose. Pinch was up the stairs before the innkeeper might stop him, since no doubt like all innkeepers, the man truly believed he was the lord of his domain. At the top of the stairs, it was hardly difficult to find Cleedis's room; the one entrance with double doors had to be it. The doors were a rich wood unseen in these parts and probably shaped by elves, judging from the elaborate carved panels, not that Pinch was much of an appraiser of the forest folks' handiwork. He did, however, note the keyhole of thick

dwarven iron. Locks were something more in his line, and this one looked formidable. Worse still, it was probably enchanted. The last thing he needed was for the lock to shout out an alarm. A good thief was always prepared, and Pinch prided himself on being a good thief. The slim rod of dull bronze he pulled from his pouch didn't look like much, but getting it had cost two others their lives and Pinch very nearly his. Not that his killing them bothered him; if there'd been an honest beak on the bench, both would've been hanged long ago. Death was their reward for plotting against him. The old rogue knelt by the door and gently touched the rod to the metal lock, so carefully as not to make a single clink or tap. At the barest contact, the rod melted before the dwarven metal, dripped down its own shaft before it coagulated into a thick mass. Pinch shook it briefly, as if scattering the excess metal. When it was done, what had been a plain rod was a perfect duplicate of the lock's true key, form and shape stolen from the memory of the dwarven metal itself. Still, Pinch held his breath as he slipped the forged key over the tumblers. There was always the chance of another safety, especially with dwarf work. The dumpy smiths were always vying to outdo each other in one form or another, building in this new intricacy or that. Fortunately, this lock did not look particularly new. The tumblers clicked and rotated, the bolt slid back, and nothing screeched in alarm. Still Pinch waited to be sure. When no innkeeper roused from his morning kitchen came puffing up the stairs with guardsmen in tow, Pinch pushed the door open until he could just slide his body through into the gloom beyond. Once inside, he checked the lock's other side. Dwarves had a fiendish fondness for little traps like one-sided locks and other infernal tricks. Once satisfied that the Five-League Lodge was not at the forefront of lock design,

the old rogue softly pressed the door shut and looked about the room. The front salon alone was larger than any private room Pinch had seen in Elturel. The entire common room of the old, dark-stained Piss Pot could easily have fit in here. Worse still for Pinch, everything was of the finest quality—the brocades, the statuary, the plate. It was a cruel thing to have to suppress his natural acquisitive instincts. He restrained himself, not from any sense of morality but because he had business that he did not want to jeopardize. Besides, the rogue knew he wasn't equipped to do the job right. Pilfer a little now, and the owner would surely tighten his wonderfully lax precautions. Instead, Pinch made a note of the place, its best treasures, and its weaknesses. Any man who guarded his treasures so ill just might be fool enough to turn over the lot to a quick-witted coney-catcher like himself, Pinch guessed. But the rogue shook his head ruefully, knowing his thoughts were getting away from the matter at hand. With all the stealth he could muster, Pinch slipped to the bedchamber door and gently pushed the gilded panel open. It swung on silent hinges, which suited the thief well. A dying glimmer in the fireplace lit the gloom in the far corner, casting its rays over the dark hump in the center of the bed. With a supple twist, Pinch slid his wrist knife into the palm of his hand. He had no intention of killing Cleedis, but there was no point in letting the man know that. In three quick strides he would be at the bed. Halfway through his second step, a light flared from the corner opposite the lamp. "All night I've waited," groused a figure in the light, filling a high-backed chair like a lump of fallen dough. "I expected you earlier." "Cleedis!" Pinch gasped, though his teeth were clenched. Instinct seized the thief. He whirled on the balls of his feet, blade already coming up— "None of that!" the other barked sharply. He shifted slightly and a flash of steel

glinted from his lap. "I know you too well, coz. It was me that taught you the sword." Pinch rocked back with wary slowness. " 'Coz,' indeed, Chamberlain Cleedis. What brings you so far from Ankhapur? Fall out of Manferic's favor?" The swordsman rose from his seat, his overweight and flaccid body filling with the stern strength of piety. "Your guardian, King Manferic III, is dead." It was clear the old courtier was playing the news for shock, and Pinch was not having any of it. With his best studied coolness, he laid his knife on the nightstand and settled onto the bed, disinterestedly pulling the coverlet back. Underneath, a breastplate and clothes made up the lumpy outline. "So?" the rogue drawled. "He turned his back on me years ago." "The kingdom needs you." That got to Pinch. He couldn't help but stare at Cleedis in surprise. He looked at the courtier closely, comparing what he saw to the man he once knew. The hair, once black and rich, was receding and almost pure white. The weather-beaten campaigner's skin was now cracked and loose, his eyes sad pits without humor. The soldier's muscles were now flaccid and tired. In Cleedis, Pinch saw the fate of the warrior turned statesman, the toll that years of compromise and patience would extract from the flesh. Pinch stared until he realized he was staring, then he gave an embarrassed snort of disgust as if to claim his shock was only an act. "I'm not such a gull, Cleedis. There are my dear cousins; what about the princelings four?" Cleedis thrust the sword into the carpet and hobbled a step forward using the weapon like a cane. "Bors is an idiot—can barely hold his drool in at a temple service," the king's chamberlain growled. "The other three hate each other with a passion. Each claims sole right to the Cup and Knife. Vargo started it, figuring he could muscle the

other two out of the race. With only one claimant, the priests would nullify the test and pronounce him the true heir." The tale was beginning to amuse Pinch, in as much as it was all his adopted family deserved. He lay back on the pillows, although one hand was always near the knife. "Throdus and Marac didn't agree? By Beshaba, dissension in the house." "There'll be civil war!" "So when they're all gone, you want me, the forgotten ward, to come to Ankhapur's rescue and carry on the family name? How generous, Cleedis." Cleedis stabbed at the floor in anger. "I'll not put a thief like you on the throne!" Pinch sprang to the edge of the bed. "Ho! Little kingmaker Cleedis now! My, what you've become. So what is it you want of me then?" The courtier stalked back to his chair. "Just a job. A quick and quiet solution to our problem." "Why me? You could get any queer-bird to lay them down with a cudgel, just for freedom from the gaol—or have you lost all your influence with Manferic's death?" The aged courtier's glare told Pinch all he needed to know. "Aye, now there's a turn of Tymora's wheel. You used to inspire fear in them, and now you probably don't even have the coin for a black spell from a Thavian outcast. That's why you've come to me." The rogue let loose a gloating chuckle and settled back onto the silken pillows. "It's not that way," was Cleedis's terse reply. "First, it's not the princes we're after. If anything odd should happen to your cousins, there'll be war for sure. In the second part, you can dance on the twisted hemp before I'd come looking for you. I'm here at Manferic's bidding." "Oh, dear guardian; so like Manferic. He plots even after his death." It was time to be off the bed and to the door. "Go back to his grave, Cleedis, and tell him I'm not

coming. I like things just as they are here." "Heard there was trouble in town last night," the elder drawled like a snake uncoiling. Pinch knew he was hearing trouble, but he kept his stride steady. He wasn't going to play the chamberlain's game. "You are a fool, Janol—or Pinch, should I call you? Here I am in Elturel, where nobody's even heard of Manferic or Ankhapur, and you don't even wonder how I found you." That stopped Pinch with his hand at the door. The seat creaked and then the floor groaned with a heavy thunk-clunk as Cleedis hobbled over, sword as cane. "The priests of Ankhapur," the courtier wheezed out, "have gotten quite good at tracking you. Shall I tell you where you were last night?" Pinch stared blindly at the woodwork in front of him. "I was drinking." He could hear his own words locking into the cool monotone of a lie and cursed himself for getting caught. "Maybe you were. It doesn't matter," the courtier allowed with the smooth, cold smile of a basilisk. "Guilty or innocent, it doesn't matter to me or the constables— what are they called?—Hellriders of this town. Just a word is all it takes." Pinch turned a half step toward his tormentor. "Not a bit of it, Janol," the old man said as he weakly swung his sword to guard. "You can't imagine me trekking to Elturel alone. I die and you're surely doomed." "Bastard fool, you've got no proof and I've got evidences who'll swear for me." Sword still up, Cleedis blew on his free hand to warm his finger joints. "Of course you do, and that's all good for the constables, but are a high priest's bodyguards less impetuous here than in Ankhapur? The news through the entire city is that they lost a pretty piece of property, a piece of some high holy man's jewelry they'd been

safeguarding." Resigned, Pinch leaned back against the door. If he couldn't bluff the old man, he would at least pump the chamberlain for what he could. "You know a lot for being new here." "Don't assume I came in yesterday. I learned a lot in Manferic's service that's served me better than the sword. So, are you coming or will you wait for some temple brave to cut you down? They will find you, trust me." There was no choice. Pinch needed to stall. "I've got others who need consulting—" "Let them hang on their own." "And things to get together. This evening—we'll meet again." The old chamberlain considered the offer, the fierce energy that had sustained him all night draining away. "Where?" "Here," was the quick answer. Pinch wasn't about to reveal any of his hideouts, either the boozing kens where he spent his days or the stalling kens where he passed his goods to the brokers. Cleedis nodded acceptance. "Don't turn me, cousin. I found you once; I'll find you again." And I'll be ready for you next time, Pinch thought to himself. At the door, he gave a quick bow, part old habit and part mockery, before leaving the apartment and slipping through the dawn-drowsy halls of the inn. ***** The rogue was wary as he made his way back through the early morning streets. By now his head was thick with the sluggish residue of stale ale, sleep deprivation, and overexcited nerves. He had to thread his way through the sunrise press of

greengrocers, tinkers, and kitchen maids on their morning rounds. A butcher's apprentice splashed by, hurrying through the muddy streets and balancing a fresh side of mutton on his shoulder while a pack of gnome striplings chased him, trying to nick bits of meat off the carcass's dangling shank. Here and there Pinch saw a fellow knave— Dowzabell, the prison trusty; Dun Teddar, who did a counterfeit of mad singing; and Ironbellow, a dwarf who limped because one foot was a bronze peg. He begged coins, claiming he'd lost his foot as a Hellrider fighting the Zhentarim, but Pinch knew in truth that a surgeon had taken it last winter after Ironbellow had passed out from drink and got a case of frostbite and gangrene. It wasn't the unpredictable palliards or the murderous wild rogues that made Pinch wary, though. Like him, the ragged tramps and overdressed cutthroats were from the night world, the land of darkness and shadow. Now, as the sun rose, they, like himself, felt their powers wane. It was the ones who knew no hour that worried Pinch—the Hellriders who patrolled the city. It was the rogue's greatest failing that he was too well known to the catchpole and his constables. No doubt they'd be looking for him after last night. And the Hellriders weren't all either. The patrico's guard would want a hand in this also, to redeem the damaged honor of their jobs at the temple. With daylight, they'd be out in force. Finally, there was Cleedis. Given whom the old man had served all these years, it was certain the sword-master was not to be underestimated. Hellriders, even temple guards, Pinch could predict. He could not say the same for Cleedis. It's all my own vain fault, a biting voice gnawed within him. It was hardly fair to call this his chiding conscience, for while always at his shoulder, the sharp words didn't care about the causes of things. Pinch's inner voice saw the flaws in plans that might

have been perfect. The trouble was, it almost always spoke in the rogue's ear when it was too late to do much anyway. The voice seemed to relish the power of hindsight that Pinch denied himself. So Pinch moved warily. He slipped down alleys with names like Kennel Lane and Mucker's Mews, where the half-timbered houses leaned so close over the street that their roof peaks almost touched. He chose ways that kept him on the edges of the day markets and far from Elturel's High Hill. Traveling thus, skirting this and flanking that, it was not until well into the morning that Pinch returned to the Dwarf's Pot. As the old rogue pushed open the alehouse's creaky door, Therin unexpectedly stepped out from the shadows. "Piss in Ilmater's wounds—where've you been, Pinch?" The thug's voice was torn between relief and stress, and it was mirrored in the long knife clutched in his hand even as his body sagged back against the wall. Pinch knew by the knife it was serious business, not just because Therin had a knife out, but because it was a skene, a long, thin dirk. It was a blade favored by Therin's honor-obsessed people, the Gurs—Selûne's children, the people of the highway. The skene was a sure sign of deadly intent. "Pizzle it yourself. What's the play here?" Without waiting for an answer, Pinch slipped to the side where he could get his back against the wall and face his foes directly. Even though Therin wasn't threatening anymore, a man would be a fool to think all was well. With his hold-back dagger already in hand, Pinch scanned the common room for more danger. It was empty, which even at this hour was not right. There was always at least one drunk or well-paid doxy toasting the day—but today there was nothing. Save for Therin, there weren't even any of Pinch's gang. "Hell-riders, did they—" Therin didn't need the rest of the question. "It was the patriarch's catchpoles. Came

in here like apprentices to a cry of 'Clubs.' Set to bust up the place looking for you and the little fellow." He stooped and slid the long knife back into its boot sheath. "Damn Cleedis and his spies! Sprite-Heels—where is he?" "Up here" was the muffled answer. Pinch looked up in time to see a small stream of dust fall from the roof beams, and then Sprite was dangling by his awkward little arms. Therin nodded up with a grin but made no move to help. "Slipped out of sight and got himself up there." He purposely raised his voice for Sprite to hear. "Can't imagine how a runt like him managed it, though." "I heard that!" the halfling shrieked. They both ignored him. "And Maeve?" "Right here, my dear Pinch," cooed a voice at Pinch's ear. The old rogue could feel her warm, ale-scented breath on his cheek, but she was nowhere to be seen. "Got meself invisible as soon as trouble come through the door. Just in case." Vanishing was Brown Maeve's first reaction to most danger. "Well, make yourself whole, woman." Pinch addressed the air where he thought she stood. "And you up there, get yourself down. We're leaving town." He strode through the near-deserted hall toward the upstairs. "Leaving?" There was a loud thud as Sprite dropped to the floor. Halflings, it seemed, did not land like cats. "None too soon, I think." A bottle on the Piss Pot's bar suddenly upended and burbled a healthy swig. "Oy, Maeve—you'll be paying for that!" snapped Algaroz as he came through the door from the back kitchens. Caught with the snappings, the frumpy sorceress flickered into existence. "It's a going-away drink," she chided. "Old Pinch wants us to leave town." "And none too soon, if the officers keep ruining my trade—"

"Leave, just cause we had a little trouble with the constables? Things were looking good here. I say we stay." Therin marked his objections by leaning significantly against the front door. With his big muscles and rope-scarred neck, he made an imposing obstacle. "Fine for you to say when they haven't made you, moon-man!" Sprite snapped. Therin reddened at the name "moon-man." It was an old insult for his kind, one that reminded him of the suspicion he'd always faced as a Gur. From the stairs, Pinch cut it off before the pair went to their blades. "Settle it later!" Pinch shouted from the stairs. "Listen, you bastards. It's not because the catch-poles showed, but that they showed unnatural fast— and they knew whom they were looking for. Don't that strike you as queer, either of you?" He spat toward the spittoon, getting the flavor of treachery out of his mouth. "It was Cleedis's doing. He's got a job he wants me to do, and he's tipped the temple to make me do it." "So we're running then?" Therin asked archly. Damn the man's pride, Pinch thought to himself. "Of course we are. And if we're lucky, Cleedis will follow— and then, Therin, I'll let you take care of him." He didn't like it. The game he thought he knew was getting out of control. First Cleedis's manipulations, and now he had to satisfy Therin's honor. Pinch didn't like any of it. "Satisfied?" he snarled when Therin didn't reply quickly. "I'll go," Therin replied with a face like the losing dog in a challenge. "Good then. You've all got a little time to get your things. It'll be a trip to the country until things settle down in the city." The man didn't wait see if anyone questioned his orders but went up to gather his own few clothes. ***** An hour later he was making his way through the midday streets, accompanied by a

puffing Maeve and a scowling Therin. Darting in and out among them, like a planet orbiting its greater sun, was a small, heavily cloaked figure. It was only when the cold winter brushed up the edge of the creature's hem that a man could even notice a pair of curly-haired feet underneath. "Take the Waterside Road; the guards ain't so choosy there," suggested Therin, their Gur. In their shiftless lives, the Gurs were masters for knowing the little ways in and out of the city. They were a group always ready to pack and leave on a moment's notice. Pinch idly speculated that Therin's newly tasted stability had made him reluctant to leave. They followed his advice and hurried past the public docks and the fishmonger's market, where rats challenged cats for the choicest fish entrails. Just before the city gatehouse, they broke from the main avenue and wove through the side lanes until they reached a smaller, almost forlorn gate. Two indolent guards protected the old gate and all within its walls. Pinch recognized it as the Old Trade Gate, named before commerce dictated building something more. Sure enough, the guards were lax here. In fact, the only thing that animated the bored pair was the size of the bribe they'd get from the group. After being driven down to only four gold each—business was slow for them—the two watchmen stepped aside and let the party through unquestioned. Outside the walls, the road threaded through a jumble of shacks that had once been thriving inns when the trade route had passed this way. Now, with the merchants using the New Road, only a few struggling hostels survived here. Nonetheless, the group did not slow its pace. This close to Elturel was still too close. Pinch wanted them farther away. At last they reached the breakwater of the city's expansion, a largish creek that

separated city from countryside. The sluggish water was spanned by a claptrap wooden bridge that looked unsteady and probably was. Across the way, a horse grazed while its rider lounged in the midday sun of winter. As best they could tell, he sported no livery of the temple or the distinctive black-and-red armor of the Hellriders. Satisfied that all was clear, Pinch led them across. It's too easy, chided the rogue's inner voice. Cleedis won't give up, and then what will I do? Pinch had been avoiding the question because he didn't have an answer. Well, we can fend for ourselves, he firmly decided, without interference from any others. In this, Pinch was wrong. They had barely set foot on the other bank when the true nature of the rider was revealed. It was Cleedis, and before Pinch could react, the old warrior had gotten unsteadily to his feet. "What kept you so long, Janol?" the foreigner casually asked. Before anyone could answer, a ring of bodyguards, all pointing crossbows, stepped from the gloomy bushes. "I expected you much sooner." "Cleedis, you borsholder," Pinch snarled. Sprite elbowed the old rogue's knee. "Don't provoke him. He may want you, but there weren't a thing said about the rest of us." Pinch's three companions froze with indecision, uncertain if Cleedis's invitation was extended to them or if they were unnecessary in the foreign chamberlain's eyes. "Aye, play it out Pinch," Therin warned. To the relief of the others, their leader slowly nodded—whether to them or Cleedis, it didn't matter. "It seems, Cleedis," the thief said in his most politic tone, "that maybe we should travel with you. Elturel was getting stale."

The old swordsman looked at Pinch's three companions and then at the determination in the rogue's eyes. The chamberlain's face was a mask as he calculated how his charge's compatriots changed the rules of the game. Finally, he turned and hobbled away. "Well and good. Daros, bring horses for them all. The rest of you, watch them close. We've found whom we came for; it's home for Ankhapur."

Travelers' Tales "Dammit, Pinch, you owe us some words!" Therin hissed softly so that the trooper riding next to him wouldn't hear. Although it was midafternoon, it was the first chance any of them had to speak to Pinch. The small column—for Cleedis commanded his men like an army—had been forced to a halt by a poorly planked stream. As their escorts plodded across the narrow bridge, Therin seized the opportunity to maneuver close to Pinch while they waited. "Who are they and why'd you let us get taken?" Pinch bristled at his underling's questions. He didn't see that Therin or the others needed to know about his past, and certainly not on their demands. His life was his own, to share as he chose and pizzle take the rest of them. Even his horse felt that anger and started to bolt, only to have the thief savagely rein it in. "If you'd stayed in Elturel, you'd be dead by sunset." The master rogue couldn't hold back the snarl that drove his words. "Do you think the constables were just lucky? Are you that dense? They were tipped. They got sent—" "That wa'rnt no reason to leave," the younger man countered hotly, his whispers becoming dangerously loud. "We've beat the catchpoles before. Piss and fire, you even cheated me off the gallows tree! We could've slipped the lot and hid out in another ken. Those constables ain't got the wit of us. For Mask's eyes, their idea of searching was just to bust up a few things and say it was good! There was no cause to

go abroad." "Think on it, Therin. Ain't they got the wit of us? Then how'd they find you—by twirling Tymora's wheel? It was that Cleedis found me over how many leagues distant and it was him that tipped the authorities. Do you think a few hide-holes and lasts would stop his priests from spying us out?" Pinch had had enough of the Gur's disputing and nudged his horse into the line, but not before giving one parting shot. "Besides, I'm curious. There may be a profit in going with Cleedis after all." That left the awkwardly perched gypsy musing in his saddle, just as Pinch knew it would. Beyond the stream and well on their way, it was time for Pinch to ask the questions. With a cheerful nod to his armed chaperons, the rogue trotted his horse up to where Cleedis rode. In the saddle, the old chamberlain was a transformed man. His horse was a spirited gray stallion with a mane streaked charcoal black. Its eyes were clear and its bite hard on the bit. Even to Pinch, who was no judge of prancers, it was clear that this beast was the best breed of the southern lands. Under the reins of a weaker man, the horse would have ridden the rider, but under Cleedis there was none of that. Here on the roads, in the open air, and fitted in his commander's armor, the chamberlain was once again the cavalry captain Pinch had known as a lad. Pinch reined in alongside and launched in without preamble. "Cleedis, you've got me now. What's the job and what's the booty?" The chamberlain pulled his open-faced helmet back to hear better. "Job? Wait and see." "Not good enough, coz," the rogue said as he brushed a fly from his face. "I need time to plan and think. And I'll not be killing." At least not by intention, Pinch added to

himself. "You're tired and not thinking clearly, Janol. I already said there would be no need for killing—not if you do your part well. As for more, you'll have to wait." A little part of the mystery became clear. "You don't know, do you? You were just sent to bring me back. Who sent you—Vargo, Throdus, or Marac?" Pinch watched carefully as each name was mentioned, hoping for a telltale on Cleedis's part. There was no such luck. The chamberlain maintained a statesmanlike demeanor. "You must wait, Janol. You were, and still are, impatient. It will be your undoing someday. When we reach Ankhapur, what you need to know will be revealed." But no more than that, Pinch heard in what was not said. He did not press the issue. The gleaning of information was an art, and there was time between here and Ankhapur. ***** The rest of the day passed no worse than it had begun. By late day, the burden of the last two days' plots, schemes, escapes, and yet more plots came crushing down on Pinch and his companions. Their energies were sapped. While the guards jounced along uncomfortably in their saddles, Pinch and company slept. The old rogue was skilled enough to sleep in the saddle, but for the other three riding was an untested talent. Therin, mounted on an impossibly small pony, would nod off until one of his cramped legs slipped from the stirrup and scraped the ground. Just when it seemed he might ride like this for miles, until all the leather was shredded from the tip of his boot, his toe would catch on a rock with a solid thwack and rouse him from slumber. Maeve and Sprite-Heels, the halfling squeezed into the saddle in front of the sorceress, lolled precariously and in unison from side to side until one or the other woke with the panic

of a headlong plunge. So it went until they stopped. The four gingerly massaged their sore parts while the troopers made camp, cooked, and saw to the needs of the travelers. By then, Pinch's companions were too tired to talk, too wary of their escorts to ask questions of the leader. The fires were near embers and guards had taken their posts at the edge of the hostile darkness when Cleedis produced a bottle from his saddlebags. "When I was a young officer out on campaign," he began in the rambling way of a man who has a moral he feels he must share, "we used to spend all day hunting down orc bands from the Great Invasion. We'd ride for miles, getting hot and full of dust. Sometimes we'd find a band of stragglers and ride them down. It was great work." Clawlike fingers pulled the cork free, and he drank a long draught of the yellowish wine. Breathing hard to savor the alcohol's burn, he held the bottle to Therin across the fire. "After a day of butchering, we'd gather around the fire like this and drink." The old man looked at the suspicious eyes across from him. He pushed the bottle again toward Therin until the big man took it. "Drink up, boy," the worn-out campaigner urged before continuing his ambling tale. "Men need to share their liquor with their companions, because there's no telling who you might need at your back. Back then, a man could get himself surrounded by a throng of orc swine at any time, and then it would be too late to discover he had no friends. Drink and a tale, that's what kept us together. Doesn't that make sense, Janol?" Cleedis's eyes turned on the master rogue. The brown in them was burned black and hard by years of concessions and expediencies. "A man can drink for lots of reasons, and most stories are lies," Pinch commented

acidly. "They say bad hearts sour good wine. Is it a good wine, Master Therin?" The young man held the jug out in front of him considering an answer. "Tolerable, I wager." "Tolerable, indeed," the chamberlain sighed, taking the bottle back. He set the bottle to his weather-cracked lips and gulped and gulped, and gulped at it some more until the yellow stains of wine trickled from the corners of his mouth and clung in sweet drops in the coarse beard on his chin. At last he pulled the bottle free with a choking gasp. The old man shoved the bottle into Sprite's hands and began without preamble. "There's a lad I knew, must have been fifteen, twenty, years ago. He was a boy of a high family. His father was a noted captain in the king's guard and his mother a lady-in-waiting to the queen. She was pregnant when the captain was killed in the wars against the trolls. The lady wailed for the priests to beg their gods, but there was no bringing the captain back. She being a lady, though, the king and queen saw to her needs all the time she was with child. It was double tragedy that she died bearing her male child." "Wasn't there a priest who could bring her back, what with the baby?" Brown Maeve asked. Her veined face was swelling with a whimper of tears, for the sorceress could never resist a sad tale. "Where was her kin?" "She didn't have any," Cleedis answered after a long swig on the bottle he pried from Sprite's hands. "That's why she stayed at court. There wasn't any family to pray for her. It wasn't her wish to be raised; she hoped to join her husband. The king and queen pledged to raise the boy as their ward." Maeve gave out a little sob. Across the fire, Pinch glared at Cleedis in stony silence, eyes glinting amid the

rising sparks. Cleedis continued. "Without mother or father, in some other place he would've been one of those little beggars you kick away on the street. That's how it would have been, you know, except that didn't happen to him. "He got lucky, more luck than he ever deserved—" Pinch spat. Cleedis persevered. "He was favored. He didn't have family, but he was taken in by nobility, a king no less. They dressed him, fed him, and educated him in the best ways. And you know how he repaid them?" Pinch spat, ferociously this time, and the gobbet hissed and cracked in the flames. Springing up, he broke from the circle of firelight, making angry strides past the startled guard whose sword half-cleared its sheath. The old chamberlain motioned the man back to give the rogue his peace. Pinch trembled at the edge of the firelight, hovering at the rim of the winter blackness. "He repaid them," Cleedis slowly dogged on, pulling back the attention of the rogue's friends, "he repaid them by stealing all he could and fleeing the city. Now, what do you think of that?" Man, woman, and halfling exchanged uncomfortable glances, their thoughts clearly centered on their tall master. He continued to scorn the warmth of the group. "Did he make a good profit?" Sprite asked nervously, but the joke fell flat. "Why stop the tale there, Cleedis?" murmured the upright man's voice from the darkness. "There's so many little embellishments you've left out. Like how the king thought his queen was barren and wanted a son for his throne. How he raised the boy with care and the best of all things—until one day his wife was fruitful and bore him a son, and then three more over the years. That was three more than he needed and

certainly better than an orphan boy." The man brought his anger back to the fire and leaned close to share it with the others. Perhaps the old man didn't like his story shanghaied, or perhaps he could feel the pain in the other's voice. Whatever the reason, his joint-swollen fingers knotted painfully about his sword. "Or how he drove his queen to death once she'd whelped heirs for him. And then one day the dear old man woke up and decided he didn't need the boy he'd taken in, the one who wasn't his seed. All his life, the boy had lived in luxury, expecting and waiting, only to be pushed out by a group of mewling brats. How about that, Cleedis?" The rogue turned to the other three—short, plump, and broad—sitting like rigid stones in dumb silence. Smoothly a smile expanded on the rogue's face, oil spreading across the storm of his emotion. The coiled tiger's spring eased from his frame, and with a cheerful bow he scooped up the wine jug. "Good story, eh? One's as true as another, and they're both as true as a vagabond's tale." The three still sat nervous and quiet, vassals unable to fathom their master's mad caperings. Pinch threw back the jug and drained a long swallow, quenching the wine-dark thirst deep inside him. He then flung the uncorked jug toward his gang. "Drink and sleep, that's what you need!" he thundered. As they scrambled to catch the jug and stay wide of his moods, Pinch quickly settled close to his old fencing master till his wine-breath whisper tickled the old man's ear. "You need me or you'd not come this far. No more tales—" "You're forgetting the priests, boy," the other growled, never once breaking his stare into the darkness.

"No more tales or you'll not wake up some morning. Do you think your guards can keep us away?" Cleedis blinked. "If I'm dead, there's no profit for you. That's all you want, isn't it?" The old man quickly shifted the terms. A contented sigh swelled in the rogue. "I'm sure you've got enemies in Ankhapur. Wouldn't they pay to see your head packed in a pickle pot?" He didn't wait for an answer, but left the old man chewing his words. "To bed!" he thundered once more as he herded his accomplices to the small ring of tents that was their traveling home. With cheerful wariness, they swarmed to heed him. In the fading firelight, Cleedis watched as his former student never once turned his back on his supposed friends. The old swordsman smiled—a cold, dark smile like the dead winter night around him. ***** For the next three days, there were no more tales; not even any talk. It didn't take years of familiarity to read Pinch's mood. Even the coarsest soldiers knew there was a sour gloom hanging around the man. He spoke only when necessary and then barely more than a grunt. He ate quietly and drank without sharing. Most ominous of all was that he abided every inconvenience—the trails reduced to slicks of mud and slush, the streams of thin-crusted ice, even the stinging blows of sleet-—with an impassive stare into the wilderness beyond. To his friends, it seemed the memory of Ankhapur roused in him a furious anger, like some furious scorpion retreating into its lair. If that were the case, nobody wanted to jab him lest they get stung. Sprite-Heels, who watched his old companion as closely as the rest, formed a different opinion, one that he kept to himself. The halfling knew Pinch better than anybody and sometimes he held the conceit that he understood Pinch better than

Pinch himself. Sprite was sure he could read the machinations in the old rogue's eyes, could divide them into patterns and stages. First the thief studied a guard, never one close to him, but one who was detached and unaware of the rogue's scrutiny. Sprite knew Pinch was finding the weaknesses, the passions, and the follies that the long ride betrayed in each man: Who gambled and lost poorly; who drank when he thought the captain wasn't looking; who shirked his duties; who betrayed others. All these things became Pinch's catalog of the levers by which he could move the men, elves, and dwarves of their escort. After six days, the party came to a way-house on the southern road. It wasn't more than a rickety handful of a house and outbuildings enclosed in a palisade of sticks, but it offered protection from the icy sleet that had pelted them all day. The riders were frozen through to their bones. Even Cleedis, who by his station was better equipped than any of them, was chilled to his marrow. The horses were caked with mud and their hooves skittered across the sleet-slicked ground. It had been a painful lurching day in the saddle for everyone. The prospect of an inn, even a barn, right there in front of them, was a thousand times better than another night sleeping on half-frozen mud and pine branches. A boy splashed through the melting snow, shouting out their arrival, so that by the time the Ankhapurans reached the gate, a band of grooms and farmhands faced them on the other side. The inn's staff was armed with a smattering of spears, scythes, and flails, the weapons of a ragtag militia. The signboard over the closed gate creaked in the wind, announcing that this was "The House of Pity." "Where you be bound?" shouted one of the lot as he struggled his way to the front. "We are Lord Cleedis of Ankhapur and his escort," shouted back the captain of the guard, the one Pinch knew was a brute to his men. "Who are you?"

"The landlord's cook," replied the cadaverously thin man who stepped to the front. He wore a greasy apron and carried a heavy cleaver, the uniform and tools of his trade. "So much for the food," Therin whispered to Sprite. "Well, open the gate, lackey, and give us a room for the night. My lord is not accustomed to waiting in the mud." The captain was flushed with impatience to be out of the foul weather. With slow deliberation, the cook peered first into the woods on one side and then on the other, searching the shadows and the darkness for something. Finally he turned back to the captain. "Can you pay? "Can we pay?" the officer sputtered. "Pay depends on service, lout!" Now the cook slowly, and again very deliberately, looked over the riders, counting out the number on his fingers. When he'd counted both hands, his face furrowed in concentration until at last he nudged the man next to him with over-broad secrecy. Heated whispers flew until at last the second fellow held up his own hand and the cook continued to count. The captain barely suppressed his rage at this dawdling. "Twelve!" Pinch yelled out when the count was clearly above three hands. The cook and groom paused, looked at their hands, looked up, looked back at their hands, and then very slowly and deliberately began the count again. The captain twisted in his seat to glower at Pinch, and for the first time in nearly a week the rogue beamed a wickedly cheerful smile and stoically endured the icy discomfort. Behind Pinch a chorus of snickers and snorts struggled not to break into a round of guffaws. When the pair's count reached three hands, every eye of the cold and wet escort

turned on Pinch. The rogue only nodded and smiled. "Three!" chimed Sprite's high-pitched voice. The count began again. The guards edged in closer, this time watching all four vagabonds. At two hands, Maeve could stand the ludicrousness no longer, and a hysterical cackle burst from her lips. It pealed down the wooded lane. The count began again. The captain wheeled his horse back through the mud. "If they say anything—" he paused in midsnarl, realizing he could not carry out a threat against his master's guests. "Well," he finally continued with teeth chattering, "don't let them!" Now the guards, sensing a pattern, paid particular mind to Therin. The big Gur smiled back at their fixed scowls and pointedly kept his mouth closed. The count passed one hand and he did nothing. Maeve, Sprite, and Pinch waited to see what he would do. Two hands. Therin didn't say a word. Three hands. The big man beamed in calm silence. Seventeen .. . Eighteen... Nineteen... Therin stretched his arms in a broad yawn. The guards reacted with the singing steel of drawn swords. The rude militia splashed back from the palisade fearful of a fight. The count began again.

Pinch, Sprite, Maeve, and Therin all looked at each other and smiled. ***** It was moonset before all the horses had their fetlocks washed, their coats curried, and their mangers filled with moldy hay. The soldiers plodded back into the commons. Pinch and his crew came up last; in this, like all things, the last of everything. In a night the color of simmered wine, the sway-backed inn breathed vaporous smoke from every crack in its wooden skin. As the men slouch-shouldered their way through the door, Therin drew off the last pair with the tempting rattle of dice. If the guardsmen expected a fair game, they didn't stand a chance; the Gur was a sharper with the barred bones. A quiet corner in the barn and a few hours of work would leave them poorer but probably no wiser. The chairs inside had all been claimed, the benches overfilled with troopers. The small commons had little space for a squadron of troopers, but the innkeeper still managed to squeeze a few more customers into the space. Unimaginably, one more table was found for the three scoundrels. It barely fit at a corner in the back, which was all to Pinch's liking. "Sour beer's all that's left," the landlord said, more as defense than apology. The spare man sloshed a kettle of brew onto the table, a stump-footed little creature of tin. Cold scraps and stale bread were the only choices left for dinner. As they ate, the senior rogue let his eyes wander lest he notice the poor pickings before him. Since he was bored with the study of guardsmen, whose lives offered no imagination, Pinch concentrated on the non-Ankhapurans in the hall, a whole two tables' worth. It was clear from their seating—one table near the door, the other by the fire— that the two groups traveled apart. Those by the door Pinch had seen when he first arrived. The other party could only have arrived while he was stabling his mount.

There was a worth in studying the other guests, after all. If any were wealthy, there was always profit to be had in visiting their rooms before the dawn. The two men seated near the door were garbed in hard-used traveling clothes, the type favored by old hands at the caravan trade—long riding cloaks waterproofed with sheep fat, warm doublets colored with the dried salts of sweat, and thick-sided boots stuccoed with yellow mud. Practical clothes for practical men with no obvious vanities that would mark them as good coneys to be snared. The men themselves were as hard as their clothes. The first, who always kept an eye to the door, Pinch dubbed the Ox. He was huge, with a belly that rolled out beneath his doublet and quivered with any shift of his frame. The trembling flesh ill-concealed the, massive muscles of the man, though. Every time he reached for the capon that sat on the table between the two men, his swollen biceps threatened to burst the stitching of his doublet's seams. Though his face was clean shaven, it was nearly obscured by a wild mass of hair that hung in snarls and tangles. The other man Pinch quickly dubbed the Lance—the Ox and the Lance, they were. The Lance was no more slender than Therin, though his shaved head made him look thinner. What truly distinguished him was that every move was a sharp strike using the minimum of effort for the maximum of gain. The Lance didn't tear at the capon, he dissected the choice meats from it with complacent ease. It wasn't their dress or their frames that raised a caution in the rogue, though. There was a way about them that only those in the trade, for good or ill, would recognize. The way one always watched the door while the other discretely scanned the room; the way neither let both hands be filled at once; the way they held themselves on their chairs. "Maeve, Sprite," Pinch whispered as he casually tore at a chunk of bread, "those

two, what do you make of them? Hellriders?" The halfling feigned a stretch as he leaned back to get a better look at them. "In disguise and come this far? Not likely." Maeve set down her drink. "Hellriders is mean ones, Pinch, but I ain't never heard of them coming after someone on the road." "Maybe not." The rogue stroked the rim of his mug. "Can you read them, Maeve?" "Here? With all these people?" Her leader nodded. The wizard rolled her eyes in exasperation. "It ain't wise to use powers when you might get caught." "Maeve, you know you won't. You're too good," Pinch flattered. The woman harrumphed but was already digging out the material she needed. Pinch and Sprite pulled their chairs close to screen her from the others. The mystic words were a chanted whisper, the gestures minute tracings in the air. An onlooker would have thought her no more than a person distracted by her own inner dreams. Without really looking at them, Maeve turned her unblinking gaze on the two men. This was riskiest part of the process, Pinch knew. A stranger staring at you the way Maeve did was always cause for a fight. When at last she blinked, Pinch was just as happy no one had noticed. "You've got them dead on, Pinch. They're in the trade and none too happy tonight." Maeve smiled as she turned back to her dinner. "Got their nerves up, what with a room full of our handsome escorts. Don't know what they make of us, but they've set their eyes to the other company here. Ain't no more but some terrible thoughts I won't say in public." Sprite sniggered. "Wouldn't have been on you now, would they? Or was you just

hoping?" Brown Maeve swivelled away from the halfling with a snap of her greasy, unwashed hair. "Heel your dog, Sprite-Heels," Pinch rumbled. "You're none too sweet scented yourself. "Maeve, pay this ingrate no mind. Those that count know your quality." Pinch put a soothing hand on Maeve's shoulder. "Now, dear Maeve, can you read me the other table?" Her face a sulky pout, Maeve let her blank gaze wash for a moment toward Pinch, only to be warned off by the fierceness of his glare, shadowed by the curve of his tender smile. "The other table, Maeve," he directed. The witch-woman sighed and lolled her gaze where he nodded. Meanwhile the old rogue studied their target. It was a small table by the fire, where sat a lone traveler, unusual enough in a countryside where few traveled alone. That wasn't the least of it, either, for the traveler was a woman—not unheard of, but just that much more distinguishing. The inn was in the land between lands, an area just beyond the reach of anyone who could claim it, and thus had been laid claim to by highwaymen and beasts of ill renown. The lone traveler who stumbled into this void was prey for any stronger ravager. Ergo, Pinch reasoned, this lone woman was not weak, but possibly foolish. "She's saying her words over dinner," Maeve puzzled out. "Invoking what church? And what's her business?" The sorceress stared owl-like before giving up with a sigh. "No good, that is, Master Pinch. She's got a most fixed mind. What only I got was an image of her roast chick

and the thanks to some faceless power. Kept seeing it as a glowing orb, she did." "Sound like any you know, Sprite?" The little halfling's grasp of odd facts was a surprising source of answers. If he knew, it wouldn't be the first time he'd remembered some chestnut of useless lore to their mutual benefit. This time Sprite-Heels shrugged. "Could be any number of trifling sun gods, let alone the big ones like Mask or the Faceless Ones." Pinch leaned forward and looked at the woman with false disinterest. "What about that temple we did?" he asked softly. "Not from what Maeve said. Scared, Pinch? She's probably just some wandering nun, set herself to doing good deeds on the road." The human rapped his mug against the table in irritation. "She's more than that." "He's right, you nasty little Sprite," Brown Maeve crowed. "She's tougher than some gentry mort. Got that from her, for certain." "What more can you do, Maeve?" Pinch was answered with a resigned slump. "No more, love. Spell's all spent." Sprite, trying to restore himself to the pair's good graces, offered, "I could pinch her, see what we'd learn." Her clothes were commonplace, sturdy, dusty, and dull, the mark of one with much sense but little coin. Pinch shook his head. "I'll not be your snap for the strike, halfling. Not worth getting caught. Have you forgot the rules? Never lay your coin on a lean horse or—" "—your knife to an empty bung," Sprite finished. "I know the old rules. I just thought it would help." "Ain't you two just the pair. Worried you're being hunted and worried you'll get

caught when here we are, out where there ain't nobody and nothing! Not that we ain't got enough worries, what with your Lord Cleedis and all his soldiers, or do you two need to go searching for more?" Maeve snapped her words at them and then punctuated her tirade with a stiff drink. "One night in a decent place to sleep and all you pair do is peer at every stranger and guess which one's going to gut you. I'm telling you—you, Sprite-Heels, and you Master Pinch— to just quit peering under the bed sheets and drink!" Both men, human and halfling, stared at her in surprise, thrown from their horses by her outburst. They looked at her; they looked at each other. There was nothing they could do but take up their mugs and drink until there was no more. They drank until Therin reappeared with a purse full of extra coin and tales of how he cogged the dice to assure his wins. They drank some more to Therin's good luck, as if the Lady had any chance of swaying the Gur's dice. They drank until Sprite slid beneath the table and the innkeeper closed them down. Just in case, they took an extra skin upstairs, carrying it with more care than they carried Sprite-Heels, who had all the unconscious dignity of a sack of potatoes. When the guards roused them before the too-early dawn, the four lurched down the stairs, their heads thick as mustard. They paled at the offering of bread smeared with bacon grease, and hurried themselves outside to gulp the farm-fresh air. It did little good except remind them of how miserable they felt. Trembly weak, they fitted the bits and saddled their mounts and unwillingly seated themselves for the day's ride. Even through all this, even though his eyes never quite focused and his head wouldn't stop throbbing, Pinch noticed last night's guests—Ox, Lance, and woman—were gone already. He wondered if each had gone a different route. The woman didn't matter, since she was not likely to see them again.

When all was ready, the troop, twenty-strong, plodded down the yellow-mud lane, lurching on their fresh mounts, until they overwhelmed the little track. Flanked by old tress that played father to stands of lush brambles, the group set out on the day's ride. Whether it was by word from the commander or just wicked luck, the trail was jolting and steep, rising and falling over gullies and streambeds. Every bounce reminded Pinch of just how miserable he felt. "Don't you wonder where that priestess went?" Sprite asked with a cheerfulness that matched his name. Of the four, somehow the halfling was the only one unfazed by hangover; it was probably something to do with the runt's liver, most likely that it was a pure sponge. "Which way do you think, Pinch?" he pressed, though he knew full well the others could scarcely focus. Pinch tried his fiercest glower which, right now, looked more like a pained squint. "What am I—a woodsman? Who knows in this muddy waste? Now shut up before I box you!" The rising tone of his own voice made the rogue flinch. Snickering, Sprite-Heels whipped the pony he and Maeve shared safely out of the man's reach. The ride continued, cold, wet, dull, and aching, through the morning and well into the afternoon. At one point, where the trail ran along a cut arched over with leafless elms and dead-gray vines, something coughed beast-like and the winter-dead branches rustled. The troop had to stop while a group of unfortunate soldiers slowly flanked the cut and beat the brush. Nothing came of it, but it delayed them an hour during which no one dared relax. Perhaps it was that false alarm that caused them to almost blunder into a fight. The captain had given over command to a sergeant while he rode with Lord Cleedis to curry favor. The sergeant, in turn, was too busy with his flunkies to notice that the

outriders were no longer so far out and the whole troop had closed into one small bunch. It was a bad way to travel, where one fireball could wipe them all out. Thus it was that there was no one on point to shout " 'Ware!" when the soldiers slogged around the bend and straight into the midst of a battle. Right where the trail shored the bank of a half-frozen river, a ring of eight mud-splashed men—and then in a flash only seven—awkwardly stalked a single adversary. Armed with bills, hooks, and flails, the seven lunged with the stoop-shouldered awkwardness of peasants. Only one fought with any grace, so much that it took Pinch no time to recognize the Lance. Finding the swordsman, Pinch easily found the Ox. The troopers were on top of the men before either side even knew it, the lead horseman splitting the ragged battle line from behind. The distance was to the footmen's advantage. A wild shriek tore from the lips of the nearest, and before the rider could throw down his useless lance, the billman swung his great poleaxe at the man. The blade scored the horse's neck, the beast reared and kicked, and ungoverned confusion erupted in the ranks. The closeness of the lane prevented any maneuver. The first man was thrown from his horse, and the panicked beast wheeled to gallop back down the lane. Almost immediately it crashed into the front rank of the troop, too close to part. Two more men and a horse foundered while a bloodthirsty war cry rattled the forest's dead leaves. The peasant bandits, for their dress of motley proclaimed them as such, sprang upon the fallen outrider, broad blades glinting wintry in the sun. With their great polearms held over their shoulders like battering logs, two footmen rushed the broken line, casting more confusion ahead of them. The sergeant screamed orders, the captain screamed, Cleedis screamed, the dying men and horses screamed all at once and all at cross purposes. The twenty horsemen were already

down by almost a quarter and showed no signs of turning the tide. Panic was in their ranks as the front crashed into the back, desperate to escape the hordes of murdering berserkers just behind them. Equally desperate, Pinch tried to ride his own horse free of the mass, beating it toward the woods when a howling, mud-smeared bandit crashed out of the thicket dead ahead of him. With a shrill whinny, the mount reared. As the rogue flew off backward, he heard the popping crack when hoof smote his attacker's skull. The churned mud cushioned Pinch's landing so that he kept his breath, but the man barely had time to slither out of the path of a galloping trooper. Struggling up, Pinch was immediately knocked flat by the charging flank of another horse. "HUAAAA!" shrieked a man as he leapt forward to straddle the fallen rogue while whirling a poleaxe over his head. I'm saved! I'm dead! Pinch couldn't tell which until the axe tore out the belly of a passing rider. While the bandit yanked to wrench his weapon free, the rogue drew the handle of his mucky dagger and without hesitation drove it upward into the soft gap at the belly of the man's ill-fitting brigandine armor. The man, all wide eyes and bearded slack jaw spitting blood, squealed in horror until the weight of the still-hooked rider pulled him over. That was enough for Pinch. Dagger clenched in a clawlike hand, he scrambled blindly through the blood and slime for safety, dodging the flailing hooves of dying horses, stepping on soft things that he really didn't want to know about. He wasn't a soldier accustomed to battle and wasn't ready to become one, but each time one of the dirty highpads lunged in front of him the thief lashed out. He struck with all the wicked expertise of his knife-fighting, his anger and fury growing with each blow. "Cyric take you, you poxy bastard! Let 'em play hob with your skull in Hades!" He lashed invective

as wickedly as he did his knife. At the height of his rage, Pinch crashed onto the river and through the thin ice. The swift-moving water shocked up to his thighs, burning out of him the madness but not the killing passion. The blindness that had animated him was gone, and he could see the whole battle once again. The soldiers, finally rallied from their initial panic, were attacking in a dressed line, prancing their horses over the fallen bodies. Now it was the bandits' turn to panic, their previous discipline a fraud unmasked by the conflict of desire to loot and fear of death. Within moments the lot would break and run. A squeal up the bank pulled Pinch's attention to the cause of this fracas. The lone traveler, who he knew was the priestess without having to see it, lay sprawled on the shingles of shore ice, her shoulder pricked by the blade the Lance held to her. Behind her the Ox lumbered up with a great, jagged 'berg in full press over his head, ready to deliver the coup de grace. If he had been less passioned or there had been more time for thought, Pinch surely would have acted differently, considering his own self-interest before all. Instead, against all his sense, he reacted. With a snap, his long dirk flew from his hand and buried itself in the throat of the Ox. Croaking from his shattered windpipe, the fat-swaddled giant jerked up and back until the weight of the ice block he still carried over his head bore the man backward. With two staggered steps he cracked through the frozen riverbank and toppled into the fast-flowing water. The flow churned as it sucked the floundering man away. The Lance goggled in surprise, which was the more his mistake. Though pricked, the traveler was not pinned. As the Lance hung in indecision between the woman and the menacingly slow advance of Pinch, the choice was taken from him. The mace in her hand lashed out, breaking across his knee. The leg popped out at an unnatural

angle and, deprived of his underpinning, the Lance keeled to the side. She struck again, driving the iron into his padded gut hard enough to change his trajectory. The Lance hit the icy stones with an awful crack, jerked, and then didn't move again. Cold, sweaty, and panting, Pinch stumbled across the ice to the woman's side. With a dripping boot, he gave the Lance a shove; the body rolled almost completely over before it twisted, the head along with it. "May Kelimvore grant him swift justice," the woman intoned as she slowly got to her feet. A trickle of blood ran down her arm, another swath coated her face. "More concern than he deserved," Pinch snarled. Remembering where they were, he looked about for more attackers but the battle was all but won. The bandits had broken and foolishly fled, and now they were the helpless prey of the faster riders. Here, in the land between lands laid claim to by bandits such as these, Cleedis's men showed no mercy. They were the law and they had friends to avenge. "I'm Lissa of the Morninglord's Temple in Elturel. I think it would be right to say you saved my life." At the mention of her temple, Pinch felt the rise of paranoia in his craw. There could be only one reason why a priestess of Lathander would be this far south, on this particular trail. She must surely be looking for the thieves who desecrated her temple. "A pleasure, surely, to meet you under better circumstance." Pinch paused to take a steadying breath and consider just what to say next. Certainly "Pinch" was not a good name to use at a moment like this. There was every chance she was familiar with the criminal element of Elturel. Finally, he put on his most valiant smile and, while leading her back to the trail, said what he never thought he would freely tell anyone. "I'm—Janol, ward of the late King Manferic of Ankhapur." "Indeed!" The priestess was impressed.

"Why do you travel such dangerous land alone?" Pinch pressed the question while her thoughts were still unsettled. "I'm searching for a thief, a scoundrel who robbed our temple," she confided. Pinch smiled inwardly to himself. She'd revealed more than she should have and enough to give him her game. "What base villainy! On this road, bound for Ankhapur?" They stopped at a fallen log and Pinch began to examine her wounds. The priestess winced as her rescuer prodded her shoulder, feeling the pain of his touch even through the armor she wore. Seeing the effect, Pinch poked her a little harder as she spoke, just to keep her unsteady. "There was word the thief might flee south and sell his treasures there. Our proctor sent us, one to each road. I drew Ankhapur." Pinch turned his attention to her scalp. A graze ran across the hairline, hardly serious but bleeding heavily like wounds to the head would. "You suspect us?" Pinch gave the words just a tinge of offended nobility. "Certainly not, lord," Lissa hurriedly assured while the rogue wrapped a muddy cloth around her forehead. As he dressed her wounds, Pinch considered just killing her and having done with it. Her dead body here would be no more than another, but with her suspicions lulled, it seemed a waste. Better to keep her around and uninformed, in case she proved useful someday. Choosing an appropriately bold shyness, Pinch said, "This thief, if he is in Ankhapur, may be hard to find. If you should need some help, you must let me know. A king's ward does have some influence, after all." Lissa flushed a little at the imagined generosity of the offer. "Again, thank you, my lord."

"This is nothing, priestess. But one last word of advice. Tell no one what you have told me." Pinch whispered the words in soft conspiracy as the riders slowly returned. "Indeed, you should not have told me. This is best as our secret, lest your quarry grow scared." The priestess scooped a little handful of water from a muddy footprint and tried to wash the blood from her face. "Of course you're right. I've been foolish. Thank you, Lord Janol." "Just Janol. I'm only the king's ward, not one of his blood. Now, I've a friend named Maeve. Let's see if she can properly tend to you."

A Shortcut Cleedis did not welcome the news of an additional traveling companion. "The woman is no concern of mine," he huffed, after pointing out that eight of his men were dead because of meeting her. The miserable performance of his troopers had stung the old warrior's pride, and he had already given the captain a blistering rating over the shabby performance of the company. All failure lay upon the officer, in Cleedis's mind—failure to drill them properly, failure to stem the rout, failure to issue clear orders, failure to grasp the basics of tactics, even a failure of will. Cleedis ignored his own contribution to the debacle and ignored the indignant captain's fuming efforts to point it out. Given the losses, Cleedis was at least wise enough to lay no blame on the men. The captain was beside himself with rage and at one point came to the brink of offering up his commission that he had paid so dearly for, an offer Cleedis would no doubt have taken on the spot. Pinch was for the woman, and his firmness was aided by the cool moral strength that comes after the rush of battle. While the two argued, Lissa knelt beside a trooper who'd taken an axe blow just above the knee. His tentmates were certain the leg could not be saved and were fretting over whether to finish the amputation with a clean blow or bind him and hope that shock and gangrene didn't set in before they reached civilization. The priestess ended the debate with sharp orders to hold the man down, orders given in the tone a soldier was conditioned to obey. They pressed him flat in the bloody mud, two men holding his shoulders while a third sat on his kicking legs and ignored his screams. While the patient writhed in their grasp, Lissa laid her hands on his gaping wound, closed her eyes, and prayed. Within

moments the gash was gone and the trembling pain passed from the man. His screams gave way to murmurs as he lapsed into blissful sleep. After that, there was no question that Lissa would ride with the company. The priestess healed all she could while the soldiers buried their dead, for whom there was no help. Pinch warned off Sprite from rifling their pockets by pointing out that the troopers would surely spit the little halfling if they caught him at it. "And I'll let them," the upright man added. "Get your booty from those two high lawyers." "Waste of time—after all they was robbing her," the halfling groused while looting Ox and Lance. The slim pickings he got—a ring, two wallets, and a necklace— were commandeered by the troop sergeant. "Pensions for the dead men's wives, you thieving terrier," said the windburned sergeant, as shallow a lie as any the halfling could have put up. After fumbling and grousing about certain over-zealous hypocrites, Sprite gave up his booty. Still, when the halfling rejoined Pinch, Therin, and Maeve, his face was a bubble of unsuppressed glee. "What gulls! I could dine off them for weeks," he chortled. With a quick nod to his hand, the little rogue flashed a fistful of cut stones and worn coins. "Didn't think I'd let him have it all, did you?" "Then we'll divvy up tonight," Pinch stated, as coolly matter-of-fact as if he'd just done the job. "Square splits for all." The other two, sorceress and bravo, nodded their agreement. Sprite-Heels scowled but nodded too. He had better sense than to cross his partners so openly. "Tonight then," he muttered before scurrying away. "Maeve—" "I'll keep an eye on him," the witch assured before Pinch could finish his words. Slip-slopping through the mire, she was already falling in behind the halfling, her voice

wheezing from the effort of talking while she rushed after. "Sprite, hold slow for me, dearie ..." Pinch watched the pair weave through the scattered packs of men, Sprite poking what he shouldn't at every chance. They played the roles they had played in many a throng, that of mother and child, old Corruption's family. Then the cold-shock settled onto Pinch. The wet, the chill, and the grime stroked his bones with their ferocious touch and drew their cruel pale to his skin. Two troopers, one a pock-faced veteran who had spent his years raising malingering to a substantial art, the other a bull with a broad, flat nose smashed in a tavern brawl, had stoked up a fire for drinks, as troopers will do given any short stop. Pinch took Therin by the arm and led him toward the growing blaze. "Pinch, what about her?" Therin whispered with a quick tilt of the brow toward the only woman at the circle—Lissa the priestess, already favored with a seat in the troopers' midst. "We don't panic," the regulator whispered back, cheek to cheek. Therin turned himself away, conspicuously trying to avoid her notice. "I saw her sign when she was working spells! She's one of the temple—" "Stay that!" Pinch hissed. He pulled the man back around and pushed him forward. The big rogue stumbled a little step forward and stopped. "But what's she doing here?" Therin's whisper was filling with panic. "She's looking for a thief." The dig of an elbow got Therin moving again so that his terrified stare was not so obvious. "Damned gods, she's made us!" he blurted. "You go first, Pinch." "Stow it and get going, you fool. She's not made me, you, or anybody. The temple's sent out patricos to watch every road out of Elturel. She's fishing and, by damn, I'm

setting her to the wrong catch." "Uncle said, 'Never rob a temple.' Too many people get too interested. Get myself hanged all again, I will—" "I told you to stow it, so clamp your flapping lips and play a dumb show." Pinch hissed one last time as he pulled Therin toward the camp circle. The old rogue couldn't stand such whining. Their lives were their lives, not given to them, not chosen for them. Therin had chosen to be a high lawyer and a rogue, and right now that meant taking the dues in full. I won't snivel so, Pinch scornfully reminded himself, not while there are other choices to be made. "Now let's get warmed up before we freeze." There was no bother to wait for an answer. The rogue sent Therin stumbling into the bunch with a firm shove from behind. The cold shivers of the group, the tight banter of near death, and the swallowed scent of blood were an effective disguise for the pair. Nobody sat comfortably around the fire, so there was nothing to note when Therin sat himself opposite the priestess and tried to stare at her without staring from across the flames. Cleedis didn't waste time with orders to bury the highwaymen. His men heaved the bodies into the brush, far from the stream, where their decay wouldn't pollute the water. The burials of their own, dug down into the muddy half-frozen soil, were ceremonies of brutal custom—the wrapping of the body, the sergeant's words, the file-by of those who lived—all done by passionless drill. The work done, Cleedis came by the fire and stood in the sputtering warmth from the too-wet wood. His fur-lined robes were hitched up above the muck so that he was nothing more than a grotesque mushroom, a stem of two feeble legs that tottered under the bulging top of thick winter robes. "Put it out. We're leaving."

Cloaking their irritation behind dutiful yes-sirs, the two guards set to packing their kits. Therin, proudly clinging to the image that he was uncommandable, tore his gaze from the priestess. "Now? You've already wasted your light. You won't get a mile before dark." "We're leaving. There may be more bandits about, but you can stay if you want," Cleedis offered, his hands spread in willingness. "You best come with us, miss," said one of the two troopers, who'd been goldbricking till now. The pock-faced veteran touched his eye in a sign to ward off evil. "There's unblessed dead here and evil they was, to be sure. Ain't wise to sleep near 'em, what with them so recent killed. Sure to know they'll come for live folks in the night. 'Course, you being a priestess and all, this ain't no puzzle to you." "Tyr's truth to all that," murmured his flat-nosed companion. "Quit stalling, you two!" boomed the sergeant's baritone from across the glade. "Lord Cleedis wants us on the trail now, so get your arses in your saddles, if it would not be too much effort, gentlemen!" With a flick of his thumb, Therin went off to get their horses. "Get to work," bossed the pock-faced fellow when his companion gawked dully. The veteran reinforced the words with a kick of mud in the other's direction. While the flat-nosed fellow juggled the still-scorching pots into his haversack, the veteran snapped off his own rude gesture as soon as the sergeant's back was turned. "Prig-faced jackass." "Lost his sense of the trooper's life, has he?" Pinch's question hung with the air of casual conversation. The veteran's wary weather eye, sensing the gray front coming, fixed on the rogue. "He's well enough, and a damn stretch better than you, magpie."

The words slid off Pinch's well-oiled conscience. "Least I don't make others dance to my jig." "That may be and that may not. Your friends don't ride too far from you." Therin slogged back through the slush, leading two horses by their jingling reins. "Only fools split their strength in the camp of the enemy." With a middle-aged man's grunt, Pinch got one foot into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. A snap of the reins moved him away from the fire. "What was that all about?" the younger thief puzzled as he trotted up beside. "Salt in the wounds and oil on the water, my aide-de-camp." The old fox grinned. "Never miss a chance to rile them up and make them think you're on their side. Right now he's testy, but maybe by Ankhapur that horse soldier won't snap back so hard." Therin saw the message. "Friends in the right places, eh?" "Friends in all places, boy," the master corrected as the troop fell into line. With a wink and a nod to his lieutenant, Pinch reined up his horse alongside the priestess Lissa. "Greetings, Lord Janol." Her eyes, previously open, were now wary. "And to you, milady." Pinch bowed in his saddle. Years of tutoring in courtly manners had not all been a waste. "Thank you again for saving my life." Although she could not be but grateful, her words lacked conviction. They were the pleasant hedge of small talk behind which she could hide her true convictions. "What else could I do?" "I could have been a criminal and they the innocents." The mask of suspicion was beginning to slip from her eyes. Pinch smiled and shifted in his saddle, trying to find comfort for his sore legs. "I'm a

quick judge of character." Perhaps he answered too glibly, for the words stung. The hint of Lissa's smile, almost visible in the torch-flicker shadows, collapsed. "I'm learning to be one," the priestess announced. "I've noticed, Lord Janol, that they do not treat you with the respect due a peer," Lissa continued. Pinch had let slip the advantage in their volley and the woman was quick to seize on it. "Prisoners seldom are so treated." The priestess's eyes narrowed. Without shame she asked, "A prisoner .. . for the crime of—" "Inconvenience." Pinch had to continue before his unwitting pursuer could form deductions of her own. "Too much popularity, and too little of it with the right group of people. Leaving Ankhapur was expedient, just as coming back now seems ... prudent." The rogue was lying extemporaneously, an unfair advantage he had over her. ***** It went as Therin had said. In less than a mile the sun, bleeding orange, was all but screened out by the winter-barren trees. Dusk held sway briefly in the sky before vanishing into the reach of night. Winter owls and wild dogs paced them through the darkness, chasing down the mice and rabbits that bolted from the clattering horse hooves. Other things marked their passing too, with grunts of humanlike bestiality that were passed down the line of march. Torchlight brightly reflected creatures with eyes too many or too few. The clatter of steel sent them scurrying away. It was only after hours of night riding that Lord Cleedis signaled a halt. The troopers

hurled themselves to the cold, wet ground until the sergeant came by and pressed them to their duties with the hard application of his boot. With much grumbling and reluctance, the tents were pitched, double guards posted, and cold meals prepared. Pinch, Therin, and the others avoided all details and collapsed in their tents as soon as they were pitched. For three more days the squadron rode, Cleedis holding the riders to a steady pace. Three more men were lost to a catoblepas, a beast so vile its mere look could kill. It had ranged out of the great swamp to the south in search of food. That battle had been sharp and dangerous, and seeing as there was no profit in it, Pinch and his gang had kept well back from the beast's horrifying visage. The old rogue was concerned, though he kept his counsel to himself. Ankhapur was months away, across a great stretch of wilderness where beasts far worse than the catoblepas were far more common. They'd barely ridden the smallest portion of that distance and already eleven out of the twenty troopers had been lost. The odds seemed strong to Pinch that he and the others would be stranded well out in the wasteland without the protection of men and weapons. Could it be that Cleedis, empty without Manferic to serve, was embarked on a mad effort to lead Pinch to his doom? It wasn't impossible. In his years, the rogue had certainly heard of stranger passions—the wizard who built a magical prison just to torment his unfaithful wife or the war captain who led his entire company into Raurin, the Dust Desert, to do battle with the sand. Word was, in the stews of Elturel, the soldier destroyed his company just to avenge an insult. It was madness like this, beyond all norm, that Pinch worried about. Cleedis was old and had never had the wit of a great wizard or statesman. And then Cleedis called the march to a halt, stopping his dwindling command at the edge of the woods, where the trees abruptly gave way to a brown, dry meadow of

winter-burned grass. Even though there was still a good half day's light, a commodity precious in the shortness of the days, the sergeant bellowed out the camping drill command. The sergeant played the role of martinet extremely well, abiding no goldbricking from his men. Pinch and his companion were thankful for the cold efficiency of the squadron, since it spared them any labor. "Pitch your tents, boys. I want a detail of five men to gather firewood—remember, two men on guard at all times. Troopers Hervis, Klind—get your bows. Bag some fresh meat for the whole camp." The rogues couldn't help notice the reaction of the troopers to this announcement, more than just delight at the reprieve from stale rations. Never before had the sergeant sent out a hunting detail. The three men stomped in the mud, hugger-mugger, while Maeve stayed in her saddle. "New business, this is." Sprite Heels punctuated his observation by spitting into a lump of melting snow. "Aye." There was nothing much to say about it. Pinch spied Cleedis nearby, struggling to read something from an unruly scroll of parchment. The sheet would curl every time he let go of the bottom to trace out a line. Catching the page, Pinch pulled it tight. "Why camp now, good lord?" the rogue asked bitingly. Looking over the top, he noted the scroll was a scrawled grid of suns, moons, stars, and seasons. "What day is this?" Cleedis grumbled as he battled the ever-curling sheet. Pinch felt annoyed at being ignored so clumsily. It wasn't that he hadn't been ignored before. His stock-in-trade was to pass unseen under the eyes of those who had good cause to watch for the likes of him. But it was his choice now to be seen and heard. He, the master regulator of Elturel, was important, and it wasn't even a lord

chamberlain's place to forget it. Pinch hadn't come looking for Cleedis; Cleedis had come this far just for him, so the old man had no right pretending he didn't matter. With less than good grace, the rogue pulled aside the scroll with a brusqueness certain to get his escort's attention and repeated, "Why are we camping? Ankhapur is months away, and I for one don't want to dally out here as your invited guest." The chamberlain did something with his face, and his beard swelled to the proportions of an irate porcupine. "We're stopped because it's not the right day and we'll stay stopped until it is. You're so clever, Master Pinch, that I thought you'd have the sense to see I didn't waste my days trekking through this uncivilized land. It would have taken the whole bodyguard of Ankhapur to make the distance and months more than I've got. We're waiting for an appointment to be kept. By my calendar, tomorrow is the first of Nightal. On that particular day, at a particular hour, certain wizards in Ankhapur, still loyal to Lord Manferic's memory, will gather and cast a spell. When they do, on this spot at that time will be our way back home—without hiking or riding that whole distance. "Now who's so clever?" Cleedis trumpeted as he bundled the scroll and thrust it under his arm. I am, Pinch thought to himself as the man stormed away. You need me in Ankhapur more urgently than it seemed, enough to make the wizards send a whole troop across the continent to find me. Pinch didn't say a thing but shrugged like a man outsmarted and went away. Lissa had joined their little knot by the time Pinch returned. In the days since their first meeting, he had carefully cultivated his relationship with her. Her awe at his position as Lord Janol hadn't hurt, and he carefully played on it. She was, to his mind, usefully naive, apparently unable to impute base thievery to anyone of rank. Thus, his

careful suggestions that Cleedis was suspect were met with amazed acceptance. She behaved as if the veil had been lifted from her eyes, yet all the time Pinch was obscuring her target even more. It had taken a little more art to explain away his gang to her satisfaction. They hardly met the image of suitable servants. Pinch could hardly present himself as wise and trustworthy if he employed such a crew of ingrates, unthrifts, and rinse pitchers as Therin, Sprite, and Maeve. Maeve would get drunk and confide something completely beyond the pale of any household cook. Therin, though a good lieutenant, was too proud to play the role without bristling. And Sprite-Heels— well, he might play along for a while, but only if he could ruin it with some disastrous prank. Instead Pinch took a tack not too far from the truth. He was, the rogue explained, the once-wastrel ward now destined to be redeemed and reformed. Still, Pinch claimed, he could not surrender old companions without remorse, no matter how vile and fallen they had become. These few companions had stayed steadfast friends through his darkest days. For him to abandon them now, simply because he had regained the proper sense of his true class, was the height of callousness. He owed them and so was bringing them home where he might bestow on them small pensions for the rest of their years. As tales went, it had just enough pathos and honor in it to appeal to the young priestess. Pinch was just, the meek were raised, and the proper order of the world had been restored. Still, the rogue couldn't resist adding a fillip: Cleedis was the villain, albeit not a grand one. The old campaigner was the shadow of Pinch's enemies, those who might not want him in Ankhapur alive. The lean shark didn't press the idea, even allowing as how he might be mistaken, but let the suggestion float through his tale. The woman listened with a disdainfully worldly finger to her nose, dismissing most

of what her traveling companion said. She was not so naive, contrary to what the youthful brightness of her face proclaimed. When she snorted at his claims or poked at her cheek with her tongue, the senior rogue pretended not to notice any more than a suitor would his paramour's sour moods. Pinch didn't expect her to believe the whole story, indeed she didn't need to believe any of it. She needed to doubt her suspicions, whether it was because she was naive or just entertained. All that didn't matter anymore. She'd have to find her own way to Ankhapur now. Cleedis's arrangements were at least going to remove one gnawing worry. "We've stopped." It was a cool observation, not profound but as if she held Pinch somehow responsible. "The venerable's given orders to camp. I think he intends a rendezvous." "Ah?" It was one of her favorite expressions. "Arranged with the court wizards of Ankhapur, I'd guess." "Ah." Without more comment, Lissa strode through the mud, intent on catching up with Cleedis. Pinch was about to follow when his attention was snagged by the raised squeal of an enraged halfling. "Put me down! It's not my fault you lost!" The halfling was dangling by his arms at eye level with a swarthy trooper, so close he could have licked the man's grubby nose. "Let's see yer dice," slurred Sprite's captor. Pinch sloshed casually through the mud, picking his way through the sudden clot of onlookers. He took his time, curious to see if Sprite just might lick the man's nose. "It's not my doing you lost the hazard. How could I say I'd throw a bale of deuces? It's just bad luck and you're not taking it well!" the hanging thief protested. "Pigsy luck, indeed. When it's 'Let's play for drinks,' he throws a whole set and never

makes a point—" "There, you see, just luck!" the halfling kicked and squawked. "But nows it's 'Lets play for coin' and he can't lose. Play for my coin maybe. I'll be wishing . . . you'll be wishing you was wishing you was playing somewhere-body else." The drunken trooper tried to unmangle his meaning while he groped for the purse at Sprite's waist. "Lemme see them dice and then maybe I'll gut you—" Darkness slid forward and dealt the man a sharp rap across his fumbling fingers. "Maybe you want to gut me, too." The trooper looked at the bright-bladed dirk that hovered just over his hand, slithering to and fro in Pinch's shifting grasp. It was a snake, violently coiled and tempting the other to foolishness. "Set him down and go, before I tell Cleedis you were boozing on duty." Fear-drunk eyes darted to his fellows for support, but he had gone invisible before their gaze. Suddenly, the soldier knew where he stood: alone, wet, and dirty in the beech wood. Something unholy hacked out an asthmatic howl just across the stream, a howl that almost shaped hungry words of welcome. Slowly the man set the halfling down. A pointed flick of the dirk sent the man scurrying, and without him the crowd drifted away to jeer his cowardice. Already the stinging puns and cruel poesy were forming in their minds. "YOU," Pinch intoned while snagging Sprite before he disappeared, "give me the dice." Sprite fumbled in his shirt and produced the pair. Pinch didn't even ask if they were loaded. There was only one answer. "Get to the tent."

"What's this, Pinch? Since when would you be knocking in fear from these king's men?" The rogue answered the challenge by shoving the runt forward. "It's time for a little talk," he whispered through clenched teeth. The tone was enough to get Sprite doing what he was told. The two squeezed into the small tent where Therin and Maeve were chatting, squatted on the ground. "Listen well." Pinch thrust Sprite onto a pile of blankets in between the other two. Ducking sideways to avoid the ridgepole, he continued without preamble. "Well be in Ankhapur soon, a few days at the latest. When we get there, things are going to change. Cleedis came north to get me, and just me. I don't know why he's allowed the rest of you along, but I'd guess he means to use you to keep me in his shackles." The old rogue smirked darkly. "Though you're a damn sorry lot of hostages. " 'Course, he might not be such a fool as to think you've got any sway over me. We all know what happens when somebody gets caught. He's on his own." Therin rubbed at the scar around his neck and noted bemusedly, "You snatched me from the gallows once." Pinch didn't like being reminded of that now, or the others might think his motives then were sentimental. "I didn't get you off the gallows. I let you hang and then I brought you back to life. And I did it for other motives. From here on, this is different. Ankhapur's not Elturel." "Ohhh?" Maeve cooed. "They're both cities. What makes this one so special? "Besides being your home," Sprite chimed in. Pinch looked at Maeve's thick-veined cheeks and the knobby little carrot that was her nose. He could not describe the true Ankhapur to her, the one that filled him with despised love.

"Ankhapur the White." The words came reverently and then, "Piss on it. Bloody Ankhapur, it's lesser known. City of Knives, too. Ankhapur's fair; it's got whitewashed walls that gleam in the sun, but it's all hollow and rotten inside. The Families"—Pinch stressed it so that there was nobody listening who didn't hear the salt in his words—"control everything they want, including lives. You'll never find a more cunning master of the confidence games than a man from Ankhapur. Who do you think trained me to run a gang like you? Elturel?" Therin flopped back on his rick, clearly unimpressed. "So it's got competition. We've taken down worse." Pinch snorted. "You're not competition—none of you are. What kind of competition are you for a king who kept a personal assassin on the payroll? Or his sons who taught playmates how to strike down their enemies? This isn't just doing the black art on a weak lock or ripping the cove from a temple roof." Pinch slipped the Morninglord's amulet from his shirt and plopped it on the damp ground between them. "They're playing for stakes that make this look small—title and crown of all Ankhapur. "We're just a bunch of petty thieves. They're princes, dukes, and barons of the land. First Prince Bors, Second Prince Vargo, followed by Princes Throdus and Marac— there's a murderous lot. Bors is too much of an idiot to be any danger, but don't worry. Our dear Lord Chamberlain out there, the duke of Senestra, has gone begging for a fool to protect his own interests. Oh, and there's more. Tomas, Duke of the Port, is Manferic's brother, and Lady Graln was his sister-in-law. She's got whelps, princelings of the Second Order, for whom she'd kill to see crowned. Finally, there's the Hierarch Juricale. They call him the Red Priest, he's got enough blood on him. He and his sect hold the Knife and the Cup, so you can imagine no one gets crowned without his say." With slender fingers, Pinch counted out the titles until there were no fingers left. "Every

one of them's a scorpion in the sheets. Compared to them, we're lewds." "They sent Cleedis up here for you," Sprite mused, as his foot gently slid toward the bauble at his feet. "Royal Ward Janol, Pinch to you," the regulator mocked. A light kick with his boot kept the halfling's furred foot at bay. "It's not as though the royal ward has any chance or claim. Cleedis wants me for some reason, but it's just as like there'll be a mittimus for your arrest as soon as we strike Ankhapur. From here on, abroad or in the city, cut your words goodly and keep your eyes open like quick intelligencers or somebody'll cut your weasand-pipe for certain." That said, Pinch scooped up the amulet and turned to leave. "And you, Pinch dear?" Maeve asked. The rogue considered the truth, considered a lie, and then spoke. "I'll stand by you all and cross-lay old Cleedis's plans any way I can." He smiled a little, the way he chose when no one was to know his true thoughts. The afternoon shadows, creeping through the door, gave all the warmth to his thin reassurance. Outside, after ten steps, he met Lissa as though she'd been lurking around waiting for this casual rendezvous. The woman had finally shed her saintly armor, and the effect was a transformation. Pinch had become so used to the rumpscuttle mien of a warrior woman that he was taken aback by her change to more demure clothes. Her silvery vestments, though long and shamefast, were still more flattering than battered steel made to cover every weak point of her sex. Her arms were half-bare to the cool air, and her slender, fair neck uncased from its sheath of gorgetted steel. Hair, brown and curly, tousled itself playfully in the breeze. Without all that metal, she stepped lighter and with more grace than did the clank and jingle of her armored self. The transformation from amazon to gentry maid was startlingly complete.

"Greetings, Lord Janol," Lissa hailed, catching the rogue not at his best. "How fare you and your companions? Lord Cleedis says we shall be upon Ankhapur on the morrow." "We?" With a knowing, impish smile, Lissa brushed a loose wisp back into the tumble of her hair. "Certainly. Like yourself, Lord Cleedis is a gentleman. He's offered me passage to Ankhapur rather than leave me in this wilderness." Either she now suspects me and favors Cleedis or the chamberlain is playing the game, using her and her temple as a threat over me. If that's the case, does she know her part, or can I still direct her? Taking up his mantle as the lordly Janol, Pinch smiled and bowed while making his cold calculations. "As well the chamberlain should. And if he had not, I would have insisted upon it." "Well, I'm glad you would because I'm still counting on you to help me find a thief." Her voice dropped to a whisper of winter wind through the beeches. "If your thief is here." Lissa nodded. "They are—I've had dreams." "Dreams?" "The voice of our lord. He speaks to us in our dreams. It's our way." She could be naive, misled, inspired, or right; Pinch withheld judgment. He couldn't think of any good reason why a god shouldn't talk to his priests in their dreams, but why not just burn your words in a rock or, for that matter, limn the offender in holy fire? Had she seen him in her dreams? If not, then what was her god revealing? At least so far, that seemed to be nothing. Gods always took roundabout ways to the straightest of things, and he for one felt they did so for his personal benefit, although perhaps not in the case of Fortune's

master. Pinch did feel that the Mistress of Luck was a little too indirect in his own case—so much that he, only acting from a sense of just deserving, did what he could to speed the turn of her wheel along. So if the gods wanted to be indirect with him to the point where he helped move them along, it was apt that her god was equally oblique. In this simplified theology, it was clear to Pinch's mind that Lissa was being tested. Succeed at the test and she would find the thief. Fail—and well, who knows? He pulled at his ear to show doubt. "I could never place so much stock in dreams. What if you have a nightmare?" The seminary student got the better of the priestess. "It's my duty to interpret the meaning in what I have received. If I can't, then I need to dedicate myself even more." "Well spoken," he applauded, while settling onto a punky log, fallen several years back and now riddled with insects and mold. She reddened at the compliment. "So you don't really see the thief in your dreams, only some sort of symbol?" "The words of our god transcend simple images. He speaks a different language from us. In our dreams, we filter though the things we know and find parallels for his voice." Lissa's hands flew as she talked, sometimes cupping the words only to spill them in a burst of excitement. Pinch let her go on to explain how to tell true dreams from false visions, the five precepts of action, and more than Pinch needed to know. Still it was a good diversion from the hectic preparations for home, and before the rogue had completely succumbed to boredom, dusk wafted in from the east and it was time to retire. The night passed quickly, dreamless for Pinch. As for the others, none would say. What kinds of dreams were left to an outcast Gur, a drink-sodden sorceress, and an

unrepentant halfling? Dawn scratched at the canvas, scarring the tan haze with morning shadows. Pinch stepped out of the sweat of tent air. It was a clammy dawn of stale wood smoke and horse manure, but over it all was the incongruous thick scent of geraniums and jasmine. The jarring sweetness clung in the throat and choked more than the stench of ordure. In the cold of coming winter, it could only be that the wizards were here, borne in on a wind of flowers of their own making. Stumbling out of his tent, the rogue wandered through a queue of clay-colored troopers, pilgrims awaiting their turn at the shrine. Each man led his horse, fully packed and carefully groomed. They jostled and talked, smoked pipeweed or whittled, and every few minutes plodded ahead a few more steps. At the head of the column was a small cluster of strangers, as uncomfortable as choirboys milling outside the church. As each man of the column came abreast, one of the strangers stepped from their shivering mass, thin robes clutched about him, and gestured over the line. A greenish flash bubbled out from his fingertips and swallowed trooper, spellcaster, and more. When the bright air cleared, wizard and soldier were gone. "The time is best for you and your companions to take their place in the line," Cleedis noted as he ambled over to where Pinch stood. There was no haste or desperate urgency in the man's way; those who weren't ready could be left behind. A swift yank on the tent pole roused the rest. As they stumbled out, Lord Cleedis, playing host and master and accompanied by Lissa, led Pinch to the front of his troop. The rogue's mates fell into line, grumbling and slouching, unruly children mocking their parents. At the front a pudgy, boy-faced wizard who couldn't be much older than twenty and hadn't gotten himself killed yet—more than a little feat for an ambitious

mage—bowed to the Lord Chamberlain. With apologies, the wizard arranged them just so, positioning the five of them to some invisible diagram. Cleedis's impatience and Sprite's impish refusal to cooperate made the young mage all the more nervous until, by the time he was to say the words and make the passes, Pinch worried whether they would have their essences scattered across a thousand miles. Pinch always worried though; suspicion is what kept rogues like him alive. Then, before the last words had gotten through the boy-mage's lips, the air around them went green, lightly at first like a fading hangover on a too-long day. It got brighter, swallowing the blue out of the sky, the cold from Pinch's boots, even the creaking of saddlery from the line of men behind him. In flickering moments, the evenness of the green overwhelmed everything, eventually even the green of the color itself. The world became a perfect color and Pinch could not see it. The world returned with a nauseating rush. The green vanished, flooded out by other colors: blue sky, curling gray clouds, the brown-mottled turf of freshly turned fields, the fleshy green of still-leaved trees, and the glittering silver of a nearby sea. The ground lurched beneath him, practically toppling him from the unexpected jolt. Lissa clutched at his sleeve and he seized the belt of someone else. A heave of nausea washed over him and then passed. Blinking in the sudden new light, Cleedis tapped Pinch and pointed toward the sea. Sited on the shore, between the water and the close nest of hills, were the tarnished gypsum-white walls of Ankhapur. A fog had rolled back from the thrusting wharves. Atop the hills, the morning bells of the temples had started to sound. And filling the top of the very highest hill were the colonnaded buildings of the royal palace, millipedes clinging to the rich garden slopes. Cleedis turned and beamed a drillmaster's smile as he waved his hand up-slope.

"Welcome back to Ankhapur, Janol."

Dinner in Ankhapur Their arrival was well outside the walls of Ankhapur, in the shadow of the Villa of the Palantic Road that crowned the top of Palas Hill, one of six hills surrounding Ankhapur. They appeared at the edge of a grove, as if they had ridden through the woods and emerged to survey the vineyard-filled valley that lay between them and the city. Thus it was that their descent through the fields, while hailed by the peasants with the appropriate concern and homage, raised no questions of wonder or gossip. Furthermore, they all looked gray, muddy, and spent, even Lord Cleedis himself. Pinch's foreign elegance was all but indistinguishable from the old-fashioned tabard Cleedis favored. Brown Maeve, Sprite-Heels, and Therin the Gur—no one could identify them as any more than merchants or servants among the entourage. Only the wizards in their white clean shifts stood out from the ordinary, and that too was quite ordinary. No wizard was like the rest of the world, so it was only natural for them to be easily marked. At least that was the reasoning of those who watched the column pass. In the two hours it took for the column to wend down the hairpin lanes and cross the bridge over the bog-banked Thornwash, a score of petty details returned to Pinch from the life he had fled fifteen years ago. The chill of snow and ice, that in fifteen years in Elturel he had never grown accustomed to, was gone, replaced by the faded green of Ankhapur's winter. The rhythmic lines of grapes were bare vines stretched over frames, the roads were rocky sloughs of clammy mud. To Pinch, the warm sun breathed the promise of spring, fresh grasses, and new growth. After fifteen years' absence, the sun of life was returned to him. The warmth filled Pinch with a confidence bordering almost on joy, unwarranted by everything he knew, but that was unimportant. He was home, as much as he hated it,

with all its memories and pitfalls. He was no longer Pinch, master of thieves, living his derring-do life in the slums and back alleys. By the time he rode through the gates, the ragtag scoundrel was nearly gone. In his place rode a man identical in dress, one who had invisibly traded places during the two-hour ride. It was Janol, royal ward of the late King Manferic I, or at least some part of him that Pinch had not forgotten, who sat straight in his saddle, giving a supercilious nod to the liveried watchmen who stood at their parade best as the Lord Chamberlain and company rode underneath the whitewashed stone arch of the Thornwash gate. There was one thing that was no different for Pinch or Janol, no matter his position. As either, the rogue felt power. These guards feared and respected men higher than them: the chamberlain, Janol, even the palace's elite bodyguard. It was the same awe and terror Pinch commanded from the thieves and constables of Elturel. There was in the common folk, he was certain, an innate sense of their betters. Even his gang understood it, though none of them might ever admit it. To the hoarse cries of the sergeant, bellowing their procession over the squalls of the fruit sellers and the enticements of the fest queens, the company rode as directly toward the palace as the interwoven streets of Ankhapur allowed. This morning, Ankhapur was alive early with the hurly-burly of market day. Pushcarts rocked like overloaded ferries in the sea of heads, their decks loaded with the glinting round flesh of fall squashes. Tides of serving-cooks and housemaids rippled from one stand to the next all down the shores of the streets. Chains of fishmongers heaved dripping baskets from the boats along the river, their still-twitching contents disappearing into the eager crowd. Children stole fruits and leapt over the smoky fires of the kaff-brewers, who sat cross-legged on their mats, pounding bark to steep in brass pots. The scent of that strongly bitter beverage made

Pinch yearn for its rich sourness mixed with honey, a drink he'd not had in his fifteen years of self-exile. Sated with musing, since too much reflection made a man weak and hesitant to act, Pinch leaned in his saddle toward Therin so that he did not need to shout. "Welcome to home." The Gur shifted nervously in his own saddle while trying to negotiate his skittish horse through the throng. "Your home, maybe. It's just another ken to me. Although," he added with a smile and wave to the crowd, "one filled with opportunity. Look at all the coneys and marks out there." "Mind your hands with caution, boy. Take some time to walk the field before you bowl the pins. Besides our game's up there, not in these stews." Therin's eyes followed where Pinch pointed, to the clean, scrubbed walls that cut the commoners from their masters, the king's palace at the top of the hill. "Piss and Ilmater's blood!" the enforcer breathed. "Sprite, Maeve—he's serious. He means to have us all in!" "Gods' wounds, I ain't ever forced a ken like that in all my time," the halfling swore, half-hidden on Therin's other side. "Think of all the plate and treasures sure to be inside." Because Pinch couldn't, Therin took the pleasure of fiercely berating the little scoundrel with a mindful thump to his shoulder. "Think of the headsman's axe too, you lusker, and let that sink on your wicked heart. Remember our warning of last night." Sprite did his best to look wounded, but it was to naught on his companions. Further debate on the topic was broken by the need to negotiate an island of wagons that split the flow. Pinch looked about the rest of the way, marveling at the similarity of the differences

he saw. On that corner he remembered a saddler's shop; the building was the same but now it housed an ordinary from which wafted the smell of richly roasted meat. The great square where he used to practice riding was now adorned with an equestrian statue of his late guardian. The sculptor had been good at capturing old Manferic's likeness, the flaring beard and the leonine mane of the king's regal head. He had molded into the face a sinister and scowling visage that well conveyed the king's savage love of intrigue, though Pinch felt the sculptor had been too kind by a half. In his saddle, the bronze king held the Knife and Cup, Ankhapur's symbols of royal power, as if he still owned them even in death. The Cup was raised in one hand for a bitter toast, while with his other the statue-sovereign thrust the Knife at those who stared up from his feet. "Stand open for the Lord Chamberlain Cleedis, Regent of the Assumption!" the captain demanded as the column drew up at the gate. There was a scurry of movement on the palace's ornamental battlement, and then a herald stepped between the merlons and replied over the clank and rattle from behind the doors. "Welcome is the return of our sovereign lord and joyous are we at his safety. The princes four wait upon his pleasure and would fain wish to greet him." Cleedis, whom Pinch now rode beside, smiled his acceptance of this formality, but from the corner of his mouth he added an aside that only his guest could hear. "Three of those princes would fain see me dead. That's what they were truly hoping." "Perhaps it could be arranged." The warhorse-turned-statesman barely raised an eyebrow at that. "Not well advised." A white dog ran before the gate. Pinch noted it, though it was completely unimportant. The incongruity of it caught his eye, the mongrel's unmarred coat against

the scrubby gray of faded whitewash. "You've got me here without a hold. Do you think I care enough about those three you dragged along with me to toe your line? Kill them if you want. I can always find more." The footpad scratched at a dried patch of dirt on his cheek. Cleedis glanced back at the trio, squabbling among themselves. "What do I care about them? I have you." "If you kill me, your outing's been a waste." "Still think I'm an old fool, don't you, Janol?" With a grin the chamberlain prodded Pinch with his sheathed sword. "You're as replaceable as they are. Let's just say I had some hope of bringing you back into the fold. Besides, you're more convenient, seeing as you know the ground of the battlefield." While he spoke, the brass embossed gates cracked with a faint burst of sparkling motes as the magical wards placed on them were released. The doors swung into a shadowed arch lined by royal bodyguards, resplendent in wine-and-yellow livery. Just as the horses were about to move, Cleedis's bare blade slapped across Pinch's reins. "One more thing, Master Janol." And then the chamberlain ordered his aide, "Bring the priestess here." In short order she trotted her stallion to their side. Cleedis slid the blade away and pretended not to have a thing more to say to Pinch, even though the rogue knew every word was for his own benefit. The old man's crabbed body shriveled even more as he gave a perfunctory nod from the saddle. "Greetings, Worthy. Here is where we must part anon, you to your superiors and I to affairs of state. I wish you to understand that I, Lord Chamberlain, know you seek a thief and extend my hand in any way I might to give you success. Should I learn any morsel that would aid your duty, it will be faithfully brought to you."

"Your lordship is most generous," Lissa murmured as she bowed stiffly in her rigid armor. The old noble made slight acceptance of her obeisance and continued. "Let our contact not be all duty, though. In these days, I have been charmed by your company. You must consider yourself a guest in my household. I will arrange an apartment for you in the palace. Accept, milady. The approval of your superiors is already assured." Lissa blushed, a freckled shade against her curled hair. "I'm . . . I'm honored, Lord Chamberlain, but surely one of my masters here would be of better standing. I've no knowledge of courtly things." "Precisely my goal—a refreshing bit of air. Besides, your superiors are crushing bores. Now, forward men!" With a cavalryman's bellow, he set the whole column in motion, leaving the flustered priestess behind. As they passed under the gate, the Lord Chamberlain spoke, as if things were of no consequence. "Priests lead such limited, suppressed lives. All those passions and thoughts, penned up in such rigorous souls. If their passions were given free reign, can you imagine the types of punishments priests could devise for apostates and blasphemers? Fascinating possibilities. I think I'll keep the worthy Lissa close at hand." The chamberlain said nothing more as the entourage passed through the outer palace, exchanged escorts, passed gates, crossed courtyards, and finally entered the cream-white compound of the inner palace. By this time, Maeve and the others were agoggle. They had passed servants in better finery than most of the freemen they knew. In their world, they had seen only glimpses of this life through keyholes, by scrambling through windows, and in the tumbled mass of their booty. Pinch wondered just how well they would be able to restrain their larcenous souls. At last they entered a small, private courtyard turned off from the main processional

route, a guest wing attached to the main household. Pinch remembered this section of the compound as particularly secure, bastioned by a bluff to the rear and deep enough into the palace grounds to make unnoticed departures nearly impossible. Short of the dungeons, it would have been his choice for housing a crew such as his, although Cleedis was wrong to think this would contain them. Pinch and his gang had escaped from lock-ups more determined than this in their years spent looting Elturel. A resounding chorus of yelps and howls greeted their arrival, and disabused the regulator of any hope that Cleedis had underestimated them. While they handed off their mounts to the waiting grooms, a chaos of sulfurous fire and smoke boiled from dark kennels on the east wall. At first it seemed a wild pack of hounds charged, until one saw the beasts' chops drooling embers and each yelp a belch of flame. The hounds were things of hellish fire, coal-black coats seared with eyes and breaths of flame. The horses kicked and reared with fearsome fright, dragging the boy-grooms with them. "Gods' pizzle on the heads of the ungrateful!" blurted Therin in an old Gur curse. With a slick hiss his sword cleared the scabbard. "Pinch, strike right. I'll take the center. Maeve, your spells at ready." It was for moments like this that Pinch kept the Gur around, ceding battle command to him. Just as the four set themselves for the slaughter— theirs or the beasts', they could not be sure—chains clanked as a trainer single-handedly dragged the lunging beasts backward across the smooth flagstones, coiling the iron leashes around his arm. Lumbering from the shadows of the wall, he was a brute, not quite a giant yet greater than a man. He was bare skinned save for a steel codpiece, scabrous fur and warts stretched over grotesquely knotted muscles. Everything about him was disproportionate. His ears and nose—a broad, corded thing—dominated his head,

overpowering the weak eyes buried in ridges of bone. His arms were greater than his legs, which were mighty, and his forearms greater than the rest of his arms. Even while straining with the hellhounds, the ogre swaggered with the dim confidence of muscle. "Surrabak hold them, small chief." It was a voice burned by bad firewine and cheap pipeweed and stretched harsher by three days of carousing, but it was his natural voice. "Rightly done. Take them back to their kennel." Cleedis boldly stepped forward, holding a hand out to stay Pinch and the others. "Stay your hand," he said sotto voce. "He can be unpredictable." Although he wondered how much of that was for theatrical benefit, Pinch made a quick gesture to the others, the silent hand language of their brotherhood. With slow, wary care the weapons were put away. "Surrabak do. Hear small chief come back. Bring Surrabak orders from great chief?" The hellhounds were now within reach of the ogre's cudgel, and he unhesitatingly laid into them until their snarls became yelps of pain. "The great chief is honored to have a killer like Surrabak. He says you must always obey . . . little chief." The last words bit against Cleedis's pride. Nonetheless, he pointed to the four foreigners and continued, "Little chief—me, Cleedis—tells you to guard these little ones. Do not let anyone come here unless they show my sign. Do you remember the sign?" With the hellhounds in a tense pack at his feet, the ogre scowled, flaring his lumpy nose as he tried to remember. Tusks curved out from under his thick lips. His dim eyes sank farther in as he pondered hard. "Surrabak know little chief's sign." Cleedis gave a sigh of exasperated relief. "Good. Guard them well, or big chief will

become angry and punish you." "Surrabak guard. No one get in." With that, the ogre barked to the pack and slouched back to the kennels, half-dragging the iron leashes still wrapped around his arm. "Little chief, big chief. . . That thing doesn't know Manferic's dead, does it?" Cleedis ignored Pinch's question and stopped at the entrance to the wing, a small cluster of rooms once the queen's summer rooms. "The servants will show you to your quarters." As Sprite and the others stepped to go inside, the royal bodyguards stopped them. "Not you three. There are other rooms in the west hall for you." As if to reassure them, the chamberlain nodded across the way to another colonnaded building. "We should be with him," Sprite snapped. "We're his friends and it's up to us to stay together." "Objections, Pinch?" For a moment nobody said anything as Pinch looked to his companions. The Gur had his hand to sword, ready for the word if it were given. Maeve looked to Pinch for protection, while Sprite glared back with cold defiance. The Lord Chamberlain let a devil's smile seize his lips and turn up the corners. "Well?" "Take them. They're not a damn to me." The bodyguards sidled forward, eager for the fight. If the wind had blown a leaf a different direction across the courtyard, there might have been battle, but it didn't and there wasn't. The three stood frozen as their regulator turned his back on them and went inside. "We're not done with you, Pinch, you bastard!" Therin bellowed as the door slammed shut.

Inside, Pinch paused, waving off the valet who hustled forward. He strained his ears for the sounds of trouble, fearful there would be a fight. It was part of the playact to turn his back on them, but as he pressed himself against the wall, the rogue was assailed by doubts. Was he playacting? He might need them; that was as much as he understood friendship. The thought of risking his life to save them simply because they were his gang . . . They know the game, he reasoned to himself. They'll know the playacting from the real. And if they don't. . . Pinch didn't know what he would do. Finally, when it was clear nothing would happen, Pinch followed the servant to his rooms. A bath had been drawn and clothes already laid out: a fine, black set of hose with burgundy and white doublet and pantaloons of the best cut. It wasn't until he was washed, shaved, trimmed, and dressed that a runner arrived from Lord Cleedis with orders to attend in the west hall. The timing was no accident, Pinch knew. No doubt the servants assigned him reported directly to Cleedis's ear. The rogue had no illusions about the degree of freedom and trust the Lord Chamberlain was allowing him. Sauntering through the halls, the rogue took his time. No doubt everyone expected his appearance with whatever eager maliciousness they possessed. Certainly his dear, dear cousins were hardly reformed; kindness, love, and generosity were not survival skills in Manferic's court. The rogue guessed that things were only worse now; while he was alive, the fear of Manferic had always been a great restraint. So Pinch ambled through the halls, refreshing his memory for the layout of the palace, appraising old treasures he once ignored, and admiring and appraising pieces new to him. It was almost fun, looking at his old life through the eyes of another. Portraits of the royal line, with their arrogance and superiority, were of less interest for

him now than the frames that held them. Vases he rated by what a broker would pay, furniture by the amount of gilt upon it. Always there was the question of how to get it out of Ankhapur, where to find the right broker. The tip-tap of feet across the age-polished marble broke Pinch's reverie. "Master Janol, the court awaits you in the dining hall," said the prim-faced Master of the Table, a post identified by his uniform. Let them simmer in their pots. Without changing his comfortable pace, Pinch nodded that he would be coming. He was not about to be dictated to by a petty court functionary—or by those who sent him. He would arrive late because he chose to. Then the stone corridors echoed with a crackling chuckle as Pinch laughed at his own conceit. There was no choice for him. He would be late because they all expected him to be late. Anything else and the royal ward Janol would not be the prodigal scoundrel they all envisioned—rebellious, unrepentant, and unsubtle. Let them imagine him how they wanted; he'd play the part—for now. By the time he pushed open the ridiculously tall doors and strode into the magically lit dining hall, the diners had dispensed with acceptable gossip and were now trapped listening to the Lord Chamberlain describe his journey. The old chamberlain looked up as the doors creaked open and, barely breaking his tale, nodded for Pinch to come to the center of the great curved table and present himself to the royal heirs. The old rogue, a man of steady balance on a rooftop, icy nerve in a knife fight, and sure wit to puzzle but a magical ward, felt the thick, slow-motion dread of stage fright. It was a decade and more since he'd last been in such company, and suddenly he was worried about forgetting all the subtle niceties and nuances of courtly etiquette. It's not that he minded insulting some portentous ass, it's just that doing so accidentally took all the fun out of it.

Consequently, to hide the feeling of self-conscious care, Pinch studied those at the table as hard as they studied him. Passing the outer wing, the rogue gave only cursory interest to faces that confronted him, concentrating on guessing rank and position by their dress and badges. These were the minor lords of the court, those who wanted to be players in the intrigues but were only being used by the masters. For the most part these factotums and their ornaments were dull as cattle, unaware of who he was and content with their petty positions and their ordained superiority over the common masses. They worried over who sat next to whom, dripped grease into their ruffed collars, and catted about whose looks had been enhanced tonight by some illusionist's hand. Still, here and there, a pair of bold eyes met Pinch's or a snide comment was whispered to a neighbor as he passed. Pinch took special note of these: the forthright showed some hopes of cunning or fire, the gossips were clued enough to have heard already who he was. Both might be valuable or dangerous in times to come. Past these room-stuffers, invited mostly to fill the table, was the second tier, and now Pinch's interest became keen. Here the rogue noted faces and made brief nods to ladies and lords he remembered. Every lord and lady sitting here was a prince's ally. Pinch recognized the proud Earl of Arunrock, commander of the navy, by the out-of-fashion goatee he still kept trimmed to a point. Farther along, the rogue almost gave a start to see the merchant Zefferellin, who used to broker loot from an inn near the market. Judging from his robes of severe opulence, business must have been good enough to buy respectability. Next there was a lady he didn't know but definitely wanted to. She had a refined elegance that suggested she could break the spirit of the purest man. Finally, there was the Hierarch Juricale, a woodcutter-sized man whose black eyes glowered at people over his long bent nose and spreading white beard. He

was a man whose word could inspire the faithful to kill for his cause. Even at the table he sat aloof, apart from all the others as if he alone were above all this. It was a lie, Pinch knew. There was no man more directly involved in the court's intrigues than the Red Priest. These were the hands that held the knives of the princes and the Lord Chamberlain. There was nothing to distinguish them in dress from the pawns of the lower tier—who believed that clothes determined rank through the strange alchemy of fashion—but this inner tier knew where the true power lay. They had chosen their sides. Which wing, which side, how close to the center of table, all these were clues waiting to be deciphered. At last the regulator reached the center, where he turned to the table and casually bowed. Along the opposite side of the curving main table sat the princes four, their backs safely to stone walls. Interspersed between them were the rest of the family: Duke Tomas and Lady Graln. At the very center, in the king's normal seat, sat Cleedis, Lord Chamberlain and Regent of the Assumption. Pinch waited to be recognized, but now it was their turn to make him wait. Cleedis continued with his story. Unlike the others, Bors the idiot prince, was the only one who seemed to show interest. He was still an idiot, that was clear. Flabby faced and jaundiced, he dumbly mouthed Cleedis's words, barely understanding most of it. His napkin, tied under his chin, was awash in soup spill and crumbs, and it seemed to take most of the First Prince's effort to get his spoon to his lips. Every once in a while, he would giggle softly about something that amused only him. Next to Bors, and looking none to happy for the seat, was Duke Tomas. Had he been two seats over, Pinch would have mistaken the duke for Manferic, his late

brother, even though the duke was gleamingly bald where the late king had had a full head of hair. "Dear coz, the years have made you forget your manners." The jab brought Pinch back to the front and center, and he bowed quickly before even looking to see who had stung him. It didn't matter; even after fifteen years it was impossible not to recognize the voice, a baritone of biting silk ripe with arrogance. "Quite true, Prince Vargo. Otherwise I would have remembered your impatience, too." Across the table glowered a muscular man, Vargo, second son of Manferic. He was several years Pinch's younger, although his face was hard and sharpened to a point by his impeccably trimmed Vandyke. His casually tossed blond hair offset the red of his beard, and he easily could have been a dashing cavalier if it weren't for the unsatiated savagery that twisted even his brightest smile. "I present myself, Lord Chamberlain," Pinch-now-Janol continued before his adversary could recover from the rogue's bon mot. "I am Master Janol, royal ward of the late King Manferic." A susurration of muted surprise trickled from the outer wings, as those guests previously clueless of Pinch's identity grasped the import of his arrival. "I... beseech ... your permission to join you at table as was the courtesy my late guardian extended to me." This part of the ritualistic greeting came hardest for the regulator. It was galling to go through the show of asking the favor after the old man had forced him here in the first place. Hiding a grimace, the prodigal courtier bowed once again, this time with more flamboyance. The fear that threatened to paralyze him was fading as the familiarity with the air around him grew. Lord Cleedis raised a glass of amber wine as if this were the first time he had seen

Pinch in years. The gold elixir sparkled in the light from the mullioned windows that lined the base of the dome above. It was all a conceit. Everyone at the table knew the old man had gone to fetch the errant ward, though the thief couldn't imagine why the chamberlain had risked absence from the court for so long. Gods knew what the princes had done—or might have done—in the regent's absence. "Truly we are pleased to see our long-absent cousin. I, who was your guardian's servant, will not dishonor his name by sending you from this hall. Prepare a place for Master Janol where he can sit with honor." In an instant the servants silently swooped on the diners, producing a chair, linens, goblet, and trencher. It had all been prearranged, of course, so there was no need for direction as they uprooted the foremost noble of the second tier and laid a place for the rogue. This displacement triggered a chain reaction of shifting and squeezing as each noble vainly refused to relinquish his position in the chain of importance. At the very end of the semicircular table, the lowest courtier of the lot found himself dangling off the end, trencher perched on his knees. Pinch squeezed himself into place between Prince Marac and a glistening courtier simmering at the insult of being supplanted by a mendicant relative. The man sipped his wine through clenched teeth and eyed Pinch in way that was reminiscent of the lizards he used catch. Pinch considered being friendly, but the man was a reptile and hardly worth the effort. Instead the rogue ignored him, because it made Pinch's presence all the more stinging and that made Pinch happy. "Prince Marac . .." The rogue's cup raised in a genial toast. Marac, youngest of Manferic's sons and the one Pinch liked the best of the slippery lot—because the youth had been easy to intimidate—eyed Pinch the way one neigh-

bor eyes the other when his best hound has disappeared. He tried to look for the evidence of a bloody knife while trying not to seem like he was looking. Marac was no longer the ten-year-old youth that Pinch remembered. That one had been replaced by a poor imitation of Prince Vargo. His face was fuller and rounder than sharp-cheeked Vargo, and his beard had the thin, brushed softness of youth, but already the eyes were hidden barbs. His straw-blond hair was longer than his brother's and straight where the other's was tangled. With all these differences, there was still a foundation that was Manferic's bloodline. Perhaps the two weren't Manferic progeny, but unfinished duplicates the wizard-king had fashioned in some long-forgotten laboratory, and their lives from childhood to death were one vast experiment. It would be so like the way he raised me, just to see what he could build, Pinch thought. Prince Marac acknowledged the toast, and the glow of his face melted into a lipless smile. "Your unexpected return is a pleasure, cousin Janol." That was all lies, from front to end. The prince sipped at his scented wine while the servants dished out the next course, a sweetly stewed, steaming joint of some meat beyond the rogue's ken. "An excellent cut, isn't it, Your Highness?" suggested the lizard-eyed noble at Pinch's other hand. The man was determined not to be left out of the conversation. "Quite good hunting on your part, Lord Chalruch." As if the words were a signal, the table that had been so quiet while Pinch sat himself roiled into gossip and banter once more. "Thank you, milord. I bagged him in a perfect—" "So cousin, how fares it you've come back here? How long has it been?" "I've been abroad on fifteen years, Prince Marac." "Not long enough," Vargo suggested from the other side of the pearly Lady Graln.

She laid a hand on his. "Vargo, you're being unkind." "And what possessed you to return now?" "—shot at a range of a good hundred rods—" the bore continued to a young lady on the left, who being reduced to helplessness by the seating struggled to feign interest. "Indeed, what?" spoke a new voice from the other side of the Lord Chamberlain. Pinch had to lean out to get a clear look at his interrogator. It was Throdus, the sharpest thinker of the princes. In looks he was coal to his brothers' bonfires: dark hair, smoke-filled eyes, lean, and pale—as unlike Manferic as the other two were like him. Only the icy rigor of his manner showed the true family line. "I brought him back," Cleedis intervened while chewing on a piece of bread. "It was your father's request, one of his last. He wanted his ward reunited with the rest of the family. Toward the end, he greatly regretted certain events of the past. It was for his memory that I tracked down and brought back Master Janol." "Father's mind went soft," Vargo stage-whispered to Lady Graln. "And now Cleedis's, too. It must be contagious," added Marac. "—clean through the slug's heart." The bore prattled on, apparently determined to slay his trapped audience as surely as he had the beast. Tired of the man's determination to plow blindly onward, Pinch deliberately jerked away from Marac with staged indignation. "They wrong you, Cleedis!" At the same time, the rogue banged his elbow against the bore's arm just as the other was about to sip his wine. The yellow liquid splashed all over the man, soaking his white silken doublet an off-color stain. "Sir, you've bumped me!" he blurted out, seizing Pinch by the arm. Pinch gave the lord a cursory scan. "A terrible accident, indeed," he said with a fraudulent sympathy. "If I were you, I'd go change or people will think I didn't have time

to go out back and pluck a rose." "Pluck a . . . ?" The indignant bore stopped when he followed Pinch's gaze to the honey-hued stain that spread over his hose. His face reddened. "Perhaps that's sound," he said as he slid away, holding his napkin strategically in place. "But you'll hear from me again, sir, and soon I promise!" With that dreadful parting threat, the man hurried away. "I'm sure I will, though any time is bound to be too soon." A sigh of relief rose from those who'd been audience to the man's court. "I must say cousin Janol has at least livened conversation at the table," the Lady Graln smirked from her seat. "These dinners were threatening to poison us with dullness." She held up her goblet to be filled from the fresh bottle the servant was pouring down the line. "Better poisoned words than poisoned wine," Pinch suggested. He raised a fresh glass in toast. Everyone automatically lifted their glasses, only to hold them just at their lips, suddenly alarmed by the rogue's hint. Each watched for someone else to take the first sip. "Come, drink!" urged Pinch once again raising his glass high, cheerfully stinging the group like a sandfly. "Drink to ... oh, the memory of King Manferic! A toast to the late King Manferic!" he offered loudly so that no one could ignore it. "To Manferic!" echoed the room. Glasses tipped back as the lesser tiers drained away their cups, while at the main table, indecision still paralyzed the lords. Refusing the toast meant a loss of face, drinking required trust. For a long moment, nobody did either. Finally, disgusted or courageous, Vargo gulped down his portion. As he thumped his goblet down on the table, there was a long swallow from the others as they

followed suit. It was only when they had all set their goblets down that they noticed Pinch had not touched his. The rogue smirked a know-everything smile. "No taste for the bub, I guess." "We were wondering why Father had you here," said Throdus from down the line, "and now we know. You are dear Father's last cruel jest. This way he can mock us even from beyond the grave." "Enough of this!" Marac blurted with all the grace of a master-of-drill. "Cleedis, when do we hold the ceremony of the Knife and Cup? Things have gone long enough without a true king." "Hear, hear!" chimed in Throdus. "You've been stalling four months now, first saying one thing and then another. I say we have the Hierarch declare the date today." "There should not be haste," Vargo countered, sounding uncharacteristically statesmanlike. The Second Prince was stalling, Pinch realized, until he could get other plans realized. That was important knowledge, since it meant the Second Prince was a man to be watched. "Prince Vargo speaks wisely," defended Cleedis. "Rushing the ceremony will bring evil luck to the whole kingdom. The Hierarch has chosen the date—the first day of the Money Festival. He says that is the best day to guarantee profit and prosperity for the new reign." More time was not a bad idea by Pinch either, since he wasn't even sure of his own part here. Cleedis had dropped enough hints for the rogue to know his job involved those instruments of the succession. Whatever he was to do, after the ceremony would be too late. Thus it was the rogue weighed in, "Fools spend a copper and hurry themselves to the gaol, while sages spend an ingot and buy the judges."

"What's that supposed to mean?" sneered Marac. In his years abroad, Pinch had faced witnesses in a score of trials and, as was the obvious testament of his being here, had yet to feel the noose. "Patience for fools." At that, Marac abandoned the table with a snarl. "If that's the decision, then I see no cause to remain here!" "Nor I," calmly added Throdus. He stepped away from the table. To Vargo he added, "You have a plan and I will find it out." The creaking thump of the great doors marked the pair's departure. After they were gone, Vargo, too, took his leave. As he left, he laid a hand on Pinch's shoulder and whispered a word in his ear. "I don't know what your game is, dear coz, whether you're sided with Cleedis or another, or whether you're just a fool to come back here. But remember this: Cross me and you'll cross no one else in Ankhapur." With that, the cruel huntsman left, leaving Pinch to enjoy the rest of his meal.

The Prodigal Received When dinner finished, Pinch joined the flow of family to the private salons, the inner sanctums of his youth. At the door to the grand study, Marac suddenly stepped in Pinch's path, one finger poised like a dagger at the regulator's chest. "You are not welcome," he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear him. "You're not one of the family. Things change." With the grace of an eel that slithers through the conger's nets, Pinch curled his lips in a smile of polite understanding and bowed to his hosts. Vargo clapped his hand on the youngest prince's shoulder and loudly said, falsely thinking it would pain Pinch all the more, "Come, brother, leave him till the morrow. There's wine to be drunk!" As the salon door closed behind him, Pinch padded through the dark and heartless halls to his own room. The lane had been paced, the pins set, he thought to himself. Now it was time to see how the bowl would play. Returned to his room, the master thief settled into the carved wooden chair that was scorched dry by the heat from the fireplace. He sat immobile, gazing at the flames with the same fascination a drunk might share. Behind the visage, though, his mind raced. Preparation, Pinch knew, warded bad luck. First there was escape, if he needed it. His apartment was large and spacious, with a public salon separate from the bedchamber. However, the two rooms were cunningly less than generous about windows. These were all small portholes set high in the wall, hardly suitable for a rat to scurry though. That left the door, discreetly locked by a guardsman after Pinch had entered. Could they believe he hadn't heard

the slow grind of the heavy tumblers? Pinch had every confidence he could work the black art on the door, even if he was a little rusty. Then in the hallway, where would he go? After fifteen years, there were changes and additions made that no longer appeared on his mental map of the palace. He replayed every step he could recall in his head, getting the sense of distance and direction sound in his memory until he was confident he could slip through the halls to the outside world. Outside were the ogre and his hellhounds, an entirely different type of problem. Pinch couldn't see a solution there immediately. He set it aside for later study when he could get a clearer view of the ground. Beyond the ogre, only the palace gate was certain. The here-to-there could be fraught with perils or tediously easy. It was impossible to say who might challenge him or let him pass. The palace gate was a certainty, though. There would be a curfew after which the doors would be locked. Here his youth as the royal ward stood him in good stead. One of his patent rebellions had been to slip into the city against Manferic's wishes and get himself back well after the curfew horn had blown. Back then there were other ways over the palace walls, and the rogue trusted that they still existed. Some gates remained unsealed even at the latest hours to accommodate those visiting their mistresses or back from a night of mingling with the lewd folk. Finally, silver and gold were always a solution. Unless there had been some catastrophic change in the barracks rooms, it was always possible to find a guardsman willing to turn a blind eye for the right price. Of course, he'd need to find himself some cash, but for a good thief that was hardly a problem. So much for escape, should he need it. The next question concerned his

companions and what should be done about them. Pinch mulled over his options, sinking deeper into the stillness before the fire. Did he need them? If not, there was no need to worry about them. Certainly he was their upright man, but he felt no compulsion of mere loyalty to save them. Pinch once again decided to choose in favor of prudence. He still did not know what task Cleedis intended for him; until he did know, there was the possibility the trio might be needed. Pinch hardly felt he could rely on old friendships in Ankhapur; he'd already been reminded how fifteen years could change a man. Grudges lasted longer than loyalty. Without more time, Sprite, Therin, and Maeve were the only rogues he knew well enough to rely on. Having judged and deemed worthy, the regulator needed to communicate with his gang before they felt abandoned and reordered their brotherhood. They were no more loyal than his lingering presence. All he knew was the wing they were in. Tomorrow he would make sure to see them. All these things Pinch did in his head, never once setting his thoughts to paper, never once stirring from the chair. This was more than just his usual nature. His staying in these two rooms, he was sure, was no haphazard choice. Cleedis had wizards at his side, powerful ones as evidenced by their leap across the vast distances this morning. Those selfsame wizards could be watching him this instant. He had put Maeve to it often enough in their efforts to scout out a new case before they broke during the night. He also knew from Maeve that it took a little knowing the place to make the spell work. There was no doubt Cleedis had put at least some of his spell-men to the task of knowing these rooms inside and out. Even his own thoughts weren't safe, Pinch knew. Those wizards could pry through his mind, dredging up his plans if he wasn't careful. Again, Maeve and hard experience

had taught him some tricks for resisting, but they weren't sure by any means. The best of all things was not to plan, but to act by pure instinct. Instinct was something that couldn't be measured, plumbed, or dissected by the arcane powers. "Well," he announced to no one, "let the committers make something of this." And then Pinch settled in and let his mind be filled thoughts as impure, vile, horrific, and vivid as he could imagine. And Pinch could imagine very, very well. ***** The next morning, Pinch took his breakfast in his room, reveling in the luxury Cleedis was willing to bestow. Even a master regulator didn't live in princely comfort. That had been a hard adjustment when he'd first fled Manferic's court. It had been a long time since he'd had sweet porridge laced with fatty smoked meat and dried fruits. It was a childhood comfort, a memory of dawns spent hiding in the kitchen, nicking bowlfuls from the pot when the cooks weren't looking. Reverie ended with a knock at the door. Before Pinch could rise or say "Enter," the door swung open and Throdus sauntered into the salon as if the whole world were his privilege. The dark prince radiated a jaunty cheer. Without so much as a comment, he plopped into the chair opposite Pinch. The rogue glanced up and then buried himself in slurping spoonfuls of porridge as if Throdus weren't there. Throdus watched this until a wry smile curled his lips. "Good cousin, I regret my brothers' behavior last night. It was a crude display." The prince stopped to examine some speck on the back of his hand. "No doubt you would have done better," Pinch suggested between swallows, never once looking up.

"Of course. Marac did that just for our benefit." "I know." Throdus looked up from his digitary studies. "One might question his motive." "Not me. He's just become more like his brother." "Vargo? Those two were always close." "Afraid they're plotting against you?" "They're always plotting against me. And I plot against them. Remember, Janol, it's a game we've played since childhood." "I haven't forgotten." The prince went back to looking at his hands. "I do find it interesting that you've chosen to come back now." Ah, so that's where my lord is casting his net. Let's play the game and string him along, Pinch decided. "My other choices were less pleasant." "Ah, the wastrel's life—your exploits are known here." Pinch was surprised and not surprised. His adopted cousins certainly had the resources to learn about his past, but it surprised him that they bothered. He would have thought their own intrigues kept them busy enough. "Father always had a curiosity about your fate." The prince brushed back his black hair and watched his adversary's reaction. "Since he was curious, we had to be curious." "Always afraid that someone else was working the cheat." "Information is power." The words were sharp. "So you know my life. What will you do, give me up to the constables?" "I just want to know why you're here."

Now it was Pinch's turn to be amused. "Just that? Why I've come to pay my respects, my dear guardian dead and all. After that I'll make myself master of the trugging houses in the city. Maybe I'll even do a little brokering, not that you'd have anyone else's goods to sell." "Cheap lies only irritate me. You hated Manferic more than all the rest of us." "I had my cause. Try growing up like the household dog." "He was hard on us all, but we didn't run away." "You? You were all too afraid—afraid of him, afraid you'd lose your chance when he died." Suddenly the shadows fell across the prince's sunny facade. "I, at least, have the right to be king. You, however, have no such claims. You're just an orphaned waif raised above his level by my father for the gods know what purpose, and then you come back here thinking you can be like one of the blood. The only reason for you to come back here is to beg for scraps. Is that it?" The prince ended the question with a sneer. Pinch didn't answer, glowering at Throdus while he continued his breakfast. "I didn't think so," the prince said, dismissing the possibility with a wave of his hand. "The real question is, who are you working for? Marac? That would make sense for his little show. Publicly disavow you, privately deal." Pinch stopped in midladle and blew on his porridge. "I told him it was too obvious." "Now you're too obvious. So it wasn't Marac. Someone brought you here for a job and I want to know." This was getting tedious, and Throdus's temper was getting up. "As you well knew before coming here, it wasn't Marac who took me abroad." Throdus laughed. "You're suggesting Cleedis? He's a trained monkey. He just

wears the hat of regent and dances when somebody else plays the music. You've seen it; he can't even keep Vargo from unseating Bors at the head of the table." Pinch remembered the arrangement, unremarkable at the time, but now of greater importance: Bors drooling at the end of the family row while Vargo sat in the first son's seat at the regent's left hand. It had never been that way at Manferic's table. The old man had kept his gods-cursed firstborn in the place of honor even after his deficiencies were clear to all. "Why should I tell you anything? I'm no intelligencer for the constabulary." Abruptly the prince was no longer humorous, the indulgent mask peeling from his flesh to reveal the corded muscles of a snarl as he sprang to his feet. "Because you're nothing but a rakehelled orphan who lives by our indulgence! Because I want to know who you're working for and you'll tell me." "A pox on that!" Pinch swore, shoving the bowl away. "I'll not be your intelligencer, not when you come here threatening like some piss-prophet." "Then I'll have your heart and roast it for the dogs!" Throdus's hand went to the jeweled dagger at his side. It wasn't hanging there just for show. The blade was brilliantly polished and glittered in the morning light. The rogue grinned as he kicked the chair back and sprang to his feet. He drew his slim-bladed skene, with its leather-wrapped handle and well-oiled blade, and let the point trace imaginary circles in the air before the prince's chest. "And I say you're a pizzle-headed ass for thinking you can best me with your little cutter. What do you know about knife fights? Have you every jumped a man in a dark lane and pulled your blade across his weasand-pipe? Fought with a blade in one hand and a bottle in the other?" Pinch started a slow pace around the table, one that forced Throdus back from the center of the room.

"One time a captain of the guard wanted to dock me. He was a fine gentleman and thought I was too. Thought I'd fight fair. I burned his hair off before I left him hamstrung. Scarred him for life—even the priests couldn't do anything about it. "Do you think being a prince will protect you?" Pinch whispered softly as he picked up a heavy jug with his free hand. Throdus's rage had started to go pale, and suddenly he acted in desperate panic. With a snap of his arm, he flung his dagger. Pinch reacted almost as fast and just managed to swing the jug into the blade's path. The hard clay shattered in his hand, sending shards skittering across the floor like mice, but the knife went tumbling away. The rogue threw the useless jug handle back and Throdus bobbed beneath it. Pinch lunged but not so hard as to be sure of a hit. Throdus escaped harm, though his waistcoat died in the attack. Pinch's dirk pierced the fabric and stuck into the wall. As Throdus yanked frantically to pull the fabric loose, Pinch slammed his free arm against the man's chest. The air blew out of Throdus like a puffball squeezed too hard. While still skewered to the wall like a gutted rabbit, he sagged against the rogue unable to do anything but helplessly twitch as he choked for air. Bronzewood cracked as the dirk wrenched free of the wall and came free of the punctured clothes. Pinch slithered in close, his knee poised below Throdus's gut as an extra insurance of good behavior. The rogue let the knife blade tickle the prince's torso as he deftly sliced away the doublet's strings, tracing just the thinnest line of blood down the man's hairy chest. Gently, almost tenderly, he brought his lips close to the noble ear, till he could smell the perfumes in Throdus's oiled hair and guess the flavor of breakfast the man had eaten that morning. "What should I do with you?" the regulator whispered ever so softly, as if the prince

within his clutches weren't even there. "If I killed you, who would complain? Vargo? Marac? Cleedis? Maybe that's why I'm here..." It was to Throdus's credit that he did not cry out, but that may have been only because he couldn't. His gasping had broken into shivers the man could not restrain, so strong that he couldn't even work his lips to form words. His eyes welled up with water as he stared at the knife, unable to shift his gaze from it. "What should I do?" Pinch whispered again. "Perhaps they'll reward—" A rich reverberation rebounded through the apartment, the musical tolling of a bell. The sound stood out by its otherworldliness, but Pinch ignored it. It was just some errant matins bell of yet another sect, echoing up from the common city below. "STOP." It was the bell, now formed into a single word. It was a phantom of his thoughts, not real noise, the rogue realized now. It's my conscience, he thought almost breaking into laughter. I didn't think I had one. "DO NOT KILL HIM." It wasn't his conscience. It was a voice, more powerfully deep than was humanly possible and somewhere behind him. Pinch flung the quivering Throdus aside and spun to face his challenger— There was no one there. The room was empty and silent save for the prince who crawled, mewling, toward the door. Pinch whirled here and there, jabbing the air in case his threat were invisible, but there was nothing. Throdus had reached the door and was struggling to his feet. It's him; he's doing this. I can't let him go, Pinch thought, his own mind racing on the verge of panic. "Tell your wizards to stop or I'll kill you!" he shouted. "NO, HE IS NOTHING. LET HIM GO."

The voice was behind him, Pinch was sure. In a single move, he spun and threw his dagger at the source. The skene twirled across the room and stuck fast into the wall, quivering. Nothing was there. Behind him, the door creaked and then slammed as the prince bolted for safety. By the time Pinch could turn, Throdus was gone. Frustrated, the rogue whirled back to face the empty room. "Damn you! Who are you?" "LATER . . ." The deep tones faded away, leaving behind only a hollowness of muffled sound. Pinch tore through the rooms, overturning chaises, throwing aside coverlets, flinging the armoire doors wide. There was nothing, nowhere. No hidden visitors, sorcerous imps, or mischievous gremlins. He was alone. At last the rogue collapsed in the center of the frenzy, in the nest of bed sheets and clothes that littered the floor. What had happened? Who had happened? And what would happen next? For once, the thief couldn't say.

Visiting "Stand aside, damn you! He attacked Prince Throdus!" There was the leathery scrape of a tussle outside, over a handful of shouted voices. Not a one did Pinch recognize, but they were full of youth and vigor and he could well guess that they were rakes of Throdus's circle intent on currying favor with their patron. By the time the courtiers bulled their way past the guard outside the door and smashed through the lock, Pinch had shucked his linen nightshirt, pulled on trousers and boots, and was standing ready for them. In each hand casually held behind his back he held a dagger by the blade, ready for the toss. Another was in his boot top. These blades were not his first line of defense, though. Pinch had no illusions that a few puny tossed daggers would stop this group. Princes surrounded themselves with hardier worthies than that. At best he could remind them he had a potent sting. Of course, they had to find him first. Invisibility, or a thief's version of it, was his strongest protection. While they were fumbling outside, the rogue slid into the shadowed folds of his bed canopy, between the wall and the monolithic headboard. There he shifted his shoulder so that the lines of gloom fell across it just so, tilted his head into the darkness, and pressed his legs close to the headboard until they looked like part of the carved bronzewood. There he waited very, very still. There was, after all, still the great risk that he had missed some telltale and they would discover it in a nonce. That's what the knives were for. Fools who relied on only one chance were short-lived fools. All in one packet, three bravos cracked through the lock and crashed into the salon, a swirl of silken capes and flashing blades. The group, with their curled hair and puffy

half-slashed sleeves, made a romantic trio as they whirled and thrust bloody holes into the air. Pinch almost gave himself away, so utter was his contempt for what he saw. They practically stumbled and fell over each other in their eagerness to be the first to make the strike, the first to avenge the tainted honor of their lord. Their capes, colorful in courtly dance, snared each other, one's silk foiling the stroke of another. "Stand clear there!" "Step aside yourself, Faranoch." "He's mine. You fall back." "I yield to no man my lesser." "Lesser?" "Stop flailing that ham slicer. You've cut my sleeve!" "A mortal blow, Treeve." "Hah! I have him!" "Hah indeed, Kurkulatain. You've killed a pillow." "A fierce battle Prince Throdus fought," said the pudgiest as he looked about more closely, tired of blindly lunging. He prodded the spilled contents of the armoire at the entrance to the bedroom. "Indeed," commented another, a painfully handsome fop who was just as relieved that there was no prey to be found. "They must have battled from one room to the other." As proof he swept his sword across the tangle of hurled goods Pinch had created in his search for the possessor of the strange voice. "A skilled swordsman to have kept Throdus at bay so long," the third courtier nervously added. He was a thin stick topped by droopy ringlets. The other two looked at the evidence for this new judgment. "Quite formidable . . ."

"And he forced Throdus to retreat." As they spoke, the trio slowly bunched together, back to back to back. They eyed corners, flowing arras, even snarled lumps of linen with a newfound fear. "Maybe he's dead." "No blood though." "He might have run away." "True . . ." The six-legged knot blindly edged toward the door. "Might have." "He could have bribed the guard," the stick man brilliantly deduced. Pinch stifled a laugh, and the urge to come roaring out of his shadow and send the lot scurrying back around Throdus's legs like yipping little pups. "Of course. He knew someone would be coming!" "Like us." "We should sound the alarm," the fat one dutifully suggested. "And let the guards hunt him!" The handsome one seized upon the idea. "It would be the right thing," agreed the stick-pole man. The clot backed to the door and jammed, none of the trio willing to break rank to let the others through. As they hovered there, unwilling to go forward, unable to go back, a shadow fell on them from behind. "WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?" thundered Cleedis in his best military voice. The trio-as-one sundered itself in terror and blindly darted through the doorway as the old commander shouldered through them, batting his way clear with his cane. As soon as he was inside, the white-haired chamberlain closed the door and planted the cane in front of him, leaning heavily on it as though it were a tent pole. "You can come out now," he said like a man trying to coax a beast from a thicket,

addressing the air that filled the light and dark between them. "I know you've popped yourself into some corner waiting for an unguarded moment to strike. Well, if you mean to do that to me, I'm not going to give you the satisfaction. If you want to fight me, Janol, you'll have to come and get me." "I'd never fight you, Lord Cleedis," Pinch flattered as he stepped into view. The old man squinted his weak eyes to be sure of what he was seeing. "Lies and pissing-poor ones at that. I'd kill you given half a reason, Janol, and I suspect you'd do it for even less." "Killing always has a reason. If I do any less, I'm a beast." The rogue tucked the daggers in his belt and spread his arms to prove that he was unarmed. White arms spanned from his hairy dark chest, a heart eaten by shadow. "Philosophy from a scoundrel. There is no end of wonders in the world." "There are. I came back here." "And dammit, what happened? I hear you brawled with Throdus." Pinch didn't deny a word of it. He scoured the chaos of clothing for a clean doublet. "He's a jackanapes ass. Let's say he was checking the prancer's teeth when it bit him." "And then?" "And then nothing," came the muffled answer as the regulator pulled on an undershirt. Pinch wasn't about to mention the strange voice, not until he'd had a chance to learn more. These walls for one—he wanted to check them much more carefully. "What did he ask?" Seeing that he was being ignored, the chamberlain lumbered to a chair and settled down. The rogue turned his attention to the washstand. "Just as much as it pleased me to inform him."

"And what did you inform?" "Everything, the lay of it all." The regulator ambled back into the salon, drying one ear with a towel. "Which is to say, nothing. The minstrel can't play the tune without an instrument. "I've been thinking that now is the time to inform me, Lord High Chamberlain." Half-dressed, Pinch stood over the seated chamberlain and let one hand stray to the daggers in his belt. It was a tribute to the old man's years of soldiering that he looked his adversary square and firm and never once flinched. The implied threat didn't faze him; either the chamberlain had made peace with death long ago or he was canny enough to know the rogue's bluff. "Not yet. Soon." Sensing the determination of the rock against the rain, the rogue relented. "Anon it is, but if you don't give good words on it soon, I'll have a grievance with you, Lord Cleedis." He stepped back, a signal that the threat was naught. "Just remember, a grievance is good enough reason for killing." The old man scowled with irritation, not exactly the reaction Pinch expected from such a promise. "Morality gets in the way. Better to just kill and be done with it. Don't think—a proper soldier knows that. You would have learned that if you'd stayed." "Just as long as I killed in Manferic's name?" Cleedis shrugged off the question as no matter, "It's a warrior's duty." The cane clawed the floor as the old man got to his feet, stooped back bent under the load of bloody decades of duty. "Killing's just another task." "Then I choose to kill for my own name." The rogue frowned darkly at the figure he saw in the salon's mirror.

The chamberlain possessed a voice he seldom used anymore, a voice ill-suited to the sycophantic parasitism of court and embassy halls. It was a voice he'd learned long ago on the back of a horse, when every choice confronted death, a voice that made wiser men jump into the fire he chose. He used it now, but it was something that had long ago shriveled unused, no better than a rusted watch-spring on an ancient clock "Stow your rubbish. A true killer makes no idle threats." The sense was there in what he gargled but the conviction was gone. "You'll wait your time with patience, and when the time's right you'll learn your job." "I didn't come here to be your lap-boy," Pinch spat venomously. "And it wasn't my idea to fetch you." In his brain, the regulator seized on the statement. It was the first proof he'd been given that another mind stood behind the chamberlain's. His impulsive side, normally given to boozing and women, wanted to blurt out the question. Who had given the word? In moments like this, though, Pinch's cool heartlessness took hold. Calculating the reactions, he said nothing. The information would come to him, slowly and with time. He made no show of noticing the old man's slip. The door hinges creaked. "By this afternoon, I think." And then he was alone. A short while later, a shadow of wine-red velvet and white lace slipped past the bored guard beyond the door. The salt-and-pepper-haired ghost padded through carpeted hallways, just slipping into dark doorways as stewards and ladies hurried by. They were blinded from the stranger's presence by their duties. Guards protected doorways, ignoring the arched

halls behind them. Pinch stayed to the darkest hallways, stuffed with their out-of-fashion trophy heads, past the servant quarters, along long avenues of interconnected halls. From the open windows that looked out over the courtyard where a squad of trainees drilled came the whiff of roasted sulfur and animal dung. Trainees, he thought as he caught glimpses of the recruits bungling their drill. By rights, only the elite served here, but these amateurs bore the crest of Prince Vargo. These men were hasty recruits brought in as fodder to strengthen one princeling's hand. So it's come to this, each prince dredging the city for his own personal guard. In the western wing, the search ended at a trio of guarded doors. That amused Pinch—the hopeless thought that his underlings would be challenged by a stand of overtrained watchmen. In this he was sure Cleedis or whoever was just naive; believing that only he was the threat, they underestimated the others. It did not take long for Pinch to find a way to slip in unnoticed, and if he could get in, they could get out. "He's fobbed you with a bale of barred eater-treys," the regulator chuckled as he sauntered off the balcony and interrupted Therin and Sprite's friendly dice game. The game stopped in midthrow as the two twitched alert, their faces openly showing their native suspicion. "Well, well. Doesn't need us for a damn, does he? Now look who walks in." The halfling, perhaps with a better sense of caution, kept his mouth shut. "You should know how things stand, Therin." "Perhaps I do—Master Pinch. Or is it Lord Janol here?" Pinch sidled away from the open window, just in case someone was watching. "As your prefer. Tell me, should I call you a fool?"

"Watch your prattling!" The dagger that suddenly appeared the man's hand reinforced his warning. The regulator remained unruffled. "You really think I'd given you up, after I'd saved you from hanging in Elturel? It's a game, Gur, like those dice you hold. If they think you're worthless to me, then they'll not kill you to make me mind. Put your skene away and use your head." The halfling gave a gentle restraining tug on the bladesman's sleeve. "Whether he's telling the truth or lying, he's right, Therin. Maybe we don't mean anything to him and maybe we do—but if they think we're a hold over him then we're all dead as a surety." The master rogue nodded agreement to the halfling's words. "The game's to get them to think what you want them to think, not to play fair." He pointed to the dice in Therin's palm. "I'll wager you a groat you can't roll a five or a nine with Sprite's dice." "I would never, not to my friends!" Sprite protested in his tinny voice. The Gur eased back from his coil, slid his knife away and eyed the dice casually. "That might be," he drawled with particular serenity to make his point, "or maybe I've crossed him with a bale of contraries." He reached into his blouse and produced a pair of identical-looking dice. "That's how the game is played." "Unfair! You've been figging me!" squealed the half-ling. He scrambled to gather up the winnings before anyone might stop him. Therin moved almost as quick, and there was a flurry of reaching and grabbing as the coins and notes in the pot vanished from the floor. "Well played, high lawyer!" The release of anxiety welled up inside the regulator and translated itself into spurt of laugher. When they were finished, Pinch settled into the softest chair in the room. Compared to his, this small bedroom was spartan; compared to the previous rooms of the lot, it

was luxurious. The rascals had been given a set of three connected chambers, which gave them more space than they really needed. "How fare you three?" the rogue asked. "Well enough . . ." Therin was too busy counting his loot to be bothered. "Can't say much for the rooms, but they made a fine breakfast." Pinch wasn't sure if the halfling was being sarcastic or true to his nature. Whenever there was loot, Sprite-Heels was always squandering his on homey comforts and food, pretending to live the burghermeister's life. He'd talk about going home, describing a place of rich fields, rolling hills, and barrow homes where he could work an honest life and everyone was 'Uncle' or 'Grandmother' or 'Brother.' Contrary to this, a few times when he was truly drunk, the Hairfoot revealed another choice for his upbringing: an orphan's life in cold, wattled shacks along Elturel's muddy riverbank. Pinch could only wonder which, if either, was real. "Where's Maeve?" The Gur nodded toward the closed door on the left wall. There were three doors, one on each wall, and the smallish balcony behind Pinch. The door to the right was open, hinting at a room like this one. The door on the wall opposite was larger, probably locked, and a guard stood on the other side. That left the third door where Maeve was, in a room identical to this one. But not perfectly identical; from the outside only the center room had a balcony. "She sweet-talked a guard for a couple of bottles of bub last night and she wasn't in a sharing mood. Sleeping it off, she is." Sprite pocketed his crooked dice and brushed his clothes clean. "Damn Lliira's curse. Roust her." The other two exchanged a wicked grin. "As you say!"

In a few moments, a splash followed by a shriek of sputtering outrage echoed from the other room. This was followed by man and halfling tumbling through the door. "By troth, she's in a foul humor!" Therin's words were punctuated by a sizzle of sparks, green and red, that arced over his head followed by a billow of bitter smoke, a pyrotechnic display of her anger. Pinch planted himself on the balcony and waited for Maeve's handiwork to clear. Maeve emerged with eyes of red sorrow, her body sagging in the knot of nightclothes, wet with water dripping from her stringy hair. Spotting Therin, she fumbled into her sleeves looking for some particularly nasty scrap of bat wing or packet of powdered bone. "Good morn, Maeve," Pinch interrupted as he stepped from the balcony. Without missing a beat, the wizardess bowed slightly to the thief. "Greetings to you, Master Pinch. You sent these wags to soak me? "I sent them to wake you. You were drunk." The witch drew herself up. "Hung over. Not drunk." "Drunk—and when I need you sober. Fail me again, and I'll cut you off." With that the rogue turned to other business, turning away from her in disdain for her temper and her spells. "What have you learned?" he asked of the other two. "Damned little. It's only been a day." "We aren't going to have many days here," the regulator snapped back. "Do you think this is a pleasure trip? How about escape—the ogre and the hounds?" As he expected, the pair had done more than they allowed. "The hounds are kenneled in the southeast corner," Sprite began. "I don't know where the ogre sleeps." "Close by his pack would be the best guess," the Gur added. "After that, there's three gates to the city. Counted those when we came in."

"What about getting out of here?" "They keeps us locked in all the time, 'cept for meals and necessaries." The halfling scratched his furred foot. "Well, there's the balcony where you got in. The other two rooms got windows we can climb down." "You maybe, you little imp, not me," Maeve sniped. "You'll do as you must, dear. What about secret passages—Sprite? Therin?" "None we found, Pinch." The older man nodded. "I'm thinking there's one in mine." "What do we do now, Pinch?" The regulator laid a soothing hand on Maeve's damp shoulder. "Watch, wait. Whatever they want, it'll happen soon. I want the lot of you to get the lay of Ankhapur. Get yourselves into the city proper. Talk and listen. Nip something if you want, just don't get caught. Cleedis means you to be hostages, so you'd best be careful." "Well, that means he won't scrag us," Therin said with morbid cheer. Pinch looked to the other man with a cocked eyebrow of disbelief. "Just don't put him to the test. You've more enemies than Cleedis out there." "Your cousins?" The rogue tapped his temple. The man was right on. "Why? Now's time we deserve to know." Looking at their hard faces now that the question had come up, Pinch shrugged. "They're Manferic's spawn. It's in their blood, I think. There's not a measure of kindness granted by them that doesn't pass unwaged. Their hate's like a snake, cold and slithery." "So why do they hate you?" Sprite pressed. "I ran away; they couldn't."

"This king of yours must have been the dark one's own kin." Maeve sniffed a bit, sounding positively touched. She'd always been like that, the softest touch for a story. "What'd he do to you, Pinch?" Pinch glared at the intrusion. His past wasn't any of their business. But now he'd started down the path and, like the genie from the bottle, opening it was a lot easier than pushing all the vapor back in. It was an impossibility to try telling them, though. There was no way to adequately explain Manferic's cold, manipulative heart. On the surface, he'd been raised with kindness and generosity, far more than was warranted to an orphaned boy—even if his father had been a knight and his mother a lady. He had no memory of them. Cleedis said his father had died on campaign, carried off by a swamp troll; his mother had died in childbirth. Manferic himself had taken the foundling in and raised him as one of his own. When he was little Jan, as he was known then, he never wondered, never questioned. In his eyes, the king was kind and good, his "brothers" mean. He quickly learned their meanness stemmed from arrogance and jealousy. He was the intruder at their hearth, a thief of privilege duly belonging to them. It was only later that he learned a harsher lesson: that kindness and love were only masks for cold self-interest. That was the day he learned the true reason that the old king had raised him with such care. "He was . . . evil." It was what he meant, but Pinch couldn't say it with the conviction the word needed. Good, evil were no longer for him the sharp lines of separation they once were. "Enough wasted time. There's more I want you to do. The three princes are likely to make trouble. An ear to the wind should give good warning of any moves." The rogue

turned to his lieutenant. "There's three idiot courtiers in Throdus's camp—Treeve, Kurkulatain, and Faranoch. Make a conveyance to know them, Therin; they may be ripe informers." "Sprite, find us a hole in the city." Pinch tapped his temple. "My memories are past use. After fifteen years, things change." Finally he turned to the hung-over sorceress, who winced at every sound, and in his gentlest voice said, "Now, dear, I want you to dress your finest and make friends here in the court. Use your spells. Find out what these fine people are really thinking. I may need to know where everybody stands." "Me? Out there with them? They's a bit above my rank, Pinch. I won't know how to behave like a proper gentry mort." The rogue touched her reassuringly. "There now, you'll do fine. A little touch of makeup and some new clothes and you'll be sitting right beside them at their tables. You always were a quick doxy." There were no more orders to be said. Each of his journeymen nodded off on their part. The roles were not new to them; each had the eye and skill for the part Pinch gave them. With no questions, Pinch went out onto the balcony again. Just before slipping over the rail, he added one last caveat. "Therin, mind your sword. There'll be no blood in the house. Sprite, mind where you filch, too. They draw and quarter thieves here without waiting for the start of term-time. And Maeve," he added lastly, "keep yourself sober. Drink despoils a lady." And then, like a morning mist, the rogue melted through the rail and away.

Iron-Biter "Well indeed, Iron-Biter, see who comes upon us." The voice rang clearly through the hallways as Pinch made his way back to his apartment. It resounded from the smooth surfaces, as cold as the gleaming marble was even in the generous sun. Pinch's first reaction was that the subject was someone else, and he could still divert his track down another hallway before he was made. There was no need to hide, no one had restricted his movements, but it was the natural urge of a man who has spent his life in hiding. There was no place to escape. The click of boots on stone told him his captors were already there, coming upon him. True enough, there ahead was Prince Vargo and a stocky dwarf. Vargo was every bit the lord of the manor, casually dressed in green hunting breeches, shirt, and riding cloak that was anything but casual. The material was brushed to a dazzling sheen so that if the day's light had managed to angle through the narrow windows and strike him he would have burned with the fire of a roman candle, flooding everything with reflected green. The dwarf was a barrel overturned and given legs. His chest was broader than he was tall and carved to Herculean proportions, and his little arms could barely touch fingers in the center. The traditional dwarven beard and braids formed a golden-hued knot for a head. Here was a dwarf who probably cracked his dinner bones with his fingers just to suck out the marrow. They formed an improbable couple, the lean and the tall, the short and the blocky. Pinch hadn't noticed them because they'd been hidden behind a statue.

"Well, little Jan," Vargo hailed with unexpected good cheer, "it is a surprise to meet you here. Quite surprising, don't you think, Iron-Biter?" The dwarf looked over Pinch, starting at his toes then moving upward, assessing every bone for its likely resistance to his marrow-popping fingers. "An unexpected occurrence," the dwarf said after finishing his scan of Pinch's curled head, more interested in the cranium beneath the scalp. "Iron-Biter, Master Janol. Janol, Iron-Biter. Iron-Biter's my right hand, useful in all manner of things. A master of useful trades. Janol is the late king's ward, Iron-Biter. I'm sure you've heard me speak of him." The dwarf made a sharp, precise bow to Pinch. He moved far more gracefully than his squat little body should have allowed. "It is a pleasure. I seldom meet worthy adversaries." "Indeed," was all Pinch could manage. Two lines into a conversation and already he was being challenged. "Iron-Biter's just a little overanxious," Vargo purred. "We heard about your meeting with Throdus." "Oh." "Throdus is an idiot. He should not have wasted time talking to you." "No?" "If it had been me, I would have gutted you on the spot." That got Pinch's bristle up. "If you could have." Vargo examined the ceiling for a moment. Iron-Biter did nothing but glare at Pinch. Finally the prince said, "You remember our fencing instructor? The one you could never beat? "Yes.. ."

"A month after you left, the fool irritated me. I ran him through at our next lesson. I still remember the look on his face when he realized it was no longer a lesson." "It's been fifteen years, Vargo. Thing change." "I've only gotten better," the prince replied with complete confidence. "Haven't I, Iron-Biter?" The dwarf, who to that point had never taken his eyes from Pinch, spared the briefest glance toward his lord. "Certainly, Prince Vargo." "I think, Jan, that you are not worth bloodying my hands. Iron-Biter, show him why I drag you around." The dwarf barely acknowledged the insult. There was in him the devotion of a killer mastiff, the beast eagerly awaiting its master's command. A grim smile crossed his lips as now he got to perform. Gesturing to the statuary that filled the niches of the hall, he asked the rogue, "Do you like art?" "Only for its resale value." "Ah, a true connoisseur. So, which one has the most worth?" Pinch smiled because he knew where this game was going. He would choose one and then there would be a crude demonstration of Iron-Biter's might, all to supposedly impress and terrify him. The Hellriders of Elturel had often used this clumsy ploy. It did have one good effect, though; it showed which enemy you should eliminate first. "That one, I think." He deliberately chose one of lesser value—a large marble hydra, its seven heads carved into elaborate coils. The work was solid but unimaginative in pose and pedestrian in its craftsmanship. The dwarf tsked. "A poor eye. Perhaps you're not the challenge I thought." Instead he turned to a small piece carved from a block of jade the size of a melon, a delicately winged sprite perched on the blossom of a fat-petalled flower.

The dwarf muttered softly while he gently stroked the statue. Slowly, under his gentle caress, the stone twitched. With a snapping creak the little wings fluttered, the head swivelled, the flower petals drooped. All at once, the clouded green sprite took flight, its wings clicking frantically to keep its slender stone body in the air. It soared upward in the great arched hall. Darting into a gleam from the transom windows, the translucent stone shattered the ray of light into emerald-hued brands that blazed the walls, statues, even the trio that stood watching below. It was beautiful, and the secret of its beauty was both in its grace and in the power that had created it. This Iron-Biter was no mere thug, as Pinch had first presumed. There were few who could bring movement to cold substance; it was a feat given only to priests of power. "Enough," Vargo sighed in utter boredom. The dwarf-priest plucked the stone flower from its stand. Holding it out, he gently chirped, drawing the jade sprite down. It hovered uncertainly before finally allowing itself to be coaxed onto the crystal leaf. With his thick hand, Iron-Biter stroked its back and the sprite responded with a clattering purr. "Iron-Biter, I have other things to do," Vargo snapped with impatience. The dwarf nodded and in midstroke squeezed the stone fairy between his palms. The stone wings crackled, the slender arms shattered. Shards and dust fell through his fingers. The hall filled with the shriek of it all, though Pinch wasn't sure if it was just grinding stone or if the animate little sprite had found its voice in the last moments of death. The pair left without further word, leaving only a pile of jade rubble for the servants to clean. When Pinch returned to his apartment, he was displeased to see two new guards

posted outside his door. Unlike the fellow he'd left behind, these two looked alert and attentive. They were polite and gracious, stepping aside so that he could enter. The corporal of the pair bowed and said, "Lord Cleedis is concerned for your safety, Master Janol. Thus he asks that we stand ready to protect you from dangerous visitors." Pinch poked his tongue into his cheek. "And whom might those be." The corporal was unfazed. "Within these walls, it could be anyone. Our orders are to let no one in without our lord's approval." "And if I want to leave." There was an answer for that too. "Lord Cleedis feels it would be best if you did not risk your safety beyond these chambers. We are instructed to see that you remain safe and unharmed." "In other words, I'm a prisoner." The corporal frowned. "If that would make Master Janol more comfortable—yes." "My comforts are not Lord Cleedis's concern," the rogue snapped as he closed the door. So this was it; the ring was closing in. Cleedis wanted him, but only on the old man's terms. Is he truly afraid for my safety, or is he afraid I'll make alliances with the others? It didn't matter really. Whatever Cleedis's motives, the regulator refused to be bound by them, but to do that he needed a way out. The prospect from his windows was dim. The portholes were no larger than before and, even if he could wriggle through one, climbing was not his strong suit. He'd only managed to reach Therin's balcony because the way had been ridiculously easy. If he wanted an escape, he had to find another way, and he was convinced there must be one. It was a combination of several things that made him certain. First there

was the voice. Whoever had uttered those words had seen what was happening. It could have been done by magic, but he didn't think so. There was a hollow-ness in the echo that suggested someone there and close to the scene. There was also the reality of family history. Pinch knew Ankhapur's past, the intrigues, assassinations, and plots that defined the character of the city. He could not accept the idea that the queen who'd built these rooms would leave herself trapped by only one door. There had to be another way out. Methodically, the rogue started an inspection of every inch of the fine wood paneling on the walls, even so far as to stand on a chair for extra height. He ran his fingers down every tongue and groove of the walls, poked and turned every baroque ornament, pulled wainscoting, and kicked baseboards. Given his thoroughness, it was hardly surprising when a section of the wall, just inside the bedroom door, responded with the faint click of a hidden spring. A small piece of the woodwork slid away to reveal a small handle. This was it then, what he had been looking for. With a swollen wax candle to light the way, Pinch pushed against the door. The wooden wall budged a fraction of an inch and then stuck. Clearly, this old passage was long forgotten and never used anymore. Pinch shoved harder, cursing Mask, god of deceptions, with each straining breath. The panel yielded an inch with each shove, the old wood grinding across a hidden stone threshold. Dead air and the odor of cobwebs breathed through the gap, exhaling the soft dust of centuries. With one more shove, the doorway popped open, swirling a fog of powder from the floor. Inside was a stygian passage, all the more gloomy for the feeble glimmer of the candle. Without the taper, the way would have been merely dark, but in its light the walls quivered away into blackness.

Fastidiously slicing the cobwebs away, Pinch rounded a corner and almost tripped down a flight of steps. "No soul's been here recent," he muttered to himself. The gray blanket on the floor was undisturbed. It was all the more a puzzle. Pinch was sure in his heart that someone had spied from this passage, but there was no trail of anything or anyone. The descending stairs ruled out the possibility of another path that led to a different section of his rooms. Pinch pressed on. A passage like this led somewhere, and he wanted to know just where that was. One end was grounded in his apartments. The other could be— well, anywhere. The staircase was long and kinked around several times until the rogue was completely separated from the surface world. He could no longer say this was north and that south, or that he had progressed any sure number of rods in a given direction. Was he under the courtyard or the west wing, or perhaps neither. Dwarves, he was told, could innately tell you these things at the snap of a finger, and he'd heard a few of the grim little potbellies cite with fondness that they were once this-and-such leagues beneath the surface as if it were the most natural understanding of things. He didn't like it. Plunging into the depths was too much like being sealed in one's crypt. It was a stifling feeling that he choked down even as he pressed forward. He needed the moon and the open night over him. Somewhere underground, probably at the depths where bodies were interred in catacombs, the stairs splashed into a narrow hallway. Left and right, the choices were twofold. As Pinch leaned forward to look, a wind racing through guttered his lone flame and splashed hot wax on his hand. The thief pulled back at this reminder of how tenuous was his connection to the daylit world. Over the hiss of the wind, or commingled with it, the regulator heard a clear note

that rose and fell in jerky beats. Was it another voice snatched up by the wind and carried to his ears, or just the handiwork of nature in the air's headlong rush? It was beyond Pinch to say. The cry, if it could be called such, had the sad quality of a lamentation, the type sung at wakes by drunken kin almost in time and harmony. As he paused to listen, the rogue spotted a new element. All down the length of the passage, from left to east, west to right, were tracks. Not just rat trails or the squirms of snakes, but real footprints. They were human, or at least as much as Pinch could tell, and there were at least two sets, but beyond that he couldn't say. The rogue was no huntsman. The overlapping jumble of tracks before him was beyond his ability to decipher. Shielding his candle, Pinch guessed on a direction and followed the trail. Who did each track belong to? The princes? Cleedis? Or someone else? One set seemed too small and dainty for prince or chamberlain, the other quite possible. Still, Pinch ruled out the princes. He couldn't imagine any of them traipsing through cob-webbed corridors, not when they had flunkies to do the job. Cleedis, he knew, would do his own dirty work. Perhaps the old man had been spying on him. A flickering light immediately ahead ended all speculation. It had emerged without a preceding glimmer, perhaps the shutter raised on a lantern. Pinch immediately hid his light, tucking the candle into a sleeve. The flame scorched his arm. There was nothing to do but bite back the pain and endure in silence. Without a stick of Kossuth's sulfur, there was no way to relight the candle should he need it later. The distant light darted back around its corner, frighted by his own gleams. The rogue lightfooted after, determined not to lose this other interloper. He moved with quick puffing steps, years of stealth aided by a thick carpet of dust.

He peered around the corner, candle still cloaked and dagger ready, barely in time to see the rays disappear around another bend. The rogue's breath thrilled at the challenge of the chase. His prey was as quick as he was stealthy, darting through the labyrinth of passages. Pinch guessed they were in some old catacombs beneath the palace. Left, right, right, left—he struggled to remember the turns. It would do no good if he could not get back. As he rounded one more turn, the floor vanished, replaced by empty space. Unable to recover, he plunged forward, hit a step, lurched, and then the candle slipped from his hand. As the rogue frantically batted at the flame in his sleeve, he lost all hope of balance and tumbled into the darkness. The fall was mercifully short, but not short enough. Pinch managed to crack what seemed like every bone against the jagged stone steps. His hose snagged ripping edges, his hands tore along the rasping walls. And then it ended with a hard crash as the man spilled onto a floor of cold, greasy stone. Slowly and with a great deal of pain he could easily have lived without, Pinch tottered back to his feet, supporting himself on a wall he could not see. It was black, without even the little twinkling lights they say a man gets from a sound whack to the head. His head throbbed enough, but no whirling colors appeared. What if I've knocked myself blind? The thought triggered panic. A gleam of light dispelled that fear. Whomever he pursued was still up ahead. They had certainly heard his fall, there was no more point in secrecy. "Whose light? You've lured me this far. Show yourself and let's have done with it." Pinch tried bravado since surprise was out. There was no response. The light wavered and then began to fade. "Damn you," the rogue muttered to no one but himself. "You're not slipping me." His

only choices were to follow or grope his way back, and he couldn't remember the turns to his room. The fall had knocked the order loose and they drifted around, right-left, left-right, he didn't know for sure. There really was no choice but to hobble forward. The lantern bearer continued their game and moved away just as Pinch reached the corner. The rogue broke into an off-stepped run. Around the next corner, it happened again. Even in the instant his foot stepped into the void, Pinch cursed himself for blindly running into the trap. He lurched forward and this time he could sense there was no jagged stairs, only emptiness and death below. The light knew it too and hurtled back into sight. It wasn't a lantern bearer but a glowing diffusion of the air that throbbed eagerly in time with the man's waves of pain and despair. Pinch hung on the rim of the precipice forever, one second of time subdivided by his senses into eternity. The feeding light, the bottomless hole, the crumbling stone of the walls, the ever-steady plunge forward—so this is how I die. The thought came coolly to him. In that infinite moment, Fate intervened—or something at least. It could have been blind chance, cosmic design, or the whim of some god Pinch had inadvertently forgotten to blaspheme. Two things occurred almost simultaneously, and were the rogue to examine them later, he would not be able to say what they both were. Out of his torn doublet swung the amulet he'd stolen from the Morninglord's temple. As it hung free, the artifact flared with the brilliant hues of dawn washing out all sight with a roseate haze. The luring light dwindled against it as if in pain. Ironic that I should die in a blaze of glory. As the thought formed, something seized him. A strong hand or maybe a claw clenched around his arm and heaved him back.

And then the moment ended. The flare subsided, his plunge stopped, and he stood blinking in the darkness on the edge of nonexistence. A hand took his and pulled him away, and the rogue stumbled after, too stupefied to resist. When his wits recovered, all was completely black. A hand, slender and feminine, led him through the darkness, around several corners, and up a flight of stairs. His guide moved with confidence through the ebon world. "Who are you?" Pinch demanded as he stumbled in tow. There was no answer. Pinch tried to pull up, but the hand tugged him insistently forward. "Trust." The words were the whisper of dried husks, papery brittle and filled with the music of tears. It was a voice Pinch had never heard, but still it seemed to wrap him in comfort. "Trust me, little one." The hand pulled forward again. Perhaps because his senses were dulled by all that had passed, the rogue let himself be led on. Right, left, left, and more they went until at last they stopped. The invisible guide placed Pinch's hand to the wall and whispered, "Up." His foot blindly touched the bottom of a step. "Up to safety. Go." The guide gently pushed him forward and yet wanted to hold him back. "Who are you?" The question finally formulated itself for him. "A ... friend. Go." The voice struggled against a choking sob and then the hands left him.

He was alone in the darkness once more. Faintly through the air drifted the sound of weeping. Pinch climbed, carefully groping out each step lest there were any more traps. No lights came to torment him, lead him astray, and the way climbed and twisted until he was sure he was back on the stairs to his room. Along the way, the regulator fingered the amulet and wondered. What have I gotten into? Murderous dwarves, strange passages, mysterious saviors—it was all much more than he had bargained for. Did Cleedis know the mysteries that filled this palace? Would he even tell me if he did? The stairs came to a platform and wall and Pinch felt out a handle. Pulling firmly, he dragged the stiff panel ajar, flooding his eyes with the blinding candlelight of his room.

Beyond the Grave "Open the door, Janol. It's time." From the other room came the relentless thump of a staff pounded against the door. "This is your last chance before I have them break it down." The muffled voice belonged to Cleedis, and he did not sound pleased. Pinch hurried to the apartment door, but instead of opening it, he pulled a heavy chair over and wedged it under the door handle. If they went so far as to break the door, it would take them time and, looking in a mirror, he needed time. First he pulled the wall shut. There was a chance that no one had magically scried his discovery of the passage, so there was no point in advertising it. "Open it." Pinch worked quickly. Off came the torn and dusty clothes, replaced by a sleeping robe. Shoving the clothes out of sight, he brushed the cobwebs out of his curly gray hair and splashed cold water over his face. His raw hand stung, and clearing away the dirt only made the bruises and scratches on his face more vivid. The door lock rasped and the guard's key ratcheted in the lock. When they went to open the door, though, the chair slid for a few inches before wedging itself firmly into place. "Dammit, Janol, do I have to break this door down?" The door rattled on its hinges, and the chair creaked as someone bounced off the other side. Pinch could see an apoplectic Cleedis ordering his men to throw themselves at the barrier until it was shattered. Pinch let them hit it a few more times so he could get a sense of their timing. The last thing he wanted to do was open up to face a flying wedge of guardsmen.

"Let your hounds off, Cleedis. I'm coming." Saying that, the regulator waited just to be sure. When no more thuds resounded through his suite, he unwedged the chair and sat in it. "It's open, Lord Chamberlain." A furious squall entered the room, beet red and thundering. The old soldier showed more fury and emotion than Pinch had seen in him since their first meeting. "And what was the purpose of that little game?" "Privacy. I was sleeping." The hard sergeant in Cleedis growled disapproval. "It's midday." Pinch shrugged. "What happened to you?" the nobleman demanded, noticing Pinch's battered face. The rogue refrained from a smile, though the chamberlain had given him the opening for the tale he'd planned. "I had more visitors—Prince Vargo's thugs. That's another reason for the chair." "Vargo's? Will it stand to the proof?" "Does the prince make gifts of his livery?" "My men were outside." Cleedis's voice was full of wishful loyalty. "Indeed." Though it hurt, Pinch raised an eyebrow in skepticism. To that the old man could only stomp about the room, rapping the floor with frustration. Now Pinch allowed himself a smile, unable to restrain the malicious joy of his own handiwork any longer. There was no way to confirm his story, nor would any denial be trusted. Cleedis had no choice but to doubt his own men. There was even a chance the old soldier might set his men on Vargo's. In any case, it was a weakness in the strength of his hosts and captors. Any weakness of theirs might give him an edge. "Get dressed," Cleedis ordered in his gruff sergeant's voice. "We're to meet your

employer." "Finally." As he rose to get dressed, Pinch kept his words sparse and light, although inside he was seething with curiosity and eagerness. At last there was a real chance of getting some answers. He came back quickly, dressed and clean, and limping only slightly from his fall. Cleedis hadn't expected such haste, but Pinch brushed that away as the desire to get on with his duties, though in truth he'd been partially dressed beneath his robe. As they left the room, Cleedis dismissed the guards on the pretense they should rest their aching shoulders. Only the chamberlain's personal bodyguard was to accompany them on this trip. Hooded and cloaked more for secrecy than warmth, the small party rode from the postern gate of the palace toward the far side of Ankhapur. At first Pinch couldn't figure where they were headed, but after they'd crossed several avenues and not turned off, he knew. They were making for the grave field. The common practice to get from place to place in bowl-shaped Ankhapur was to climb or descend to the avenue desired and then make a circuit around the center. The chamberlain had done neither. In leaving he wove through the interconnecting streets, first taking this boulevard then that avenue. The route was in part to reveal any unwanted followers, but after crossing the Street of Shames the only place left to go was the grave field. No city likes its burial grounds, festering sores of evil. Too many things buried came back for such places to be safe. In a few cases, the dead came back of their own volition seeking revenge or just flesh. More often than not, the dead were disturbed by others—wizards and priests who saw the graves and crypts as raw material for their dark arts. The dead don't like to be disturbed and generally make ill company for the

living. Thus, different cities adopt different strategies for dealing with the problem. Some bury their dead outside the city, others behind strong walls. In a few, cremation is the rule. Ankhapur used to dump its dead far out to sea, until the Year of the Watery Dead. In that year, Ankhapur's ancestors returned: a host of sea zombies and things less wholesome that clambered over the docks seeking revenge on the city that had cast them away. The assault lasted more than a year, new waves of terror striking every night, before the undead host was finally overcome. Aside from the death and destruction, the greatest consequence was that the citizens would no longer consign their kin to the waters. Burial and veneration of the dead suddenly became the way of things. Unfortunately the city had grown without a burial ground and had no proper place for one. The farmlands around were all fiefs of the nobility, and no one could be persuaded to surrender lands for the dead. The only solution was to raze a section of the ghetto that lay just within the walls and crowd the crypts into there. To ensure the safety of the citizens, all the temples of Ankhapur, or at least those that could be trusted, were levied with the task of providing priests to guard the perimeter. This was where they were headed—the Street of Crypts. As a youth, even though he'd been reckless and wild, Pinch had prudently avoided this district. All that he knew about it he knew by rumor, and the rumors were not pleasant. The perimeter of the district was marked by a low wall, hardly enough to keep anyone out or anything in. At regular intervals along its length were small stone watchtowers. In each was a priest, probably bored or asleep, whose duty was to be ready with his spells and his faith lest the dead wander from their tombs. The group waited at a small arch while the priests there set aside their books and

prayers and undid the iron gate. The rusted hinges squealed for oil as they pushed the grill open. Pinch barely gave them a notice until he saw a tousle-haired woman among them: Lissa of the Morninglord. He considered greeting her, asking her how the search had gone, perhaps even giving her clues that he suspected someone, but there was no privacy and no time. Instead, he merely let his hood slip back so she could see his face, gave her a wink, and set his finger to his lips. She practically jumped with a start and gave it all away, but that wouldn't have mattered much. Pinch just wanted her to feel a conspirator, to draw her farther into his web. He and Cleedis left their horses and their bodyguard just inside the gate, and the commander gave word for the men to see to the animals and get themselves a drink. "What are you fearing?" the aged hero chided. "It's day. We'll be safe enough." The old ghetto district hadn't been very large, and death was a popular pastime in Ankhapur—someone else's death preferred to one's own. The dead were crammed into the space so tight that the lanes between the crypts were barely big enough for a team of pall- bearers to wind their way through. There was no grid or path through the grave markers. The route had all the organization of spaces between a tumble of child's blocks. The way went straight, branched, and shunted constantly. In an effort to squeeze more space for the honored dead, crypts stood upon crypts. A staircase would suddenly wind up to another lane that ran along the roof of a mausoleum, passing the sealed niches of yet more bodies. The ornamentation on each building was just as haphazard, dictated by the fashion of the decade and what the family could afford. In one dark corner a fountain perpetually splashed up bubbles of a tune loved by someone in the last century, now more a tribute to some wizard's art. From the cracks around a crypt door blazed rays of endless sunlight from within, as good an assurance against vampires and wights as

any Pinch had seen. A foul-faced carven gargoyle fixed over another door howled aloud the sins of all who were buried within. Pinch stopped to listen a bit, rather impressed by the litany of villainies, until Cleedis testily urged him on. They had plunged a considerable way in when the narrow path yawned into an improbable courtyard, not large but jarringly empty nonetheless. Nothing should be open here, so this space was the ultimate in conspicuous arrogance. On one side was the royal tomb, of course. No other family could command such real estate in this cramped necropolis. The mausoleum itself was a fixture of restrained style, trumpeting its tastefulness in contradiction to its garish neighbors. The other crypts around the square, noble families all, sported hideous monsters, garish polychrome colors, and overwrought iron ivy. They were a mishmash of styles over the centuries. If Pinch were of the mind to, he could have read the tastes of Ankhapur as they passed over the years. Cleedis sat himself on a bench some kin had thoughtfully provided just in case their dearly departed wanted to rise and catch a little sun. The old man, stooped and wrinkled, looked a part of the landscape. He fiddled with his sword, as was his wont when he was compelled to do nothing but wait. Waiting ill suited him; he was once a man of action and the habit of patience had long ago been marched out of him. "Lo, here. You've escorted me this far to sit?" "Bide your time, thief." Pinch sighed and leaned himself against a wall. Knowing they were to wait, he could do a masterful job of it. Half his career was waiting with one eye to the mark and the other ever watchful for the constables. He fished two bales of dice from his pocket and practiced his foists, throwing first one set and then changing it by a quick sleight. Some time went by in this manner, until the old man nodded into a doze on the

sun-warmed bench. Just as Pinch was considering nipping the chamberlain's purse and rings, the door to the royal crypt creaked open. "Janol, it has been a long time." The blood ran in icy droplets down the length of Pinch's spine. "No kind greeting?" It was the voice that froze him, a bass growl where each word was sharply enunciated. He hadn't heard that voice in fifteen years. It was different, a little thinner and breathy, but there was no mistaking. He didn't expect to ever hear it again, either. "Manferic?" A dry chuckle echoed from inside the tomb. " 'Your Highness, King Manferic,' my ungrateful ward." "You're .. . dead. Or you're supposed to be." There was a long pause. "What if I am? Death is only another challenge." Pinch swallowed hard. For maybe the second time in his life, at least since he was old enough to appreciate his feelings, Pinch was scared. Deep, hard squeezing-in-the-gut scared. It was like a cold snake coiling around his throat, squeezing on his lungs till his breath came hard. "Come here." The dark shape moved closer to the open doorway, always taking care to skirt the shafts of light. Pinch shook his head fiercely against that suggestion. He was not about to step into the dark with that thing. The living Manferic had been enough to drive him away; an undead one, if Manferic was truly dead, could only be worse. "State your business with me," the rogue croaked out, doing his best to sound bold. "I've watched your progress, son." Manferic had always called his ward "son." Pinch

was never sure if it was mockery or done just to irritate Manferic's true sons. It certainly wasn't love. The king hadn't an ounce in him then, and there was certainly none left now. "You did me proud." "I wasn't trying to. What do you want?" The rogue kept fear at bay through his bluster. The shadow sighed within. "And I hoped this would be a warm and touching reunion. I need a thief." "Why me? There's ten score of them in Ankhapur, and more than a few are a match for me." Pinch bumped into something solid behind him. He jumped, but it was only a pillar. "I need someone discreet and with no connections here in Ankhapur. You." Pinch assumed this was a lie. In life, Manferic had never been this direct. "You are to steal the Cup and the Knife." The Cup and Knife! Ankhapur's symbols of royal prerogative and the two holiest artifacts in the city. It was only through them that one of the four princes would be able to claim Manferic's throne. Now Pinch was beginning to understand why Cleedis had been stalling the ceremony. Cleedis and Manferic, or more likely Manferic and Cleedis, were plotting something. "It won't stop them from choosing a new king. They'll get their king with or without the test." The voice chuckled again, and Pinch imagined hearing the echoes of heartless mirth. "They will never know. You're going to switch them with another set. Another Cup and Knife. I have them here. Cleedis arranged for them to be made. Come and get them."

Pinch was immovable. "Bring them out." The dark crypt echoed with a rasping hiss. "That would be difficult. At a future time." "Set them in the light, then." A charcoal gray bundle slid just barely into the light that poured through the ajar door. No hand or foot came into view. "And after I've made the exchange?" The voice from the crypt answered. "Give everything to Cleedis. He will know what to do." "I work for myself. What's my booty?" "Your life, your freedom." Pinch snorted. "Small threats. What about coins?" The voice chuckled again. "Cleedis will see that you are rewarded. "The work must be done quickly. Old doddering Cleedis there can't stall my eager sons much longer. The Cup and the Knife must be traded before the ceremony— and no one must suspect. Understand this clearly." "Your points are clear," Pinch snidely answered. He stepped over to Cleedis and sharply kicked the old man The chamberlain woke quick and alert, a legacy of years of military service. The rogue nodded to the package and lied, "You're to carry it. I'm not trusted." The chamberlain glared with resentment at being ordered so, but nonetheless waddled over and fetched the bundle from the doorway. It was heavier than it appeared, and he hefted it with a grunt. The crypt door creaked shut. "Betray me and die. Fail me and suffer," promised the sepulchral voice from inside. Pinch seized the bag from Cleedis's grasp and furiously undid the strings. Carefully

reaching in he pulled forth the larger of two items he felt. It was a large goblet sharply chiseled from a piece of perfect black quartz. The rim was lipped with a band of gold studded with faceted rubies. At the very bottom of the smoothly polished bowl was the largest white pearl Pinch had ever seen. It was real, too, not fake. His eye was practiced enough to tell the real goods from cheap glimmers. Blood quickening, Pinch produced the other item from the bag, a silver knife cast as a single piece. It had no rivets, no wrappings, no stones, no gold. The handle was molded into a fluid form whorled and knuckled to the grip of a hand. Perhaps the caster had cooled the molten ore in his hand, molding it the way a child squeezes clay. The blade was ground to a razored line that promised to slice skin, sinew, even bone with the smoothest of grace. The craftsmanship lavished on the copy was perhaps the equal of the original. Hands trembled as he held the small fortune in hand, and the sheer thought of the magnificence before him overwhelmed the utter fear that had shaken him moments before. Dead king or no, thing in the crypt or what, even these terrors could not drive away the avarice the rogue felt on examining these earthly glories. The chamberlain testily seized the treasures and stuffed them back into their bag. "I'll keep them. Out of sight. And remember my lord's words," he added with more than a little distrust of his accomplice's passions. That reminder brought Pinch back to the reality of his situation, and as Cleedis hurried from the courtyard, the rogue's initial fear turned to calculation. He took stock of everything that had happened. He'd heard a voice, saw a door move, but never saw the departed king. There was always the possibility that what he'd imagined was true, but there were other alternatives. First—and this thought came to him as they passed a golden-flowered tree

perpetually in bloom, the remembrance of a lord for his deceased mistress—old Manferic might be secretly alive. Pinch could only rule that as very unlikely. There was the elaborate business of staging his own death and sitting in immobile state at his own funeral. A statue would never have fooled the discreet inspections of every enemy who suspected such a trick. Then there was the question of giving up power. It was a sure guess that Manferic would never trust anyone else to front him when the odds were so great. Cleedis might be loyal, but once he was named regent no one could ever say just how loyal. No, Pinch was certain the king was dead. Dead didn't mean gone, though, as the protections around this necropolis assured. The old tyrant had been a sorcerer of considerable skill, and his arcane arts had done much to insure his steadfast grip on Ankhapur. If that really had been Manferic hidden from view, then perhaps the late king had found the path to never-ending unlife, the soulless void between the flush of blood and the feast of worms. The thought frightened Pinch. In life, Manferic had been a master of cruelties; the wrenching transition of nonlife would certainly heighten the most degenerate passions in his festering mind. Another fear entered his thoughts as the rogue surveyed the passing crypts with their heavy doors, great locks, and carved wards. By the perverse pleasure of the gods, in death those once living gained more power. If Manferic was a thing of the darkness, his might could be beyond contending. Sorcery and death were a potent combination, a forge to fashion truly devastating power. There was a third possibility, far more likely than that, however. Pinch hadn't seen Manferic. He'd heard a voice, a disembodied one. It didn't take too much art to conjure up a charlatan who could do a fine impression, especially given Pinch's absence of fifteen years. The whole thing could just be a dumb show, staged by Cleedis.

To what end? What purpose had the old man in concocting such an elaborate plot. Why travel to Elturel just to collect a rebellious ward and then go to such lengths to convince him his late guardian still lived? Where was the gain for Lord Cleedis, Chamberlain of the Royal Household and Regent of the ... A possibility struck him and Pinch stopped, letting the nobleman laboriously march onward through the narrow lanes. Cleedis was regent only so long as no prince was crowned. No prince could be crowned without the Cup and Knife— No, that made no sense. If that were the case, why the elaborate substitution? Hurrying to catch up before his host became suspicious of his lagging, Pinch set his mind to work out the snares. It was a puzzle as twisted and double-dealing as his own nature. If no prince were crowned, Cleedis could rule forever—but that would never happen, because the three princes would surely unite against him and force the selection of one of them. That's why he couldn't steal the symbols outright. That's when Pinch remembered there was a fourth prince, Bors, the one everyone discounted. Bors was an idiot—he couldn't rule. If he were the chosen king of Ankhapur there would have to be ... a regent. Royal law did not allow a queen to rule while her husband lived, so no lady was likely to marry Bors on the hope that the idiot-king would die, no matter how conveniently. The gods had a way of foiling plans like those. That left Cleedis. Somehow Pinch was sure he was planning to get Bors crowned and then continue his regency. Looking at the old man doddering ahead of him, Pinch realized that the chamberlain's thinning white hair concealed more cunning and deviousness than anyone suspected. All those years of loyal dullness were a deep mask for the man's true ambition. As for his part in it, Pinch guessed he was the foil. If the theft was discovered, he,

master rogue and unrepentant ward, would get the blame. The upright man had always understood that; it was his lot in life, both here and in Elturel. It was also his lot in life to see that such a fate didn't happen, either by not failing or by crossing those who hoped to snare him. Why switch the regalia and why the charade with Manferic, Pinch didn't know. Before their purposes were revealed, he needed to find out. They were somewhere near the fountain that sang when the chamberlain called a rest. Bracing on his cane against the palsied shiver in his legs, the ancient settled onto a cool stone bench. Behind the drooping lids, bright eyes studied the younger man. "That was Manferic?" Pinch curtly challenged. The senior nodded. "He's just chosen to lurk out here?" "It has been planned for many years," was the dry response. "And you're still his lackey?" The lined faced tightened. "I am a loyal soldier. I will not serve those worthless sons of his, schemers who fear an honest battle." "And you're not?" "I have never been afraid to challenge my enemies. I was a great duelist! I've just gotten . . . old." "The voice said I'd be paid." "I heard my lord. I wasn't as asleep as you thought." "What sum?" "Ten thousand bicentas and passage to where you desire." Ten thousand bicentas was no small sum; a bicenta was the equal of an Elturel groat. He'd risked his life for far less.

"One hundred thousand." Cleedis sputtered in contempt. Twenty." "I can make that by farcing your suite." "I can give you over to the Dawn Priests." It was the rogue's turn to scowl. "Seventy." "Thirty" "Sixty." "Forty." "Fifty even, then." Cleedis's smile was that of a diplomat who hears the other side propose his terms for him. "Fifty it will be— but only when the job's done." "Transportable, but not script," Pinch added. He didn't want to be hampered by a wagonload of coins, and he didn't trust any note of credit the chamberlain might draw up. It wasn't one hundred thousand, but it was a fair take for a single job. Of course, he doubted Cleedis had any intention of paying it. Pinch would just have to convince him otherwise. The chamberlain cast a glance to the westering sun. Already shadows filled the alleys between the crypts. "Time to march on," the chamberlain ordered as if the rogue were a squadron of knights. He assumed the order was being followed and hurried ahead with renewed vigor. The musical fountain was closer to the necropolis gate than Pinch remembered, since it took them only a few more twists and turns before they saw the cones of the clerical watchtowers over the rooftops. Shortly after, the small gatehouse came into view. The priests huddled at the iron grill, any arrival providing something to break their

boredom. The chamberlain's bodyguard and their horses were not in sight, presumably warmly waiting at a neighborhood tavern. A few beggars were clustered outside the gate, probably drawing their trade from the masons and hired mourners who worked inside the dead city's walls. Pinch cast a look behind, entertaining the thought that he might spot Cleedis's accomplice, the voice of Manferic, scurrying along behind. As far as he knew, this was the only exit. "Ho there! Stand aside Lord Cleedis! Our argument is not with you." Pinch spun around and came face-to-face with three swordsmen stepping from the shadows. He recognized them from this morning: Throdus's three clowns. Now each stood poised with a naked rapier, and they didn't look so clownlike. "Knights of Ankhapur," Cleedis blustered, "stand aside yourselves. I order you as regent of all the realm!" The aged warrior-lord tremblingly swept his cane as if it would clear his path. The flaxen-haired leader of the three, the one Pinch remembered as Treeve, batted the cane aside with a quick swipe of his sword. "Prince Throdus is our lord, not you. We will not fight you, old man, but do not prevent us from ridding the city of this cancer." "I'll hang you for this!" "We're protected by Prince Throdus. You'll do no such thing." The regent sputtered. "Mutiny! If you were in my command, I'd have you all flayed!" "Kurkulatain, keep him out of the way." The slightest of the three grinned and flicked his sword tip under the chamberlain's chin, only to have the old man bat it away. The swordsman's smile went cross as he tried to find a way to subdue the irascible lord.

Keep them preoccupied, Cleedis, Pinch silently urged. He already had one hand on his sword and just needed a moment of diversion to act. So far, Cleedis held them in indecision, but they were still too watchful for the rogue to strike. "GUARDS!" Cleedis bellowed! The three bravos sprang toward the lord in surprise, desperate to shut him up. It was just the distraction Pinch needed. Ignoring the one whose blade was on Cleedis, Pinch struck at the other two. With a single sweep he produced a dagger in his off hand and struck, driving the blade like a nail into the sword hand of the third attacker, Faranoch. The man shrieked as the blade plunged through tendons, scraped off bone, and thrust out through his palm. The rapier clattered from his grasp. Pinch gave the skene a vicious twist and let go, leaving the bravo to gape at the bloody memento the rogue left behind. The leader, realizing he'd cornered the sheep while the wolf still prowled, flailed around in a desperate attempt to correct his error. Pinch was unarmed; there'd been no chance to draw his sword. He stepped aside from the courtier's frantic lunge, but instead of using the man's recovery to draw his own sword, Pinch seized the other's wrist and stepped forward, bringing his foot up in a sweeping kick between the man's legs. Pinch connected just below the waist, and the ringleader shrieked falsetto as all the air inside him blew out in one massive gust. Treeve writhed on the ground while Pinch's first target stumbled back onto a bench where he sat clutching his transfixed hand. "Hold where you are!" shrilled the last ambusher as he held Cleedis by the throat, sword point pressed into the sagging folds beneath the man's chin. "Make a move and I'll kill him!"

Pinch stepped away from his whimpering victim, shrugged, and finally drew his sword. "So what? Kill him." The little man swallowed in terror. "You expect me to fight fair. You expect me to care." The regulator walked forward, leveling his sword at the man. "I don't care if you kill him. I just want to kill you." "Janol..." Cleedis gurgled. "Shut up, old fool. Do you think I'll risk my life for you? You haven't earned it." From the distance came the rattling clank of the gate being opened. Voices carried over the silent rooftops. The man wanted to see who else was coming but was too terrified to take his eyes from his nemesis. Unintimidated, Pinch continued to close. At last the man's nerve broke, and he flung his hostage forward while bolting into the mazed warrens of the necropolis. Pinch dodged to the side as the chamberlain gasped and stumbled to freedom. For a moment he thought about chasing the man but easily decided against it. Instead, he turned his attention to the fellow on the ground. Remarkably, perhaps driven by fear, the man had regained his sword with every intention of using it, once he caught his breath. Pinch didn't wait for that. With a quick thrust he brought an end to this comedy. The body fell hard on the muddy lane. The last survivor threw up his blood-covered hands to surrender, and the hue and cry of the arriving bodyguard forestalled the need for any action on Pinch's part. "Seize him!" Cleedis commanded as his bodyguards sprinted to the scene. The armored men fell upon the courtier and savagely pinioned him on the ground. The man's expression was a wrenched mass of pain and terror.

"My lord chamberlain, what shall we do with him?" queried the captain of the bodyguard. A coarse-shaven man adept at killing and following orders, he looked over the rogue's handiwork with no small amount of approval. "Keep the priests away," the chamberlain ordered. The captain nodded and ran off. Cleedis walked over and placed the tip of his cane on the man's bloodied hand. "What's your name, fool?" Perhaps he was too dazed to understand; perhaps he was too stubborn, but the man didn't answer. Cleedis leaned forward. The prisoner screamed. When the screaming stopped, Cleedis tried again. "Sir Kurkulatain," was the burbled answer. Sweat and tears shined the man's face. "Vassal of Prince Throdus." "Did the prince send you?" "No, my lord!" "Too easy." Cleedis leaned on his cane again. "Who sent you? Tell me and things will be easier." The man could barely whisper. "Treeve. Word was Throdus offered us titles." "This is the result of ambition," Cleedis admonished Pinch who'd been patiently sitting on the bloodstained bench until the questioning was done. "It's the result of ill planning." "Whatever," Cleedis shrugged. He turned to the captain of the guard, who'd returned from his mission. "This man"—Cleedis pointed at the prisoner—"is a traitor who has attacked the rightful regent of Ankhapur. Execute him." "Shall there be a trial, my lord chamberlain?" The chamberlain looked to Pinch with a cold vulture's eye. "I see no need for a trial.

Do you?" The rogue shook his head and got to his feet. "No, none at all." "Rejoin us, en route to the palace," the chamberlain ordered, and the two took their leave. "I doubt there'll be any more attacks today." "Lord Cleedis, have mercy!" shrieked the prisoner. His screams rang through the silent company he was about to join, until his echoes were one with the choir of silent ghosts pleading for their own justice.

Thief Hunting The pair passed through the gate, leaving the captain and his men to clean up the untidy details. The priests, drawn by the screams, thronged on the other side but their entrance was blocked by a pair of soldiers who stood casually in the way. No one was going to antagonize a man who wore the golden serpent of the royal household. Unless, of course, they weren't from Ankhapur. There was a tussle in the midst of the holy men as Lissa struggled to break through the line. She was held back by another, Pinch could see, a pumpkin-bellied servant of Gond. She fought with the conviction of moral purity, but the pragmatism of girth was on his side. She was stuck fast. It was interesting to watch the reaction of the rest of the small band, so seldom did such a diverse collection of faiths cluster together. The loyal servant of Gond, the pragmatic Wonderbringer, was saying "Such is the result of treachery," as he held Lissa off. Torm's man, the defender of justice, all but drowned him out by shouting—no, demanding—to know the proof of the assassin's crimes. The Oghmaites and the Deneirians quietly observed; watching and noting was what their lords demanded of them. The priests of the god of song seized upon the moment to begin a golden-toned dirge. In the back, the armored priest of Tempus watched with dour approval, satisfied that victory and defeat had been properly rewarded. Pinch could imagine the clergy of the darker gods— the fallen Cyric, the grinding Talos, and the cold Loviatar—smiling to themselves in the corners where shadows became walls. Unwelcome among the necropolis guardians, nonetheless they were still there. The hidden temples of Ankhapur were always close at hand. Cleedis gave the priests the backhand of his attention. The bodyguard formed an

aisle, their swords a blued-steel fence. Given the determined disregard the chamberlain showed, the priests let their curiosity and outrage quickly fade. They made a great show of falling back into their daily habits. How fitting of man's noblest sentiments, the thief sarcastically noted. Only Lissa remained undaunted. "Lord Cleedis, I take your leave," the regulator said. "I've some contriving to do, now that the job's clear." Deep beneath the regal finery, the paunchy wrinkles, and the white-frosted pate, Cleedis still had the soul of a barracks-room trooper. He saw how Lissa had caught Pinch's eye and got it completely wrong. He leaned over to whisper, "She's not the kind to have you, or any man, you poxy rascal. I'll hazard my finest firewine you can't charm her." Pinch met the suggestion with a jump of one eyebrow. It could have been an acceptance of the challenge or it might have been a gambler's tic, the sort that betrays a man's astonishment before he's even sensed it fully. "I'll be happy to drink good wine," the rogue drawled encouragingly. He didn't correct the lord; indeed, he wanted the old man to go on dreaming of Pinch's peccadilloes. It would keep his mind from the thief's real motives. "And what will you pledge?" Pinch shrugged. "What little I wear is barely more than I came with, but perhaps a purse or two of your choosing." "Fair on. My wine against your fingers." Pinch raised his hand and waved the aforementioned fingers in farewell. "I'll make my own way back." When the troop rounded the corner, he sought out Lissa. The man found her gathering her holy scrip. Pinch gave a weather eye to the sky. The long shadows had

pushed out from the narrow lanes and were thickening in the broad lane to the gate. "Going somewhere?" Pinch nodded toward the gate. "What you did in there, executing—" "I didn't execute anyone." "You walked away while they killed one," she protested. "What was I supposed to do? Interfere with the direct orders of the royal chamberlain?" Lissa pressed her fingers to her eyes, confused. "You could have argued against it—" "Asked for leniency? Those men came to kill me." Lissa's eyes locked with his. There was the jagged hardness of rock in her glare, something Pinch hadn't expected from a priestess of the Morninglord. "You're a bastard, you know that?" "Dyed through and through," Pinch answered gleefully. The priestess opened her mouth to say something, but Pinch did not stop and rocketed through a litany of infamy. "I'm also a fiend, rakehell, wastrel, and ne'er-do-well as well as a shirker, cock-lorel, swigman, swadler, and wild rogue, but not a palliard or a counterfeit crank." He stopped to gasp in a huge breath. "My clothes are too good for that," He explained as an aside before launching in again with a hurried, earnest whisper favored by theatrical conspirators. "If I were you, I'd count my rings and silver and lock up my treasures when that Janol's around. I'd change the locks to the wine cellar and cast new wards on the royal treasury. I'd even make sure all the ladies-in-waiting were ugly and well out of sight." The rogue tapped his nose with a wink and a grin, like a child's favorite old uncle. " 'Struth. I haven't seen one since I got here."

Lissa had stopped her packing, quite taken aback by Pinch's sardonic good spirits. "You're teasing me. No one's that bad." "That bad? What about Core the Cuckolder or Fine-Cloth Durram? Now, they were that bad, I assure you. I once heard how Durram drank the best of a lord's wine cellar in one night and then came back for the goblets on the next!" Pinch kept the banter flowing while casually steering her away from the necropolis gate. He didn't want the priestess brooding on what had just happened. He needed her to like him, if not trust him. "Let me escort you to safer streets," he said casually, offering her his arm. His gaze swept over the mud-spattered street. Save for the boulevard they were on, the neighborhood was a tangle of narrow, crooked stews and warrens of ill intent. The little garretted town houses rammed up against each other piecemeal, in places so furiously trying to steal the sunlight from their neighbors that no light reached the streets and alleys at their base. Throughout this tangle, the gardens of the festhalls provided touches of color, tenderness, and sweet fragrance that the cheap stews disdained, but only for a price. They were streets full of the unsavory, the unstable, and the immorally ambitious. They were the streets of Pinch's youth. "Why, I could be that bad, I'm sure," he continued. "No doubt every father and mother in town would live in fear of seeing my pepper-haired pate come knocking at their door, because, you see, they'd know I had no morals, few scruples, and far too many dark habits to be safe around their daughters. Nay, if I were a proper priestess like you, I'd not spend time with that Janol, or your superiors would think you're no more than a bawdy basket." He grinned the cat's grin and gave her a sweeping bow to cap his whole speech. Lissa reddened and tried to wear a scowling smile but only succeeded in twisting up

her face and betraying every one of her emotions: suspicion, belief, skepticism, and amusement. "Enough already. You're telling me tales." "Of course, nothing but." Pinch made sure that his answer was too eager, like a man in the trial box denying a truth—which he was, of course. She looked at him in just the way he hoped she would. People who are too innocent become eventually distrusted, tripped up by some trivial character flaw; the obviously guilty never gain trust to start with. The best course was to be neither and both—believably unbelievable. Done right, the priestess would vacillate between suspicion and trust until guilt made her blind to his faults. "How goes your hunt?" he asked, sliding the conversation into a topic she could not resist. Now it was her turn to be evasive. "Slow progress." Pinch nodded. "That poorly, eh?" He could see in her eyes he'd cut to the quick of her lie. She kept her counsel on that matter, instead focusing on the cobblestones of the street. "Well, perhaps I have news." "You do?" "I cannot be sure—you remember I warned you of Cleedis?" She nodded. "Things have happened that make me wonder." "Things?" "It's hard to say. What are the powers of this thing you seek?" "Powers? It has no powers." Pinch shook his head. "Never try dissembling with an Ankhapurian. They—we're

masters of the art. I learned how to spot a lie a long time ago, a lesson from my royal cousins. "Your temple has hunted this thing enough for me to know it has special powers. It's not just sentiment that makes them search so hard; otherwise they would have given up long ago." "It's a relic of the great Dawnbreaker. Isn't that enough?" Pinch searched through his royal tutor's lessons for what he might know about a Dawnbreaker. There was nothing. "Depends. Who or what is the Dawnbreaker?" Lissa slid naturally into the role of patient missionary. With so many gods, so many martyrs, every priest became accustomed to explaining the myths and icons of his faith. "The Dawnbreaker was a great prophet who served the Morninglord." "Of course." They were all great prophets—or profits. Temples without prophets or seers tended to be poor, miserly things. This Pinch knew from experience. "He was. He predicted the Wintry Summer and the razing of the Unshadowed Palace of the Night Queen." "Never heard of it." "It's very ancient history. The gospel is that when the Dawnbreaker died, the Morninglord burned away the impurity of his flesh and commanded an amulet be made from the bones of his skull." Pinch arched an eyebrow at this. "So this bauble is really a skull? Is that what I'm looking for? 'Struth why my examinations have failed. I was looking for a mere trinket, not some old prophet's pate!"

"No, it's only a piece of his bone bound inside an amulet of rare metals." Pinch nodded and pursed his lips as though he were imagining the relic, though that was hardly necessary since he wore the thing beneath his shirt. He hesitantly asked, as if shy at intruding into the secrets of her sect, "It wouldn't have any special powers, would it? Things that might reveal its presence?" "Why do you ask?" "Well—and this may sound folly—curiosities have plagued me at the palace. Voices, witchlights, and the like. That wasn't. . .?" Lissa cocked her head, letting her curly hair spill from the edge of her hood. "The scriptures do say the Upholder of Light called on its might against the Sun-Devourer." "Upholder of Light?" "The Dawnbreaker. It is another sign of our respect for the great prophet." "Upholder, Dawnbreaker—what does it mean he 'called on its might'? What did it do?" Pinch leaned against the stuccoed wall of the first building across from the necropolis gate. It was a smoke-blackened ordinary with a very grim signboard overhead: The Shroud. Nonetheless, it sounded festive enough inside. Their conversation had steered her well away from her assigned post. "The scriptures are very vague on all that. They just refer to some great power without really describing much. Not everyone could use it either; only the faithful are described as being able to use it." " 'Tis not me, for certain, to gain from such a thing," Pinch lied. "I never knew about the Morninglord until I came to Elturel." The truth was that Pinch's gain would have been all in coin. He'd spent weeks casing the Elturel temple, working out its wards, guard schedules, and even just where to make the break in the roof. The plan had been to filch the amulet and then pass it off

to Therin. The Gur was to carry it west in the next caravan until he found a good broker on the Sword Coast to take it off his hands. Cleedis had ruined all that. Now the rogue felt like he was stuck with the thing. True, there were more than enough brokers in Ankhapur who would pay for an artifact of mysterious power, but Pinch knew his chances of getting good coin were very slim. The hue and cry embodied in Lissa's presence made matters all the worse. Every broker in the city would know where the object came from and probably who had stolen it. That knowledge could be a powerful threat to Pinch's freedom. The rogue had no ambition to discover the pleasantries of Ankhapur's prisons. "So many questions. Maybe you've heard news?" The quick tones of Lissa's curiosity intruded on Pinch's reverie. She spoke with allegro phrasing in tones and shades that carried more meaning than her words. Pinch could imagine her in the ranks of the temple choir, a place that better suited her than the slop-strewn stews that surrounded them now. "Maybe." The rogue kept his answer short. Talk killed thieves. "I think the Dawnbreaker's amulet is here, in Ankhapur." "How can you be sure?" Pinch really wanted to know her reasons, but he had to take care not to sound too intrigued. If she suspected someone, he had to include the possibility she suspected him. "The patriarchs in Elturel have divined that the amulet is not within that city. They've sent word." Pinch scratched at his stubbly beard. He'd not had time for grooming since some moment yesterday. "That hardly places the proof here." Lissa lowered her voice as a drunk ambled out of the Shroud, a hairy brute whose

naked chest barely fit beneath the scarred leather apron he wore as a shirt. The man strutted past them, arrogantly challenging these well-dressed strangers who ventured onto his turf. "The amulet is in Ankhapur. Believe me on this." "An informer? Someone's given you word, or tried to sell it. You think I have it? Or another?" The musical pleasantry of her voice suddenly disappeared. "If it were one of your friends, would you reveal them?" "Sprite, Maeve, Therin—you think it's one of them?" ."I meant hypothetically. Someone brought it from Elturel. I can feel it." "You think I consort with this thief." Pinch straightened himself in indignation. "I've said too much already. It is here, though, and I will find it." Her tone was unabashed by his accusation. Pinch assumed an air of almost theatrical injury. "I've known rogues and thieves most of my life, priestess, but do not mistake me for one. I like their company. They drink better and they're more honest than the snakes of the court. Just because a man's company is not to your taste, don't impute on his friends. Yes, Sprite is an imp and Maeve drinks a bit, but they're good people. As for me, I'm only seeking to recover what you've lost. If you're not pleased with this, then I shall cease." Perhaps he just pressed too hard, perhaps she was just wary, or perhaps he had always been the target of her suspicion. Whatever the reasoning, if there was any reasoning to it at all, the priestess suddenly withdrew even as she rejected his offer. She pulled her things about her with the urge to go, although the rogue noted his words at least caused her to keep one hand at her dagger. "I meant no affront, Master Janol, but I will find this thief, no matter who he—or

she—is." With that the priestess broke away as if afraid that Pinch could somehow charm her to think otherwise. Pinch let her go, watching her carefully pick her path around the turgid puddles of slops. There was no breaking the frost of cold courtesy that had settled on her. Pinch looked up to the Shroud, with its wooden drapery creaking from the signboard overhead. There was work to be done, and a drink was as good enough a place as any to start. Alcohol keened his plotter's mind, perversely laying bare the twisted paths of a multitude of schemes. Besides, he was thirsty. * * * * * Pinch sat at a dark table in a dark corner the way he always preferred. From the dawn light until now, he reviewed the day's events. Too much was happening that he didn't control: strange voices, stranger hands in the dark, Manferic returned, and Lissa retreating. Everything about it was the design of fates beyond his control, and that Pinch could not abide. For fifteen years he had fought to be the master of his own life, and now in the span of a few days, everything was conspiring to take that apart. One by one the drinks came, and as part of the ritual his mind followed in its cunning, Pinch dedicated each mug to a threat to future well-being. "Here's to Manferic," the rogue toasted to no one in particular on his first blackjack of heady wine. "Were the bastard's memory truly dead." It was a toast to more than just bitter memories. The undead king was the first and foremost problem. There was little doubt what Pinch's reward would be when his job was done. King Manferic had always been brutally efficient at removing useless pawns. The rogue drained the mug in one long gulp, slapped it on the table, and sat brooding as he stared at the chisel work of a previous customer. Several times he waved off the landlord while plots played themselves out in his mind.

At last he called for a second blackjack, and when it came he raised it high. "To Cleedis." Again he repeated the ritual of drink and brood. What was the chamberlain's part, and just whom did he serve? Dead Manferic used him, but the late king trusted no one, that Pinch was certain. But old Cleedis wasn't a fool, though he played the role for others. As a general he'd had a cunning mind for traps and lures. The rogue was running the gantlet for these two without knowing even where it would end. With these two, Manferic and Cleedis, at least the threat was clear. They wanted him to do the job and then they wanted him dead. The rogue was clear on that. Already he was threading plots within their plots, plans to keep himself alive. It was life as normal in Ankhapur. With his third mug, Pinch contemplated the coldest challenge of all. He raised his blackjack to Lissa and her quest. She was close, too close. The rogue was sure she'd gotten her suspicions from Cleedis or maybe one of the princes, though Pinch doubted they were that well-informed or clever. It was a way for Cleedis to keep him under good behavior, to control his life. He could kill her and have done with it, like he'd once considered on the road, but the thought didn't appeal to him. He was getting sentimental, fond of her easy gullibility. There had to be a use for her alive. The only other choice, though, was to give her a thief. It couldn't be just any thief. It had be someone she suspected. Which one could he do without, Pinch wondered: Maeve, Therin, or Sprite? If it came to it, which one could he give up? Pinch ordered another drink and brooded even more.

Low Cunning The great, swollen, and single eye of the Morninglord was not yet gazing upon Ankhapur when Pinch sidled out of the mist and back into the marbled confines of the palace. The thick, warm steam, fresh from the sea, cast him up in its wash, the great cloud that blanketed the commons of Ankhapur breaking into its froth just at the hard stones of the palace gate. Pinch sauntered under the portcullis, raised for the cooks and spitboys off to market, passing the guards with the confidence that he belonged there. It had been years since the feeling of arrogant privilege truly belonged to him. He had never forgotten it and carried it with him through all his dealings with petty thugs, constable's watch, prison turnkeys, and festhall girls. He always held that knowledge of his own superiority as the key to his rise and dominance in Elturel. Having the sense of it, though, wasn't the same as the confirmation of one's entitlement that came in moments like this. At other times and places, fools had tried to convince him that respect was the mark of a true leader—foolish old men who believed they were the masters of great criminal clans, but in truth little men with little understanding. Pinch knew from his years under Manferic's sharp tutelage that respect meant nothing but useless words and bad advice. Fear is what made men and beasts obey—utter and base fear. Manferic had been an artist in instilling fear. The common people feared the terrors that awaited dissidents and rivals who vanished in the night. The nobility dreaded the moment Manferic might strip a title or confiscate lands. The princes feared the moment their father might turn on them and bloodily solve the question of succession. None of them knew the scope of the chasm that was his soul, and none of them dared find out.

Fear is what made the guards stand to, not admiration. Pinch made his way through the long interconnected halls of the palace. His fine clothes, the vanity of his days, were sagged with loose wrinkles that come with constant wear and the dull edge of morning sobriety. The wrinkles were reflected in his face, a leathery map of his nighttime indulgences, with sad, pouchy bags under his eyes and feeble folds around his neck. Pinch was battling time, as all living things do. Even the endless elves slowly succumb to the Great Master's advances. Death could be beaten, cheated, and postponed, and the gods were frail by comparison. Even they felt the yoke of years settling over them. Time was the enemy Pinch could not outwit, the treasure locked beyond his bony fingers. Right now exhaustion was weakness. Pinch felt want of sleep in his bones, but there was no time for the luxury of rich sheets. Plans were already in motion, some of his own doing and more that were not. Plots needed counterplots, and those needed their own counters. Looking forward, there was no end to the webs that filled the future, not here or even if he left Ankhapur. So Pinch slipped through the halls, down colonnaded corridors that threatened to devour him with their hungry boredom, past galleries that whispered with the ancestors of a past not his. A blind man would have heard only the random wet slap of leather polishing a marble that was green veined and solid like cave-ripened cheese. It was at the entrance to the Great Hall, as he was being swallowed farther and farther into the deceitful stagnation of the palace, that Pinch spied Iron-Biter, the grotesque. Before purposeful thought could will it, Pinch had already sidled out of view, angling himself where he could watch but not be watched. Once there, he observed. What he hoped to see, he did not know, but this dwarf was an adversary. Vargo's displays had foolishly revealed the misshapen courtier's

strengths; now Pinch hoped to see weaknesses. A direct confrontation with Vargo's enforcer was unwinnable without an Achilles' heel to exploit. "Thieves' courage" some called it. Pinch didn't give a damn. Sheltered by a window shuttered with pierced rosewood, Pinch watched as the dwarf prowled the grand chamber. Apelike Iron-Biter appeared to move with no purpose, paying mind first to a candelabrum, then to the cracks between the marble blocks in the walls, with all the intention and interest of his kind. Dwarven fascination for stone was beyond Pinch's understanding. A block of marble was a block of marble. You couldn't sell it, and even carved well it hardly had enough value to make it worth stealing. Dwarves would go on about how well veined and smoothly solid a single stone was—for days if one let them. Still, if there were collectors willing to pay for a block of stone, Pinch would steal it. It was all a case of what the brokers wanted. Approaching footsteps clacked through the sterile halls. Pinch coiled around the pillar and watched as a servant tottered into the hall. The old servitor's arms were draped with fabric—costumes of succulent silk that spilled out of his arms in hues of minted gold, their buttons like fat nobles worn smooth between a usurer's greasy fingers. Explosions of lace flared in pleats of ethereal smoke, banded roots of brocaded ribbon bound everything into one mass, and perched on top of it, like a vessel on a wave-tossed sea, was a pair of masks, grotesques of the finest manufacture. Masks? Iron-Biter raised the first one with all the critical judgment of proud torturer examining his craft. It was a face of sharp-stretched leather, a cow's flayed skin stretched to fiendish form. The honey-gold leather glistened under a sheen of wax

buffed to shellac hardness. It was a face of deception, a gleaming smile of diabolic cheerfulness. Apt for the owner, Pinch felt, but why masks? The scrape of a door signaled more arrivals. Iron-Biter waved the servant away as Prince Vargo entered the hall, dressed in the careless elegance of his morning gowns. The royal heir stretched with feline abandon, ignored his dwarf henchman, and went to the table where he idly poured a goblet of ruby wine and poked at the silks and leathers cascading over the back of the chair. The dwarf stood patiently silent, his little hands barely touching across the vast plain of his chest. The soaring darkness of the hall heightened the little man's grotesque proportions, making him a fat, bright-shelled beetle over which some human giant would tower. With an arch sniff at his wine, Vargo flipped the mask he'd been examining back onto the table. "Not very original. . . best you could do, Iron-Biter?" Echoes bedeviled Pinch's ears, taunting him with words he could almost hear. "I chose them to show restraint, milord," the dwarf rumbled like a kettledrum. ". . . appear modest during the ceremony. It will not do for the chosen . . . decked out like a harlequin." Vargo glanced over his shoulder at Iron-Biter, deigning to give the man the least of his attention. "I... calling for the ritual in the . . . masque . . . undignified enough. You . . . advising ... a fool of me?" With a gentle brush at his mustache, Vargo sipped at his wine. Behind the pillar, it was hopeless for Pinch to hear their conversation clearly, and he dearly needed to. They were plotting, and plots discovered were what would give the rogue the edge. He needed to be closer. Carefully he scanned the ground between himself them. On the opposite side of the hall and much closer to his quarry was

another line of pillars, a good spot to lurk and pry. The morning sun and the flickering stubs of the night candles cast a weave of half-shadows across the floor between here and there, not quite darkness and not quite day. A quick, quiet shift and he would be in position to hear all. With the care of a carnival tightrope walker, Pinch sidled away from the shelter of the pillar. Iron-Biter seemed absorbed in the presence of his lord, and Vargo viewed the world with bored indifference, but Pinch knew the latter, at least, was a lie. His elder cousin was the hawk who never quite looked on the world with closed eyes. With one eye to the floor and the other always on his adversaries, Pinch drifted across the gap to the other side. Years of practice made the move look effortless, indeed casual. He took care never to move fast enough to catch attention, stepped softly so that the kiss of leather to stone would not give him away. Nonetheless, his blood raced at the thrill of risk. There was little question that if Pinch was discovered, Vargo would find some excuse to let his sadistic underling play. Precaution and skill carried the rogue to the blind safety of the other colonnade. Once there, he quickly flitted from pillar to pillar until he was so close he could have reached out and poured a sample of Vargo's wine. During the time it took to reach his new position, Pinch had been focused on silence, not words. The conversation had gone on without him. Vargo was asking something, a question in response to Iron-Biter's plottings. "And what makes you certain I will be king?" The huge dwarf bent his knees in the best imitation of a bow that he could manage. "Are you not the most worthy ruler of Ankhapur, milord?" The flattery was oily and insincere, though it did not presume on Vargo's talents. The lie was couched in the vagaries of the choosing, for even a priest could not attest to the will of the higher

powers and the creaking wheel of fortune. "Besides, milord," Iron-Biter continued, fully knowing the weakness of that explanation, "there will be no other choice. The test be damned. You will seize the throne as is your right. Throdus is a coward. Before the masque, he will have heard one hundred reasons not to challenge you." Vargo nodded agreement but held out a finger in caution. "True enough, though it must not be too obvious. The lords who support him have considerable backing." "It shall be discreet, milord." "And Marac? He has more spirit. My youngest brother will not be bullied so easily." Iron-Biter shrugged, his massive shoulders grinding like a builder's cranes. "Perhaps you are a better judge of him than I." The words held a cocksure arrogance, not quite openly challenging the lord. "His power is weak, his support thin among the nobles and the army. Most of the guests at the masque will be your vassals. Challenging you at the festival will be impossible, complete folly. If you act forcefully and proclaim yourself king by right of possession alone, Marac will not dare challenge you." "What about Bors—and Cleedis? The troops are more loyal to him than anyone." From where he was hiding, Pinch could barely see Iron-Biter grin. "Bors is an idiot. Even the gods wouldn't choose him. Let him take the Cup if you want—but only after the other two have declined. When Bors fails, it will only confirm that you were meant to be king. "As for Cleedis—well, he is only the chamberlain. If he protests, I will kill him for you. After all, he will be a traitor to the state, won't he?" Pinch couldn't see him, but he heard Vargo chuckle. There was a clink as another glass of wine was poured. "The Feast of Wealth." Vargo's thin hand came into view,

holding a glass The dwarf accepted the drink. "To your coronation, Your Highness." Pinch smoothed himself against the cold, polished column as the two left the hall. He understood so much more now. The masks made sense and so did Manferic's haste. The Carnival of Wealth was coming, that time of year when the city erupted into riotous gaiety. He'd been away too long, forgotten the days, the dates, and the order of things. Every year the city celebrated its greatest resource and its greatest benefactor—gold—in a three-day celebration of greed and cunning. There would be drinking in the taverns, feasts sold in the markets, dances and celebrations, and all culminating in the Great Masque held at the royal court itself. And this year, it would be the scene of a royal coup. Pinch had to admire the plotting, the sheer boldness of the crime. In all his years as a rogue, he'd stolen just about anything that had come across his bow, but never had even he imagined a robbery as bold as this. Vargo proposed to steal an entire kingdom, to rob his brothers of even the chance at their heritage. Oh, Pinch dearly wished that he could someday plot such a crime. The festival had to be soon. Feeling chagrined to have forgotten it at all, now memory rushed in. He remembered it was always on the new moon. That part was clear, for the fat purses he found on those dark nights had always meant good takings for him, a youth learning the cutpurse's trade. After fifteen years, though, he'd lost track of the dates and must have assumed the festival had already passed. It could surely be no more than a week or less away. That did not leave much time for plans or action. There were too many players in this game for Pinch's taste, and too many unexplained things. What was the voice he'd heard in the tunnels? Who had saved him from death? Was Manferic truly something

undead, or was this a trick on Cleedis's part? Did Manferic or Cleedis or both suspect Vargo's plans? What was their reason for switching the regalia anyway? Should he betray them to Vargo? Or should he betray Vargo to them? And how did he stay alive and on top, when all was said and done? Pinch puzzled away at these as he resumed his mission through the morning-chilled halls. ***** Therin's strong hand seized Pinch's doublet just as the thief came even with the bottom rail of the balcony. "Up you are, then!" the Gur grunted as his fingers dug into Pinch's shoulder and, with a strained heave, he hauled the regulator half onto the platform. Pinch was hardly surprised that Therin was there and waiting. Climbing was never the regulator's strong suit, and he'd made enough noise to sound like a bull elephant to a thief's trained ears. Sure enough, Therin, Sprite, and even Maeve—looking clearer-headed than usual—were there to greet him. With a certain lack of dignity, Pinch kicked his legs over the rail and flopped to the wooden floor of the balcony. Easy climb or no, the effort, combined with a full day and night of no sleep, was exhausting. "Gods, dearie! You've been hitting the blackjacks a bit, haven't you?" Maeve exclaimed. The regulator was a sight, at least by his own standards—rumpled clothes, bleary eyes, and a full day's crust of grime. He hardly looked their leader, the one who kept himself urbanely polished and clean. "Found himself a woman, too, I'll wager," Sprite added with merciless glee. It wasn't often he got to pluck such fun at his senior. Pinch struggled against the urge to yawn and lost. "Found more than you know,

furry foot," he finally shot back as he made a grab for the halfling's curly toes. Sprite skipped out of reach, giving Pinch enough space to heave to his feet and stumble inside. Yesterday's, last night's, and today's adventures fell on him as he collapsed into the largest chair he could find. Arms flopped over the rests, he looked at the three sideways as they filed in and stood semicircle around him: Sprite amused, Maeve curious, and Therin with the clear gaze of suspicion. Someday, Pinch thought to himself, someday that Gur is going to get it in his head to challenge me. "We've work to do." Sprawled in the chair, the regulator hardly looked serious, but his companions knew to judge by the tone of his words, not simple appearances. "How have you come on finding a bolt hole?" "Slipping the ring here's no problem, Pinch," Therin bragged. "Like you said, the door's always watched but the balcony's easy. We can avoid those cursed hellhounds by climbing up instead of down and taking out over the roof. Once we get up there, it's an easy scramble to the wall. Then we just watch the guards and go over the side." "What about you, Maeve? Can you keep up with these two monkeys?" Pinch knew the wizardess wasn't trained in acrobatics like the other two. "We'll help her along," Therin assured, before she could say a word. The woman glared at the big, cocky Gur and added, "I've got spells, too. Don't you go worrying about me." "Well laid, then." Pinch cut their bickering short. "Use it tonight. Go to the ordinary across from the lower end of the fish market. It's run by an old man named Sarveto. He'll have rooms for you." "What's the job, or are you just running us off, Pinch?" Therin posed suspiciously. "Work." Pinch glared at his lieutenant. Ever since starting this journey, the man had

been insolent. After this, Pinch decided, Therin may have to go. Without taking his gaze from Therin, the regulator continued. "Sprite, you've an eye for the stones. Find me an artificer of cunning hands, one who's hungry or likes the women too much. Just as long as he does good work and keeps himself quiet." "Aye, Pinch. What'll his commission be? "I want a copy of the Cup and the Knife. He'll know what I mean." The man leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "Therin, you and Maeve case the temple of the Red Priests. Mark their guards, whether the catchpoles are near at hand, and what the hour is of their walks. Maeve, use your charms to get yourself through their doors. Make friends with their servants. Note the hasps on their doors and what spells they lay about. Oh, and pay particular mind to their gossip. We're looking for this Cup and the Knife." Therin smirked, perhaps wondering if Pinch had finally gone mad. "A cup and knife? Any old one or one that's particular?" Pinch was suddenly alert and forward in his chair. "Not a cup and knife, the Cup and Knife." "And what makes this set of trinkets so special?" "They're the royal symbols of Ankhapur. Without them, a body can't be king or queen." "So you're going to steal them and become king of Ankhapur!" Sprite blurted in a dazzlingly ambitious leap of conclusions. "Hah! Me, king?" Pinch actually broke into laughter at that one. "Can you imagine me sitting on some throne. I've as much chance of becoming king as you, Sprite, have of becoming the lord high master of the Zhentarim." "I think I'd make a fine Zhent. Don't you, Therin?"

With a grin the Gur twirled up a dagger. "Good Zhents are dead Zhents, Sprite. Want I should scrag you?" The halfling comically ducked behind a bronzewood chest. "Well taken. I'll not be a Zhentarim and Pinch'll not be king of Ankhapur. " "But I don't understand," Maeve said with a quizzical whine that cut through their play. "If you had this cup and knife, why couldn't you be king?" The regulator, playing the role of wise teacher of the lore, settled back into his chair. "It's because of what the Cup and Knife do. You see, a long time ago—oh, back whatever ages of man it takes to forget such things—" "Yesterday, for Maeve," Sprite-Heels sniped. Therin guffawed. With a mouselike shriek, Maeve kicked a footstool the halfling's way. "However long it was, there was a falling out of the royal household. The first king of Ankhapur was dead. Apparently, the old king had been fond of his bedchamber though, 'cause he left behind more than a score of sons and grandsons, at least as many as what people knew about." "One of the rewards of royalty," smirked the Gur as he settled into the chair across from his senior. Sprite turned up the stool and plopped onto it while Maeve leaned over Therin's shoulder. It was beginning to look like a long tale and one that might merit their attention. Pinch yawned as the morning sun warmed the chair. "Of course, every one of those sons and grandsons considered himself the only fit successor to the old king. The rest were fools, idiots, and just plain enemies who didn't deserve the throne. It was a terrible time for the city." "Assassins stalking the halls and all that?" Sprite asked eagerly. To his mind, this was shaping to be a fine story. "Lots of slaughter and only one survives?"

Pinch shook his head. "If it were only that, it would hardly be a crisis at all. The gentlefolk of Ankhapur are long used to solving a problem with a quick and fortunate death. No, this was worse for them—" "I'd think losing my head would be about the worst you could get," Maeve whispered to Therin. She stroked the hangman's scar that peeked from under the scarf at his neck. "You'd know about that, wouldn't you, moon-man?" The Gur bristled at the slur but said nothing. He wanted to hear the rest of the story. "Worse for them—civil war. It would have torn the city apart. There were factions in factions ready to fight for their man." Therin brushed Maeve away from the back of his chair. "So what's it got to do with this cup and knife?" "Patience with my tale," Pinch advised as he held up one hand to restrain his lieutenant's impetuousness. "It turns out this story has a wise man, a priest—like there always is in these things. He said the choice should be up to the gods; let them pick the royal heir who was most fit to lead the city. He pointed out they could all slaughter each other for no gain but a smoking ruin of a city, or they could take their chances with the gods. How he got them all to agree, I don't know, but he did. "So as the story goes, this priest and his servants go off praying and doing whatever it is they do, and after some time they return with the answer. And that answer is the Cup and the Knife." "I don't see it," Sprite protested. "Whenever there's a new king to be chosen and there's more than one contender, it's the Cup and the Knife that decide. Each heir takes the Knife, pricks his wrist, drips a bit of blood into the Cup, and mixes it with wine. Then he drinks the stuff straight down. If he's the one chosen by the gods, he'll be wrapped up in a ball of holy light, or

something such. I never saw it done for real." "So then, that's what's going to happen here soon, eh Pinch?" Maeve asked. "And without this Cup and Knife, none of the princes can be crowned?" Therin added. "So if someone were to steal them, they could name their price?" Sprite chimed in, scuttling to Pinch's feet. "We're going to steal them, aren't we? And then we'll ask for a ransom and clean out the royal treasury! It's genius, Pinch. Why, they'll know our crime from here to Waterdeep!" He'd told them too much already, the regulator decided, and there was no need to tell them any more— not about Manferic, the switch, or what their fates were likely to be when the job was done. They were with him now, and there was no point in giving them unnecessary details, especially ones that might make them question his plans. "Yes, we're going to steal them and sell them back. Something like that." "Temple robbing again." Given their last try, the halfling sounded almost cheerful at the prospect. He gave a nod to Maeve, who seemed in almost as good a cheer. "It'll be the death of us yet," Therin gloomily countered as he pulled the scarf up to cover the rope scar on his neck.

Ikrit After he gave them their missions, arranged to meet, and slipped away; after he'd padded through the halls avoiding everyone and bluffed his way past the guards at his door, Pinch collapsed into bed. Bleak exhaustion flowed into him. He knew he should be drawing his plans, setting his traps like a master rogue, but his mind could not get his body to obey. His eyelids insisted on folding shut, his brow on sinking deep into the eiderdown pillows. I'm getting old, he thought. The nights of carousing, dashing from rooftops to beds to taverns, the nights sitting in the cold alleys, they're sapping the youth from my marrow. I have to be smarter now, work from my web and pull the lines like the spider that senses its prey. I have to think. A pox on all that, he decided. I'm old. I'm going to sleep. As he slept, Pinch dreamed, and he remembered those dreams—a thing unwarranted for him. A shadow shape stalked him. First it was Manferic who, weeping by his own tomb, tried to draw Pinch into his mourning. The dead king's face was hooded, but the fabric of it shifted ever so slightly with the mewling wriggling of something alive. "Help me, son," clacked the dry jaws. A panic clenched Pinch's dream-self. Then the shadow became Cleedis in a Hellrider's colors, hangman's noose in hand. Pinch could feel, if he truly felt in a dream, the cut of the hemp on his neck, burning the flesh to leave a scar like that around Therin's neck. Cleedis became Iron-Biter and Vargo, two creatures so alike, height to height the same. His dream attached great importance to the fusing of that pair. The one-who-was-two converged on him with the gleaming blade of the Knife held high

and the Cup eager to receive his blood. His legs struggled to run, but his toes only brushed the ground. The noose cut into his neck, lifting him higher and higher. He soared above the reach of the Knife, above the scrape of the ground, up to the gallows height. His menacer changed again, and there was Therin laughing on the ground below, past the view of his own dangling feet. The lieutenant wore Pinch's clothes and was counting out the silver of his purse. Somewhere a magistrate's voice read the roll of his crimes and the punishments he had earned. Darkness closed till he hung in a single point. The roll was almost at its end, the creak of the executioner's lever eagerly waiting to finish the litany. A woman's voice, cracked with age but holding a gentleness uncommon to Pinch's ears, carried through this darkness. "Janol," was all it said, over and over, unearthly hollow and never growing closer. It wasn't Maeve, the only woman Pinch had ever felt close to, although his dream-self half-expected it. It was a cry of anguished poignancy, yet one that offered safety in the darkness. Pinch strained against the noose, the logic of his dream creating ground beneath his dangling feet. The noose cut tighter, cold blood ran into his collar, but the cries grew no nearer. The rope creaked and a black-gloved hand came into view, ready to pull the trapdoor lever. The hand pulled the lever. There was a rattling thunk. The rope swished. Pinch was falling. "Janol." The rogue jerked forward, hands clawing to pull loose the rope around his neck. It actually took moments, during which he ripped at his collar, before Pinch realized the noose was not there. He was sitting up in a mess of bed linens, still dressed in his day clothes, and gulping air like a fish. His mouth was dry and his jaw rigid with fright. "Janol."

The regulator whirled about. He heard the voice. He was certain it was here somewhere and not just in his dream. It came from somewhere, anywhere in the room—but there was no one. He froze and waited expectantly for it to repeat. Nothing happened; no cry came. It had been only the residue of his dream, his nightmare. Sliding out of bed, he rubbed his temples until the echoes and the fog fled away. Nightmares and dreams. Pinch didn't like either. There were priests who said dreams were the work of the gods, omens to be studied for their insight into the future. Perhaps because of this, Pinch had made a point of banishing dreams. He slept, he woke, and he never remembered what the gods might have foretold for him. This nightmare was all the more galling because it would not go away. If it was a message from the gods, then his future was grim indeed. Still, there was no point in brooding over what he couldn't control. The small light though the windows, such as they were, suggested the best of an honest man's day was gone. It was time then for him to get to work. The regulator shrugged out of his tired clothes and into a doublet and hose of dark crepe that the servants had provided. He disdained the fine lace and silver buckles—too visible in shadows—and chose instead his worn hanger and well-used sword. Working clothes for a working man, he mocked as he admired himself in the mirror. Ready, he cracked open the door to the hall slightly, although there was no reason for such caution. It was just old habit. Cleedis would have his guards outside, but there was no reason to conceal his goings from them. The view outside reminded him that old habits existed for reasons. Cleedis's guards were there all right, their backs to him in an indifferent slouch, but beyond them were two more men equally bored, but wearing the livery of Prince Vargo.

"Damn!" the regulator breathed as he closed the door. Vargo's men complicated everything. They'd report to the prince and he'd be followed. If Vargo learned what he was up to, it would scotch all the plans. It was not likely the prince would allow Pinch to make off with the Cup and Knife. In a few moments, Pinch reviewed his options. He could do nothing. He could hope that Cleedis came and provided a rescue or that the guards grew weary and slept. These were unpalatable and unlikely. He could try to create a distraction, but that would seem too obvious. Still, there was another way out of the suite, though Pinch was loath to use it. His first and only experience in the tunnels had not been uplifting. He could only assume the tunnels went somewhere, but he had no idea how to find that somewhere. Then, there were things down there, including Manferic. He had little doubt the tunnels reached the necropolis because he was certain the late king had been spying on him before. Thieves and fools were never far apart, though, so now was as good a time as any to learn his way through the underground maze. This time, though, he was forewarned and had every intention of being forearmed. By the time he opened the door, he carried an oil lamp and a piece of charcoal in one hand and his sword in the other. His pockets were stuffed with candles, and a glowing coal was carefully hung in a little pot from his side. The ember heated the clay until it threatened to scorch his hip, but Pinch was not going to be without some way of rekindling his light. The dust still lay in a thick gloom on the floor and, although Pinch was no tracker, he could see footprints other than his own in the churn. "Manferic," he muttered, interpreting the marks as best he could. This was a confirmation of his

suspicions—and also a guide out. He'd follow the trail back until it certainly led to some escape to the surface. He'd just have to hope Manferic didn't have a direct path to the necropolis. The plan stood him well at the bottom of the stairs. His own trail, which he could recognize by comparing to his prints now, went left, the other went right. He followed the latter. The underground was a honeycomb of more passages than he imagined. The trail passed first one branch, then another, and finally so many that he gave up count. At any point of doubt, he marked the wall with a streak of chalk, showing that "I came this way or took this turn." He didn't intend to come back by the tunnels, since he cared not who saw him coming into the palace, but prudence was a virtue, and he with so few virtues needed all the ones he could garner. He'd traveled so for twenty minutes without a guess where he was under the palace—if he was under the palace at all—when the plan went awry. The trail did something it wasn't supposed to do—it split. There were two sets of tracks where he'd been following only one. One was a thin trail in the dust, and it threatened to melt into uniform gray around the next double-backed corner. The other trail was solid and profound, clearing a route of constant traffic. He tried to interpret the thick marks in the powder. The lesser trail was probably no more than the scuttles of rats; if he followed it, he'd end up in the palace kitchens. The larger trail was more a puzzle. It smeared across the ground the way a wench mopped a table, in ragged swipes that blotted out what had come before. Here and there were traces of a boot or a shoe, showing some human progress. Tattered drapes of old cobwebs confirmed the passage. What slope-footed thing had shambled through the hall?

Pinch chose the latter route. Of course it was the worse choice. It was like a verser's play in a game of sant, where the obvious card was always the wrong card. Looking at it, though, there really wasn't any other choice. He was a thief and a confidence man, not some wild woodsman. The signs he could read were the marks of greed, gullibility, and the law. If he lost the trail—and the one looked damned slight—he'd be forced to come back here anyway. It was with a profoundly greater sense of caution, though, that Pinch advanced. If there was something ahead, he was in no hurry to meet it unprepared. The dry dust of the broken webs tickled his nose. The air was a dark sweetness of rotted spider strands and forgotten time. No breeze except for the unknown strangers rustled through the stygian corridor. There were no clicking insects in the darkness and none of the sinister squeaks of rats that he was accustomed to as a prowler. He'd crept down secret ways before, but the silence of this one was unsettling. Remembering the pits and falls of his previous visit, the rogue felt the floor carefully with each step, reassuring himself that the stone was solid beneath his feet. At the same time, he strained his ears, wondering if he'd hear the same inexplicable lamentations he'd heard before. He went a long way in this fashion, creeping and listening, and perhaps the strain of the effort dulled his keenness. He almost missed a sound that, had he been more alert, would have saved him from harm. As it was, it was only just too late. He heard a snorting grunt and before he could assess it, anticipate its source, and shift the knowledge to his favor, it was too late. A form, thick and furred, sprang from an as yet unexamined niche just at the edge of Pinch's probings. The creature stood like a man, half again as tall as the smallish rogue. It lunged forward in a burst of fury, its fur gleaming dirty white in the flickering

light. Pinch jabbed at it with his long dirk, but the thing smashed his hand against the wall with a casual backhand blow. The biting stone shredded the skin over his knuckles and ground at the tendons until Pinch, unwilled, screamed at the fire that jabbed through his fingers. With its prey's only guard dispensed, the man-thing lunged forward. Its head, a bearlike face twisted into a brutal snarl, was squashed between its shoulders to make a rounded lump above oversized shoulders. Before Pinch could dodge, the thing flung its limbs around him, pinioning one arm to his side. Rip went the back of his fine doublet as thick claws cut through it like paper. The nails pierced his back, burning between the muscled knots of his shoulder blades. The creature drove them in hard, pressing him close into its greasy chest. It smelled of sheep fat, grubs, night soil, and salt, and he could taste the same crushed up against his lips. The skewed perceptions, the over-pure sensation of it, vainly tried to fill his mind and drive down the sear of pain as it worked its claws deeper into his flesh. He distinctly heard the ragged course of his breath, the helpless scrape of his feet against the flagstones, and the creak of his ribs. He tried to twist himself free, but this was a futile play at resistance. The beast had struck too quickly and was too strong for him to resist. Still, in the writhing, he managed to get a little leverage with his dagger hand. He couldn't jab the blade in, the way it should be, but was able to make a clumsy slash along its side. There was little hope of seriously wounding the creature. All the rogue wanted was a deep gash, one that would hit nerves and spill blood, distract the thing and give him a measure of satisfied revenge. The knife cut as if through thick leather, and Pinch was rewarded with a furious squeal. Seizing the chance, he kicked out and twisted to break himself free. The hope

was a cheat, like trying to win against a cole who's cut the dice to his advantage. The squeal transformed into a snarl and, in one effortless sweep, the beast raked its claws out of Pinch's back to sink into his shoulders. Heaving up, the creature cleared the thief's feet from the floor and slammed him against the stone wall so hard his head cracked on the rock. The world, a gloom already, darkened to a single tunnel. Somehow Pinch kept his dagger, though he could do little more than wave it around in weak blindness. The creature slammed him against the wall again, its yellow fangs bared in brutal joy. And again. A fourth, a fifth, and more times until Pinch lost all count. With each crash a little more of the volition drained from his muscles until he flopped like a helpless doll in the monster's grasp. The world was all blackness, save for the tiniest point of the real world—the candle he'd dropped, still guttering on the ground. The bashing stopped. Pinch could barely loll his head up. The rogue still hovered over the ground in the beast's bloody grasp. "Whot your naim?" The basso words rumbled through the hall. I'm hallucinating, the thief was certain. He forced his pain-dazzled eyes to focus. The creature was watching him, its flattened head cocked owl-like as it waited. "Name!" the beast bellowed in badly slurred trade tongue. It rattled him a little more just for emphasis. Pinch understood. "P—Janol," he croaked. He almost used the name of his old, Elturel life, but a spark held him back. He was in Ankhapur, and here he was Janol. Gods knew who or what this beast might report to. "Ja-nol?" the creature snarled, trying to wrap its fangs around the shape of the word.

Pinch nodded. All of a sudden he dropped to the floor, the creature's cushing grasp released. It was so unexpected that Pinch, normally of catlike footing, tumbled into an angular pile of clothes, blood, and pain. "You—Janol?" it asked a third time, with less ferocity than before. It could have been almost apologetic in its tone, if it reasoned at all like normal beings. The rogue doubted that, given its behavior so far. "I'm Janol. . . royal ward of Ankhapur." Between each word was a wince and the struggling determination to get back to his feet. "Kill me . . . and the royal guard will. . . scour this place with fire and sword." It took a lot of effort for Pinch to stand and say all that, although it wasn't hard to give the lie a little conviction. The beast stood and said nothing, its face puckered up in concentration. This finally gave Pinch a chance to study it clearly. It was bowlegged, broad, and reminded Pinch of Iron-Biter in that, except for the fact that where he could look down on the dwarf, this thing was a full head taller than him. He'd seen such beasts before, though during the brute's battering that recognition was not uppermost in his mind. There was cold solace in knowing just what was killing you. Now that it wasn't trying to smash his skull against the wall, there was some chance and gain in that recognition. Naming the thing, though, added more to the mystery than solving the problem. It was a quaggoth, an albino beast of the far underground realms. They were virtually unknown on the surface. The only reason Pinch knew of them was his youth here in Ankhapur. Manferic had raised a few, like slavish dogs, as his special lackeys. They were hunters and jailers, one of old Manferic's "special" punishments. "You not Janol. Janol boy." Amazement that the thing knew him once was

increased by urgency as the thing reached down to continue its beating. "I've grown," he blurted hastily. He tried to duck beneath the sweeping arms, but the monster was quicker than its speech. With the thief in its grip, the quaggoth slowly and deliberately squeezed. The wind crushed out of him in a last series of choking words. "I... am . . . Janol," he gasped in vain. The beast snarled and crushed harder. Pinch heard a crack from within his chest and the sharp burn of a broken rib, but there was no air left in him to scream. The dim tunnel of light was quickly becoming even more dim. "Ikrit—stop!" The pressure ceased. The pain did not. "Is he Janol?" It was a woman's voice, quavering and weak but unmistakably female. "He say, lady." "And you?" "Me, lady, say he not Janol." "Put him down." Pinch tumbled to the floor. This time he made no move to get to his feet. He gasped for air like a landed fish, and each heave brought a new lance of pain that drove out all the wind he had regained. "You want look, lady?" From his hands and knees, Pinch looked up to see the beast addressing something or someone in the darkness. ". . . Yes." There was a pained hesitancy in the framing of her simple answer. The beast stooped to seize Pinch and present him like a prisoner before the dock. The rogue tried to crawl away, but all he did was trigger a paroxysm of choking that

ended with a mouthful of coughed-up blood. "No—wait." Her words shook, as though they were a dam to her fears and uncertainties. "You say he's not Janol?" "No, lady. Not Janol." There was a drawing of breath from the darkness, a drawing of resolve. "Let me see him." The quaggoth bowed slightly to the darkness and stepped aside. Pinch, suspecting that his life might hang on this display, wiped the blood from his chin and lips and struggled to stand upright. He peered into the gloom of the tunnel, but even with his thief-trained eyes, he could not make out the slightest shadow of his examiner. At last a sigh, pained and disappointed, floated from the darkness. "It's too long. Who can tell? . . . Let him go, Ikrit. Take him out." "Who are—" Pinch's question was forestalled by a spasm from his chest, the broken bone protesting even the rise and fall of words. There were so many questions inside him, all strangled by the lancing pain inside. "Who am I?" The echo was a confused musing of his words. "I'm ... one who loved unwisely." Riddles! Every answer led to more riddles. If he hadn't felt so lousy, Pinch would have cursed the voice in the darkness. He forced himself to frame one last question. "What am I—" he paused to force back the pain, "— Janol, to you?" The effort left him collapsed against the wall. Footsteps crept closer from the darkness. The quaggoth took a protective step to intercede between Pinch and its charge. There was covert tenderness in its move, uncharacteristic for its race. "Janol is—" Suddenly the whispers halted in a gagging retch, like a drunken man. When it stopped, the woman tried again. "Janol is ... hope,"

she said weakly, although it was certain those were not the words she wished to use. Pinch gave up. He hadn't the strength to ask any more questions, and the lady, be she human, sprite, or spook, was not going to answer him straightly. The pain exhausted him so that all there was left was to let himself sink into aching stillness. "Ikrit, take him out." "He attack lady," the quaggoth argued as its duty. The weakness faded from the woman's voice as if filled with kind strength, the will of a mother imposed on her child. "Take him out—gently." "Yes, lady," the big white creature rumbled obediently, even though it was clearly not happy with the command. Pinch moaned as it picked him up. The lances were so constant now that their pain became almost bearable. The cracked bone had settled, not in the best place, but was at least no longer trying to reshape his muscle tissue. The quaggoth strode in great jolting strides, and with every lurch the rogue thought for sure he would pass out. They moved quickly through the total darkness, the quaggoth easily picking the way with eyes adapted to the dark. Even if he still had his full wits about him, the rogue could not have studied the way. At last the beast stopped and lowered the rogue, weak and sweating, to the ground. "Go there," it growled. In the pitch blackness, Pinch had no hint of where "there" was. Perhaps sensing this, a great clawed hand shoved him roughly forward, and he would have fallen if his body had not collided with a stone wall. "There—the bright world. Your world." No more was said as the thump and clack of clawed feet signaled the beast's departure. Not ready to die in the darkness, Pinch forced himself to reason. The beast claimed this was the way out, therefore there had to be a door. With his trained touch, the

rogue probed the stone searching for a knob, handle, crack, or catch. Patience rewarded him, and with only slight pressure, which was fortunate, he pushed a section of the wall aside. It was the very last of twilight outside, the embered glow of the sun as it pulled the last of its arc below the horizon. The lamplighters were out, wizard-apprentices who practiced their cantrips activating the street lamps. Faint as it was, the wilting dusk blinded Pinch after his sojourn in darkness. Everything was orange-red and it hurt his eyes. Blinking, he stumbled into the street, unable to clearly see where he'd emerged. It was good fortune that traffic was light at this hour and he was not trampled by some rag-picker's nag that chafed to be home in its stable. As the glare finally faded, the buildings resolved themselves into shapes and places. Here was a tavern, there a gated wall, and farther along it a cramped tower. It was from these clues that Pinch realized he was standing outside the necropolis. The necropolis meant priests and priests meant healing. A plan already forming in his mind, Pinch stumbled toward the barred gate. When the priests saw a bloody and bruised wretch staggering toward them, they reacted just as Pinch expected. Most held back, but a few, guided by the decency of their faith, hurried forward to aid this miserable soul. As hoped, among them was Lissa, and toward her Pinch steered his faltering steps. As she caught up to him, Pinch collapsed dramatically in her arms. It wasn't that hard, considering his state. Real wounds added far more realism than what he could have done by pig's liver, horse blood, and a few spells. "Lissa, help me," he murmured. "Take me to the temple of the Red Priests." "I will take you to the Morninglord," she insisted, intent on repaying him with the

works of her own faith. "No," he insisted, "only the Red Priests. It is their charge to minister to the royal clan. Take me to another and you insult their god." Lissa didn't like it; it was against her inclinations, but she could not argue against custom. She called for a cart and horse, and Pinch knew she would take him. Soon, as he lay on the straw and watched the rooftops go by, Pinch smiled a soft smile to himself, one that showed the satisfaction that broke through his pain. He'd be healed in the halls of the Red Priests, and he'd case those same halls for the job he intended to pull. Sometimes his plans realized themselves in the oddest of ways.

Scouting Healing hurt more than the whip that laid the wound, or so it seemed to Pinch as he lay on the cold marble platform that was the Red Temple's "miracle seat." The priests greeted his arrival with more duty than charity and proceeded to exact their fare from his body. There was no kindness as they reset his rib and pressed their spells into him to knit it together. Into his cuts they rubbed burning salves that boiled away any infection, then dried the ragged gashes and pulled the torn skin back together, all in a process designed to extract every fillip of pain they could from him. As if the pain were not enough, the priests simply weren't content to let him suffer in silence. They chanted, intoned, and sermonized as they went about their task. Each laying on of hands was accompanied by exhortations to surrender himself to the workings of their god, to acknowledge the majesty of their temple over all others, and to disavow his allegiances to other gods. The Red Priests were not of the belief that all gods had their place or that man was naturally polytheistic. For them, the Red Lord was supreme and there was no need to consider the balances of others. It was little wonder why the princes preferred self-reliance to the aid of the temple. It was long hours and well into darkness before the priests were done. At last Pinch was allowed to rise, naked and shivering, off the icy stone. For all the pain, the priests had been thorough. Drawing his fingertips over his back, Pinch felt no scars—better handiwork than the priest who'd left his knee a web of whitish lines. "When you are dressed, you may leave," urged the senior brother, who stood at the head of a phalanx of brothers, though no sisters, Pinch noted with disappointment The elder was a dark-skinned man whose triangular face was pinched by constant sadness. He nodded, a curt little tilt that could only be mastered by those who'd been

in command too long. Another brother produced a rough-stitched robe of itchy red wool, normally allotted acolytes to teach them patience through poverty and discomfort. "Your own clothes were beyond repair, and suspect by their filth. They were burned. We give you these so that you do not go naked into the world." "Thanks, most beatific one," Pinch drawled, though he hardly felt grateful for their mean furnishings. His doublet had cost three hundred golden lions and the hose had come all the way from Waterdeep. Itchy red wool was hardly providing him in the style he was due. "Fortunate for my soul, perhaps, but I don't think I can depart so soon." The brother's sad face grew even more dour. "Pray, why not?" With a show of exhausted effort, Pinch struggled into the robe. "This day's been an effort, patrico. Give me time to rest before sending me on my way." The elder yielded with sour grace. "Indeed, it is sometimes the case. Your strength should return to you within the hour. I will return to give blessings on your way then." The elder priest bowed slightly and left, sweeping his entourage out with him. There was a deadline inherent in that hour, but Pinch didn't care. If he offended any of the Red Robes, it was only as they deserved. It was an old animosity carried over from his youth, when he sat in a palace chair at a palace desk and wrote the lessons of a droning temple tutor. Although he was certain to be watched, Pinch made no effort to skulk about or slip away. Instead he ambled from the healing chapel and into a massive hall, the festival floor. The squat pillars of the temple fixed the high of the sky so large it almost took his breath away. The Red Priests clearly did not consider modesty a necessary virtue. Sure as he'd sworn, Pinch had himself an escort, a lesser pater who lingered over the holy fonts with too little purpose and too much attention. The rogue noted the man with only the barest of glances. Years of spotting peelers and sheriff's men made this

shaved-head plebe painfully obvious. Pinch wandered out of the hall with seeming aimlessness, half-feigning the weakness he felt. The thief strolled through the soaring nave fixed with a mask of contemplative awe, the face of the impressed sinner confronted by the majesty of greater power. Inside, though, his thief's mind ran a cunning round of scheme and counter-scheme. How many windows were there? Where did the doors lead? What would be the round of the night guards? Here was a pillar to stand behind, there was a window whose casement was rotten. He made note of the shadows and what lamps and torches were likely to be lit in the long hours after the last benedictus was said. All this was good, but the one thing it lacked was telling Pinch just where the Knife and Cup lay. The rogue tried strolling toward the main altar, keeping a veiled eye on his watchdog priest. There was no effort, no alarm to stop him, and from that Pinch guessed the regalia were not in the great nave. He was hardly surprised; stealing the Cup and Knife could hardly be that easy. Pinch expanded his wanderings, passing through the nave's antechambers and out to the cloistered walk that ringed a damp garden, verdant with spell-ripened growth. The trees leafed fuller than the winter should have allowed, the shrubs curled thicker, and flowers blossomed in brighter hues than true nature. At the very center of the garden square was a tower of dark stone, a somber spire that thrust above the roofs and walls of the rest of the temple grounds till it rivaled even the great dome of the main hall. No doors marked its base, and at its very top was a single window, a tall, narrow slit that was clearly big enough for a robed priest. A faint glow shifted and weaved from inside the stone chamber. There was no need to search any farther. This, the rogue knew, was his target. There could be no other.

It was with a sudden-found burst of fitness and strength that Pinch greeted the elder patrico when he returned. The man scowled even more than he had before, suspicious of his patient's good cheer. Nonetheless, he was not going to interfere with Pinch's leaving. He was more than content to cast one he saw as a viper out of his house. So, the temple doors closed with a certain finality behind Pinch and he was standing at the end of the Avenue of Heroes, clad only in an itchy red robe and cheap sandals. With his hair and his bruises, he looked like a wretch given charity by the friars inside. Passing tradesmen made studious effort to avoid his gaze in hopes that they could forestall the inevitable harangue for coins that was sure to come. In this Pinch surprised them, keeping his needs and his counsel to himself. The rogue was not forlorn and abandoned though. He'd barely taken three steps through the gelatinous mud that passed for a street when someone cried out his name. Old habit spun him around quick with a hand already on his dagger, which the Red Priests had at least not thrown away, by the time he recognized the speaker. It was Lissa, sitting at a tea vendor's stall in the shade of a pale-branched willow. "Master Janol, you are recovered?" The rogue light-stepped through the muck and joined her. "Well enough, for which I must thank you." The answer was as sincere as Pinch understood the term. "Perhaps I may even owe you my life." The priestess dismissed the suggestion. "If not I, it would have been another there," she demurred in reference to her part in getting him to the temple. "My thanks, nonetheless." "What befell you?" Pinch had already anticipated the need for a good story to explain the attack, and so answered without hesitation.

"Thieves. A cowardly lot waylaid me with clubs at an alley mouth. It was clear they planned to beat me to death and then rob me." "Did they?" "Beat me to death?" Pinch asked in jovial amazement. "Clearly not." "No—rob you?" "They got something from me they'll remember," he boasted on his lie. "A few sharp cuts with my blade put them off their prey." Lissa nodded as if with great relief, but then she drew up hard as she pushed something across the table. "It is most fortunate they did not get this ..." On the table was the amulet of the Dawnbreaker, the same he'd stolen from the temple at Elturel. If she could have opened his heart, the priestess would have seen a churning tide of panic and rage. The sudden fear of discovery, the self-rage to have clumsily forgotten such a detail in the first place, and the panicky rush to create a plausible reply all would have played open on the face of a normal man with a normal life. Pinch, though, was no common man who carried bricks here and there. He was a regulator, and regulators survived by their wits. Inwardly he boiled, but outwardly all Lissa saw was a flooding collapse of relief. "Praise your god!" he extemporized. "It's safe. I would have a bet a noble those Red Priests had stolen it. Where did you find it?" "Where you were carrying it," was her icy reply. "Precisely. I was worried I'd dropped it in the mud," the rogue continued, thinking fast. "Priestess Lissa, although it is not as I intended, let me present you with your temple's treasure." The only hope of coming out of this, Pinch figured, was to claim credit for what he never intended.

"You—what!" "I was bringing it to you." "I surely cannot believe this." Now was the time for Pinch to assume the air of roguish effrontery. "I told you I had means." "How did you get it back?" Pinch let knowing smile play across his lips. "I have had some experience with thieves and their like. I understand them. It just takes the right threats." "A few threats and they give it up?" It was clear the woman wanted to scoff. Pinch pressed the amulet back into her hand. "Threats backed by sword and coin. There was a cost in getting it back—five thousand nobles. Will your temple honor my debt?" Pinch knew better than to look too pure and noble and so let his devious heart weave a profitable deceit. Lissa was unprepared for the demand. "I ... I am certain they will. By my word they will," she added with more confidence as she weighed the artifact in her hand. "I will prepare a receipt for you to present to your superiors," Pinch added as an extra fillip of persuasiveness. "Your injuries. Did you ..." "Fight for the amulet—no, I'm no hero." Later, when the rogue told this story around the table, this would be the place where he would pause and spread his hands with the confidence that he had caught his mark. "This was, I think, an attempt to get it back." Lissa hastily slid the artifact out of sight. "You think they'll try again?" "Almost certainly. If I were a thief, I would. I fear it puts you in danger." "I can care for myself." "They'll be looking for you."

"I'll take it to the temple." "The Morninglord's temple here in Ankhapur is small and poorly funded. These thieves already stole it once from a better-equipped temple. They'd be certain to try here." "Not if you turned them over to the authorities." "I can't." Pinch was lying in this. If he ever had to, he'd turn Sprite and the others over without a qualm. "Can't?" "I'm not sure who they are and even if I knew, I wouldn't. Understand—my success is based in part on discretion. Lose that and no one will trust me." The priestess was shocked. "This is a business for you!" Pinch sipped at the brew the tea vender set in front of him. "It is a service. Sometimes there are rewards and sometimes not. We can't all live supported by the donations of others, lady." She felt the venom in that sting. "It's not a pure business—" "And I am no priest, even if I am decked out in these red robes," Pinch interrupted. "You live to see the perfect world rise over the horizon like the sun of your Morninglord, and I laud you for that, Lissa. I must live to survive. Besides, isn't recovering what is stolen a virtue? Maids come to priests to find rings they have lost; I just do the same without spells." The priestess pointedly looked at the sky, unwilling to admit the soundness of his argument. Pinch sipped his tea and gave her time, but never changed his gaze of expectant answer. He had her on the hook and was not about to let her wriggle away. "There is virtue even in the cloud that hides the sun," she finally murmured. It was a quote from something, probably some scripture of her church. It was her admission to

accept his point, her faith overruling her good instincts. Priests always made the best prey, Pinch thought to himself. Others were unpredictable, but priests had their codes, for good or ill, giving a sharper lever to tip them one way or the other. "What will you do with the amulet?" he asked, abruptly changing the conversation. "It's not safe either with you or your temple." "I can find some place to hide it." Pinch shook his head in disagreement, as if he were considering the point to himself and she were not across the small table from him. "What?" "What was taken can be found. It's a saying among their kind." "You have a better plan?" she challenged as Pinch hoped she would. "Yes, but there's no purpose in naming it." Like the hunter in the blind, he was baiting the trap to lure the prey near. "What do you mean?" "There is a way you could keep it safe, but you'll not do it, so I won't say it." "You are so certain!" she fumed. "How can you be so sure about me?" "Then you will give me the amulet?" "What?" "See! 'Tis as I said. There's no point in pursuing it." "What do you mean, give you the amulet?" "Nothing. It was a foolish idea. Hide your treasure and let it go." "Tell me." "It's pointless. It requires trust." "How does your having the amulet protect it?"

"First, because they'll assume you have it, not I. We've met; what other point was there but to return your treasure? Therefore, they'll look to you as the person who must be robbed. "Second, they know my sting and fear it. Why do you think they gave it back in the first place? For five thousand gold nobles? Hardly. This treasure's worth far more, if they could sell it to some rival priest or wizard." Pinch paused and took a sip of tea. "They're afraid of my connections and my position. As the late king's royal ward, I could have anyone arrested and executed on my word alone. They will not cross me like they would you." Lissa studied her hands. "I don't—" "As I said—trust," Pinch countered with disappointment. "You injure me, which is why I would not bring this up. First, you think me a thief and wound me for it. Second, you suspect me as a liar. Another wound. Third, you think that I would refuse to give it back. Any more of these cuts and I'll take a worse beating from you than those scoundrels did to me." Lissa tried to sip her tea, but its bitterness felt like her soul and brought no comfort. "Perhaps ... I have been uncharitable in my judgments. I ... believe you are right. Take the amulet and guard it for me." "No." Now was time to set the hook. "You won't?" "I won't do it just to make you feel better." "Then do so because you're right," she urged, pressing the amulet into his hand. "Hold it for me until I return to Elturel in a fortnight's passing—because I will trust you." Pinch contemplated the amulet, feigning some doubt about the matter, before quickly slipping it away. "For a fortnight, then." He raised his mug as a bond of their

word and smiled his first genuine smile since their meeting. A fortnight it would be, barely enough time to find a buyer and arrange for the artifact to disappear conveniently one more time. It was almost a shame to swindle one so pretty and trusting. She matched his toast, blind to the intent of his good cheer. Hardly had the mugs clinked but Pinch was on his feet and ready to go. "You must give me leave, Priestess Lissa, but this robe suits me poorly. I must find a tailor with a quick hand. I have no desire to return to the palace dressed as I am." It was best to be gone quickly before she had the chance to reconsider her choice, and certainly his clothes offered the best excuse. Their parting done, Pinch hurried down the street, into the city, and far away from the palace gates. There was still one more appointment to keep before he could begin the work Cleedis had commissioned of him. Pinch found his company several hours later, after he'd got himself new dress. No locks were broken or heads cracked, but the Red Priests would be hard pressed to explain why one of their order was seen fleeing a laundry with a gentleman's wash. The three had settled into the ordinary where Pinch had sent them. On the outside, it was a squalid place, just up the alley from the fishmongers' gathering place. To the south were the rat-infested docks, while the blocks just up the hill were notorious stews where man, woman, or thing could find most tawdry pleasures they sought. Here, in the gloomy zone between the two, the air reeked of seawater, fish guts, and cheap scented oils. The packed clay of the alley was slimy with fish cleaner's leavings and made musical by the chittering of rats and the belches of the resident drunks. In a way, Pinch had chosen the place for its ambiance; given the air and the locale, no honest man was likely to intrude on them.

Inside, the shop was little better. A smoky fire, sputtered by grease dripping from a questionable carcass that turned on the spit, overheated the cramped main room. This was little more than a trio of tables, scored and stained by knife fights and ale, and some rickety benches pressed up against the wall. The patrons, dock rats too hard up to visit even the meanest festhalls farther up and drunken sailors stopping in for one last toast on their way down from those same halls, eyed Pinch hungrily as he came through the canvas door. The rogue passed through their company without a word and made for the rooms upstairs. Therin, Sprite, and Maeve were huddled at the lone table in the room Pinch had let. The rogue was pleased to see they'd exercised discipline and waited for his arrival instead of setting out on an ill-advised drinking spree. Of course, the jugs on the table showed they hadn't spent their entire time in sober contemplation. "Run out of lamp oil while you were dressing, did you, Pinch?" smirked Therin when the master rogue found his friends. The regulator said not a word, but pulled up a chair and set himself at their table, back to a corner as was his custom. He was dressed ill matched and ill fitting, in tattered hose and a doublet that hung loose on his chest and short on the sleeves. About the only thing right about it were the somber dark colors, well suited to Pinch's needs for the night. "Maybe he got caught catting and grabbed her husband's clothes instead of his own," Sprite snickered. "Pinch, you wouldn't!" Maeve added in mock horror. "Have your wit all well and good, but have you done as you were commanded?" Pinch glowered as he tried to pour the last slops out of the jug they'd already drained. "Aye, three for all of us." Therin looked to the other two and they nodded agreement. "I've found us an artificer who's gambled too poorly to meet his notes. He'll work

quick with no questions for the right fee. I even filched us his fee." Sprite plopped a bag of coins on the table. "Keep your profit," Pinch granted with uncharacteristic generosity, knowing full well the halfling had probably nipped twice what he was showing. "The copies?" "Two sets of each," Sprite answered with a mischievous twinkle. "Thought maybe we could take the second set and sell it to some coney once the word gets 'round." "How good's his work?" "Faith, Pinch, he claims he's the best, but I ain't seen this blackjack and skene to compare." Pinch accepted that. It was a pointless question anyway, since there was no more time. "The layout? I've seen the inside. What more can you give me?" Therin reached into his heavy buff coat and produced a greasy sheet of parchment that he carefully unfolded and spread over the table, avoiding the pools of drink. "I—and Maeve," the Gur added in return for the wizardess's sharp kick under the table, "Maeve and me have compassed the whole of the place on this sheet. See this here"—he jabbed at a scratch mark on the sheet—"be the main gate, and that little mark there is their postern. Guard walks are here and go around in this fashion." The finger drew out the path on the sheet. "This cup and knife is kept in the tower—" "I know, I saw it. Catchpoles?" "The watch don't patrol the area heavy, according to the locals. They leave it to the priests to mind the peace." "Good. What about spells and locks, Maeve?" "Well, Pinch, love, I couldn't get a good read on the spells." Maeve looked down, sheepish that she hadn't been able to fulfill her role. "Those priests are awful leery. Felt

like the standard set of wards on the doors and windows, but I'd wager the walls ain't guarded that way. Probably rely on watchmen for that." "Beasts?" "No scent, no track," Therin said. "Well, thank Mask for that." Pinch leaned back and considered the map before speaking again. "Looks like it'll be a climbing job," he finally decided with disgust. Any hope of an easier way was dashed by the map laid out before him. "Sprite, it'll be you and me. We'll need rope and dark clothes." The halfling spit a wad of something onto the floor and nodded. "Therin, Maeve—get yourselves back to the palace. Get word to Cleedis that I need his package tonight. He'll find us across the square from the temple. Understood?" "Aye, Pinch." "Well then, summon up the landlord and get us more drink," Pinch ordered with grim cheer. "We're out to do some breaking tonight."

Night Work The nightly steam was curling into the square from the streets and arcades. It was a thin mist but full of the flavor of fish grease and onions, bad cheese and night slops. Pinch didn't mind the stink where he sat, nestled in a dark corner. Sprite squatted at his feet, playing with his- dagger in the dust. The watch had come by twice already, calling the hours past midnight. Beyond the constables, men to be studiously avoided, the square was barely alive with the dregs of the night trade—drunken sailors vainly searching for the docks, noodle vendors closing up their carts, festhall ladies returning from assignations, and rakes prowling the ways for a fight. Pinch amused himself by picking out the foins and cutpurses among the dwindling revelers. They were easy enough to spot for a man who knew how to look: men who traveled in groups and pretended not to know each other, who circled around their mark like vultures in the sky. Pinch watched his brothers as they watched their prey, always observant but never looking. He watched them with an idle professional interest, hoping to see a strike or a swindle new to him. Of particular interest was a trio of cardsharps who set up their game on the temple steps. It was a poor choice of place, with no privacy or distracting drink, which only meant this lot was a scrounging crew. The setter lured a coney in, the verser dealt him the cards, and the barnacle, the third, egged their mark on. Even from a distance, Pinch could see the verser was an amateur. He fumbled a chopped card so badly that only the quick thinking of the barnacle kept their coney from getting suspicious. It was clear that, at least on the basis of professional interest, there was nothing to be learned from these three. Perhaps if Pinch had not been so absorbed by the antics of the card players, he

might have noticed another soul hovering at the edge of the square—but perhaps not. There was little to note, just the bend of a low-hanging branch and the way a cur kept itself far from a certain spot as it prowled the plaza. It was not that Pinch was supposed to know that invisible eyes lay upon him. Cleedis came skulking though the darkest part of the alley as had been arranged by messenger. Pinch winced, purely from professional concern, as the old warrior stumbled over the hidden snares of the alley. Prudently the rogue had arranged their meeting beyond the range of the temple guards' hearing or suspicion. The rogue nodded to his companion and the halfling obligingly melted from sight. No greeting was said between them, the old man's impulse to talk shushed by Pinch's admonishing finger. Cleedis handed over a bag of lusterless black and Pinch wasted no time in unwrapping the cord. Inside were the false treasures passed on by the late Manferic. Pinch nodded in satisfaction and then steered Cleedis farther into the darkness of the alley. "Now, tell Manferic to keep his pet jailers away from me," he hissed into the old man's warty ear, "or there'll be no job tonight or ever." The chamberlain squinched up his face in indignation. "Don't you make threats to me, you bastard knave! The Morninglord's priests would still like to roast you— or have you forgotten?" Pinch answered with a smile in his voice. "I forget nothing. It's just that I think now they are more likely to suspect you than me. Be sure of your threats, old man." "I—I don't understand," Cleedis weakly stammered, unbalanced by this rapid upheaval of roles. He was supposed to be the threatener, the blackmailer, not Pinch. "What pet?" It was a weak stall, but all the flustered courtier could assemble.

"In the tunnels," Pinch snarled. "You've been beneath the palace?" "I met Ikrit there. He tried to flail the husk off me." "Ikrit—" Cleedis choked, holding back a gasp, "— lives?" Pinch stepped closer, pinning the old man along the alley wall. He could sense the advantage slipping his way. "And some lady. Why do they hunt me?" "Lady? There was a lady? ... I don't know," the nobleman floundered. "You are a poor deceiver, Cleedis." "Perhaps it was a prisoner from long ago. You know Manferic—people who angered him tended to disappear." "But you know about Ikrit." The rogue wasn't about to let his catch slip from the hook. "It was just that. . . that was so long ago. I was surprised to hear the creature was still alive." "And the woman? She took great interest in me." "I don't know. Can you describe her?" "No. Who is she?" Cleedis found his backbone and became defiant. "I can't tell you. There were so many. It could have been a scullery maid who broke a prized dish, for all I know. There were times when whole staffs disappeared because Manferic was convinced they'd tried to poison him." "Hmmph. I just thought he had them executed." "He did at first. Later, death was not enough for him. He let the quaggoths hunt prisoners in those tunnels while he watched through a scrying ball." That matched Pinch's images of his guardian. "So you're saying this woman was

part of one of his hunts?" The old man nodded with a suggestive leer. "I would guess she had charms or maybe spells to please Ikrit." Pinch thought on this. It had the ring of those tales like Duric the Fool—too implausible to be real—but there was a chance it was true the way Duric's tales were sometimes real under a different name. "When I get back, old man, we will talk more." It was not threat or promise, but the cold assurance that this matter was not done. Before the other could challenge his claim, Pinch took the bag and abandoned the chamberlain to the wet darkness. "What was that all on?" Sprite probed as Pinch rejoined him and they slipped along the shadows of the square. "Ladies and tunnels and what." "Have you ever heard that big ears get clipped?" Pinch snapped, thus ending the line of conversation before it ever was started. Resolutely quiet, the pair plotted their course around the open fringes of the plaza. Pinch was pleased to note the cardplayers were gone. He didn't want to deal with them, especially if they got it into their heads to interfere. Honor among thieves was a joke, for there was no better target to rob than a thief himself. By the map Therin had made, there was a corner of the temple wall that jutted across an old alley and then pulled itself back in line, like the bastion of a fortress. No doubt it had been configured at such odd angles to nestle against some other building now long gone. Pinch could remember nothing from his youth that might have forced them to build so. At just that point, the wall came close enough for a perilous leap from rooftop to guard walk and while not safe, it was their best chance. Climbing the temple wall would take too long and risk too many chances to be seen by the guards, especially with Pinch's weak knee. With a single jump, they could clear the span and

be out of sight before the watchmen made their rounds. Getting to the rooftop proved easy. The old tenement was a jumble of sills, cornices, eaves, and railings that gave the pair easy purchase. Sprite, the more nimble of the two, led, pointing out the grips and holds to Pinch as he followed. After what seemed the time required to scale a torturous mountain face, the roof was reached. On their bellies they slithered to the top of the ridgepole, until they could peer over the edge of the wall walk just across the way. It was a gap of ten feet, maybe a little more. Pinch figured he could do it, especially since the roof sloped down and would give his run some extra momentum. Sprite, though, with his short legs would never be able to clear the distance. Carefully Pinch unrolled the parchment he'd brought for this need. "Stand up, but stay out of sight," he said in a curt whisper while he fought to stretch the sheet flat. Intricate whorls of writing glowed faintly in the dark, filling the entire page. "Hold still while I read the spell." "What's it do, Pinch? Make me fly?" Sprite had positioned himself behind a crumbling chimney. "It'll make your runty self jump good. Now let me read." Sprite peered into the gap between the two buildings. The ground was barely there in the darkness. "What if it don't work?" "Then there'll be a nice explosion and we can both blame Maeve. She taught me how to read this." Pinch mumbled over the complicated phrasings on the scroll, taking care not to say them outright until he was ready. Finally, he held up the sheet and read it aloud, looking up every few words to make sure Sprite was still in front of him. It was just reading, it should be easy, the rogue kept telling himself, but somehow saying the

words was more torturous than he expected. About halfway through, it took conscious effort to shape the phrases. They wanted to escape him. When he reached a syllable he couldn't remember, Pinch tried not to show his panic and guessed, hoping he'd made the right choice. Finally, with a faint damp of perspiration on his brow, Pinch uttered the final words. The rooftop did not shake with a fiery blast but the lettering faded from the sheet, leaving only a blank page of brittle parchment. "See, it worked," Pinch boasted. Maeve also said it was possible nothing might happen, but there was no point worrying the little halfling with that. "I don't feel different," Sprite answered with sullen suspicion. "Maybe if I jump a little bit—" "Don't try it. You only get one chance." Pinch nodded toward the top of the guard wall. "Just a light step over there." "I'm not—" Pinch didn't wait for the rest of the protest but, seeing the walk was clear, heaved to his feet and sprinted down the shingled roof. His footing was poor on the mossy shakes, but the rogue let momentum carry him past all hazards. At the very edge of the eave, he sprang forward, out across the gap. He crossed the distance with ease and tumbled onto the stone walkway, risking more in tumbling off the back of the wall than he did leaping the gap. He lay flat on his belly until he was the sure the clatter of his arrival had raised no alarms. At last he peered over the crenellations to find Sprite, certain he'd have to urge the halfling to make the leap. Just as he was scanning the rooftop, trying to spot the halfling, the little thief gave him a light poke in the side. "Bless Maeve, it worked," Sprite panted, his face flushed with the thrill of it. "I ain't

never jumped so far in all my born days!" Pinch shushed his partner and motioned for them to move out. Now they were in the enemy camp. Caution, silence, and speed were their goals. The pair hurried in leaps and starts, from the shadow of this arch to the curve of that wall, with the sure confidence of memory. Therin's map was good, even sketching out the passages closed to outsiders. Pinch wondered what priest had profited from Therin's research. It would have been fitting to reclaim that payment tonight, too. The thieves moved through the dreary temple grounds, never once raising a suspicion. The complacent guards, convinced their fellows on the impregnable walls had done their job, made no effort to watch for intruders. Indeed their eyes only looked for superiors who might surprise them slacking at the job. It was a simple matter to elude the notice of these buffoons. Pinch praised the Red Priests for their diligence as he pushed open the well-oiled gates to the inner cloister. No squeak revealed their entrance. After making certain no priests were muttering their devotionals in some dark corner, Pinch led the way to the tower rising in the center of the dark, silent garden. They knelt in the bushes near the base and looked up at the smooth stone column. Just below the minareted top, the polished surface was pierced by the glow from the tower's only opening. Pinch waited for a long time, watching for shadows or some other sign that the rooftop room was occupied. Finally satisfied there were none, the rogue whispered to his compatriot, "Keep watch for trouble. I'm going up." The other looked at the smooth wall and shook his little head. "You know you can't climb for a tinker's damn, Pinch. I should go." The look Sprite got made it clear who would climb and who would stay. It wasn't a matter of climbing—it was a matter of trust and there was only one person Pinch

trusted getting these treasures. Without a word, Sprite withdrew his suggestion and set himself to watch for intruders on their plans. From his pouch, the regulator produced another scroll, the second Maeve had prepared. Again forcing the nonsensical syllables over his tongue, barely had Pinch finished the scroll before he started to rise into the air like a cork released at the bottom of a barrel. Ten, twenty, thirty feet he rose, just a hand's reach from the wall. When he was just beneath the level of the window, he willed himself to a stop. Pinch hung there, breathless and trembling, drifting in the air like a cottonwood fluff. The buoyancy of levitation was a ticklish sensation that threatened to unnerve his senses and disorient him for what was to come. It was more than magic, though. Pinch panted with fear, the fear of floating over nothing against the fear of threats unknown that lay beyond the windowsill. It was beyond explanation, but these were the moments he lived for, the rush of blood as he hovered in the balance of life, or maybe death. Though it lay beyond explanation, every thief knew it, lived for it, and savored that moment more than the money, the gems, and the magic that was gained. "Gods rescue us from dull lives" was an old toast of many a black-hearted gang. A whistle from below forced Pinch into action. Spite, barely visible in the weeds, worked a sign with his hands that foretold of trouble. Guards were coming, no doubt. With a breath, Pinch seized the sill and effortlessly swung himself over. The tower chamber was small, no larger than a festhall crib and decorated as dramatically. It was lit by a golden fire that burned steadily from the heart of a crystal stone hung from the ceiling in an iron cage. It was a stone that would burn as brightly through all eternity until the gods grew tired of looking on it. For all its enduring power, it was hardly special, just a cheap parlor trick of holy power. The walls were hung with arras heavy enough to stifle all breezes. Each was stitched with the exploits of kings

and queens, the past rulers of Ankhapur, their glories now as faded as the rugs on these walls. At the far wall was the treasure Pinch sought, a golden cup and a glittering knife in a case of rosewood and gold. The case sat on a small shelf, unlocked, unsealed, and unprotected from thieves like himself. And Pinch didn't believe a bit of it. The Red Priests of Ankhapur were not such great fools. They knew their treasures would draw burglars like candles draw moths. Clearly, the only reason the royal regalia were before him now was that they had to be much harder to take than it looked. Pinch wondered just how many had tried before him and failed. It was a question to be approached with caution. From his perch in the window, Pinch studied the room. There was much not to like. The coverings on the walls hid too much, the floor was too clean—it was just too easy. A lack-a-wit could figure out things were not what they seemed here. It wasn't a case of whether there were traps, but just what traps the priests had stitched up for him. As he perched in that window, pressed against the sill so that he was nothing more than a black shadow on the wall, Pinch cursed Maeve for her drunkenness. Maybe Therin was right, that the woman's drinking was outbalancing the usefulness of her skills. If she'd been more of a wizard I wouldn't be sitting here, afraid to touch the floor. I'd have me a scroll or a ring or something to find the mantraps and show me the way. As it is, she's too drunk to properly prepare what I need most the time. Pinch allowed himself the luxury of this frustration for a few moments and then put it away. When he was down, not hanging in some clergy's window, he would take it up with her. A little cold water and drying out would do her some good, but now there was work and it was time it was done. From his boot, Pinch slid a slender packet of tools wrapped in soft, oily leather that

smelled faintly of dried fish and cologne. He undid the strings and laid out a small collection of rods, marbles, blades, probes, and saws. Working tools for a working man. He took the rod and pulled on it till it grew longer and longer, to the length of a spear. It was rigid, light, and didn't slip in his grasp. It had cost him three particular rubies that the old dwarven smith had demanded, the stealing of which turned into more of a job than the thief had expected. Right now, it was worth it. With the wand he brushed the hangings. The first three barely stirred at his caress. The fourth quivered at his touch like a thing prodded in its dreams. Pinch poked it again, a little more firmly. The heavy cloth suddenly snapped and writhed like a thing alive, trying to envelop the slender rod. Well enough, Pinch thought. Stay clear of that wall. So the path led to the right, away from the living curtain. That meant the next trap would come there, where he was being herded to go. Careful testing revealed nothing else obvious behind the walls, so Pinch focused next on the floor. The floor beneath the sill sounded solid enough when rapped, so he tentatively set one foot on the floor. When nothing gave way, he eased down into nervous crouch. He rolled a marble from his kit into the center of the tower room. Only after it came to a stop did he move again and then he never took his eyes from it as he sidled around the perimeter of the room. If the marble moved it was a sign that something in the floor had shifted: a pivot, a trapdoor, or some sinister deadfall. He spread his arms and legs spiderlike as he moved, a painful way to get about and one that his tired, restitched muscles could barely stand, but it was the most prudent way. Should something shift, the spread of his weight gave him the best chance of recovering. It was poised like this that Pinch discovered the next trap. With his gaze still locked

on the marble, he slid a foot closer to his goal. All at once, the floor disappeared beneath his toes. There was no telltale creak, no rattle and swish of the trapdoor to give him warning. There was just suddenly nothing up to his knee and beyond. Even expecting some trap, the drop caught the rogue off guard. His weight had been overbalanced to that side, and before he could correct it he slid until the weight of what dangled over the edge pulled the rest of him along. A frantic look over his shoulder presented a strange sight, his body being swallowed by the unbroken smoothness of the floor. Illusion! he realized in panic, the thrice-damned floor was an illusion. Gods knew how many floors he might plunge through or what lay below. Desperately Pinch scrabbled at the floor, but the vein-creased stone was polished to a perfect and ungenerous beauty. His fingers squeaked greasily over the sheen. All at once the cold stone popped away from his chin and, like a sailor drowning in a shipwreck, his head dropped into the ocean of magic. The world of light and substance disappeared into a swirl of irrational color, the blend of mottled stone, and then gloom. In the last instant, Pinch's fingers closed on the only thing there was to seize, the sharp edge of the stone rim. With the instinct of years of practice, he set his fingers the way a mountain climber clings to the smallest ledge of rock. The strain on his arms was tremendous; his fingertips almost gave way at the jerk of his sudden stop. His prize tool pouch tumbled from his waistband, spilling the marbles, rods, and steel into the darkness that swallowed everything beneath him. Through the panic and the strain, he listened for them to hit bottom, to at least give him some clue in their departing plunge. They dropped forever and then finally hit something with a soft, crunching plop. As Pinch dangled helplessly, he could only think that the noise was not one he would have expected. If there had been the clank of steel on stone or even the splash of

water, that would have made sense, but a sound like that of an insect crushed under a boot was just beyond understanding. And then deep below, he heard the sound of the floor slithering. Just what was beneath him? It wasn't good, whatever it was. Futilely Pinch tried to pull himself back up to the floor, but his grip was too poor and his muscles too spent from the rigors he had already endured. The priests had healed him, but the healing left him still weak. Perhaps it had all been intentional on their part, and they had foreseen what the night would bring him. Pinch fought to drive the panic out of his mind. Concentrate on what was known and drive out speculation. Think and act, think and act—he recited the litany in his mind, driving out the burn in his arms, the bone-cracking pain in his fingertips, the fear of what waited below him. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, which was not complete. From the underside, the illusion was like a thick filter of smoke. Against it he could make out the lip of the real floor. It curved a semicircle against the back side of the small chamber, except for a small landing at the very wall that most certainly had to be in front of the shelf. The gap formed a moat, the last line of defense around the royal regalia. The slithering below grew louder, though not closer. It was as if a host had been roused and not some single thing. In the near darkness, Pinch could barely see a gleam of white, perhaps the floor, though strangely folded and misshapen. He looked again, harder, straining to see clearly, when all at once the floor heaved and shifted. Gods damn, I'm looking at bones. His fingers creaked and almost gave way, so that Pinch couldn't suppress a shriek of pain. The cry reverberated through the pit and, as if in eager concert to it, his voice was taken up by a sussurant hiss as the white gleam of the bones rippled and pulsed

in a slithering crawl. The floor was alive with maggots, thick fleshy things that coated the shattered arches of bone like pustulant skin and mounded themselves in squirming heaps against the walls. The skeletons beneath him were the bones of those who'd tried before, scoured clean by a slow death in the nest below. How long could a man live among them? How excruciating would the pain be as they burrowed into his flesh? Better to die in the fall. Fear dragged from inside Pinch the last reserve of his strength. With his fingers slipping, he kicked his legs up madly. His toes flailed for the ledge, scraping it once as his fingers started to pull free. Desperately he tried again. One foot hooked over the edge and he pressed his weight on it. The leather sole slid, then held, but his strength was fading fast. Frantically, the rogue levered one elbow over the edge and kicked his other foot up until he could raise his head above the sea of phantasm and see the real world again. Half-supported on his forearm, Pinch risked letting go with one hand. Almost immediately he started to slip backward, so with a desperate lunge he slapped his hand down as far onto the stone as he could. His cramped fingers burned, his palm stung, but his crude grip held for the least of instants. In that second he wrenched himself up and over, seizing on the momentum of his lunge to carry him to safety. Barely he twisted his hips over the edge and onto solid ground. Pinch lay drained on the cool stone floor, unable and unwilling to try any more. All he wanted to do was collapse and rest, to come back another night and try again. Sweat soaked his doublet, and beads of it matted down his curly gray hair. His shoulders were shaking and his fingers were knotted like claws, clumsy and useless to his trade. Nonetheless, Pinch knew he wouldn't quit. As he lay panting on the marble, he felt

alive with the thrill of it all. It was the joy of risk, the game that he'd outwitted again. This, surely, was what a thief lived for. If he left tonight, he knew he'd just come back tomorrow to risk it all again. Sprite was waiting, he reminded himself as he struggled to his feet. There was no more time to waste here. Barely collected or steady on his feet, the rogue gauged the distance to the ledge. The priests had designed their trap well. The moat, he guessed, was just large enough for a man to cross in a single giant stride, like clearing a puddle at the side of the street. The landing gave enough space for him to stand discreetly but well, from what he remembered from below. It was just a matter of knowing where to step and where to avoid, and he'd had that lesson already. Taking up the bag Cleedis had brought, Pinch sized up the possibilities and then finally, with only a small twinge of misgiving, boldly stepped out over the emptiness. The next thing he knew, he stood on the landing, the box of rosewood and gold right before him. The Cup and the Knife were dazzling as merited their role, but even the box was extraordinary. The gold work was the finest of dwarven hammered wire, the rosewood perfectly treated and polished. Pinch dearly wished he could take the box too, as personal profit, but that was not in the plan. The switch had to be unnoticed, which meant that the case had to stay. Still, for all his covetousness, Pinch was not about to snatch the items up and run. The greater the treasure, the more fiercely it is protected. Instead he carefully studied every aspect of how the treasures were displayed. He attended to the velvet they were nestled in, the case, its locks, even the shelf and the wall around it. These efforts gave the welcome reward of slightly longer life when he stopped to trace out a thread no

thicker than a spiderline that ran from the dagger to the edge of the lock. The line for a trigger, he knew without a doubt. He didn't know what it triggered, but that hardly mattered for it could only be ill to his well-being. It was delicate work, cutting the thread without discharging whatever it was connected to, but Pinch worked as a master. He had no desire to be roasted, frozen, electrified, paralyzed, or just killed outright. When the line was finally loose, he checked the whole over again before he was satisfied. Priests were almost as bad as mages for trapping their possessions. The counting rooms of moneylenders were almost never this difficult. The whole thing probably had more to do with the arrogance of the clergy than the actual value of what they protected. Priests figured that whatever was important to them was naturally important to the rest of the world. Still expecting the worst, Pinch lifted the relics from their shelf. When nothing happened, his hand began to shake, an unconscious tremor of profound relief. Now was the time to hurry; the dangerous part was done. From the bag at his waist came the replicas. Like the perfect form and its shadow, the one outshone the other. The confidence that this crude replica would fool anyone waned when sun was held to the stars. It would have been better if there had been more time to find a master artificer. The only solution, of course, was to hide the sun so that only the stars remained. Indeed, confidence rose as he wrapped the originals so that the copies glittered in their own right. The quick work slowed as he set the fakes in place and worked at reattaching the thread. Pinch doubted his place in the pantheon of thieves would be assured if he were blasted trying to reset a trap. More than likely Mask would deny him the comforting rest of shadows for such bungling. It was a point of theology that blessedly remained unanswered. The thread was

reattached and the job done. His work accomplished, the rogue's hands trembled again as the tension drained away. With a light, almost joyous step, Pinch spanned the concealed gap, taking a mind to keep well away from the suspicious hanging Maeve's scroll had detected. Regretting the loss of his fine tools, Pinch gathered up what little gear remained, unbound a slender rope from his waist, and prepared to leave. He'd slide to the ground, feed back the rope and be gone without a trace of having ever been there to start with. The sharp nip of a dagger point into the small of his back killed Pinch's jaunty mood. "Please give me cause to thrust this home, Master Janol," whispered a voice at his back. It was a deep voice, familiar and cold, luxurious with the ripeness of cruelty. It was a voice filled with the resonance of a massive chest and strong lungs. "Iron-Biter..." "Chancel Master Iron-Biter of the Red Priests, Janol—or should I call you Pinch like your friend did before I stuck him?" The dagger pricked sharper into his skin in response to the contraction in Pinch's muscles at hearing the news. "Hold steady, thief. This is a dagger of venom at your back. All it takes is one prick, and then do you know what will happen?" "I thought priests were above poisoning." "The temple does what it must. Now give up the Cup and Knife. Just remember, one trick and you're dead. The venom on this blade is particularly nasty. It'll be a long, painful death for you." Pinch very carefully nodded his understanding. Iron-Biter's expertly applied pressure kept the blade a hairs-breadth from piercing the skin. He reached into the pouch and very carefully removed the Knife. He offered this behind him, handle first. The rogue was not about to do anything to aggravate the dwarf.

"Perhaps we can come to an understanding ..." The dwarf hissed like angry steam. "Unlike some, I am loyal to my temple—" "And to Prince Vargo. That's who you're doing this for, isn't it. You just didn't happen to be wandering through the garden in the dark." The dwarf plucked the dagger from Pinch's grasp. "The prince is the rightful ruler of Ankhapur. We won't let Cleedis's little games change that." "We—or just you? What has Vargo promised you?" "The Cup. Give me the Cup!" "Why? You'll kill me if I do." "I'll kill you if you don't give it to me. If you do, I'll let you live." "Why?" "It would be better if no one asked questions about your disappearance." "And what if I talk?" There was a sharp laugh behind him. "I know what you are now, Pinch. Suppose the entire city knew." The regulator paled. Exposure—it was the most fearsome threat any rogue could ever face. To be named and branded a thief was as good as death and worse still. Brokers would avoid him, marks grow wary in his presence. Old partners would frame him for their jobs, and the constables would pressure him to spill what he knew. He'd seen it happen before, even used the knowledge against his rivals. He'd reveled in how they had squirmed helplessly on the hook. It led them to penury, drink, and even suicide—and it could do the same to him. There was no choice in it, Pinch grimly knew. With hateful reluctance he passed over the Cup. It was snatched from his fingers. "Turn around," the dwarf ordered.

As Pinch did, he understood now how a dwarf of no skill and monumental size had managed the catch. It was not right to say he came face-to-face with his captor, for where the dwarf should have been was nothing, just empty air. The only signs of any presence were the Cup and Knife half-visible in the folds of an invisible cloak. "God's cursed spells!" Pinch hated the way they upset his plans. The air chuckled. "With them I can move quieter and more unseen than you'll ever hope to, scoundrel. Now, to the wall." A poke with the dagger indicated the direction Pinch was supposed to move—toward the trapped arras. "You said you wouldn't kill me." "I need to make sure you won't trouble me while I put things right. Move." Pinch took a hesitant step and, when nothing happened, the dagger urged him forward again. The thief's mind was racing with desperate plots. Could he fight an invisible foe? What there any chance he could lure the dwarf into the trap instead of himself, or even get the little priest to take one step too close to the maggot-infested pit below? With one more step, it all became futile speculation. Barely had he moved forward under the poisonous blade's urging than the arras that had hung so thick and limp on the wall suddenly writhed with inanimate life. The tassels at the top, draped over the iron hanging rod, released like little hands and lunged forward in an eager embrace. The thick cloth wound tightly around him, hugging him in its grip like the wrappings of a corpse. The speed and the strength of it spun Pinch to the floor and left him gasping and choking as the rug tried to crush the cage of bones around his heart. Pinch fought it as best he could, writhing like a worm to brace against the pressure and steal enough air to prevent suffocation. At the same time he had to be mindful of the floor, lest he wriggle himself over the concealed lip and into the fetid pit below.

Iron-Biter's dark laugh showed the dwarf's sympathy for his struggles. At the limit of Pinch's attention, the air shimmered and a swirl of form emerged from nothing, like a curtain parting in space to reveal another world. From the play of folds and fabric, it was clear the dwarf's invisibility came from a magical cloak that he now neatly folded and stowed away. Ignoring Pinch's mortal struggle, the priest carefully spanned the gap to the shelf, barely able to cross with his short legs. There he made a few passes over Pinch's fakes and then casually replaced them with the goods the rogue had handed over. The dwarf studied the frauds for a moment and then casually tossed them through the insubstantial floor. By the time Iron-Biter leapt back to Pinch's side of the concealed pit, the rogue could feel his ribs creak, crushed to the limit of their bearing. "I ... die," he struggled to say with the last air in his lungs, "there will be... questions." Iron-Biter looked down, his beard bristling as his lips curled in a broad smile. "You are a fool, Janol, Pinch, or whomever. No one at this court cares about you. Your disappearance will ease their worries. You were never missed and never wanted here." With that, the dwarf seized the edge of the arras and spun Pinch to the edge of the pit. "Let the worms have you!" and with a single, twisted syllable, the rug suddenly released its hold and Pinch rolled through the floor and into the darkness.

Morninglord's Blessing Released from the carpet's brocade embrace, Pinch fell into the fetid darkness. In the absence of light and form, only his heartbeat set the length of his fall. In the two beats it took to hit bottom, Pinch's thoughts were a dichotomy of the disquieting certainty of absolute death and the black pleasure of malevolent joy. Doom acquired a dark humor. I'm going to die as maggot food. Not the best of epitaphs—but at least nobody will know. Pinch smashed into the squirming mass, writhing in eager expectation of his arrival as if the blind, pulpy white worms could sense his coming. It was like landing in a bed of eggs, although eggs don't wriggle and scrape underfoot. They were a deeper churning sea of corruption than expected, and Pinch's body crashed into them like a rock hurled into the waves, splattering the maggots against the tower walls Nonetheless, there was solid rock below, and though his plunge was slowed by the greasy, hungry mash, Pinch cracked the bottom with a brutal blow. Ribs aching, wind gone, bleeding from his scalp, the rogue lay dazed in the center of an ichor-stained crater of grublike life. Almost immediately the living walls of that crater began to flow inward, the vermin tumbling over each other in a churning, squeaking wave. Collectively they hungered for him. They flowed over Pinch's legs, flooded through the rips and tears of his doublet, poured into his eyes and ears, and wriggled into his mouth and nose. They crawled over his tongue with their sweet, wet bodies. Pinch could not hold back his desperate spasms for air, but each breath ended in a choking gurgle as the fat maggots plopped down his throat. Things crawled under his hose, rippled beneath the

cloth of his doublet, and burrowed into his hair. And all the time the little rasping mouths gnawed and scraped, a thousand stings until his skin was awash with slime and blood. The morbid detachment of his fall was strangled out of the rogue by the doom that was upon him. His death was real and here, choking in lungfuls of mindless larvae, eaten slowly and helplessly alive in this bed of maggots. Frantic, without thought, without plan, Pinch thrashed madly, puking his guts as he weakly fought to gain his feet. The weight of the vermin crushed him, the smooth stone floor was slick with their pulped bodies, so that all he could do was flail like a drowning man. Kill them, smash them, pulp them—it was all he could think of to do; a completely hopeless effort against the countless numbers that filled the pit. Like a madman Pinch slipped and smashed all about the floor, scattering the bones of his unfortunate predecessors, tripping over their now-worthless weapons. He raged and choked and spit, but none of it made a bit of difference. The maggots kept crawling, greedily lapping up the oozy stew of skin, ichor, blood and sweat that coated Pinch's skin. In desperation, the man ripped at his clothes, determined to eliminate the hiding places of his tormentors. His boots were full of a squishy mass, his hose drooping with pockets of larva. Without a concern for the cost or the tailoring, he rent it all to shreds: the parti-colored stockings from Waterdeep, the Chessentian black silk doublet. He was determined to have it all off, even in patches and shreds. It was the only thought his panic-gripped mind could fixate on. It was in the process of that tearing and rending that Pinch's fingers closed on something hard and metal next to his chest. The man didn't consider what it was or why it chose now to come to his grasp, but seized on it as a weapon, something to

crush the hateful maggots with. Fingers clenched about the object and swung it over his head to strike with more force than was ever necessary. Just as he was about to hammer home, a sun exploded in his grasp. Coruscating light flared from between his fingers and probed throughout the pit. Where it touched the maggot-thick floor, the ground bubbled and sizzled in a seething roast of putrid flesh. The maggots shrieked with the hissing pop of their fat bodies as their guts boiled away. Cloying smoke, the scent of burned fat and boiled vinegar, filled the tower and roiled out the pit-hole like a chimney. It was wet and thick, half steam, half ash, and it clung to Pinch but he was too amazed to notice. The rogue was frozen, too incredulous to move. His hand burned like he'd pulled a coal from the fire, but even that could not break his paralysis. At best he twisted his gaze up, trying to see what was happening to his hand, but the light burned until his eyes ached and his forearm vanished into the brilliance. It was as if he had thrust his hand into the sun like a protean god playing with the heavens. What is happening to me? There were no answers. The blaze continued until Pinch's eyes could no longer stand it. The pain racked his hand. Gradually the sizzling squeaks of the maggots faded and the roils of smoke began to fade away. And then the light was gone. Pinch dropped the thing like a hot stone; it had scorched his hand like one. It hit the ground with a metallic clank. Pinch looked at his hand and there, crusted in the burned flesh of his palm, was the brand of a half-sun. The edges were charred black and the impression oozed no blood, the flesh seared shut by the heat. Gingerly, Pinch tried to flex his hand, only to be stopped by a wave of pain. Around him the smoke was clearing and as it went, the man's eyes, watering almost shut, also slowly cleared. In the dim light, he could see the room clearly for the first

time. The maggots were gone, save for a feeble few that wiggled in the heaps of powdery ash that covered the floor. The bones of other thieves were still there, scoured whiter than they had ever been. Their weapons gleamed in the dim light from above, spotlessly free of rust, like a knight's armor after his squire has finished with it. The walls were pinkish white and marked with fountains of soot. Numbly Pinch brushed away the larva that still clung to the shreds of his clothes or had wormed their way into his curly hair. He sweated blood and slime, his clothes were in tatters or burned to ash, and his hand throbbed with pain, but Pinch could only marvel that he was still alive. He spotted the thing he'd held, lying in the ash at his feet. It was the half-sun disk of the Morninglord, the artifact he'd stolen in Elturel. He was afraid to touch it. Wisps of smoke seemed to rise up from the amulet, but at last he hesitantly lifted it by its broken thong. Close up it looked unchanged, the same chunk of inert jewelry it had always been. When he compared it to his hand, he could see immediately that the brand and the design were the same. What had happened? This was the amulet of the Dawnbreaker or something like that, Lissa had claimed. Somehow, he must have triggered its power or done something that brought it to life. Try as he could, though, he couldn't figure what. Fear overrode all his memories of the moment when it had happened. "Pinch!" Sprite's thin voice echoed from above. Pinch looked up to see a little curly head peering through the floor. "Sprite?" "Gods, you're alive!" they blurted in unison. "What happened, Pinch?" "Sprite, get me a rope."

"First I gets jumped by a dwarf and then when I come up here I nearly choke in the smoke coming out of the floor, and that's how I knew you was down there." "Sprite-Heels, shut up and drop me a rope!" "Oh . . . right. Right away." The head disappeared to do his bidding. While he waited for the rope, Pinch probed through the ash, mindful of the goods others had left behind. There was little of account, a few daggers with promise and some loose coins, but Pinch wasn't really searching for them anyway. At last he came across the things he really wanted—the false Cup and Knife that Iron-Biter had casually discarded. He also found his gleaming set of custom tools, though the black cloth wrapping was nothing more than a few burned scraps. By the time these things were carefully bundled up, the rope dangled within his grasp. Getting back up with only one good hand was no easy task, not made any better by the fact that Sprite was hardly a match to hoist him. When at last he finally thrust his head through the shimmering field of false marble and rolled himself over the lip, the man collapsed on his back and panted for breath. "Iron-Biter said you were dead. Pricked you with that skene of his." Sprite turned from the window where he'd been keeping watch and pulled open his cloak. Half his shirt was a great red stain, and at its center was a crude bandage the halfling had applied. "Iron-Biter, eh? That's dwarves for you, thinking with their weapons and not their heads. See—if it were you he would have been right, but I'm not your kind. You'd think even a stupid dwarf would know a halfling's got a strength against poisoning just like them. "He jumped me in the bushes and poked me with that blade of his. That venom was caustic, but it didn't kill me. Knocked me flat for a time, it did, so he must've figured he

killed me. What I don't see is how such a cousin could get on me unadvised." "Magic," Pinch croaked. His throat was raw from smoke and dry for lack of drink. "The bastard's got more magic than any proper dwarf I know. Snared me the same way." Sprite nodded. "What happened down there? Was he down there?" The regulator struggled to his feet. "He's bolted. Back to Vargo, I'd think. We're best off before more priests come. There's more to say later." "What about that?" Sprite nodded toward the shelf where the artifacts rested. "Let them rest," Pinch said with a smile. "Pater Iron-Biter wasn't quite as clever as he thought." Working together, the two thieves managed to lower themselves out of the tower, not an easy task for two walking wounded. Sprite-Heels had made light of his wounds, but by the sheen of sweat that rose with every effort, Pinch could tell fighting the poison had taken more from him than the halfling let on. There wasn't much to be done for it but press on, though. By the time they'd crossed the last wall and reached the safety of the heavy shadows in the alleys outside, the two could barely stand on solid legs. Given that they were staggering anyway, Pinch paid a coin at a tavern window and bought them each a skin of good wine. His tattered and dirty state hardly raised an eyebrow with the wench who served him. In the hours before dawn her establishment had all manner of customers, and Pinch was just another filthy beggar up on his luck. Fortified, refreshed, and rewarded, the two went lurching through the streets. "What now, Pinch?" Sprite asked after a long medicinal pull at the jug. "I could use a touch of comfort for me side." "Healing," Pinch grunted, pulling the jug from the halfling's hands. Sweet wine trickled through his beard as he gulped down their improvised painkiller. His hand

throbbed mightily, so much that he could barely flex it. "Got to get this fixed 'fore it ruins my trade. "Can't go back to the Red Priests," the rogue muttered to himself, pondering their problem with excessive effort. A night's worth of black work and the beatings he'd taken made the alcohol doubly potent. "Don't want no one knowing of this ..." "What about Lissa? She's still around, ain't she, Pinch? It's a wager you could persuade her into helping us—especially if you got me there to cross-lay the tale." The suggestion made Pinch grin. " 'Struth, she stands mostly favorable with us—and I've got just the tale for her. Come on, Sprite. We're off to the house of the Morninglord." Half-lurching, the two walking wounded wound through the alleys to the temple of the Morninglord. Being mindful of their previous company and made worrisome by drink, the pair watched their trail closely for any sign that might reveal an invisible shadow. Only when no alley cats hissed unexpectedly, no splashes appeared in empty puddles, and no gates opened of their own accord did the two set course for the temple. The Morninglord's shrine was a pizzling affair compared to the grand glories of the house they'd just left. As was the custom of the Dawn Priests, the temple was at the easternmost end of the easternmost street in the city. It was one building with a single tall tower, both featureless from the west. The eastern side of the building was no doubt lavishly decorated for the dawn god to see, marked by stained glass windows that opened onto glorious altars. This was all well and good for the faithful but did little to create an impressive public facade, and the temple languished as a consequence. It was an elf who answered the door, dressed in the garish yellow, orange, and pink robes of the order, although the colors were faded and his sunburst tiara a bit shabby.

Though it was near enough dawn for worshipers to come to service, the sallow-faced elf viewed their arrival with a start of surprise, as though visitors here were as unexpected as rain in the desert. He murmured expressions of greeting profusely as he showed them in, and for a race noted for its haughtiness, he managed to bow and scrape most ambitiously. It was a sign of how hard up the temple was if this elf was willing to fawn for donations from a pair as raggedy as them. The regulator put up with it as long as was necessary to send for Lissa. When the priestess appeared, it was in the full robes of her order, and Pinch was frankly shocked at the transformation. The robes imbued her with a radiant femininity that had been hidden beneath her plain working dress. It was clear he'd been too quick to dismiss her before. The orange, the pink, the golden ribbons, and the sun-sparkled headdress that had looked tawdry on the elf shone on her like cloth of gold. Her hair escaped the edges of her headdress, and her face beamed with fresh-scrubbed brightness. "Greetings, Lissa," he began with an unfeigned awkwardness, so suddenly taken aback by her beauty, "I— we—have come for you help—" "You look terrible, Master Janol! What happened?" Lissa's compassion was just as Pinch had hoped, and his nervousness faded as she gave him the opportunity to spin his tale. "Thieves—we were set upon by thugs looking for the amulet. Sprite's been stabbed." The half-ling picked up his cue and gave an appropriate groan at this point. "But you—your clothes—" She stopped, noticing the putrid smell about him for the first time. "And . . . your appearance." "A bath and clothes will set me right. I seem to be going through my wardrobe of late." Pinch tried to make light of his own state. Now that he was here, it did not seem

such a good idea to reveal the brand that the amulet had given him. Discretion failed him though, for Sprite blurted, "And his hand—he hurt his hand too, miss." Pinch gave Sprite one of those glares, and the half-ling could only look drunkenly sheepish as Lissa firmly examined the regulator's burned hand. "What did this?" she demanded. By her tone, it was clear she already knew the answer. "You've been marked, haven't you?" "Marked?" Her soft compassion was replaced by earnest concern. "The amulet—you were holding it?" Pinch nodded to buy a little time to create an embellishment to his story. "When the thieves jumped us, I sought to protect it. I was sure they meant to steal it, so I held it in my hand." "And?" "I don't know. It flared in a brilliant burst of light—" "Killed them outright it did!" The halfling blurted out the fabrication to corroborate his leader's tale. Unfortunately, at that same moment, Pinch finished with "—and scared them away." "Killed them or scared them?" Lissa asked suspiciously. It was clear there was more to this than she was being told. "Scared them," Sprite hastily corrected. "Both," Pinch expanded, though once again tripped up by his companion. The regulator gave Sprite another look to shut up. "Some were . . . killed and the others ran away." Lissa gave the rogue a hard look. She doesn't believe me, Pinch thought. A better

story was needed. "I—" "Where is the amulet?" She poked at his burned hand and Pinch bit back a wince. "I have it." "Give it to me." She held out her hand without even looking up from her inspection. "There's no cause for worry. I have protected it." "I have unjustly put you at risk. Please, give me the amulet." Argument was hopeless, especially here in the center of Lissa's stronghold. Reluctantly Pinch produced the bauble and handed it over to the priestess. Sprite sucked his teeth in unvoiced disappointment. "Will you see to Sprite now?" the rogue asked pointedly. It was his nature; he couldn't help but set a price for all things. Lissa took the amulet and hung it around her neck. "Brother Leafcrown will tend to him." She nodded to the elf who waited patiently behind her. "Ooh, an elf!" Sprite said in mockery of the stereotype of elf-fascinated halflings. The jibe was not lost on the brother, whose expression of benign beneficence soured at the comment. "As for your hand," Lissa continued as Sprite was led away, "I can heal the pain, but the scar will remain. You have been marked by Lathander." "What! I'm going to have this brand for the rest of my life—like some common thief," blurted the outraged rogue. Lissa nodded. "It is the price of calling upon Lathander." "I didn't call him—or any other god," Pinch snarled, risking blasphemy within the Morninglord's very temple. "The damn thing just happened! I didn't ask for it." "Nonetheless, it happened," she countered with the absolute resoluteness of one whose faith can only be unquestioned. "Therefore within your heart you must have

called upon Lathander's might. How else could you have gotten his mark?" Pinch stared at his numbed and blackened hand, fearing the scars before his eyes. If he could never use his hand again, that would destroy the only talent he knew. Without a good hand, how could he hope to pick a lock or nip a purse. A one-handed thief was a cripple to be pitied by his companions and mocked by his former prey. This then was the Morninglord's revenge. "Damn the pain!" the rogue bitterly hissed. "Can you make my hand work?" Lissa hesitated, and that hesitation was not encouraging. "I—don't know. All I can do is try. It is a great honor, you know, to be marked by the Morninglord." "Wonderful. I'm a prophet now." "Not like that," Lissa shushed him as she prepared her healing work. "It means that Lathander sees in you something different, something greater than common men. Prophets, sages, bold captains—all of these have borne the mark." "Greatness—hah! I'm no prophet or king." Pinch's heart was filled with bitterness right now. His world was crumbling around him regardless of what the god saw in his future. "Nonetheless, Janol, our lord sees something in your future. Perhaps you will be a brave hero someday." "Why not? I'm no good for anything else right now— thanks to your god." "Mind your tongue!" Lissa snapped, furious at his casual blasphemy. She grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand palm-up, then made the passes needed to cast the spell. The burn tingled and then the pain subsided. The blackened flesh peeled away to reveal pinkish fresh skin underneath. The brand gleamed pinkish-white like a fresh scar. The pain vanished. Experimentally Pinch tried to make a fist, but it was to no avail. The best he could do

was curl his fingers into a clawlike grip, but the palm was a thick pad that would hardly bend. "Crap. Your god has ruined me," Pinch moaned, his voice filled with sorrow. He sat staring at his useless hand, bitter salt filling the corners of his eyes. Everything he was, everything he could do, was in his hands. What kind of cutpurse could he be, unable to hold a knife? Would he be a rooftop man unable to hold a rope? Maybe he could take up mugging and beat his victims senseless with this paw—that's all it was good for. He was only half, less than nothing in the eyes of his peers. "I'm a blighted cripple," he whispered to no one.

Fatherhood It was well past dawn by the time Pinch and Sprite left the temple, found their friends, and retired to the back tables of the ordinary. There, in the tawdry depths of the common room, Pinch drank. He drank with a bleak-hearted vigor, without joy or camaraderie. He drank with the bitter determination of a man trying to blot away the memories of his life. He gulped the sack without tasting it and demanded more before his cup was even empty. With his stiff hand he fumbled at the jug, and the more he fumbled the more he cursed his fate and drank again, until he would bitterly sweep the mugs, the crock, the candle aside in a rage and glare at his friends with his aching dry eyes. His friends let him drink, since there was little they could say to stop him anyway. Sprite patiently poured the blackjacks and picked up the scattered mugs, while Maeve did her best to soothe Pinch's raging temper. Therin sat back and said nothing, quietly considering the possibilities of this new future. "It ain't all lost," Sprite said once more as he tipped the jug. "It's not the hand that makes you, Pinch. You're more than just a foin or a verser. Any rogue can do that. It's what you got in your brain pan what makes you special." "He's right," Therin added softly. "You can retire from the trade, take it easy. Look at the set-up you've got here—staying in a palace, fine food, and servants. All you got to do is sit up there, spot the rich marks, and make plans for others to do." "It's sound advice," Maeve added, stroking the wounded man's hair. Pinch grunted and kept his attention fixed on the wine. "Of course," Therin continued with smooth oiliness, "there'd have to be a new regulator . . ."

Pinch looked up from his mug. "Like as you?" he snarled. The Gur let the facade drop. "Like as me than a cripple." "Cripple! I should have let them hang you in Elturel, bastard! I'm still regulator here and you'll mind it or—" "Or what?" Therin bellowed back. "Or you'll carve me? Well, have at." The Gur drew two daggers and tossed one onto the table. It clattered among the mugs and pots. The sound was echoed by the scrape of his chair as the younger man stood back from the table and waited, knife casually poised. Sprite and Maeve pulled back, their eyes darting from Pinch to Therin and back again. At the taps, the innkeeper took notice, setting his ash-handled mace close at hand. "Go ahead. Regulate me." Pinch clumsily tried to pick up the dagger with his ruined hand but, unable to close his hand around the hilt, the effort was futile. At last he gave up and collapsed back with a fierce glower. Therin smiled heartlessly, the grown son looking down on his enfeebled father. "You've done me good, Pinch. You've done us all good, but now things have changed. It's come time for a new regulator." Pinch's lean frame dwindled, perhaps due to the drink or maybe in resignation to the younger man's words. Finally, he unfastened the bulky pouch at his side, shoved aside their drinks, and set it on the table. "I suppose you'll want to deliver this," he growled as he undid the strings and pulled open the bag enough to show the golden glint of their stolen treasures inside. "First task as the new regulator." "Aye," Therin allowed warily. "The broker's waiting at the mausoleum. Tell him you're my agent and he'll deal with you."

Therin didn't wait for more but scooped the bag from the table before his old master changed his mind. Maeve looked on in wide-eyed amazement that Pinch had surrendered so readily. "Go to it. Let's see what kind of regulator you are," the older man sneered. Sprite sidled close to Pinch's side. "It ain't proper. You can't let him do this to you so easy," he pleaded, but the rogue held up a hand to silence him. "Go on, do it." With an uncomfortable swallow, Therin nodded. The ease of his victory unnerved him. There was supposed to have been a battle. He expected Pinch to rise to his challenge, to fight with every trick the old man knew. He was ready for that. He wasn't prepared for this gutless surrender. The Gur had won, though, and he couldn't show weakness now. He glared at the three, shouldered the bag, spun on his heels, and strode for the door. When he was two steps from the table and one from a pillar, Therin's dagger, the one he'd left on the table, sang by his ear and drove, point in, to the scarred wood of the beam. The weak sunlight quivered off the blade as it hummed with the force of its throw. "You'll need a better plan for dealing with a lich than you have with me," Pinch announced darkly as the younger man wheeled about in frightened surprise. The older man sat upright, not nearly as drunk as he was before, his off-hand poised where it had stopped at the end of the throw. Sprite and Maeve had swung around to his side of the table, letting it show where their loyalty—such as it was—lay. "Lich—you didn't say nothing about no lich." Therin's voice was weakly brave. His face, flushed with temper moments before, was rapidly losing its color to an ashen pale. "What lich?"

"Lich?" Sprite gulped, looking to Pinch. "We been working for a lich?" "Aye," the old man answered, never once looking away from Therin. With his good hand, he drew another dagger from the scabbard at his wrist. "We're dealing with a lich." Therin slowly came back to the table and set the bag down. "Maybe I was being a bit hasty, Pinch. It wasn't like a challenge—just a chance for you to live a gentleman's life while we did your dark work for you." The Gur looked desperately to the other two. "It was like that, wasn't it?" As if joined in a single malicious thought, Sprite and Maeve let him dangle for a bit before answering. A line of sweat trickled down the young man's temple. "Sure, Pinch," Maeve finally drawled, "he was only thinking about you and your well-being. Can't you see?" "S'right. I'm sure he's touched with concern," the halfling added with a malicious grin. "Indeed, he even told me yesterday how he was thinking of giving you his share of the swag from this job." "That's right, Pinch. I think you've earned it." As costly as it was, Therin seized on the halfling's suggestion. The fact that he had almost blundered into trading with a lich had unnerved the man. The now-undisputed regulator nodded his head. The Gur stifled a sigh of relief. The nod was all he would get, but it was a sign the peace was made—for now. " 'Tis proper generous of you, Therin," Pinch purred, "but you're building the house before the foundation's set. For there to be shares, we got to collect our fee." "He's not likely to pay?" Maeve asked. " 'It'—and it'll want us dead. Me, in particular." Sprite prodded the goods in the bag. "Just who we dealing with, Pinch? This

Cleedis ain't no lich." Pinch massaged the rough brand on his palm. The drink and facing down Therin made him feel expansive. "Cleedis is just a go-between. Manferic's our real employer." "Manferic?" "The late king." "Wounds!" Sprite sputtered wine all down his chin. "Is he that vile?" Maeve asked hopefully. "He's a lich. What do you expect?" Therin pointed out. "Moreso and worse. I should know; he was my guardian. When I was ten, the peasants on the nobles' estates drew up a list of grievances against their lords. It seemed they were taxed at twice the rate demanded by the crown, old men were executed when they could no longer farm, and young boys were driven by whip into the ranks of the militia. Five of their bravest presented the list to Manferic—" "And he killed them?" "Nothing so simple," Pinch corrected. "That would have been almost human. No, he listened to their complaints and promised them action. The next day, while he 'considered' their request, he sent Vargo and Throdus with a detachment of priests to the houses of these five men. They killed the wife in each household and animated the corpse. The next day, Manferic said he would enact reforms—provided the men loved and honored their wives for the rest of their days. Should one of them fail, he would exact his revenge on all the rebels. It did not take long before he had the chance." Sentimental Maeve let a tear well up in her eye while the other two looked uncomfortably at the floor. "Unnatural monster," muttered Therin. "The Gur know about lords like him—always persecuting our kind, blaming us for their crimes." "So what's this Cup and Knife got to do with it?" Maeve asked to change the subject.

"You told us how they use them to pick a king, but how's that going to help him? He's dead already." "Won't do him no good at all, since Iron-Biter interfered. The real Cup and Knife are still in the tower. Right, Pinch?" "No." Pinch looked about the common room. It was deserted at this time of the morning. Even the landlord, seeing there was to be no fight, had gone into the back to tend to the day's chores. As he spoke, the regulator unwrapped the pouch in front of them all. "Like you said, Sprite, Iron-Biter's a fool. Remember that I had two copies of the regalia made? "Well, when Iron-Biter made me pass over the garbage, he never thought to check for forgeries. All I did was give him the other fake—so he switched fake for fake. Never occurred to him that I had the real ones on me all that time." With that, Pinch finished opening the pouch and drew out four golden, jewel-encrusted pieces. To the trained eyes at the table, the craftsmanship of the goldwork and the deep luster of the stones was readily apparent in the genuine pieces. A collective sigh of greed escaped the three. Sprite scritched at his curly hair. "Why give it to him, Pinch? We could scamper out and sell this for a good price in Amn or Waterdeep." "Cleedis found me once. If he did it once, he can do it again—and I don't think Manferic will be as forgiving the next time as he has been now." "Well, I don't see it. What's he gain from the stuff?" Maeve asked again. "I'm not sure, but I think he means to control the choosing. Everybody's been saying Cleedis is backing a dead horse—my idiot cousin, Bors. Just suppose, though, that the idiot becomes king. Then Cleedis doesn't look so dumb. It's as certain as Sprite here rolling a rigged bale of dice that if Bors is chosen, Cleedis will name himself regent

before anyone can protest." "Fine for Cleedis, but that doesn't do a thing for Manferic." "Cleedis is weak. His only strength is his loyalty. Make him regent and he'll be Manferic's lapdog for sure. Until Manferic does him in and takes over directly." Therin shrugged. "So what's it matter to us if a lich takes the throne here or not?" "Ever hear tales of Thay?" Maeve warned. Ruled by undying sorcerer-kings, Thay's excesses and cruelties were legendary throughout the Realms and were a particularly sore point with wizards of nearly every stripe. "We don't," Pinch interrupted. "We don't a care a pizzle for who rules here. All we want is to get out of here alive." "And rich," Sprite added. A gloom fell over the group, one of those sullen silences that seems to strangle conversations at regular intervals, this one probably infected by Maeve's sour scowl. Drunkard and scalawag she might be, but she was still a mage and didn't like the notion of liches playing with their unnatural magic. "Show us how it works, Pinch, this ceremony you were telling us about," Sprite asked in an attempt to lift their dour moods. He hopped up onto his chair and set the genuine artifacts in front of his fellow rogue. "Maybe that'll give us some clue." The question brought back memories of Pinch's youth, when he was Janol playing with his royal cousins Throdus and Vargo. The two princes used to insist he attend their 'coronations,' so they could make him bow and scrape at appropriate times and lord over him for being outside their blessed circle. They loved playacting the rite, nicking themselves with knives to let a few drops fall into a table goblet while they mouthed all sorts of holy prayers. Of course, each prince would naturally be the chosen heir, and so these little charades usually ended with the young princes rolling

on the floor trying to thump the 'impostor' senseless. Pinch had always enjoyed egging them into a fight. Why not? he decided. There was an irony that appealed to him. Now he could playact with the real thing while his dear cousins would go through the real ceremony with fakes. The master rogue grinned and rolled up the sleeve on one arm. "As you will, Sprite; I will show you. "First, there's a whole lot of business that consumes time and makes the whole affair important. Every candidate has to step forward, announce his lineage, something like, 'I am Janol, only son of Sir Gedstad of Alkar.'" "Sir Gedstad?" "My father, Maeve, or so I've been told." "Go on, go on. What happens next?" Sprite eagerly chattered. He propped his chin in his hands and watched intently, always keen on a good story. Even Therin, still hesitant about where he stood, leaned in a little closer. "So then there's some business from the priests, presenting the Cup and Knife to each candidate. A lot of prayers and the like for blessing the whole thing." Pinch actually managed to remember a few and mumbled them out while making pompous passes over the regalia. Without realizing it, he was letting himself get caught up in the business, letting it distract him from his own woes. "When that's done, the two objects are passed down the line." Setting the Cup in front of him, he took up the Knife and very carefully sliced the tip of his thumb. The knife cut through his skin like soft cheese. It stung sharply for such a small cut and, given what he'd been through in the past two days, Pinch was surprised that he noticed it so much. Almost immediately

blood began to form a ruby red bead. "The prince pricks himself and squeezes a little blood into the cup." He let a few drops fall into the golden goblet. "The cup gets filled with wine"—Sprite hopped up and, cradling the jug, sloshed the goblet full—"and the prince drinks." Pinch raised the heavy goblet, waved it in toast to his friends, and drained it in one long draught. He set the Cup down like a tankard and let out a hearty belch before continuing. "If the prince is the chosen heir, then he'll be surrounded by a— "Glow!" It was a breath of whispered astonishment, simultaneous from the three of them. Their gazes were fixed on him, wide eyed beyond all possibility. Sprite tried to step back and practically fell off his chair, while Therin had to lean forward and support himself on the table. Maeve's weak little chin trembled up and down as she tried to form her lips to say something. "What is wrong with you three? What's going on?" "You . . ." "... you're ..." "... glowing." "What? I'm what? You're all drunk." They shook their heads. Pinch snatched up the Knife and looked in the polished blade at his reflection. There it was, a golden nimbus around his head, like the sun setting behind a cloud. Looking around now, he noticed that the whole dark corner of the commons was awash in the sunset hue. In terror, he dropped the Knife and ran his hands over his body to make sure there wasn't some weird growth manifesting itself on him. There was nothing.

"Maeve!" he roared when he couldn't deny that he was indeed glowing. "If this one of your tricks—the lot of you put me up to this!" "No, dearie—I wouldn't. Honest," Maeve squeaked. She was still staring at him wide eyed. "Sprite?" "Not me, Pinch. Wouldn't know how," he gulped in terror. The regulator just glared at Therin, and the man's mute astonishment was enough to set his innocence. Pinch sank limply into his seat. The reflection in the blade showed the glow was still there, slowly fading as he watched. At last it was gone, like the sun behind the horizon. He felt drained. "It's impossible." "It happened, Pinch. We all saw it." "It can't. It only works on those with royal blood." "What about your father?" Maeve questioned. "He was a no-account knight who died in battle. Not him." "Your mother?" "A lady-in-waiting to the queen, I'm told." "Are you sure?" Sprite asked. "I don't remember my parents. All I know is what people told me about them." "Maybe they lied to you," Therin suggested. "Lied? Why?" Therin looked thoughtful for a moment, fingering the Cup. "You say this thing works only for royal blood. So who's got that in Ankhapur? The princes and Manferic—anybody else? Dukes, earls, counts, brothers of the king, people like that?" Pinch shook his head. "Manferic did in his brothers—and his uncles and sisters, the whole lot. Purged his family tree. He was determined that no one would challenge

him." Sprite goggled. "He murdered them all?" "He was king—he had absolute power. If he wanted you dead, you were dead. The beauty of it was he didn't even have to do it himself. That's what lackeys like Cleedis were for." "If they're all dead," Therin continued, "and, like you say, that thing works only on royal blood—then Pinch, there's only one place it could've come from." The regulator swallowed a great gulp of wine. He needed it. "You're saying—" "Maybe that knight's not your papa." The four all stared at each other, nobody wanting to agree but unable to deny the conclusion. "Crap." Pinch broke the silence. "Crap! Damn Manferic's cursed soul!" Years of pent-up fury surged out of him. He hurled his mug across the room, flung aside the table, and kicked away the chairs. Sprite went scrambling for the treasures as they skittered across the floor, while the landlord hurried in from the back room, brandishing his mace. He was confronted by a raging madman, swearing and cursing at demons he couldn't see. The sight of Pinch in this state was more than enough to keep the landlord at bay. Seeing as he had their belongings upstairs for security, the landlord wisely scuttled well out of the way. The three let Pinch rage, not that they had any power to stop him. He fumed about the room, sullenly kicking at chairs and cursing Manferic with every oath he knew. When he'd run out of damnations and tortures to inflict on the lich and his kind, Pinch stopped and turned to the trio who waited at the table. "That bastard robbed me of my birthright," the master said as his shoulders quivered with exhaustion and rage. "He let his precious sons drive me out fifteen years

ago and didn't raise a hand to aid me. I was supposed to have been a prince, not some back-alley bravo." He righted a chair and slid it over to join the others. Enthroned on it, he lapsed into a dark silence. The others held their tongues. Their master was in one of his scheming moods, not to be disturbed until he returned to the surface with some plot in his grasp, like the diver who swims through the blind murk in search of the pearl. Pinch pondered for a long time. There were so many questions and so many pieces: Manferic, Cleedis, Iron-Biter, and—most of all—the woman in the tunnels. Was she his mother? A nursemaid? A madwoman? Or something yet he could not fathom? There were too many questions. "Therin, Maeve, Sprite—gather in," he said when he at last raised his head and noticed them. With his arms beckoning he drew them close. "How would you like to be rich—and respectable?" he asked with a conspiratorial whisper. "Us, Pinch?" Sprite snickered. "There ain't nothing respectable about us." " 'Struth for you, you little weasel, but I've a mind to be a lady someday," Maeve sniffed. "I could stand for being respectable." "Respectable's not worth a whit without money. How rich?" "A treasury at your command, Therin. Is that loot enough for you?" "Aye. If you've got a plan, I'll go along with being rich." Therin still looked dubious. "Does your plan intend taking on this lich?" Pinch looked very solemn until the worst fears of the others confirmed themselves in their looks. Only then did he break into a grin. "That would be a fool's task— so we'll let fools do that for us." "So what's our plan?" Sprite asked, signaling his support of the enterprise. The halfling never could resist an adventure, no matter how rash.

Pinch studied the others to make sure they were all in before he went on. Their eyes told it clear: a bright hunger for adventure, revenge on all who'd looked down on them, but, most of all, money. "The best of all plans—quick wit and light step. I'm going to shake the family tree and we'll see what falls." "It's a thin plan for hanging our lives on, Pinch." Therin sounded less than confident. "It was as much of a plan as I had for getting you off the gallows in Elturel—and that worked, didn't it, or you wouldn't be here complaining, you over-learned ogre," Pinch countered. The big Gur rubbed at the rope-scar under his scarf with self-conscious discomfort. To say he'd been rescued from the gallows wasn't quite honest, though he had to allow that Pinch had rescued him. It was that business of being hanged and then saved that left Therin with nightmares. "It's just I don't relish dying again, Pinch." "Then be smart and you won't." There was little sympathy in Pinch's words, and seeing that the younger man remained sullen, the regulator poured drinks around. "Here's what—we'll not take this alone. I've got a mind we should have some allies, though they won't be knowing it. Maeve, I want to you visit the priestess Lissa. Inform her I've tracked down her thief and that she should stand ready to come at my word if she wants to catch him." "Me, Pinch? I'm not particular cunning with words." "Don't worry, the lass is gullible. You'll make a touching plea, I'm sure. "Therin, I've got a job with profit for you. Mind, it's going to take a light touch. Go to Iron-Biter—" "Who?" "That ox-head of a dwarf who spins in Vargo's orbit. Here's the charm: Tell him he's

been tricked, that the real regalia ain't in the tower, but you can lead him to it. Of course, you'll want money." "Of course, but where am I supposed to lead this prize ass?" "You'll have to wait for Sprite to show you." "Me?" "Aye, you." The regulator stopped to wrap a bit of cloth around his still-bleeding thumb. "It's upon you to give the signal. Now, get away with your business you two." With a sharp nod he urged Maeve and Therin toward the door. Just as he was leaving, Therin turned back for one last question. "What if we don't show?" "Then sure as there's gods in the heavens, there'll be not a whit of loot for any of us, the master rogue promised. "Don't fail if you want your cut." Therin grunted in sour understanding and was on his way. "What about me, Pinch?" Sprite asked after he was sure the door to the street was closed. "Two jobs for you, old friend." The words were soft, as if invisible ears might try to overhear. "First, you must follow Cleedis when he takes me to my rendezvous. Learn the way so you can guide the others to me." "What's the other?" Pinch tapped his brow. "Keep a weather eye on our fine Gur. I don't trust him. He's like to sell us all—me in particular—if Iron-Biter makes the right price." "So why in the hells did you send him to Iron-Biter?" "Fishing takes the right bait and the right hook. I'm the bait. Therin's the hook. Iron-Biter's a fool, but he's not gullible. Who's going to convince him—Maeve, playing a part, or Therin, who just might get it into his head to sell us cheap?"

Sprite stared into the dregs of his cup. "I'd feel better if the dice were more to our favor. It's a risky game you're playing." Pinch poured them both another round. "Don't be so glum. We either live or we die. What other kind of game is there?"

Meetings Pinch swept through the palace halls, leaving a trail of whispers and arched brows in his wake. The regulator paid them no mind. It wasn't how he was dressed, which was a like a proper lord, or the way he passed by. No longer did he casually slouch through the chambers like a bemused man observing the ways of some alien class. No—now he strode through upright and boldly with every sense of possession. He was transformed and carried himself confidently, absolute in the knowledge that he had a place here in his own right and not by the noblesse oblige of others. These things did not set tongues wagging, although they were noticed and added fuel to the speculation. No, that wasn't what Pinch's sharp ears picked up. It was his very presence at all that set the courtiers abuzz. Clearly, word had gotten around—no doubt from Iron-Biter—that he was missing and not expected to return. It pleased the rogue no end that his entry made such a spectacular impression. Now was not the time to be subtle. He wanted everyone to know that he had returned; the consternation it would rouse in certain quarters was only to his advantage. It was late in the afternoon, and the palace was teeming with lord, ladies, pages, and squires. Tomorrow was the Festival of Wealth, which alone would have been enough to fill the palace. Tomorrow was a day more than that, though. The Red Priests had declared that day auspicious for the Rite of Ascendancy. Pinch was certain Vargo had played the astrologer for this choice. With Iron-Biter's assurance that Pinch had been foiled, Vargo would want to act quickly before the stakes changed. Consequently, anyone who hoped to be anything— which meant everyone—had descended on the palace. Counts, knights, poets, and merchants hovered in the halls or held court in the salons. Like gamblers at the track, the courtiers flitted from one

faction to the next, trying to guess the outcome of the race. No man wanted to side with the losing party, but no one wanted to look indecisive either. Friends were to be rewarded, enemies bought or crushed, and neutrals ignored. That was the way of these things. It amused Pinch to read the faces of those around him, their plots so easily exposed in the astonishment of seeing him. Pinch's appearance upset the odds. Suddenly the Lord Chamberlain's faction wasn't so weak and hopeless as it had been moments before. Everyone knew Cleedis had brought Pinch back to Ankhapur, but no one could say for sure why. Only Iron-Biter had any clue, and even he did not know the whole of it. Pinch threaded his way through the crowded salons, passing through the circles of courtiers. First there were the revelers, blissfully dumb of the greater stakes that tomorrow held. Dressed in their festival finery, these vain lackwits came to drink, to dance, and to be seen. Pinch perused them with the eye of a poultry buyer at market, making professional note of their plumage and purses. In his other life, these would have been the targets of his trade. Even now he looked at his stiff hand and yearned for a chance to put himself to the test. Reluctantly he plunged into the next layer, where the ladies danced in stately lines while their lords hovered in knots of casually earnest discussion. This was the realm of hopefuls, those who conspired to advance by guessing the right horse. They eyed Pinch with suspicion and lust, eager to know what he portended, afraid to approach lest they be branded his ally. There was no comparison for them in Pinch's previous life; they had been as far from his reach as the moon and stars. Now he was as much above them and warranted them less concern than he had the revelers of moments before.

The third circle, the core of it all, was his goal. There, in those salons deepest from the city, swaddled in the layers of bodyguards, claimants, and sycophants, were the objects of all concern—the three princes. Cleedis was right where Pinch expected to find him, at the center of Bors's faction. Dwarfed by the soaring pillars of the Great Hall, the shunned coterie of the Lord Chamberlain drifted forlornly, waiting for a vitalizing spark. The princely idiot Bors clapped to the music that echoed from the dancing halls while Cleedis stood in serious conference with the few plump, waistcoated lords committed to his side. They were an unhappy-looking lot, men trapped by their titles, friendships, and favors to what looked for certain a losing cause. Few held any belief that the benevolent gods of Ankhapur would choose Bors as fit to rule the city. Cleedis alone held firm in that faith, futilely trying to rally supporters to his cause. Pinch's arrival carried that wanted spark. The paunchy old knights, former captains of Manferic's army, drew aside for the younger man, younger at least by comparison. "Lord Chamberlain," Pinch said as he came up behind old Cleedis, who to that point had been quietly haranguing a flagging member of his entourage, the Royal Steward of the Stables. The old man stopped talking with a sort of choked gasp and turned about all in one go. It was a credit to his years of toadying that the Lord Chamberlain didn't blurt out his surprise. "Master Janol, how fare you? Rumor was spoken by certain mouths that we would not see you again." "Sometimes rumor are just rumors. I'm well, Cleedis." Pinch let the pleasant smile drop from his mask. "A word, Cleedis. Now. Privately." The old man arched one graying eyebrow. "Of course, cousin. Glindon, send word to Princes Vargo and Throdus that should they hear tales of their cousin's absence,

they are not to worry. Tell them such talk is completely groundless and that he is well and with us here." The page rolled his eyes, trying to remember the exact wording, and then hurried off to complete his task. "Lords, excuse me." Taking Pinch by the arm, Cleedis hurried them both into a small side chamber, barely larger than a dressing closet. The old man shut the door, latched it, and turned on his agent, the bluish veins on his temple standing out. "Where have you been? Vargo's had it out that you're dead or scuppered off someplace. There's been havoc to play with the ranks, positive mutiny. They think I've lost control." The chamberlain was hopping with indignation, furious but dependent on Pinch for answers. "It was near enough to the truth, but I've made it." "Do you have them—the items?" Pinch found the old man's haste annoying. Brokering was a fine art that, properly done, should be approached casually. This eagerness was unseemly. "They're where I can put my hands on them. Let's talk payment. "We did. Fifty thousand bicentas." Pinch regretfully shook his head. "That was then. Now I think the job's worth more." Cleedis sucked at his teeth, clearly unwilling to name a figure. Finally he expansively offered, "Ten thousand more." Pinch laughed a short, derisive snort. He held up his branded hand. "My price is another fifty thousand." It was the chamberlain's turn to sputter. "Fifty more? Impossible!" "I have the items; you don't." "What of that? They're not necessary for the plan," the old man snapped.

Pinch pricked up his ears. It was the first Cleedis had let on that he knew the whole of Manferic's scheme. He answered with a heartless drawl. "It would be unfortunate if the genuine articles were discovered by Vargo or Throdus." "I'll kill you myself first!" "Harm me and it's guaranteed. Cleedis glowered. "Thirty more," he finally said with a sullen mumble. "Forty-five." "Thirty." "Forty, or Vargo learns everything." The old campaigner broke into a hacking cough. "Forty then, damn you," he gasped as the fit subsided. "Forty more it is, Cleedis." With triumphant cheer, Pinch clapped the other on the shoulder. "In gems—mixed sizes and properly appraised. Don't try to cheat me on that. My friends have good eyes for stones. Agreed?" "Agreed." There was hardly any cheer in Cleedis. "It will all be ready when you deliver the Cup to Manferic." "Me deliver? No, I'll pass it to you." "Our lord insists you bring it to him. The stones will be ready then." It was the chamberlain's turn to drive a hard bargain. "If you do not deliver, there will be no payment." "When?" "Tonight—after the banquet." Pinch didn't like it but he could not refuse. There was still one more card in this game he needed to play. "Agreed, tonight." Cleedis shuffled to the door. "After the banquet. Now, I must return before more bolt

from my side." Just as the old man started to open the door, Pinch played his last trump. "One other condition, Lord Cleedis. My mother—you will take me to my mother. The hand stopped on the knob. "That's . . . impossible. She's dead." "Don't lie to me, old fool. I know she's alive and that Ikrit guards her." Pinch was bluffing on a dead hand, but there was no need for Cleedis to see that. "How much do you know?" the chamberlain whispered. "Everything. Manferic, Mother, all of it." They locked gazes, gamblers trying to read the bluff in the other's eyes. The stakes were new to Pinch, but the game he knew. Cleedis tried his statesman's best, but in the end the silent struggle went to the younger man. "I can't," he whispered. "I didn't even know she'd survived all these year until you came. Ikrit was supposed to have killed her long ago." Pinch smiled grimly. The bluff had succeeded; what he'd guessed was true. "Why, Cleedis? Why did he deny me for all these years?" The chamberlain shook his powder-white head. "That you'll have to ask Manferic when you see him— tonight." With that, the weary official slipped away before Pinch could impose any more conditions. The questions asked, Pinch suddenly felt the weariness of his life settle over him. He'd been about for days now with barely a rest, twice beaten, twice healed, underfed, and overimbibed. He couldn't take another revelation, another wonder, without first the benefit of sleep. With a perfunctory bow to the lords assembled, he took his leave of Cleedis's clique and headed for the relative safety of his rooms. As he passed a small salon, he was hailed by a voice that could not be ignored. "Cousin."

Pinch stopped and gave a weary bow. "Greetings, Prince Vargo." "Cousin Janol, stay awhile. I want a word with you." With a sharp signal, the dark-haired prince dismissed those clustered around the chaise where he'd been lounging. "Sit here and attend me." Vargo pulled aside the sweep of his dressing gowns to open a seat for his guest. Pinch inwardly cursed himself for blindly straying too close to the prince's orbit, but now snared he could not escape. A quick scan of Vargo's hangers-on revealed Iron-Biter was not present, and that was a small relief. There was no saying how the dwarf might greet him and Pinch was not ready to find out. Stifling his resigned sigh and falsely filling himself with enthusiasm, Pinch took the seat offered. "There was word you were unwell, cousin," Vargo said as he sipped at his morning tea. He oozed the charm of an unquestioned superior merely marking time to his ultimate victory. "Everyone was concerned." Pinch accepted the tea a servant offered. "My lord, as you see, I am quite well. You should be wary of those who spread gossip. Perhaps they sought to embarrass you." "I considered my source unimpeachable." The false concern was slipping away from his royal host. "And yet I'm here and your source has been impeached." Vargo set his cup aside. "What service have you done for old Cleedis? I know you, Pinch. You're a guttersnipe playing at nobility, like you always were and always will be. Well, guttersnipe, name your price. I can make you a wealthy man. That's what you want, isn't it?" The words hissed with soft anger between them. Pinch ignored the cut. His pride could not be wounded by hollow words. There was only one thing untrue in what Vargo said—he wasn't just playing at nobility. He had the blood in his veins—all these years. Vargo's taunt was the finger that released the bolt,

the magical words that triggered what was locked inside him. All the memories that he'd forgotten, set aside, and ignored roiled back to the surface—the slights at his parentage, the constant reminders that they were greater than he, the threats and promises that always began, "When I become king . . ." Vargo was right, he did have a price. So why not steal from them the only treasure they cared for? It would be the grandest theft of all and it warmed the cold side of his heart. Draining the last of his tea, he stood and politely bowed to his enemy. "What I want, you won't pay me, Vargo." "Name it. Gold? Magic? Women? Charter for a thieves' guild? Iron-Biter? Maybe you'd like the dwarf for your revenge? Take him, do what you want. He's yours if you want him." Pinch just shook his head. "Your crown, the one you covet. For that I might even give you back your life." The prince's face went red, then purple, and Pinch thought for certain he was about to explode in a gale of rage. All at once Vargo burst into a thunder of laughter. The servitors and courtiers craned their necks to see what was happening even while they pretended not to notice. "Wit—even in the face of defeat!" the noble kin croaked out through gasps of air. A tear moistened his cheek. "It is one of your most pointlessly admirable traits, dear Janol. "But know this, cousin," he added as his fit subsided, "you've made a bad choice of stars to set your fate by. Bors will never be king. Should it be Throdus or should it be I, we'll pluck you from our scalp like the flea you are. Now begone. You no longer amuse me." At another wave, the courtiers closed back in again. The audience was over. Pinch

snaked through the chambers, brushing away the insignificants who wanted to talk to him, and returned to his rooms. There the magnificently overstuffed featherbed welcomed him with outstretched pillows. Pinch collapsed into it like a sailor drowning in the arms of the sea. "Sprite, you here?" he asked as he lay staring at the canopy. "Aye, Pinch," came the halfling's nasal voice in answer. "Any troubles?" "Getting in? No—slipped in behind you and you didn't notice," Sprite bragged. "You're getting almost as bad as those guards, blind as posts. It was an easy walk." Pinch smiled where he lay. It was true, the halfling had managed to evade him completely. "What about out?" "I can crack the door and slip behind their backs without notice," the little sneak answered with great confidence. "Like I said, blind as posts." Pinch closed his eyes and felt the abandonment of sleep flowing over him. "Excellent, my friend. Now, get out of here and see that the others are ready, then be back. The meeting's tonight. Be ready to follow me when we leave. Don't fail me on this one, Sprite. I've got the feeling that this one could be my neck. Do you sense it?" "Aye, Pinch. The fur of my feet's quivering," drifted in the halfling's reply, and then there was darkness. ***** The scrape of stone on stone alerted Pinch and he sprang out of bed, still fully dressed, with the expectation of constables pouring through the door. There were no constables, no bed in a cheap stew, no laughter of harlots down the hall, only the warm night air that played over the thick tapestries. In the moment it took to establish his whereabouts, the secret door in the bedroom wall swung open and a sword waveringly

emerged from the darkness. Satisfied that no one was lying in wait, Cleedis entered the room, brushing dust and cobwebs from his robes. "Good," he noted, "you're ready. Let's go." "Go through there?" The chamberlain scowled. "Of course. Did you expect me to traipse you through the halls for everyone to see? People would wonder what we were about at such an hour." If all was right, Sprite was waiting outside for just that signal. Going through the tunnels meant bypassing the halfling and that meant his entire plan was for naught. "This seems like an ill idea to me. There's things down there, trying to kill me. I say we use the door—I can lose anyone who tries to follow us." The old man was adamant. "The tunnels—Manferic waits for us there." "It's too dangerous." "Nothing will harm us." "How can you be so sure?" Pinch challenged in feigned anger, his voice rising in hopes that Sprite would hear it through the door. To increase the odds, he strode into the sitting room as if in a restless fury. "Because I am the chamberlain of the Famisso household, right hand of Manferic the Great, and nothing down there will dare attack me or anyone carrying the privy seal of our lord," Cleedis blustered in exasperation. "Now, end this nonsense and let us go—unless all this is just to hide your own failure. You do have the regalia, don't you?" The clear suspicion in the lord's voice warned Pinch not to press the issue any further. "Very well," he practically bellowed in his false temper, "we'll go by the tunnels!" Even as he did, he prayed to Mask and any other god who cared to grant Sprite particularly sharp ears. Gathering up his goods—his well-used short sword, a fine black cloak, and the

velvet sack that held his treasure—Pinch followed his guide. "Close it," the chamberlain grunted as he set a taper to the lantern he'd brought with him. The rogue seized the handle and pulled the heavy wall shut. Just as it was about to close, he slipped the hem of his cloak into the gap so that it dangled like a pennon on the other side. Though it pained him to ruin such fine clothes, Pinch slashed the fabric away before Cleedis was done. He was barely able to manage it, forgetting until that moment that he had only one good hand. When the sputtering lantern was finally lit, sparks rising from its wick, the old general led the way. The cobweb shadows quivered like veins against the crumbling stone walls. The lantern gave barely enough light to see the way by. "You could have brought a wand or something enchanted with daylight," Pinch sourly observed. "Lord Manferic disapproves," was all the explanation he got. "Of course, I forgot. He's dead." They ventured farther into the tunnels and Pinch could not say if these were routes he'd traveled before. Unsure that Sprite could follow their dust-marred trail, Pinch set to slicing off more bits of his cloak, scraps of cloth for the halfling to follow, assuming he made it this far. He was barely able to grip the fabric in his crippled hand, and the task threatened to be noisy. To cover his actions, he became unusually talkative. "Why do you serve him, Cleedis? He's dead and it's better he was gone." "Lord Manferic is a great man." "He's not a man anymore, and he was more monster than man when he was alive." "He did what he must to protect Ankhapur from its enemies. The city is strong because of him." "What about me, Cleedis? What reason was there to hide my past from me?" Pinch

shot back. "How did I threaten the city?" "I'm sure he did what he thought he must," was the old official's icy reply. "Is that what you'll say when he turns on you?" The rogue cut free another strip of cloth as they reached an intersection. He let it drop at the start of the branch they took. "I have been loyal to Lord Manferic and he recognizes that. He will reward me for my effort." "I see. Bors will be prince, you'll be the regent, and Manferic will dangle you both before the crowds as his puppets. Always the dog, never the one holding the leash, eh, Cleedis?" The old man never broke his slow stride, though Pinch knew the words stung his warrior conscience. "There is no dishonor in loyalty, no shame in the rewards. I have done well by my life, far better than your mangy existence." Another piece cut away. Pinch palmed it and continued his work. "I, at least, have my freedom. I choose what I want and I take it." "Hah! That pathetic lie. Tell me, Janol, are you here now because you choose to be or because you've been trapped by your own greed and lust? You scramble for what I have, and not able to earn it by your own skills, you steal it from others. Or you used to—I've seen your hand though you try to hide it. Tell me, what becomes of a one-handed thief?" Suddenly, Pinch lost his taste for conversation. He followed behind his guide, who was showing unusual vigor as they wound though arched passages, down stairs, and through vaults until they finally reached a large crypt just beyond a bridge that spanned an underground stream. Even before they entered the chamber, Pinch could feel the tingle of fear that had touched him in the necropolis. Manferic, cold and decaying, was near.

Cleedis stopped at the entrance to the room, sheltering the light from the door. "Lord Manferic, I've brought Janol," he announced to the darkness. "Bring him in," resonated the chill voice of the dead. Pinch paused at the door. If Sprite had followed him, he needed to stall for as much time as possible while the halfling scurried back for help. His plan, such as it was, depended on the others. He had few doubts what fate Manferic intended for him once the goods were passed over. He needed the distraction the others would provide if he wanted to escape alive. Cleedis was in no mood to dawdle, perhaps motivated by fear of his dread lord. He impatiently drew Pinch through the door and into the center of the floor. The chamber had the pungent air of shriveled leather, the peculiar dry scent of decay. The chamberlain fiddled with the lamp, lowering the wick until the flame was little more than a spark. It exaggerated the limestone walls even further until they were black canvases upon which played a grotesque shadow play of leaps and shimmers. Something moved at the very outer layer of this bleak hell. Pinch saw it only by a shadow that stretched the thin limbs into an enormous insect scuttling across the wall. The shadow moved with a chiseled rattle that spoke of bones. It sounded like a skeleton the rogue had once stumbled into while breaking into an alchemist's garret, but it made him feel like a moth drawn too near the deadly flame. "Chamberlain, you kept me waiting. There is no time for waiting," the shadow rasped like a bellows wheezing stale air, whispery yet harshly echoing from the stone walls. "My apologies, Your Highness," Cleedis fawned. Using his sword as cane, the old man stiffly got himself down on one knee and bowed his head before the former king. "The path here confounds old men, my lord, and makes them loose their way. I have

brought you Janol so that you can reward his service." The shadow scraped closer, stepping into the edge of the dim light. In the sheltering darkness of the catacombs, Manferic the lich stood uncloaked before them both. It wasn't as disgusting as Pinch expected, in fact it was barely disgusting at all. The thing that had been his guardian—Pinch could not change guardian to father so quickly—this thing almost looked alive. Certainly at midnight Manferic could have hurried through the streets unremarked, at worst a poor consumptive in search of good air. His face was drawn and stripped of fat. The skin was pearly gray and translucent as if someone had painted it over with wax. Pinch had expected the eyes to be deadest of all, but it was just the opposite; they burned with a life more ferocious than any living man's. They were the furnaces of Manferic's will, the driving ambition that kept him alive. In that gaunt face, Pinch barely recognized the likeness of his guardian, now father. Death had not changed him nearly as much as the fifteen years apart from each other. He was thinner and sharper of bone, and he stood half-hunched as if bowed by some great weight. But when he moved and when he spoke, even in that sibilant whisper, he was still Manferic, the imperial arrogance just as Pinch remembered. As Manferic stepped farther into the light, the first impression was denied. A flicker of the lamp highlighted a white spot on the lich's cheek, a spot that suddenly wriggled and twisted. Pinch was suddenly aware of the pale grave worms that wriggled out of the smooth skin and dropped to the floor with every step. They crawled out of the ruin of the lich's ears and tangled themselves into the matted filth that remained of his hair. Manferic, when alive, would never had tolerated this. Dead, the decay that was corrupting his flesh was of no concern. The lich was sustained by the dark combination of magic and will; the body was only a husk to hold it all. This was no longer Manferic

the king, but a thing that Pinch could never call else but "it." "Give them to me," the thing coldly demanded. It turned its burning gaze full on Pinch. The fires of its desire riveted him and then proceeded to pour into his soul the cold terror of its existence. Although the lich was appalling to behold, there was no logical basis for the intensity of his fear. Had it been his sword, his purse, even a friend that the lich demanded, Pinch very certainly would have succumbed, so oppressive was the fear on his heart. Fortunately, what the lich demanded cut to the soul of what mattered for Pinch—to surrender without profit. The rogue clutched the bag. "Payment first." The Manferic thing scowled, unaccustomed, as both lord and omniscient horror, to resistance from a mere mortal. "Indeed," it clicked through its lipless mouth. "And what is that?" "Fifty thousand nobles," Pinch responded, the burden of fear lifting from him. Haggling with a broker, no matter how fearsome, was something he understood, and understanding broke the dread awe. "Vile rogue! The price was set at forty," Cleedis interrupted. Pinch assumed an air of great injury. "Liar? I spoke the truth, dread lord," he lied brazenly. "Enough," rasped the undead thing. "I can well guess the truth of it, Pinch. You forget; I know who—and what—you are." Those fire-filled eyes blazed into the thief, boring pits through the bone. A dread discomfort crawled like lice over the regulator's brain, itching and poking at the very thoughts of his mind. Pinch fought the feeling, tried to block it out. He knew what it meant. The lich was probing his mind, rummaging through the tangled mass of his thoughts and memories.

Pinch knew the trick well enough; it was one of Maeve's old standbys. "I see it clear. You hoped to cheat me of forty—" Manferic cocked its head with the looseness of death. "Father," the lich whispered. Without breaking its transfixing gaze, the thing spoke to the chamberlain, who had prudently stepped aside. "Cleedis—he knows," the mealy lord hissed. "Yes, my lord," the old man fawned, trembling at the darkness in his lord's voice. "He only just confronted me." "So, Janol—you are fatherless no more." Perhaps there was still a mote of sentimentality in the creature that Manferic had become, for the thought probes retreated. Pinch held back his sigh of relief. The lich's feelers had come too close. If Manferic learned he was bargaining for a fake, that would be the end of the whole plan, and Pinch's life, too. Of course, if Sprite didn't arrive soon with the cavalry, it would all be over. He needed to stall. "It explains much," he answered, doing his best to sound detached from the emotion it raised in him. "And nothing. Why did you deny me?" the rogue asked as calmly as he could. Manferic's eyes flared as if to say, "I do not answer to you, mortal," but then the light of hate died away. "You are a bastard. When Manferic was alive, it was not proper to acknowledge a misconceived son." The lich spoke of its living existence as if that were the life of another being. "So why did you keep me around?" Pinch demanded before Manferic could press him for the regalia. He needed the time talk bought. The lich shuffled closer, rotted lips drawn back to show yellow-black teeth, a horrid grimace that might have been a smile. "Because—because Manferic liked you. "Do you think it was an accident—or chance—that Cleedis brought you here? There

are a hundred thieves in Ankhapur, but I sent Cleedis for you. It was no accident; it was planned. With your help, I will rule Ankhapur." The lich rattled to a pause, letting the offer register in Pinch's eyes. "I need your eyes and ears, my son. You will be the master of my spies, you will find my enemies and reveal them to me." The ragged Manferic looked at his maggot-ridden hand with bemused interest. "You will introduce them to me and I will entertain them," he whispered more to himself than to Pinch. Just as abruptly, he once more fixed his fierce gaze on Pinch. "I'm offering you Ankhapur, my son, not just a handful of paltry coins. Who else will do you that well? Give me the regalia and let us share the glory." "So you can kill me as soon as I do?" "I could kill you now and take it," the lich rasped, "but I want you at my side. Manferic knew this day would come." "You and your plots drove me out of Ankhapur." "Strength in woe—that was tempering. You would not be who you are now if you had stayed. You would be a lackey of your legitimate brothers." Manferic pointed a skeletal finger at Pinch's chest. "Now you are strong and resourceful enough to take a place at my side." "Lord Manferic . . ." Cleedis finally found the wherewithal to speak. The old man had pulled from inside himself the fearless cavalryman of his youth. His stooped shoulders were pulled up, the lined face smoothed with determination, and all framed by the billows of his thin white mane. Gone were the trembles, the ague, and the arthritis that had bled his majesty. So firmly outraged, Pinch could see the Cleedis of years past, the fencing master and horseman Pinch had so long ago admired. His voice was filled with cautious indignation. "I have served you loyally, great king, in expectation of my

due—" "Lord Chamberlain, my faithful servant." The lich twisted around to look on the old officer. "There has always been the most honored of places for you in my plans. Indeed, your greatest service is about to come." The chamberlain smiled and bowed with all the humility of a fox, but before he could look up a ray of light the color of an algae-choked pond lanced from Manferic's fleshless finger to strike the loyal noble in the center of his head. It was as if the old man had been struck by a hammer. With a scream, he reeled back but the beam played on him. It rippled over his head and across the side of his face. Everywhere it touched, the skin festered and burst into red-black sores of diseased corruption. Cleedis flailed his arms as if he could beat the light away, but all that did was crisscross his arms with the bloody sores. The scream became a whimper and the whimper became a sloppy gurgle of pus and blood as the ray destroyed deeper and deeper flesh. Cleedis stumbled backward until he fell to the floor and then, mewling, he crawled away, smearing a track of red slime over the rough stone floor. Manferic kept the grotesque ray mercilessly playing over the chamberlain's body as the pathetic wreck tried to drag himself to safety. As the whimpering became bubbling sobs, Pinch turned away. Even for Cleedis, with all his ambitions and lies, this was no deserved end—this ulcerated mass that was bleeding its life out on the floor. Pinch didn't look back until the crackle of the spell had faded. What was left of Cleedis was unrecognizable—a mass of blood-soaked clothes and bubbled flesh that spared not a single feature. "You killed him," Pinch gulped. The grotesque execution stripped away the rogue's normally chill demeanor, leaving him only to gawk at the horror on the floor. "It has all been planned for," Manferic croaked, teeth bared in a garish smile. The

undead king turned to Pinch once more. "Give me the regalia, Janol, my son. Join me against your half-brothers and we will be masters of Ankhapur." "Or? The lich ratcheted its head toward the oozing mass. "Or die," Manferic promised. The cavalry had not come; the choice was no more. Reluctantly, Pinch opened the bag at his side and carefully set the Cup and the Knife on the floor. "Ankhapur together it will be, Father."

Heart-to-Heart "Attend me," Manferic wheezed in his throat-grinding way before withdrawing into the darkness. "Bring your light and come. There is time before I must act." Why should I follow this dead thing, Pinch wondered? The instinct to flee rose in his mind. It was a good instinct, one that Pinch had learned to heed and treasure over the decades. He'd listened to it as a thief, and even before when he'd fled Ankhapur. It was urging him to flee now. It would be easy to outrun what Manferic had become, and he was willing to risk a spell in the back rather than enter this monster's lair. Perhaps Manferic knew his bastard son too well, for with a single word he understood Pinch's mind and acted on it. "Ikrit." A stealthy rustle and a throaty animal growl demanded he look to see its source. Sure enough, behind him was the silver-white shadow of Manferic's pet quaggoth. A feeling of professional amazement incongruously struck Pinch as he marveled at the creature's skill in escaping notice. Of course Manferic would have resources here. Pinch should have known. The lich might be dead, but that didn't matter. It was the power of its mind that sustained it. There was no choice. The choice had already been made, and there was no avoiding the consequence. Perhaps it would be no worse than remaining in a room with a still-festering mass of flesh. There was an odor beginning to rise from it, the scent of rotted fish. It was something more than that, the smell of an almshouse during plague, where the wretched diseased, too poor to donate to wealthy healers, suffered through their erupted pustules and fevers to live or die as the gods chose. Carefully avoiding the puddles of putrescence, Pinch followed his newfound father

into the dark void. A heavy tread confirmed that Ikrit was close behind. The flame that clung to the end of the lantern wick guttered and swayed as he walked, creating ghastly shadows that wrapped themselves like veils around the tattered cloak of his guide's corrupted flesh. Pinch didn't follow too closely, pushed back by the stench of decay. He hadn't noticed it before, his sense of smell sealed by fear. As he followed the lich through the tunnels, Pinch's mental wheels sought to formulate a new plan. There was still a hope that Sprite would come and pick up the trail. Indeed, even he, no tracker or woodsman, could have followed the trail of rot and grave worms that dripped from beneath Manferic's cloak. Of course, it was more likely that all help was lost to him. Alone, there was little hope. With his branded hand, he could hardly manage a sword, so there was no chance of cutting his way past the quaggoth, even if he were a trained swordsman—which he was not. Likewise, he had no magic the match of Manferic's skills, so escape by that means was unthinkable. He could try slipping into the darkness in hopes that they would lose him, but that was a fool's chance he wasn't yet so desperate to try. The single choice that remained was to take advantage of what Manferic offered, as duplicitous and uncertain as that offer might be. Pinch had no faith in the truth of the lich's words. The creature wanted him for something, though for what he could not say. At last they came to passages familiar to Pinch, passages beneath the palace. These they followed past branches the rogue ought to have known, if he'd had more time, until at last they reached a stairs he was positive he knew. The way rose up and curved, and ended in a blank wall. They had returned, back to Pinch's apartment by some roundabout way. The quaggoth dutifully pressed against the barrier, and the stone swung open with a grating groan. No fabric fluttered out of the jamb, Pinch

quietly noted. Sprite and crew were somewhere underground. "The lights, put them out," Manferic commanded, standing aside to let the rogue through. Pinch did so, all save one, as the quaggoth followed him about the chambers. When the job was finished, the beast herded him over to a hard stool by the bed, there to stand watch over the man. Once the room was dim, Manferic ignored his prisoner to rummage through the drawers and chests of Pinch's belongings. At first, Pinch feared the lich had guessed his deception, but the search was far too calm for that. It was going through his clothes, tossing aside cloaks, doublets, garters, and robes, apparently selecting a wardrobe. "Get dressed," the lich croaked, tossing the clothes to Pinch. "You don't want to miss the ceremony." The creature clicked its teeth in cold laughter. Pinch did as he was bade, all the time watching for some chance to escape. There could be no good end for him in all this. "You have questions, don't you?" Manferic teased while the rogue slowly dressed. Pinch said nothing, suspicious that the lich's sudden garrulousness was some new trap. "Of course you do—like why did Manferic raise you? Go ahead, ask," the lich urged with a rattling chuckle. "Ask and you will learn." "Then why?" The rotting face did its hideous smile. "You were Manferic's insurance," the lich explained, persistently talking about its own past as if it belonged to another. "Insurance against his sons." "Insurance?" Wonders of all, Manferic apparently felt talkative, like the aging father passing his wisdom down to his son. The lich was sentimental in a cold and heartless

way. "If his sons rebelled and he was forced to kill them, he wanted you alive to continue the bloodline." "So he fathered me and kept it secret—" "So you would not turn against him as he feared his sons would." The cold-blooded reasoning of it matched Manferic's mind perfectly. "Why did he force me to leave? I don't believe a word about making me stronger." Unconsciously, Pinch talked as if Manferic were someone else, too. "Manferic realized he could create me. Why should he try to continue his dynasty through the blood of others when he could live forever? You became a danger to making me," the lich answered. From the way the lich talked about itself, Pinch could only decide it was mad. The spells, the will, and the decay had destroyed something in Manferic's mind. The lich might have the memories, the evil and the cunning, but it was no more Manferic than Pinch was. It was a transformation of souls, as the old king descended into something even viler and more grotesque than it had been in life. Pinch had seen fatherly love in all its forms—fathers who trained their sons in the highway law, fathers who sold their daughters to wealthy men, even those who turned in their own to the authorities for coin—but even these could not compare to the scale of reptilian cruelty that Manferic aspired to. An involuntary shudder seized him at the thought of such cruel manipulation. "So Manferic tried to kill me and get rid of the problem," Pinch said bitterly as he finished dressing. The heavy hand of the quaggoth forced him back into his seat. Meanwhile, the lich produced a gem from the folds of its robe and set it on the floor between them.

"No," the undead thing sighed, "it was not Manferic. It was your half-brother, Prince Vargo. Manferic simply withdrew his protection from you. He did not want you dead, only gone. A good scare to send you away. There was always a chance he might need your bloodline, that his plans might fail." "Who was my mother?" Pinch was still stalling for time, but he truly wanted the answer to this. "As you were told, the Lady Tulan, lady-in-waiting to the queen." "What happened to her?" "Manferic hid her in the catacombs until the baby was born," the lich answered with icy detachment. "Then he gave her to Ikrit." Pinch looked over his shoulder at the huge, hairy man-thing. "You guard the lady?" The creature bared a fang and grunted, no confirmation or denial. It was as much as the creature would say before its master. The lich's burning gaze fixed on the dirty white creature. "Interesting..." it whispered. Pinch sensed that he'd spoken more than he should. If it had been only Ikrit, he would have irked the two to conflict, but there was another at stake here he did not want to sacrifice—the lady in the tunnels. If she was his mother, Pinch wanted to protect her from harm. He needed her to prove his claim, he rationalized, forgetting that his chances of escape were slim. "So why drag me back?" he asked to quickly change the subject. The lich's fiendish gaze shifted to Pinch. "Does this look like success?" It snarled as it brushed its wormy cheek with a skeletal hand. "All the books, all the scrolls never promised anything like this! I need a new body ... and you will provide it. Ikrit, hold him!" The quaggoth clamped its paws on Pinch's shoulders till the claws stabbed into the

flesh. This was the last moment, he knew, so the rogue twisted and fought with all abandon. He kicked at Manferic, but the lich stayed well out of the way, and all his writhing only made the giant guardian press him down all the firmer. While he kicked and screamed, the lich coolly went about its preparations. "Scream as you wish. No one will come." Pinch gave it up, knowing the monster was right. No doubt Cleedis had ordered the guards to leave them undisturbed when he first came in. "Hold him, but don't hurt him," the creature warned. "I want my new body undamaged." The lich seemed positively cheerful. "You see," it explained as it arranged the gem between them, "I don't intend to spend eternity looking like this. I want a strong body." "You could have had anyone. Just steal one off the streets," Pinch protested between kicks. "And walk through the halls wearing the husk of a street rat? The palace guards would never let me in." The lich positioned itself opposite Pinch. "I was going to use Cleedis, but he's so ... old. The other princes are too well known. There was too much to learn to be one of them. Their friends would be suspicious. You are perfect. A place in the palace and no past to encumber me." "I have friends." "Ah, your three companions. I know about them. Cleedis informed me. He was quite thorough—right to the end." Preparations finished, the lich sat at the edge of the bed. "No one will mourn their deaths. Just sewer scum the city is best rid of." Pinch winced at that. He had worked hard to protect himself and the others from that fate, and now his efforts would be to no avail. "This will be interesting," the lich continued. "A new experience. You see, I will replace you in your own body, while you will be trapped in this jewel." It nodded to the

stone between them. "And then, I will have Ikrit crush the jewel and your essence will vanish into the void. An interesting experience for you, though rather shortlived." The lich drew itself up, ready to utter the words that would close the spell. Hands raised, it parted its teeth and— "Your plan is flawed!" Pinch blurted, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The lich sensed his desperation. "It will work perfectly," it sneered. "Oh? What about Cleedis? How can you rule Ankhapur if your broker is dead? You needed him to be regent, and like a fool you killed him back there. No one in Ankhapur would tolerate me as their sovereign." Pinch tried to sit himself up straight in support of his bluff. The lich shook its moldering head. "Is this my only spell? Why should I be one person when I can be three? It is a simple thing to change a face with a single spell. I will be Janol or Cleedis as I choose, but I will always be Manferic in my soul. When all the princes fail the test, they will be forced to name me regent. "Enough of this—Ikrit, don't let him escape." Pinch lashed out wildly as the lich began the rite. He tried every foul move he could, aiming his elbow for the creature's lower regions and stamping to break the beast's foot. None of it worked. The lich droned through its litany, brittle voice rising in triumph as it reached the last syllables. At the final phrase, the lich's body collapsed like the dead body it truly was. The legs folded uselessly, the raised arms flopped, and the head lolled in meaningless directions as the carcass fell to the floor. A scattering of lice and worms spilled from the sack—the scattered pollen of death. It didn't work, Pinch exulted. The lich's spell and his plan had failed. With burst of joyous strength that caught the baffled quaggoth off guard, Pinch broke from the

beast's corded grasp and dashed for the door. He would throw it open, the guards would come, and— An invisible, intangible spike hammered right through Pinch's brow. It was a heated nail of hateful ambition that cracked his skull and burrowed into the heart of his brain. It ripped at the lines of his self, the ties that anchored his being to his body. With swift cuts, Pinch's body vanished from his psyche. He went blind first as something seized his eyes. The sounds of his crashing across the room vanished next, leaving only the rush of pain as his connection to the world. Pinch tried to fight this waylaying of his body, to concentrate on who he was, but his effort was crushed by a ferocious onslaught of hateful will. In a brief glimpse, he saw the form of it, the raw essence that had kept his father alive—even beyond death. And then there was nothing. Blind, mute, and disconnected from his nerves, Pinch was stripped of the weight of his flesh and cast into a void. There was no color, no darkness, not even the sense of seeing. There was no pain or absence of it, no stale smells of prison-trapped air. There was no body to breathe. All that remained of Pinch were the lessons life had given him, the bitter memories, the ambitions, and the uncertain belief that he still existed. But just what was he? With ample time to consider, for time too was lost to him, Pinch arrayed the options that memory presented him. Manferic said he'd be trapped in the jewel, but also that he was going to crush it. So was he alive ... or dead? He compared all the ends he'd ever heard described, but his bland, existenceless state was hardly the vile doom predicted by the thundering prophets who'd railed against his sins. None of them had ever said, "You shall spend your eternity in a colorless void." Pinch rather wished they had; perhaps if he'd known he'd spend his eternity adrift in a blank, he would have amended his ways. The prospect of being trapped

here—wherever here was—was not a promising prospect. But what, it dawned on him, did he mean by the end of time? Cut loose from his moorings, what was now and what was then lost all meaning. He tried to guess the timed drops of a water clock or the sweep of a sundial's shadow, but without his body to set the rhythm, it was no use. His second could be an hour, a day, or an eon someplace else. A panic roiled his thoughts—that alone was curious. His thoughts fled in all directions and refused to be marshaled, but he never felt the clutch of jolted nerves that would normally signal his desperation. It was fear on ice, intellectually there but unacknowledged by the primal signals that made it live. What if there is no end to time? What if time ends, but I live on? If one can't feel its passing then how can it end—or start? Without time, is there a forever? Pinch knew that whatever the answer was, he would go mad in this empty hell. A glare of brilliant light brought the end of his speculations, followed by a rush of sensation that overwhelmed his mind. Sight, scent, feeling, and sound— the echoing crack of a shattering. Pinch's sight was all skewed. He was too close to the floor and everything was brighter than it should have been; even the darkest corners the room were well lit. I must have passed out and this is where I fell, he thought. How much time has passed? was his second thought. With great care he tried to look around, barely turning his head just in case Manferic and Ikrit were watching. He must have fallen harder than he thought and banged his head, because his joints were stiffer than they ought to be. He noticed that, except for his sight, all his senses were curiously dulled. His mouth was salt-dry, too. From where he lay, Pinch caught sight of Ikrit just at the unfocused rim of his vision. The big creature was pulling on something. At first Pinch couldn't tell what, but then the

grate of stone made it clear. The quaggoth was going through the secret door, leaving him alone. The rogue didn't understand. According to Manferic, he was supposed to be trapped in a gem or dead, his spirit dissipated throughout the universe. He certainly did feel like either, not that he regretted the lich's error. Something must have gone wrong, ruined the spell, and driven Manferic away. Maybe the cavalry had arrived just in time. There had been more incredible strains of luck in his time. Half-expecting and hoping to see his friends waiting behind him, Pinch started to rise. He set his bony, half-rotted hand— A squirming maggot plopped to the floor by his thumb. It couldn't be his thumb, not this gray-green, decaying thing. It was Manferic's hand, it was ... Slowly Pinch raised his gaze and looked about the floor. There it was, the source of the cracking noise that had greeted him when he woke: a scattering of crystalline shards and razorlike powder. It was the remains of Manferic's stone. It had trapped him, and Ikrit had crushed it, just as the lich had promised. But now he was in Manferic's rotting body and that wasn't supposed to happen. The regulator stumbled to his feet, struggling in the unfamiliar body. Everything about it was the wrong length, with the wrong play of muscles. He lurched to the great mirror that hung over traveling chest. The light that was painfully bright to his eyes was a gloom in the glass and barely enough to reflect his features. After one look, Pinch was thankful for that. Pinch calculated himself only mildly vain, but such an estimate was impossible when a man couldn't look truly outside of himself. Intentionally or no, Manferic had give the rogue that opportunity. The mirror reflected a horror—the wriggle and twitch of the

things that lived under the skin, the peeling patches of the scalp, the black shredded ruins that were once lips; even the tongue was a swollen, oozing mass. A grave worm wriggled through a small gap in his teeth. Pinch choked. He wanted to throw up, but his body wouldn't obey. There was nothing inside him, not even breath on which he could gasp. Liches didn't eat, didn't breath. They had no blood in their veins. Now he knew the level of his vanity. If condemned to remain like this, he would rather die. His face and his hair, no amount of fine clothes would ever hide these. This was more than just a branding of his hand. He had railed against that, but when it was over he knew he would live—even keep his old trade. This compared not at all to that. He wasn't Pinch anymore; he wasn't even a man. Life as a monster was intolerable. Perhaps Pinch had inherited more from his father than he ever knew, for when he finally pulled himself away from the horror that faced him, he did not give up. The choice came to him—to end it, though he was uncertain just how a lich might die—but he rejected that plan in favor of another. So long as Manferic walked, there was hope that he could force the creature to reverse what it had done. If he died trying, he could certainly be no worse than he was now. Determination filled him, gave him a glint of the light that had filled Manferic's eyes. Holding back the disgust that it filled him with, the rogue tested his new body, rose to his feet, and resolved to repay the monster for what it had done. It did not matter where it had gone wearing his own shell; there was only one place he could go in its. That was back underground. If Manferic was wandering the halls of the place, he could not follow. His last hope lay in Ikrit. If Tymora spun her wheel and it favored him, the rogue knew he just might be able to track Manferic's brute servant back to the dead king's lair.

Shuffling to the secret passage and shedding soft blobs of his borrowed body, Pinch forced the wall open and set off in search of his prey. As he descended the steps, his mind eagerly sought out the grandest punishment for vile Manferic it could devise.

Walking Dead The first thing the regulator noticed as he eased himself down the narrow staircase was the uncanny brightness of the place. Then he realized he hadn't brought candle or lantern with him. There was at least one advantage to having the lich's body, though it hardly compensated for the crime wrought upon him. The next thing Pinch noticed was how much easier it was to track. He understood now how the quaggoth moved through the tunnels so easily. The dark passages had the appearance of an overcast day. The question was, where had the beast gone? The creature had a considerable head start and could have chosen any number of paths. The rogue's only resource, the dust-laden floor, was a useless guide now. It was all churned and muddied by comings and goings till it was far beyond his ability to read anything in it. In this the rogue's luck held, for the quaggoth was just in sight. The great white beast was ambling down the passage, not imagining it was being followed. The second fortunate thing was that being dead had not robbed Pinch of all his skills. He still knew to creep and skulk about, though knowing was not the same as doing. It was one thing to know how to step lightly, but the rogue wasn't sure he could get the rotting hulk that was his prison to cooperate. There was only one way to know, and that was by trying. He set out as light-footed as he could, but in his desire for stealth every noise was agonizingly magnified. There was no time to gain a proper body sense of the lich, so every move was accompanied by a cluster of scrapes and bumps even the dullest novice could have avoided—and Pinch especially if he had been in his own flesh. His bone-bare feet went scritch-scritch over the hard stone. Little bits of his body splashed softly splashed into the puddles at the wet spots. They

weren't loud noises, but they were loud enough to Pinch's ear and pride. Nor did they pass unnoticed. Several times Ikrit stopped and eyed his back trail suspiciously, even at moments when Pinch swore he made no noise. The beast wrinkled his broad nose, and that's when Pinch realized he had another complication. The corpse stank. It was "the corpse" and not himself—the rogue refused to accept Manferic's body as his new identity. He remembered that Manferic's body could foul the air of a perfumery. The body's nose was apparently immune to its own fetor, for he could not catch a whiff of it, but apparently the quaggoth was not immune. Now not only did he have to be stealthy, he apparently also had to remain upwind of his prey. If not, he'd be the first thief ever discovered by his stench. Not the epitaph he wanted on his grave, that was for certain! The stalking game of cat and mouse continued, although it was never clear who was the cat and who the rodent. Ikrit stopped far too frequently to suit Pinch yet never seemed to tumble to the rogue's presence. It was almost as if the quaggoth were hearing something else that eluded Pinch's dulled ears. The result was a maddeningly slow pace for the thief. He was of the utter conviction that time counted for everything, that his body had to be regained by the coronation. After that, reaching Manferic/Janol/Cleedis—it was impossible to choose a single name for the lich—would be well-nigh impossible. The privileges of the palace would surround the creature, and between the guards and the lich's spells it would be impossible to get close to the dread lord. Pinch's mind had already plotted that the best hope lay in the sheltering confusion of the festival. The lich was most apt to be distracted now before its triumph was complete. But what then? Assuming he found Manferic, how was Pinch supposed to get his body back? The rogue had no idea. Manferic certainly wasn't going to give it up easily,

not after all the trouble he'd gone to just to collect it, and Pinch had no spells to force the issue. Damnation, he wasn't even sure what had happened to him! All he had was his faith in improvisation, the belief that if somehow he saw his way through, something would give him a chance. There was only one problem with his determined optimism. Ikrit wasn't cooperating. With his improved eyesight and his past experience, Pinch knew enough to say the ape-thing wasn't bound for Manferic. It was avoiding all the tunnels Pinch remembered and plunging into areas the thief did not recognize. Admittedly, there was only so much he could remember about darkened stone, but the haze of dust clearly meant that no one had passed this way in recent time. This was not good, but what could he do? Short of marching through the halls of the palace, Ikrit was his only lead. He had to follow where the beast led. Thus he was trailing the creature, slipping into a crack in the catacomb wall when it paused for the hundredth time, that Pinch was caught unawares. As he was peering carefully from his shallow hiding place, the angry buzz of a hornet sang loudly in his sense-clogged ears. A shadow hurtled past and skipped onto the stone between him and the quaggoth with a rattling clatter. As the thief was held prisoner by amazement, trying to fathom what had just happened, the silence was rent by cries of war. Ahead of him, doing all things at once, the quaggoth bellowed with bloody rage, dropped into half-doubled crouch, and charged, talons bared, straight down the corridor for him. Gods pluck a rose, Pinch panicked, he's seen me! With his instinct to run in full alarm, the regulator spun about as quick as the rickety body would let him— And came nigh-on face-to-face with two hundred-plus pounds of charging dwarven hate. The barrel-chested, black-bearded little man had cast aside a crossbow and was

in the act of whirling an iron-studded mace over his head for a furious blow. "Death to the king!" Iron-Biter roared. Pinch flopped his decrepit body back into the niche in which he'd sheltered. He was barely fast enough. Just in front of him, all forces collided in the narrow passage. Iron-Biter's mace hit the wall scant inches from the rogue's forehead. Stone ripped in sharp splinters and ricocheted around his head. The shards tore into Ikrit's outstretched arms as the quaggoth slammed into the stocky dwarf like a brawling stevedore. The impact flung the dwarf backward, and it was only his warblood, which even a surplice couldn't change, that gave him the determination to hold his footing. Ikrit slashed with his broken claws, ripping ragged gashes through the dwarf's armor. Blood leaked over the rent chain mail. Pinch squeezed into the scant hollow as deep as he could. The battle raged too damn close for him to be safe. Ikrit's back-cocked elbow slammed him in the chest, spraying rot over his tattered cloak. If he'd been Pinch and not this festering thing, the blow would have punched the wind out of him like a noisy sack. Fortunately, at this moment, he didn't breath. "Clubs!" Maeve's familiar voice shrilled from down the passage. It was a warning to her friends to stand clear, a slang the mage used just before she was about to cut loose with a spell large and nasty. "Maeve, for the gods' sakes—NO!" Pinch yelled with the realization that he was almost certainly standing at the blast center of whatever it was. The scream, though, was absurd: far too shrill, far too unbelievable to be heeded. Abandoning the wisdom of eyes to the foe, Pinch threw his cloak up and huddled against the wall. Almost immediately, the clang and squeal of battle was complemented by a thunderous crack. The rogue had heard the sound oft before, and every time it re-

minded him of the bang of smoke powder rockets from Shou. The air exploded in a tingling concussion of heat and static, punctuated by first one metallic howl of pain and then a second, more bestial, squeal. Jagged ribbons of blue fire embraced the huddled thief, rippled the scant hair, and sparked in front of his eyeballs. The maggots and worms fell in roasted flakes from his corpse, but the electric agony Pinch awaited never materialized. Staggered by amazement, Pinch rose from his huddle to confront the battle once more, except that there was no battle left. The passage in front of him was a bloody smear of white fur and broiled flesh. What was left of Ikrit had been flung a good rod down the passage. The body was there, but the quaggoth's flattened broad head was all but gone, transformed into a smoldering, blood-strewn blot. Ikrit was dead, without even a convulsive hint at life. Even as he absorbed the sight, the battle began again all too fast. "Die, you thing of evil!" a shaky voice commanded. Iron-Biter was staggering to his feet even as he held forth the seal of his order. The dwarf was calling upon the majesty of his god to undo the evil that bound this undead thing to the world. The only problem was that, being undead only in the flesh, Pinch just didn't fit the mold. The words and the display had no effect on him. Nonetheless, the dwarf gave it his best, screwing up his blood-splattered face in a grotesque mask of concentration. He was bleeding from gashes over his shoulders and chest, his leather and iron helmet was twisted black from the bolt, blood flowed from a loose flap in his scalp to soak his bearded cheek, and his whole frame shook with exertion, but the dwarf intoned his orison with a will. Behind him, well back and awaiting the outcome, were the rest of the ragtag band: Sprite, Maeve, Therin—and Lissa in their tow.

Pinch almost wanted to laugh at the futility of it, but there was no time. Realizing this monster was not to be turned, Iron-Biter threw aside the effort and changed his chant. The words and gestures were a spell. Pinch didn't know what, but it couldn't be good for him. The dwarf had death and murder in his eyes. Pinch had to stop him now or not at all. Besides, there was the matter of old scores to settle. Even as the dwarf raised his voice in the final binding of the spell's power, Pinch lunged forward. He had no weapons, little hope of besting the bear-sized dwarf in a hand-to-hand battle, and no particular courage for straight-up fighting, but it was a long sight better than standing still to be blasted to shreds. His lunge startled the priest, who expected to fight with magic and not his hands. Pinch got one hand on Iron-Biter's arm, wrenching awry the intricate patterns he'd been weaving in midair. To the rogue's amazement, the skin beneath his corrupt fingers instantly turned an icy blue, the lines of his chilling touch tracing their way up the dwarf's veins toward his heart. Seizing on that opening, Pinch got his other hand closed around the throat, squeezing to a gurgle what would have been a scream if the rogue weren't crushing the little priest's windpipe. The frozen blue pallor spread underneath the dwarf's beard and emerged on his cheekbones. Iron-Biter was far from defenseless, though. With his free arm he swung his holy symbol, a weighty replica of the Cup. It cracked against hollow ribs with enough force that Pinch knew it had caused harm. His mind told him that, but his nerves remained dead to the blow. No pain, he thought, a lich must feel no pain. He squeezed tighter, and that's when he made his next discovery. Along with the icy touch, Pinch had inherited the lich's strength. His bloodless fingers squeezed down. Flesh tore and bones snapped within his grasp. Iron-Biter's eyes bugged as he corded

his neck muscles to hold off the pressure. It was a losing battle and the dwarf knew it. He dropped the mace and scrabbled for something at his belt. No mercy, Pinch knew. Iron-Biter would show him none, and he couldn't afford to give any. He squeezed harder, starting to hear the clicking grind of cartilage giving way. Over the dwarf's shoulder, five motes of light hurtled from Maeve's fingertips to strike Pinch cleanly. With each he rocked a little, like the impact of an arrow, and like the mace he knew these were hurting him though he felt nothing. This had to be ended quickly or his friends would kill him, all the time believing him to be Manferic. The dwarf pulled something from his belt—a short stubby stick of intricate workmanship. It was some kind of magical rod, Pinch knew, especially since the end glowed with magical fire. The dwarf never got a chance to use it. Discovering his strength, the rogue heaved the massive dwarf easily from the floor and slammed him against one wall and then the other. It was exhilarating, hurling his tormentor about like a helpless rat. With each crash his grip on the dwarf's windpipe tightened until at last there was a loud crack as the vile priest's neck snapped. Triumphant against his own odds, Pinch hurled the body to the floor. "Should have killed me in the tower, you bastard!" the rogue snarled in victory. "Clubs!" It was Maeve again. The target clear, she was readying another of her massive spells, one that Pinch knew in his heart he would not survive. He did the only thing he could thing of. He dropped to his knees and threw up his hands in complete submission. "Maeve—don't! It's me, Pinch!" His voice was a dry screech, ignoble but to the

point. The woman's hands raised— And then dropped. It had worked. At least Maeve hadn't blasted him to shreds. He could see the four of them in hasty conference. Finally Therin sidled to the front. "Move and she'll finish her spell. Understood?" "Of course, Therin," Pinch croaked back, his heart in his mouth—if he still had a heart. "Who are you?" Therin shouted, not coming any closer. "I told you—Pinch. Manferic switched bodies with me." There was another huddled conference at the far end of the passage. "Impossible. That's bull—" "It happened." "Prove it." Prove it? How in the hells was Pinch supposed to do that? He thought for some secret that only he would know. "Sprite," he finally called out, "remember Elturel, in the Dwarf's Piss Pot last summer? What did you do with those emeralds you lifted off of Therin?" There was a hushed silence at the other end. "Emeralds?" a voice, Sprite, finally squeaked. "What emeralds?" "You remember, don't you Therin," Pinch rasped back, "those big ones that you lifted off that jeweler from Amn?" "He stole them off me?" "He's lying—I wouldn't nip you, Therin!" Sprite squeaked again. "Well then how the hells did he know?" "I'll bet that lich tortured it out of old Pinch," the halfling replied. It was hard to say

how much of that was in good faith and how much was a lie to save his own hide from Therin's wrath. Damnation, this wasn't working, Pinch thought. It was a bad choice of example. He needed something stronger. "Maeve!" he bellowed as best this wretched husk allowed him. It was getting passing uncomfortable on his knees, even without the feeling of pain. He'd never been on his knees to anyone before and he didn't know as it was likely in the future. It was undignified and crass and that bothered him, but he was able to swallow it so long as it kept him alive. Pinch, master thief, was a practical man in no hurry to die. If saving his life meant being on his knees, then so be it. Dead men had a hard time getting revenge, some would say, although Pinch wasn't so sure in this case. Manferic had made a fine job of it. "Maeve, probe my mind, if that's what it'll take to convince you." A third quick conference took place. There was considerable debate on this one. Finally, Therin, clearly acting as the new regulator in his absence, shouted, "No trickery—we've got bows and we've got a priest!" "No trickery." Pinch closed his eyes, calmed his mind, and waited. Just because exposing his mind was his only hope of proving himself, it didn't mean he wanted her to know all his secrets. Without really knowing how, he tried to bar certain areas of his mind from her prying. When she came, it was a tickle like what he'd felt under Manferic's gaze, although her scan did not carry with it the painful itch of the lich's hateful will. Pinch did his best to stay calm under the scan. He tried to think about the drinking bouts, the jobs they'd pulled, even Therin's hanging where she'd played an important part. Most of all he put

it into his mind to increase her share of the take. Certainly a bribe wouldn't hurt in a time like this. Like the devil in all things though, those thoughts that he'd never entertained more than once in a year of fortnights now all decided to make their appearance, or so it seemed. Things he'd never said and regretted, cheats he'd pulled on his own gang, even the squeals he'd made to get rid of his foes all chose to surface now. Maeve was reading a mindful, there was no doubt, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. At last the tickling stopped. She withdrew her mind and let him rest. Not that his dead muscles felt strained. What rest did a lich need or ever take? If it slept, the fierce will that kept it alive might waver and fade. If that happened there would be far fewer liches in the world. All he could do was wait nervously for Maeve's decision. And she damn well took her time. He knew he was Pinch and he knew she'd read enough of him to know that, but she was lingering on her pronouncement. No doubt, he raged to himself, she was enjoying having him on the spit. If he ever got out of this, he'd have to make sure she gained no profit from the venture. "It's Pinch all right," Maeve said with a touch of awe. "I ain't sure what happened, but I know his fashion. It's him." "That. . . thing is him?" Therin drawled, clearly filled with disbelief. "He knows garbage what only Pinch would know, like how we fetched your body after the hanging in Elturel. More than that, too, like jobs we've pulled where there ain't nobody who knows them and all. I tell you, it's Pinch." Therin looked back at the kneeling lich-thing. "Pinch, that really you?" " 'Swounds, it's me, you big hay-headed Gur! I should've left you as that fortune-teller's stooge for all the good you're doing me."

Sprite and Maeve both looked at Therin with keen interest. It had always been a question between them just where the old master had found the big Gur. "Well met, then, I guess," Therin hailed, face reddened at his secret. "Come over—but slowly, old man." Lissa looked at the lot with a highly jaundiced eye, more than suspicious of their easy familiarity with this creature called Pinch. They talked all too freely of jobs and hangings to be anything like honest folk. She'd always had suspicions, but every time they arose, she'd convinced herself or let others convince her otherwise. Now, she finally realized, she'd been blind to it all this time. "You're all a lot of thieves!" "What did you imagine we were—lousy prophets?" Therin snapped. "You lied to me!" "We lie to everyone, miss," Sprite explained with glee. "It's our stock and our trade. Don't feel bad for being taken. We'd be pretty poor rascals if we couldn't fool anyone." "Sprite's right, dearie," Maeve added to the chorus. "Consider yourself honored into our company. Pinch called upon you in particular for aid, so he must think highly of you—and it's Pinch now we've got to see to." "Aye," Sprite echoed. He looked at the moldering form that shuffled closer. "What happened, Master Pinch?" There was still a hesitancy in his voice, lest this be some hideous creature approaching. "Manferic," the corpse croaked. "He traded bodies with me—though I don't think that was his full intention." "What happened?" Maeve demanded, magical business making her sharply attentive. As quickly and clearly as he could, Pinch explained the course of his meeting with

Manferic. He had no idea what clues were needed to restore his body and so, against his true nature, he spared nothing in the telling. When it was done, Pinch croaked, "Ladies, tell me. How do—" "I'm not sure I should even help you, thief," Lissa cut in, still rankling at her discovery. "Leave me and you leave Manferic. Would your conscience feel better by placing a lich on the throne, priestess? What would the Morninglord think of that?" Pinch snapped. He didn't have time for this. That he knew instinctively. Lissa went white, then reddened, horrified at the prospect yet outraged as his tone. "Very well, in this ... but in this only!" With that settled, the two spellcasters looked thoughtful as they debated. Like plotters on the stage, they whispered dramatically to each other as they considered various possibilities. "Pinch," Sprite asked while they waited, "if it can be done, what the plan?" "Plan? The halfling gave a wan smile. "Sure, a plan—you've always got a plan." If he could have sighed in this musty body, he would have sighed. "You know, Sprite, all through this game I've had plans and schemes and thought I was in control. Now my life turns out to be one of Manferic's grand plans. Pinch the master planner—hah! Well, Sprite, this time I've got no plan. All my other plans have turned into traps as Manferic twisted my plots around. This time we're just going to improvise and let's see him plan for that." "Great plan," Therin remarked gloomily. The two spellcasters ended their conference and Maeve spoke for them both. "About your body, Pinch. We don't know—"

"But there might a chance. If we can get you close enough to you—er, Manferic—I might be able to dispel the magic that holds you." "And then?" Lissa bit her lip. "I'm not really sure. You should switch bodies." "Or?" "Or both of you vanish into the void, like Manferic said." "That's it? Just get this," Pinch gestured to the rot that was himself, "into the middle of a coronation and—" "What was that?" Sprite hissed as he waved his hands for attention. "What?" "Quiet. Listen," the halfling commanded. He stood on his hairy tiptoes, his head cocked so that his pointed ears where tipped to catch the least chitter in the halls. "That—did you hear it?" The others strained, hearing nothing. "Ikri..." There was a voice, faint and distant. "Ikrit..." From somewhere in the depths of the tunnels, a woman was calling. "Ikrit!" Pinch looked at the blasted white mass that choked the passage ahead. The quaggoth had been going somewhere, but not to Manferic. There was only one other choice. "The woman ..." "What? What woman, Pinch?" Sprite demanded. "Lady Tulan, my mother," was the answer. "By the Morninglord," Lissa gasped, "your mother's down here? I thought you were

an orphan." "It's a long tale to tell now." Pinch dismissed it with a wave of his rotted hand. His dead eyes suddenly glowed with cold light, a small spark of the willpower he'd inherited from his father. "We've got to find her. I know what revenge Manferic deserves." "He's gone maundering. Wit's left him," Maeve whispered to Therin. "Comes from being dead." The Gur tensed his muscular frame, just sensing the need if Pinch got violent. "I'm not mad," their corpse-bodied leader growled, surprising them with the insight of his senses. "Just help me get back my proper body and I'll nip what Manferic and Vargo prize most. The first thing is to find my mother." "Think she'll take a ghoul as a son?" The halfling, who had raised the question, didn't figure the query needed an answer. He was just reminding his captain of the realities of the situation. "Gods' pizzle," he swore, "she can't see me like this! She'll think I'm Manferic." Pinch flapped the rags that hung on his body, waving his frustration. "Leave her and we'll be out of here," Therin suggested. "Mask curse you!" the regulator swore with a clear vehemence that was undimmed by his lipless elocution. "She's my mother." "Yesterday she could've been a common stew for all you cared then!" Therin snapped back. "Therin, he's got a plan," Sprite interceded, laying a hand on the bigger's arm. The small face looked up with ridiculously large eyes: Sprite's playing his looks for the sympathy of the crowd. "If we don't help him, then there ain't none of us like to get out of Ankhapur alive. It's you who should go find this Lady Whatever."

"Me?" "You've a way with ladies. Besides, you think she'd heed me, only a halfling?" "I'll go, too," Lissa volunteered, trying to do the noble thing. "No—Maeve, go with Therin," Pinch ordered, treating the suggestion a done deal. "I'll need you, priestess, if we're going to be facing a lich." "And what if I should say no?" Therin asked. "Relish the rest of your life down here, do you?" Sprite added. When Therin frowned, the halfling added, "Then get going." "How'm I supposed to find my way out?" "She'll know the way," Pinch growled, flashing his yellow teeth through a cold smile of hunger. "Just be at the Rite of Choosing. "He's right, Therin. Let's go." Maeve gathered up a lantern and waited for the Gur to come. The regulator immediately dispensed with them and turned to Sprite-Heels and Lissa. "I'll need you two with me. Sprite, can you pace us out to someplace other than my rooms?" The halfling nodded. "Couldn't get this lot back into your kip, so I had to find another way in. That's what kept us from . . ." Sprite let it trail off as he wasn't sure it was good business to raise his failures up right now, especially since Pinch hadn't fared too well. "Then stop prattling and go. Late off the start's almost cost the race already." There was a disconcerting way to Pinch's saying it that gave life to the blue-gray pallor of his skin. He was a cold thing with a hunger that was only going to be satiated with cold revenge.

Coronation Day Sprite moved with uncanny confidence through the twisting passages, rejecting branches Pinch thought looked more likely. The rogue had no choice but to trust his lieutenant. The others stayed ahead of him, unwilling to look on his terrible visage any more than they had to. At length they reached a dead-end. "Here," Sprite held the light to the polished stone. An iron ring was set in the wall. More to the point, with his newly sensitive sight the transmigrated rogue easily traced the outline of the jamb, where the cracks let the least glimmer of light in. Even Sprite, with his talent for finding things, probably couldn't see the outlines. "Beyond's a side courtyard not far from your apartment—" "The rite'll be held in the main feast hall." Pinch seized the iron ring and pulled as hard as he thought was right, forgetting his body's strength in the process. The door flew open with nary a sound. Whoever had engineered this entry was a master, for the heavy, veined marble slid with ease. Pinch practically tumbled backward from the lack of resistance. The courtyard beyond was lit by the palest of moonlight that barely reached over the high buildings enclosing the artificial forest within. Verdant shrubs filled squat pots, and fine-leaved trees waved gently to the rhythm of the splashing fountain in the far wall. Moon-flowers spread their ivory petals to absorb the night. Caged birds hung from the beam ends all around, and a few nightingales woke to sing their arrival. As the door gaped wider than was needed to spy, Sprite and Pinch both scrambled into the shadows, acting on years of larcenous instinct. Had an observer been in the small garden, he would have assumed that Lissa alone had managed the great door.

Fortunately, there were no observers. When there was no alarm, the two rogues moved quickly through the potted jungle, getting the lay of the land. Of the three other doors, one in each wall, two led to nothing, just rooms shuttered up for the night. The third was a gate of wrought iron that opened on the avenue linking the Great Hall to the world beyond the palace gates. The pair took care not to be noticed, for there was a steady stream of revelers all bound in the direction of the feast. Pinch was just checking the oil on the gate hinges before opening it when Sprite touched his arm. The halfling had a cloth from his sleeve to cover his face. "Wisely good, but how you going to get around, Pinch? You ain't your inconspicuous self." Lissa, who'd kept herself silent and distant to this point, added, "You've got the stench of death to you, too." Pinch's smile was an awkward grimace. "Sprite, boy, do you know what day it is in Ankhapur?" "Some sort of festival, Pinch." "It's the Festival of Wealth, my halfling friend. For one day, the fine citizens of Ankhapur celebrate the gods of money with food, drink, and masked balls." "So?" Pinch looked to Lissa, mindful of her disapproval as he spoke his true mind. "We're thieves, boy— scoundrels. Out there the streets are filled with folks in costumery—gowns, cloaks, and . .. masks." "Who just need a little persuading to help us out." A sly smile enriched the halfling's face. " 'Struth, Pinch. I'm sure some kindly generous souls truly want to help us." "Ankhapur is noted for its generosity." The dead-bodied rogue nodded, flaking little hunks of his neck as he did. "All it takes is a little proper explaining."

"So how are we planning to get them in here? Nobody trusts a halfling—" "And I'd scare them off." The pair turned to look at Lissa. "No. No—you're not suggesting I go out there and—" "Our need is great," Pinch croaked. "It's only once," Sprite added. "It's a sin in the eyes of the Morninglord!" she resisted, shaking her head. "Maybe he's not looking. Gods can get awfully busy, you know." The halfling at her side couldn't help being flip, and for it she gave him a wicked glare. "I suppose Ankhapur will manage." Pinch tried for a sigh of resignation, but without breath it sounded more like a quack. "And I'll get used to living in the tombs, where I won't have to walk the streets and listen to the screams of the women and run from the swords of men. The tombs are quiet. I'll have lots of time to ... sit." Sprite sniffed. "Enough!" Lissa threw up her hands. "I'll do it. I just want you to know, you're vile and evil and I hate you both!" The two rogues, one dead, the other short and shiftless, smiled and did their best to look angelic. "That's not very fair," Sprite sniffed, his tears turning to wounded honor before they'd even welled up in his eyes. "We're only this way because there's no other—" "You are a person to rely on," Pinch extolled. It was best to shut the halfling up before he changed her mind for her. With a hand on her arm he steered her toward the gate. "Be quick—three people, our size, with masks." Before she could have regrets, he gently pushed her into the street. Fifteen minutes later, three revelers, two men and a woman, one short, two tall,

hurried toward the Great Hall. The woman wore a delicate domino mask and a gown that didn't fit quite well, too tight at the bodice and too long in the leg. The tall man was resplendent as a great black raven with a golden-beaked mask and a coif of feathers that flowed down into a lustrous black cloak that served well to hide the grimy clothes underneath. The little man waddled along, trying to keep up with the others, his effort constantly hindered by the papier mâché head that was as big as him. His tabard jingled with every step as the bell-stitched hem dragged on the ground. The shiny, grinning jester's face lolled drunkenly, threatening to decapitate itself at any moment. "Wonderful choice," the short one groused. The nasal voice had a dead echo like the inside of a barrel. "It's not like you could have found a worse disguise—" "Sprite, stow that," snapped the raven in truly dead tones. "Be thankful to Lissa she found anything." "Oh, I should be thankful that I'm going to die dressed like this." The halfling struggled to avoid tripping over his jingling hem, casting an envious eye at the ease with which the priestess handled her oversized gown. "You know, Pinch, I'm not so sure this fighting a lich thing is such a good idea. I mean, you could just stay like that. You'd get used to it after a while and it's got some positive advantages. Think about the insurance we could run. There wouldn't be no sensible merchant who'd withhold a payment from anyone who looked like you. We could run ourselves a nice system, me and Therin fronting it and you taking the collection—" "Sprite—stay your rattling trap!" So much was the vehemence in that voice that the halfling squeaked quiet. "We do this to save Ankhapur," Lissa announced to no one except perhaps herself. She spoke with the virtuous certainty that comes upon the sinner determined to redeem herself. "There will be no turning back or backsliding now. Understand, little

one?" From inside the bloated plaster head came a sour grumble that lapsed into silence, but the halfling kept pace with the others. The entrance to the Great Hall was thick with the royal guard, loyal soldiers standing in rows like overdressed mannequins. Pinch's teeth ground like millstones as they fell into the line of guests passing through the doors. A guard captain briefly scanned each reveler as he or she passed. With his keen scent for the law, Pinch spotted others who were doing a miserable job of being inconspicuous: several servants who lingered in the foyer with too little to do, and a robed "guest" who lounged in the hall. Probably hired warriors and a mage, and probably loyal to Vargo, just in case he needed to force his ascension. Pinch had not forgotten Iron-Biter's suggestion to take the crown by force if necessary. Still, the lot looked distinctly uncomfortable, no doubt because their commander, Iron-Biter, hadn't shown. That pleased Pinch, thinking of the consternation that must be going through Vargo's ranks because their lord's right-hand man had failed to appear. The captain, seeing only another group of celebrants, waved them by with hardly a glance. Their ill-fitting outfits were beyond notice in the garish crowd that surrounded them. There were mock medusas, gold-festooned dwarves, even a hulking lizard man clutching a goblet in its taloned hand. Pinch judged that, from the interest the lizard showed in the ladies, many of whom had dressed to reveal and not disguise, that this guest was an enterprising wizard with a polymorph spell and not a true emissary of that reptilian race. Once past the guards, the three slipped easily through the packed crowd. Everyone was here and everyone was gay. The rogue figured he could make a year's profit from

the jewelry that dripped from the arms, necks, ankles, and ears of those around him. With so much temptation at hand, Pinch kept a wary eye on his small friend, although the halfling's oversized plaster head seemed an effective restraint. When they finally squeezed into the Great Hall, past the ballrooms where the dancers turned to stately pa-vanes, past the tables creaking with roasts and pastries, and past the choke in the hallway, every head was craned for a view of the four princes on their thrones. Raised up on a broad dais, the four looked through their masks upon the crowd with the unconcealed habits of their natures radiating in their very poses. Vargo, foremost of the lot, awaited the ceremony with keen expectation, confident that he would be supreme no matter what the outcome. Throdus and Marac sat in their places with distinct unease, well cautioned of their brother's plans and perfectly aware of their own weakness to oppose him. Bors always loved the festival. The bright colors, music, and food appealed to his childish spirit. He laughed and giggled in his seat, but the importance of the occasion was lost on him. It wasn't hard to spot their quarry. Cleedis—or rather, not-Cleedis—stood behind Bors, playing the part of the faithful retainer. Manferic, inside Pinch's shell and cloaked as the old chamberlain, did a masterful job of masquerading as his former servant. The princes wore masks, but the thing posing as Cleedis disdained any. Against the parti-colors of the festival, he was a somber specter of the occasion. Pinch tipped his beak to Lissa and hissed, "Close enough?" indicating the spell she needed to use. She shook her head and pointed to one of the pillars about two-thirds toward the front. "There!" she shouted back. The black raven nodded his understanding and waved a cloaked wing for his small assistant to follow. Plunging straight forward toward the center of the dais was im-

possible. The throng was too thick and there was no room to operate, although Pinch wasn't quite sure what they were going to do anyway. He knew Lissa would cast her spell, but after that everything was a spin on the wheel of fate, the cruel dictum of Lady Tymora. As they shouldered their way to the thinner flanks of the crowd, a bell pealed over the roar of the throng, its resonance magically amplified to seize the attention of the onlookers. The roar faded to a babble as a column of Red Priests entered from the back of the hall, forcing the host apart before them. The acolytes at the head held forth the banners of their sect, followed by the bearers of incense and the cantors. After these was the object of all attention, a lone priest bearing the Cup and Knife, closely followed by the Hierarch Juricale, his thick beard oiled and curled. Temple warriors flanked him on all sides, not that there was much threat to his eminence. They were a display of his might to anyone who needed to know. Seeing the false artifacts, Pinch rapped the halfling's encasement and asked, "Do you have them?" The oversized head bobbed affirmatively while the little hands pointed to the bag at his waist. The holy entourage moved with stately ease through the hall; Pinch and company did not. By the time they reached the pillar Lissa had indicated, the procession had reached the dais. The hierarch held the relics aloft and invoked the blessing of the gods. Immediately, Vargo rose to announce his claim. "I am Vargo, son of Manferic III, grandson ..." "Close enough?" Pinch asked the priestess again. She nodded and as best as possible reached beneath her skirts to produce a tightly rolled scroll. "When Maeve told me of Manferic, I brought some help. It's a scroll to dispel his magic." She tapped the paper meaningfully.

"And if that doesn't work?" "I've another one memorized, just in case. Should I try it now?" Pinch shook his head, almost hitting the onlookers in front of him with the great beak. "Not yet. Wait for a distraction." Within moments, Pinch almost gave the word to go. Juricale presented the relics to Throdus, but the prince refused to rise. A wave of amazement soared through the crowd. "Pinch, what's happening?" Sprite demanded, unable to see the thrones. "Throdus has declined the test," the rogue answered with keen interest. Apparently Vargo's threats were working. "Can he do that? What if he were the chosen one?" "I don't know. It's his right, but no one's ever done it." Bewildered, Juricale continued on to Marac. He, too, remained firmly in his seat. By now the audience hummed with speculation. "Vargo's spread his threats well," the regulator said in admiration. Juricale was visibly relieved when Bors stood to make his claim. The power of his temple resided in the ceremony, so any precedent that ignored it threatened his job. Pinch was amazed that Bors managed to recite the words of lineage, although it could have been done with a little magical aid from Manferic himself. Now there were two candidates. Expectations mounted as the Hierarch returned to Vargo. Pinch held his hand lightly over Lissa's arm, ready to give the signal. If anything was to happen it must happen soon. Vargo seized the knife, proclaimed the words, and boldly pricked his thumb. Carefully the underpriests came forward and caught the ruby drops in the golden cup. Another carefully poured a measure of wine. Swirling the two, the Hierarch returned

the cup to Vargo's hand. "Drink now, so that all may see if you are Ankhapur's true lord." The priest's voice boomed over the silent crowd. Vargo raised the Cup high and then set it to his lips. A collective gasp seized the audience as everyone waited for the sign. Nothing happened. With one breath a sigh of mass tension blew like a wind across the hall. Carried on it were the faint grumbles of those whose hopes were lost and the smug pleasure of those who'd won. Bors, they knew, would be the rightful king. Others, wiser perhaps, looked to the doors, mindful that what Vargo could not have by right he would claim by sword. Just as the Hierarch turned toward Bors, Vargo clutched at his throat, an expression of horror twisting his visage. His pallor changed to an icy blue. All at once he coughed up a gurgle of blood, his knees buckled, and he pitched to the floor. "Poison! Manferic's cup is poisonous!" Pinch blurted, suddenly seeing the whole of the lich's plan. There was a stunned silence of panic, and that the rogue knew was the perfect diversion. "Now, Lissa, now!" Jolted from her shock, the priestess unfurled the scroll and began to read. Pinch braced himself, though for what he didn't know. Sprite struggled out of his costume, the gargantuan head ill suited to action. If Lissa's spell worked, he'd be standing next to a confused and unhappy lich, not the safest place in the world. Lissa read the final word and immediately leapt to the side, expecting the worst. No waves of disorientation overwhelmed Pinch, no change of view came to his eyes. He was still trapped in Manferic's body beneath the layers of the raven garb. "It didn't work!" he snarled.

A shriek from the audience broke his claim. "Look!" Lissa shouted, pointing toward the dais. There Pinch's body stood, where Cleedis had once been. "It's dropped his spell of disguise." As if her words had been a sign, the Pinch on stage glared directly at them, pinpointed by the magic she'd used. "You!" he bellowed, seeing through their disguises. As the crowd erupted into a pandemonium of confusion and fear, the transformed lich raised his hands to work a spell. The energies began to form and swirl about him. For Pinch there was no time to run, for Lissa no time for a counter-spell. They could only brace themselves to endure what must come. Just as the lich reached the height of his casting, the energies dissipated, swirling away like wisps of smoke. The lich was left bare, uncloaked by his magic, staring in rage in the branded hand of the body it occupied. "My hand—it's crippled. He can't cast his spells," Pinch shouted with glee. "Again, Lissa! Try again!" Now it was the priestess's turn to conjure as the lich shrieked in frustrated rage. She wove the spell with rapid ease, and before Pinch was ready for the shock, she uttered the final prayer. The world lurched, shut off its light, and then flared back on. Suddenly Pinch was standing over everyone, looking down on the crowd, looking down on the threesome at the lonely center of cleared space. From the black-ravened one at the heart of that group rose a shriek of unholy rage. The mask flew off and the feathered cloak dropped aside to reveal the moldering fury that was Manferic. "Janol, you bastard son—you will die!" the true lich roared. With a sweep, magical

might blazed from his now-unfettered hands. Pinch dove for the shield of a throne as a scorching burst of fire tore across the stage. Blinded by the orange-white heat, Pinch could hear the screams of the Hierarch and the princes caught in its blast. Crap, what to do? How to fight a lich? Pinch hadn't a clue, and it was all he could do to stay alive. Trusting his survival instinct, the rogue darted from his thin shelter and sprinted for the main floor. The stage was too exposed for any chance of safety. As he ran, others reacted. Vargo's swordsmen, to their credit, were charging for battle. The hall was a swirl of confusion—revelers stampeding for the doors, priests wailing on the dais for their fallen leader, and at the center of it all the single point of Manferic, a whirlwind of magical fury. In that confusion, Vargo's loyalists latched on to the only obvious conclusion, that the thing on the floor was their enemy. If he had time, Pinch would have admired these warriors for their courage, as hopeless as their cause was. As the swordsmen broke through the crowd, Manferic struck them down almost as fast as they appeared. Magic flashed from his fingertips in a display of utter power. All Pinch had time for was a small amount of thankfulness that they occupied all of Manferic's attention. It didn't last long. Once the first rush of the boldest fell, so fell the enthusiasm of those remaining. The lich was quicker than death, but he did not stop there. With a quick gesture, commanded chaos descended on the ranks that remained. Strong men dropped to their knees in confusion, and friends turned on friends in a bloodlust of killing. The company was caught up in itself, men slaughtering each other or wandering aimlessly, their weapons limp at their sides. The next to try was Lissa. Just as Manferic broke the wave of swordsmen, she lunged forward and clapped her hands on his shoulders. Pinch couldn't hear the

prayer she mouthed; it was drowned out by the screams and moans of those around him. Suddenly the lich stiffened with rage, its dead body insensitive to the pain, as Lissa's spell flowed through it. Its death mask contorted by rage, the lich whirled about and uttered a spell directly into her face. Between them materialized a titan's hand, as large as Lissa was tall. Its skin was puffy and smooth, and there were even rings on its fingers. The priestess gaped in astonishment and, in that stunned moment, the great digits closed about her and grasped her firm. Lissa twisted and squirmed but there was no escaping. Manferic barely gave his prisoner notice, confident that she was trapped. "Janol!" he shouted, scanning the hall for Pinch. "Stand by me, my son. Together we can rule Ankhapur!" Pinch, on the main floor, paused in his mad rush for the shelter of a pillar. Manferic's offer didn't stop him; he knew that was a lie. Now was the time to run, get to cover, and get away, but he wasn't moving. When the constables were coming, you didn't stay to gather more loot. You ran, and that's just what he knew he should do now. He couldn't. Lissa was in trouble and he could not abandon her. It was against every pragmatic, self-serving precept of his being, but Pinch was determined to rescue her. In her own naive and honest way, she was as much a part of his gang as Sprite, Maeve, and Therin. The chance of success was dismal. Juricale and a dozen of his priests were sprawled and broken on the dais, caught unprepared by Manferic's attack. The floor was slick with the blood of swordsmen. The doorways were choked with revelers pressing out while the royal guard helplessly struggled to get in. Even those able within the mass were rendered useless by the seething panic. Without waiting for Pinch's answer, the lich conjured up another spell. Waves of

sickly green smoke billowed from the monster's fingertips, swirling into a roiling cloud bank. Even well away from the cloud, the air was filled with an ammonia tang that bit and burned. Slowly the cloud began to sweep forward, rolling toward the arched doorway and the floundering mass of people. As the gases passed over the wounded and the dazed, their screams and babble changed to choking gurgles and then silence. The bodies that emerged from the cloud were blistered yellow and still, blood oozing from poison-scalded skin. When the former revellers saw the cloud, a unified scream rose from the hysterical mass. Decorum and nobility were lost as rich men trampled their consorts and pushed back others as futile sacrifices to the uncaring death that closed on them. The sides broke and fled back into the hall before the toxic haze could envelop them, but the blind press at the front was a locked mass. Steadily the deadly vapors flowed through them. The nerve of the leading guardsmen broke and they tried to flee, turning their swords on any who stood in their way. This only added to the confusion, the blood, and the death. Over it all, Manferic laughed, a harsh, mocking laugh that ridiculed the weakness of the living. It was a laugh of calculated terror. Boldly the lich strode up the steps of the dais and turned to face the hall. "Nobles of Ankhapur, acknowledge your king, Manferic the Undying!" While Manferic presented himself to the guests who huddled in fear along the walls, listening to the screams of those dying at the doorway, Pinch ran to Lissa. The massive hand still clutched her. He sliced the unreal flesh with his dagger. A great gash opened that did not bleed and the hand held firm. "No time," gasped Lissa, straining against the construct's might. "Take this—use it." She wriggled and twisted a hand through the fingers. "Take it!" In her hand she waved

the amulet of the Dawnbreaker. "You're mad! I'm not touching it. It ruined me!" "Death will do worse—thief," Lissa spat back. "I don't even know what to do with it!" "Neither do I, but it's marked you. You have to use it." She jingled the chain. "Janol—away from her!" Manferic rasped, finally spotting his bastard son. Pinch dove to the side but not quite in time. An icy blast seized his leg and he skidded to the stone floor as his muscles went numb. Lissa shrieked as the blast struck her full. Frost coated his hose and the chill sliced to his bones. Pinch knew he couldn't survive another attack like the last. "Use it!" Lissa gasped as she weakly flipped the amulet his way. It skidded across the floor and Pinch grabbed it up, knowing there was no choice. He expected it to burn with pain and flame, but it did nothing. From the dais, the lich looked at his son with a contemptuous sneer. "I blame you for all their deaths, Janol," he said, sweeping a rotting arm toward the carnage that covered the floor. The hysterical screaming had stopped; the poisonous cloud had seen to that. The survivors huddled dazed near the walls. Those still able to fight in both strength and spirit stood wary, waiting for someone else to make the first move. At the lich's words, all attention turned toward the thief. Pinch held the amulet aloft, like he had the last time. It did not flare in his grasp and he despaired. Then he saw a small shadow moving slowly behind the thrones. "The deaths are on your hands—Father," he shouted back, keeping the lich focused on him. "I should never have fathered you," the thing sneered. The shadow lunged forward and Sprite appeared behind the lich with his short sword poised high. Perhaps it was a footfall or a hopeful glance, but the lich wasn't surprised. It stepped

to the side just as Sprite lunged forward. The halfling had thrown his weight into the blow, and now there was nothing to strike. As he staggered forward, Manferic easily caught him around the neck and lifted the little one before him. "Fool!" Pointing his finger inches from Sprite's face, the lich uttered a single phrase of spell. A deadly barb of light flashed from the lich's fingertip and sliced into the halfling's face. Sprite screamed but there was no release. Another deadly flare flashed and then more in a steady stream. Sprite's screams were unrelenting as the magical darts sliced his face to ribbons. "Damn you, do something!" Pinch swore as he held the amulet high. It was inert. What did he need to do? What was he missing? Pinch felt his utter helplessness as Sprite writhed in the lich's grasp. And then he knew, he understood what truly mattered to him. It wasn't wealth or wine, it wasn't even the thrill of defying the law as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. It was Sprite, Maeve, and the others. Pinch knew he wasn't brave or noble, but his gang was all he had. If Manferic wanted Ankhapur, he could have it, but not his friends. Pinch could not leave them to this cruel lich. He was fighting for them. Pinch focused everything in him—his hate, passion, ambition, even his greed—toward the one goal of saving his friends. In his heart, he was willing even to sacrifice his last good hand. As if hearing that, the amulet began to glow. At first it was the golden gleam of dawn's aura, lighting up the room. The shadows of the hall fled with the rising of this false day. Bathed in the glow, the lich's skin began to smolder. The creature hurled aside the shattered ruin in its grasp and turned its deadly finger on Pinch. The magical missiles rocketed across the gap, each one striking him dead on. These arrows of mystical

force ripped jagged punctures into his flesh and rocked his body back. The pain staggered him, but Pinch did not relent. He didn't even try to dodge or hide. All his faith was in the amulet. The glow's intensity swelled in his grasp. Now it was the sun rising over the horizon. The flare bleached the colors from the hall, until it dazzled all eyes. Figures became silhouettes cloaked in a luminous haze. On the dais, in the heart of the light, an inhuman shriek drowned out all other sound. Against the white brilliance, a single torch of gold-red fire competed as Manferic the Undying was consumed. The lich reeled as the flames scoured past its frail flesh and blazed with the colors of its uncaged will. Tongues of gold, red, and blue leapt heavenward as the death that was denied reclaimed its due. And still the intensity grew. The world became light beyond light, a brilliance so great that eyes open or closed barely made a difference. Voices tinged with fear and wonder whimpered in the void. At last the light faded, although it was minutes before Pinch or any of the others could see clearly again. He stood blinking against the painful darkness, trying to see what had happened. Manferic stood no more. Where he had been was a crumbled heap of white ash, still holding the tracery of bone. When Pinch staggered up the steps, it fell away like snow swept away by the wind. After the rush and roar of battle, the still of the aftermath was haunting. It was as a soft symphony of sobs and moans, the pathetic cries for help mixed with the weeping for the dead. From what seemed like far away drifted the urgent shouts of rescuers. As quick as he could, Pinch stumbled over the bodies of princes and priests to find his friend. He found the halfling propped against a throne, raggedly breathing through his ruined face.

"Sprite!" "Pinch—that you?" the little thief whispered. A little foam of blood bubbled on his lips. "What happened?" "Manferic's dead. We won, I think." "That's good." The halfling weakly groped until his hand found the regulator's. "Pinch, I can't see." "It's just the light. Your sight'll come back." "No, Pinch. It's my eyes. He ruined my eyes. I'm blind." It was true and the rogue knew it. The halfling's eye sockets were bloody hollows. There was nothing he could say. He turned away as Lissa came up. The giant hand had vanished with Manferic's death. It had only held her, not harmed her. "Tend to him," he asked, filled with exhaustion. Lissa nodded and gave a weak grin. "It seems I'm always fixing you up." "It seems I'm always saving your hide." Voices came from the body-choked hall as the first reinforcements tentatively ventured into the realm of destruction. Guardsmen and a palace wizard picked their way through the bodies, fearfully peering into the hall. Among them the exhausted rogue saw Therin, Maeve, and the woman from the tunnels, Lady Tulan, his mother. She was thin, pale, and trembling, overwhelmed by the wonder and terror of the surface world she had lost so long ago. "Pinch?" Therin and Maeve hailed suspiciously and in unison, spotting the form of their leader where he sat on the steps. "It's me, you gallows cheat," Pinch groaned. "Manferic's dead. Maeve, you can read me, unless drink's muddled your mind."

"That's Pinch," Maeve confirmed, not even bothering with the spell. "Who's king? What happened?" they demanded to know as they hurried to his side. Pinch looked to the thrones. Vargo was poisoned. Throdus and Bors were charred corpses. Marac's chest was split open by some magical blast. "No more princes," he mumbled with exhaustion. Therin, blunt-minded and practical, looked over the hall. "Well, Pinch, someone's got to be king." Pinch looked up. The Gur was smiling at the purely larcenous outcome of it all. "You're right," the regulator nodded, "someone needs to be king." He got to his feet, retrieved the bag from Sprite's side, and in the center of the dais unwrapped the Cup and Knife. "Citizens of Ankhapur, I present myself, son of King Manferic III and Lady Tulan, as candidate for the Cup! Let all who see know!" Eyes turned in wonder at this new development as an upstart stood before them all with the royal regalia. Whispers and twitters overwhelmed the somber tones of death as even the most dazed could not resist the temptation of gossip. With all the solemnity he could muster, Pinch wetted the cup with blood from his wounds while Therin mixed the wine. Pinch drained the cup. The tittering stopped. To the amazement of the onlookers, the golden halo, the crown of kingship, formed on Pinch's brow. "All hail King Pinch!" Therin bellowed. "All hail King Pinch," came the reply, weak at first but growing over and over until it was a lusty cry. "All hail King Pinch, indeed."

[The Nobles 02] - War in Tethyr By: Victor Milán

Title: War in Tethyr (Forgotten Realms: The Nobles Book 2) Author(s): Victor Milan ISBN: 0-7869-0184-5 / 978-0-7869-0184-5 (USA edition) Publisher: Wizards of the Coast

Prologue Night Wings

She sleeps, and as so often, dreams of flight. First comes the unfolding. She seems to open outward from herself, like a piece of paper folded to a small packet, expanding, becoming greater, becoming other, in a way she cannot comprehend. A moment poised between exaltation and uncertainty, and then she flies, rising into a sky full of stars, her wingbeats sure as a swimmer's strokes. High, and higher she rises, until the narrow grimy streets and alleys, the city itself, are no more than shabby toys beneath her. Beyond its walls stretches the level countryside, black and silver and soft in starlight. She soars above neat peasant cots, their fields and orchards laid out with mathematical precision like symbols on a wizard's scroll. Over stream and keep and sleeping herd she passes, high and silent and unseen. She knows two feelings strange to her in waking life: freedom and power. She can fly where she pleases, and no one can say her nay—and she senses, somehow, that her power goes beyond the ability to burst gravity's bonds. The sensations fill her with an almost terrible exhilaration. Yet even as she begins to realize and exult in those unfamiliar feelings, she is gripped by an awful unseen power that cancels both. Down she is drawn, and down, helpless now, plummeting into a black chasm that yawns in the earth itself, into a pit filled with darkness, the impression of waving tentacles blacker than despair, and a multitude of red-glowing eyes. A voice from below whispers sibilant obscenities in her ears. She screams, but her screams are as futile as her struggle and, screaming, she

falls. . . . * * * * *

The jarring impact to her ribs came like salvation. "Up, Scab," the stable owner said. "You were riding abroad on night's mare, and your caterwauling riled me steeds. Up now; time to be feeding, anyhow." She nodded, not trusting her voice. The stable owner turned and shuffled off, dragging a foot lamed in some forgotten skirmish. The land of Tethyr was plentifully supplied with those. She felt her ribs through the dirty, ragged smock she wore. No damage done; the kick had not been that hard. The stable owner was no brutal man, nor even a hard one, intentionally. But he had been raised to hard times, and hard ways, and knew none other. At least he didn't try to become familiar with her. She was overyoung, by Tethyrian standards, though not everyone was deterred by the fact. Likely as not, he didn't realize she was female. Her face was generally obscured beneath grime and matted masses of dark red hair, and there was nothing of her rag-wrapped scarecrow frame to suggest that she was a girl in her early teens rather than a boy. There was a handspan of open space between the brick walls of the stable and the eaves, to allow air to circulate in the stifling Zazesspurian summer. The slice of sky she could see had gone dawning purple, stained with the faintest of pinks. A night bird fluttered past the opening, or perhaps a bat, returning to its roost to sleep the day away. She felt a twinge of fear and longing. The tasks she must perform in return for a few crusts of bread and lodging in a vacant stall were not demanding: she must feed and water the horses, muck their stalls, brush them and comb their manes. Then she would be on her own through the heart of the day, free—as free as she got in waking hours—to continue her search for

some wizard to accept her offer of apprenticeship. If my reputation hasn't spread too far. She picked herself up and felt her side again. The soreness was fading quickly. The hunger pangs that gnawed her every waking hour like a rat in her belly were already stronger. She tottered off to the pump between stalls redolent of horse-sweat and hay and manure, on legs that seemed to have atrophied from dreams of flight.

Part I Astronomy Domine

1

The golden mare tossed her long white mane and said, "I sense trouble ahead, Randi Star." The woman who sat astride her in a high-cantled Calimshite saddle frowned. "Of course you do," she said. "We're about to enter Tethyr. And don't call me 'Randi.' It's far too young a name for me." The mare flared her nostrils and produced a ladylike snort. The slow sound of her hooves rebounded from natural walls of dark granite, lichen-splashed and forbidding, so high that, although it was midmorning, the day's first sunlight had yet to spill farther than halfway down them. Playing around their ears like schools of fish were the hoofbeats of burden beasts and outriders' mounts, the jingle-jangle of harnesses, the calls of the muleteers, all muted as the caravan wound through the secret pass across the Snowflake Mountains. They were bound for Zazesspur on the Sword Coast, a city of fabled wealth and intrigue; the years of troubles had, in truth, little scratched its wealth and done nothing at all to diminish its intrigues. The caravan's hundred mules were laden with luxury goods, wizardry supplies of nonmagical nature, and specialty items for Zazesspur's demanding craftsmen, but the core of the profit Zaranda planned to realize on this expedition was a handful of rare and immensely potent magic objects. At that, the caravan and its riches—deceptively great for its size and unassuming appearance—were merely a facet of Zaranda Star's complex scheme to retire her debts, and then just retire. The mare, whose name was Golden Dawn, abruptly twitched her long, well-shaped ears and laid them back along her neck. From behind, one set of hoof noises detached

itself from the rest and grew louder. "Behave, Goldie," Zaranda hissed under her breath. "Our fat father needs to wash his ass," the mare replied quietly. "The bandy-legged little brute stinks abominably." "I think Father Pelletyr regards the smell as something of a penance." "The best kind," the mare said. "That which doesn't interfere with stuffing his belly." The ass in question drew alongside, trotting to keep up with the longer-legged mare's walking stride. Zaranda Star twitched a nose that, while still long and fine, had been broken once in the past, and reset ever so slightly askew. The beast's rank smell made itself apparent even over sun-heated rock and the stink of man- and beast-sweat, leather and weapon-oil from the caravan behind. In truth, the priest's mount could have been kept cleaner. But the father had a wondrous way with healing magics, and for one in Zaranda's line of business, that counted for much. "Ah, Zaranda, child," said the priest. "How much farther through these beastly mountains, do you think?" She laughed. She had a good laugh, and strong, white teeth to laugh with, though she often thought her lips were on the thin side. There were even those who had thought them cruel, but most such had been ill-intentioned to start with. "Many hard years have passed since I've been a child, Father," she said. "And in answer to your question, not much farther at all." "That's good to hear. The men and beasts are suffering in this heat." In truth, the day's heat had filled the chasm much more quickly than its light had. "You're suffering, you mean," Goldie said. "You'd be best advised to go easy on the elf-bread, Father." She gave him a meaningful sidelong look. The father was a man of substance,

much of which was rhythmically jiggling inside a threadbare gray robe. He had a big florid face with a prominent nose and white hair radiating like the petals of half a sunflower from around the ample tonsure Nature had granted him, atop which was perched a gray skullcap, now mottled with sweat. A golden pendant bearing the bound-hands symbol of Ilmater hung around his neck by a strand of thumb-thick duskwood beads. He made a mournful face. "Ah," he said, "surely such a noble beast as yourself would not begrudge a mendicant servant of Ilmater the modest pleasures of his table?" He had never entirely adjusted to the idea of conversing with an apparently normal mare, but then Faerun was a realm of wonder, and Ilmater a tolerant god. "Of course not," Goldie said in a honeyed tone that instantly made Zaranda's eyes narrow. "But still, I cannot help thinking of the burden on your poor mount's legs." Father Pelletyr's face collapsed like a souffle in an oven around which an ettin has just commenced a drunken clog dance. He began to fiddle with his beads and cast guilty downward looks at his ass. In so doing he neglected to keep switching at her flanks with the little fir bough he carried for the purpose, and the beast fell behind the longer-legged mare. "Goldie!" Zaranda said sotto voce. "Now you've made the poor man feel guilty." "Can I help it if he's oversensitive?" The priest caught them up again. The trail had begun to wend downward. Ahead, it bent right, around a knee of granite with a twisted scrub-cedar perched on its top. "Was it really needful," he asked in mournful tones, "to take such a strange and circuitous route? Surely there are easier roads into Tethyr." It was a fair question. The secret path through the mountains had been rife with precipices and rockslides. At a higher elevation, an avalanche had swept two mules

and their packs away, but no men had been lost, and the loss of goods had been minimal. Withal, the mountain crossing had been much easier than what Zaranda and her companions had gone through to get the most valuable of the goods they carried. "Surely there are," she replied, "and in consequence they're better attended by bandits and marauders of every stripe. I'm a merchant, Father. Trading away danger for discomfort strikes me as a favorable bargain." "But surely—oh, dear." This last was directed down the trail. Zaranda and the Ilmater priest had come around the granite knee to where they could see the end of the narrow defile, opening onto foothills rolling quickly away to the flat green landscape of Tethyr. The way was blocked by heaps of boulders, one to each side, and between them a dead fir sapling lay across the path as a barricade. Behind the barrier several polearms could be seen waving tentatively, like metal-tipped branches. "Oh, no," Goldie said. "Not another adventure." Reins and fir branch alike dropped from Father Pelletyr's hands. Like most of Ilmater's ilk, he was no fighting priest. With plump fingers, he began to fumble at his medallion. "O Holy Ilmater, O Crying God, Succorer of Tyr the Blinded God, who suffered for us upon the rack, friend to the oppressed, aid us your children now—" From behind his little ass came the crunch of weighty hooves on granite pebbles. The little beast scrambled to the side of the path with an agility that belied its burden to avoid being shouldered out of the way by a rangy blood-bay gelding. The gelding's rider, like the horse itself, was tall and spare, with long muscles that seemed to have been carved of oak and weathered dark. He wore a leather tunic laced up the front with a rawhide thong, trousers of muted leaf-green, knee-high boots

of soft doeskin with fringed tops turned down. Across his back was slung a quiver and a strung longbow. His right forearm was encased in a leather armlet. Guiding his horse with his knees, the tall man touched the priest's arm gently with his left hand, while his right traced the elven signs for Bide, Father. Father Pelletyr nodded, swallowed, and interrupted his prayer. The newcomer gave him a grim smile. It was the only kind of smile he was equipped for. He was handsome in a heavy-browed, brooding way, with long black hair bound at his nape, a broad jaw shadowed with stubble the sharpest razor could prune but never clear, brown eyes dark as the woods around the Standing Stone of the Dalelands. He carried the twin messages of serenity and menace. With the silent man at her elbow, Zaranda rode to the barricade and stopped. Goldie tossed her head and danced a bit to let her rider know she was not happy. Ignoring her, Zaranda dismounted and strode forward, glad of the chance to stretch her longs legs; unlike most folk who, like Father Pelletyr, favored their ease, Zaranda preferred to be in motion, working the muscles of her lithe, pantherish body. The tall dark man followed, unslinging his longbow. Zaranda stopped ten feet shy of the abatis and stood to her full height, which was considerable—greater than that of most human men of Faerun. The wind off the Tethyr plains stirred in her hair, which was dark, a brown that was almost black save for a blaze of white over her right brow. It was a heavy, unruly mane, currently caught up in a simple bun in back and hanging square-cut before. The white hairs of the blaze refused to be tamed and tended to stand up in a lick. She had a long-boned athletic frame that spoke of power, grace, and resilience, much in the way of the yew longbow her ranger companion carried. Her face she would have called handsome and most others beautiful despite the

broken nose. Her beauty was of the worn sort that resulted from seeing more of the world than was good for her. For a span of heartbeats she simply stood. From behind the barrier came a twitter of small voices. With a certain ostentation, she adjusted the saber she wore across her back, hilt projecting above her right shoulder for easy access, then dropped hands to hips. At last she deigned to speak. "Who dares impede the return of the Countess Morninggold to her home?" she called in a clear voice. The whispering from beyond the barricade rose to a crescendo. A commotion came from the branches of the tree, and with a certain amount of crackling and rustling, a small figure appeared, crawling between dead branches. Once clear it paused to haul forth a glaive-guisarme fully thrice its own length, then hopped erect with more swagger than conviction to confront Zaranda. "We represent an autonomous collective of demi-humans of diminutive stature," the apparition announced in the deepest voice it could muster. It was a halfling male, no more than three feet tall, wearing a morion helmet easily three sizes too large and a brigandine corselet that came down almost to the hair on the tops of his feet. "We demand toll of all who would pass this way." The morion spoiled the effect by slipping abruptly down, covering his face to his snub nose. Goldie pawed the earth and whickered laughter. The halfling pushed up the helmet and looked aggrieved. A half dozen other halflings had clambered up in the branches on the abatis's far side, or onto the piles of boulders, to observe the proceedings from relative safety. Like the spokesman, they were all got up in a parody of brigands.

"Do you maintain this road?" Zaranda asked. Carefully holding his helmet in place, the halfling blinked innocent blue eyes at her. "No," he admitted. "Then by what right do you demand toll?" This provoked another flurry of conversation in the piping halfling tongue instead of the accented Common the spokesman used with Zaranda; though most humanoids in Tethyr spoke Common, few would consent to do so without a heavy dose of regional or racial accent, to prove they weren't that familiar with it. Zaranda had a smattering of Halfling, and could have followed the conversation had she chosen to do so. "Because we're an autonomous collective," one of the onlookers finally said. The spokesman turned back to her with renewed purpose. "Because we're an autonomous collective," he said. "So?" Goldie asked. The halfling goggled at her. "It talks!" "Bites, too." Goldie stretched her fine arched neck and with a considerable display of teeth pulled up a clump of tough trail grass . "Best mind your manners," she added, munching significantly. Zaranda noted that the watchers in the gallery kept casting covert glances to the sheer heights above; the cliffs dropped a hundred sheer feet before they gave way abruptly to foothills. One of the spectators, clearly dissatisfied with the spokesman's polemical talents, called out, "This road belongs to the people." Zaranda flashed a smile. It was a smile with considerable flash to it, too, which smoothed away the years and the cares and made her seem a maiden girl again. When she wasn't angry.

"Just so," she said. "And we're people, aren't we?" The halflings blinked at her. From behind strode, or rather waddled, Father Pelletyr. Even a noncombatant clerk of Ilmater had a hard time taking this lot as a serious threat. All the same, he held his holy symbol prominently out before him. Halflings were reputed to have a wicked way with stones of the slung or flung varieties. "Let us remain calm, my children," he said in a sonorous and only ever-so-slightly quavering voice. Zaranda had to remind herself that in fiend-haunted Thay of the Red Wizards, not so very long before, she had seen this man face rank upon rank of ghouls and animated skeletons without flinching, and make mighty specters flee his wrath. The father was a man of enormous and sincere piety, and, well, death to the undead. It was living threats he could use some stiffening on. "Surely we can settle this matter in amicable wise." "Surely we can, Father," Zaranda said. "Pay us!" several halflings offered helpfully. "And while it goes against my principles as a merchant to pay tribute to casual banditti on the high road, I was about to ask my comrade-in-arms, here, to provide an entertainment to our hosts. Stillhawk?" Quick as thought, the dark man had an arrow from his quiver and nocked. He aimed his longbow skyward, scarcely drew back the strength. Yet when he released, the shaft shot a good two hundred yards straight up toward the puffy white cumulus mounds overhead. When it reached the top of its trajectory and fell sideways to begin its return to earth, Stillhawk's second shot struck its shaft in the middle and transfixed it. The conjoined arrows fell to ground not a score of feet from Zaranda.

The halflings goggled. "Is that not an elven bow?" one asked in wonder. "That is indeed an elven bow," Zaranda replied. Stillhawk walked over to retrieve his arrows. His soft-booted feet scarce made impressions on the earth. "Made for him by the elves of the Elven Woods, who raised him and taught him archery." The dark man plucked the razor-edged broad head from the shaft, licked the ash-wood arrow lightly, and ran a scarred thumb across it. When it passed the arrowhead, the split shaft was mended. "And sundry minor magics as well," Zaranda added. "Kindly forgive my answering for him. He cannot speak; an orcish raiding party cut out his tongue when he was a boy." Stillhawk nodded in satisfaction and returned both arrows to his quiver. The halflings made oohing sounds. "Wasn't that nice?" Father Pelletyr said, beaming. "Now, if you splendid little fellows could pull this tree aside—" The spokesman began to sidle and roll his eyes at the heights. "Well, with all respect due a man of the cloth, Father, it ain't perhaps so simple as that. No, not at all." Zaranda stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Something arced out from the top of the cliff, something round and initially dark against the clouds. It showed a glint of metal in the sun as it fell, rebounded from a rock with a clang, and rolled until it almost touched the tips of the spokesman's hairy toes. It was a helmet. He gaped at it in dismay. "Don't fear, my friend," Zaranda said. "Your comrade's head is not within. Your fellows above are as safe as if they were home hiding behind their mothers' skirts. But they won't be pelting us with boulders from above." The halflings stared upward. A figure appeared, leaning precariously out over the

rim, and gave them a jaunty wave of his hat. "Permit me to introduce the noted bard Farlorn Half-Elven," Zaranda said. "A man whose skills go quite beyond his gift for the making and playing of songs. Now, if you'd be so kind as to remove this barrier, gentlefolk, you and ourselves might be about our respective businesses in peace."

2

"It is a long and dusty road we ride, Zaranda," Father Pelletyr said. "Surely a more direct route to Zazesspur might be found?" The dust was more metaphorical than real. It was the month of Mirtul, called the Melting, with the feast of Greengrass a few days past. Despite that, and the fact that snow still glittered like silver plate on the highest of the peaks behind them, most of spring's runoff had flowed into the flat Tethyr lowlands a fortnight since. This far south, the climate was temperate, with mild seasonal variations. Tethyr was an "Empire of the Sand" by courtesy of the overworked imagination of northern cartographers influenced by the Calim Desert to the south. The grass was green, and rain had touched the land recently enough to lay the dust, and long enough ago that mud was blessedly absent. "Indeed, Father," Zaranda replied, "but in Tethyr the most direct route is not always the quickest." "And there's truth for you," added Farlorn Half-Elven, who rode near Zaranda on his dappled gray mare. "Tethyr's a land of anarchy. No one rules, since the royal family was destroyed years ago." "Rather, I'd say Tethyr suffers a surfeit of rule," Zaranda said. "Behind every hedgerow lurks a would-be duke or baron, each determined to enforce his will on whomever he can catch—and his taxes too." "Our circumspection availed us little, sneaking through that secret pass in the Snowflake Mountains, if one so humble may be forgiven for pointing out the fact." Farlorn put back his head and laughed. His laughter had a pealing edge, like a golden bell ringing. He was a bit over average height, slim and supple as the rapier he

wore at his belt. His hair was black and wavy. In his features the admixture of human blood had created not coarsening but leavening of a sort; the literally inhuman beauty of the elven-kind was softened, mitigated, rendered more accessible, more mortal. Instead of being forbidding, his good looks were almost magically appealing, at least to most human women he encountered—and not a few elfin women had been known to agree. He was that rarest of rarities, a wild elf-human hybrid. His features were as dark as Stillhawk's, but with a faint greenish cast, like patina on copper. When he laughed, his teeth flashed like silver mirrors. "Do you truly think, Father," he asked, "that those poor foolish halflings were as great a danger as we might have faced? Indeed, they had even mislaid the pry bar intended to lever their boulders down upon your heads, and were all crowded together at the cliff edge on hands and knees, rapt with the spectacle. 'Twas child's play to take them unawares." "Mountains are trickish places," Father Pelletyr said with a touch of petulance. "Who knows but that we might have blundered into a hill giant or a manticore, straying so far from the beaten path?" "Such things are predators," said Zaranda absently. "They stay close to where prey's most readily found—as their human kindred do." She was riding along in a reverie, trusting Goldie to make her way on her own. The mare often made resentful noises about her occupation as a mount, but actually displayed great pride in her craft. The caravan was meandering along a trail that was no more than two parallel ruts left by generations of wagon wheels, vaguely following a sluggish creek toward its eventual meeting with the Shining Stream. The sun had fallen low along their back trail and seemed poised to plunge into the jagged if not

particularly lofty Snowflakes, still prominent behind them. They were in a broad, shallow valley. Late sunlight ran like honey along the high places and brought young plants, wheat and barley and oats, to illusory bloom; the year's second crop had already begun to sprout. The water-smell and the aroma of good, rich bottom soil rose about them like a pleasant haze, with only the occasional whine of a mosquito to break the serenity. "The good father is surely not complaining of the hardships of the trail?" Farlorn asked in a honeyed voice. "Indeed not!" Pelletyr replied indignantly. "I think only of the welfare of our men and beasts, who have fared many a long and weary mile today—though certainly the gods gave us beasts to bear our burdens and will not be displeased to see us using them in this wise." This last was directed to Goldie, who had quite forgotten teasing him earlier in the day, and paid him no mind. The valley turned due east. As they came around the bend, they saw what appeared to be a golden beacon shining from the top of a hill perhaps half a mile ahead. A moment, and they saw it was the lofty keep of a castle or manor house, catching the light of the setting sun. "It's beautiful!" Father Pelletyr exclaimed. "It is my home," Zaranda Star said. They turned off on a track that led between fields of rich grass. White and red-brown cows grazed with calves nuzzling their flanks. A skinny youth dressed in a simple homespun smock stood up and waved, a gesture that roused Zaranda to smile and wave in return. The boy clutched a staff-sling with his other hand. "It grieves me to see one so young go armed," the priest said.

"Maybe you'd rather he try to reason with the wargs," Goldie said. "Perchance a risky tendency to encourage in one's vassals," Farlorn said. "Especially in a land as given to anarchy as Tethyr." "No vassals in my valley," Zaranda said. "There are only freeholders, and employees on my estate proper, which we've entered. When I bought the county, after the Tuigan incursion, I made pact with the peasants that they should buy the land they worked, paying in installments." As I myself am paying for the county, she thought with something of a twinge. Being finally shut of the burden of payments for her holding was a major goad that had driven her into this risky enterprise. The system had actually worked to her benefit, since she was still making hefty payments on Morninggold herself. She had had a very successful campaign against the nomads, but the booty she'd gained had gone only so far. The priest sniffed. "That seems rather a radical notion, and subversive of the social order." Zaranda wants her people to be allies rather than adversaries, signed Stillhawk, who had ridden with her to the Tuigan War. As they approached, the manor of Morninggold took on more detail. It was more fortified house than castle, lacking a surrounding wall or moat: a large, rambling structure of two stories here, three there. The walls were stoutly built of dressed granite from the Snowflakes, the roofs pitched and covered in half-cylindrical red tiles. It showed signs of having been built for defensibility, remodeled for leisure, and then subtly returned to its original purpose. Arched outlines of different-colored stone showed where broad windows on the ground floor had been filled in and replaced by long horizontal windows set above the level of a tall man's head and too narrow to

admit even a halfling thief. These were interspersed with arrow loops. The rosebushes budding out beneath the remaining windows were meticulously tended—and their thorns served to further deter intruders. A few outbuildings, likewise stout stone, clustered around the main structure, and a vegetable garden nestled by its flank. From the back of Castle Morninggold rose the keep that they had seen from a distance. It was tall and round and built of some tawny fieldstone that the waning sunlight turned to pure gold. Networks of ivy clung to its lower reaches. The smooth rounded stones gave off an indefinable air of antiquity, leaving no doubt that the keep had been here long before the rest of the house—and likely would remain long after. Stablehands emerged with welcoming shouts as the party rode into the yard. Zaranda greeted them by name, inquiring after health and families. Golden Dawn, Stillhawk's bay, Farlorn's gray, and the little donkey were led off to the stables. Goldie issued a stream of instructions as to her care, which the stable-boy who held her halter ignored with an air of practice. The dozen armed escorts dismounted and began to tend their own mounts while the muleteers unloaded the packs from their beasts, preparatory to turning them out to pasture for the night. Zaranda led her three companions up the flagged path to the arched front door. Before they reached it the door swung open. "Holy Father Ilmater!" Father Pelletyr cried, clutching his holy symbol. Farlorn's rapier hissed free of its scabbard. The doorway was filled by the bulk of a bugbear. It opened its mouth in a terrible fanged smile and stretched forth black-nailed hands. * * * * * As was customary, Zaranda Star came next-to-last to supper. The good father arrived first in the great hall, with fire laid but not lit in a hearth three heroes could stand abreast and upright in. As a servant of Ilmater, it behooved Pelletyr to be

punctual—and it was, well, supper. Next came Vander Stillhawk. The dark, silent man had a ranger's distaste for clocks and timetables and schedules, but he likewise had a knack of being at the proper place at the proper time. At the very stroke of the eighth hour after noon came Zaranda, who despised tardiness. Having indulged a favorite vice by soaking her long limbs in a hot tub for an hour, she had arrayed herself in a gown of soft velvet a shade or two lighter than indigo. It clung to her slender form like moss to a forest oak. Around her hips she wore a girdle of three golden chains, caught together in clasps front and back and at the hips. Her hair hung free to her shoulders in back. The light of candles in the chandelier above the great dining table evoked witch-fire in her gray eyes. Father Pelletyr smiled and nodded. As a priest of the Cormyrean Synod, he was celibate, an obligation he took as seriously as his vows of poverty and abjuration of the shedding of blood. But he was a goodly man by nature, and polite. "It is good to see you allowing the feminine part of you to come to the fore, Zaranda Star," he said. Stillhawk, who stood brooding by the dark fireplace, greeted his employer and comrade-in-arms with a nod, which she returned. She smiled at the priest. "Thank you, Father. It's an indulgence I enjoy as well, although I have little opportunity for it on the road." She walked to the chair at the table's head. The priest's face fell as he noticed the dagger—with jeweled hilt but eminently businesslike blade—that she wore in a gilded sheath at her girdle. "Ah, but can't you lay aside the implements of war, even for a moment, even in the shelter of your home?" he asked sadly. "Such implements won me this house, Father," she replied, "and guard it still—as

well as my guests within." "When you have traveled a bit farther with Zaranda Star, Father," a voice said from the doorway, "you'll realize she seldom strays far from her lethal toys." They turned. Farlorn had arrived, fashionably late, dressed in silken hose and velvet doublet with puffed-and-slashed sleeves, all in shades of dark green, as was his wont. He was a figure of striking elegance, with his hair hanging in ringlets to his shoulders and his yarting slung over his back. He walked to the foot of the table, unslung his yarting and rested it against the table, then flung himself into a chair. "The battle-axes crossed beneath the ancient shield on the wall, the boar-spear over the fireplace . . . I've not guested in our hostess's hold before, yet I can assure you, none of these is purely for show, Father." Pelletyr shook his bald head sadly. Zaranda smiled a slight smile and gestured. Flames roared suddenly to life in the fireplace. The father jumped, then looked sheepish. "The beasts are tended, the men fed," Zaranda said. "Shall we be seated, gentlemen?" They sat. The door to the kitchens opened. The bugbear bustled in, wearing a leathern apron and carrying a tray laden with silver bowls and a great tureen of steaming soup. Father Pelletyr's eyes bugged slightly, and Farlorn stiffened, one fine hand straying to the ball pommel of the dirk he wore at his own hip. Stillhawk showed no sign of reaction to the huge creature's apparition. "I swear, Zaranda, those men of yours eat like a herd of dragons," the bugbear rumbled as he set the tureen down in the middle of the table and began to distribute bowls. "That's the reason soup is late, in spite of all my efforts." "I don't believe dragons come in herds, Gisbertus," she said with a smile as he

began to ladle out portions. "And you're my chamberlain and chief steward. Don't we have under-servants so that you need not serve us with your own hands?" The bugbear tut-tutted and shook his head, making his bat ears wag. "Not one of them could be trusted not to spill soup all over that stunning gown, Zaranda, not a solitary one. You cannot conceive how hard it is to come by competent help these days. They're all fearful of bandits—or eager to run off and become brigands themselves. The cook took off a fortnight ago, and the best replacement I've yet turned up scarce knows a garlic clove from a common thistle, so I've to oversee the cooking in addition to all my other chores." Father Pelletyr glanced up sharply, having found something even more alarming than the immediate presence of a monster in an apron. "Are we liable to attack here?" The bugbear's eyebrows crawled up its flat skull. "Good heavens, no, Father! This is Zaranda Star's house. None would dare attack it, never knowing when she might return to avenge such a slight." And he turned and went out with the empty tray. "Not to mention the fact that the premises are guarded by a bugbear," Farlorn murmured. "How did you manage that, Zaranda?" "Gisbertus? Oh, he's harmless. He's been with me forever." She attacked her soup with her customary appetite. Seeing that no further explanations were forthcoming, Father Pelletyr picked up his own spoon. "How is it that you came to forswear the practice of magic, Zaranda?" he asked. "The practice of magic?" She glanced up from her own spoon. "I never did, Father." "I realize that, child; I saw how you lit the fire, and I've seen you in action. Let me say, the study, then?" She shrugged. "Too sedentary a life. I like being able to stretch my limbs betimes."

"Few even attempt the transition from the way of the wand to the way of the sword." "It's never been my ambition to be like anybody else, Father." Gisbertus came back, bearing small fowls baked in clay vessels. These he cracked open with deft strokes of a mallet, leaving neither shards nor dust, then served out the steaming birds. "What are the tidings, Gisbertus," Zaranda asked, "aside from the difficulties entailed in keeping a domestic staff?" "Banditry on the rise, and the roads are nowhere safe. Your larger inland cities yet harbor dreams of conquest, but after the fall of Ithmong's tyrant Gallowglass, they've grown quite circumspect. And from Zazesspur comes great talk of restoring the monarchy." Zaranda laughed. "I asked for fresh tidings, Gisbertus, not the same news as last time I visited, and the time before." The bugbear sniffed, tucked the serving tray beneath his furry arm, and rose to his full height, endangering the age-blackened timbers of the high ceiling. "The change winds are blowing, Zaranda, mark my words. From every street corner in Zazesspur, halflings preach redistribution of the wealth while the Earl Ravenak preaches the expulsion by force of all nonhumans from the land. Bands of darklings ravage the streets by night, fell creatures who spring from no-one-knows-where to sow terror and dismay." The bugbear hugged himself and shivered as if to a thrill of horror, eliciting wide-eyed glances of surprise from Farlorn and Pelletyr and, perhaps, the flicker of a smile from Stillhawk. "The people cry out for a strong man, a Man on Horseback to bring order from chaos."

Zaranda laughed and flared the nostrils of her aristocratic but somewhat skewed nose. "Such a man is like a shooting star: he may portend great fortune or may crash through your roof." She picked up her fowl and tore at it with strong white teeth, and no great daintiness. "I've seen more roofs in need of mending than folk blessed with fortunes fallen from heaven," she added, chewing thoughtfully. "Nonetheless," Gisbertus said huskily, "great things are expected from Baron Faneuil Hardisty. He himself seems one of those so blessed. Or so I hear it said. He's the man, not just for Zazesspur, but for all Tethyr. Or so the travelers say." Zaranda put down her bird and gave him a look of surprise. "Oh, so? Such talk might have gotten a body torn asunder by a mob not so many years ago." "The change winds, Zaranda. They blow and blow." "Ah, well." She shrugged and picked up her fowl again. "Air grows stale where no winds blow, as water grows stagnant where there's no flow. Though I've no love for men on horseback, myself." The bugbear went out again. "Your help is rather familiar," Farlorn said. "He's pretty much all the family I have—save my comrades of the road." She glanced at his plate. "You're picking at your food. If you don't want it, I'll take it." Farlorn's laugh sounded a trifle forced. "Oh, no you don't, Zaranda. It's just that the presence of such a fell creature throws off my appetite." "Very little throws off mine." "If Zaranda vouches for him," said Father Pelletyr, biting off the end of a thighbone and sucking out the marrow, "that's good enough for me. The gods have gifted her with sound judgment." "Well, sometimes," Zaranda said.

"Besides," the priest said, "good Stillhawk eats with fine appetite, and he's suffered more at the hands of evil things than the rest of us combined." The meal ran to several more courses. Farlorn got over his momentary squeamishness and fell to as eagerly as the others. All four were famished after a long day on the road and the brief excitement at the halfling roadblock. Conversation dwindled, first because the serious business of eating took precedence and then because bellies filled with good food and wine from Ithmong, the fatigue of the trip across the Vilhon Reach—and the more vigorous preliminaries—began to lay hold of them, weighing down their eyelids as well as their tongues. Stillhawk, who tried for Zaranda's sake to ape the civilized courtesies to which he was unaccustomed, rose first from the table. She looked up at him and nodded. "The night is warm and fair," she said. "You'll be sleeping outside?" The ranger nodded. He had little use for feather beds, less for walls and roofs. "In the unlikely event it rains, there are empty stalls in the stable. If Goldie's gambling with the grooms again, run them out. She cheats abominably, anyway." Stillhawk nodded again and withdrew. "With your permission, fair lady," Father Pelletyr said, stifling a yawn behind a pudgy hand, "I shall retire to my evening prayers as well." Despite this announcement, he made no move to leave the table. "My house is yours," she said. "What of you, Zaranda?" asked Farlorn, lounging with apparent artlessness in a chair of age-stained oak. "I'm off to my tower, and then to bed." The half-elven bard pushed a laugh through his fine nostrils. "So that's why you bought yourself a manor with a fine high keep."

"In part," she said, rising and smoothing her gown. It was a gesture of surprising femininity from one whose hands were callused from gripping a sword-hilt. "I'll never understand the fascination the tiny lights in the sky hold for you, Zaranda," Farlorn said, shaking his head. "They're lovely, aye, and suitable for illuminating lovers and inspiring song. But they're no more than jewels set in a crystal sphere; all know this." "Perhaps," said Zaranda, frowning slightly. Master of words as well as melodies, Farlorn seldom said anything without good reason, perhaps reasons in layers. The remark he tossed off about the stars illuminating lovers cut close; she'd been sleeping alone for a long time. Once, long ago, Farlorn the Handsome had been Zaranda's lover. Briefly. They had parted ways and not seen one another again for years. Then, when she was gathering up the risky expedition to Thay that preceded her current journey in the bustling Sembian port of Urmlaspyr, she had chanced to meet him again in an open-air market. He professed himself willing to undertake an adventure or two. He seemed changed, not quite as ebullient, a shade more somber. But he was a master of stratagem and diplomacy; his jests and songs and tales of wonder could do as much for morale on a long, hard trail as a thrown-open cask of gold; he had the elven stealth in his feet, and his fingers were as nimble wielding his sword and dagger as they were at plying the frets of his yarting. Perhaps the change was due to nothing more than age, though the years lay almost as lightly on him as his wild elf kinfolk—more lightly even than on Zaranda, who wore her winters well. In any event, she had invited him to join her company readily enough, and had already had several occasions to be glad of her choice. And still. . . and still, something about him troubled her. "Perhaps she seeks to read her fortune in the stars," said the father indulgently. In a

mild sort of way, Ilmater disapproved of astrology. The common folk of Faerun suspected it was one of those proscriptions laid down by the god so his servants could feel as if they held the moral high ground in dealing with weaker souls. "No, Father," Zaranda said. "I misdoubt, somehow, I'd be well served in knowing my future." The priest raised his eyebrows. "Why, child, most of humanity and demihumanity alike would pay most handsomely for an accurate augury of what the future holds in store." "Not Zaranda," the bard said, smiling halfway. "She delights in differing from everybody else. Contrary is our Zaranda Star." She gave him a look. He had one leg, well-turned beneath her gown, thrown over an arm of the chair, and a golden goblet in his hand. "I don't believe we travel fixed, immutable paths, like oxen yoked to a grindstone," she said. "And anyway no stars, whether jewels in crystal or the suns of distant worlds, control my destiny. That I do myself." Father Pelletyr shook his head almost mournfully. "Ah, Zaranda, what if everybody felt the way you do? We'd have chaos." Farlorn laughed, a sound like a golden bell tolling. Zaranda remembered, fugitive, how once that laugh could melt her heart. She wondered why it was no longer so. "Chaos is Zaranda's natural element, like water to an eel," he said. She looked at him again, carefully, as if by the force of her gaze she could ascertain whether his words held a hidden sting. But her long-abandoned studies had given her no magic for that. For his part, the bard was adept at hiding his true feelings behind an easy smile. She wondered, briefly, if it still rankled him that she, not he, had terminated their

affair. She yawned, covered her mouth with a hand that was slim and graceful for all its strength. Such speculation added no gold to her coffers. That brand of blunt practicality would have made Father Pelletyr sigh for the state of her soul. But she was, after all, a merchant. The bottom line was that she was tired. "I'm going to bed," she said. And she left them there, the stout priest gazing contemplatively into the candle flame and Farlorn staring into the depths of his goblet as if he caught a glimpse of his own future there, among the dregs of Zaranda's wine.

3

Her own bedchamber nestled high in the tower, right beneath her top-level observatory. This served a multiplicity of purposes, not least of which was that if things went severely south in a hurry, she could defend her chambers single-handedly for quite a while. In Tethyr one couldn't take for granted that such things wouldn't happen. This fact accorded well with life as Zaranda had known it all along, so it caused her small discomfort. "Good evening, Sorceress," said the brazen head on her chest of drawers as she descended the steps—which had uncomfortably high risers, even for one possessed of her length of leg—from her observatory. "Good evening, head," she said. The breeze through the open but bar-crossed window was cool and sweet and carried the song of a night-bird in with it. "You are troubled," the head said. She let the comment pass. The head was quite correct; it was a very perceptive brazen head. She was allowing herself to worry about money and, in particular, her lack of it. If she didn't realize every farthing of the profit she anticipated from her current enterprise, she would at the least lose Morninggold. Her normal specific for such concerns was violent exercise, but the sheer exhaustion that hung on her shoulders like a leaden shroud precluded that. Life was so much simpler when I was a mere warrior, with nothing to trouble myself over save whom I might next have to swing my sword against.... As soon as she thought it, she knew it was a lie, and faintly ridiculous; the way of the sword, whether as adventurer, mercenary, or even successful war leader against the nomad Tuigan, was far from carefree. Someone, possibly resident of another world, plane, or even

time—Faerun being uncommonly porous to artifacts, ideas, and even visitors from such places—had once described life as hours of boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror. That expressed it rather well. Yet she knew that wasn't full truth either. The warrior's life had its rewards. Battle was terrifying, but it was also exhilarating, filled with wild freedom and fury difficult to capture elsewhere. That was why Zaranda had not entirely forgone the sword when she made the latest change in her life and career—that and the fact that the world was, after all, a risky sort of place. The truth, Zaranda, she told herself, is that you got bored with the life and decided to settle down. And look how that's turned out. "I can help," the head intoned. Its eyes flashed a beguiling yellow. Zaranda glanced at it in irritation. It was her preference to sleep unclothed, a fondness she found impractical to indulge on the trail amid an exclusively male contingent of caravan guards and muleteers, and she had been looking forward to that luxury tonight in her own bed in her own secure keep. Now it occurred to her that she was hardly prepared to disrobe with that thing staring unblinking at her from her chest of drawers, which was ornamented with grinning goblin heads carved in bold relief. "Be silent," she told the head, "or I'll put you back in your chest." She had ordered the chests containing the truly powerful magic items conveyed to her chamber for security. Perhaps the rarest, most powerful, and most nearly priceless of all was the brazen head. The product of a mage whose bones had long decayed to dust and scattered on the winds a dragon's age ago, before Elminster was more than a gleam in his father's eye, the head was the bust of a man acerbly handsome, with a scholar's brow and an ascetic's narrow, bearded face. Unfortunately, it had also a satyr's sensibilities, which was why Zaranda was going to be sleeping in her

nightgown tonight. Aside from lips and eyelids, which worked on cleverly crafted hinges, the head's cast-bronze face was immobile. Nonetheless it managed to convey both injured innocence and invitation. "You have been good to me," it crooned. "Far more congenial than my previous masters for millennia—not to mention easier on the eyes. I would help you. I offer you secrets." " 'Secrets,' " Zaranda echoed in disgust. Statue it might have been, but the head was palpably alive, aware of self and surroundings. Zaranda had found herself unable to bear the thought of the thing riding in claustrophobic darkness for weeks without end, so she took it out discreetly whenever she could. And look where your soft heart gets you, she upbraided herself. "Secrets," the head repeated eagerly. "Secrets of the ancients. Secrets of sorcery long forgotten. The arts mantic, necromantic, or just plain romantic, if that's what you prefer." "No," Zaranda said. She sat at her dresser, unwound her hair from its braid, let it hang unbound down her back as she brushed it out. "Come now," the head said. "Any mage alive would kill to know such secrets as I hold within this bronze conk." "Not me." "You could gain great power." "Power doesn't interest me." "Wealth beyond imagining." Zaranda grimaced. "At what cost?" "I hardly expected to find such small-souled niggling within you, Zaranda Star. This

merchant life has smirched your soul." "At least I still have my soul." "I cannot help noticing," the head said in gilded tones that reminded her uncomfortably—in several ways—of Farlorn, "that for a woman of such striking handsomeness you spend an uncommon percentage of your nights alone. All of them, in my limited observation—not to put too fine an edge upon it." She let that pass and brushed her hair with redoubled vigor. "You could win the hearts of handsome princes." "I've done that," she said tightly. She laid the brush down with exaggerated care to keep from smashing it against the dresser. "I've never needed magic, either. And princes aren't worth the bother. Too full of themselves, expecting every whim to be instantly obeyed." "Ah, but with the lore I can impart, they would live only to obey your every whim." "If I wanted a pet," she said, rising, "I'd buy a dog. Good night." The head tut-tutted. "Zaranda, Zaranda. Doesn't your curiosity tempt you, most of all?" She sat on the edge of her bed, which had four spiral-carved oaken posts upholding a fringed silk canopy. It was booty from a Tuigan hetman, who had himself looted it from Oghma-knew-where. It was rather ludicrous, but it secretly tickled Zaranda to have it. "Yes," she admitted. "For example, if you know such secrets of ultimate potency, why don't the Red Wizards of Thay rule all Faerun? They're eager enough to do so." "Ahh," the head said again. Had it an arm, Zaranda got the strong impression it would have laid one finger along its aquiline nose. "They were unworthy to wield such power. So I answered their queries in riddles until they grew tired of me and shut me

up in a dusty, dreary warehouse." It sighed. "The sacrifices I make to maintain the world's balance." Zaranda sat regarding the head in the yellow candlelight. That was one of the legends that led her to Thay, whispers of a brazen head of immeasurable antiquity and knowledge, whose most recent possessors had been unable to wring any sense from it. Exasperated, they had left it on a shelf a hundred years or so and forgot about it. It had thus become available to anyone with sufficient enterprise, not to mention foolhardy courage. Along came Zaranda and her hardy band. Once they had reached comparative safety outside Thay, Father Pelletyr had performed divinations on the head. Its nature was so arcane that the cleric had been able to learn little of it, other than that it was definitely not evil in nature, which was the thing Zaranda had been hoping to learn. There was enough unbridled evil in the world, and she didn't care to add to it. Neither did she want to have gone to such hair-raising lengths to obtain the head only to have to cast it into the Inner Sea. But all that left her with more than a slight suspicion that all the bronze skull truly contained was beguiling badinage, that the head was nothing more than a practical joke, a long-dead mage's monument to himself in the form of a last enduring laugh. "Good night," Zaranda said again, and stretched herself out on the bed. Its softness, just firm enough to avoid bogginess, enveloped her like an angel's embrace. She sighed with pleasure. Not for her was Stillhawk's notion that the best bed was hard ground. "But you're a magician," the head almost whined. "I can teach you spells beyond imagining." "I gave that up. Thank you. Good night." "Don't you feel like taking your gown off? It's fearfully stuffy in here."

For answer Zaranda rolled on her side, facing away from the head, and pulled the counterpane, which had been part of the Tuigan chieftain's trove and was inexplicably covered with embroidered elks and penguins, to her chin. "Surely you are not by nature so grim and cheerless, Zaranda Star." "No," she said. "I'm not. Good night." And she gestured out the candles. * * * * * The tower of Gold Keep was still visible away up the valley behind them, shining like its namesake in the morning sun, when Vander Stillhawk turned the head of his blood bay back and signed to the column behind him, Smell smoke. "Me, too," Goldie said. "Wood, cloth, straw." "A farmhouse," Zaranda said grimly. Her eyelids were ever-so-slightly puffy. For all the welcoming softness of her bed, her sleep had been fitful, troubled by dreams of blackness gathering like a thunderhead on the western horizon, and whispers at once seductive and sinister. Father Pelletyr came jouncing up on his little donkey. Zaranda's stablehands had bathed the beast and plaited colorful ribbons into its mane and tail. Goldie forbore to pin her ears at it. "Zaranda, what seems to be the difficulty?" the priest asked. She pointed. A sunflower of smoke was growing rapidly in the sky to the northwest, pale gray against pale blue. The priest clutched his Ilmater medallion. "Merciful heavens," he said. Zaranda turned Goldie sideways on the wagon-rut path that wound its way through short spring-green grass. "Balmeric! Eogast!" she shouted to her sergeant of guards and her dwarven drover-in-chief. "Get the mules off the road and the men into a defensive circle around them. If any armed strangers come within arbalest range, drop

them!" "Must it then be raiders, Zaranda?" Farlorn asked in his lilting baritone, riding up on his gray mare. "It could be some farmer's been dilatory about cleaning the chimney of his cot and set his thatch alight." "This is Tethyr," she said grimly. She turned Goldie and booted her after Stillhawk, who was already riding at a slant up the ridge to their right. The ranger had unslung his elven longbow from his shoulder. Farlorn shrugged and spurred his mare to follow. "What of me?" the priest called. "Stay and watch the caravan," Zaranda called back over her shoulder. "Be careful, Zaranda!" "You're wasting your breath, good father!" Farlorn shouted cheerfully back. She charged for a quarter mile across country that had not entirely settled from the Snowflake foothills into Tethyrian flatland. The ground rolled like gentle ocean swells. Zaranda crested a rise and saw a prosperous farmhouse of at least three rooms. The walls were stone, but the insides and most of the thatch roof burned fiercely. A woman ran toward Zaranda, rough brown homespun skirts hiked high, round cheeks flushed with fear and exertion. As Zaranda watched, a horseman in blood-sheened leather armor rode up behind her and drove a lance into her back. She uttered a despairing wail and pitched forward on her face. Zaranda gave forth a wordless falcon-scream of fury, whipped her sword from her scabbard, and spurred Goldie forward. Blue witchfire crackled along the saber's curved blade. The mounted man had his back to her, tugging at his lance and laughing at the way it made the woman's body move across the ground. Intent on his game, he had no hint of danger. Three rough-clad men in the hen yard, though, spotted Zaranda and loosed

a volley of arrows at her from their short bows. It was a fatal mistake. Like the elves who had raised him and trained him, Stillhawk was no horse-bowman. He had already dropped to the grass without reining in his bay, and was running off his momentum with his long brown lean-thewed legs. Even as he ran, he nocked an arrow and released, then, running, reached into his quiver for another. The arrows that struck the second and third short bowmen down were already in flight when the two men turned their heads to gape at the broad-headed arrow that had transfixed the first one's throat. The short-bow volley fell wide, arrows hissing into the grass like snakes. "Randi, they're shooting at us," Goldie panted. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" They were almost upon the horseman, who still hadn't freed his weapon from his victim. Ignoring her mare, Zaranda screamed, "Look me in the eye before you die, you scum!" The horseman was quick on the uptake. He let go his trapped lance immediately, and was drawing his broadsword even as he turned. He saw Zaranda charging not twenty feet away, bared yellow teeth, and flung his sword high for a downward stroke. Zaranda dug her heels into Goldie's flanks, urging her into a final surge of speed. As the mare dashed past the larger horse, Zaranda slashed forehand beneath the upraised arm. Her magic-imbued blade sliced almost effortlessly through stained leather, meat, and bone with a humming, crackling sound. The raider fell, his final expression one of bewilderment. "I hate that sour-milk smell," Goldie complained as Zaranda reined her in, almost in the burning cottage's yard. "Why did you have to get a magic sword imbued with lightning? It's not as if it actually throws bolts or anything... . Uh-oh."

The last remark was elicited by the fact that, in spite of being well and truly on fire, the cot was disgorging marauders, half a dozen of them, casting away loot bundled into pillowcases in order to draw their blades. They were dirty, unkempt, and unshaven, dressed in rags and tag ends of armor, and their weapons were in as dire need of cleaning as their teeth. The armaments looked serviceable enough, despite their lamentable condition. Three more horsemen came drumming out from around the far side of the burning house. One of them had two wing-fluttering hens, one black, one white-and-black checked, tied by the feet to the pommel of his saddle. He brandished a sword, as did one of his mounted fellows. The third swung the spiked, fist-sized ball of an aspergillum-style morningstar on its chain about his helmeted head. Zaranda winced; they were devilish things to defend against. The riders showed cunning. Rather than rushing straight at the mounted interloper, they spurred their horses wide, hoping to pin her against the house and the semicircle of footmen. Zaranda just had time to wheel Goldie about and dart for safety. But that was never her style. "Head down, babe," she murmured to her mare, and nudged her hard with her heels. "You don't want me—" "Go!" The golden palomino mare put her head down and lunged forward—straight for the doorway of the flaming cottage. Zaranda laid her magic saber about her, looping left and right so that the blade formed wings that shimmered silver gossamer in the morning sun. Utterly astonished by her mad forward rush, the footmen broke to either side. She felt Crackletongue's enchanted steel bite flesh gratifyingly as she passed.

Then she laid her body forward along Goldie's arched neck, and the mare lunged into the building, trailing a despairing cry of "Za-ran-daaa!" Smoke drooled upward over the lintel of the doorframe, caressing Zaranda's nose and eyes with stinging fingers. Then they were inside, hooves thumping on earth packed hard and soaked with beasts' blood in classic Tethyrian country fashion, dried into a smooth hard maroon surface like glazed tile and covered with rush straw. Flames ran like dancing rat spirals up the ornately carved posts that upheld the roof, and wound about the roof beams a handspan above Zaranda's unarmored back. She felt their heat, heard their lustful crackle, felt embers fall on the back of her neck, smelled her own hair start to burn. As she hoped, there was a kitchen door. They burst through into the relative cool of open. Woman and mare released the breath they had been holding and filled their lungs with blessed clean air. Zaranda let go the reins, which she held only from long equestrian habit, to bat away the sparks lodged in Goldie's mane and her own hair. "Aren't you getting too old for this, Randi?" gasped the mare. Zaranda threw back her hair and laughed like a schoolgirl. "No!" Two horsemen appeared around the stone corner to Zaranda's left. Zaranda brought Goldie round to meet them. Then the sudden backward pivot of the mare's long ears alerted her that the third one had circled to take her from behind. "Not so fast, buster," Goldie said as the third horse, a white stallion, ran up on her. "We hardly know each other." She launched a sudden savage kick with both rear feet. The stallion screamed and shied back as a steel-shod hoof gouged a divot from his shoulder. His rider, the man with the mace-on-a-stick, groaned and sagged, clutching his thigh. Goldie's other hoof had caught him square, with luck breaking the femur or at the least giving him a deep

bone bruise and an excellent set of cramps. With one foe out of the fight, however temporarily, Zaranda charged the other two. The rider on Zaranda's left sat a stubby little pony a hand shorter than Goldie, who wasn't as dainty as she effected to believe. Zaranda put her mare's shoulder right into the smaller beast's chest, rocking the pony back on its haunches and fouling its rider's sword strokes, while Zaranda traded ringing cuts with the man to her right. The bandit swordsman had greater strength, but Zaranda was used to that. Though she was tall and strong, most men were stronger. Skill and speed were her edges. In an exchange that flashed with more than sunlight, she took a nick in the shoulder but left the man's right side in ribbons and his cheek laid open, streaming blood into a matted gray-flecked beard. Frantically, he sidestepped his horse away from the blade storm. All this time Goldie had been driving the pony back, trying to force its rump against the house's stone flank, and grunting mightily to let Zaranda know how hard she was working. The rider, who had a gap in his teeth and a right eye that looked at random out across the bean-fields, finally hit the notion of yanking his mount's head to the right and trying to slide past the mare. As he did so, he hacked cross-body at Zaranda's face, hoping to down her while her attention was on his comrade. "Randi, duck!" shouted Goldie. Zaranda threw herself to her right, letting her left foot slip from the stirrup, snagging the knee on the pommel to keep herself from leaving the saddle entirely. She whipped Crackletongue over and across her body, deflecting the broadsword so that it skimmed her rump and thunked into her saddle's cantle. With a backhand slash, she laid the man's face open. He screamed and dropped his sword, clutching his face with his hands.

With a bellow of triumph, the grizzle-bearded man spurred his horse at her, bringing his own blade up for the kill. A hissing sound, and he crossed his eyes to look at the bright, slim tip of Farlorn's rapier, which suddenly protruded from his breast. The blade slid inside him like a serpent's tongue, and out his back. He slumped from the saddle. The cockeyed man had fallen to the grass beside the kitchen stoop and lay curled in a ball, sobbing. "Thanks," said Zaranda with a nod to Farlorn. The bard grinned and saluted her with a flourish of his blade. Zaranda looked at the man with the morningstar, who sat a wary ten yards off, massaging his thigh. "Surrender, and we'll let you live," she told him, "as long as you're willing to answer a few questions." The man grimaced in pain and licked greasy lips. "Does that means just as long as I'm answering questions?" he asked. "Zaranda," a familiar voice called timidly from the farmhouse's far side. "Could you, ah—could you show yourself, please?" Zaranda turned and frowned at Farlorn. "Father Pelletyr?" she said. He shrugged. The morningstar man took advantage of their distraction to spur his horse away behind some apple trees covered with tiny green buds of fruit. Farlorn dismounted to see to the man Zaranda had struck down. She rode Goldie back around the side of the cot, swinging well wide to avoid flames billowing from window and roof. On the last grassy rise Zaranda and her comrades had crossed before hitting the farmhouse, a lone rider sat. He was a vast man, a good eight feet tall, astride a horse at least eighteen hands high and as broad as a beer-cart, which might have served a northern knight as a destrier but more likely was born to pull a plow. The man wore a

hauberk of tarnished scale armor and, across one mountainous shoulder, bore a great double-bitted battle-axe with a six-foot helve. The restless wind made the hair of his topknot stream like a greasy black pennon. Beside him, four ragged men on foot had Father Pelletyr by the arms. One of them held a knife blade, crusted with rust and ominous dark stains, against the cleric's throat.

4

"Zaranda," the priest said apologetically, "these gentlemen claim to be tax-collectors. If they're about their lawful business, it's wrong of us to interfere." Farlorn had emerged from behind the house on his dapple-fannied gray. He answered Zaranda's query-look with a shrug to indicate the man she'd struck was no longer an issue. Then he glanced up the rise, and a smile quirked his handsome lips. "Our good father was always one for following instructions," he murmured. "Who dares," the monstrous rider bellowed, "interfere with the servitors of Baron Pundar on their lawful business?" "Zaranda Star dares that and more," Zaranda declared. "Especially since I happen to be Countess Morninggold. Father, this beast's misled you; this is still County Morninggold, and these men no more than looters—and murderers." She tossed her head haughtily, making her namesake blaze flash in the sun. "Who dares to name that hedge-robber Pundar of Little Consequence 'baron'— and to prey upon my people?" The morningstar man with the injured leg had circled round and now rode up to join his apparent leader. He stopped and turned back to the house. "Pundar is too a baron," he called through cupped hands. "He has a piece of paper from the capital that proves it!" "The capital?" Zaranda said, half to herself. "Since when is there a capital in Tethyr?" "Why, Zazesspur—ow!" The giant man had ridden a few steps forward and with a great backhanded clout knocked the morningstar man from the saddle.

"I do the talking here," he roared. "I am Togrev the Magnificent, lord high commander of the armed forces of Pundaria! We claim these lands by ancient right, as approved and attested by Zazesspur." Zaranda and Farlorn had begun to ride forward. They could see the house's front now. Two of the footmen lay in unmoving lumps in the pigsty; the other four stood with hands up, looking nervously at Stillhawk, who stood covering them with an arrow nocked. "By rights," Zaranda told Togrev, "we should hang the lot of you as the murderous bandit scum you are." "You forget," the lord high commander said, and gestured with a black-nailed hand. A few feet from the captive cleric the little ass had its head down, cropping obliviously at the sweet spring grass. "I have your priest." "For all the good that does you," Zaranda said. "It's poor practice to negotiate for hostages, and as a rule I won't do it." Father Pelletyr squirmed his right arm free enough to touch himself four times on the breast in the sign of the rack on which Ilmater suffered. Then he crossed his hands before his breast as if they were bound and rolled his eyes heavenward, accepting. The cleric had a notable reluctance to face physical danger, but this was martyrdom, which made all the difference in the world. "However," Zaranda said, stopping her horse twenty yards downslope from the huge man, "somebody needs to be left alive to tell that mound of ankheg droppings Pundar that if he troubles my people again he'll wake some fine spring night with a fireball in his lap." "And who would cast such a fireball?" demanded Togrev in an avalanche rumble. "I would."

The morningstar man had rolled over and was sitting in the grass and rubbing the back of his neck. "She's a witch, Togrev," he said. "She knows all kind of wild magics. Beware her spells." "Listen to the man," Zaranda said. The huge man frowned at her. His brows beetled impressively. "Half-ogre, by the smell of him," Goldie muttered as the wind backed. "Ick." "What will you do, then?" Togrev demanded. "Kill you in single combat." "You want me to fight that?" Goldie demanded in a whisper, nodding at the gigantic plowhorse. "He's as clumsy as a barrel of boulders, but if he ever connects, sweet Sune preserve me!" Togrev frowned more impressively still, as if there were something here he didn't quite get. "Why should I go along with that?" he asked after a few heartbeats. "Because if you don't, we'll slaughter you and all your men, and I'll whistle up a wind elemental to drop your head in Pundar's pigsty with a note attached." "When did you learn to summon elementals?" Farlorn hissed out the side of his mouth in elf-speech, which half-ogres as a rule didn't understand. "Never," replied Zaranda in the same tongue, which she grasped well enough but could only speak in pidgin. "Now shut up." She swung down from Goldie and stepped to the side to stand facing the half-ogre, legs braced and hands on hips. The wind stroked her face and ruffled her hair. The springtime smell would have been quite refreshing except that Goldie was quite right about Togrev: he was a half-ogre, manifestly, and lived up to their usual standards of hygiene. Togrev rumbled deep in his cavernous chest and swung down from his massive mount. Goldie flared her nostrils and blew out a long breath. Zaranda fought to keep

her own shoulders from sagging in relief. "And when I beat you, pathetic woman-thing?" the bandit chief demanded. "If you win, you and your men go free. If you lose, your men still go free. This is really a pretty good deal I'm offering." "Are you sure this is wise?" asked Farlorn out loud. "No," Zaranda said, "but it'll be very soothing to my anger, one way or another." Togrev scratched his unshaven chin and pondered. " 'Ware magic, Lord Commander!" the morningstar man exclaimed. "She's a witch, I tell you!" "How is that fair?" the half-ogre asked in aggrieved tones. "You'll just cheat and use some witching tricks. You could never best me otherwise. I am Togrev the Magnificent!" "Compared to what?" murmured Farlorn. "If you agree to meet me alone, with no outside interference from either side, I shall forbear to use any magic against you. I'll forgo even the blessings of my priest. Does that satisfy you?" For answer the half-ogre swung his great axe in a wild flourish that ended with it poised above his head. The passage of air through inlets cut through the head made it moan like a lost soul. "Prepare to break!" he roared. "Not so fast," Zaranda said with a firm shake of the head. "My priest." Togrev glowered at her. Then he nodded. "Let the fat pig go." His men gaped at him "Do it!" he roared. They let go of Father Pelletyr and stepped away as if he'd grown hot in their grasp. The priest brushed himself off. "I forgive you," he murmured to his erstwhile captors.

Stillhawk herded his captives up the rise. They joined the dismounted morningstar man and the four who had held the cleric on one side of the combat ground. The Dalesman—who was as sparing with words as any speaking ranger—looked rebellious when Zaranda signed him to put his nocked arrow back in its quiver. Her eyes met his and held them for a moment. He nodded and complied. As Zaranda was turning her head to look at her opponent once again, he charged with speed surprising in one so huge. Which still wasn't very fast in absolute terms, but it had served him well in the past, taking enemies by surprise and stunning them into momentary—and fatal—inaction. Zaranda was molded of different metal. Without hesitation, she threw Crackletongue up to meet the axe. She did not try to block the strike; had she done so, the weight of the axe and the man behind it would have broken her arm and its blade would have cloven her, regardless. Instead the flat of her saber struck the haft right behind the bit, guiding the monstrous moaning weapon past her as she pirouetted aside. At the instant of meeting, her sword emitted a snarl and shower of blue sparks. Crackletongue did that on making contact with creatures consecrated to evil, thus confirming something Zaranda had already surmised. With her help, the axe blade bit deep into the soft flesh of the hillside. Zaranda rolled her wrist and slashed forehand for the great corded neck. Togrev roared and threw his body back and to the side. Crackletongue's tip sparked as it bit, but it did no more than cut skin, cauterizing the slight wound as it left it. Flash-fast, the half-ogre had wrenched free his axe, throwing out clods of earth, and whipped it into guard position before his metal-scaled breast. Zaranda sprang away to face him, half-crouched, Crackletongue held out before her, muttering and flickering

with magic. "Not bad," she said. "You're quick for such a wad of blubber." An impressive paunch strained the seams of Togrev's hauberk, but he was by no means a wad of blubber. For some reason Zaranda had found the few ogres and half-ogres she'd had dealings with—none friendly—were one and all sensitive to suggestions that they were fat. An angry foe was seldom a clearheaded one. And if the brute's that agile, she thought, I need all the edge I can get. He seemed to be right-handed. She circled that direction, clockwise around him. He began pivoting to face her, and at the same time edging toward her. Then he snapped the great axe up and back as if it were a jackstraw, cocking for a strike. She lunged. The half-ogre screamed like a wounded horse as Crackletongue's tip sank a handbreadth into the bulging triceps of his left arm. There was a sizzle and stink of burning flesh, and then Zaranda hurled herself past her foe, twisting her sword as she ripped it free, trying to do the maximum harm. It wasn't enough to incapacitate the tree-trunk arm. With blood streaming black from a wound too large for Crackletongue's sparks to close, Togrev swung the axe in a howling horizontal arc. Once again his reaction time surprised Zaranda. She had no time to parry, could only jump backward with arms flung high to keep them from harm's way. Father Pelletyr cried out in shared anguish as the axe blade kissed her flat belly. The marauder section of the audience stamped and hooted approval. Goldie whinnied alarm. "I'm fine," gasped Zaranda. Her awareness of her own body was good, good enough that she needn't glance down to know that the axe had done no more than lay open skin. Which was good, because had she glanced at herself, she would have

died. With shocking speed the half-ogre brought the axe around and up and down. Zaranda had to throw herself into a shoulder roll to avoid being split in two as the axe plunged deep into the earth. Togrev snatched it free again, hurled it high, and ran at his foe as she rolled up onto one knee. His face split in a jag-toothed grin. He had her now; she was in no position to shift left or right fast enough to escape him, nor could she run away. The axehead seemed to scream in triumph as it descended for the killing blow. Zaranda dived for the monster. She ducked her head and somersaulted forward. As she and Togrev passed in opposite directions, Crackletongue licked out and caressed the back of one great knee. Togrev vented a pain-squeal like that of a cracked organ pipe. He went crashing past her like a boulder down a Snowflake peak. His wounded leg simply folded beneath him when he put his weight upon it. Zaranda's blow had hamstrung him. Once more he showed himself hateful-quick, slamming the butt of his axe-helve against the earth like a crutch, saving himself from rolling headlong. He got his uninjured right leg beneath him, came back upright, took three great hops away and pivoted, leaning on the great axe. Zaranda got deliberately to her feet. The half-ogre stood snarling at her, his left leg booted in scarlet. "Now," she said, "let's finish this." She started forward. "Randi!" Goldie screamed. By reflex Zaranda dived forward. As she did, something struck the back of her head with jarring impact and clawing pain. She went sprawling on the grass. Sparks fountained behind her eyes. Her head rang like a dwarven smith's forge.

She blinked to clear her vision, saw Togrev looming over her like a colossus, great axe poised above his head. He had only to fall forward to cleave her in two. Behind her she heard malicious laughter and the sliding song of a spiked morningstar head circling on its chain. Her right hand, miraculously, still held Crackletongue. She looked back at the marauder who had struck her from behind, flung her left arm toward him, forefinger pointed. "Twenty feet and six!" she gasped. A light like an orange-glowing crossbow bolt flashed past the morningstar man's left hip. He hooted shrill triumph through his nose. "Missed!" He swung the morningstar. The light-bolt flew twenty feet away and six feet up, then exploded. Laughter turned to scream as the fireball's fringe engulfed the man with the morningstar. Zaranda turned her head. Togrev was in the process of toppling toward her, his axe making the air itself scream pain. With all the power in her flat-muscled belly, Zaranda jackknifed, thrusting Crackletongue into his gut. Her magic blade bit through the overlapped steel plates of his hauberk and the thick leather beneath, through sweaty, hairy skin and then fat to muscle bunched beneath. And there Crackletongue's magic and Zaranda's strength failed her. The saber would penetrate no farther. Zaranda's presence of mind had not deserted her, though. She guided the butt of her basketed sword-hilt to the earth beside her, then rolled clear as Togrev's own momentum completed the task of spitting him. For a while Zaranda just lay on her belly, tasting grass-flavored air and bits of dark, moist soil that had found their way into her mouth. They tasted good. Even the dirt. Finally she rolled over and tried to sit up. Her head began performing interesting acrobatics, and she almost fell back. A hand grabbed her biceps and held her up.

She nodded weak thanks and looked up. To her surprise it was Farlorn who held her, not Father Pelletyr. The priest was hunched over, shoulders heaving as if he were gasping for breath. He clutched the center of his chest. His face was red. With Farlorn's help Zaranda picked herself up. She nodded again, patted the half-elven bard's hand to signify that he could let her go. He hesitated, then did so and stepped back. Stillhawk had an arrow nocked and drawn back to his ear, holding down on the surviving captives, who had all gone the color of new papyrus or old paper behind their sundry whiskers and coatings of grime. They were staring at the smoking corpse of the morningstar man, their eyes like holes in sheets. "That's right," she croaked. "He was right. I am a witch. A wizard, in any event. But unlike him, I'm one who keeps my faith. Now go." The marauders cast a final look at Stillhawk, then lit out running over the gently rolling hills. Zaranda turned back to Father Pelletyr. "Randi," Goldie said, "he doesn't look too good." "Father, are you all right?" Zaranda asked. "I'm fine." He waved a hand at her. "It's just—these pains in my chest and left arm. They soon shall pass, martyred Ilmater willing." "If you say so." Zaranda walked over to her mare. What she intended as a hug turned into a grab for support as her knees momentarily buckled. Goldie held her head up, shying from Zaranda's attempt to stroke her cheek. "You take some crazy risks, Zaranda," she said with exaggerated primness. Zaranda realized the mare was humiliated by her earlier panicky lapse into horse. She laughed and scratched Goldie's neck until she found the itchy spot horses always

have, and the mare arched her neck and bobbed her head in pleasure. Zaranda hugged her again and let her go. The erstwhile lord high commander of the Barony of Pundaria lay in an unmoving mound, Crackletongue protruding from his broad back. The curved blade no longer crackled and sparked with magic. Dead meat knows no alignment. "All right, then," Zaranda said. "Who'll help me turn this carrion over and reclaim my blade?"

5

"Have you heard?" the peasant asked. He had a large and colorful wart on the side of his nose and a leather bonnet pulled down over his ears. His garments had been patched until they were more quilt than clothing and still more hole than fabric. "There's a strong man rising in Zazesspur town. And high time, too. He'll bring order back to the land." "Aye," said another, equally ragged, who was chewing a tufted stalk of timothy grass. He pawed through the assortment of brass implements and cooking vessels Zaranda had spread upon a horse blanket beneath an oak tree that shaded one patch of the tiny village green. He wore a tattered and shapeless felt hat against the noonday sun. "We need strong government, an' that's a fact." The rest of the throng of prospective shoppers nodded and murmured assent. Like the two who had spoken, and like the village and farmhouses themselves, the villagers had a dusty, threadbare, ground-down look. The caravan's mules grazed on the grass of the common—for which the local mayor had exacted an advance fee—while their drovers and riders watered themselves in the village's lone tavern—for which the local mayor also exacted tariff, inasmuch as he was the tavernkeeper. Zaranda had left the bulk of the train encamped in a laager and made a detour through the city of Ithmong with a few muleloads of nonmagical luxury items—spices, dyes, vials of scent, incense-cones. They found an increase in prosperity and decrease in paranoia since the ouster of Gallowglass, with his tyrant's dreams and schemes. Zaranda had parlayed the wares into a dozen new mules loaded with more conventional goods such as tinware, pins, nails, and bolts of colored cloth to trade to

the peasants and village folk along the route to Zazesspur. It was penny-ante commerce, and Zaranda would be doing well to break even. She didn't care. It was a cheap way to garner intelligence and goodwill, and besides she felt for the people of the Tethyr countryside. Between bandits and big-city ambitions, only a rare armed caravan such as hers ever reached them. Otherwise the countryfolk had no access to goods beyond what they made themselves, which was why every mobile soul for miles had come pouring into town as news of the caravan's arrival spread. Goldie stood to one side watching the proceedings with interest. Now she cocked an eye at the grass-chewing peasant who had proclaimed the need for strong government. "Why do you say that?" she asked. The man only goggled at her slightly; word that the caravan leader rode a talking mare had spread quickly through the village. "That's like saying you need more locusts." "Now, Golden Dawn," Father Pelletyr said, munching a cold chicken leg, "you shouldn't talk that way." "You don't think I should talk at all, Father." "Now, child, you know that's not true—" "Begging your leave," the peasant said pointedly around his grass stalk, "but our neighbors have more wealth than we." "Truer words never saw daylight," agreed his friend in the cap. "A good, strong government would take it from them and give it to us." "Why should they do that?" Goldie asked. The locals looked at her in consternation. "Because we are hardworking and worthy sons and daughters of Tethyr."

"Aren't they the same?" The crowd began to give the mare hard looks. "Do not trouble yourself overmuch with her babblings, good folk," Farlorn said suavely. "She's merely a dumb animal." The peasants looked at each other, then nodded and went back to their shopping. "I'll show you a dumb animal, you ringleted gigolo," Goldie grumbled. "Goldie!" Zaranda said sharply. The bard laughed. "Would you rather be thought a dumb animal or someone whose opinions are so seditious she should be chopped up into food for hounds?" For once Goldie had no answer. Father Pelletyr beamed indulgently as he bit into a raw onion he'd bought from a farmer—more early yield from the long Southern growing season. "They're right, anyway," he said. "A good, strong government is a benefit to all." "Isn't envy a sin in Ilmater's eyes?" Zaranda asked quietly. The cleric looked blank. She decided not to press it; the crowd might decide she was better off as dog food, and while she was intrepid, by her reckoning she'd faced enough angry mobs in her lifetime. The inn door opened. Three men emerged into the brilliant midday sun, managing at once to saunter and swagger. They were typical Tethyrian bravos in garish costume, with puffed blouses and extravagantly padded codpieces, which tended to turn any sort of walk into a swagger. They arranged their broad-brimmed hats and floridly dyed plumes and walked across the road to the green. Stillhawk watched them closely with his brooding dark eyes. He had sealed his bow in a waterproof case of some soft and supple hide that Zaranda suspected to be kobold skin—the elves had some folkways that seemed pretty abrupt by human standards. A man of the Dalelands, and an obvious ranger at that, was a substantial

novelty in the sparsely forested Tethyrian plains. Zaranda feared he might excite the villagers unduly if he wandered around with an elven longbow strung and ready for action. He wore his long sword, also of elvish make, scabbarded at his hip. He dropped a hand as dark and hard as weathered wood to the hilt and looked a query at Zaranda. Stand easy, she signed to him. The newcomers carried swords with elaborate hilts and blades so broad they each had two deep, wide fuller grooves—which lightened weight and increased structural integrity and hadn't a blessed thing to do with letting blood flow, as the ignorant would have you believe. These swords weighed about five pounds each, which was in the upper range for anybody of human strength to wield one-handed and expect to live. Daggers they had as well, daggers in profusion: broad-bladed daggers, slim poniards, misericords, dirks, toadstickers, and hunting knives with grips of kobold bone. These blades hung all about their harness as if, come combat, they anticipated sprouting extra arms and fighting in the manner of the intelligent octopi rumored to haunt the rocks off the coast of Lantan in the Trackless Sea. But enough of blades. There was nothing intrinsically sinister about the three. Their garb, outlandish and weapon bedizened as it was, was no more than what was fashionable among Tethyrian bravos, particularly soldiers-of-fortune—which these appeared to be. Their gait was fairly steady, which indicated they likely hadn't imbibed enough in the tavern to make them boisterous. They could turn into trouble, but didn't constitute automatic menace. "Ho," said one with ginger-colored mustachios waxed into wings. He approached Stillhawk. "Are you the master of this traveling circus?" The ranger nodded to Zaranda. The bravos looked to her and shrugged. Taller than any of them, with her man's garb and her saber with its well-worn hilt slung now at her

own waist, Zaranda Star did not invite men to trifle with her, for all her handsomeness. Instead they craned to look past the mob of locals rummaging through the goods on the racks and drop cloths. The tallest of the sell-swords, whose black hair hung in tight perfumed curls to his shoulders and who wore tights that were vertically striped red, blue, and yellow on one leg, and purple with yellow stars on the other, elevated a long and lordly nose. "Rubbish for rubes," he opined. A general growl rose from the locals, but instead of pressing, they edged away from the heavily armed trio. Ignoring them, the black-ringleted bravo looked square at Zaranda. "Have you nothing more worthwhile than straight pins and thimbles?" "Straight pins and thimbles are amply worthwhile for folk who have none," said Zaranda evenly. She made it a habit not readily to take offense, and to deal in general in the calmest manner possible. This habit was highly profitable to a merchant. Her mastery of swordsmanship and her latent skill at magic made it easier for her to maintain the required serenity of mind. "We have some swords and daggers from the East," Farlorn said. "Wondrous work, of a style seldom seen in these parts." Zaranda had coached him carefully in advance: Tethyrians tended to prize craftsmanship above all things. The third man waved him off. His close-cropped brown hair and the yellowish scar that ran from one eye to his broad, stubble-clad jaw belied the foppery of his dress. "Weapons we have. Have you good magic?" Farlorn cocked an eyebrow at Zaranda. A little sardonically; this was her call to make, though Farlorn was one who little cared to defer to others. But he was, after all, in her pay. Here was a cusp of sorts. Zaranda was ready enough to sell her goods to whoever

was willing to pay a good price for them. The nicety here was whether the query sprang from mere curiosity, a prospective customer's interest, or something more sinister. On their own account, these three worried Zaranda little, particularly with Farlorn and grim Stillhawk at her side. But who knew how many comrades they had out of sight outside the village, who might be eager to ambush even such a well-guarded caravan as this for sufficiently tempting plunder? Magic items were always in demand, immensely valuable in their own right and readily convertible to cash anywhere in Faerun. Which, of course, was why a comparative handful of rare and powerful objects from fiend-haunted Thay provided the backbone of the profit Zaranda hoped to realize on this expedition. "Are you mages?" she asked. "Could you, say, read a spell scroll, or ply an enspelled wand?" Ginger Mustachios spread hands no less scarred than Stillhawk's. "We are simple fighting men. We have no skill with spells. Still, we can use enchanted weapons as readily as the next man." Zaranda shook her head and smiled thinly. "I regret that the only magic weapons we have are those we ourselves carry. And they're not for sale." It was the truth. They had won some enchanted weapons on the Thay expedition, but without exception these had been cursed, or such that they would turn and bite the hand of anyone who tried to wield them who wasn't a devotee of a dark god such as Cyric or Talos. Such objects were valuable to certain folk, of course, but Zaranda found it uncomfortable at best to have dealings with them. They were also of considerable interest to collectors with more risque tastes, particularly in the West. In Zaranda's experience, though, the potential for trouble outweighed the potential profit,

so she had—not without a twinge of regret—opted to leave them where they lay. Ginger Mustachios frowned briefly, and for a moment Zaranda thought he might cause trouble; Tethyrian bravos often dealt poorly with disappointment and tended not to reckon odds when they were angry. But instead, he shrugged and glanced over at his burly, scar-faced comrade, who had found a brazen oil lamp that had in fact come from far Rashemen in the Unapproachable East, and represented the upper limit of the luxury items the countryfolk might afford. This the man was rubbing surreptitiously on his sleeve. "What ho, Argolio?" the mustachioed man sang out, clapping his companion's thick shoulder. "Think what you're doing, man. If by some chance this tall, foreign-born vixen had overlooked a magic lamp from the East, what then? Had a djinn appeared with a flash and a puff of smoke, next thing you knew you'd be down at the village midden, wringing out your codpiece!" The heavily built man flushed, turning his scar a painful pink. He hurriedly put the lamp back. The tall one shook back his aromatic hair. "I'm bored," he announced to the afternoon breeze, gradually rising from the east. "Let's away." "Whither bound?" asked Farlorn. "To Zazesspur," the ginger-haired man declared as the three walked back to where their mounts were tethered to tarnished brass rings on stone posts. "Baron By-Your-Leave-Fanny, or whatever they may call him, is hiring men with strong arms and stout hearts for the civic guard. His gulders spend as well as any man's, or I'm an Amnian." The inhabitants of the country immediately to the north were generally considered boors by Tethyrians, few of whom had ever actually encountered one. "Better yet," the scar-faced man said too loudly, trying to make up for his earlier

embarrassment, "there are monsters to slay and treasures to seize. That's the way to go adventuring! Never faring far from the comforts of favored tavern and favored wench, ho-ho!" The three mounted their horses, turned them with flamboyant caracoles and accompanying swirls of dust, and rode off to the west, uttering high-pitched yips. Zaranda watched them go, arms akimbo. "The civic guard," she repeated. "Perhaps this Baron Faneuil is just the man anarchy-ridden Tethyr needs," Father Pelletyr said. He took another bite from his onion. "How can you do that, Father?" Zaranda asked. * * * * * A day and a half west from the little village in which they had encountered the three mercenaries, the country took on a bit more of a lilt and roll. East of Zaranda's county, which lay almost in the Snowflake foothills, the land grew steadily flatter and more sere. Now it was beginning to green about them again as they drew nearer the sea. They even began to see trees, alone or in small woods, that did not cluster along watercourses and had not been planted to give shade or windbreak. It was still all but desolation to the northerly eyes of Zaranda's comrades. Farlorn had his yarting unshipped and was playing and singing a song in a strange tongue as they rode. "The very words are music, O Bard," Father Pelletyr said. "What language is that?" "Wild Elvish," Farlorn said. He had a distant, dreamy expression on his face. "The language of my mother's people. Do you know much Elvish, Father?" The cleric shook his balding head. "Alas, I do not. I am only a poor priest of Ilmater, blessings to his name. It has never been my calling to minister to the folk of the woods."

Farlorn laughed, not unkindly. "You've saved much breath in that wise, Father. The Green Elves have small use for the religions of man. Or any other of their works, or aught to do with them at all." "They must have some use for humans," Goldie remarked, "else where did you come from?" It seemed to Zaranda that the bard colored slightly, but he ignored the mare, continuing to address Father Pelletyr: "Small matter at all events, for the wild elf tongue is strange even to elven ears, though all the People can with effort comprehend it. And you have spoken wisely, for of all the tongues of Faerun, Wild Elvish is the closest to music pure." "And what is this beauteous song about, good bard?" the cleric asked, taking a bite from a plum he'd bought from an urchin up the road. "An elvish maiden sits by a pool in the wood, watching her tears mingle with the clear crystal waters. She has just learned that her lover has been taken and tortured to death by orcs. Soon she will open the veins of her wrist, and she sings of how she will be joined once again with her love, when her lifeblood stains the water like wine." The cleric swallowed. "Delightful, I'm sure," he said weakly. Farlorn urged his gray knee-to-knee with Zaranda's mare, favoring Zaranda with a wink. "It's really a set of bawdy limericks I heard in Teshwave," he told her in Elvish. "They do sound pretty translated into my own tongue, don't they?" Zaranda just shook her head. Farlorn flashed her a quick grin, and she felt a tug at her heart, like fingers plucking her sleeve. No, she told herself firmly. All that's between you and him is business. Leave it thus. Farlorn struck a fresh cord on his yarting. Riding about twenty yards ahead of Zaranda, Stillhawk suddenly held up a hand.

"What is it?" Zaranda called softly. Fighting, Stillhawk signed. Up ahead. Zaranda sighed. Well, 'tis Tethyr. What can you expect? She wasn't yet ready to fall into lockstep behind this baron in Zazesspur, but she did have to admit something needed to be done about the bandits. After having passed the halfling barricade, the caravan had encountered little trouble. Occasionally it had been shadowed by furtive watchers. Zaranda lacked the wild-craft of her two companions, inborn in the case of Farlorn, gained through painstaking training in Stillhawk's case, but as a veteran campaigner, she had seen her share of reconnoitering and ambush. The covert surveillance had never gone long undetected. In the cases in which it persisted, Stillhawk had slipped off to discourage it—puzzled by his friend and employer's insistence that he take no life unless he was offered violence. On two occasions Stillhawk detected skulkers actually lying in ambush, and these he dealt with in summary fashion, leaving no survivors to learn new lessons in the need for stealth. Several larger armed parties with no obvious business had likewise been encountered, including a score of men on horseback, warriors with ill-kept weapons and ragged cloaks. But Zaranda had assembled her caravan with care. To the observer the caravan looked neither unduly large nor prosperous, and while well guarded, was not so much so as to indicate the richness of the pickings. In truth it was formidably guarded indeed: the crossbow-and-halberd guards were all hand-picked fighters, tough and well seasoned, their morale stiffened by good pay, decent treatment, and the prospect of fighting side-by-side with warriors of the ilk of Farlorn, Stillhawk, and Zaranda herself.

The menace it did present to the world was sufficient. Across a turbulent life, Zaranda had observed that predators, whether two-legged or four or more, preferred prey that could be taken with a minimum of risk. Though there were a few tense heartbeats during which Zaranda palmed one of the resinous pellets used in her fireball spell, the large mounted party had scrutinized the caravan with some care and then ridden away. At least half a dozen times they saw to left or right tall spires of smoke rising into the pale sky. On occasion, Zaranda clamped her jaw shut and set her eyes on the road ahead. She hated those who preyed on intelligent beings, but there was nothing she could do. Until now, with trouble lying athwart her path. Goldie had pricked up her long, pointy, well-shaped ears, of which she was exceptionally vain. "Louts," she said with authority. "Perhaps a score. Half a mile along the road. From their yelping it seems they harry someone—or thing—like a pack of hounds, not quite daring to close." Father Pelletyr looked skeptical. "Now, Golden Dawn, dear, prevarication is a sin. How can you tell so much more than our seasoned scout?" "Because she has ears like the lateen rig on an Amnian fishing felucca," supplied Farlorn. "She ought be able to hear a fly fart at that range." Goldie cast him an aggrieved look. Stillhawk signed, She's right. He had his bow across the pommel of his saddle, but hadn't taken an arrow from his quiver. He seemed satisfied that, whatever the disturbance was, it wasn't coming their way. Zaranda ordered Balmeric and Eogast to get the beasts off the road and into a defensive circle in a field of yellow and white spring flowers. Before she could hear their complaints at the exertion, she wheeled Goldie and was trotting forward again.

"Let's go see what transpires." "Must you always rush headlong into potential peril, Zaranda?" the cleric asked despairingly. "Yes," she said. "Besides, some poor soul may need our help." "Oh," he said. "Oh." And he twitched the flanks of his ass with a little green-leafed twig he'd picked up for the purpose, urging the creature to follow Zaranda, who'd set Goldie into a rolling lope. "That was manipulative, Randi," said Goldie, who wasn't really exerting herself at this pace. "And you say I'm bad." Zaranda frowned briefly, then shrugged and laughed. "It was easier than debating with him," she admitted. "At least this way I'll know where he is." Their only contact with the Zazesspur road had been Zaranda's side trip into Ithmong. As one of only two major east-west routes through Tethyr, it was well maintained and relatively easy faring. For that reason it also attracted much attention from brigands. Zaranda therefore kept her train to the back roads, despite the fact some were scarce better than wagon ruts or goat tracks. They were on a somewhat better stretch of road here, a country lane that showed signs of having been improved in the past by being metaled with streambed gravel. Still-hawk rode protectively thirty paces in the lead, longbow ready in his hand. Then came Zaranda, with Farlorn to her left, and finally Father Pelletyr, ass trotting furiously to keep up, cleric and beast alike grunting softly in time to the impacts of its sharp little hooves. A round mound of hill rose to their left. A lone pecan tree sprang from the top, its roots gripping earth just on the far side of the crest. As the road bent around the hill's base, the clamor of excited voices grew louder, and then the riders beheld a crowd of

angry peasants wielding sticks, farming tools, and the odd wolf-spear, confronting a lone figure that stood at the base of the lordly pecan. Powerfully built, with short bandy legs, the lone figure wore a gray cowled cloak despite the day's warmth. In either hand it clutched a short, heavily curved blade. With these it was fending off the halfhearted thrusts and blows of such mob members as sporadically worked up the nerve to close with it. "Slay the beast!" peasant voices urged from the back of the mob. "Slay the vile thing!" Stillhawk slipped from the saddle and let his reins drop. Well trained, his bay would not move from where it stood unless it were threatened or summoned. He nocked an arrow. Farlorn frowned. "Something about that shape I mislike," the bard murmured. His yarting was slung across his back. "And the cast of those blades—" The cowl fell back to reveal the hideous tusked face of a great orc—an orog.

6

"Stand back!" the orog roared in guttural but clear Common. At the crown of his pumpkin-shaped head, he wore a steel skullcap polished to a mirror finish. "Can you not see that I serve Torm?" With the taloned thumb of his left hand, which still clutched his scimitar, he hooked a chain hung around his neck and drew forth a great golden amulet. On it, the upraised gauntlet of the god was clearly visible. "Lies!" the peasants cried, their voices like raven calls. "Deceit! It's a trick! Kill! Kill!" By reflex Stillhawk drew back his string. "No!" Zaranda screamed. The ranger loosed. The arrow hummed to strike the tree a mere handsbreadth above the orc's sloped skull. The impact rang as loud as a hammer blow. The crowd fell abruptly silent, staring upward at the black-fletched shaft as it vibrated with a musical hum in slow diminuendo. The orog's small bloodshot eyes never wavered. He seemed to be gazing raptly at the Torm medallion. "The unsanctified beast!" Father Pelletyr said in a shocked whisper. "Amazing his claw doesn't burst into flame from contact with a holy object! Of course, Torm is a most warlike god. Perhaps he has less sense of the niceties. . . ." "And perhaps we oughtn't leap at conclusions, Father," Zaranda murmured, "lest we find them illusions, concealing an abyss." She nudged Goldie forward with the gentle pressure of her knee. The crowd turned their heads to stare as one at the newcomers, as if they comprised some great mechanical toy. The throng's leader, a thickset gold-bearded peasant with a hooded orange mantle and no left arm, brandished the rust-spotted

sword he held in his remaining hand. "What mean you interfering thus, strangers?" "What exactly are we interfering in?" Zaranda asked, reining Goldie to a halt just shy of the edge of the crowd. The peasants muttered ill-humoredly but edged back away from her. The bearded swordsman's brows twitched, as if he found it unseemly to have his question answered with another. But the intruder was an imposing woman, who did not give the impression that her sword blade would show any rust at all. "We have caught this monster attempting to cross our lands," he said. "We're in the process of extirpating it. And that's our right as human-born servants of the good and lawful!" He finished his little speech as a peroration to the crowd, turning and holding high his sword to shouts of acclaim. "Is that what you're doing?" asked Farlorn in his ringing baritone. "You look more like a pack of starveling curs trying to work up the nerve to snatch food from a chained bear. Still—" he shrugged "—don't let me stay your hands." "But I intend to," Zaranda said, quietly but clearly. "At least until I get to the bottom of this." That brought angry catcalls from the mob. "By what right?" Yellowbeard demanded. "By my right as a human-born person who intends to go on behaving as one." "Do you threaten us?" asked a skinny man with a missing front tooth and wild black hair that continued without interruption down around his jaw in an unkempt beard. He was in the middle of the pack, safely behind the front rank. "I'll not sit idly by and watch injustice done." The crowd's noise level was beginning to rise; so, visibly, was its collective blood pressure. It is a fascinating sight to watch, Zaranda thought in a detached way. Like a

pot of water about to come to a boil. Farlorn's remark had been explicitly insulting, but so vast was his charm and so disarming the manner in which he uttered it, the crowd had not been able to take offense . . . with him. Now their wrath was about to burst out at a different target. The black-bearded man stooped and seized a chunk of basalt as big as two fists. "You cannot drop us all!" he screamed, cocking a twig-skinny arm to throw. Zaranda brought her left fist to her hip, palm up, then thrust it toward him. As her arm reached full extension she rolled her hand over and flung it, as if pushing him with her palm from twenty feet away. The man doubled over with all his breath gusting out his mouth. He flew backward several feet and fell in a moaning ball of misery. The crowd grew very still. "And there's a lesson about the making of assumptions," Zaranda said. "Which will have no lasting ill effects—if he behaves himself. It boils my blood to see one beset by many." "Even when that one is evil?" a subdued but surly voice said from the back of the crowd. "What really angers me," Zaranda continued, "is to see one condemned not for what he does, but for what he is. I prefer to reckon on the basis of deeds, not prejudice." She gestured at the great orc, who had allowed his medallion to hang before his chest, glinting in the sun. He held his scimitars slanted downward toward the grass at his feet, in a posture implying readiness but no threat. "He carries the sign of the god Torm. Would a base creature do that?" The mob looked at its one-armed leader, who had grown quite ashen behind his blond beard—an unpleasant blend of colors, Zaranda thought. He chewed his underlip

and frowned in concentration. Zaranda took a quick look around. Stillhawk's obsidian-flake eyes were fixed on the orog, and his expression was dead grim. Of course, his expression was always grim, but none other of her acquaintance had half the reason for hating evil things in general and orcs in particular as the mute ranger did. For Farlorn, hating orcs was a part of the natural environment in which he'd been raised, like woods and air and song. Yet his Wild Elven kinfolk held scarcely a better opinion of men than orcs, so the bard had some experience in keeping his prejudices on a tight rein. His flawless features were set in a half-smile that Zaranda knew well, and not altogether fondly, as his neutral look, behind which any feelings might lie coiled. Father Pelletyr was a study in perplexity. The muscles of his face were working beneath his pink skin like fruits and vegetables shifting in a market bag. He had given life and soul to Ilmater, who, while a gentle god, was a fixed and formidable foe of evil. And orcs in his experience—and everybody else's—took to evil as a salamander to fire. But there, unmistakable, on the great orc's breast shone the gauntlet of Torm. No normal orc would dare display that symbol in such a way, even as a trophy, for fear of retribution from his own dark and jealous god, or even Torm himself. Torm was a lesser power, far less potent than his rival battle-gods Helm or Tempus or his own master Tyr Grimjaws, the Lord of Justice. But for that reason he was reputed to take a far more immediate and personal interest in the doings of his worshipers than other gods, if only because he wasn't spread so thin. And Torm was a god of Law and Good, even as was martyred Ilmater himself. Father Pelletyr did not serve him, but must honor him. A true servant of Torm was the cleric's brother, not so close as a devotee of Ilmater or another member of his own

order, but a brother withal. The father, who was a good man but not unduly sophisticated, was visibly having difficulty reconciling himself to the notion of clasping a giant snaggle-toothed orog to his breast. "But what does it want with us?" a voice asked plaintively from somewhere in the throng, whose individual components were now doing their best to blend into an undifferentiated mass behind their leader. The one-armed man was clearly discomfited by his position now. "Why don't you ask him?" asked Goldie, around a mouthful of grass she chomped. The peasants stared at her with saucer eyes. Thanks, Goldie, Zaranda thought. That's just what we needed—new strangeness to tweak the raw nerve-ends of these folk. The mare, who could not really read Zaranda's thoughts but often seemed to, swiveled her ears briefly back to bear on her rider in her own equine equivalent of a wink. The man with one arm was clearly on point, here, with no graceful way to weasel out. He looked down at the rusty broadsword in his hand as if unsure how it came to be there, thrust it through his leather belt, provoking a twitch at the corner of Zaranda's eye at the heedless way he put various of his parts at risk. Then he turned to the orog and cleared his throat. "Uh, pardon me, ahh—" a sidelong glance at Zaranda "—Sir Orog, and would you mind telling us what business you have coming into our country?" The orog turned his two small bloodshot eyes to bear on him. The blond-bearded man quailed but held his ground. The orog thrust his swords into gleaming bronze scabbards crossed over his back

and threw back his cloak. The crowd gasped. Beneath he wore a steel breastplate, enameled white, with the sign of Torm worked upon it in gold. "Passing through it, nothing more," he said in a voice like a blacksmith's file on a horse's hoof. "I am a simple pilgrim on a holy quest. I ask nothing of you save that you let me walk in peace." "Who are you . . . pilgrim?" Zaranda asked. She found the word fit strangely on her tongue, and was shamed. "I hight Shield of Innocence," the orog said. Farlorn cocked a sardonic brow. "And were you born with that name, friend?" The word friend dripped sarcasm as a Shadow Thief's knife dripped poison. The great orc shook his bulldog head. "What I was called before is of no consequence," he said, his speech slow and measured as if somehow painful. "The god remade me when he called me into his service. I am Shield of Innocence now. I am Torm's paladin." Paladin! The crowd gasped again—an effect Zaranda was getting mightily sick of. Father Pelletyr gasped as well and clutched at his Ilmater medal. Stillhawk made no sound, showed no reaction in face or posture, but the knuckles that gripped his bow showed white through his boot-leather-dark skin. "Oh, really," said Farlorn with acid sweetness. "And here all this time I thought only true men could be paladins." "I know little of such things," Shield of Innocence declared. "I was unworthy—all are unworthy. Yet the god chose me. His hand lifted me up and remade me. Perhaps because I was unworthiest of all. I cannot question the will of Torm, praised be his name." The crowd found articulate speech again, or at least as close as mobs get:

"Lies!" "A trick!" "The monster seeks to deceive us!" "Blasphemy!" The gold-bearded man stood taller, more from swelling with outrage than straightening with courage. "The only meet penalty for falsely claiming to be a paladin," he declared in a choked voice, "is death." "If it is Torm's will that I die," the orog said, "I die. I will not raise my hand to smite you." Zaranda swung down off her mare. "Are you leading with your chin again, Randi Star?" Goldie asked. "My nose," the warrior woman said. "That's how it got broken the first time." She patted her steed on the neck and walked up the hill toward the tree. Yellow-beard stared at her with eyes bugged as she walked within arm's reach of him, but made no move to stop her. The crowd shifted uneasily behind him. Zaranda stopped a pace away from the orog and stood facing him. Though she kept her face calm, inside she was vibrating like Stillhawk's arrow after it struck the tree. It was easy for her to talk about tolerance and forbearance, but she had had extensive dealings with orcs, none of them pleasant. Now she stood near enough to the great orc to smell his breath, and her impulses were to vomit, flee, or run him through. So what are you, Zaranda? she asked herself. Animal or woman? Do you follow your instincts heedlessly, or do you follow where your reason leads? There was a time to be ruled by instinct, she knew, and had survived tight situations accordingly. But now was the time she must master herself, or lose all form. She forced herself to look the orog in the eye. They were blue and surprisingly

clear. Like a pig's eyes—but no. And a pig was no evil thing, nor unclean left to its own devices . . . but these were not the eyes of an animal. Nor were they the eyes of a creature of filth and darkness. They seemed to shine with inner purpose. Can you really read a soul through such windows? she wondered. You know better, Zaranda. His carriage, though erect, was not orc-chieftain haughty. Rather it seemed . . . noble. His breath, surprisingly, was not foul. It was as clean as any man's, likely cleaner than any of his tormentors'. She raised a hand to his face. And stopped, as if an invisible shield repelled her. His skin was orc's skin, gray-green and coarse, almost pebbled in texture, although it was scrubbed cleaner than the skin of any orc she'd seen. Her fingers trembled like small frightened animals longing to flee. The question now isn't what he is. It's what you are. She touched his cheek. The crowd gasped a third time. "Zaranda!" Father Pelletyr exclaimed. "Zaranda," Farlorn said, in tones suspended between regret and disgust. With mongoose abruptness the creature caught her hand in both his claws. Now you've done it! she thought as her free hand darted to her dagger-hilt. She could feel Stillhawk drawing his elf-bow behind her. The orog dropped to his knees, still clinging to her hand. The great head hung. "You are my mistress," he said. "I shall serve you." "What?" Zaranda said. He raised his hideous face. Tears glistened in his eyes. "You have been sent to me by Torm," he said. "You are the one I must serve."

7

"Tell me," Farlorn said. The light of the campfire shone in his eyes and his fingers played like glum children on the strings of his yarting. The great orc stared at him with dog fixity. "You say the god Torm named you Shield of Innocence and set you to protect the innocents of this world from unjust attack." The great tusked head nodded. They were camped, with the owner's permission, in an olive grove half a day's journey at a pack mule's plod from the walls of Zazesspur. They might have pressed on and arrived after dark; there was traditionally little effort made to seal the city after sunset, and anyway the outer walls had suffered many breaches after the fall of the royal house. But the travelers they met on the high road from Ithmong had shadow-haunted eyes and unsettling tales of nighttime Zazesspur. Zaranda could not have said why she, who had faced the darkest magic and hordes of undead in Thay, should be so fearful. The darklings were fearsome enough to normal folk, but by all accounts, nothing she and her comrades could not handle—though they were said to be growing stronger in nature as well as numbers. But the dreams kept coming, and they were getting worse. Zaranda decided not to drive weary men and mules on to their destination, and that was the end of it. She had chosen the grove for poor Stillhawk, who languished in cities as a free spirit might in a cell. He could use a final night beneath sky and trees. Also, camping off the road rather than staying at an inn would give strangers small scope to look at the cloaked figure of the warrior who bore two curved swords across his back. Now Stillhawk sat as far away from the orog as he could, across one of the two fires

they had built—the other being for the muleteers and guards, who were given to muttering darkly and keeping hands near hilts when Shield of Innocence was around. Father Pelletyr sat on Zaranda's far side from Shield, protectively near, though whether to shelter her or be sheltered by her in the event of trouble Zaranda could not say. For once he showed small interest in his food. Farlorn, though, sat near the orog, strumming his yarting and plying him with questions. His tone was feather-light, deceptively so. "Ah, yes," the bard said with an air of satisfaction that put Zaranda instantly on guard. "Did it never then occur to you that, when those villagers beset you, you were the innocent one, suffering wrongful persecution?" The orog's heavy brows beetled until his shocking water-blue eyes nearly disappeared. He sat staring in silence into the flame-dance. Finally he shook his great head. "No," he said. "I did not think of that. If I had, I would have had to kill them." The bard flipped his hands in the air like copper-colored birds taking flight. "And there you have it! The beast's not to be trusted, I tell you." Zaranda scowled. "You led him into a trap with your wordplay," she said. "I can scarcely condemn him for that." "If his intellect were the world's brightest light," said Goldie from just outside the firelight, "we'd all be learning to navigate by sound like bats." "You certainly have the advantage on the rest of us in that department," Farlorn said cheerfully. Goldie pinned her ears at him, seeking some retort. "Weren't you eating your oats, dear?" Zaranda asked. "I finished them. Such a paltry handful." She sniffed. "They're all I dare give you," Zaranda said. "You're getting fat."

The mare sniffed, turned away, and flounced off into the night—the effect Zaranda desired. In serious counsel, the mare offered sound advice, but her contributions were rarely helpful in debates of this nature. "He's a monster, Zaranda," Farlorn said, quietly intense, gesturing at the orog, who squatted impassive as an idol with clawed hands resting on his thighs. "No matter what he claims. And if he's had a religious revelation, what of it? His nature will get the better of him in the end. He'll work us harm; you'll see." Shield showed no sign of response. It struck Zaranda as heartless to be discussing him as if he weren't there. But she'd long learned she had to bet the dice according to the spots they showed. She looked to Stillhawk. The ranger had little taste for argument. But when she would not look away, he signed, He is a creature of evil. Once an evil creature, always one. And he rose and stalked away into the night. "And what of you, Father?" asked Zaranda in resignation. The cleric frowned, almost as if in pain. "I have been praying for guidance in this matter," he said. "He seems sincere, and his bearing is that of a paladin—even I cannot deny that." Farlorn snorted and waved a hand in disgust. "Yet I cannot bring myself to accept that what he says is true," Father Pelletyr went on. "It comes to me, though, that I might make use of the power holy Ilmater has vouchsafed me, whereby I may divine where his heart really lies, for good or ill." "No!" Zaranda was on her feet with cheeks flushed. "I'll have none of that!" "I am willing to submit to any examination, Zaranda," the great orc said, "if it will help me continue to serve you."

"I'm not willing! A man's thoughts are his most private possessions—an orog's, too. It's obscene to pry them from him with magic. And I don't want you serving me." The orog sat unmoving. Father Pelletyr looked pained. "But child, such powers of divination are granted by my god. They must be good." "Can't a cleric use such powers for ill if he chooses?" The cleric nodded, but his eyes were boiled pearl onions of shock. Zaranda dropped her gaze and raised a conciliatory hand. "I'm not accusing you, Father. I'm merely trying to point out such powers are not intrinsically good nor bad, no matter whence they spring. I'm not sure that I buy that a thing can be considered good just because a god does it, anyway. If that's the case, why aren't we all votaries of Bane?" "B-Because he's dead?" squeaked the cleric. "Cyric then. I'm just saying I've had it to my eyebrows with gods and powers, whatever their ilk. I don't get my destiny from the stars, and I don't get my values from them." "So you're saying you won't drive the fell creature from our midst?" demanded Farlorn in a voice like a yarting string frayed to the point of breaking. "Indeed," Zaranda said. "And I must say it does my heart good to hear genuine emotion in your voice, Farlorn. Even if it is anger." The bard made an inarticulate sound, jumped to his feet, and huffed off into the dark. A few moments later Zaranda heard an equine snort and a flurry of hoof-beats as the half-elf rode his dapple gray away. "He'll be back," Zaranda said, massaging her temples. She wondered whom she was reassuring. Probably me. She glanced at the cleric, who was still staring at her as if she'd cast off her clothes

and started turning handsprings. "Everyone else is going off to sulk," she said. "To save you the trouble, I'm going, too." She marched into her tent, dropping the flap behind her. As she began to disrobe, she heard a soft rustle outside. She froze, her mind instantly recalling exactly where her sundry weapons were at the moment. Then came a huffing exhalation of breath, and she realized that Shield of Innocence had seated himself like a watchdog outside her tent. That brought a grim smile to her lips. Won't that cheer Farlorn when he comes back from his nocturnal pout. "Don't stop undressing on my account," the brazen head said from the camp stool on which she'd placed it. She seized the heavy artifact up under one arm, threw open its ironbound chest, and dropped it in. "Wait!" the head exclaimed. "I can reveal secrets to you such as you cannot rrmmmpph!" What she could not do with the secrets was lost in a muffle as Zaranda dropped a wadded blanket over the head's mouth. She slammed the lid shut and triple locked it. Then she went to bed. * * * * * "But I don't want to be served," Zaranda said for what seemed the ten dozenth time. The orc—orog, in truth—trotted along beside Goldie on his bandy legs, apparently tireless despite the heat and the weight of his armor. Horses raised by men or elves had to be specially trained to abide an orcish rider, even a very clean one. Not surprisingly none such had been available. Fortunately the plodding of the heavy-laden pack mules kept the pace down.

"I must serve someone," said Shield, also for about the ten dozenth time. "You were sent to me. It is the will of Torm." Zaranda sighed. No less than Father Pelletyr, she had trouble believing he was really a paladin. Yet she was at least convinced that if there were deceit to his claims, it was a deceit he practiced on himself Zaranda Star had little knowledge of paladins or paladinry. Though she had always fought for what she thought was right, the paladin life-path had never appealed to her. Shield did display certain characteristics of the breed. He was uncommon strong, being able to tie tenpenny nails in effortless knots with those black-taloned fingers, and he radiated a quiet force of personality that his ceaseless deferring to her did little to mask. He must have been a formidable war leader indeed among the orcs. Unless of course that gift was the result of whatever revelation had changed his life. He wasn't very bright, as Farlorn had demonstrated the night before, which meant that debates such as this one were exemplars of futility, inasmuch as they always ended with his retreating behind a stout palisade of "It is the will of Torm" and refusing to budge. So who's the simple one, Zaranda? a voice asked inside her mind. She sighed. They crested a rise and there before them, still blue with distance, the spires of Zazesspur floated in a pool of haze. "It's beautiful!" exclaimed Father Pelletyr, who had never been to Tethyr before. Even Zaranda felt her breath catch in her throat. Shield stopped and stood with legs wide, seeming braced, gazing at the city. Then he nodded. "My destiny awaits there," he announced. "I shall die in that city. Torm has told me this." He seemed to derive satisfaction from his certainty. "And dare we hope," Farlorn whispered, his breath tickling Zaranda's ear, "that it will

befall sooner rather than later?" Golden Dawn whipped her head around and snapped at the bard's thigh. His mount caught the motion and shied away. "Back that little trollop away from me," Goldie snarled, "or I'll bite a chunk from her rump, you pimp." Farlorn laughed as if in delight. "Goldie!" Zaranda said reprovingly, but she was too angry with the half-elf to put much weight behind it. What's happening to us? she wondered. Is there really something dreadful in the city, drawing us in? She shuddered but kept on riding toward the far-off towers. * * * * * A couple miles from the walls, Zaranda ordered the caravan off the main road one final time. That provoked the usual whining from Father Pelletyr, as well as an unusually vehement outburst from Eogast, who tore at his beard, stamped his feet upon the ground, and swore fearsome throat-tearing dwarven oaths that he had never in all his centuries known of so much pointless lollygagging. "The less used the entry," she explained patiently during a breath break in his tantrum, "the less we'll have to pay in bribes to gate guards and bureaucrats—and the larger the shares when we pay off." As expected, an appeal to avarice soothed Eogast's dwarven heart and stilled his outcries. Nonetheless, his outburst had held more than the usual edge. Leading the caravan down a brushy defile toward a breach she knew of by the old Dung Gate, she wondered if he shared her growing misgivings about their imminent arrival in the city. Stillhawk rode knee-to-knee with her. They were under the loom of tall buildings and the wall, which was here twenty feet high. The ranger kept casting apprehensive glances up at the masonry pinnacles.

I don't like this, he signed to her. "I understand," she said. "We're a long way from your native woods." Stillhawk was never comfortable in or even near a city. Surrounded by walls of wood, brick, or dressed stone, he always felt as if he were caged, even if he were walking in a broad open plaza. He tolerated exposure to cities from his long comradeship with Zaranda. She in her turn tried not to drag him into them any more than necessary. She might indeed have left him outside the walls while she took the caravan within and tended to business. That was their usual operating practice; he could certainly shift for himself, even in strange countryside, and he trusted her for his share of the payout. Not that he cared overmuch for such things. Zaranda was not entirely sure why he stayed with her as her comrade-in-arms and, technically, her employee. He had a restless craving for action, and knew that where Zaranda went, action tended to follow. Her escapades provided ample opportunity to loose arrows and swing his sword against those beings that worked evil in the world. In a way, she sensed, his association with her tempered those cravings; had he not accompanied her, he probably would have devoted his life to a grim and bloody-handed quest for vengeance, exacting installments on a blood debt that could never be repaid. Stillhawk had enough wisdom to foresee the loss of his humanity caused by such obsession, to see that he would, in time, become one of the monsters he lived to slay. Or so it seemed to her. Stillhawk was a man not much given to talking about himself. It's not that, he signed. My heart is bad about this city, now. There is great evil here. Which is why I want you beside me, she signed. I'm sorry to drag you between walls of stone, old friend. She caught herself then, just on the verge of suggesting he stay outside

anyway—which would be a slap in the face to his ranger pride. I'm beginning to feel the loss of sleep, she thought. It's starting to affect my judgment. She wondered if Stillhawk's sleep was troubled, too. If he had had a dream he regarded as a vision, he would likely have told her. But if his dreams were like the ones that afflicted her, they were vague and formless, whispering darkness and dread—nothing clear-cut. Zaranda thought of asking whether he was having nightmares or was simply edgy at the prospect of entering a city. She refrained. Vague as the dreams were, there was something personal about them, something obscene, so that in a way she could not define, she was ashamed to talk about hers, and reluctant to pry into his. For a time she had wondered if the brazen head were somehow responsible, and whether she ought to cast the thing in a millpond. But no, if the head had the power to invade her mind with suggestive visions, she suspected they would be explicit rather than vague. She looked around. Was Father Pelletyr yawning more than usual beneath his parasol? And the men: Eogast muttering darkly into his beard—nothing unusual about that—Balmeric with bags under his eyes so heavy he looked as if he'd already received his payout and drunk it all away. The guardsmen and drovers looked cagey. .. . Had they been dreaming too? Shield of Innocence strode tirelessly at Zaranda's other hand, head high within its concealing cowl. He had expressed his own expectations clearly enough when he first caught sight of Zazesspur. His carriage suggested nothing of apprehension, as though he already accepted his fate, whatever it was. Alone in their cavalcade, Farlorn rode with head and eyes clear. Seeing Zaranda swivel her head, he kneed his mare and interposed her between Stillhawk's bay and

Golden Dawn, ignoring the warning way Goldie flattened her ears. "Why so somber, Zaranda Star?" he asked with a laugh. "Let me lift your spirits on wings of song." She gave her head an almost convulsive shake. Normally she would welcome such an offer; clearly, hers was not a happy caravan right now, and the bard's songs did wonders for morale. "Let it go," she said. She looked at him sidelong. "How have you been sleeping?" "Never better. Desolate though this land is, it has a charm that soothes me. It's a far cry from my native woods, but after all, 'twas I who chose to forsake them." " 'Desolate,' " Zaranda echoed. Despite herself, she uttered a brief laugh. She had been thinking how green the coastal plains looked, after the interior. Then she shivered. For all the cloudless day and heat, she felt a chill. Farlorn's senses are usually as keen as a hunting cat's, she thought. How can he fail to feel the menace? For all that he was able to pass effortlessly in human society, the bard had much of his mother's folk in him—and sometimes reminded Zaranda just how alien the elves really were. The arroyo ran close to the foot of the ill-maintained wall. The caravan came to a section of bank conveniently collapsed near the gap Zaranda was making for. She sent Stillhawk and four of the more alert crossbow-men to make sure the entryway was clear and secure. Meanwhile she hung to the side with Father Pelletyr, who fanned himself beneath his parasol and discreetly watched Eogast chivy the heavy-laden beasts up the slumped bank. Though dwarves were not usually noted for their communion with animals, the art of mule-driving had been raised to a high degree in their mining operations; the chief drover's touch was sure, and when he wasn't being peevish he was amply supplied with the patience of his long-lived race.

The affair went smoothly, though Zaranda's heart skipped when the mule carrying the locked chest in which the head reposed slipped on the loose dun soil. She thought to hear a muffled curse and looked nervously around. None of the guards or muleteers gave any sign of having noticed anything out of the ordinary. Of course, it was well enough known that trickish things were likely to happen around Zaranda Star, so perhaps they heard it and thought nothing of it. "Easy, Randi," Goldie muttered under cover of a lip-smacking sigh. "If you grip me any tighter, your knees will leave dents in my flanks." "You're right," Zaranda said. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to force her tension out with it. She relaxed her legs and steered the mare up a slope littered with loose gray plates of shale to the breach in the city walls. Eogast stood spraddle-legged just inside the hole, overseeing the mules as they came through one at a time. Though there was ample room to pass four mules abreast without rubbing flanks, he gave Zaranda a red-eyed glare as she walked Goldie through. She ignored him. Inside the city wall she stopped and gazed about. The sun had passed the zenith, and already the block was shaded. The street was much as she remembered it. It was perhaps thirty feet broad, with greasy-looking puddles where Zazesspurians had swiped cobblestones for their own purposes. The buildings were of several stories each, displaying close-fit stonework, elaborate ornamentation around doors and windows and along rooflines, and other signs of elegance. It was the elegance of a corpse lying in state in some wealthy tomb. The facades of certain buildings had slumped to the street, leaving the long-gutted chambers behind exposed and looking uncannily like the eye sockets of skulls. Cornices and friezes had flaked off to lie in sad piles of rubble chips along the bases of intact walls. A stone

rooftop gargoyle crazy-canted on its back favored Zaranda with a cynical wink from the nearby gutter. "An uncanny sort of place," Father Pelletyr said as he rode up on his little ass. An eerie moan rang down the street. He jumped and made the crossed-hands sign of Ilmater to ward off evil. "Why so nervous, Father?" asked Farlorn, riding by in apparent high spirits. " 'Tis merely Sister Wind, blowing across a cavity in the masonry." "What sort of person dwells here?" the priest asked. "None," said Zaranda. "This was a wealthy residential district long ago, during an age when folk felt small need to dwell behind high walls topped with iron spikes or broken glass. When times became less orderly, it was the Street of the Seamstresses, and so it's called to this day." "The only seamstresses I can envision at work here," the cleric said, "are the Norns who in legend spin, measure, and cut the fabric that is our destiny." Zaranda laughed, alleviating a few nerves of her own. "The seamstresses left, too—at least the ones actually concerned with working cloth." The priest gave her a quizzical look. "Most recently the fine structures were houses of pleasure—not the finest of establishments, you understand, but of reasonable quality and great pretension." "Ahh!" breathed the priest, as solemn and great-eyed as a child. "Thus the name Zazesspur the Wicked!" "Well, Father, no. As with the term 'Empire of the Sands' for Tethyr, it's a misnomer, although I suspect one concocted deliberately by the city fathers to pump up the tourist trade from the north. Actually Zaz isn't unduly wicked as port cities go, though I grant you that leaves considerable latitude. This isn't Calimshan, after all; with slavery not

tolerated here for generations, you'd be hard-pressed to find sin here that wasn't equally common in, say, Waterdeep." The priest's face fell so far that Zaranda felt guilty for disillusioning him. "But is not prostitution legal here?" "Indeed, and as a consequence it's a less rough and sordid business. Those who would patronize such establishments regardless can do so without consorting with the criminal element—or feeding it, either. Which is not to say it's respectable, Father; to this day, joy-girls and -boys are called notch-tooth, in honor of the days when they plied their trade in the old Thread-Biters' Lane." The cleric brightened slightly—here at last was a lurid detail to relish. Zaranda shook her head and reflected that celibacy was a terrible thing—something she knew all too well of late. With another round of extravagant dwarven oaths, Eogast chivied the last of the burden beasts safely through the breach in the wall. He strode forward, browbeating mules and men into line. In a chaotic city such as Zazesspur, moving in good order became essential. "Why was the district abandoned then?" the priest asked. "A water main burst, cutting off supply to the district. This was back during the Troubles, the rioting that followed the murder of the royal family. Folk had little energy to tend to such details then, so the joy-houses moved out. Now the neighborhood's given over to rats." She glanced around at the doorways. "Not infrequently of the two-legged variety." Goldie had her head up and was swiveling her impressive ears from side to side. "Ah, Zaranda," she said. "Speaking of those two-legged rats ..." At once there were uniformed men all around. They materialized in doorways, in the

blind-eye windows of derelict buildings, along rooflines. A party suddenly emerged to block the road while a second group stole from the rubble to prevent escape through the hole in the city wall. The ones on street level bore halberds with bronzed heads, while those above leveled cocked crossbows at the startled muleteers and their escorts. All wore gorgeous puffed royal-blue sleeves, blue pantaloons, bronze cuirasses, and morions of the Zazesspurian civic guard. From the phalanx of halberdiers blocking the end of the street stepped a tall man in bronzed greaves, a scarlet egret plume nodding over his morion. He had a long face with a scar that ran from his right brow to the line of his jaw, crossing a dead, staring eye. The other eye was the near-colorless pale blue of northern sky. "You are Zaranda Star, who styles herself Countess Morninggold?" he demanded in a harsh voice. One gloved hand rested on a rapier's swept hilt. Zaranda urged Goldie forward to meet him. She was aware of Stillhawk riding at her elbow. She could feel the heat of his embarrassment at allowing the caravan to be taken so by surprise. Rest easy, my friend, she signed to him. Don't blame yourself. You're out of your element here. From the clot of halberdiers came alarmed cries, and the bronzed axe blades wavered as their bearers tried to make signs against evil while keeping grasp on the weapons. "Desist from this magic hand-waving!" the officer rapped. "We know of you. Gesture more, and my men will pierce you like Waterdhavian cheese!" Stillhawk growled deep in his throat. "No magic," his employer said quietly. "I am Zaranda Star. Why do you block my way?"

"I am Cangaro, captain of the guard," the officer said, unrolling a parchment scroll. "In the name of the city council, I hereby impound this caravan and all the goods it carries!"

8

It had not been a day to improve her composure. The scar-faced guard officer's parchment declared that the caravan was being seized for unlicensed importation of magic artifacts into Zazesspur in violation of city council edict. Nothing she could say would dissuade him from executing it—and his troop of bravos had the drop on her own tiny guard force. Not that she would have fought, since she was trying to do business in an honest and aboveboard way. The rest of the day gave her leisure to repent that choice. It had been spent in fruitless wrangling with officials in the slab-sided Palace of Governance in the city's middle, so new it was still under construction. There had been the usual block-faced indifference of officialdom: No, you'll have to wait for things to take their course, like anyone. No, I can't help you. There had also been the usual half-clever solicitations for bribes, with the odd sniggering suggestion—accompanied by a free wandering of the eye over Zaranda's wiry but very feminine form—that they need not be paid in gold. Accustomed to dealing with bureaucrats across Faerun, Zaranda had paid such squeeze as she thought would prove useful—in gold on the desktop. The bulk of her resources, not to mention her hopes of keeping her home, were of course locked up somewhere in the city coffers by now, but she retained her private stash of coin, choice gems, and jewelry that she carried on her person and in Goldie's panniers for emergencies. Even after paying off the muleteers and escorts, she wasn't destitute. Yet. But gold bought her nothing. Bribed or not, the council's lackeys could say nothing more than that she would have to wait for an administrative hearing. But the courts were busy. If a large enough donation to the council's grand plan to remake Zazesspur

were forthcoming, the process might be expedited, and a hearing held within, say, three months. When Zaranda left the palace in disgust, the sun was already dropping into the harbor. She became aware of a sense of unease that had been stealing, unnoticed, upon her all the time she had spent within the palace. She shook her head in something like annoyance. I've always dreaded dealing with bureaucrats, she reminded herself. How could I be other than nervous, with my fortune resting in their hands? I mustn't let these cursed dreams get to me. On the spot she decided to go get drunk. * * * * * "Zaranda," the adventurer declared, leaning forward to bathe her face in the fumes of a less-famous Tethyrian wine, "your problem is that you're lowering yourself by playing at merchant." Zaranda carefully set her own goblet of local red wine—of a somewhat more reputable vintage—carefully down upon the knife-gouged tabletop before her. She had come to the Smiling Centaur with Stillhawk, Father Pelletyr, Shield, and Farlorn, intending to drown her troubles in wine, a course of action that did little good. Now this scabrous mercenary was interfering with the process, and she didn't know whether to be angry or grateful. "Oh, so, Valides?" she said neutrally. The mercenary nodded with the exaggerated emphasis of the drunken. "Certainly so. How else could it be?" He belched and wiped the back of his mouth with a hand no cleaner but drier. "Look at yourself, Zaranda. You used to be a warrior." "I still am." He waved a black-nailed hand, slopping wine from the leather jack over a

much-spotted sleeve. "Now these merchants, you take them; they're just bloodsuckers. No better than vampires, I'm bound, even if their color's better." He laughed uproariously, and moistly, at his own jape. After a while he noticed that his audience wasn't laughing with him. He quieted and leaned forward again. "Merchants make nothing. They delve not, neither do they spin. But they rake off fat profits, yes they do! And for what? For nothing." "For taking the effort and the risks in conveying goods to those who wouldn't otherwise see them," Zaranda said. A hand wave. "Nothing, as I said. Now you take the warrior, though—there's a life that's honest and clean." "You kill monsters and you take their gold." "That's right! Yours is the right of the sword. You take what you will! By the sword!" He slammed his fist down upon the table. "That's the way for a man to live! And, uh, a woman like yourself, too, Zaranda. Not as some money-grabbing merchant." Anger flared behind Zaranda's eyes. She felt her cheeks grow taut and hot. No, she told herself, you've always held that any being had the right to speak freely. You'd cut a poor figure if that went by the wayside whenever someone spoke against your liking. She forced her hand away from the hilt of Crackletongue and smiled a grim smile. Valides had become distracted by discovery that his jack was running dry, and he turned around to bellow for a serving wench. Zaranda scanned the tavern. The Smiling Centaur was little different from any tavern one would encounter from the Sword Coast to the Vilhon Reach: a broad common room with low smoked rafters and tables and chairs of inexpensive but solid make to resist use by customers of greater than human size or strength, and misuse during bar fights. The place was lit fitfully by candles placed on wagon wheels hung by chains from the ceiling, and by oil

lamps in stout, cagelike wrought-iron sconces on the whitewashed walls. An ox-roasting hearth gaped like a monster maw in one wall, but it was cold and dark; the evening was cool to the edge of crispness, but the day's residual heat and the warmth of bodies left no room for a fire. It was crowded, but to her experienced eye, less than she might have expected on such a fine spring evening after a southern day more than amply hot to put an edge on one's thirst. The noise level was lower, too, as if the revelry were somehow subdued. Even the cleanshaven face of proprietor Berdak, the centaur who gave the place its name, seemed to be smiling less broadly than usual as he washed brass flagons behind the bar. Now and then Zaranda caught a muttered reference to darklings, accompanied by nervous looks around, as if the night-stalking horrors might be lurking beneath tables nearby. As far as gossip informed her, the things posed small threat to those who went abroad in armed parties, which was not unusual for most of the Centaur's patrons. She thought there must be more to the almost furtive mood, the hollow, sunken eyes around her. Or perhaps it was all Zaranda's imagination, energized by her own nightmare-induced lack of sleep and the day's events. But she had not survived such a hazardous life by taking aught for granted. She made a quick, careful survey of the immediate surroundings, reassuring herself that no one was taking undue interest in her or her four companions. A serving maid appeared at the table, a young gnome with rather prominent pointed ears and a harried but pretty face that tapered from wide cheekbones to an almost elfin pointed chin. Valides snarled his demand for more wine like a curse, and when the gnome woman's hip accidentally brushed the table as she turned, he raised a fist to

strike her. Zaranda's hand caught him by the wrist, so quickly that it simply seemed to be there. He tried to pull away and turned a red-eyed glare to her when he could not. The serving girl scampered off. Zaranda Star was one of those rare women who gave away comparatively little to men in the density of muscles, and thus power. The mercenary could have overmatched her strength to strength, with effort. The look in her eyes, now an almost self-luminous pale blue, and the name she had carved for herself with the curve-bladed sword at her side dissuaded him from expending the effort. "Rest easy, man," she said. "What's got into you?" He dropped his eyes, and she let him wrest his hand free. "These gnomes," he spat. "They infest the city like worms in cheese. Arrogant, clannish little beasts! They've long conspired to do honest human folk out of first their wages and then their jobs. But mark my words—Earl Ravenak knows what they're about. And he has the cure for their scheming." "Ravenak?" Zaranda spat the word out like a shred of spoiled food. Valides nodded, looking owlish. "The man with the plan; he knows what to do about all these outland scum, these refugee hordes and this inhuman vermin." Valides was himself no native Tethyrian, but he plowed on before Zaranda had a chance to point that out. "We'll see a change when this Baron Hardisty comes to power," he declared. "Right now he claims to disdain Ravenak, to assuage the hoity-toity who lack the stomach for doing what must be done, if you get my drift. But mark my words—there's steel beneath that lace and frippery! This Hardisty has steel where he needs it. He'll back the Earl when the time comes." "The baron may have steel where he needs it, but he's got muck in his brainpan if he

has aught to do with that green slime Ravenak," Zaranda said. "Even in Tethyr it's a wonder he's not been hanged, noble or not." Valides's drunk face began to cloud over. "Now, Zaranda," Father Pelletyr said. He sat at Zaranda's left, where he had been occupied addressing himself to a leg of mutton. Restored, he took an interest in the conversation. "Your friend is entitled to his opinions." "And I to mine," Zaranda said, leaning against the back of her chair and crossing her arms. The serving maid came back and set a fresh-filled jack before the mercenary. He glowered from her to Zaranda, cast a handful of coppers to her. She scooped up the empty vessel and scuttled away. Valides swilled deeply, then glared about him. His eye fell upon a bulky figure stacked in the corner behind Zaranda, swaddled head to toe in a cloak. It was Shield of Innocence. Zazesspur was basically a tolerant town, though Valides's talk made Zaranda wonder what it was coming to, but there were few places in Faerun in which an orog warrior would be made welcome. The Smiling Centaur attracted a lot of demihuman custom, and patrons of all races largely forbore to inquire into their fellows' antecedents, in the interest of avoiding scrutiny of their own. Zaranda had hoped he would attract less attention here than out on the street. But Valides, though Zaranda's sometime comrade-in-arms, was one of those types with a gift for doing the least welcome thing. "What have we here?" he asked, heaving his somewhat squat form up from his stool and lurching toward the silent cowled figure. Stillhawk stood up, too. With the closeness and clamor threatening to overwhelm his wilderness-honed senses, he would take neither wine nor spirit, and had been sitting quietly by Shield with a flagon of water and a platter of beef. Even here in the

south, few would dare chafe a ranger of the Dales for abstaining from strong drink; it wasn't the sort of behavior one got a chance to repeat. Though he hated and mistrusted the great orc, Stillhawk kept watch over him as a service to Zaranda. He moved to bar the inebriated mercenary's way. But Farlorn Half-Elven reached out and caught his oak-hard forearm, staying him. "Bide, my friend," he said in his silken baritone. "Our comrade merely wishes words with our silent one. Wouldst offend a warrior true?" Stillhawk blinked; Farlorn's words had a way of confusing him. Valides shouldered past him. "Hey, there, fellow," he rasped at Shield. "What breed are you? You're a big one—is it giant blood runs in your veins, or ogre?" He put back his head and laughed uproariously at his own wit. Zaranda was standing now. "Vander," she said softly, using the ranger's rarely heard given name for emphasis. The ranger nodded, turned. But now Farlorn stood between him and Valides. The bard's moods were like a pendulum, though without the predictability; from this morning's near-giddiness, he had swung into black despair. Unlike the others—Father Pelletyr's thirst was far less exigent than his hunger, though over the whole course of the evening he might acquire a pleasant illumination—Farlorn had drunk with single-minded concentration, fury almost, since arriving at the tavern. His exotically handsome face was flushed, and his eyes were red. He was laughing, but his laugh had a jagged, nasty edge, like a Shadow Thief's stiletto. "What's the matter with you, fellow?" Valides demanded. "Too good to drink with us normal-sized folk? Show us your misshapen face, then, you great uppity oaf!" He reached for the cowl of Shield's cloak. Zaranda prepared a spell that would, she hoped, douse all lights in the tavern, and for safety's sake tossed back her own cloak

to clear Crackletongue. For all his elf-trained quickness, Stillhawk could not get past Farlorn in time to stop the drunken mercenary, and once Shield's tusked orc face was revealed, there would be a riot. And as ever, if blood must flow, Zaranda intended to be the spiller, not the spillee. "Sweet Ilmater!" The tavern din had fallen low with anticipation. The choked outcry cut across the pregnant stillness like a full-throated scream. Father Pelletyr had lurched upward from his chair. His face was suffused with blood and contorted as with agony. "My arm!" he gasped, clutching his bosom. "My chest! The pain—" He collapsed, upsetting the chair he had occupied. His flailing hand struck his flagon, and the wine stained his white robe like blood. Zaranda leapt toward him but could not catch him before he struck the rush-covered floor. In a flash, Berdak was kneeling by the stricken man's side. Small for a centaur, the publican was solidly built, and with four legs for traction he cut through the mob like an Amnian racing dromond. He knelt beside the cleric and reached to feel his throat. Then he looked up and shook his head. "His heart has given out," he said. "This man is dead."

9

"We know the face of our enemy," a voice echoed down the darkened streets of Zazesspur's Wainwright District, "and we shall grind it beneath our bootheels!" A many-throated growl of approval answered him. Zaranda scowled and forced her hand away from Crackletongue's hilt. "What's that noise?" Stillhawk stood at the corner ahead. He gestured right, toward the center of town. It comes from this direction. She stalked forward and peered around the hip of a brick wall surrounding a wagonmaker's yard. Several blocks away a forest of torches upheld by a multitude of hands illuminated a mob below and a man above, standing on the pedestal of an equestrian statue that had somehow escaped the iconoclastic fervor of the Troubles, in the midst of a square. Even at this range the mob members looked shaggy and unkempt, and a questing breeze brought a whiff of stale clothing and unwashed flesh to Zaranda's nostrils. "What is this?" she asked. The four bravos she had hired from the tavern to convey poor Father Pelletyr's body, wrapped in a piece of canvas, to the chapter house of his sect took advantage of the pause to lower their burden—gently, with Shield of Innocence's still-cowled bulk looming over them—to the paving stones. One of them wiped his forehead of sweat with the back of his hand. "From the sound of it, that's Earl Ravenak addressing his hairheads," he said. "This is thirsty work, milady." Farlorn undipped a canteen from his belt and tossed it to the man. The man uncapped it, swigged, cast a reproachful look at the half-elf. "Water?" he asked plain-

tively. The cleric's death had dropped the bard into a stony-sullen depression. He gave the man a look. The body-bearer hurriedly drank. Zaranda had scrupulously avoided bringing wine along, and made sure her hirelings hadn't. She didn't want them growing antic with poor Father Pelletyr. "What's wrong with his followers?" Zaranda said. "They look like a passel of Uthgardt Beast Cultists coming off a half-moon binge. And smell worse." A second bearer drank and passed the bottle on. "Hairheads," he said. "Ravenak's followers. They've vowed never to cut their hair nor wash until all foreign elements are purged from Zazesspur." "Gnomish blood shall spurt under the knife!" the mad earl's voice raved, magnified by a speaking-tube. The crowd howled like banshees at a chariot race. "May the black galleys carry off the lot of 'em," muttered the first man. "Black galleys?" Zaranda asked. "Zhentarim slave ships," the bearer said, then spat again, more lustily still. "They ply the harbor by night. I hear they put in at docks down in the catacombs beneath the city, to carry kidnapped children away into slavery." "Mush-head," the third bearer said. "You believe anything you hear." "It's true, may the sahuagin eat your guts! My Uncle Alvo saw them his own self." "And what was your Uncle Alvo doing in the catacombs of a midnight?" inquired the fourth bearer. The first man studied his sandaled toes. "Well... he fell down a manhole. He'd had a bit to drink, all right? He's still as truthful a man as ever drew a breath of Zazesspurian air." "Which means he's a liar approved," the second man said. The other two hooted

laughter. "Come on," Zaranda said, "before the Zhentarim dogs carry us all away." The bearers stooped to grab the corners of Pelletyr's winding sheet again. As they hoisted him to their shoulders with a soft grunt, it occurred to her she didn't know exactly who it was the bearer wished the black galleys to carry off: Ravenak and his fanatics—or the "foreigners" they inveighed against. What's happening in Zazesspur? she wondered. * * * * * "My baby!" the woman wailed in a voice shorn of hope. "Give me my baby!" The shuttered windows and blank-faced buildings around caught her words and tossed them, mocking, back at her. The short, twisted creature who had wrested her infant daughter from her showed her a smile full of teeth filed to points. The woman screamed and fought against the hands that gripped her arms, but it was fruitless. She knew she should not have been abroad on the streets by night, but she had no choice. Her husband had been dead four months, innocent victim of a street fight between members of rival political factions. Since then, she had worked at a lamp-seller's stall in the Old Market to feed her infant. The merchant did not roll up his rug and bring in his wares until the sun sank into the harbor, and she had to finish sweeping up before she could go collect her child from her sister's house. Then she faced a long walk home through darkened, near-deserted streets. But she had always preferred the chance of an encounter with darklings to the certainty of slow starvation. Until tonight. She had been within three blocks of the collapsing tenement where she rented a closet-sized room, and her steps had begun to quicken with the nearness of home, such as it was. Between that and trying to soothe her baby, who had awakened and begun to cry, the first she had known of her peril was when she fetched

up against the broad, leather-armored chest of a vast being with a face as much beast as man. By then she was surrounded. The grinning horror examined her baby with apparent curiosity, as if unsure what it was. "Please," the woman begged, "don't hurt her. Don't hurt my baby!" The thing looked at the child, shrugged, and tossed it to a snouted being about her own size. She had never seen such a creature before, but from the stories her grandmother had told her when she was young, she thought with sick terror that it must be an orc. The orc caught the infant, held it up to peer at it in the cold, impersonal light of the stars overhead. The baby struck out with tiny fists and squalled. The orc tipped back its head, opened wide-tusked jaws to bite... With a sound like a huge insect being stepped on, two handspans of curved sword tip jutted abruptly from its breast. Its caw of agony was drowned by a sizzling crackle as white sparks cascaded from the blade. In its death spasm, the orc launched the child high in the air. Twenty feet away, a gaunt, pointy-eared woman who could only be an elf of legend drew a slim long sword and held it up to spit the infant. As the infant started down its arc the mother uttered a final, soul-lost scream, and fainted. * * * * * A hard brown hand reached up, caught the baby by one leg, and hauled it in. The elven woman uttered an inarticulate shriek of rage and lunged forward, raising her long sword to cut at the back of the impertinent man who had deprived her of her prey. Stillhawk tucked a shoulder, rolled with the baby clutched protectively against his muscular breast, and came up drawing his own sword.

Too late. She launched a cut that would split open the back of his skull—only to have her weapon ring against a slimmer blade that was hastily interposed. Over the crossed blades, the tall, pale elf woman locked eyes with the fathomless brown eyes of Farlorn the Handsome. Then he snarled an Elvish phrase that meant traitors die. And suddenly his blade had disengaged and transfixed her narrow throat. All this had occupied no more than three beats of a danger-sped heart. Zaranda tore Crackletongue from the back of the orc she'd spitted, making it seem the creature bled white fire. She spun to face a stunted thing that plucked a short-hafted hammer from its belt and a sword-wielding human with wild, long hair. From the corner of her eye she saw Shield of Innocence confront a hobgoblin as tall and great-chested as he. The creature raised a battle-axe both-handed above its bat-eared head. The orog carried his twin scimitars, Justice and Mercy, slung across his back, with hilts jutting above either shoulder. He grasped these now, whipped the moon-curved blades up and out, and then across each other before him, severing both the hobgoblin's arms a span from the shoulders. Then he slashed backhanded with both blades at once so that they closed like scissors on the hobgoblin's thick neck. The creature's head sprang from his shoulders and went bouncing away over the cobbles. "Neat trick," observed Farlorn, who was warding savage sword strokes from a bearded man as casually as if he were playing pat-a-cake with a halfling child. "I've not seen that one before." Zaranda's human foe rushed her with an overhand cut then, and she had no attention to spare her comrades. She threw Crackletongue up to parry the blow, stepping into the man at the same time. He was big and strong and might have beat her guard down had she only met strength with strength. Instead she turned and

moved to her right, drawing her saber blade along his broadsword as if trying to cut it, so that the straight blade slid with a shrill song along its length to flash harmlessly downward past the hip. She continued her pirouette—and her cut. Charging what he thought would be her unprotected back, the diminutive hammer-bearer ran right into a stroke that split his misshapen skull. The human howled in a voice more like an angry wraith's than a man's, swung at her with a mighty two-handed blow that could easily have cleft her at the waist. But such a stroke required so much windup that he might as well have sent a letter by post-rider warning it was coming. She danced back as the blade moaned by, sucking in her flat belly so that the sharp tip missed by inches. Then Crackletongue lashed out in a counterstroke that laid the swordsman's right forearm open to bone. The man howled again, but didn't lose his sword. He kept his grip with his left hand and raised the weapon to strike. Zaranda spitted him through the chest. He uttered a final shriek, contorted face hideously underlit by the sparks leaping from the saber blade, and slumped. Zaranda put her foot in his belly to tear Crackletongue free, then spun, the still-sparking saber held ready before her. It was no longer necessary. Farlorn had dropped his second adversary, and Stillhawk had slain a darkling as well, still cradling the infant against his chest. He walked up now to the mother, who had been flung aside by her captors when Zaranda slew the orc. She had spent the battle cowering against a wall. Now she stood with hands outspread on the masonry behind her, as if held at bay and ready to flee the ranger's approach. In his habitual silence he held out the baby, which had ceased to cry. She brushed a lock of dark hair from her features and stared from her

infant up to Stillhawk's grim face. As though struck as mute as he, she reached up, touched lightly on his leathery cheek. Then she snatched her child and ran away along the lane. The street was eerily quiet. No shutters opened; no inquisitive heads poked forth. That was unsettling in itself. Usually Zazesspurians would be hanging their heads out their windows at the sound of a street fight, cheering, jeering, and shouting advice like spectators at a sporting match. Of course, afterward when the city police came calling, no one would have seen anything. But nothing happened. The whole affray might as well have happened in the derelict Notch-Tooth District. The citizens of Zazesspur had learned that the curious had more to fear than official inquisitiveness. Stillhawk was going from darkling to darkling with a clip-bladed huntsman's knife in hand, "making sure" of fallen foes in the grim fashion of the Elven Woods. Zaranda was glad Father Pelletyr wasn't alive to see it; it would have distressed his good and kindly heart, though even he could not deny the necessity for it. The ranger's features were set in sterner lines than usual, and when he knelt by the small pointy-toothed creature whose skull Zaranda had split, he gestured his comrades near. "What have we here, brave huntsman?" murmured Farlorn, who still had his rapier out. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks flushed; it appeared the killing had put him back in high spirits. The ranger signed one word: duergar. "A dark dwarf?" exclaimed Farlorn. "Ha! Impossible. Never do they venture up out of the Underdark." "I certainly didn't bring the thing back in my pack from a dungeon crawl, Farlorn Half-Elven," Zaranda said. "I struck it down where now it lies, and though I've had the

ill-fortune to see but one or two of that kindred before, there's no doubt Stillhawk has the right of it." "But what can this mean?" Farlorn asked, shaking his head. The darklings come from below, Stillhawk signed. Why your surprise? "Because I myself slew a female Moon Elf," Farlorn said. "Rare enough to find an elf in company with a true dwarf. But one of the People leagued with a duergar?" He shook his head, as if even he could find no words to match the strangeness. "An orc and a hobgoblin lie slain with them, and likewise three who look as human as I," Zaranda said. "Curious company indeed." "There are many mysteries in the city," said Shield in his basso growl. Farlorn looked at him standing there with the cowl of his white cloak thrown back and twin crescent blades clutched in taloned hands, and laughed. "Indeed there are! And now I think on it, is this lot of darklings truly any more bizarre than to find a ranger and a half-elf fighting alongside a great orc?" Zaranda looked up and down the street. It was still deserted. "We'd best be off," she said, "lest the guard find us and fine us for slaying darklings without a license." The shrouded body of Father Pelletyr lay in the gutter a block away. The bearers hired from the Smiling Centaur had fled as the distraught mother's first cries reached them, knowing they meant darklings were about. "We'll make no rapid going," Farlorn said. "The good Father's taste for good living has made him in death less bearable." Shield of Innocence sheathed his swords and drew his cowl back over his head again. Then he walked back to the white bundle, stooped, and hoisted it over one broad shoulder. "I shall carry the holy man," he said.

"So be it," Zaranda Star said; and so it was. * * * * * The chief cleric of the Order of Ilmater Brothers was a tall, gaunt man with a head shaped like a doorknob, a resemblance his surrounding fringe of gray hair did nothing to detract from. He still had sleep in his sunken, sad-looking gray eyes. "So you have brought one of our own back to us," he intoned after the bundle had been deposited on a marble examining table in the healing chamber and the shroud was pulled back from Father Pelletyr's face. "How did he die?" "He died trying to prevent bloodshed, Excellency," Zaranda said, crossing her fingers behind her back. It wasn't actually a lie; the hapless father might have been trying to intervene when he keeled over. She couldn't know and chose to give her comrade the benefit of the doubt. Examining the body, the cleric looked up beneath a bushy, upraised brow. "No need to call me 'excellency;' we are all humble brothers in Ilmater," he said. "He appears to have been stricken with an infarct to the myocardium. I see no signs of violence." "Still, he was attempting to interpose himself between the combatants when death struck him down," said Zaranda, stretching the truth as far as it would go. It appeared to satisfy the archpriest, who nodded gravely. "Long and well has our brother served Ilmater, and now the Crying God has called him home," he intoned. Zaranda thrust a hand in her pouch and brought forth a handful of gems and rich broaches, sparkling in the light of the single lantern hung by a hook above the slab. "Here's what wealth I have remaining, Excel—ah, Father. I don't know whether it's enough to cover resurrection, but if not, perhaps we can make arrangements."

But the cleric shook his head. "Ah, my child, but you forget—" he began, wagging an admonitory finger. "No terms on healing," Zaranda said, sagging. The gods of Toril were a cash-on-the-barrelhead lot. Given the uncertainty of fortune in that world, it was probably wise. But the archpriest was still shaking his head. "Our brother Pelletyr forswore resurrection from death when he took our orders. He subjected his will to Ilmater's. Now Our Martyred Father has seen fit to call him home, and he has gone to stay." "So be it," rumbled from the hooded hulk of Shield, who stood behind Zaranda. The cleric cast him a curious look, but said nothing. Zaranda's eyes squeezed shut. Father Pelletyr had been neither the oldest nor the best of her friends, but he had been a comrade of unflagging loyalty and great heart. A single tear ran down her cheek. He's the first of us claimed by the evil that lies upon Zazesspur, she thought irrationally but with profound conviction. How many more? * * * * * Out on the street before the chapter house, Farlorn paused with hands on hips and swelled his chest with a deep draught of night air. Because it was spring, the nights were cool, not sultry as they would be when summer arrived in the Empires of the Sands. Soft lantern light shone through stained glass that showed Ilmater's bound hands on a field of butter yellow and made colorful play on the back of his doublet. "And there you have it," he declared. "Poor Father P. eschews resurrection in order to lend meaning to his eventual martyrdom. And then what befalls him? He pops an A. and dies a death entirely meaningless. Who says the Crying God has no sense of humor?"

Zaranda turned, frowning, toward him, intending to take him to task for his callousness. Instead, she found herself breaking into laughter that she quickly had to stifle, for fear of scandalizing the inhabitants of the chapter house. "Life is a witch, and then you die," she said, giggling like a schoolgirl. "Now there's a fine Ilmaterish touch for you!" And she thrust her elbows out from her sides, so that Stillhawk and Farlorn put their arms through hers, and walked away down the street with Shield following in silence. And once they were around the corner from the Ilmater chapter house, Zaranda let her laughter boom forth full throated. Because if she could not laugh at Death, how could she face it when her time came? * * * * * That night in her bed Zaranda did not laugh. She had engaged rooms at the Winsome Repose, an inn of good if not preeminent quality. She still had treasure of her own, though far from enough to cover her debts, and saw no reason to stint herself. Stillhawk and Shield were bedded down in the stables, where Goldie could speak to the other horses in words they understood and gentle them to the smell of the orog—and where Stillhawk could keep the mare from gambling with the grooms and cheating them, which was bound to draw undue attention. Zaranda had a chamber to herself, as, to his disgruntlement, did bard Farlorn. Though the night had grown near-chill, she found herself unbearably hot, stiflingly hot, and could bear neither clothes nor covers. And as she tossed and sweated in a state that could be called sleep only because she was palpably not awake, it seemed to her that she heard the voices of lost children crying out to her, helpless and doomed,

as black whips drove them in ranks toward black galleys, far below in the city's stone bowels. And another voice spoke to her, whispering, at once infinitely repellent and infinitely seductive, saying: Zaranda. Join us. Why fight it? You know you shall come to us . . . Soon.

10

"If you would know the source of your troubles," the amplified voice shouted, piping-shrill yet bearing authority, "look to the wealthy. It is because they are rich that you are poor!" Outside the yellow brick smithy, a crowd roared approval. Artalos the armorer rubbed an oily hand on the front of his leathern apron, which was dotted with tiny char spots from the sparks that flew from his forge. "They can go on like that for hours," he said with something resembling admiration. "There may be aught in what they say; I lack the wisdom to know. I do know that when they speak of the rich, they include artisans and craft-folk like me. And if I'm rich, why do I sweat the daylight hours away, and still fall short when it comes time to pay my bills? Not to mention the taxes the city council exacts, and the dues the syndics demand." Zaranda went to stand in the doorway. It opened on a yard in which there stood an anvil, a quenching tub, and piles of rusting ironmongery ranging from old plowshares to broken swords. A gate stood open in the high wall, into the top of which were set old sword tips, points upward like the leaves of a hedge, which surrounded the smithy yard. Through it she could see a small figure standing on a nail keg in the bed of a wagon parked where two streets crossed, addressing a large, rough-dressed crowd. "Does every madman in Zazesspur possess a speaking tube?" she asked. "And an audience," Artalos agreed grimly. "So it is coming to pass." "Who's our diminutive orator?" The armorer came forward, scratching his grizzle-bristled chin with his right hand, which at the moment was a black iron hook that he used to grasp the handles of melting pots. He had quite an assortment of cleverly wrought implements he could

substitute for his hand, which had gone missing to a Tuigan sword during the nomad invasion years before. Likewise, the smallest two fingers of his left hand were gone, though he had not bothered to replace those. "That would be Toby, or to put it formally, Tobiworth Hedgeblossom, of the noted Hedgeblossom brothers." " 'Noted'?" "Noted indeed. Toby and his brother Putomas—called Poot by the vulgar, which of course includes most of his followers—are among the foremost of our local rabble-rousers. They lead the Social Justice League, which is among the foremost of our local rabbles." "Rather in the fashion of Earl Ravenak?" Artalos turned and spat with great accuracy into the open mouth of his forge, eliciting a hiss of steam. "Not quite. They don't preach outright murder—yet, though I fear their wild talk will lead them to that, inevitably, as rivers seek the sea. That carrion-breathed raver Ravenak not only preaches it—his minions practice it with a will." He shrugged and went back inside. "Ill times have overtaken Zaz of late. Our own guild masters, the syndics, treat us more as chattel than craft-brothers—and I think we armorers and swordsmiths get off lightly since so many of us are veteran fighters and not to be imposed upon." But will you act to defend your rights, any more than the weavers or soapmakers? Zaranda wondered. She forbore to ask since Artalos was an old comrade, and she wanted further information from him. Feeling the need for more information as to how the land lay in Zazesspur, she had gone abroad to talk with some of her long-standing contacts. She did so alone. Shield

of Innocence and Stillhawk remained in one another's care back at the Winsome Repose, since they would be uncomfortable and conspicuous among the Zaz throngs. Stillhawk yet hated the orog as a crow hates an owl, but he would neither harm Shield nor suffer harm to come to him unless the supposed paladin acted treacherously; such was Stillhawk's devotion to Zaranda. Farlorn was off on business of his own. Since they were back in civilization and his sporadic attempts to resume matters with Zaranda had been rebuffed, said business probably entailed seducing human women, a passion with him almost as great as his love for music and strife. Zaranda was just as happy for lack of his company. He had been a friend for a long time, and a fine companion on the road, but sometimes his dual nature bore down heavily on him, making him difficult to be around. Toby Hedgeblossom's impassioned rhetoric followed Zaranda and Artalos into the shadowed forge. "Likely one or the other of the Hedgeblossoms will get himself elected, and then they'll lose interest in redistributing wealth, save into their own pockets," the armorer said, working a bellows with a treadle. The glare from the open forge changed from orange to yellow. "Meanwhile, have you heard the latest tidings? It's said that the city council is considering making it illegal to bear weapons larger than daggers within the city walls—unless, of course, you happen to belong to the civic guard, or are some councilman's personal bravo." "Will the folk of Zazesspur stand for that?" Zaranda asked. The armorer shrugged again. "Ill times beset us. If it wasn't for the cogs and caravels plying in and out of the harbor we'd be as poor as the country wretches. People are saying something must be done." He shook his head. "Why they think that means doing just anything will help, though, is more than my poor head can puzzle

out." "What of the darklings? Many speak of them as the greatest menace, yet you've not mentioned them." "The darklings are a fell lot, no question, and I fear they are harbingers of worse times to come. Yet they prey mainly on the weak and unarmed. They fall readily enough to swords wielded with will and skill, so I am told." "So much is true," Zaranda said. He looked at her a moment under lowered brows and laughed. "So! I should've known the redoubtable Captain Star could not pass a night in Zazesspur without crossing swords with our local plague. You ever drew trouble to you like a lodestone!" "Thank you so much for reminding me." With his hook, he reached into the forge and drew forth a crucible of molten steel, glowing white. This he poured into a dagger mold. "I don't doubt this civic guard could clean the devils out with one concerted push," he said as he poured, "if there were anything to them but swagger. Still—" he set the empty crucible aside "—the darklings pose little enough threat to us, so long as we're allowed to keep our swords." Having learned as much as she felt she could, Zaranda bade her old comrade farewell. When she started out the gate, a symbol painted in the mouth of the alley caught her attention: a stylized eye with a brow slanting to meet it from above and two lines descending from it below. "Artalos," she called. "A moment more of your time, if you will." The armorer emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. "Always for you, Captain. What be your wish?" "That sign there—you know it?"

He snorted. "Who does not know the dragon's-eye symbol of Nyadnar the Sorceress? Powerful she must be indeed to dare the wrath of those creatures by using such a sign. Yet you'd think so powerful a wizard would have better things to do than creep about the city scrawling on walls." "Perhaps she doesn't do it herself." "Who'd dare without her permission? I'd as lief scrawl Elminster's mark in a public urinal. Nyadnar's not his match, so it's said and so I believe; but there's something fell about her. I wonder if she's not a thing of evil, after all." "She thinks herself above such concerns," Zaranda murmured. "So she's in residence currently?" "In her house on Love Street," the armorer said with a nod, "or so it would seem. That mark was not there yesterday when the sun went down." "Strange," Zaranda Star said, and took her leave. From curiosity she wandered down Anvil Road to where it crossed Tinsmith Way, where the halfling firebrand addressed his followers from his wagonbed. Even here, in a predominantly grimy mechanical district, the upper floors where craftsfolk lived were alive with bright flowers in window boxes. The people of Tethyr, "wicked" Zazesspurians no less than the olive-growers and sheepherders of the countryside, loved their gardens. The flowers' brisk beauty was not mirrored in the street, where most of Toby Hedgeblossom's hearers were roughly dressed. That was nothing uncommon in Zazesspur these days. What was uncommon in this crowd were the thick calluses of workingmen's hands and the colored-cloth brassards of the guilds. Hedgeblossom addressed his spiels to the laborer, but it mainly seemed idlers who were drawn by his promises of free wealth.

Perhaps, Zaranda thought, the real workers of Zazesspur realize who'd have to pay for Toby's schemes. But no; likely the real laborers were occupied at their labors. The lure of money for nothing was hard to resist; why, after all, did so many follow the hazardous but not particularly labor-intensive road of the adventurer? She smiled a taut smile, sliding through the crowd and turning her hips this way and that to avoid brushing anybody in a suggestive way. You're going to start having cynical thoughts about yourself if you aren't careful, girl, she realized. Something brushed her left hand. Pickpockets were as common as potholes in Zazesspur. Zaranda was always alert, and her senses and reflexes both were fine. She spun, clapping her hand to Crackletongue's hilt, thankful she secreted her coin at various strategic points of her person rather than leaving it to dangle from her belt like ripe fruit for the magpies. A figure clad in a stained linen jerkin was moving purposefully but not hastily away from her. She could not pursue without jostling members of Hedgeblossom's audience, who were beginning to work themselves into an enthusiastic state. Nothing seemed missing; no point in giving chase— Then she realized that, far from taking anything from her, the mysterious figure had slipped something into her hand, a papyrus scrap half-crumpled so that the coarse fibers were beginning to part. The words inked in it in a half-literate Common scrawl were legible enough: If you want get back whats yurs, look fer the one-arm man at the Carpet Mart tomorro, wun bell past daybrek. She looked up sharply. The linen-clad man had vanished. Zaranda shrugged and stuffed the scrap in her belt. Separating herself from the mob—now being led in a chant of "share the wealth!" by Toby Hedgeblossom—she set out with long-legged strides down the Way, toward the Exotic Quarter.

* * * * * The wizard's face was a twisted red mask glaring forth from white hair and disorder. "That's it," he said in a voice wound tight as a crossbow string. "Enough. Begone with you and your eerie pranks." The girl could barely see him through her tears of hurt and anger and the red-hair tangles that hung unwashed before her eyes. "It was an accident," she said. Her lower lip jutted in what looked like sullen defiance, but was more an attempt to hold back full-blown sobs. His self-control snapped like a crystal goblet dropped on pavement from great height. "Accident?" he screeched. He flung out a skinny arm in a gesture that encompassed the wreckage of his shop and made his voluminous sleeve flap most alarmingly. "Accident! You summon up a whirlwind to devastate my shop, and try to pass it off as accident?" The walls of her own control gave way. "But I can't help it!" she wailed through a sudden flood of tears. "I don't know how to control the magic. That's why I want to learn!" "Magic? This is no magic! Did you speak an incantation?" He was so close to her now that his spittle blended with the tears, making shiny runnels down her cheek and further matting the ends of her hair. "No! Did you use spell components?" He scooped a pinch of spilled particolored powder from a bench whose marble-slab top had proven too massive to be toppled by the whirlwind. He threw the powder in the air and blew on it. It puffed into a tiny cloud, then each mote became a brief bright spark of a different color that dispersed and drifted off into the gloom. "No! One moment there was nothing but a thumb-fingered aspirant to be my

apprentice making poor work of sweeping the floor. The next—chaos!" He shook his head. His gray hair stood out on both sides of his balding skull like dispirited static discharges. "This was no magic. Magic is orderly and disciplined. Magic is something learned, something labored for, something won." He seized her by the elbow and marched her toward the door. "What you did wasn't magic. It was madness, or possession, or I-know-not-what. But it's not something I'll suffer near me!" He threw open the door. From the afternoon street, the sunlight poured in like scalding water. "Now get you gone," the magician declared, gripping the girl's arms both-handed to eject her. "And never let me see you again. Or I'll show you what magic really is ab—ouch!" The last came out in a squall as light flashed and sharp thunder cracked. The mage jumped back, waving singed palms in the air. His dark eyes were wide with shock and terror. She stuck her tongue out at him and ran away down the Street of Misfortune Tellers. * * * * * "Milady," a young voice called, clear and fresh as springwater. "A moment of your time?" Zaranda's long-legged impatient strides had carried her into a district where the upper stories of buildings jutted out to overhang already narrow, twisty streets, so that it seemed they leaned their heads together to conspire against the traffic bustling below. She stopped and turned, dropping her hand inside the knuckle-bow that guarded Crackletongue's hilt. The voice had sounded fair, but Zaranda had little

reason to take for granted the friendliness of anyone she encountered. Two young people were approaching her, a youth and a maid, he with hair as bright and yellow as summer sun, she with hair of lustrous pale brown falling in kinky waves down over her shoulders. Both were dressed as simply as the poorest peasant or artisan or mendicant, in white smocks belted at the waist with knotted rope. Yet the fabric of the smocks was shimmery stuff, white and evidently expensive to Zaranda's merchant eye; their hands were soft and pale, and she doubted the girl had been born with that delicate wave in her carefully tended hair. These, then, were children of wealth. Such seldom had much use for rough-garbed adventuresses of Zaranda's ilk, her purchased patent of nobility notwithstanding—and naturally she did not walk the streets with an imp mincing after her, announcing to the world that she was Countess Morninggold. But their smiles were so friendly and open that Zaranda felt an urge to bundle them off the street before anyone saw them and took advantage of them. "How may I help you?" she asked. "We'd like to give you this flower," said the girl, holding forth a blossom as brilliantly blue as a civic guardsman's drawers. "And what do you wish in exchange?" The girl's face fell as if Zaranda had said something cruel. But her companion laughed a musical laugh. Like the girl, he wore a plain gold torque around his neck. "You needn't speak that way," he said. "There's no necessity for payment. Please, lady, accept it as our love-offering." "I've often found," Zaranda said, "that things called free often cost the dearest." But she suffered the white-clad girl to fasten the flower behind her ear. "There," the girl said, stepping back with a smile. "You are even lovelier than

before." "Who are you people?" Zaranda asked. "We are All-Friends," the boy said. "We serve and worship Ao the Universal." "Ao?" Zaranda repeated, thunderstruck. "We house the homeless and feed the hungry and go abroad spreading the message of Ao's universal love," the boy said. "If you feel you must, you may make a contribution to our ministry," said the girl. "But we work and pray for a day when the needs of all are met by sharing, and no longer is there talk of buying and selling."

11

"I take it you've not heard of Armenides, then?" the old gnome said. "No." Zaranda stood on tiptoe to study her reflection in an ancient warrior's mirror-polished basilisk-hunting shield, hung on the wall of the cluttered shop. "The flower looks good on me, does it not?" "It does," the gnome agreed, blowing smoke from his pipe. He was dressed in a simple gown of emerald-green silk, with a stand-up black collar on which were embroidered dragons rampant in gold. He smoked a long, thin clay pipe. All his hair was white, including both of his bushy eyebrows, which was a pity, since it left no apparent sense to his name, White Eyebrow. In fact, when all his hair was black, his right eyebrow had been turned snowy-white by a brush with magic. "And the flower allows me to glimpse Zaranda Star's vanity, hitherto unsuspected." She laughed without self-consciousness, examined herself a moment longer. "I'm vain enough," she said. "I can't always afford to indulge it, that's all." She turned and propped her rump on a table in the clear space beside an ormolu clock. She paid it only cursory attention; though it was like nothing else she had seen on Toril, it was standard fare for the Curiosity Shop. Though White Eyebrow was no magician and scrupulously avoided trafficking in magic items, he cultivated extensive contacts among the better-intentioned of those who plied the dimensions in spelljamming ships. After all, to impress an inhabitant of Faerun as a curiosity, an object had to be curious indeed. "So why this sudden fad for Ao?" she asked. "He's the preeminent god, I know, maybe the god the gods worship. But we mortals would be as well off venerating a tree stump, for all the interest he takes in us. He performs no miracles; he conveys no

powers upon his priests." White Eyebrow raised a scholarly finger. "And thus the tale leads us to Armenides the Compassionate, or the Pure, as he is sometimes called. He is spiritual advisor to our young Baron Hardisty. He came to Zazesspur a twelvemonth ago, claiming to bring a new dispensation from Ao. Ao has decided to take a more active role in the affairs of this world, Armenides avers. And he seems to have invested certain followers with the usual array of priestly powers." "These All-Friends are priests of Ao, then?" "Indeed not. Merely devotees who do good works in the god's name. Drawn from among the children of Zazesspur's first families, by and large, which I find good in and of itself. It gives the spoiled darlings something to occupy themselves with beyond their own selfish pleasure. But here, I forgot my manners." He hobbled to the rear of the shop, where despite the day's warmth he kept coals aglow in a small black brazier. "I regret your loss, Zaranda," he said, setting a grille on the brazier and putting a copper kettle on to boil. "Yet perhaps it would be no bad thing, were magic banished from Zazesspur. It has brought much sorrow to the world. Perhaps it is best put away or reserved to wiser hands." Zaranda frowned. Here was the heartmeat of a debate she and her old friend had often held before. "Put away all magic?" she contented herself with saying. "On a world such as Faerun? Easier to put away air." He laughed. He had a merry, ready laugh, and round cheeks like apples tied up in the laugh lines of his face. "Our old dispute rears its head again. Some things never change, or do so but slowly." Turning from the kettle, he puffed his pipe and blew three smoke rings of descending size. The middle one drifted upward through the largest, and then the smaller floated up through both so their order was reversed.

"I wish I knew how you did that," Zaranda said. "First you have to smoke," White Eyebrow said, "pipeweed or this new Maztican herb, tobacco. Plus it helps to have a gnome's lifespan to practice over." He puffed again, more conventionally. "What of this Baron Hardisty? Is he the same Faneuil Hardisty who fought as a captain in the Tuigan War?" The gnome nodded. "Just so." Zaranda looked thoughtful. "He was a good man in those days. A brave warrior, though perhaps too much inclined to trust in bravery and luck." "Why do you say was? He seems a good man still. He refuses a seat on the city council, and so holds himself above the infighting that disfigures the politics of this city. Many people are heard to say he's just what the city needs—aye, and Tethyr as well. A strong man to take it all in hand again." He laughed and shook his head. "I see you looking skeptical, Zaranda. Ever the rebel! Authority is not always the monster you believe it to be." There came a rustle from the rear of the shop, and a musical tinkling. A gnome woman came through the hanging strands of silver bells that covered the doorway to the back rooms and the stair to the apartment above. She was small and slim by gnomish standards, and beautiful by the standards of human and gnome alike, though they did not often overlap. Her raven's-wing hair was parted in the middle and confined by a circlet of silver, on the front of which was fixed a tiny toothed wheel. She wore a saffron robe, and the brown sash around her narrow waist bulged as if packed with small hard objects of various shapes, marking her as a priestess of Gond Wonderbringer. "Ah!" White Eyebrow said cheerfully. "The pot's just begun to whistle. Perhaps you

could make tea for us, Simonne." The gnome woman looked at him a moment, then moved to obey. "Greetings, Zaranda Star." "Simonne!" Zaranda exclaimed. "It's good to see you. The last time we met you were scarcely more than a child." "She's no more than a child still," the old gnome said, frowning slightly, "though she has given herself much to the doings of this new sect of Gond Thunderblunder, or whatever he is called, who seek to better the world by tinkering with it." "We hope to make the world better by gaining knowledge of it," Simonne said, pouring tea into dainty porcelain cups with flowers painted on them. "We don't presume to tinker with that of which we know too little; that's why we seek knowledge. And surely nothing is gained by turning our faces from the truth!" She distributed the cups from a tray. "Our folk are pressed hard. You who have long been our friend should be warned that you'll do yourself no good in this city by associating with us." "That's strange news indeed," Zaranda said, sipping, "for though it has its share of vices, Zazesspur has never been an intolerant place." "There is some new evil that invades our dreams and robs us of our sleep. Many blame us for that—not to mention more earthly ills." "What's this about dreams?" Zaranda asked sharply through the steam. "Nonsense, is what it is," White Eyebrow said, puffing furiously. "A shared fancy, a passing fad. Folk have nightmares betimes, which they always have and always will; only the notion is abroad that there's some fell design behind it all, so that anyone who suffers troubled sleep must tell all his friends, and they too remember they have at some time known bad dreams; and so it all gets built up into some dark conspiracy of

sleep." With a tinkle of a different timbre, the larger bells affixed to the front door announced the entrance of customers. Though perhaps customers was the wrong word. Zaranda's fine nose wrinkled to a whiff of dirty hair and stale sweat as two young male humans came into the shop, shabbily dressed in black and gray, with hair hanging in their eyes in great unwashed clots. Short, dark-stained wooden cudgels hung from their belts. Simonne's dark eyes narrowed. "Be calm, my daughter," murmured White Eyebrow. "This, too, shall pass." He glided forward. "How may I help you, young gentlemen?" The huskier of the two, whose hair was dark, laughed nastily. "It speaks," he said to his partner in mocking wonder. He put a hand against the old gnome's chest and pushed him reeling back. His friend, who was skinny and dark blond, giggled shrilly through a prominent nose. "You and your foul kind can leave this city, if you want to help me," the husky boy said. "Nothing else will do, in fact." He picked up a vase glazed a deep, lustrous blue. Tiny flecks of light shimmered, seemingly deep within its slick surface: gold and white and blue and red. When the youth turned it this way and that in his unwashed hand, the points of light shifted as if they flowed within the very finish—or like the constellations in the sky when one turned one's head. "Now, my young friend," White Eyebrow said, "that comes from a far world, on a vessel borne on wings of magic. If you care to hear, I'll tell you of it—" "I'm not your friend, rodent!" snarled the boy. "Magic! The source of all our problems, no?"

"Surely enough, Fredaro," his companion said, bobbing his head. "Surely enough." "This reeks of magic," Fredaro said. "What will please me is to make an end of it." He raised it to the level of his brows and let it drop. A slim but scarred hand caught the priceless vase before it struck the carpet-covered stone of the floor. "Clumsy of you," murmured Zaranda Star, replacing the object on its shelf with her right hand. "But then, as careless of your appearance as you are, it need not surprise us, I suppose." "Zaranda!" murmured White Eyebrow in alarm. The boy's face purpled. "Bitch! I'll teach you to interfere." He raised a beefy fist. "Will you?" She smiled, then pressed forward with her left hand. Color gushed from the youth's face as the tip of the poniard her hand held dug into his groin. "I think not," Zaranda continued in pleasantly conversational tone. "You'll not even teach me disgust for those of your ilk; I learned that long ago." "Zaranda!" Simonne cried. The blond youth had snatched his cudgel, its head shod in gray iron. He lunged at Zaranda with weapon upraised. With a slithering whisper like a metal snake on stone, Crackletongue slid from its sheath. Zaranda extended her arm so that the saber's point found the notch of the youth's collarbone. He braked abruptly to avoid spitting himself, then dropped his cudgel, fell to his knees, and began to weep and plead for his life. "You'll regret this," hissed his burly friend. She pressed the dagger harder. "I suspect all I'll regret is not slaying you both. But that would distress my friend and spoil his fine rug, so I'll refrain. As long as you leave us in peace." "You can't threaten us!" the boy exclaimed through gritted teeth. "Lord Ravenak—"

"—Is a cur unfit to sniff at honest dogs that go upon four legs. You may tell him so, with the compliments of the Countess Morninggold. Up, now, and quit sniveling. It's tiresome." The latter was spoken to the blond youth, whom she urged up with Crackletongue's tip beneath his chin. "Zaranda," White Eyebrow said hollowly, "you know not what you do. When you're gone, they'll just return, with more of their kind." "He's right!" shrilled the blond youth, getting his courage back now that Zaranda had promised not to kill him. His nose was quite red. "We'll fix you, you little monster! We'll—" "What's your name, dung-blossom?" Zaranda inquired. The blond boy shut up and glared at her from red-rimmed eyes. She gouged the flesh beneath his chin. "Your name! You let slip that of Fredaro here, for which I'll let him thank you in his own way and time. Now I'll have yours." "I'll say naught!" "Oh, yes, you'll speak. But if I have to put a compulsion on you, I'll have you turning cartwheels naked down the street as well." "You lie! You're a fighter, not a wizard!" The lights in the shop blazed intolerably high, then all went out, plunging the room into darkness so abruptly it should have made a crashing sound. Then a single lantern flared out again from the wall above the youth's ragged hair, casting rainbow-edged light through crystal facets. "Your name?" "G-Gonsalvo, my lady!" "Attend me well, Fredaro and Gonsalvo, as if your lives depended on it, which they do. Should any harm befall this shop or its proprietor or his daughter or any customer

arriving or departing, I shall hunt you down and cut your hearts out. On my soul I swear it. Now, begone." All the lights came back on. By the time the illumination had found its way back to all the crannies of the shop, the door was banging shut on its frame, and the bells were jingling. "Zaranda, Zaranda," White Eyebrow said, shaking his head. "Do you think all problems can be solved at swordpoint?" "Not at all, old friend. Most of the problems life heaps on us are susceptible to no such solution, in fact. Yet some will answer to nothing else. It's vital to learn to recognize them in such times as these." "If you stoop to violence, are you really any better than they?" the gnome asked. "Yes," Zaranda said. "If I do it to defend myself and those dear to me." She sheathed her cutlery and looked to Simonne, who said nothing, though her eyes blazed like lanterns, dark though they were. "But I cannot always be here to help, as you and they both saw," she said. "And that you must deal with as you see fit. I bid you good day." * * * * * That night Zaranda's sleep was tormented by dreams, and a whispering Voice. She was not the only one to dream, nor to hear words spoken in those dreams. And unlike her, some heeded what was said.

12

Unseasonable overcast trailed tendrils down into Zazesspur like arms clad in dirty, wet wool sleeves. They brushed Zaranda's face with clammy familiarity as she hustled along narrow Hostler Alley to her early morning appointment. The air was given added presence by the smells of last night's grease, this morning's breakfast, and fresh horse dung. The buildings' upper stories cantilevered over the already narrow alley so that they threatened to pinch off the dangling arms of cloud. This was a district given over to hostelries of the middle grade and lower and served the other needs of travelers: stables, provisioners, and taverns. There was also the inevitable water-fluid population of demimondaines, barkeeps, scullery maids, back-alley bones-rollers, charm-vendors, cutpurses, rogues, bards, alley-bashers, and joy-girls and -boys, few of whom could be found abroad at this hour. The visitor to Zazesspur must seek elsewhere for fixed places of entertainment. There were theaters of various sorts in the Players' Quarter, and gambling palaces and brothels in their own discreetly fortified precincts. There, well-paid sworders and the odd mage kept at bay the riffraff, whether jack-rollers and strong-armers, social activists who followed the brothers Hedgeblossom and Earl Ravenak, or even the individual city councilors' uniformed goon squads. The very lowest ranks of such establishments were to be found in Bayside, the waterfront district, where the genuine riffraff held sway. Tourists were at something of a premium these days. The harbor traffic, which was all that kept the city alive and reasonably prosperous, provided some custom for the inns, but nothing like what they had been accustomed to before the troubles began.

Some hostelries had simply converted themselves into apartment blocks serving those displaced by the nomad invasions or the discord in the countryside, but it was still a buyers' market for short-term accommodations. Which was how Zaranda was able to keep herself and her comrades quartered in reasonable comfort despite the state of her finances, which were eroding like an arroyo bank in a heavy rain. Preoccupation and a poor night's sleep dragged Zaranda's head forward and down from its customary proud carriage. As a result, she almost bumped into a man who came boiling out of a gate to her left. Or rather, smoking; he was trailing smoke and sparks from hair and clothing, and caterwauling like a man whose hair and clothes were on fire. He pitched himself headfirst into a stone horse trough, raising a substantial hiss of steam and an even more substantial reek. "What seems to be the problem?" Zaranda asked mildly as he reared up with algae hanging about his face and ears like green dreadlocks. He pointed a dripping, still-steaming arm back through the gate into the stableyard. "Th-that witch," he said, sputtering spray. "She put fire to me." Zaranda felt her brows knit in a frown. Her own experience told her "witch" usually referred to a female, and in no complimentary way. Best move along right now, the cautionary voice within her said. You've an appointment to keep, and this affair is none of yours. She hitched her belt around to bring Crackletongue's hilt more closely to hand. "What witch?" she asked. Faces were beginning to poke out of windows. Some were sleep-blurred and reluctant, others open and awake, but all showed some degree of eagerness. This was a district of honest working folk who rose and set with the sun, as well as others

who lived to different schedules, morally and chronologically, but Zazesspurians of all stripes relished little more than a good civic disturbance. A small but brisk disturbance brewed in the stable-yard. Angry voices muttered. There came thumps and foot-scuffles and a squall like an angry badger. Then into the alley came a knot of rough-hand laborers and stable-boys, dragging with them what appeared to be an animated bundle of pale sticks and dirty burlap. The bundle was kicking and flailing and emitting the angry noise. As they cleared the open gate, there was a sharp crack!, a fat blue spark, and a smell of ozone. At the same instant the whine resolved itself into "... let me go!" The bundle's captors instantly obeyed, with yelps of dismay. "What," Zaranda asked mildly, "is going on?" A gap-toothed stableboy wearing a badly stitched leather hood was waving his hands in the air as if to cool them. "The creature shocked us!" The creature in question reached a thin, dirty hand to part tentacles of dirty red hair. An amber eye peered forth from a grimy, snub-nosed face. It took in Zaranda with a wild adolescent mix of defiance, hope, and fear. "Why were you holding, um, her in the first place?" asked Zaranda, concluding mainly from intuition that the captive was female. She made her hand slide along her belt away from the saber's hilt. She felt she had lost points yesterday by drawing blade on Earl Ravenak's earnest young ravers. Surely she could handle a random handful of louts without recourse to arms. Particularly since this is no business of yours. "She witched Zoltan!" another lout exclaimed. He was a pinch-faced lad with curly, dirty blond hair and soiled apron, who was waving a butter paddle with as much menace as such an implement could muster. Unlike most of the others, who wore the blue and green of the Hostlers & Stablehands Guild, he had a green and brown rag

knotted about one skinny biceps, signifying his affiliation with the Taverners, Innkeepers, & Provisioners. "She's always up to tricks," a third said. "She soured a pail of cream Luko was carrying to the buttery of Bustamante's Excellent Hostelry." "I did not," the redheaded girl said heatedly. She was even dirtier than her tormentors, Zaranda noted. "At, least, I don't think I did." "Did too!" blond Luko declared, brandishing his paddle for emphasis. "And now she set Zoltan all aflame." "He didn't look all aflame to me when he hit the horse trough," Zaranda said. "More smoldering around the edges." "She made me get all tingly all over my body!" Zoltan announced. The way the slime-tendrils hung down over his ears and between his wildly rolling eyes made him resemble some kind of exotic and unsavory sea creature that had crawled up the pilings in the harbor. "Then my hair caught fire! And my clothes, too. I was burning up!" Zaranda stared at him. He dropped his eyes. "Well," he said, "I was smoking pretty good. Feh." He spat out muck. "It's time we paid her back for her tricks!" cried somebody from the back of the small mob. The others growled assent—an ugly sound, though without any perceptible move to put it into effect. "What's your name, girl?" Zaranda asked. "Scab." "How attractive. Did you really do that to him?" She nodded. "I woke up to find him pawing me as I slept in the s-s-straw!" The dam of her defiance burst, and her face flooded with tears.

Beyond her sobbing, the silence in the alley grew even thicker than the fog. * * * * * "No, child," Zaranda Star said for what felt like the hundredth time. "I don't need an apprentice. Besides, it's not exactly healthy to be in my vicinity at the best of times, and these are far from that." Scab stuck out her underlip in a truly impressive pout. Zaranda said nothing. The girl produced a tremor in the projecting lip, and when that elicited no more response, a shine of moisture appeared in an eye visible between clumps of dirty hair. They sat on the steps of what had once been a fine residence of green granite blocks, between a pair of stone guardian beasts that had long since weathered to couch-shaped lumps. The building had been converted to a carpet warehouse; the arched doorway at her back was bricked over. Zaranda had her long trouser-clad legs drawn up before her and her arms around her knees, and, still ignoring her companion, gazed off across the Carpet Mart. The sun was high in the sky. The broad plaza, flagged in yellow sandstone worn to a shiny and treacherous polish by generations of feet, was dotted with the rug merchants' kiosks, hung like flags with their colorful wares. Despite the troubles, buyers still flocked to Zazesspur from the north of Faerun to purchase excellent Tethyrian wool carpets, as they did to buy the finely finished furniture and cabinetry for which Zaz itself was famous. Myratma was better known for other textiles; but Zazesspur was the place for rugs. Of course, the buyers would go back home with lurid tales of having purchased their wares from camelback, from hawk-faced bearded men with flowing robes and headcloths, and would sell them as "Calimshite" rugs. In fact Calimshite silk rugs, though pretty, were inferior in craftsmanship and durability to Tethyrian wool carpets;

the real gems of the great bazaar in Calimport were silken rugs from far Zakhara—wondrous indeed, if of the nonflying variety, since the Zakharans exported few of their magic carpets willingly. Still, to most of the folk of the Heartlands and farther north, all fine rugs from the South were Calimshite, and that was that, just as Amn and Tethyr were called Empires of the Sands, in spite of not having any sand to speak of. People are like that, and not just on Toril. Still avoiding Scab's piteous gaze, Zaranda sighed and stretched. It had been an eventful morning. When Zaranda and her self-proclaimed charge arrived, a brief but vigorous skirmish had been in progress between some of Earl Ravenak's bullyboys and a patrol of civic guard blue-and-bronzes armed with iron-shod cudgels, evidently bribed by the carpet merchants to take an interest in Hairhead doings, which they were notorious for overlooking. The square had subsequently hosted two outbreaks, a jostling, and a battle royal among the colorfully caparisoned retainers of the various city council members. The last of these, from which the rug merchants were just finished righting kiosks and dusting off rugs knocked sprawling by the festivities, had pitted the minions of Anakul the Just against the goons of Jinjivar the Sorcerer. Anakul was something of an oddity: a professed devotee of evil who, though he wore the silver wrist-chains of Cyric, used as his personal symbol the black hand on red field of dead Bane. Even for Zazesspur in the years after the monarchy's overthrow, it might seem a little much to have a man who was openly nostalgic for Bane on the ruling council, but so obsessive was Anakul in his zeal for order and the rule of law that he was widely known as one of the most honest men in the city. It was said that he only cheated you if he had the full force of law on his side, justifying his only half-sardonic nickname. Of course, not even his passion for order prevented him

from employing a robust corps of head-knockers. That was sheer survival. Jinjivar the Sorcerer didn't hire head-knockers, as far as anyone knew, though he paid claques to spread rumors in the streets about his magic prowess. The son of a Calim Desert chieftain and—again, he claimed—the pasha's daughter by a concubine, Jinjivar had grown to adulthood among the nomads. He still maintained many contacts in his homeland, and though Tethyrians tended to disdain handiwork other than their own, had grown rich selling them magical and fanciful doodads for which their neighbors to the south were known, such as sand-clocks that turned themselves and brooms that swept of their own accord. Since his men wore blue and purple while Anakul's livery was the black and red of Bane, the latter conflict had been particularly trying for Zaranda's eyes. The one thing Zaranda hadn't seen was any sign of the one-armed man. You've done it this time, her internal voice chided. You stuck your nose where it didn't belong and went saving the world again, and now you've lost your chance to regain your goods. Scab emitted a sigh so gusty that she must have almost burst herself drawing in the air for it. "That's it, then," she announced in doom-filled tones. "If you won't take me as your apprentice, I shall stop eating and starve myself to death. Quicker in the long run." Despite growing disappointment and desperation, Zaranda had to press her lips hard together to keep from smiling. "Come, now. Surely it's not so bad as that." "Yes, it is. I'm an orphan. I have no home. I can't work or sleep at the stable anymore, and no one will apprentice me. Death is all that remains." Zaranda frowned and rubbed her chin. To be sure, the girl was in a hard way. It's no concern of yours, the voice inside her said. Sometimes that voice seemed to represent

good sense—sounding not unlike Goldie, in fact—and other times something darker. Just now she had to admit the truth of what it said. Yet there was something about this girl that drew her. "Why can't you keep an apprenticeship?" she asked. The girl drew her head down between the shoulders of her burlap smock, which seemed to have as much filth and grease in it as jute. It had taken all of Zaranda's skill at maneuvering to get the girl to sit downwind of her, and the occasional shift in the wind's direction still made her wince. "Come now," Zaranda said in response to Scab's mumble. "You can't expect me to consider taking you on if you won't be candid with me." "Things . . . happen," the girl said, as if the words were being drawn from her on a rope knotted bigger than her throat. " 'Things'?" "Like what happened at the stable. Strange things ... magic things, I guess." "Like spells?" The girl shook her head. She had lowered her face, and tears dripped from beneath the obscuring curtain of her hair. "No. I only know one or two spells, little things. That's all I've ever had time to learn." "Then what?" "I don't know. I get worried, or scared, or mad, and things just happen. Then I get sent away again. I can't control it. That's why I want to study magic. So I can figure out what's happening to me." She raised her head and looked at Zaranda through lakes of tears. "It's just as well this way. You'd just get mad and send me away too!" No, girl! the voice in Zaranda's head cried. Not a challenge!

She surveyed the square a final time. No sign of a one-armed man or anyone taking interest, undue or otherwise, in the tall swordswoman and her scruffy companion. She had missed the one-armed man—if indeed he ever existed. From an alley debouching onto the north side of the square issued a party of shaggy youths in black and brown: Earl Ravenak's toughs. Merchants and buyers scattered as the youths marched determinedly upon a Hedgeblossom crowd, brandishing cudgels and steel-singing lengths of chain. Zaranda stood. It was time to admit she had come on a fool's errand and get on with her business. Indeed, the vague outlines of a plan were taking shape in her mind. She would still take what steps she could to regain her lost fortune here in Zaz. But if that didn't work, she was already working on an alternative. That was her way: ofttimes the physical, impetuous side of her nature got her into trouble, but she had a keen eye and a quick wit, and she had long learned to rely on those faculties to get her out of whatever tight places she found herself in. Her current situation looked hopeless—but that was when she did her best work. The Hedgeblossom orator—who did not appear to be a halfling himself—had hopped down from his wagon-seat podium. Now he threw off the canvas covering the bed, revealing a pile of makeshift shields and weapons: nail-studded staves, iron bars, a few rude short swords. Snatching these up, his listeners fell eagerly upon the surprised Hairheads and commenced to whale on them. "Have you a name?" Zaranda asked the girl crouching at her feet. "What?" "A name. Surely you weren't born Scab." "Chenowyn," the girl said sullenly. "That's a lovely name. Chenowyn."

"I don't feel lovely." "Start using your proper name, rather than 'Scab,' and who knows? That may yet change." "What's the good of being lovely if you're a mage?" the girl demanded. Abruptly she clouded up again. "Not that that matters anymore. Not that anything matters. . . ." "Oh, stand up," Zaranda said. "It's time to go." Chenowyn stared up at her in astonishment. "You mean you'll take me as your apprentice?" "No, I'm out of the magic business. But I won't leave you wandering to starve in a gutter—or get yourself lynched, more likely." The girl stuck out her underlip. Zaranda stretched forth her hand. "Now come, if you're going to. Or stay: your choice." Hesitantly the girl took her hand and pulled herself upright. Zaranda grinned and ruffled her hair. "That's the girl, Chen. And who knows? I may be able to use those wild talents of yours." * * * * * "Don't look now," Goldie said as Zaranda came into the dusty day-warmed gloom of the stable. The mare had the place all to herself. "There's a nasty derelict kobold sneaking up behind you." Chenowyn drew herself up to all her not-slight height. "I'm not a kobold," she said. "I'm a girl." "You could have fooled me," the mare said. "In fact you did." Chen's eyes bulged as it struck her that she'd just been addressed by a horse. "It talks!"

"Goldie, meet Chenowyn," Zaranda said. "She'll be staying with us for a while. I just know you two are going to get along." Goldie rolled an eye at the girl, then peeled her upper lip away from her front teeth and bobbed her head in the universal horse gesture for you stink. "Goldie!" Zaranda said sharply. Then to Chen: "Don't take it to heart. She's not civilized this hour of the morning." Chen was staring at Goldie, with the expression one would wear looking at a captive Hook Horror. "It's sunset," she said. "That's Goldie for you." Goldie produced a gusty horse sigh. "I can see you've been terribly busy out hunting up strays to adopt. I suppose it's no great surprise you haven't been by earlier to find out that a patrol had come round to arrest your pet orc."

13

"Shield of Innocence has been arrested?" "Nooo," said Goldie. "I didn't say that. I said, a patrol had come by to arrest him." "How come it talks?" Chen demanded. "Horses don't talk." "I do," Goldie said with great dignity. "What happened?" "Now, now, Randi, you're sounding almost petulant. Whereas you really should be very grateful to me. If it weren't for me, complete and total disaster would have been the order of the day—no thanks to certain parties I could name. ..." "Goldie!" The mare's flanks swelled and a vast sigh rushed from her flared nostrils. "Not appreciated, never appreciated, but isn't that a horse's lot in life? Bear another's burden all day, with never a 'Goldie, do you feel like walking about in the hot sun all day whilst I loll about your back?'—there, there, Zaranda, don't get that dangerous gleam in your eye. Your orc is fine. So is the ranger, and so am I, if you happen to care." Zaranda took a deep breath and tried to remember the spell for casting lightning bolts. She'd never been able to quite get her mind around that one. Trying to was always good when she needed distracting. "Goldie," she made herself say calmly, "will you please tell me what happened?" "I would've long since, had it not been for your constant magpie interruptions. Along about the sixth bell after dawn a party of blue-and-bronzes came by, looking like so many cheap Calimshite knock-offs of Lantanna mechanical soldiers. They claimed to have information you were harboring an 'unnatural monster,' as their leader put it.

Fortunately, one of the grooms saw them coming up the street and ran in to tell everybody. Divining their purpose in that incisive way I have, I quickly sent Shield off to the roof to impersonate a gargoyle. Stillhawk went along, since you'd told him not to take his eyes off the orog. The guardsmen came in, blundered around for a while, and left." "Where's Shield now?" "Oh, he's still being a gargoyle. I took a turn in the yard about noon and had a look at him. He does a really creditable gargoyle, by the way; wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if Torm had finally revealed his true calling to him." Zaranda darted into the stableyard and looked up. No, she thought, Goldie's mistaken. There's only one exceptionally large and ugly gargoyle up there . . . exceptionally large, ugly, wingless gargoyle. . . . She started back inside. Then she stopped. Zazesspur was a city in which gargoyles on the roofs of hostelries wouldn't strike anybody as odd, but she didn't remember seeing any on the Repose's roof before. She looked up again. Crouched on the roof's very verge, clawed hands on knees, cowl thrown back and mouth held wide to reveal what even from four stories down was very impressive dentition, was unmistakably Shield of Innocence. "Gods!" Zaranda breathed, and raced inside. "He's been up there all day?" Goldie nodded. "Where's Stillhawk?" "So far as I know, he's up there too. But then, of course, no one tells me anything; I'm only a beast of burden." "How did you know," Chenowyn asked with disarming innocence, "that when the

guardsmen said they were looking for 'an unnatural monster,' they didn't mean you?" Goldie opened her mouth. Then she shut it, and her eyes popped wide open. "Congratulations," Zaranda told the girl. "You must have magic: that's the first time I've seen her rendered speechless." Then she was racing for the stairs. * * * * * Stoic as a statue, Shield of Innocence sat cross-legged with claws on thighs as Zaranda applied a fragrant white balm compounded of certain soothing herbs to the blisters that made up most of his face. "I can't believe you just sat there in the sun all day," she said. "Paladin of Torm or not, you're still an orc. You're allergic to the sun." Sitting with his back against a dormer and his booted feet braced on the red hemicylindrical roofing tiles, Stillhawk furrowed his brow, his equivalent of an angry outburst. Like Farlorn, he still doubted the orog, and it in particular troubled him to hear an evil being referred to as paladin. Though the paladin's path was in many ways as inaccessible to a man of the ranger's character as it was to an orc of unrepentant stripe, he served the same ideals. Shield's massive shoulders shrugged. "How can one serve Light if one fears the Burning Face?" he asked, using a common orcish name for the sun. "Easily," Zaranda said. "Don't you think good deeds need doing at night? Besides, you can wear a cowl." "Have you ever seen a cowled gargoyle?" Zaranda stopped with a gob of ointment on her fingertips. "Was that humor? That was humor, right?" "I did what must be done. If I suffer, it is no more than my sins have earned." He frowned. "Though it gripes my soul to have fled from minions of the law. Did I do wrong? May Great Torm judge me harshly."

"May Great Torm not be such an ass!" Zaranda burst out. "Those men intended you harm, and it had nothing to do with anything you've done, or even who you are. It was what they thought you were, and your innocence would have meant nothing to them. Is that what the law is all about?" "Still, laws are laws," the great orc said with childlike conviction. "We must obey." "It is against no law in Tethyr to be an orc," Zaranda said. Of course, that was because for Tethyrians, such a law would be like outlawing venomous serpents or spiders. This didn't seem the time to mention that fact. "And besides, those weren't minions of the law; they were the servants of the city council. The city police serve the law of Zazesspur. The guard is something else again." "Oh," Shield said. Zaranda drew in a deep breath, released it in a soundless sigh. She glanced aside at Stillhawk. The ranger was rubbing the dark bristle that covered his chin if he went more than four hours without shaving. He shook his head. Well, sophistication wasn't his strength either. "There," she said, putting the finishing touches on the orog. The white ointment made Shield's face, a great pitted, tusked, and snouted moon, a truly terrifying sight, like a mask Dalelands children might put on to frighten homeowners into giving them treats at Highharvestide. "That's done. And now—" She turned to look at Stillhawk. "Now the two of you must leave. Right this minute. Get outside the walls and make yourselves scarce in the countryside. The scullions have packed food for you, and in the unlikely event that it runs out before I come to join you, there's no better huntsman in Tethyr than Vander Stillhawk of the Elven Woods." Both her companions spoke at once, which was at least quieter than most such multiple outbursts. "I serve you," Shield of Innocence said. "I will not leave." For once

in accord with the great orc, Stillhawk signed to the same effect. "You cannot serve me here, Shield. What can you do for me if you're rotting in the dungeons that surely lie beneath that vast ugly slab of a palace Baron Hardisty has built? All you can do here is increase the risks for me. So indulge my cowardice and go." She reached out to touch a scarred and pitted cheek. Her flesh still quailed from the contact, but only a little. "For me, Shield. Please." Pouting—which his tusks made a truly alarming sight—he nodded his huge head. Zaranda stood and faced the ranger. Why—? he started to sign. "Because someone has to keep Shield of Innocence out of trouble," she said. "The countryside's less risky for him, but only just. Something's going to break soon, old friend, and whichever way it falls, I'll have need of all the help I can get. His as well as yours." Stillhawk raised his head and managed somehow to look even more grimly stoic than usual—his form of outraged protest and reproach. I cannot tell you the real reason, old friend, Zaranda thought. In my selfishness I brought you here among these gray stone walls you hate. And here you can do nothing but pace like a wilderness beast condemned to a cage, feeling the pressure of those walls like acid on the skin. The least I can do is redeem my misdeed. But of course she could not say she did this for his benefit, or he would refuse to go. "Please, I ask that you do this for me. If you would help me, this is the best way." Stillhawk's brown eyes gazed deep into Zaranda's smoke-gray ones. Then he nodded and turned to pick up his bow, which leaned against a chimney with a beaten-tin cover shaped like a wizard's peaked hat. Shield resumed his cowled robe

and strapped on the harness that held his scimitars crossed over his back. After a moment's debate by eye, he slithered over the edge of the roof and swung in through the hallway window Zaranda had left open and under Chen's guard. Stillhawk followed. Zaranda stood, stretched, gazed up at the stars, treasuring an evanescent moment alone with them. The sullen light-froth from tens of thousands of candles and lanterns, the smokes of the city, and high tattered clouds skidding across the sky from the Trackless Sea hid most of them from her sight. She wished she were alone in her tower at Morninggold, with nothing to impair her intimacy with the stars, neither in the sky nor in her future. I'll be doing well to keep my freedom out of all this, she thought, much less Morninggold and my astronomy tower. But she wasn't yet dead, which meant, on principle, that she refused to give up. She turned and made her cautious way down. * * * * * "Zaranda!" A familiar call—as clear and beautiful as the cry of a soaring eagle—made her turn from the entrance to her chamber on the Winsome Repose's third floor. "Farlorn," she said, shifting without thought to interpose herself between the half-elf and Chenowyn. "Where have you been?" He caught her in an embrace that lifted her off the floor—though he'd inherited the delicate appearance of his mother's people, he also had the strength of his father's. "Zaranda! I'm terribly sorry. I came as soon as I heard." "About what?" Zaranda said. It took her a moment to make the decision to disengage herself from his arms after he had set her down again. Damn him! she

thought. Or, perhaps, damn me. "About the orc and Stillhawk! How the guard arrested them." "Stillhawk?" He shrugged. "I know the ranger well. He cared as little for the beast as I, but he'd die before he'd fail your trust. They cannot have taken the orc without having him as well." "They took neither," Zaranda said. "Both hid. I've sent them outside the city." The half-elf's huge hazel eyes blinked. "But that's wonderful news," he said, "at least so far as Vander Stillhawk's concerned, though I cannot say the same for the evil creature you insisted on adopting." As Zaranda wound up to unload on him, he lifted his head so that his pointed ears made him resemble a wary forest creature, sniffed the air in the hallway, lit amber by an a single ancient fly-specked lantern hung on the wall. "Whatever is that smell?" he asked before Zaranda could speak. "It's truly prodigious. You must ask for new quarters, Zaranda; a rat—a giant one, by the whiff—has crept among the rafters and expired." The hair at the back of Zaranda's neck rose. Something was gathering behind her. It reminded her of the first time she had ever felt dweomer, mustering her first halting spell under the gentle but exacting eye of Alshayn, her mentor. This was similar, yet not the same. It was power, and it was menace. "Farlorn," she said, taking her new charge by the arm and feeling the hairs on her own arm rise in response, "I'd like you to meet Chenowyn. She'll be staying with us for a while. Chen, this is Farlorn Half-Elven, called the Handsome." Farlorn shied back, a look of distaste on his face. "Indeed? This ragamuffin's the source of the smell, I warrant. Have you decided to open your own museum of

grotesques, Zaranda?" "Don't take what he says to heart, Chen," Zaranda said. "He's a bard, and bards love the sound of their own voices too well. He doesn't mean anything by it." "I don't like him," the girl said. "Where have you been the past few days?" Zaranda asked, interposing herself between the two. "I was visiting among my mother's people. Do you know, that darkling I slew the other night matched the description of a Moon Elf maid from Tethir Forest who vanished six weeks ago? Her people were much grieved to learn of her fate." "Did they say where she'd vanished, or what she was doing at the time?" "All they knew was that she went abroad on the streets at night upon some errand, and was seen no more." "So the darklings enslave their victims somehow?" "That was no slave I fought. Her thirst for my blood was genuine. Would a slave fight with such will?" "Enchanted, then. Perhaps." She shrugged. "Well, we've troubles enough of our own. Good night to you, Farlorn, and I'm glad to see you well." "Need you rush away?" He took her shoulders in his hands and began to knead her neck muscles with fine, strong fingers. "I was thinking we might share a bottle of wine together. Perhaps I could sing you a song to soothe your cares." She disengaged herself deftly from his grasp. "Just now I need a balm more powerful even than your words, and that's sleep. Good night." She undid the lock, guided Chen inside, and shut the heavy wooden door on his frustration. She turned then, slumped against the wall, allowed herself to slide down until her rump touched the rush-strewn floor. "Damn him."

Chen stood to one side, looking as out of place as a dragon in the tidy if threadbare chamber, with its modest furnishings, its whitewashed walls and dark-stained wood trim. "Why do you curse him?" Zaranda shook her head. "To keep from cursing myself." She picked herself up. "Now what we need to do is summon the help and have them bring round a straw pallet and some bedding for you. Also a tub and plenty of hot water." "Why?" "Because you're long overdue for a bath, my fine young friend." Chen straightened and in defiance shook back her clotted strands of hair. When she did that, she looked as if she might conceivably be pretty beneath that coat of grime. "Why should a mage be concerned with such matters?" "A mage may do whatever she wishes," Zaranda said. "And so can you. But, if you wish to stay with me—much less become my apprentice—you'll have to be less a burden on my nose. Farlorn was right about the state of your hygiene." Chen scowled thunderously. Angry lights danced at the backs of her amber eyes, and sparks seemed to gather at the roots of her hair. Zaranda felt that ominous force gathering itself again. She crossed her arms. "Go ahead, strike me to a cinder," she said. "I won't stop you. But you'll never master magic if you can't first master yourself." Chen glared at her with wild fury in her eyes, and for a moment Zaranda thought she had overplayed her hand. What alarmed her most was that she wasn't alarmed. Then Chen exhaled explosively, and it seemed her anger passed forth as well as her breath, leaving her small, wilted, and vulnerable. "I'm sorry," she said, then began to cry. "Poor dear," Zaranda said. She opened the door to call for a servant.

* * * * * Naked but for a skin of sweat, the top sheet discarded on the floor and the bottom rumpled into a damp relief map of the mountainous Starspire Peninsula, which guarded the harbor at Zazesspur from storms—Zaranda Star writhed in the grip of nightmare. A score and more of hands reached out, it seemed, from the bed itself to seize her, pin her down despite her struggles, and caress her with obscene and unwelcome fervor. From somewhere immeasurably far below, that insidious Whisper came: Surrender, Zaranda. Give in. Your struggles are futile, your quest doomed. Give in, and you will reap greater rewards than that paltry scrap of nothing that you seek—greater than you can imagine. Zaranda moaned low in her throat. What she found most hateful was that she was responding—not to the hissing insinuations of the Voice, but, in her loneliness and hunger, to the touch of phantom hands. Hungry. Tired. Alone. Give in to Me, Zaranda Star, and you shall know satiation of every appetite, surcease sweet beyond imagining, and the comfort of Unity with something greater than yourself. Yield to Me, Zaranda; pure pleasure awaits. ... A scratching came at the bars that covered the opened windows; no innkeeper in Zazesspur was ingenuous enough to believe the mere fact that a room lay on an upper story offered any insuperable barrier to the city's enterprising thieves. Zaranda snapped awake with the jarring suddenness of a catapult arm slamming into the stop. She had a woozy, disoriented moment, and a lingering hallucination of arms and hands, gray-fleshed and black-nailed, withdrawing into the wadded sheet. She looked toward the window to see a hunched and winged black shadow crouching on the sill.

14

The great house looked as if it had been assembled out of bits and pieces of many architectural epochs, not all of them of this world. Zaranda paused in the midst of darkened Love Street to admire its many dubious splendors, though she had seen them before. Its facade was a riot of pilasters, friezes, a colonnaded portico with a single sapphire-blue lantern on top, windows wide, windows narrow, windows little more than slits, set without apparent regard for story, some lit, some not. The roof was a composite of planes and angles, chimneys and dormers of sundry styles and shapes; among forests of finials, gargoyles disported with caryatids, or perhaps menaced them. Perhaps the oddest feature was that, taken whole, the effect was not of chaos—or rather, not pure chaos, but chaos with order imposed upon it, chaos channeled and restrained but not overmastered, leading to an effect both of harmony and tension. It seemed a natural thing, grown not built. From all around her came rustlings and small murmurs from the shadows, skirting the edge of intelligibility without ever misstepping and falling into it. Zaranda felt no alarm. Wizard's houses were that way, this one more than most. Let's get it done, she told herself. She squared her shoulders and marched up beneath the portico to double doors with stained-glass panels in their upper halves: on the left, the occupant's rune, on the right a stylized balance scale. The glass doors announced that this was the residence of a powerful mage no less than the rune; no one else would dare offer thieves so alluring a target. A tug on the golden chain of the bellpull produced not chimes, but a thin eldritch cry, which seemed to echo in distant corridors of time and space rather than the hallways

of a house. Then it produced a wait, stretching itself into what seemed to Zaranda's growing impatience like infinity before the doors were opened by a human footman, yawning and scratching himself through an indigo velvet waistcoat starred with a galaxy of diamond studs. "Something?" he drawled, all indolence and insolence. Zaranda set her lips and handed him the object that the winged black faceless being hunkered on her windowsill had pressed into her palm not an hour before—a glazed tile, palm-sized, displaying the selfsame sigil as the left door: a dragon's eye in black, with what seemed a genuine star sapphire inset as the pupil. "Huh," he said, and ushered her in with a perfunctory bow. "Down the hall to the end, then past the stairs to the chamber with the open door. Can't miss it." He reseated himself on a stool with a red velour cushion, and subsided instantly to snores. Entertaining but briefly the notion of kicking the stool from beneath him, Zaranda followed his directions. The hallway was brightly lit, with white walls and gilt trim. Doors opened left and right, giving glimpses of emphatically decorated parlors in which strange and richly clad hunched beings, of a generally humanoid cast, stood with heads together in apparent conversation. Only a few favored Zaranda with so much as a glance as she passed. Nonetheless, she had the sense of eyes following her—given the existence of such creatures as beholders, not a comfortable feeling. The hallway debouched into an open space or shaft. A quick eye flick showed galleries mounting upward until they blurred into shadow at a seemingly higher level than the house's highest point visible from without. Stairs from the floor immediately above, balustraded with obsidian, descended to the left and right. Zaranda turned left, availing herself of the chance to peek back the way she had come. As expected, she saw nothing but the dozing doorman.

Proceeding, she came into a chamber. The walls were panels of quartz, milky white, and running through them sparkling veins that might have been gold. A soft, diffuse light shone from them. There was no furniture as such, only stands and cases and pedestals, likewise all of polished stone: jadeite, nephrite, agate, feldspar and onyx, glabrous gray chalcedony. Like the walls, some of them glowed gently. They held gems and semiprecious stones in fabulous array, some polished, some rough, turquoises, amethysts, topazes, rubies, diamonds, emeralds, and everywhere sapphires. There were sapphires of yellow and gray and orange, sour-pallid green and faint pink; sapphires of every hue of blue, from the pale, heartless blue of the sky in the Savage North at high noon on Midwinter Day, to stones of indigo so rich as to appear black. The only item in the room not stone was its occupant. A woman stood with her back to Zaranda Star. She was a few fingers shorter than Zaranda and slender as a kobold's hope of redemption. Raven hair hung straight down the back of a gown of velvet the same shade as the midnight-blue star sapphire globe, as large as an orange, which she held contemplatively in one slim-fingered hand. "You did not come to see me," the woman said, replacing the sapphire sphere in its holder, carved from onyx in the shape of a claw, which stood atop a pedestal of self-luminous quartz. "That's why I had to summon you thus, in the midst of night." She turned. Her face was as pale as marble and shaped like an idealized heart; her hair grew down in a widow's peak. Her eyes matched her gown and the globe in her hand. Her nose was thin, and so were her lips, features so perfect that the first impression was that she was plain. In fact she was beautiful, but her beauty was not the sort to inspire passion, nor the kind to haunt dreams, such as was often found in elvish folk. Rather it was the kind of beauty to inspire awe.

As to her age, Zaranda would have said she looked mature, but could have hazarded no further guess. Certainly the flawless features showed no wrinkles nor sign of drying on the high slanted cheekbones. She seemed ageless and precise as a drawn blade. "I didn't have that which you bade me bring you," Zaranda said with a shrug. She did not bother mentioning that the sorceress might as easily have summoned her in the daytime. Nyadnar had small patience with complaint, and heard no irony but her own. "There seemed small point in paying a social call." "You were wise to forbear to waste my time. What do you plan now?" Zaranda set her lips against her reflexive reply, which was to ask what business the sorceress had with hers. Unlike her wealth and age, Nyadnar's patience wasn't legendary. Rumor in Zazesspur, where she had allegedly dwelt, off and on, for centuries, held that she was as powerful as Elminster. Zaranda doubted that, but she was sorceress enough herself to sense that Nyadnar's power was great indeed; in the crawling of her skin she could sense enormous dweomer seeming to hover about the sorceress, as when Chen's emotions threatened to run away with her. Zaranda feared her, and for that reason had to guard against her own first reflex, which was defiance. The mage was not such to be either truly a friend or truly a foe of anyone, but her goodwill was much more to be coveted than her displeasure. "At the moment I have few plans, but many possibilities," Zaranda said. "You are too scattershot in your approach to life, child. Too given to disorder. You never truly had the discipline to be a mage." "I lacked the patience, perhaps," Zaranda said tartly. "But I managed to advance so long as I stayed with it. And then I became a warrior, and had a certain amount of success at that. That's two careers I've made for myself—not bad for someone so

disorderly." "And now you've gone and wandered into a third profession," Nyadnar said imperturbably. "One in which you've not been thriving of late." "I got your cursed head for you!" Zaranda flared, feeling cheeks grow hot. "I winkled it away from the Red Wizards of Thay and brought it safely all the way here—listening to its sophomoric suggestions and innuendo every step of the way, I might add." She made herself inhale deeply and struggled to be calm. "Where is it now?" "It seems that Baron Hardisty and his advisor Armenides have taken a personal interest in it. It is in their possession now, in the Palace of Governance." Zaranda tried not to slump. "I suppose you'll talk to them of buying it?" "No such thing. You display again your propensity for irrationality. I do not wish my interest in the artifact advertised. Why else do you think I waited to summon you until such a time as it would seem nothing more than my well-known attention to all that goes on within the city walls?" That was the way of Nyadnar: her eyes and spies were everywhere, but her actions, if any, she kept well hidden. As far as anyone could tell she hoarded facts for their own sake, as she did gems. She asked for Zaranda's own account of what had happened to her recently. Zaranda gave it succinctly. Then she hesitated, and biting at a ragged scrap of cuticle on her thumb, said, "If the council won't give it back—" "They won't." "—then I could take it back. I stole it from the Red Wizards; I can steal it again." "That would not be acceptable. First, I do not deal in stolen goods; despite your flippant reference, you considered your removal of it from the Wizards as a legitimate

act of war against long-standing foes, and so do I. Second, while the baron and Armenides may not be as potent as the Zulkir Baastat, neither are they as complacent. You lack the ability to recover it by stealth or force. If you failed and were compelled to talk, it would inconvenience me." She turned away, and her attention seemed to travel off among her treasures. Zaranda stood for a while, feeling a certain sardonic amusement at the blithe way Nyadnar talked about the possibility of her being put to torture. Eventually she turned to go. Nyadnar had no more use for the formalities of greeting and leave-taking than a cat. "A moment." The sorceress's dry, husky voice stopped Zaranda at the door. "You recently acquired a new follower. The foundling girl from the stable. Why did you take her in?" "Perhaps because I was a starveling orphan myself, once upon a time." "And what will you do with her?" A shrug. "I've cleaned her up, which was a necessary first step. If she'll let me, I'll civilize her. And then—who knows?" "Will you teach her magic?" She was gazing at Zaranda again, eyes huge and bottomless as midnight seas. "Perhaps. If she learns some kind of self-control. The powers she has already could do real hurt to her or others. Maybe if she studies a bit of formal magic she'll calm down. Why the interest?" "These wild talents of hers, this innate ability to gather and—however ineptly—manipulate raw dweomer . . ." Nyadnar picked up the sapphire sphere and held it forth. "Our world is a system in dynamic equilibrium, in which opposing forces strive against each other without one or another gaining the upper hand. Someone

with such attributes as you describe might have the potential to throw the system badly out of balance, to destroy, perhaps, that equilibrium. Should that occur, the results would be—" She let the globe fall. Zaranda gasped and took a step forward. Just before it hit the floor, the great gem seemed to dissolve into a cloud of dark mist. "—unimaginable." The mist swirled briefly around the sorceress's feet, hidden by the hem of her gown, and then began to twine upward about the glowing quartz pedestal to the top, where it coalesced slowly back into a flawless sapphire sphere. "You have any advice you'd like to share with me about how to deal with her?" Zaranda asked, a little unsteadily. "I mean, so I don't inadvertently help her blow up the universe or anything?" "You must find your own way," Nyadnar said serenely, stroking the now-intact gem like a favored pet. "I appreciate the implicit vote of confidence," Zaranda said. "But there's something you should know." "Which is?" "Before all this is over I may do a little unbalancing of my own. And while I think the universe is pretty safe from my efforts, I may just destroy an equilibrium or two." "Perhaps," the sorceress said. * * * * * "You have been told your case would be handled via the proper procedures, Countess Morninggold," Duke Hembreon, the most powerful member of the city council, told Zaranda as they stood in morning sunlight in his garden. He spoke the title as he might the words spoiled meat or gangrenous limb, as it were describing a state he found distasteful but was powerless to affect. "I hardly see what you expect of me."

In his day the duke had been a puissant warrior. But age had caught him up. His once-powerful frame was shrunken and stooped, his hair and immaculately trimmed beard were white as a gull's wing, and his blue eyes were red-rimmed and prone to prolonged bouts of blinking. Nonetheless, his gaze was clear, and his voice firm. He wore a simple cerulean gown and a soft bladder hat of the same color. "Perhaps a measure of mercy, Your Grace," Zaranda said. "I stand to lose everything, and have committed no crime." "Ah, but that remains to be seen, pending the appropriate hearings and investigations." He held up a long, liver-spotted finger. "Mercy is admirable, but must not be allowed to hamper justice." The duke's palace was of modest size, showing four blank whitewashed walls to the world, though a pitched roof of gray slates saved it from being as slablike as the much larger Palace of Governance that loomed not far to the west. The garden occupied a courtyard in the very center. It was quite cozy with greenery, the smells of leaves and early spring flowers and the water bubbling from a small fountain in the middle. Such a plan got one looked down upon by the neighbors, regardless of one's rank or pretension, for not sharing one's garden with others, though doubtless it had come in handy during the troubles. A retainer in the duke's blue-and-white livery approached, discreetly clearing his throat for attention. "If His Grace will pardon the intrusion—" "Yes? Very well, Strakes, what is it?" Two more footmen with breeches clasped at the knees by silver broaches ushered a blonde girl in by the arms. Her face had a sulky snub-nosed beauty, contorted at the moment by angry hauteur. She wore a simple white robe. A torque of gold encompassed her slender neck.

"I regret to report that we discovered your daughter rifling Your Grace's purse," Strakes said, holding up a black velvet pouch. He had thinning black hair combed over the dome of his head, long, lugubrious features, a button nose, and a gift of speaking without moving his lips. "Let me go!" the girl exclaimed, wrenching her elbows free of the footmen's grasp. She shook back her hair and held her chin high. "Tatrina, Tatrina," the old duke said in a tone of half-hearted severity, "what am I to do with you?" "You have more than you need!" she declared. "The poor children of Zazesspur need help. I was merely trying to do the right thing, since you will not!" She had the habit of speaking with almost visible exclamation marks. "I devote the waking hours of every day to the welfare of the people of Zazesspur," Hembreon said, "especially the children." "There must be more! Ao must reign triumphant!" "I will not countenance your stealing from me for whatever purposes, however noble." He held out his hand. Strakes deposited the purse in it. The duke dug inside and produced a gold Zazesspur gulder. "Here, my child. Be at peace, and leave me in peace. I am a busy man." The girl scowled. "This is not—" "Enough!" the old man snapped. "You've taxed my purse; do not tax my patience. And if I catch you filching from me again, you'll be restricted to your chambers for a month!" She sniffed, did another hair-flip, pivoted, and stalked from the garden. The servitors followed. Duke Hembreon sighed. "Or at least a week." He shook his head. "Isn't that ever the way of it? No matter how

much power one wields in the world, it's always hardest to rule one's home." "I wouldn't know, Your Grace," Zaranda said. "I have no children." "Perhaps you should bear some, Countess Morninggold. It would greatly enhance your sense of responsibility. Now, if you have no further matters to discuss, I crave your leave. The city's business presses." * * * * * There was a blue-and-bronze patrol standing in the street when Zaranda stepped out of the duke's gabled front door. At her appearance the leader swept off a purple velvet bladder hat with a long pheasant tail feather stuck in it and performed a sardonic bow. "The Countess Morninggold, I presume?" he said with a sneer. He was a man of middle height or a shade beneath, whose expensive doublet—purple velvet slashed to display gold satin lining—and orange pantaloons augmented rather than concealed a bandylegged, ungraceful figure. His face and voice were well suited to sneering, the former being dominated by a large nose with a wart prominent on the side of it, and a ginger-colored goatee surrounding full lips below. An unprepossessing apparition, withal, yet Zaranda marked a lightness on his feet and a fluidity to his bow that belied his unhandy form. His codpiece was wrought in the face of a leering fiend with pointed tongue protruding. "Indeed you do presume, I think," Zaranda said. "And whom have I the ... honor ... of addressing?" The man's head was perfectly bald on top, with tufts of wiry reddish hair jutting to the sides. He made haste to replace his cap. "I am Shaveli, captain of the civic guard, though better known to the admiring multitudes as Shaveli Sword-Master." And he caressed the diamond-inset gold pommel of the swept-hilted rapier hung from a

leather baldric. He was known as a few other things, Zaranda's street contacts had told her over the last few days, including the commander of a well-feared secret detail of the guard known as the Specials. A brutal man, who had been a professional duelist before the reformers had offered him rank in the civic guard, he was rumored to make use of the office to indulge certain dark tastes. Men in such positions, and women also, were always rumored to do so. Looking at the man for the first time, though, Zaranda was minded to give the rumors credence. "Am I to be arrested, then?" she asked. Behind the Sword-Master, his guardsmen shuffled their feet and shifted grips on their halberds uneasily as they eyed her with a mixture of desire and fear. Zaranda had a reputation of her own. "The choice is yours, Countess," Shaveli said, saying the title as he might say whore. "Then I choose not to be arrested. Good day." She started to walk past. Two guards sprang forward to cross their halberds before her. "Ah, but there's the rub, Countess," Shaveli said. "If you choose not to be arrested, you must choose to come with us." "Ah," she said with an acid-dipped smile. "I see. Our noble city council has seen fit to reform the language as well as the laws, so that choice means doing what the government compels one to do." "You have said it," the Sword-Master said with a flourish and a bow. "And now, if you will follow me—"

15

"I have heard much about you, Countess Morninggold," the tall man said. He placed the dome back on the rotunda of a miniature building in his model city. He turned from the table to face Zaranda. His face was long and heavily handsome, shaven clean and just beginning to show the marks of weathering, age, and care, particularly in the lines around the mouth and the intense brown eyes. His square-cut hair was dark brown, heavily salted with gray. The simple severity of a gold-trimmed green tabard of rich fabric worn over brown blouse and golden hose minimized the visible effects of prolonged inactivity on a once-athletic frame. "I am honored to make your acquaintance." He took Zaranda's hand, bowed over it, and pressed it to his lips. From below and around them in the vast half-completed Palace of Governance came the woodpecker and cicada sounds of artisans at work. The air in the chamber was still, warm, and charged. "Your lordship's gallantry is impeccable, but I fear it outstrips your memory," Zaranda said. "We've met before." He straightened and showed her a grin that stripped years from his countenance. "Ah, but that was Zaranda Star, the dashing war captain, not Countess Morninggold." "And I have long been denied the pleasure of meeting either one," a voice said. From an archway a white-robed man emerged into the octagonal hall on the Palace of Governance's uppermost story. Civic guards lurked in the shadows without. Zaranda had not been disarmed before Shaveli bowed her mockingly into the baron's chamber, but Hardisty took few chances. The newcomer was a spry elderly man with marmoset tufts of white hair

surrounding a gleaming dome of head, a beak of a nose, bright blue eyes nestled among laughter lines above apple cheeks. A plain white robe hung on a spare frame. Sandals gently slapped the green marble floor as he strode toward Zaranda with hand extended. "Countess, my chief advisor and friend, Armenides the Compassionate," Baron Hardisty said. Zaranda presented her hand and was relieved when the cleric settled for shaking it rather than emulating Hardisty. She noted that his neck was bare. "The honor's mine," she said, "especially considering high priests of Ao are far rarer in this world than captains or countesses. And please, my name is Zaranda Star." Armenides beamed and nodded. "Just so, just so, good Mistress Star. And, the All-Father willing, his high priests shall not long remain a rarity in Faerun." "My lifetime has seen the flight of dragons and the death of gods," Zaranda said. "Perhaps it shall be as you say, Excellency." "If you can forgo titles, so can I. Armenides will suffice, or simply Father." "As you wish." "For my part please call me Faneuil, as once you did," Hardisty said. He gestured at the model city. "Do you like it?" Zaranda walked round the model, leaning and stooping to study it with genuine interest. Elaborate and clever constructs had always appealed to her. The buildings were carved of wood to exquisite detail, and so placed that the noonday sun shone down through the octagonal skylight overhead and made them seem a real city somehow reduced and captured on a magician's table. "It's wonderfully wrought, Faneuil. Did you build it yourself?" He laughed. "Ah, but that I had the hand skill—or the time. I should more readily win

the trust I need from our good people; you know how Tethyrians admire craftsmanship. No, only the vision's mine, guided by the clear eyes of Father Armenides." He held forth a hand. "Behold the Zazesspur of the future!" Zaranda looked up in amazement. "Zazesspur?" Hardisty smiled fit to split his head in half. "Indeed." "You'd raze the city and rebuild it from earth upward?" she asked, straightening. "An audacious plan, but one I hope to see completed before I pass on." "But where are the houses and shops? All I see are blockish things like, ahh—" "Like the palace itself, though smaller. Except for the Temple of Ao and All Faiths there across from it." Armenides spread hands above the miniature city as if bestowing a benediction. "All parts of daily life shall be drawn together, even as over time the worship of the sundry gods, which is none other than worship of Ao in his myriad aspects, shall be re-absorbed into the body of the All-Faith. In these times of uncertainty and peril, compassion demands that we draw our flock close together where we can most efficiently watch over it." "I'm uncomfortable thinking of people as sheep," Zaranda said. "But surely you didn't bring me here to discuss rebuilding Zazesspur, Faneuil." "In a manner of speaking," the baron said, "yes. Specifically, that part you might play in the remaking of Zazesspur—and all Tethyr." "And what might that be? I'm not much for stone-masonry, nor religion, for that matter." The baron goggled slightly, then recovered and emitted a hearty laugh. "Ah, a joke. You were ever the sly wit, Zaranda. No, the greatest part of the task that confronts us requires neither trowel nor chisel nor level. It will require the skills of the tongue, and

when they fail, the sword. You are remarkably adept with both." "We do not overlook your skill in matters magical," the cleric added. "I thought you were trying to clamp down on the mystic arts," Zaranda said. "Swordsmanship too, for that matter." "Those are actions the council is contemplating," Hardisty said smoothly. " I have no official standing with that body." "You did get them to build this palace and let you live in it." "They recognize the beauty and strength of our ideas," Armenides said, "and indeed, their inevitability." He paused to engage her gaze fixedly with his own. She felt a moment's jarring dislocation, a passing loss of balance as if a chasm had opened suddenly at her feet. She rocked back, trying to keep surprise from showing in her face. "—certainly see the benefits of such a program," the priest was saying. His eyes were only eyes now, not spiritual hammers. "Magic and the sword do much grievous harm. For the sake of all, is it not wisest to restrict their usage to those with the training, wisdom, and moral perspective to use them properly?" "Meaning us," Zaranda managed to croak. Baron Hardisty leaned forward on the balls of his feet. "Then you'll join us?" "What exactly—beyond the satisfaction of a job well done—is in it for me?" "You would have a voice in restructuring our anarchic society," Hardisty said, "as well, obviously, as a hand in running it. Confirmation of your title as Countess Morninggold, as well as a grant-in-aid to secure your possession of it." "Isn't that a bit ambitious, seeing as you don't yet control even Zazesspur?" The two men laughed. "Have you never heard the saying that one doesn't hit what one doesn't aim at?" the cleric asked.

"You would certainly not want for material reward," Hardisty said. "During the Tuigan War you displayed considerable waywardness of thought and spirit. Yet always you fought for what you thought was right. Your greatest reward, I warrant, would be the power to help people." To keep my house, she thought, and win the power to do unlimited good: what more could I ask for? She could think of a thing or two, certainly, such as the companionship of men who bathed and didn't have biceps bigger than their brains; but she suspected such amenities would be included in the bargain. All he's offering me is everything I've striven for all my life. And then, in what seemed a different mental voice: And all it will cost me is my soul. "What do you ask of me?" "Your loyalty," Hardisty said. "Your support. Swear yourself to my service, and you shall have all we've spoken of and more. How say you?" Zaranda laughed and held up a hand. "I say things are moving rather rapidly for me. I have some friends who depend on me for their livelihoods, just now. What of them?" "Certainly you can employ whatever retainers you choose," the baron said, "provided they pass a minor investigation." "Investigation?" "A trifle of magic," Armenides said heartily, "to ensure the purity of their minds and motives. It is a sad truth that many minions of evil move at large through our chaotic world, and we cannot always know them by surface appearance." "Indeed," Zaranda said. She drew a deep breath and expelled it through pursed lips. "Gentlemen, your offers are most kind. But I need time to assimilate all you've told me, and what you have proposed." Hardisty gave an airy wave of his big square hand. "I should doubt your wisdom did

you not want time to contemplate—may I now call you Countess?" "Take all the time you need," Armenides said. His forefingers each traced a semicircle in the air before his face, completing the circle at the bottom. "And may the blessings of Ao the Universal follow wherever you walk in this wide world." * * * * * The six half-hour bells of midafternoon were still reverberating through the streets of Zazesspur when a company of civic guardsmen entered from either end of the block of the Winsome Repose and took up blocking positions. A squad of ten men in morions and breastplates, under the command of a young lieutenant and his sergeant, marched up to the front door of the inn. The innkeeper, a small weasel-sleek, dark-haired man whose name was Quarlo, met them on the steps. The lieutenant, whose hair hung in black pomaded ringlets to the shoulders, wore a bronze breastplate gorgeously wrought in the likeness of impressive chest and belly muscles, which surely were not mirrored by anything beneath. From the hilt of his rapier hung a scented ball as big as his fist, to help shield his nostrils from assault from the nearby stables. He unrolled a parchment scroll and read aloud "—therefore require you to deliver unto arrest and sequestration the persons of one Zaranda Star, self-styled Countess Morninggold, as well as all companions and chattels. In the name of the city council of Zazesspur, herewith attached the seal of Shaveli, captain of the guard." Scrubbing his hands compulsively in his apron and rolling his beady eyes, Quarlo listened to the peroration. Then he said, "But, Excellent One, I cannot!" The youthful lieutenant gave him a terrible eye, which he had devoted much mirror time to perfecting. "And why not?" he asked, in rage that was meant to thunder but squeaked instead.

"They're gone." The lieutenant opened his mouth to pronounce doom upon the contumacious innkeeper. Then his eyes stood out from his olive-skinned face. "Gone?" Quarlo nodded. "She paid her reckoning not an hour ago, for herself and her whole menagerie, and went trooping off to the harbor. She spoke of taking ship for Halruaa, or Zakhara even. Said she felt the climate here wasn't warm enough." "Too warm for her, more like," rasped a voice from the patrol at the lieutenant's back. The other guards laughed, until a hard look from their sergeant—whose face looked as if it could be used to hammer nails, and had been—quelled them. The lieutenant turned green. "Search the building!" he commanded in a voice strangled to a bat's ranging cry. The patrol did, with sufficient thoroughness that more than one guest afterward had words with Quarlo about valuable but readily concealable personal effects that had turned up missing. The only sign they turned up that Zaranda and company had ever been there was a series of complaints from the grooms that her war mare used loaded dice, which the lieutenant could not make heads or tails of. "To the harbor!" the lieutenant commanded in a more robust voice than he'd been able to muster earlier. The sergeant bellowed orders, and the little patrol set out past the puzzled cordon at double-time toward the harbor. In the rear marched the grizzled sergeant, looking grimmer than usual. He secretly believed the rest of the little unit—Lieutenant Flower Petal in particular—had missed their calling when they took up the blue and gold of the civic guard instead of the motley of the Jesters, Fools, & Harlequins Guild. If you asked him, this tale of taking ship for exotic lands was thinner than beer would be if that blue-nosed old grassquit Armenides had his way with Zazesspur. If Zaranda was at the harbor, he himself was

the Simbul, Queen of Aglarond. On the other hand, the patrol had been most particularly warned that Countess Morninggold and her accomplices were clever as dragons and about as tractable. And there was that which his wife had never understood, back when he served in the army of Ithmong before Ernest Gallowglass was deposed by do-gooders, which lay behind what she chose to regard as his slovenly lack of ambition: that while sergeants never stood first in line when spoils were doled out, neither did they when it came time to apportion blame. In this present case, Shaveli had hinted that, should the fugitives not be apprehended, someone's head and neck might soon come to a parting of the ways. So the sergeant thought it best to hold his tongue. Thus he marched down to the harbor, alleviating the ache in his feet and lower back with visions of the so-superior young lieutenant spending the rest of his career as a civic guard officer leading darkling-hunting patrols through the notably extensive and noisome sewers of Zazesspur. And so, in the fullness of time, did it come to pass.

Part II Career of Evil

16

It was dusk along the Trade Way north of Zazesspur. Like mauve fog, nighthawks coursed on scimitar wings through twilight and sought prey. Off in the west, clouds rose like fanciful mountains above the unseen Trackless Sea, all slate and indigo and molten copper where the last rays of the fallen sun struck them. The lure of honestly gotten gain being almost as powerful as the other kind, several families of southern Tethir foresters, related by marriage, had banded together to purchase a number of wagons and attempt the trip through the Starspire Mountains and south to Zazesspur. The wagons were piled high with animal skins, a kind of bark used in tanning, and other vegetable stuffs for the manufacture of dyes. The great merchant caravans no longer plied the Trade Way from Amn and points north down to Calimport. And, so, if these enterprising foresters could reach Zazesspur, they could expect to reap a rich return from the city's leather-workers and dyers. They had made it through the mountains and most of the way to the city. Unfortunately, ill-gotten gain still had its allure. Consequently, there had come a sudden drum of hoofbeats as evening came on, and suddenly the little caravan was surrounded by a score of robbers, who swung down from horseback to menace the foresters with drawn bows. The foresters were no mean fighters themselves under most circumstances. But as their destination grew nearer, they had relaxed their guard, a process expedited by the passing around of a couple of stone crocks of berry brandy by way of celebration, now seen to be premature. The robbers, initially elated at the bloodless capture of a half-dozen wagons, grew surly when they threw back the canvas covering the loads and found bales of bark and sheaves of dried herbs. The leader of the bandits, a burly, black-bearded ruffian clad in

rude black leather garments, which summer's heat would soon render quite unthinkable, had the makeshift caravan's master brought before him as he stood by the roadside. "Where are the valuables?" he demanded as Wyancott—a towheaded, middle-aged chief among the foresters—was thrust to his knees before him. "Valuables?" the caravan master repeated as if confused. "What's in the wagons is all we have. What wealth we possessed went to buy the wagons and the mules to draw them." "You mean we went to all this trouble over nothing but a mess of twigs and branches?" the bandit chieftain roared. "Are we aarakocra, to make nests for our dwellings? Produce some real wealth, and quickly, or prepare to suffer accordingly!" But Wyancott could only shake his head numbly. The leader, scowling ferociously, drew back his arm to strike. Then he toppled into the poorly maintained ditch beside the road and commenced to snore. Another flurry of hoofbeats. Riders swept past along the road. From his knees Wyancott looked wildly right and left to see infantry with leveled crossbows surrounding the halted wagon train in the gloom. The marauders who held his arms let him go and hurriedly raised their hands. A bandit atop one of the wagons uttered a defiant cry, snatched up a short bow, nocked an arrow, and began to draw upon a tall woman riding up the road toward Wyancott on horseback. An arrow smote him in the center of the forehead. He rolled off the wagon to lie unmoving in the soft spring grass. * * * * * With the exception of the rash bowman, the bandits surrendered readily. Zaranda

dismounted from Goldie, glanced down at the bandit leader she'd sent to sleep in the ditch. She extended a hand to the man with the thatch of white-blond hair, who was still on his knees looking thoroughly confused. "Up you come," she said as he took her hand and hauled himself upright. "What's your name?" "Wyancott," he said. He rubbed his jaw, rolled his tongue around in his mouth. "I thank you." Zaranda nodded. A mercenary with a crossbow slung across his mail-jacketed back, one of the original escorts she'd brought into Tethyr, was kneeling in the ditch and binding the bandit chieftain's hands behind his back. The bandit chieftain snored loudly. The rest of Zaranda's small but intrepid—she hoped—band was rounding up the demoralized bandits and disarming them. They were beginning to gripe at the realization of just how small a party they had surrendered to. Not that the outcome would likely have been different, save for more bloodshed; so intent had the marauders been on their haul that Zaranda's group had half surrounded them before making their presence known, and likely would have completed the job had not Zaranda feared the leader might hurt the caravanner, and so put him down for his nap. But Stillhawk's dropping of the lone man who showed fight had had a salutary effect on morale. Which reminds me—Zaranda turned and gestured through the gloom at Chenowyn, who was trudging along the road, looking disgruntled but almost pretty in the simple white linen blouse and green linen breeches Zaranda had bought her, with her dark red hair brushed gleaming and bound back from her well-scrubbed face. She couldn't ride a lick, and hence had been riding postilion behind Zaranda, arms locked firmly

about the older woman's waist. She was disgruntled because Zaranda had made her dismount before riding up to engage the bandits. "Why couldn't I ride with you?" the youth demanded as she approached. "Because I didn't want you to get hurt. Also I didn't want you to get excited and turn me and Goldie into voles by accident. Now come along." She took Chen gently by the arm and led her to the wagon beside which lay the man Vander Stillhawk had shot. The mute ranger had his foot on the dead man's face, pulling out his arrow. The task completed, he stood back, scrubbing the recovered missile with a handful of bunchgrass. "Take a good look," Zaranda said, indicating the dead marauder, who lay on his back staring sightlessly at the first stars appearing in the purple sky above. Chen craned forward without much interest. "He's dead," she said. "I've seen dead men before." "Look at him," Zaranda insisted. "You never had a hand in anyone's death before, did you? Well, you had a hand in his." Chen stared at her. "What are you talking about? I didn't shoot him!" "No. But you were part of an armed party that engaged his in battle. That entitles you to a share of whatever spoils there are. It also entitles you to a share of responsibility." Chen's face crumpled, and tear-shine was visible in her eyes, even in the dimness. "What did I do? What do you want me to do, mourn for him?" "No," Zaranda said. "He got what he had coming. But whether it's something to grieve or not, taking life should never be easy." Chen covered her face in her hands and ran off sobbing. Her tears, Zaranda was acutely aware, were because she thought she had incurred Zaranda's anger without

knowing why, not from any emotion concerning the dead bandit. Fine job of moral instruction, there. There are reasons I never became a mother. Stillhawk came up, laid his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. She looked into his dark, steady eyes, smiled, touched his cheek. "Thank you," she said. She walked back to where Wyancott stood. Balmeric rode past on his chestnut gelding, placing some of the small troop to keep watch in case other bandits turned up, either from the same band or another—always a lively possibility in modern Tethyr. Stillhawk went off to help the lookouts. Despite the seizure of her own caravan and the attendant financial difficulties, she had managed to interest the former captain of her caravan guards and seven adventurers, including four of her crossbowmen, in following her on her latest wild scheme. In all she had twelve followers, including Chen, Farlorn, Stillhawk, and Shield, who had been waiting at a rendezvous point she and the ranger had arranged in advance, having themselves escaped the city without incident. Not many to challenge the fabric of a whole country, she thought. She grinned. "What was that all about?" Goldie asked. The mare tossed her head toward Chenowyn, who stood about twenty paces back up the road, weeping. "My ham-handed attempt to civilize my young charge." "I suppose somebody had to take the little beast in hand. I just wish it didn't have to be you." "Goldie, be nice," Zaranda said. She turned to Wyancott, who was staring. "My horse talks," she told him, as if that explained all. Then back to Goldie: "She hasn't done anything to you." "Nothing but increase my burden," the mare said primly. "And she rides, I might

mention, with the grace of a sack of coal. Come on, Randi, allow me to blow off a little steam. I don't have anything against the girl, really—and I, at least, have not been giving you grief about your orc." "Orc?" echoed Wyancott. As if on cue a clamor rose from the other foresters: "Betrayed! 'Ware orcs! Run for it, boys!" The forest folk were pointing at Shield of Innocence, who stood keeping guard over the prisoners, his scimitars in his clawed hands. His hood had fallen back in the battle, revealing his great head in all its tusked and snouted glory. "Settle down!" Zaranda cried. "He's with me." A young caravanner glared at her. "Decent folk don't have truck with no orcs! You're evil, just like him!" Several of the others cried assent. Zaranda was glad they hadn't yet gotten their weapons back. "He's not evil," she said. "He's converted to the worship of Torm—see his medallion? Besides, I don't see what his beliefs or mine have to do with anything, inasmuch as we just rescued you. Or don't they practice common courtesy in Tethir Forest nowadays?" Wyancott rubbed his nose with his thumb, "She's right," he said. His followers subsided into watchful silence. "Thank you," Zaranda told him. "So what happens now?" "We each go our separate ways," she said. "However—" His narrow features closed. "I reckoned there was a however." "There usually is. We find ourselves in possession of your goods train. We are happy to be able to restore it to you—but we did save you, at risk to ourselves, and we must eat like any others. So I think a recovery fee of ten percent would not be

unreasonable." "That's naught but highway robbery!" protested the young forester who'd objected loudest to Shield. "No," Wyancott said. "Highway robbery was a moment ago when you had a dirk prodding you in the ribs, sister-son. Like as not it would be well and truly stuck between them now, were it not for these folk." He looked at Zaranda. "You have the right of it. It's a small enough price to pay, seeing as we thought to be left with nothing at all." "What ho, Zaranda!" cried Farlorn, who was likewise guarding the captive bandits. "Are we to carry off stacks of dried animal skins and sheaves of bark on our backs? Not to mention that the hides stink worse than your young apprentice did when first you brought her home." Chen gave off sniffling to glare at him. Zaranda found herself half hoping the girl would set his hair on fire. The bard was far too skillful with words to wound with them accidentally. "I think," Zaranda said, "we can come to far more satisfactory terms." Thereupon she declared the bandits' possessions forfeit, by way of compensating the Tethir foresters for their pains. The outlaws proved to have a few coins among them. Their weapons were of generally poor quality, though several swords showed promise that a good cleaning and whetting would render them more than serviceable, and the leader had been armed with a fine spike-headed mace and poniard. Their horses, while not exactly prize destriers and coursers, were valuable enough. Wyancott, however, was more than happy to trade the spoils from the bandit band for the share of his goods Zaranda had claimed as recovery fee, even though everyone agreed that they were worth more than ten percent of his cargo.

As the weapons and oddments of armor were bundled together and loaded onto the confiscated horses, Zaranda approached her captives, who were all awake and mobile now, standing in a resentful clump in their loincloths and ratty, foul chemises. Farlorn was playing a little game with them, tapping a bandit first on one shoulder with his drawn rapier, then on the other, making him pivot his head frantically from side to side to see what was touching him. Finally he let his blade lie firmly against the bandit's panting neck. The foresters laughed hugely at his expression when he saw what lay against his jugular. Zaranda glared at the half-elf. Farlorn shrugged, laughed, and put away his sword. "I just thought to lighten the spirits of our newfound friends," he said. "That is, after all, my stock in trade." "What will you do to us?" the bearded bandit leader demanded. "You didn't kill anybody," Zaranda said. "So we'll not kill more of you." Some of the foresters grumbled at this. Wyancott shouted them down. "What I'm going to do," Zaranda said, "is let you go, with a warning: Do not molest this caravan again, and do not seek to follow us. If you do, I'll burst your lungs inside your chests." "You're going to just leave us like this?" the bandit leader cried. "Unarmed, naked, and with our hands tied behind us?" "That's about the shape of it, yes." "What about poor Fleebo, lying there dead?" another bandit asked. "Would you care to join him?" Balmeric sidled up to her and put his head against hers. "Scum like this run in bigger packs," he muttered from the corner of his mouth. "We could maybe get their pals to go ransom on 'em."

"Perhaps," Zaranda answered quietly. "But with some of your men double-mounted on mules, we're not much faster than this wagon train. I don't want to look back to see a troop of kettle-head heavy cavalry riding up our tails." The mercenary officer pulled a thoughtful face and nodded. The bandit chief was looking thoughtful too. In his case it was a pained expression. He was a man who didn't readily harbor more than one thought at a time. A new idea had clearly forced its way into his head and was grinding around in there. "Why are you really letting us go?" he asked. "So you can do what our friends in the caravan will likewise be doing," Zaranda said. "Spreading the word that the Star Company, Protective Services Extraordinaire, is open for business."

17

The village consisted of a sparse collection of blocky houses. Though it overlooked the not altogether mighty Sulduskoon River, where it bowed away from the eastern tag end of the Starspire Mountains and the forest of Tethir toward Ithmong, it lay far enough inland that little rain fell, so that instead of the stone and brick walls and pitched tiled roofs of the coastal zone, the buildings had adobe walls and flat roofs. When Zaranda led her little mounted band into the midst of it on a sun-drenched morning a few days after her escape from Zazesspur, it showed no more sign of life than if it had been abandoned at the time of the fall of Castle Tethyr. The houses were closed up tight with stout wooden shutters. The doors were shut. No pigs, dogs, or even chickens were to be seen on or among the buildings. "All of this is clear evidence that they need us," Zaranda commented aloud as they reined up in the village common, which was bare, packed earth but for a great spreading oak tree planted many generations before at one edge of the common. "No village is that poor." "What are we doing here, anyway?" demanded Chen, riding behind her. "Patience, and you'll see." She raised her voice. "Knock, knock!" For a moment nothing but the wind slapping the mud-brick walls answered her. Then: "Go away," a querulous voice emanated from the nearest house, muffled by the shutters. "We've nothing left worth stealing." "If I were a determined thief, I wouldn't believe that for a minute," Zaranda said. "But we aren't thieves. We are here to discuss trading with you." "And what have you to trade?" "Protection."

Another moment, and then there was the scrape of a bar being withdrawn from a door. A squeal of ill-lubricated hinges, and a weathered gray man stepped out, blinking, into the sunlight. "We could never afford to pay a band as large as yours to guard us," he said in tones of real regret. "That's understood," Zaranda said. "That's not what I've come to offer." A brown-skinned, solemn little girl clad in a ragged smock appeared in the doorway to clutch at the elder's burlap chemise and stare bug-eyed at the intruders. He waved her back inside. "What then? Will you sell us arms? We have no skill at using them." "Indeed we have arms to sell you, but that's not all," Zaranda said. "We would teach you how to use them as well." "Leave off, Osbard!" a female voice cried from the house behind him. "She speaks madness! The bandits will kill us if we try to resist." "Not," Zaranda said, "if you kill them first." * * * * * Despite the dearth of trade in the interior of Tethyr, the village was just managing to straggle along the raw edge of subsistence. Which meant that they were still able to leave some of their acreage fallow, rather than being forced to plant it all, trading off the chance of starving in the future when the land was exhausted against the certainty of starving now. Zaranda stood facing her troops across a field being rested, with the stunted, sunburned remnants of last year's bean crop still underfoot. "You know, Randi," said Goldie, who stood behind her mistress and watched the proceedings with interest, "it's not too late for us to turn bandit ourselves." The village volunteers, nineteen of them, of both sexes and various ages, stared

with mingled fascination and horror at the spectacle of a talking horse. They seemed to find it as hard to get over Goldie as they did to get over Shield of Innocence. "Why don't you go graze down by the river?" Zaranda asked out of the corner of her mouth. "You're unsettling the recruits." "I wouldn't miss this for the world," Goldie declared. "But go ahead; don't mind me. I won't say another word. You people there, with your pots on your heads and your kitchen cutlery clutched in your fists—pretend I'm just another horse." Zaranda covered her eyes momentarily with her hand. Not for the first time she wondered why she hadn't taken Baron Hardisty up on his offer. It probably had to do with the fact that it helped to be able to look into a mirror when she wanted to brush out her hair. The mercenaries Zaranda had brought out of Zazesspur stood or lounged about some straw bales that had been dragged up to serve as target practice. Farlorn stood by them, arms crossed and yarting slung over his back, amusing them with a constant low-voiced commentary, probably biting. Shield of Innocence and Stillhawk stood behind her, winged out left and right, with the ranger back a bit farther so that he could keep an eye on the great orc as well as the village volunteers. Chen hovered behind Zaranda, as close as she could and still have reasonable claim of being out of the way. Collecting herself, Zaranda strode forward to place herself in front of her troops, doing a deft sidestep en route to avoid tripping over an inquisitive yellow hen. The livestock had miraculously appeared on the village streets. The children were still being kept inside at Zaranda's request. She didn't need them hooting and laughing at the efforts of their elder siblings. "People of Tweyar," she declared. "My name is Zaranda Star. I and my people are here to show you all, men and women alike, how to fight to defend yourselves, your

loved ones, and your village. We know we cannot keep you away from your field's more than an hour or two a day, so we'll get started—" "Women can't fight." Zaranda craned her head. "I beg your pardon?" "I said, women can't fight. It's a waste trying to teach them to. Like teaching a dog to talk." "Well, so long as you specify dogs," Goldie murmured. The voice had come from the second rank. "Please step forward so that I can have a look at you." The speaker didn't seem eager to leap forward, but the pair standing directly in front of him stepped with alacrity to either side, leaving him little choice. He was a young man of middle height in brown chemise and holed tan hose, whose width of chest and shoulders would have been considered huge on a tall man; likewise his belly. His legs by contrast seemed almost comically short and thin. His hair was brown and lank, and a beard fringed his jaw, as broad as Shield's. "I am Bord, the miller's son," he said sullenly. "And I still say women can't fight. It takes strength to be a warrior. I'm strong." "No doubt you are, Bord Millerson. But I don't agree that strength is the only thing in combat, or even the most important thing. Many other things matter as well: skill, speed, wind, heart. And most of all, intelligence." Stubbornly he shook his head. "None of that matters if I hit you with this." He held up a fist the size and apparent consistency of an oak burl. "Ah, but first you have to hit me. Listen well: if strong was better than smart, horses would ride us." "I find that remark in poor taste, Randi," Goldie said.

"Pipe down." "Words," the burly youth said, shaking his head like a bull troubled by a blowfly. "Just words." Zaranda unfastened Crackletongue's scabbard from her belt, took the sheathed weapon by the hilt and held it up. "Let's test it, shall we, you and I? Somebody get him a quarterstaff." This was done, and in a moment the two stood facing each other before the uneven ranks of villagers. Bord scowled. "You have a sword," he said. "That isn't fair." "My sword shall remain sheathed," Zaranda said. "That makes it no more than a club—one with shorter reach than that stick of yours." "How do I know you won't use magic on me?" Zaranda sighed and resisted the urge to look around at her own party. She had said nothing of magic to the villagers. "I swear that I will not." "Cross your heart and hope to die?" Zaranda did so. Reluctantly Bord braced his legs wide apart, and took up stance holding his staff two-handed before his belly. Zaranda tapped his left cheek with her scabbarded sword. Bord frowned and whipped the staff up and around in a belated counter. Zaranda tapped his right cheek. "I'm quicker and more skillful," she said matter-of-factly, "and that's twice over that you're dead. Had enough?" The young man's vast face turned red. He slid both hands to one end of the staff and aimed a whistling blow at Zaranda, who ducked back easily out of harm's way. Bellowing anger, he aimed a fearsome overhand stroke at her; she effortlessly

deflected it into the dirt with the flat of her blade. He cocked the staff back over his shoulder for another blow. She poked him in the belly. He sat down in the dust with a vast thump. Zaranda placed the tip of her scabbard on the ground and rested both hands on Crackletongue's pommel. Several of Bord's comrades helped him to his feet. The last that was seen of the miller's son that day was him tottering off for his hut with a supporter beneath each arm. "It's not just a life," Zaranda said to her friends out of the corner of her mouth, "it's an adventure." * * * * * Puffing and scowling with effort, the strapping village lad managed to draw the short bow halfway to his ear. With a yell of triumph, he gave the string a final tug and released. Then he stared dumbly at the arrow, which was still in place, clasped against the bow-staff with one finger. "You pulled the string out of the nock that time, Ernico," Zaranda said gently. "Now, try it again, and take your time." Stillhawk, his darkly handsome face inscrutable—Zaranda envied him his long practice at showing no emotion—helped the boy nock another arrow and tried to steady his arm as he pulled on the string. Straining and trembling, Ernico got the bow half-drawn again and loosed at the hay bale twenty paces away. The arrow arced high and fell to earth two-thirds of the way to the target. The mercenaries, now sitting on spare hay bales off to the side, set up a great hooting and sardonic applause at the effort: "Ho there, lad! Is your arm made of whey? That bow's a toy; my five-year-old niece could draw it full!" The boy blushed until his prominent ears looked ready to burst into flame. He

snatched away a fresh arrow proffered by Stillhawk from the quiver on his back, nocked it, heaved with all his might to draw. Puffing, blowing, straining until his whole upper body shook and his face turned purple, Ernico succeeded in drawing it almost to his ear. "That's it!" yelled one of Balmeric's men, but another jeered and said, "A silver piece he can't get it to his ear." Ernico grimaced horribly, yanked the string the rest of the way back and, uttering a terrible yell, released. His final effort had shut his eyes and pivoted him halfway round, however, so that he had come to bear squarely upon the onlooking crossbowmen. They scattered like quail an eyeblink before the arrow buried itself in the bale where one of them had been sitting a moment before. "Crossbows," Zaranda said to no one in particular, as the mercenaries picked themselves up off the ground and Ernico danced around with the bow held victoriously above his head. "We need to get them crossbows. Anyone can shoot a crossbow." * * * * * "Platoon, forward!" roared Shield of Innocence. Like a vast, untidy, many-legged beast, the group of recruits lurched to its feet and into a stumbling run across the furrows of a dormant barley field. Shield scrutinized them with a critical eye, his shadow long, his lumpy form looking somehow majestic against the eye of the setting sun. Zaranda watched from the side. The troops dashed forward for all they were worth, clutching sharpened sticks to their breasts in lieu of spears. A particularly gawky girl put a foot wrong and went sprawling. The others rushed over her like an avalanche. Zaranda didn't even wince. Despite the fact that unidentified riders had been

glimpsed in the distance, apparently surveying the unprecedented goings-on in Tweyar, she had been sleeping soundly. She no longer heard those horrid insinuating whispers whenever she shut her eyes. Life was good. At least in comparison to what it had been in Zazesspur. "Platoon—down!" Shield bellowed, voice great as a thunderclap. The recruits all went face first in the plowed earth as if they'd been snagged by trip spells. He has a talent for this sort of thing, doesn't he? Stillhawk signed—reluctantly, Zaranda thought. "Indeed he does," Zaranda said. Which was fortunate. For all his fighting talent and knowledge of warcraft, Stillhawk was hampered as an instructor by the fact he couldn't speak. Besides, the type of fighting he was most accustomed to was a stealthy, solitary art, demanding the utmost skill and concentration, and not really suitable for the village recruits to study at this stage of their training. Farlorn was a master swordsman, and no mean hand with a bow himself. With his bard's tongue, he could impart his knowledge more readily than any of them, but he tended to grow bored and wander off along the riverbank, picking wildflowers and composing new songs, or inveighing the village girls with the songs and bouquets those walks produced. Zaranda, with extensive military experience, could plan a campaign or a battle, inspire troops, extemporize and lead an action in the heat of combat. But she had little enough grasp of how to train untried, peaceful folk. Shield, it seemed, knew just how to go about it. Demanding but not demeaning, stern but evenhanded, he was adept at getting the volunteers to give their best without driving them too hard. And once they got over their instinctive fear of a gigantic orc warrior, the recruits had taken to Shield as if he had been born among them. Shield ran them back and forth across the field, jerking them up and down like

marionettes. The exercise was meant to toughen them, to get them used to operating as a unit, and to accustom them to handling weapons. At length the orog ordered them to stand and looked to Zaranda. She clapped her hands and called out, "Well done, everybody! Let's head for home." They trooped back toward the village. An ancient man in a kettle helmet—Zaranda would have sworn it was an actual kettle—cleared his throat for attention. He was by far the oldest of the volunteers, and hadn't a tooth in his head. "Young mistress," he said, "pardon an old fool for asking a fool's question but—why do you do this?" "There are no fool's questions, save those not asked," Zaranda said, "but could you be a little more explicit?" The old man frowned a little at "explicit," but he said, "Why are you trying to make fighters of us farming folk? Why not simply protect us yourselves?" "It's like the old saying, Grandfather," Zaranda said. "Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him his whole life." The old man frowned in puzzlement until the wrinkles in his face became deep canyons that threatened to swallow his features whole. "But what," he finally asked, "does all this have to do with fishing?" Zaranda patted the old man on top of his helmet. "You know, Golban, I bet your wife has ready a pot of beer that's been chilling in the river all day long." He brightened and stood straighter. "I bet you're right," he said, and set off at speed for home. At the village outskirts, Zaranda came upon Shield of Innocence sitting in the dust. He had a village toddler on his knee and a pack of others crawling all over his mighty frame. He made a series of ferocious faces at the child he held, rolling his small eyes

and opening his tusked mouth alarmingly. The children laughed and laughed in delight. Zaranda shook her head. "Now I've seen everything," she said to herself. The orog had a talent for more than teaching warcraft, it seemed. The people of Tweyar had taken Zaranda's party into their homes, while the mercenaries, with some help from the locals, built themselves temporary living quarters. It was the kind of manual labor hired fighters traditionally disdained, but Shield and Stillhawk pitched in. Farlorn lightened the labor by his songs and badinage, though he himself did no work, bards being even more averse to that than warriors. Besides, the soldiers were happy enough for something to do. It was no arduous labor; given that Tethyr's long and temperate summer lay ahead, the quarters consisted of little more than a couple of plank sheds with roofs to spill rain when the two-week wet season arrived. For their part, the villagers were happy enough to help; the structures could be used for storage when the outsiders had moved on. Zaranda, however, was quartered in a hut whose lone occupant, a widow, had died not long before the company's arrival. She started to head there and almost ran into Chenowyn, standing in the path looking wan. "Excuse me, child," Zaranda said, feeling a flash of irritation and starting to push past. She had a great many things on her mind, not least of which was the fact that her rapidly dwindling resources, little offset by the meager amounts the villagers were able to pay, could keep her mercenary contingent satisfied for only so long. And, of course, her creditors would scarcely settle for a share of the grain and livestock that were the villagers' main mode of payment. She had to expand her operations soon, yet to succeed she must make a solid start here in Tweyar... . She felt a hand on her arm, turned to see Shield smiling at her in the twilight, tusked

and benign. "A moment, Mistress Zaranda," the orog said. "Perhaps you're forgetting the education of someone?" Zaranda frowned and opened her mouth to lash out. Then she shut her mouth and nodded. "Chenowyn," she said, "I'm sorry. I've been neglecting you." The girl only looked at her, eyes huge and amber in the gloom. Zaranda smiled and took her shoulder. "Come along, then. Let's review what you've learned of magic so far in your life. And then I'll start you on some simple spells."

18

Eight days after Zaranda's party came to Tweyar, a bandit gang made good on the prediction uttered by Osbard's wife. They struck in the early afternoon. Their intent was to catch the villagers logy with lunch, the traditional Tethyrian noontime siesta, and work beneath the warm sun, then to ride down as many as they could and burn the village, with such other merriment as presented itself. They wanted to provide a striking object lesson for any other village brash enough to try hiring outside protection or organizing a self-defense force. A score of ragged riders, strung out in crescent formation, found a bare handful of farmers in the fields, and these not far out. The villagers began running as soon as the bandits began cutting like a scythe across the just-planted fields. The riders had no chance of reaching them before they scuttled within the shelter of stout walls of sun-cured mud brick. "Don't worry!" the chief bandit, a lean, sunburned desperado who wore his blond hair in a scalplock, called to his men. "They'll be eager enough to come out when we pile brush against the walls of their hovels and commence to roast them!" For good measure several short-bow-armed bandits sent arrows after the scurrying villagers. But the raiders were not true horse archers, skilled in the extraordinarily difficult feat of aiming and hitting a target from the back of a moving mount; that took even more training than learning to draw and accurately shoot a longbow, and any adventure-minded boy or girl of the Dales could tell you that took five years' hard work. They were just horsemen who happened to have bows. They didn't hit anything. Hooting and brandishing their weapons, the marauders rode through the streets of Tweyar. The field-workers had made good their escape; the bandits had the narrow

dirt lanes to themselves. Unmolested, laughing and catcalling, they followed their leader to the well-trodden dirt of the little common before the village hetman's house. "Ho, Osbard," the bandit chieftain called, "why so coy? Have you some reason to hide your face from old friends?" Vander Stillhawk rose up from concealment behind the parapet of Osbard's roof and shot the bandit leader through the throat. As he fell to lie kicking in the khaki dust, Balmeric's crossbowmen, likewise hidden on the village's flat roofs, peppered the raiders with quarrels. Farlorn and Zaranda plied longbows from the houses next to Osbard's. The bandits wheeled their mounts and fled, leaving seven more of their number unhorsed behind. Two of these lay unmoving where they dropped. The others scrambled up and, clutching at the missiles sticking in them, tried to scramble after their fellows. The village doors burst open and the village volunteers rushed forth, waving clubs and hoes and shovels and makeshift spears. Screeching with anger pent-up over years of helplessness, they fell upon the injured bandits, bludgeoning, hacking, stabbing. Zaranda stood up, letting her longbow hang by her side. She was an indifferent archer at best, and had only taken up a bow to add weight to the initial ambush volley. Stillhawk and the half-elven bard kept up their fire, emptying three more saddles before the bandits escaped into dust and distance. The mercenary crossbowmen set their weapons aside to simply watch. Out on the common, blood flowed. * * * * * Fire leapt in the cleared common before Osbard's house. Hand in hand, villagers

and several mercenaries danced around it to the merry tune of Farlorn's yarting, considerably the worse for drink. Balmeric reeled over to where Zaranda leaned against the front of the hetman's house, a clay mug of the tasty local beer in hand. "Dogs," he said without heat. "D'you know, Zaranda, they actually think they won today?" "They'd better," Zaranda said. "It's why I let them finish off the bandits you and your men unhorsed." The mercenary leader's long flexible face warped itself into a scowl. "Why would you want to encourage these rabble to pump themselves up and rob us of glory?" "So they'll quit being rabble as soon as possible," Zaranda said. "They needed to taste victory, or they'd never have faith in what we're teaching them—and more to the point, in themselves." "But it was our bows that won the day!" Balmeric protested. "They don't know that," Zaranda said, nodding at the celebrating villagers. "Nor do I want them to. Please don't remind them—and encourage your men not to, either." The mercenary grumbled and looked toward the ground. Zaranda stared hard at him until, as if compelled by her will, he raised his head to meet her gaze. "Are you so hard-pressed for glory that you insist on claiming credit for winning a back-country skirmish? Bear with me, Balmeric; do as I ask, and I will guarantee you all the glory you could hope for. Or—" she took a swallow of her beer "—at least an interesting death." For a moment he goggled at her. Then he laughed and slapped her on the arm. "That's the most any commander can truly promise, though few are so candid, I'm bound. Very well, Zaranda Star, you shall have it your way!" He raised his own leathern jack. "To glory or an interesting death!"

"Glory or death," Zaranda echoed. She bumped her mug against his jack and both drank. Then he slipped off to have quiet words with his men. Alone for the moment, Zaranda surveyed the scene. From his favorite chair, Osbard observed the dance. He looked careworn and somewhat sour. Near him Shield of Innocence sat cross-legged upon the ground, clawed hands upon thighs like a great idol, ugly yet majestic, sloped brow garlanded with a wreath of wildflowers woven for him by the village maidens. On the hetman's other side, Farlorn perched on an upended nail keg, his yarting across his knee, and Osbard's eldest daughter, Fiora—a young woman, brown hair bobbed short in the fashion affected by the female volunteers, and who was fortunate enough to have inherited neither looks nor disposition from either parent—draped over his shoulder. Not far away, Chen sat with her hands clasped around her knees, gazing fixedly at the bard. She had rebuffed all attempts at gallantry by the local youths; fortunately they seemed to have taken the message without invoking her wild powers, and now left her alone. At the moment she seemed altogether absorbed by the handsome half-elf. Under Zaranda's tutelage she had bloomed into a handsome young woman herself, though coltish still with adolescence, and she had grown less self-absorbed and obsessive in her pursuit of magic—if only because Zaranda had refused to teach her if she didn't. For his part Farlorn had begun dealing with her in terms of good-natured banter rather than his earlier disdain. Now Zaranda felt a stab of jealousy, and wondered why. Does it matter that much to be the exclusive focus of Chen's attention? Or do I feel old flames rekindling? Undeniably Farlorn was handsome. Undeniably she was lonely. She had good reasons for refusing to consider resumption of their liaison ... or so she had been

telling herself. Now, seeing his face roguish and alive in the light of the fire and an appreciative audience, she wondered if that were true. The village girl meant nothing to him. There had been plenty such, and would be more; and Zaranda had never been the possessive type. But Chenowyn—graceless, untutored, redheaded, still half-civilized, and prone to seem half-human—had yet some quality to her that would make it hard for even Farlorn to treat her as just another dalliance. Zaranda looked round the rest of the firelit circle. The face she sought wasn't there. No surprise. It had been Stillhawk who began sending children, too young to train but old enough not to need adult supervision, some distance from the village as lookouts. One such had spotted the marauders' approach that day, flashing a quick warning back to Tweyar with sunlight reflected in a little mirror—a trick Zaranda had picked up in the Tuigan campaign, where rapid communication was crucial to coping with the fast-moving nomads. As a hero of the day's epic engagement—for the people of Tweyar realized they hadn't won unaided—Stillhawk had sat through the feast laid out by the villagers. But when the dancing and drinking began in earnest, he had slipped off into the night, uncomfortable with such activities and the nearness of so many people. Ah, well, Zaranda told herself, you didn't really want to see him anyway. For a moment she had felt that what she wanted was to sit and talk, but that wasn't it. While the bond between her and the mute ranger was strong, it was the blood-forged bond of comrades-at-arms; they were too close to brother and sister for anything else. "I feel old," Zaranda told the night. And she turned and went off to her hut alone. * * * * *

One bandit, shot from his horse by Farlorn in a field outside the village, had survived. Once bandaged, he put on a show of defiance, announcing he would never betray his fellows, who would soon enough come and rescue him. His bravado lasted only as long as it took Shield of Innocence to wrap a great hand in the front of his jerkin and hoist him into the air. Whether or not the bandit was a votary of evil, he was human, with an instinctive fear of orcs. Especially huge and ferocious-looking orcs. Which is to say, he rolled over like a Calimport roach. Two nights after the victory celebration, Zaranda mounted four mercenaries and half the village troops on erstwhile bandit horses and rode forth, leaving Farlorn and Balmeric in charge of the village defenses. In the heart of night, long after moonset, they came upon the bandits' camp near the riverbank. They left the horses in the charge of a female recruit and stole forward to surround the sleeping camp. Stillhawk and a young villager named Hugh, who was skilled at hunting and reasonably stealthy, dispatched a pair of sentries. Then, half an hour before sunrise, the party stormed the encampment. The first bandits to struggle to wakefulness were sent back to sleep by Zaranda's magic. The few who insisted on showing fight were quickly dispatched, the bulk of the outlaws sensibly surrendering after seeing Shield of Innocence decapitate their doughtiest fighter with his sword-scissors trick. As simply as that, the Tweyar Self-Defense Force had won its second victory, without cost to itself. Most of the captive bandits readily accepted parole, agreeing to quit the territory, stripped of arms and valuables but carrying such food as the gang had stocked with them lest, starving, they should be faced with little choice but to return to marauding. The condition was that, were they ever caught again, they would be killed out of hand.

The villagers accepted the bargain with an alacrity that surprised Zaranda; apparently the fury of their bloodletting the other day, and the task of cleaning up the grisly aftermath, had left them abashed, with diminished appetite for slaughter. They were wary when three bandits volunteered to join Zaranda's company. No one in Tweyar could identify any of the three as having committed any atrocities, though, and once Shield of Innocence had described to the erstwhile bandits in terms leaving nothing to the imagination the fate that would befall them should they attempt treachery, even Osbard was reassured. No one, Zaranda Star included, could readily imagine anyone voluntarily running afoul of the monstrous orc. Stern and instant punishment for wrongdoing was very much a part of his god's creed. With renewed enthusiasm, the volunteers returned to their drill. Zaranda took pains to remind her exuberant troops that they would be extremely lucky ever to gain a third victory at such little cost to themselves as the first two. She could only hope they heard. * * * * * The month of Kythorn was preparing to give way to Flamerule when Zaranda and Goldie wended their way toward Tweyar along a trail through the riverside trees. It was a stereotypically beautiful Tethyrian summer evening. A faint pink glow dying in the west was all that was left of day. The air was like perfumed velvet. The sunset swallows yielded to nighthawks, and fireflies winked at one another through the gathering dark. Thin bat cries pierced the murmur of wind in leaves. They had each had a fulfilling day, though in strikingly different terms. The mare was rhapsodizing over the virtues of the stallions in the pastures where she had passed her day. At last Zaranda shook her head. "Wouldn't you like to look for a mate such as yourself?" she asked.

"You mean magical? Ha!" She tossed her head and snorted. "I go for the strong, silent type. Dumb all around—that's how I like 'em." "But how can you bear to couple with others of your own kind who can't talk?" Goldie turned her head to give her the eye. "Think what you're saying, Randi," she said. "How can you stand to couple with members of your species who can?" Zaranda sighed, and rode the rest of the way in thoughtful silence. It was all but full dark when they arrived back in Tweyar. "Looks deserted," Goldie observed. "In the weeks we've been here, you might've noticed a tendency for country folk to turn in early." "Where are our people, though?" "Dining with the locals? It's been known to happen." The mare's reply was a snort. At the village stable Zaranda rubbed the mare down, brushed her, and left her with her face happily stuck in a trough of grain. She still saw no sign of human presence. Preoccupied with turning the day's events over in her mind, she paid no especial heed. When she entered the hut she shared with Chenowyn, it was full dark inside. But she immediately noticed the smell of indifferently washed bodies. Keeping her hand studiously away from Crackletongue's hilt, she shut the door behind her. Lantern-glow expanded, pressing gloom back into the corners. Osbard and two village elders sat in chairs with blankets covering their laps, looking grim, which told her little; that was their accustomed expression. Ernico and his friend and fellow trainee Rudigar were there as well. Their faces were flushed. They would not meet her eyes. "Good evening," she told them gravely. "Should I have knocked?"

"Where have you passed this day, Zaranda Star?" Osbard asked gravely. "At the village of Pansemil, upriver." The elders exchanged baleful looks. The youths shuffled feet. "And what errand took you there?" asked Storric, a stout, bearded man. Owner and operator of Tweyar's water-powered mill, he was father to Bord. "I was discussing with them the possibility of training them in the use of arms, as I'm training you." A hiss of intaken breath. Osbard glanced right and left at his fellows, then back at her. "So you stand convicted of your treachery," he said, "by your own mouth." From under the blanket, he produced a cocked and loaded crossbow and aimed it at Zaranda's heart.

19

A stout stake had been pounded into the packed earth of the village common. Around its base had been piled logs, with plentiful dried brushwood for kindling. Atop this heap stood Zaranda, tied. Before her stood Osbard, holding a lit torch of bound-together reeds. "Would you mind," Zaranda asked mildly, "telling me what this is all about?" Stillhawk, hands tied behind him, stood on a three-legged stool with a noose about his neck and the rope's far end tied to a thick limb of an oak. Farlorn was perched on a nail keg, similarly bound and attached to the tree. The mercenaries, also tied, sat in a clump across the common from the hetman's house, guarded by village volunteers armed with spears taken from vanquished bandits. Most heavily watched of all, and garlanded with sufficient rope to rig a Waterdhavian caravel, stood Shield of Innocence, glaring at his captors with eyes that glowed coal-red in the torchlight. "Whatever you do, Zaranda," the half-elf said cheerfully, "think twice about accepting an invitation to dine with these folk. Such terrific bores: we go to eat with them, and here they've tied us up all evening." Osbard opened his mouth but couldn't seem to quite find words. "It's about your treason," offered Moofar, an elder who stood at his side. He was a wizened old bird with a wen on his beaklike nose. "Specifically and to wit, your treating with our enemies, the people of Pansemil." "By your own admission," Osbard said, emboldened, "you were negotiating to teach them how to attack and overrun us." "I admitted no such thing," Zaranda replied, "because I did no such thing. I offered to teach them to defend themselves, even as we're teaching you."

"And they mean to use those skills to assail us," said Storric, exploring a broad nostril with his forefinger. "They envy how cultured we are." "They don't want to attack you. And what if they do? You're strong enough to send them packing, with the knowledge and weapons we've provided." "It's true, Father!" exclaimed Fiora, who had taken to passing time with Farlorn when she wasn't training. "They'd stand no chance against us." The hetman blushed and scowled furiously. "Hush, Daughter. Don't speak of matters you know nothing of." Zaranda laughed. The villagers gaped at her. "I see. Osbard, you sly old kobold, you—you were planning to use our teachings to invade them, weren't you?" He sputtered and dropped his eyes. "We did, and what of it?" demanded Storric. "Why should you attack Pansemil?" "Because," the miller began. He stopped, frowned. "Because—" "Because they're different!" someone sang out. "Because they're deviants!" Moofar brayed in a spray of spittle. "Sister marries brother, and they frequently enjoy carnal knowledge of their barnyard animals!" "Odd," Zaranda said. "They hold much the same beliefs about you." The Tweyarites squalled with communal outrage: "See! The wretches! Such insolence is not to be borne!" "I must point out," Zaranda added, "that I've seen fully as much—or as little—evidence of such activities in both places." Moofar turned white as bleached linen. "Intolerable insult!" he screeched. "Burn her!" Osbard started forward with the torch, then turned and thrust it into Storric's hands. "You do it."

"Why me?" the miller asked, and promptly handed the torch to Moofar. In his eagerness to pass the torch back to Osbard, Moofar lost control and had to juggle it briefly to keep it from falling to the ground. "You! You take it. You're the hetman!" Bellowing elephantine rage, Shield of Innocence began to strain against his bonds. Veins stood out on forehead and stump-thick neck. Ropes parted with a twang. He lunged and with clawed hands caught scrawny Moofar around the neck and hoisted the elder so high that sandaled feet kicked a foot off the ground. Village volunteers raised the crossbows they had confiscated from Balmeric's mercenaries. Turning purple, Moofar gestured frantically at them to hold their fire. "Hold!" Zaranda shouted. Everybody froze and stared at her. "Shield, it's all right. Put him down." The great orc looked puzzled but obeyed. Stepping back he folded his arms across his chest. Moofar teetered about, feeling his neck. "Shoot him," he croaked. "Shoot him, shoot him, shoothimshoothimshoothim—" "No, no, no," Zaranda said firmly. "Nobody's shooting anybody. Now behave yourselves, and listen to me, before I start turning people into newts." "Um," Osbard said, eyes starting from his head. "You said—newts?" "Newts," she repeated firmly. "She's a sorceress!" gasped Storric. "How could you forget such a thing, Osbard? And you call yourself a hetman?" "I forgot? I? I didn't hear you reminding anyone!" "If you don't all pipe down and let me have my say," Zaranda said sweetly, "you'll find out why newts so seldom interrupt conversations." Zaranda could no more turn anyone into a newt than she could turn the hetman's

house to solid gold. Under the circumstances, she didn't feel constrained to point that out. Still fingering his neck, Moofar glared accusingly at her. "You allowed yourself to be taken." "Of course I did," Zaranda said. "You were starting to get notions. I saw you needed a little talking to, and I wanted to be sure I had your undivided attention." She raised her head and looked around the common. The mob drew back as if her gaze were hot to the touch. "You should be ashamed of yourselves," she told them. "We come to your village to teach you to protect yourselves, to throw off the yoke the bandits and the tax collectors of the self-proclaimed nobles have laid upon you all. Yes, we did so for pay; but what we've had from you so far is little more than what spoils you recovered from the bandits—which you would never have gotten without our help. Thanks to us, you need never again cower in your houses at first sight of riders approaching. And this is how you treat us." The villagers looked suitably contrite. Zaranda was just warming up. "But that's not truly what you have to be ashamed of. Oh, no. With your newfound abilities, your new sense of power, all you could think of doing was marching down the river road and afflicting your neighbors with the same depredations you've been suffering at bandit hands all these years. Is that worthy? "We did not come here to help you conquer. We came to help you become unconquerable. Now, do you let us get on to the next stage, or do you throw away everything we've all worked for, here and now?" Silence ruled. "It, ah," Osbard said. "Well, it could be we've acted a little hastily." "Could be and is. Now—look at me, Osbard!"

The village chief raised his head as if an anvil were tied to his neck. "Where is my apprentice, Chenowyn?" "The little bi—the spitfire called up a blight of invisible things that stung like hornets," Osbard said. "We tied her in a sack and threw her in a woodshed." "Good for her. Now, let her go. And if she's harmed, someone I might name will spend the rest of his days wriggling on his belly in river muck and catching water striders with his tongue." Osbard turned to the village troops. "Are you deaf? Release the girl at once!" "And while you're at it," Zaranda said, "best let the rest of us free. Me in particular, the way you folk wave torches around." The villagers hustled to release the captives. Looking entirely abashed, Ernico clambered up on the pile of firewood to cut free Zaranda's hands. "We never meant to hurt you," he muttered. "I'm sure that would have been a great comfort had you got the bonfire lit." She stepped down the pile of wood as regally as a queen descending from her throne. Chenowyn came hurtling out of the darkness, red hair streaming, and caught Zaranda in a fearful embrace. "Oh, Zaranda!" she sobbed. "I was so scared. You wouldn't really have let them burn you, would you?" Zaranda hugged her and kissed her head. Then she turned and gestured with one hand. The torch, which Moofar had somehow managed to hang on to through thick and thin, went out. A beat, and then the bonfire blazed up, untenanted, flames reaching high as the old oak's top. "No," she said.

* * * * * "What have we here?" Farlorn Half-Elven asked with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows. "A proclamation?" "So it would appear," said Zaranda, sitting cross-legged in the oak tree's shade. She held up the papyrus the little village girl had found nailed to a sweet-chestnut tree on the Sulduskoon's bank, four furlongs up the broad, slow river. It was a benchmark of the burgeoning Star Protective Company's success in the region that a child so young could venture so far from the village. Although in truth, had the girl not made so momentous a discovery, she likely would have faced a spanking for straying such a distance without the escort of a brother or sister old enough to wield a spear—which would have been purchased with wealth gained from the revived trade among villages in the limited area under Star's sway. It was a sleepy-warm noonday in the midst of the month Eleasias, commonly called Highsun. In fact, most of the two-score trainees under instruction at the moment would already be bedded down under shade for their midday naps had the little girl not run into the village shouting and waving her discovery. Siestas were not a luxury Zaranda Star could indulge in. Midday break was time for her, between bites of lunch, to continue instructing Chenowyn. And likewise Shield of Innocence, who had become her apprentice in matters military. She finished chewing a mouthful of apple and read aloud: " 'Be It Known By These Presents—' This is really spelled abominably, but I'll spare you the details. 'Known by These Presents that in the interests of maintaining the Safety and Welfare of the Nation of Tethyr, acting under the authority of the city council of Zazesspur, Baron Lutwill, Ruler of These Lands, Decrees that the Taxes owed by the Inhabitants of these same Lands, and due one Week hence, shall herewith be Doubled.'"

The villagers growled. Farlorn's look was a superior smirk, Stillhawk's stern, and Shield sat beside Zaranda like a stone statue—which was approximately how the three would've greeted news that Zaranda had been made Queen of Faerun, or that a rogue planet was about to smack into Toril. Chen lurked on the outskirts, sitting in the shade of an eave and drawing magic symbols in the dust with a twig, waiting for all this boring military talk to be done so her time could begin. Zaranda lowered the parchment. "It goes on in that vein, if anybody need hear more." "What authority has the Zazesspurian city council?" burst out Janafar, a young woman trainee from the village of Dunod two leagues inland from Tweyar. Seated near Zaranda, she was small of stature and trim, but broad shouldered and muscular withal, rather like a compressed version of Zaranda herself. Her honey-colored hair was restrained by a red bandanna. She was quickly becoming adept with spear and short sword, and displayed a positive genius for small-unit tactics. "The same as anyone," Zaranda said. "All 'authority' consists in the expectation that, if they order you to bend your necks, you'll bend them." " 'The Nation of Tethyr,' " quoted Byador, shaking his dark, shaggy head. He hailed from Masamont, biggest and most prosperous settlement in the vicinity. His long frame was already rangily powerful, though still gawky with adolescence. He had grown up shooting a short bow, and under Stillhawk's tutelage was learning to handle—and hit targets with—a powerful longbow brought from the forest of Tethir by a Star-escorted caravan. "It's a long time since we heard that." "I think we're getting a glimpse at the pretensions of Baron Hardisty," Zaranda said, "not to mention his intentions. Now, what can you tell me of this Baron Lutwill?" Byador snarled and spat. "Loot-well, we call him. He's a bandit and nothing more.

But a powerful one, with a hundred men-at-arms to serve him, secure behind stone walls in a castle whose keep throws its foul shadow across Masamont." Zaranda looked around at her audience, which now included most of her trainees, as well as no few villagers drawn from their naps by the commotion. Her current class, which included Ernico, Fiora, Rudigar, and Bord from Tweyar, comprised not recruits but cadre, the likeliest youths from the villages that had made compact with Star, who would serve as nuclei for other self-defense forces as the protective company began to expand across Tethyr. While it was not part of their regular curriculum, more and more of them had begun to forgo their own siestas to sit in on the lessons Zaranda gave Shield. The orog was frankly stupid. Yet Zaranda found him a near-ideal student because he persisted doggedly until he had each and every bit of learning cemented firmly in his mind, and he had no scruples about asking questions when he did not understand—and continuing to question until he understood. Routinely, he showed up Zaranda's young human pupils, much more mentally agile though they were, by dint of ironclad study habits and an innate sense that enabled him to grasp the core wisdom of Zaranda's teaching. He set such a magnificent example that Zaranda suspected the siesta sessions had become the most effective part of the whole training program. "What will you do about this, then?" she asked, waving the parchment. Trainees and villagers passed a glance around. Zaranda saw shoulders slump, as if her audience were deflating en masse. "Pay, I guess," Ernico said. "We always have before." "Why?" Fiora asked, cheeks flushing with anger. "What are we training for, if not to stand up to thieves?" "Not to get ourselves massacred by trained soldiers with shields, helmets, and mail

hauberks," said Byador. "Not to mention men with crossbows shooting us down from the castle walls." Standing on the sidelines, Balmeric emitted a gravel-in-a-pail chuckle. "Wise lad," he said. "You'd shatter like a glass jug thrown against a wall, pitting yourselves against regulars." Zaranda cast him a dangerous look. Janafar leapt to her feet. "You can bend your necks to councils, keeps, and crossbows if you like!" she declared. "I at least want to see this castle before I give up all I've worked for." "Now you're thinking," Zaranda said, nodding serenely. "When in doubt, reconnoiter. When you don't think there's doubt, reconnoiter anyway—you save a lot of unpleasant surprises that way." She stood up, dusting off the seat of her trousers, and looked to the youth from Masamont. "Now, did I hear you say . . . crossbows?"

20

"There it is," whispered Byador—unnecessarily, since the castle of Baron Lutwill was rather hard to miss. Lying on her belly in the midst of a thicket of aromatic scrub that did little to keep the afternoon sun from prickling her back through her linen tunic, Zaranda surveyed the scene. Masamont was a collection of a hundred buildings or more, the largest and most central of which were built of stone, with peaked red tile roofs like the coastal towns. Like most of inland Tethyr, the surrounding countryside was flat. Fields green with the long summer's second crops, beginning to fill out, broke up the landscape, interspersed with lines of shade from windbreak trees planted along irrigation ditches and neat orchards of half-ripened fruit. However, flat did not mean entirely lacking relief, like a gaming table in the parlor of a Cormyrean lord; the thicket in which Zaranda and her small band lay hidden topped a slight rise backed by a creek. The prominence from which the castle rose, three furlongs away, was too symmetrical to be nature's work. Zaranda guessed it was an artificial mound, a motte, built at some unguessable remove in Tethyr's lengthy past to provide better outlook and tactical advantage for whatever fortification was first raised upon it. The manor itself was a bailey, pitched rooftops peeking over a twelve-foot dressed-stone wall, and a stone keep perhaps four stories tall sticking up from the center of it. "You're right," Janafar breathed to Byador. "It's a fortress." Zaranda withheld a smile. The castle was a step or at most two above her own manor. It lacked flanking towers or crenelations and even at this range she could see that the dry ditch surrounding it was half-filled with trash. A fixed wooden bridge led to

the gate, hinting that the baron's mechanics were not up to the task of keeping a drawbridge in repair. By her standards it was pretty weak beer. Yet she understood how invincible and intimidating it appeared to her untempered village warriors. "I've seen enough," she announced quietly, and slithered back down to the stream. The rest of the party—Stillhawk, Shield, Balmeric, and the three trainees—followed. Chenowyn awaited on the far side, on the edge of a brushy and neglected woodlot. Zaranda had let her come because Chen refused to be parted from her. The shrubs on the low ridge made her sneeze uncontrollably, so she had consented to watch the horses. She amused herself by making ripples and tiny splashes appear in the water by force of will. Jumping across the creek, Zaranda gave her a quick frown. She disapproved of Chen's playing unsupervised with her wild talents. "So what do you make of it?" Zaranda asked her trainees. They looked at one another and then back at her with anxious eyes. No one spoke. After a moment, Balmeric said, "We'll never cast it down with our ragtag army, lacking siege engines." Zaranda pulled a long face. "I mislike 'never.' It's too big for my mind to hold." "Zaranda will find something magical to do," Chenowyn pronounced proudly. Zaranda grinned and ruffled her hair. "Magic isn't the solution to all problems. At least, not my magic. But there is a solution." She put hands on hips and looked challenge at the others. "Well?" "Attack the flank," said Shield. Balmeric uttered a bark of laughter. "A castle's flank? Ho, that's rich. Even so great a moon-calf as you can plainly see the castle's round." "Zaranda says there's always a flank," the orog maintained stolidly.

"So she does," Byador said. "But Master Balmeric's right—how can a castle have a flank?" "Not all flanks are physical," Zaranda said. "Attend me. Even you, Balmeric; you've not seen so much of siegecraft as I have. The thing about sieges is, they seldom end with a successful storming. Ladders and engines and mines aren't what win them." "What does win them?" Janafar demanded, bursting with impatience. Zaranda only grinned. * * * * * The man rode into the sunset down the indifferently kept-up road, which ran past the castle and on into Masamont. He sported a flamboyant plumed hat, ringleted dark hair that bobbed about his shoulders, grandiose mustachios, and a coat with a riot of colored ribbons pinned down the front. He wore a rapier through his sash and a yarting slung across his back. He cantered his mount, a striking palomino mare with a long and lustrous white mane and tail, up to the two spearmen who stood guard before the castle gate, and halted on the bridge. "Greetings, gentles," he said, sweeping off his hat and bowing long from the saddle. "I hight Fyadros, the Incomparably Wonderful Bard, and this is Zizzy, the Wonder Horse." As if in greeting, the mare bobbed her head three times, making her forelock bounce, and thrice smote the wooden bridge with a dainty hoof. The guards gaped. "What brings you this way, good bard?" asked one, too overawed by the splendor of this apparition to remember his obligation, as a member of a rural robber baron's entourage, to be rude and overbearing at all times. "We seldom see the likes of you hereabouts," echoed his companion, similarly stricken.

"Indeed, that's evident by the quaint way your jaws hang down to your hauberks," the bard said. "What brings me is my whim, which rules with a hand of iron; I come from here, and there, and everywhere. Just now I feel the winds of adventure blowing me to Zazesspur, whence I shall take ship for the wondrous realm of Maztica." The guards looked at each other. "Do you think," asked the one on the right, "that you could stay a night or two? We don't get much by way of entertainment out here." "The village women hate us, the trollops," the other said. "They give us nothing we don't take at poniard-point." "Indeed? Such strapping stalwarts as yourselves?" The bard stroked his long chin and looked thoughtful. "It could be that I might be induced to bide the night here, if nicely asked." The guard on the right turned and bellowed for an errand boy to go and fetch the chamberlain. While they waited, Fyadros entertained the guards with improbable tales of a halfling who attempted intimacies with a firbolg maid. At length the great oaken gates groaned open behind them. A slight middle-aged man in a black robe stood there. He had receding dark hair, white-touched at the temples, and a wisp of mustache. A dirty, skinny boy peeked past a gate valve behind him. "I am Whimberton," the man said in a thin voice, "chamberlain to Castle Lutwill and the ever-glorious, to say nothing of -victorious, Baron Lutwill. Who might you be?" "He's a bard," the guard on the right said. "He has a Wonder Horse," added the one on the left. "I am of course Fyadros, the Incomparably Wonderful Bard, and being of generous disposition only mildly miffed at not being recognized at once, seeing what a backwater this is."

"Of course I recognize you, good Fyadros," the chamberlain said smoothly. "It was only that poor light momentarily dulled my sight. What might I do for you?" "Your guards hinted you might care to beseech me to pass the night within and brighten your dull and meaningless lives with my stories and songs, which are, it goes without saying, incomparably wonderful." "Without saying," agreed Whimberton with a nod. "He told us this great story," said the guard on the left. "See, this halfling fancied a firbolg wench, so he took a bucket—" The guard on the right poked him in the ribs with the butt of his spear. "Enough! His Excellency the chamberlain don't want to hear that story! Least, not from the likes of you. You always get the punch lines wrong." "Do not!" "Do so." "Be silent," Whimberton said conversationally, "or I'll have your backs scourged raw, roll you in rock salt, and heave you into the pigsty for the night." "I could, of course, abide in night's jeweled pavilion, shaming the crickets with my songs," Fyadros said. The mare raised her head and whinnied as if in agreement. "Be not hasty, fair Fyadros," said Whimberton hastily. For all his languid manner he liked a ribald ditty as well as the next man, and entertainment lay pretty thin on the ground, out here in the sticks of strife-torn Tethyr. "In the name of my lord and master, the ever-glorious and -victorious Baron Lutwill, I bid and beseech thee to enter these precincts, and stay and amuse us so long as your heart desires." The bard looked thoughtful, then nodded. "I suppose I shall. Though 'amuse' is a paltry word for what I shall do to you." "You're half-elf, aren't you?" the chamberlain asked, studying him through twilight.

"We don't see many of them with such impressive mustachios." "I have many attributes," Fyadros declared airily, "and every one is unique and wonderful. Shall we proceed within?" "To a certainty. Follow the lout; he'll lead you to the stables." "Ooh, I'm going to get you for this," Goldie promised sotto voce as they passed through the torchlit gate in the ragged boy's wake. "Zizzy, the Wonder Horse?" "A spur-of-the-moment improvisation," Farlorn the Handsome replied in a murmur audible only to the mare's great rearward-swiveled ears. He gave a quick surreptitious scratch of his thumb tip to his upper lip, where the glue that held his false mustachios in place made him itch. "Now hush, lest you spoil our little game." * * * * * In her fragrant covert atop the little rise, Zaranda felt a pang as she watched the gates shut. Whom for? she wondered. Farlorn or Goldie? "They're in," she said, sliding down the back slope on her rump. Stillhawk rose from where he squatted, watching star reflections at play in the creek. He gave Zaranda a look, which she steadily returned. Then he jumped onto his horse and vanished into the dark. I know you don't like it, my friend, Zaranda thought. But you're likeliest to get through to summon the others. They mustn't go astray, with Farlorn and Goldie inside the beast's belly. She glanced back to the top of the rise, where Byador lay alone keeping watch on the castle. She fought the impulse to climb up and rejoin him. He would not gain self-confidence until he bore responsibility alone. So she was left with her thoughts, and Shield and Chen, who would not be parted from her. She was glad for the great orc's presence. His eyes saw farther at night than

any human's, and if trouble found them she could ask for no better blade, or pair of blades, at her back. Willy-nilly, she had come to trust him as she trusted Stillhawk, though the ranger still hated the orog. Not that trouble was likely. That very morning Zaranda and her tiny band had watched the heavy wooden gates swing open and half Baron Lutwill's complement of soldiers march forth to begin collecting the increased taxes the posted parchments had announced. With forces much reduced the soi-disant baron had also perforce decreased his patrols, which were in any event predictable, throughout the countryside. And the people of Masamont tended to keep behind heavily barred doors by night, for fear of chance meetings with the baron's men, which seldom went to the towsfolks' advantage. Still, there remained the small and gnawing chance that they had been seen and betrayed, or espied by magic, or that a tax-collecting band, returning for some reason unforeseen, might stumble across their covert. Just such random events had altered the outcome of half a hundred conflicts, from duels to the meeting of great armies. That was why Zaranda put so little faith in plans drawn elaborately up before the fact. She sighed and sat down. Chen looked up at her and smiled, her pale, freckled face seeming lightly self-luminous in the last lingering light of day. "Will you let me go with you?" the girl asked. "No. We've talked this out before. You've not yet learned enough." Though the girl had been trying, painfully hard. It was as irksome to her quicksilver nature to toil laboriously to learn as it was natural for Shield. Yet she had done so with no less dedication than the orog. "But how will I ever become a mage if I never put what I know into practice?" Chen

wailed. "That's a fair question. You cannot. And still—the time isn't now." Chen expelled a huffing breath and turned away. Zaranda laid a hand upon her shoulder. "Now, come. Let's review what you've learned of the incantation that sends your foes to sleep. It's not infallible, and won't work at all against foes who are very powerful or mighty in magic. Yet, day in and out, it's one of the likeliest to save your life...." * * * * * Half an hour after midnight—by which time Zaranda's nerves were drawn as taut as fiddle strings and scraped as by a bow, for fear the signal would arrive before her forces—the horses in the wood lot raised their heads and pricked their ears. They uttered no giveaway whinnies of greeting; their muzzles were wrapped in soft cloth, another trick Zaranda had learned from the Tuigan horse-barbarians. Shield said nothing, but stood up with scimitars star-gleaming suddenly in his hands. Zaranda lifted up Crackletongue in its scabbard, which she had unbelted, and stood up more slowly. The assault group picked its way carefully if not noiselessly through the brush. They were Protective Company volunteers and Balmeric's mercenaries, numbering fifty in all—half Zaranda's cadre-in-training among them. All had volunteered, but she didn't want to risk losing many of her best pupils; even victory could cost dearly. They had drawn lots for the honor of accompanying her. It nearly broke her heart. They had no idea what they were getting into, not down in their guts where it counted. Many of them had by now seen combat with marauding bands, been wounded, seen comrades die. But battle against trained soldiers, even barracks sweepings such as would accept service with the likes of Baron Lutwill . . .

she hoped the survivors did not look back in bitterness on their eager naivete. The company dismounted and muzzled and hobbled the horses. Zaranda had as yet no true cavalry beyond herself. But after facing the horse-borne Tuigans, she mounted her own troops for mobility's sake, though they fought afoot. Stillhawk was somewhere out in the night, prowling round the castle walls, alert for unforeseen events. He was nearly as unseeable, wrapped in his elven cloak and mastery of stealth, as if he'd had a spell of invisibility cast upon him. With nothing more to do, Zaranda wrapped her own cloak about her and settled in to sleep. * * * * * The air was cool and heavily still. The only sounds, besides the muted drumming of hooves, were the trill of field crickets and the distant spectral voicings of an owl. The moon had set before midnight—fortuitous that Lutwill had picked yesterday for sending forth his tax collectors. Since her troops could not rival Stillhawk in stealth, Zaranda had decided on a rapid approach, rather than trying to creep across six hundred yards of open ground. Her riders had muffled their mounts' hooves, but there was a limit to how quietly fifty horses could trot. As they neared the walls, Zaranda's skin felt as if it were bunching at the nape of her neck in expectation of a sudden shout of discovery, or perhaps the deadly compound hiss of a volley of crossbow quarrels. But they reached the gate without incident. As she dismounted and crossed the wooden bridge on foot, a knotted rope slithered down the wall's stone face. She climbed quickly up. Farlorn reached a hand to help her over the top. "Forgive the lateness of the hour, milady," he said, swaying slightly. He was still got up in wig, hat, false mustachios, and ludicrous coat. "Mine host is a true hero where reveling is concerned."

With soft thumps, rag-wrapped ladders were laid against the walls. The assault group began to clamber up. The seldom-oiled gate hinges were too loud to risk opening until after the alarm was raised. "You're drunk!" Zaranda said in a startled whisper. "The good baron took it in mind to put to the test certain tales concerning the capacity of bards for—excuse me—drink. I could hardly disappoint the man, now, could I?" He leaned so far back he threatened to topple into the courtyard. Zaranda grabbed his sleeve. "Are you in any condition to fight?" she asked. He nodded down the catwalk. A figure lay sprawled amidst a dark patch spreading on stone. "I'm fit enough to murder," he said. "Two, in fact: all the sentries our arrogant Baron Loot-well thought needful to guard his walls by night. And drunk or sober, few men can match steel with Farlorn Half-Elven." The raiders were beginning to filter into the yard down stone stairways. Just let me get a few more of my people inside, Zaranda prayed to unspecified gods, and it won't matter that they lack experience or even preponderance of numbers— And perhaps Armenides of Zazesspur was right and Ao had taken up an active interest in the world. As if in instant negation of her prayers, there rang a shout of, "Ho! Intruders!" The thrum-thump of a releasing crossbow sounded, followed by a stomach-clutching thunk. And a youthful volunteer pitched screaming from the top of the wall.

21

Across the courtyard, a single man stood in the opened door of a long, low stone building, evidently a barracks. No lights shone from within, but startled cries emerged as men struggled out of sleep to grope for weapons. Zaranda's lips moved, near-noiselessly. As the man bent down to try to re-cock his bow by hand, she flicked a tiny pellet from her fingertips. It sped over his back with unnatural accuracy and exploded into the red hell-glare of a fireball spell. The blast hurled him into the middle of the courtyard. Behind him, screams. A giant shadow loomed beside her: Shield, scimitars in hand. "Take a detachment and try to block the barracks exits," she told him. Though a fireball spell did its deadliest work confined by walls, she dared not hope to have killed or incapacitated everyone inside. For two heartbeats his eyes held hers, aglow with the fires flickering inside the barracks. He hated to leave her side in the heart of battle, but he had pledged his troth to her. He turned and barked out the names of squad leaders as he hurried down the steps. With a squeal of tormented metal, the gates began to open beneath Zaranda's feet. Surprise gone, the remaining raiders had to get inside as quickly as possible. Some still clambered up the ladder. Zaranda leaned down to help Fiora over the top. She heard a deep hum and the plangent clatter of a steel-tipped quarrel striking rock. Even as the metal rang, a longbow uttered a deep-voiced twang of response and a scream spurted from the tower. A cross-bowman had tried to mark her down from the safety of an arrow loop. Stillhawk stood behind her, bow still upheld. He nodded acknowledgment to her grin

of thanks. At this range, the narrow shooting loops gave only an illusion of cover where the woodsman was concerned; if you could see to shoot through it, he could put an arrow in your eye. Unfortunately, with the exception of Farlorn sober, the ranger was the only marksman among them with nearly the skill for that feat. A few crossbowmen in the keep could massacre her youthful volunteers in the open courtyard. She dashed downstairs and toward the keep, Crackletongue in hand. The door at the tower's base was iron-bound oak, and likely a hand or more in thickness. The hinges were on the inside—which meant the door opened inward, a weakness, but likewise prevented an attacker from forcing it open with two quick strokes of a sledgehammer to burst the hinges. Doubtless a massive beam set in brackets barred it within. It would take long minutes for the strongest man to batter through it with an axe. Zaranda was prepared for this one. She flung forth her left hand, spoke words of command. She felt the heavy beam, bound it to her will, willed it to rise, heard the startled outcries from within. She felt the bar come free, let it drop outside the brackets, powerless to do more. She raised a foot and gave the door a furious kick. Her door-opening spell had dumbfounded the defenders; none thought to hurl his weight against the door. It swung ponderously open. Zaranda charged inside. A pale blur in candlelit gloom, a face startled beneath a steel cap and within a mail fringe. Zaranda slashed it across. Its owner staggered back, howling. Zaranda caught him by the hauberk and shoved him against mates trying to close from her left, while Crackletongue, alive with blue-white fire, did deadly work to her right. A clang, a clash, a bellowing cry, and she was through to the steps that wound

upward. She lunged up three, turned back to parry a spear thrust with her blade, grabbed the ashen haft, and slew the wielder with a forehand stroke. Reversing her grip on the spear, she threw it. It was a clumsy cast, left-handed, and did no one harm. It wasn't intended to. It did make the clot of guards jump back, which was her intent. Before they could recover, she reached in her pouch and flung a fistful of skunk-cabbage leaves in their faces, uttering an incantation. Thick green smoke swirled up from the leaves, surrounding the guardsmen, who began to cough, retch, and weep uncontrollably. Her own eyes streaming from the fringe effects, Zaranda bolted up the stairs. A story up, she came upon a guard swinging a cocked crossbow away from a firing loop to aim at her. She hurled herself at his legs and tackled him. They lay on the floor writhing. The man was shorter than she but had strength on her, and kept stupidly trying to force his weapon to bear on her instead of beating her over the head with it. His breath and body stank in her nostrils, and his garb was greasy to her touch. She succeeded in rolling atop him. At once she saw a second soldier standing in the middle of the round chamber, pointing a crossbow at her by the light of a single reed torch. Frantically she threw herself to the right, dragging her opponent's body over hers by sheer force of will. The crossbow thumped. The man Zaranda was wrestling with yelled in anguish as the bolt pierced his back and pinned him to the wood-plank floor. Fortunately it missed Zaranda. She eeled out from under him and lunged for the other. This one had wit to drop his now-useless weapon and grab for his dirk. Crackletongue's point took him in the throat before he could draw. There were straw-stuffed pallets strewn about the floor, as well as empty wine bottles and discarded crusts of bread and cheese. Breathing through her mouth,

Zaranda grabbed up one of the pallets. Hoping few vermin were migrating into her hair and clothing, she continued up the stairs that wound around the inner side of the keep wall, holding the pallet before her. As she came to the next level, she cast it up and into the chamber. Crossbows twanged. Zaranda popped up, flung a pinch of fine sand from the river bottom, shouted words. Three guards collapsed into slumber. Rubber-legged more from magic-making than exertion, Zaranda caught up the pallet again. A blue flash split the night outside, the glare through the arrow loop turning the chamber momentarily day-bright. Thunder cracked like the world breaking open. Through ringing in her ears, Zaranda heard screams from outside. Someone was loosing potent magic against her people. As she paused, the lightning lashed out again. Frantic, she dashed upstairs. A guard waited at the next floor. She threw the pallet over his head and put her shoulder into him, thrusting him back against the wall. His helmeted head struck stone with a clang. Ten feet away, another soldier had just finished hooking the thick string of a crossbow into the claw that held it cocked. He had not had time to drop in a bolt. As Zaranda rushed him he threw the weapon down and snatched up a spear. He thrust at her. She put her weight back, skidded, stopped. He jabbed at her again. She parried. Behind her, she heard the first soldier cursing and floundering. Apparently he was coming out second-best in his contest with the pallet. Zaranda threw a looping wild cut at the man's eyes. He ducked his head back out of harm's way and, whooping with triumph, drove his point for her unprotected body. Crackletongue whirled around and slashed his leading

arm. He howled, and lost his grip with that hand. She cut him down before he could shift grip for a one-handed stab. The other guard finally escaped the pallet. Zaranda knelt, caught up the fallen crossbow, plucked a quarrel from a wall-mounted rack, and slotted it home. As the guard charged, she shot him through the body. He cried out and fell backward down the stairs. Blue lightnings stabbed and crashed outside. Some sort of potent magic artifact was clearly in play here. No one's mind could hold so many spells of such cogency. At least, no one who'd be keeping the company of a hedge-robber like Lutwill. Her urgent mission had abruptly changed from an effort to safeguard her youthful warriors from cross-bowmen to stopping whatever magic was being unleashed against them. For the first time, she wished she'd actually brought helpers with her into the tower, rather than charging in alone—and sealing the entrance behind her with a persistent stinking cloud spell. More cautiously, she advanced up the final set of stairs, sword in hand. Blue flames danced along both edges of Crackletongue's blade. There was evil afoot here. What she most feared was to find another stout door sealed against her; she had used up her magic for that. But the heavy trapdoor that might seal off the penthouse from the rest of the keep was thrown open, inviting. Too inviting; she wasn't that ingenuous. She gathered herself, pantherish on strong haunches, then launched herself upward in a mighty leap. It carried her up through the entry hole and beyond. She tucked a shoulder and rolled as a blade clashed on the floor behind her. She fetched up against the wall amid a pile of furs that smelled worse than they had when attached to their original owners. Clearly hygiene was not a matter much on

Baron Lutwill's mind. A young woman cowered nearby, naked but for a bearskin clutched against her, straw-colored hair hanging limp in a scared, blank face. "Keep out of the way," Zaranda told her. "We'll get you free of this." The penthouse was a larger version of the filthy barracks on the second floor, though more sumptuously furnished. Instead of straw pallets, furs and stained silk cushions lay scattered across the floor. On the walls hung once-fine tapestries that, it appeared, had seen much use for the wiping of greasy fingers. The discarded wine bottles were of a better vintage than the ones on the lower floor, but the crusts and mold-green cheese rinds and gnawed joints were much the same. The windows were much larger than the arrow loops below, glazed with heavy age-wavy panes set in lead. These were apparently stout; an arrow crashed against the pane and made a mere bird-beak clack before it fell harmlessly away. A slight man in a black robe stood by the window. He was a mage, to judge by the large sphere he held up to the window. Its surface was alive with opalescent fire, but the light that cast fiendish highlights over his bearded face was blue—the same blue as the lightning-bolt that stabbed down outside as Zaranda watched. Somehow the black-robed man was controlling the lightning with his sphere. Zaranda summoned the last bit of magic she had in her, preparing to send him a magic missile where it would do the most good. A huge shadow loomed up before her, blocking her aim. "Die, interloper!" it roared, and hacked downward savagely with a great double-bitted battle-axe. She rolled aside. The blade crashed down, cleaving valuable if dirty pelts. She came to the balls of her feet, crouching, Crackletongue held before her. The axeman turned to confront her. He was tall, taller even than Shield. He had a mashed-in nose and dark eyes almost

hidden beneath bushy brows. Black mustaches swept ferociously back across his cheeks to join with his sideburns, leaving his chin bare. He wore a steel cap, a mail hauberk like his men's, buckskin trews, and boots of some stout, scaled hide, possibly dragonet. His paunch was majestic. The heft of chest and upper shoulders was hard to judge, since he wore a black bearskin vest. Judging from the size of his bare arms, he was doubtless sturdy enough. "You must be the one who calls herself Countess Morninggold," he said, swishing the axe in the air one-handed before him—seemingly careless, inviting attack. "Zazesspur will reward me mightily when I send them your head preserved in vinegar." "Cheapskate," Zaranda said, trying to crane past him to get a clear shot at his wizard. Reading her intent, he kept shifting side to side with an agility that belied his bulk. "Brandy works much better." "I doubt you're worth the cost, frankly," he said in his oddly pleasant baritone voice. "But you might provide some diversion if I don't kill you at once." Suddenly he held the axe's yard-long helve in both hands and was whipping the head toward her face with the sheer awesome strength of his wrists alone. The blow would have cloven her to the breastbone had it landed. Expecting such, she had read the signs in his body motions and threw up Crackletongue with her left hand bracing the back of the blade. Impact drove her to her knees. At contact, the saber flared and crackled with lightning. Evil! Zaranda thought. Immediately the big man retracted the axe for a follow-up, finishing stroke. Zaranda fell back, braced herself with one hand, and stabbed with the other. The baron went tiptoe to avoid the thrust and jumped back, giving her time to scramble to her feet. They squared off, feinting left and right, each trying to provoke the other to commit to an attack. Zaranda quickly sensed she was the more skillful, but he was quick as

well as horribly strong, and her attention kept getting distracted by the desire to do something to interfere with the wizard at the window. The combat continued thus, inconclusive, for what seemed like hours but was probably seconds. Then the baron, noticing the glances his opponent kept darting past him, growled over his shoulder, "Ho, Whimberton! Leave off that play and make some magic so I can put this wench out of the way and deal with her minions myself." The wizard jerked as if slapped. Lowering the opalescent sphere with visible reluctance, he turned to Zaranda and began to gesticulate and mutter. Frantically, she tried to get a clear shot to cast her own remaining spell, but Baron Lutwill, grinning savagely, launched a fierce attack, forcing her to concentrate exclusively on keeping her skull unsplit. Whimberton threw out his hand. The air seemed to congeal abruptly around Zaranda, freezing her in place. A holding spell! She fought back with all her will, but her exertions, magical and physical, had sapped her. In a moment, she was trapped. The baron stepped back, leaned on his axe for a moment, admiring his magician's handiwork. "Hmm. Since I didn't have to damage you at all, maybe I won't be so quick to separate your head from that lovely slender neck. After all, I can always collect the reward." He turned away. "Well done, Whimberton. Now you can get back to your games. But see you don't use up all the juice, or whatever it is that drives that thing." The mage smiled. "It is dweomer, Lord, the stuff of all magic. Yet this object can be recharged merely by attaching it to the weathercock when a thunderstorm rages." The baron gestured airily with a hand. "Whatever." He turned back to Zaranda, began to caress her cheek. "You know, this has interesting possibilities—" A scream interrupted him. Zaranda could not move so much as her eyeballs, but

she could focus vision past her captor, to the window where the mage had raised his sphere once again. He was surrounded by a swarm of tiny, indistinct things that seemed to shimmer with a faint light of their own. He beat at them, frantically, then began to slap at his face and robe, shrieking louder and louder, until he stumbled and fell back against the window. Whoever installed the window had not worked up to the exacting standards of Tethyrian artisanship. It gave way at once. Window and mage fell out into the night, the latter trailing a thin dwindling scream. The spell broke. Zaranda drove a knee into the baron's crotch. He bent over with a gasp and staggered back, but recovered almost instantly, and swung his axe horizontally. Zaranda leaned away, going to one knee. Her free hand found a wolfskin. The axehead whistled by, a finger's width from her face. She flung the pelt over the baron's head and shoulders and stabbed her glowing blade right through it. Again. And again. At last, when for some time the only cries sounding within the chamber had been her own and the voices coming through the now-vacant window, she stopped and turned. Chenowyn stood in the doorway, face so pale her skin looked like a sheet of parchment and her freckles like drops of paint. She flew forward to catch Zaranda in a wild embrace. "You disobeyed," Zaranda said, hugging her tight. Then, to her own astonishment, she burst into tears. * * * * * Ten volunteers died in the fight for the castle, including Osbard's daughter Fiora, blasted by a lightning bolt. Many more were wounded. So brutal was the battle that Goldie, released from the stables, forbore to complain about the indignities Farlorn

had heaped upon her in the course of their masquerade. But whatever the cost, they had won. And once the news of what had transpired reached Masamont, the villagers streamed forth to take up the casualties, bind their wounds, and bear them gently off to their own beds, where the local clerics could see to healing them. What the wondrous rechargeable magic artifact Whimberton had used to such deadly effect was, Zaranda never learned. It had shattered on a paving stone beside its wielder. Despite the horror of seeing friends die and suffering magic attacks they were powerless to prevent, the young warriors were exultant. Even the wounded laughed and joined in the singing as the townsfolk carried them to the village on improvised litters. That would pass, Zaranda knew. When the hot rush of victory died away, the despair that came after would be as hard for some to bear as the pain of sword cuts and spear thrusts. With the help of Farlorn's gold-glib tongue, Zaranda would help them through that ordeal as best she could. When the time came. But meantime, after the wounded were taken off and the castle secured, in that breathless hour before dawn, Farlorn came to her, in an apartment she had chosen to take sorely needed rest. And it seemed to Zaranda Star the most natural thing in the world to go into his arms, and surrender herself to the hunger that had been growing in her for long, weary months.

Part III The Whisperer in Darkness

22

"We are troubled," the halfling in the maroon and purple gown piped. Sitting in a simple chair in his eight-sided chamber at the top of the Palace of Governance, Baron Faneuil Hardisty turned away from a design sketch for his coronation robe and regarded his trio of visitors. They stood in a ray of spring sunlight that slanted from the skylight to graze the tabletop on which the baron's model city stood. Malhalvadon Stringfellow, the only halfling currently seated on the city council, hopped impatiently from one bare black-furred foot to the other. Baron Zam stood unmoving in his robes of blue and gray. He was tall, astringent, bloodless, with a wisp of iron-gray hair surrounding the dome of his skull. His slit eyes, narrow nose, and pinched mouth were situated on a face that came to a severe point at the chin. Korun, the lone councilwoman, wore a slashed green-velvet doublet over a yellow blouse and orange hose, her hair blonde and short, her eyes green, and her pert-nosed face handsome. She wore her peaked yellow cap at a rakish angle, pheasant feather aslant, and held arms akimbo, as if impatient but amused. The sunlight, ungallant, brought forth the parchment dryness of her skin; she was not so young as she liked to present herself. Baron Hardisty sighed and handed the sketchbook to his attendant Tatrina, daughter of Duke Hembreon. He had many All-Friends waiting upon him these days, courtesy of Armenides, who stood behind his right shoulder and beamed like an indulgent tutelary spirit. Tatrina made a curtsy and withdrew. Armenides's hazel eyes followed her until she was out of sight around the columned doorjamb. Koran and Zam likewise watched her go, with much different expressions. Each had a son in the All-Friends. Neither felt entirely at ease with that, but they were re-

luctant to mention it in Armenides's presence. "What troubles you, noble Stringfellow?" Hardisty asked with that great apparent sincerity that served him so well. The halfling bobbed, tousled his curly dark hair, rubbed his snub nose with a thumb. "It's these Star Protective people," he declared. "They're a threat to our plan to restore order to Tethyr." "Meaning," Lady Korun said in a mockingly vibrant contralto, "that they interfere with the bandit chieftains who kick back a share of their plunder to you and call it 'taxes.'" "No such thing!" the halfling fluted. "Besides, I'm not the only one." "Let us say we all feel the pinch," said Zam, and pinched was a fair description of his voice. "Her impertinence becomes alarming. Her private army grows in leaps and bounds, and just today we received word that she has been welcomed by the city council of Ithmong, having escorted a great caravan thence from Myratma. The first to pass that way since the monarchy fell." "She's a sorceress!" Stringfellow cried. "She's got the people bewitched, I tell you. She even has them believing that monstrous orc who travels with her is a paladin!" "She's done much to restore commerce to the roads of Tethyr," Korun said, "and it's all bypassing Zazesspur. At this rate, the people of Tethyr, to say nothing of Zazesspur, will soon begin to wonder what they need us for. Clearly this can't go on." "What do wish me to do about it?" Hardisty asked mildly. "You're the man who would be king, Faneuil," Lady Korun said. "You tell us." "Very well," Hardisty said crisply. "She shall be dealt with. Enough?" "And who will do the dealing?" Stringfellow asked. Hardisty grinned. "Why, I should say—none less than the lord of Zazesspur." "You ask much," Baron Zam said.

"He will deliver much," Armenides said serenely. "He is touched with destiny." "He'd best be," said Zam. * * * * * "Our Malhalvadon grows importunate," Armenides said when the councilors had gone. "Perhaps it's time he gave way to one of the Brothers Hedgeblossom. Or both. Surely the council has other bits of deadwood that want pruning." "You surprise me, Father. The Hedgeblossoms are our staunch foes. They seek to overturn everything we've worked for." Armenides smiled. "Why, isn't that all the more reason to bring them on the council? In every time and every clime, there's nothing scarcer than a rebel who stays avid to cast down power once he shares it." Hardisty thought about this. Like many things Armenides told him, it sounded bizarre at first, until his mind began to fit itself around the concept. "What of the other council members? Some of them might object to raising up such firebrands." The priest spread his hands. "Then they are obstructers and unworthy of the positions they hold. Retribution has a way of seeking such out." Here was a different Armenides than the ever-smiling figure the public knew, but one in truth no less benevolent. The common ruck might not understand, but Hardisty did. He had done things he was uneasy about. Some even gave him nightmares. But he knew the truth of what Armenides taught: when one served Good, to hold back from using any tool available was dereliction to the point of affirmative evil. Just as one must sometimes spank a child less it race heedless into the path of an oncoming carriage and be trampled, so sometimes apparently cruel measures were in truth

grandmotherly kindness. "You must keep pressure on the council to crown you king as soon as possible, my lord," the cleric said. "The One Below has great patience, but even that wears thin. And we have much need of him yet if we are to bring your visions to fruition." Baron Hardisty shuddered, as he always did at mention of the hidden partner in their great enterprise. Politics made strange bedfellows: just look at that stiff-necked old tower of rectitude Hembreon and that rogue Anakul. The way the two voted in council, you'd think they sat next to one another in temple. Him Below could be ... handled. Armenides assured him of it. "First I've got to settle this matter of the Countess Morninggold," Hardisty said. "Despite what I told our friends, I really don't know how." He shook his head. "I suppose it's too late to give her her wretched caravan back." Perhaps the greatest of Zaranda Star's many impertinences was that she was running Star Protective Service as a profit-making venture, and it was returning handsome profit indeed, from what his spies reported. The cleric shrugged. "Raise an army and crush her." "That might not be easy." "Good my lord! However they may style themselves, her followers are naught but peasants playing at soldiers. You're a proven war leader, and command real soldiers." Hardisty went to his chair and sat. "War's an expensive game, Father. And here's the cursed thing about it: You can never know who will win." He shrugged. "Zaranda Star's a seasoned commander, too, and we won't do well to underestimate her. Oh, it's not that I doubt we'd prevail against her and her rabble. But such a victory could prove costly. If we weaken ourselves too much in crushing her, we might find others stepping forward to challenge us—Ithmong, to name one."

Armenides nodded. "Very well, my son." He smiled benignly. "Fortunate it is that we have . . . other assets." "You mean you have other assets." "Indeed." "Then pray, make use of them. Oh, and when you go, could you send for the girl who was assisting me before, Duke Hembreon's daughter? With all due respect for your All-Friends, Father, I find most of them pretty dull fish, though helpful as can be. She, on the other hand, is quite vivacious." "An air of gravity is concomitant with a certain stage in studying the mysteries of Ao All-Father," Armenides said. "Young Tatrina has not yet attained that stage; that's all." "Well, thank goodness for that. Good afternoon, Father." * * * * * When Armenides arrived at his quarters on the palace's uppermost floor, the columnar doorposts—which were magic things, and alive, a fact quite unknown to the palace's builders—did not voice their shrill, tormented warning of intrusion. Reassured, the cleric entered. The magically warded chambers were redolent with steamy, welcoming smells of cooking. They were simply and sparsely furnished. On a shelf sat the brazen head. Its eyes and mouth abruptly lit with yellow fire. "Report! Report!" it demanded in a voice Zaranda Star would have recognized, though not as coming from it. It was a whisper, dry as wind over long-dead leaves. "There's little enough to report," Armenides said. "I urged him to get tough with the council about recognizing him as lord of the city. He seems of a mind to. Beyond that, it's business as usual." "Not enough! He is weak."

"He is weak in ways that serve us. Likewise is he mighty in rationalization." "He must become king soon. Only then can the transformation take place." "I assure you no one is more eager to see Baron Hardisty made king than Baron Hardisty." "And the girl? What of the girl? Why do you not bring her to me?" "Sweet Tatrina? She's more useful as she is, another golden cord binding him to me. He's quite infatuated with her." "All the more reason to make sure of her." "Come, now, we've been over this before. She can scarce beguile him if she starts acting like a zombie. And she's eager enough to do anything I ask, not that I've requested anything too controversial." He chuckled. "It's for the love of Ao, after all." "You had best be right." "I am. Now: attend. Trouble not the sleep of Zazesspur tonight. I have a message I need sent over some distance. It will take concentration, even for you." "Do not command me! I command! Do not dare command me!" "Forgive me, O mighty L'yafv-Afvonn, I beseech thee. I abase myself, I grovel, I truckle, I'm lower than dirt. Now will you please just do it?" "What do you want?" The cleric explained briefly. When he finished, the fire went out of the head's eyes and mouth. Both closed. After a moment the bronze eyelids opened. "You can't imagine how vexing that is," the head said in its customary voice, "serving as mouthpiece for that thing in the cellar." "I don't care to try," the priest said. "Why don't you just listen to me? I can reveal unto you secrets—awful,

indescribable secrets. All I ask—" Armenides silenced it with a hand wave. "Little that is awful and indescribable," he said, "is secret from me." So saying, he passed on into his innermost room. This was occupied by a fire pit, over which bubbled a great black iron caldron. From a hook set in the ceiling he took a large ladle and stirred the contents, infant limbs and organs aboil in spices. It was time for lunch. * * * * * In the waters of the river Ith, the stars were tiny streaming pennons. "I dream about flying a lot," Chenowyn said as they walked along the red-brick river path. The night air was charged with the scents of lilac and honeysuckle. The river, which sprang with considerable violence out of the Snowflake Mountains, had matured considerably by the time it reached Ithmong; it was broader about the middle, but had replaced frantic force with deliberate power. It chuckled to itself, complacent over what it had become, and slapped the stones that reinforced the banks. Zaranda turned her face so the girl couldn't see her grimace. She, too, had dreamt last night, but not of flying. It was as if she heard that whisper again, the hated sibilance that had made her nights in Zazesspur so hideous. She sought refuge in a different subject: "If you keep applying yourself as you've been—and also get lucky, since I don't know any such spells—you just might someday get to fly." Chen shook her head. "Not like that, by magic. I feel as if I have wings. I spread them and drive myself into the sky like a bird. But I'm not a bird. I'm something different. But I'm still me, and it feels . .. right." She noticed that she and Zaranda had fallen out of step, skipped to synchronize

herself with the older woman. Zaranda frowned. Chen wasn't the only person she knew who was obsessive about staying in step with whomever she was strolling with. Her concern went beyond that. From an urban feral child—ragged, gaunt, and filthy—Chenowyn had grown into a healthy, lovely young woman. She had put on an amazing growth spurt in the near-year since Zaranda first found her in that Zazesspurian alley, becoming more than a hand taller. Which should be small surprise, Zaranda reflected; Chen ate like a half-starved owlbear. She now traded banter freely with Goldie, though the mare admitted privately to spotting the girl points in order to encourage her. Goldie had also taught her to ride. Otherwise, Chen was still pretty oblivious to those people who did not actively engage her interest: Stillhawk, Shield, the boys—and men—who increasingly sought to catch her dark maroon eye. However, if still not a diplomat, Chen had learned at least a modicum of manners, and while Zaranda herself had little use for altruism, she had guided the girl to a point where she was no longer self-absorbed to the point of being a menace to navigation. Chen had also begun to take some trouble with herself. She kept herself scrupulously clean now without Zaranda having to remind her. And she seemed to have gotten past believing anything she could wrap or hang around her was suitable garb. Tonight, for example, she was quite handsomely turned out, in white linen blouse with deerskin lacings up the front. Just like the one Zaranda wore. She had on form-fitting dark blue breeches and soft boots with fringed, downturned tops. Just like Zaranda's. Her heavy hair swept out behind her head like a dark red comet tail, confined by a silver fillet . . . just as Zaranda's straighter dark hair was.

Clearly, a problem existed. Chen pointed heavenward, where the few lazy-drifting slate clouds weren't bothering to obscure many stars. "What's that group of stars there called? Like an hourglass, sort of, with three bright stars across the middle?" "Kind of a lopsided hourglass—but as it happens, that's what they call it down here in the Empires of the Sands. In the north it's the Huntsman, to the Tuigan the Horse-Bowman." Chen gave her a skeptical look. "That's about the tenth constellation you've told me the Tuigan have named after something to do with horses," she said in that very prim way she had when she thought she was being made fun of. Zaranda laughed and hugged her. There was a time when such a suspicion would have brought on a concentration of uncontrolled dweomer to lift the hairs at Zaranda's nape. Sometimes she dared hope she might actually civilize the girl. "Honey," she said, "to the Tuigan, everything has to do with horses. Most of their constellations are named for them, and those that aren't have names from the hunt or war: the Hare, the Falcon, the Yataghan. But mostly, it's horses, horses, horses. Did you know that one major tribal group has an epic poem a quarter of a million lines long about a hero whose horse is smarter than he is?" Chen's underlip jutted, most fetchingly. Zaranda felt the faint tingle of power in the air around them. "Now you're teasing me!" "No. Really I'm not. The Tuigan have some strange and wild ways—wonderful ways, I can see now that they're out of our hair. They're very different from us." "Oh." Interest fell like a veil from the girl's face. When talk turned to people, she quickly grew bored. Instead she pointed again to the sky. "How about that star away up there, that big red one?"

Zaranda smiled. Was the girl genuinely interested, or merely trying to emulate her in yet another way? But the air was warm and sweet, the stars seductive in their brilliance. Chen could not be called a sweet child, yet she did lack malice. Her mind was quick and keen, and now that the soot had been rubbed away from the outside of her, her spirit shone clear and bright as any star. In her way she adored Zaranda, and Zaranda, in her way, loved her. So they walked and talked beside the wide, complacent river, and left unpleasant necessities to the province of a different day. * * * * * Through lengthening shadows Zaranda walked back to the Ith-Side Inn with long-legged strides. Nothing had been decided in the day's negotiations with the town council—but, of course, nothing was intended to be. That was the way of negotiations, that they dragged on, and while that fact was little to Zaranda's taste, it was nonetheless a fact, and she could as readily draw the moon down from the sky as alter it. Striding the brick walkway that ran alongside the river and was flanked by weeping willows, she was not displeased with the talk's progress, such as it was. The Ithmong council would come around to her way of thinking, she was confident. Right now they had trouble seeing past the short-term pain of losing the income tolls brought. However, they and all Ithmong stood to gain from increasing trade—had already profited from the new commerce Star Protective Services had helped set flowing. Cutting Ernest Gallowglass's tolls for the Ithal Bridge and river passage would serve the economy of Tethyr like a healing spell cast on a wounded warrior. Of course, the town council would not be unique in the history of Faerun if they attempted to have it all—tariffs and expanded trade—through a little well-timed

treachery. Zaranda seemed to invite such a ploy by leaving most of her retinue, including senior partners, camped outside the city. She was not quite so ingenuous. The two hundred Star Protective employees without the walls were recruited from the very best trainees who had passed through the program—smart, brave, and idealistic, devoted to Zaranda Star and to Shield of Innocence, who served as captain in Zaranda's absence. While they were too few to storm the walls if the council got up to mischief, they were more than capable of rousing the countryside—where Gallowglass's legacy ran to abiding distrust for all who dwelt behind Ithmong's high stone walls—and shutting off trade. After all, grain and livestock didn't have to be gathered inside the city before being shipped to the rest of Tethyr. Zaranda began to whistle. She thought the town council got the point. Life wore a far more cheerful face than when she had fled Zazesspur. Star Protective Services had extended operations across much of Tethyr. Zaranda drew sufficient salary to meet payments on her county in the east. She was herself an employee now, having quit as leader in a dispute last fall over what direction the company should take. To get her back, the others had been compelled to offer a contract making explicit her powers and duties as chief executive. The possibility had existed that they would not so offer. But she had found attempting to be everything to everybody increasingly intolerable. Had they made no effort to win her back, she would have mounted Goldie—with Chenowyn behind her, if the girl still cared to be her apprentice—and ridden away. She loved Morninggold, but if she had to, she could put it behind her and start again anew. She had done as much before. Of her comrades, Stillhawk remained mistrustful of Shield, though he was with him

now, outside the urban confinement he so hated. After Zaranda walked and was hired back, Balmeric had quit, declaring the enterprise far too strange for him. He let Zaranda buy him out and rode to Myratma, and there, he said, he would take ship for Waterdeep, where a man could still find straightforward sword-swinging employment. Chenowyn remained with Zaranda, of course. And Farlorn . . . Farlorn was where he happened to be at any given moment. He was like a cat, the beautiful half-elf bard. What she expected of him, even what she wanted of him, Zaranda could not have said. The inn's courtyard was surrounded by an eight-foot wall topped with broken glass. Attack from the river was reckoned no major threat; Ithmong had always had a respectably sized and reasonably professional town guard, which Gallowglass's administration had only strengthened, and its riverine patrol kept careful watch for would-be marauders as a byproduct of enforcing the tolls. Thieves, however, were as intrinsic to urban Tethyrian life as houseflies, and found the river a convenient avenue, patrols notwithstanding. Approaching the courtyard gate, Zaranda heard a familiar female voice crying, "Hah! Hah!" and the ring of steel on steel. Frowning, she grabbed Crackletongue's scabbard to keep it from fouling her leg and broke into a run. Zazesspur's city council had issued several decrees officially deploring the activities of Star Protective Services, but had never quite mustered the presumption to try to outlaw it. Though the civic guard grew apace—with the aim, some said, of reuniting Tethyr by force—the council was currently preoccupied by a complicated gavotte preparatory to naming Baron Hardisty lord of the city. An attempt to arrest Zaranda and her lieutenants—or, less formally, assassinate them—was not outside possibility's realm, however.

She rounded the corner and stopped. Two figures faced each other, one slender and feminine, one scarcely less slim but taller and broader through the shoulders. Each wore quilted, heavily padded jerkins, leather gloves, and masks of wire mesh, and fought each other with capped rapiers. Stablehands lounged on the sidelines, uttering calls of encouragement. As Zaranda appeared in the gateway, the fencers stopped and swept the masks from their heads. The master was Farlorn, his pupil, Chenowyn. The girl's cheeks were flushed beneath her freckles. "Oh, Zaranda, it's so marvelous! He's teaching me—" She saw Zaranda's expression. Her words faltered to a stop. "What do you think you're doing?" Zaranda asked quietly. Chenowyn gazed down at her feet, which were kicking at a clump of matted straw. "Learning to fence." Zaranda walked to her, touched her arm, guided her aside. The stablehands abruptly found business that wanted tending to. Farlorn stood with rapier tip grounded and protective mask under one arm, a faint supercilious smile on his face. "Don't you understand," Zaranda asked in a quiet but pressing voice, "that you haven't time for that? If you want to be a mage, you've got to work at it full-time." A full underlip trembled, then, "You didn't have to! You're a mage and a warrior, both! I just want to be like you." "Chen, dear, you don't understand. I did have to devote myself to studying magic, body and soul. It didn't come easy for me—it doesn't come easy to anyone who really wants to be good at it. I didn't become a warrior until I had studied magic for many years—and only after I'd put that study aside for good and all." Chenowyn sniffled, dabbed at an eye with her thumb, and looked away. "But that's

not the real problem," Zaranda said. "The real problem is ... you've got to stop trying to be me. Because you can't be me, you cannot be more than an imitation me, and a poor one at that—however hard you try. Whereas the Chen I know is strong and vibrant and alive, an altogether admirable girl—and you do a marvelous job of being her." She touched Chen's cheek. The girl pulled away. "You're just jealous because Farlorn is spending so much time with me!" she cried through tears. She ran off toward the stables. Zaranda sighed and shook her head. And how much truth is there in that? she wondered. A commotion came from inside the stalls. Chen burst forth, clinging like a monkey to the back of a handsome chestnut gelding. She rode right out of the yard and away up the brick street, grooms shouting angrily after her. "I'll bring her back," Farlorn called. He loped gracefully into the stable, plucking the cap from his rapier and sheathing it. Zaranda teetered on the edge of following him. The bard emerged on his dappled gray mare. He waved jauntily to Zaranda and rode in pursuit of her errant apprentice. No, Zaranda thought. It won't help if I go. Instead she went inside the stable on feet that had turned to lead, to greet Goldie before taking herself to her chamber. * * * * * As Zaranda arrived, the serving maid was leaving, having just lit the lanterns. Zaranda smiled mechanically at her, went into her chamber, pulled off her boots, and sat down at a table by the window. The shutters were open, admitting evening smells of water and spring flowers and pavement slowly giving up the day's heat. The lights were coming on all over Ithmong, and out on the river lanterns bobbed from barge prows like the lures of giant anglerfish.

The town council had sent wine, sprays of flowers, and baskets of preserved fruit—cheap enough gestures of goodwill. And indeed Zaranda appreciated them, though she wasn't about to roll over on their account. She took up a wedge of orange preserved in ginger, bit into it, and noticed something new: a purple glass flask with stout body and long, slim neck. Zaranda picked it up and turned it over in her hands, impressed. This was no local product like the rather insipid wine—Ithmong produced several serviceable beers, but their vineyards couldn't hold a candle to Zazesspur's. This was Tintoram's Select, a blackberry brandy made by the halflings of the Purple Hills of the coast between Zazesspur and Myratma, famed throughout Faerun for its flavor and potency. A notable gift, even for a town councilor who had been fattening on tolls the last few years. She broke the lead seal and uncorked the flask. The aroma that flowed out was sweet and heady as first love and nourishing as a meal. She poured some—just a splash—into a tumbler. It was a purple so dark it was almost black. She passed it beneath her nose, allowing its richness to permeate her being, and sipped. It burned, and soothed, and burst like a bomb within her. She let herself savor the sensations for a moment. Then she reached for her inkpot, her pen made from a sahuagin spine with steel nib from Kara-Tur, and a clean sheet of papyrus. It was time to begin drafting a contract proposal. She wrote a little. Then, feeling the weariness of the day's events clamp a heavy hand on the back of her neck, she picked up the tumbler, sipped again, rolled the brandy around in her mouth. I wonder where Chen and Farlorn are, she thought, feeling concern stir. Yet she could muster no great urgency. Nor could she readily drag her attention back to the

lines on the papyrus sheet. Instead her attention wandered out the window. Away in the distance, over the river perhaps, a single amber light burned. It seemed both poignantly lonely and jewel-beautiful, and Zaranda found herself staring at it. As she stared, her vision wandered further and further out of focus, and the amber light grew steadily larger and fuzzier, until it became huge, became a sun, and swallowed her altogether.

23

With a several-voiced whistle and a resounding smack, the knotted rawhide thongs bit into Zaranda's bare flesh. Clenched teeth barred a scream, but a groan escaped her throat. Her body twisted clockwise from the force of the blow, then turned widdershins, toes dangling two inches from a drain set in the slimy stone floor. Her whole weight depended from her arms, chained to a hook in the low, round-vaulted ceiling. Manacles bit her wrists like the pincers of a giant scorpion; her shoulders burned from unnatural strain. When she could trust herself to speak more or less steadily, she moistened her lips and said, "I hate to disappoint you, but I don't really have any vital secrets to withhold from you. So there's not. . . much point... to this exercise." Shaveli Sword-Master laughed hoarsely. He swung his cat-o'-nine-tails so its thongs sang savagely. Zaranda shut her eyes and clamped her jaw, then winced as the lash struck stone flagging with a crack. "Clearly you don't understand, Countess," he said cheerfully. The glare from a brazier, in which various iron implements nestled yellow-glowing heads among the coals, cast entirely redundant, fiendish highlights over his face. The dungeon stank of mold and hot metal and all the scents of fear. "You know nothing that could possibly be of the slightest use to my master—only how to inconvenience him, which I fancy you'll not be doing any more. As to—" Not looking at him, Zaranda had begun to move her lips soundlessly. Shaveli's rat face twisted in rage, and he lashed her so cruelly that she could not help crying out. He laid the whip's handle to her cheek and forced her face toward his. "Casting spells, were we, witch?"

"I was merely . . . sending a prayer to Lliira," Zaranda said. "I don't feel as if my life has enough . . . joy ... in it right now." The Sword-Master put his head back and laughed. Then he struck again. "Very clever. Very clever, indeed. I can tell we're going to have a most diverting relationship." He tapped the handle against her cheek. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth where she had bitten her lip. "You should know, though, that none of your magic will help you now. Into the very mortar of these dungeon walls was worked powdered fragments of the bones of the gods who exploded in the magic-dead realm of far Tantras. No dweomer can penetrate here, so chant away at your futile spells—it pleases me to punish you for doing so." That would account for the dull but constant throb between Zaranda's temples; she had heard of such an effect from others who had passed through the rare dead-magic reaches of Toril. Magic was woven into the very fabric of the world, in all the creatures who walked upon it, swam its seas, flew above it or delved the Underdark below. To be cut off from sorcery, from dweomer, was an unnatural condition. Those steeped in the arts magical were so sensitive to such isolation that it caused them pain. And here I thought it was that cursed brandy, she thought. "No, it's not information I seek," he said, pushing her to set her rotating in her chains, sending pain flashes down from torn wrists to tortured shoulders. "It's merely that whiling away the hours with you is the reward my stalwart service has won me from my just and generous master." "It's true what they say in the markets, then," Zaranda said. "That the only pleasure Shaveli can take from a woman is what he can get with whips and chains." Still spinning, she caught a glimpse of his features, a fiendish mask of fury. Her world became pain and screams.

* * * * * The stone cell floor was cold and slimy beneath her as she lay in uttermost dark. At least it had the effect of soothing her welts. Best not mention that, or they'll come scatter salt. She could see nothing. On first waking in the dungeon, she had felt her way all around her cell. It had not been a lengthy process. The room appeared to be about ten feet in every dimension; by holding arms outstretched above her head and leaping as high as she could, she could just brush the ceiling with her fingertips. There was a heavy, metal-shod wooden door, a good hand thick to judge by the sound when she rapped it with her knuckles, with an armored judas gate set into it, currently shut. A drain was sunk in the center of the chamber, about half again as big as her palm and covered with a metal grate. Though the traditional dungeon dampness had engendered a coating of slime on the stones, they were well cut and fitted, so that she could barely feel the seams when she ran hands across them. Their smoothness was the smoothness of careful dressing by stonemasons with a Tethyrian concern for craft, not of generations of prisoners' hands running over them in the vain hope that a portal to freedom would suddenly open up. Moreover the place smelled, well, clean. For a dungeon. So she was captive in Zazesspur's new Palace of Governance. She tasted agony raw. Shaveli had a fine hand with a whip; she had to grant him that. Though her body felt as if it were wrapped in nets of live fire, as far as she could ascertain, he had not broken the skin once. Which had certain implications, not necessarily soothing. It was just possible that Hardisty was dim enough to imagine she might be broken to his will through physical abuse. The problem was, he had known her as a war leader with no scruples about

using ruses to win the day. He must know he could trust no compact she gave under duress. And if he didn't realize it, surely Armenides would. There was more to the self-proclaimed archpriest of Ao than his apple-cheeked smile and halo of hair suggested. During their interview a year ago, he stayed in the background uttering homilies, but all the same Zaranda could practically see the strings running from his hands to Hardisty. She took it as an ominous sign that, as far as she knew, the baron had not paid her a visit. That implied a reluctance to look an old comrade-in-arms in the eye. So the odds were good that she was being kept relatively intact for public execution—with first, perhaps, a public show trial. She shifted, rolled over, cradled her cheek on her other hand. A bale of hay had thoughtfully been tossed in the cell with her to serve as a bed—it wouldn't do to have her body a mass of sores when she mounted the gibbet. The prickly straw was small use at present. She would have been uncomfortable on the finest feather bed in Waterdeep, but she could at least redistribute aches. She remembered . . . what? The taste of Tintoram's Select—was there an odd dissonance, like the forty-fifth cherub from the left in the eighteenth row striking a sour note in the midst of an angelic chorus? She wasn't familiar enough with exotic liqueurs to tell. It had to be the brandy, though—she would have tasted something amiss in the candied orange. After that, remembered impressions: the thump, as of an ancient tome slipping from its shelf far off in a vast, dusty, drafty castle, which was her face striking the tabletop. The door opening, a voice distorted to unrecognizability saying, gruffly, "Take her." Men dressed as artisans, plain everyday Tethyrian tradesmen whom none would

suspect, rolling her up in a rug and bundling her onto their shoulders. They would have left openly but discreetly by a back exit—it was far from unusual for Faerun hostelries to desire to have a carpet cleaned or replaced at odd hours of the night, and with as little fanfare as possible. And after that—jostling, horse smell, harness jingle. Then nothing until she woke here in the dark, with only furtive, fugitive scurrying sounds and the dripping of water to remind her she yet lived. She rolled onto her back—no, that was a mistake—onto her belly, laid cheek against chill stone. Who betrayed me? The thought was like mice gnawing her belly from the inside. The Ithmong town council—no. Ithmongs were known for being unsubtle by Tethyrian standards, but she found it hard to believe any Tethyrian could be quite that blatant. And to what end? Ithmong didn't distrust Zazesspur as sorely as it did Myratma, but would never happily see its rival rule all Tethyr. That was a major reason the town council was treating with Zaranda in the first place: Star Protectives offered a means of slowing or reversing the death by strangulation that was overtaking Tethyr without bending the knee to Zazesspur and the man who would be its lord. As it was, suspicion would fall at once on Ithmong. Zaranda's young cadre were bright, but villagers and countryfolk, not necessarily sophisticated. They might leap to the obvious conclusion and blame the town council. Farlorn would know better; Stillhawk had no more taste for intrigue than he had for wearing makeup, but he had been about in the world enough to realize how unlikely Ithmong was to be culpable. But would the man—the creature—who was her second-in-command? Shield. The name tolled like a cracked bell in her brain. Someone had betrayed her when she was smuggling her caravan into Zazesspur. Someone had betrayed her

inside Zazesspur. And someone had betrayed her in Ithmong. Of course, what she had been betrayed for in Zazesspur was harboring the great orc. But what did that tell her, really? The searchers had missed him, after all. Maybe his presence had been used as pretext for searching Zaranda's quarters precisely because it would divert suspicion from him. Such a convolution would almost certainly be beyond his means—but it was a typically Tethyrian, and Zazesspurian, bit of nastiness. And Shield was ever-so-good at carrying out plans that others drew up He had plenty of other opportunities to harm you, she tried to tell herself. But it was meager solace: so did anyone else who would have been in position to betray her on those occasions. That meant only the orog, Farlorn, and Stillhawk. Chen had come into the game too late, Balmeric had left too early, and the several mercenaries who had accompanied her both into and out of Zazesspur were scattered across Tethyr teaching plow-boys and shepherd girls how to fight. But why? Well, on other worlds evil was a choice, but here on Toril it was also a thing. Perhaps, as Farlorn and Stillhawk averred, it left an indelible mark on those who had been born to it. And how? How could a servitor of evil pass himself as a paladin? "Too easily, perhaps," she answered herself in a bitter whisper. Who had ever heard of an orcish paladin? For that matter, who'd ever heard of a nonhuman paladin? Not Zaranda, nor anyone she'd ever spoken to about it. Perhaps Nyadnar had, but the sorceress would never have deigned to answer such a question, unless it served her highly idiosyncratic conception of the balance of forces necessary to sustain the universe—or her whim, which Zaranda suspected she found hard to tell from each other. Still, still. . . Shield, can it be? She could not know for sure. All she truly knew was

that someone she had accepted into her confidence had turned on her. Which meant, ultimately, that the one who had betrayed her was herself. She could no longer help herself. The weeping started as a bubbling forth from eyes and mouth, like water through the hull of a boat holed by a reef. Then it truly tore loose, gushing now, a torrent. Her body convulsed to strident macaw cries of grief and anger and fear and pain and humiliation, interspersed with hoarse, panting breaths as of one who has run until her heart is about to burst. Finally, exhausted, she fell into a state that, by comparison to her previous condition, was sleep. * * * * * A scratching sound brought her instantly awake. Her fingers clutched for Crackletongue. Then she felt again the whip marks that clothed her, felt hard stone, smelled moist stone and foulness. Again it came, the scrape of tiny claws on rock, hard nearby. Zaranda's muscles tensed. There were any number of candidates for making such a sound, and under the circumstances it seemed unlikely to be anything pleasant. Scritch, scritch. A slight hint of echo. Her visitor was in the drain, then. Well, that made it less likely it would be crawling over her face as soon as she fell back to sleep. More scratching, of subtly different timbre, as if the unseen creature were testing the grate. Zaranda found herself oddly torn by hoping it would not somehow find a way through and at the same time hoping it would. Am I really so afraid of isolation, she wondered, that I'd prefer loathsome company to no company at all? Silence now. She had an irrational sense that her hidden guest was waiting. "What are you?" she whispered. Then she laughed; the stones from the dead-magic land would prevent eavesdropping by mystic means. She had encountered certain

arrangements of tubes and funnels—miracles of design, not dweomer-craft—that enabled someone in one part of a building to listen in on what transpired in a room in an entirely different part. It was possible Hardisty had such a system built into his palace. And what of it? She was talking to a rat or an insect or a doubtless loathly whatever; let whoever wanted to listen in. Much good might it do them. "What are you?" she asked again aloud. No response, which was no surprise; only that curious sense of expectation. "I guess it doesn't matter, does it? You can't answer me, and it isn't very likely you understand. I'm merely talking to you because I'll go mad if I don't hear something besides my own breathing and the sound of water dripping; and if I talk to myself too much I'll fear I've gone mad anyway." She had dragged herself over the floor until she lay with her cheek on the floor beside the grate. "You're a patient one, aren't you? What do you wait for?" More silence, measured in many painful breaths. "Well, whatever you want, I guess I've not provided it yet. Please forgive my failings as hostess, but I wasn't expecting to do much entertaining. I'm sure the place looks a fright." She turned her face toward the ceiling. The blackness hung above her with all the weight of the tons of stone overhead. "You know," she said, "I've often heard that there is one who converses even with the rats and the roaches of Zazesspur. Certainly I've seen her in the company of beings stranger than that. If that's true, tell her Zaranda Star is here." She rolled onto her belly, put her mouth close to the grate, and spoke in a fierce whisper. "She had some plan for me. I can't carry it out if I rot down here, or if Baron Hardisty decides to have me discreetly strangled and dumped in the harbor. If you can hear me, bear word of me to Nyadnar."

Nyadnar. Nyadnar. The name echoed down the sewer pipe. Through it Zaranda heard the skitter-scratch of tiny claws, dwindling. Nyadnar. I am going mad, she decided. Doubtless, it's for the best. * * * * * The clatter of massive bolts roused her. This wasn't the latch on the food slot at the bottom of the door, through which bowls of water and gruel were thrust at what she was certain were calculatedly random intervals; the door itself was being opened. She gathered herself into a crouch. It wasn't that she expected to be able to break past her jailers or overpower them. It was that, if they came to bear her to more torture, she would not suffer them to find her supine. The door opened. The light from a single hand-held torch flooded through like noonday. Zaranda cringed and shielded her eyes like a vampire caught abroad by the rising sun. In the torchlight stood silhouetted a tall figure in a robe and a square hat. "Zaranda Star?" it said. "Countess Morninggold?" It was the voice of Duke Hembreon.

24

"You have held this captive in secret from the city council," Duke Hembreon said. "This is illegal. You will surrender her to me forthwith, in the council's name." Zaranda had clad herself in a white smock that one of the duke's escorts had thrown at her. It was already much worse for wear, and she hadn't taken a dozen steps in it. It took all her willpower to keep from simply letting herself hang in the grip of the two Zazesspurian city policemen who stood flanking her. She forced herself to stand upright, albeit swaying like a sapling in a squall, and listened to the white-haired duke and Shaveli debate her fate. The Sword-Master tipped back his head and brayed laughter through his nose. "It's time to decide, old man," he said in a challenging voice, hand on rapier hilt. The two blue-and-bronzes behind him wore unhappy looks beneath their morions. "Decide what?" the duke demanded, visibly bristling at the other's impertinence. His escorts, in the black-enameled boiled-leather helmets and cuirasses of the constabulary, glared at the civic guardsmen with frank hostility. The police had no love for these Johnny-come-lately paramilitaries. "Whether you're serious about the getting and keeping of power. Here's an enemy to the state, an obstacle to your plans as well as ours. We had the situation under control. Why interfere?" "The rule of law is paramount, and must be maintained." "Law?" The swordsman flicked dismissive fingers. "What is law? A means to an end. Law's a fine tool; power's better. But to use the power, one must have the will." "Power without law is corrupt, and soon turns to evil," the duke said acerbically. "Sooner, rather than later, for the application of will."

"Words," Shaveli said. He gestured around the torch-lit corridor. "Around you is stone." He slapped his rapier hilt. "And steel. Here are facts. Pit your words against them: which prevails?" "The will of the council that your master has petitioned to make him master first of Zazesspur, and then of all Tethyr, will prevail," the duke said. "For that is the law." Shaveli laughed again. "So now the law is to be your will?" "It is given to the council to make the laws. Do you defy us? I think your lord will little thank you for your contumacy." The Sword-Master swept off his plumed hat and bowed low. "No contumacy, Your Grace; take your prisoner, and greatly may you enjoy the use of her." The duke stiffened. "I crave only that you answer me a question philosophical: each day a dozen factions strive to pull you, your council, and my lord baron down. Will your laws suffice to stay them?" "They must," Duke Hembreon said stiffly, and nodded for his men to go. * * * * * The morning sunlight stung Zaranda's cheeks like salt sea spray on an open cut, and made her eyes water. It was glorious all the same. She drank deeply of the breeze that molded the smock to her rangy form, and savored every nuance of it, the rotting fish and garbage and soot no less than the ocean smell and the spring-green grass without the walls. She even relished the freedom of a walk across the plaza, illusion though it was. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, voice hoarse from screaming. "To city hall," the duke said. "You shall be decently housed and treated, though a prisoner you must remain." Passersby stopped to stare at the spectacle of a striking woman being led across

the square in manacles, then hurried on their way. Zazesspurians were acquiring the reflexes needed to survive under tyranny, it appeared. "And why must I remain a captive?" she asked. "What laws have I broken?" The duke's blue eyes looked elsewhere than at her. "It is not for me to say. A bill of particulars shall be read to you when you face the judgment of the council." "So that's the way of it." Zaranda laughed. "And how did you come to learn I was Faneuil's secret captive?" "Information was confidentially lodged with the council to this effect." "Ah, so much goes on in Zazesspur these days that won't stand the light of day." She shook her head. Her long dark hair, unbound, whipped in the wind like a cavalry pennon. "My erstwhile host the Sword-Master questioned your commitment to power. I have to wonder about your devotion to this rule of law you speak so much about. And I've a philosophical question of my own: if you lack the force of will to use and indeed abuse power, and at the same time, lack the will to adhere unswervingly to the law you pay lip service to—what then?" But the duke had no more words to say to her, and so she passed into the ornate, archaic city hall, and back once again into servitude. * * * * * The great council hall of Zazesspur was a vast cathedral space, with a black and white parquetry floor, a pointed vault high overhead, and windows running clerestory beneath it down either side of the chamber. Beneath the windows, even above the two large doors of beaten bronze that gave onto the hall, ran rows of benches to seat such onlookers as the council saw fit to admit. Today they were thronged. Zaranda's appearance before the city council—not her trial, as the crier made abundantly, indeed redundantly clear—was the social event of the season.

The council members had all brought claques selected from among their retinues, which made for interesting and clashing blocks of color in the stands. Lords Faunce and Inselm Hhune, former councilors, were on hand, as were the syndics who ruled the guilds of Zazesspur, sweltering in fur-trimmed robes. Earl Ravenak and a noisy, aromatic contingent of Hairheads occupied a sort of island near the exit, none of their fellow spectators caring to get too close to them. On the other end of the hall and social scale, Armenides the Compassionate sat beaming benignly, surrounded by the white-robed scions of Zazesspur's most pretentious families. Finally, a number of common citizens had been let in to watch the awful majesty of the nascent state vindicate itself. Evidently awed by the grandeur of occasion and surroundings, they were subdued by Zazesspurian standards, their jostling and chatter a low commotion, like a stiff breeze in the green-budding branches outside. A long table occupied a low dais that ran from wall to wall at the head of the hall. Behind it sat the twelve members of the council: Deymos, Hafzul Gorbon, and Marquis Enzo; Anakul, serenely smiling in his robes of black and red and his black silken cowl fitted close to his round head and drawn to a peak between his brows; Malhalvadon Stringfellow, a-fidget in his chair like a barely continent child; Strombolio, in red and yellow; Jinjivar the Sorcerer—tall, gaunt, and splendid in a pale-blue and purple turban so extravagantly round as to make him resemble an attenuated mushroom; Torvid, Naumos, and Lady Korun; Baron Zam, looking sour; Duke Hembreon, looking even graver than usual, possibly preoccupied by the fact that his daughter Tatrina was nowhere to be seen in the placidly smiling All-Friends contingent. Their seating was controlled by a rigid and deliberately arcane rotation schedule. At the table's right end stood Baron Faneuil Hardisty. He was simply dressed in green, gold, and brown; his closest approach to ostentation was the silver chaplet he

wore around prematurely graying temples, significant of his recent acclamation as lord of the city. Like the late kings of Tethyr, he had no right to sit at the council table, and his very presence was of questionable legality. It seemed to symbolize the radical-traditionalist thrust of his program: things will be as they once were, only different. At the table's left end the crier stood forward. He wore a tabard sporting the traditional device of lion, gules, rampant on field of gold. No one knew why this was traditional, inasmuch as Zazesspur's emblem was a blue cockatrice on a light-green field. No one knew where that came from, either, cockatrices being exceedingly rare in Tethyr, even since the monarchy's collapse. Some savants theorized that was the reason for the symbol's adoption, that the appearance of such a rarity as a cockatrice in Zazesspur might have been deemed worthy of commemoration. Actually, nobody cared anymore. "Oyez, oyez! " the crier cried. "Gentles of Zazesspur, attend! The city council is now in session: let all observe the gravest punctilio!" The groundlings cranked their hubbub down a notch. Despite the crier's most ferocious glare they refused to subside further. After an exasperated moment, he puffed himself up and blared, "The prisoner, Zaranda Star, may approach the council." Zaranda marched in, flanked by a squad of city police in shiny black carapaces. She wore a fresh white gown. Her hands were manacled before her by discreet steel. The crowd stirred. The Hairheads jeered and shook their fists. The policemen escorted her to the council table and withdrew to the sidelines. The crier struck the floor three times with the head-high ceremonial mace he carried. "Spectators must remain silent, or be thrust forth!" The Marquise Enzo leaned forward. He had a balding head, fuzzy eyebrows, and

spectacles perched before perpetually blinking eyes. He occupied the table's middle seat, and was consequently chairman for the day. "Zaranda Star," he said, steepling fingers before his small chin, "you have much to answer for." "Of what do I stand accused?" she asked. Her voice, though calm, filled the hall. "Nothing, nothing. Did you not hear? You're not on trial." "Then what am I doing here?" "Answering questions, only." She held up fettered hands. "Your status remains in doubt," Baron Zam said waspishly. "Your creation of your own private army is notorious." "And keeping me in irons will prevent me from threatening you with this supposed army?" she asked. Some of the audience laughed. Jinjivar the Sorcerer leaned forward. His turban wobbled alarmingly, threatening to overbalance him. "Is it true," he asked, "that upon being taken into the custody of Duke Hembreon, you gave your parole to employ no magic in any attempt to escape or otherwise alter the circumstances of your captivity?" "I did." "And do you now reaffirm the oaths you swore to that effect?" "I do. I wouldn't miss this for the world." "So now," the marquis said, eyebrows drawn together in annoyance at the others' horning in, "account for yourself." She shook back her hair and laughed. The hall fell silent. "That's rather a broad assignment. Would you care to be more specific?" Burly, black-bearded Hafzul Gorbon slammed a palm on the tabletop.

"Impertinence!" He glared around at his fellows. "What more do we have to hear? Let's have her head off and go back to our affairs." Ravenak's contingent cheered. "I see why I'm not on trial," Zaranda said. "I appear already to have been found guilty and sentenced to death, besides." Hembreon leaned forward. "Zaranda Star, no decision has been made by this council regarding you. I give you my word." "Very well," she said. "You want an account of what I've been doing. You shall have it. Many say that Tethyr needs a strong central government. That may be so; certainly the land has fallen on hard times since the monarchy fell. "Few will deny that the justification for a government's existence is to protect the persons and property of its citizens. Yet when I returned to Tethyr a year ago I found no shortage of governments. Rather I found them everywhere. But I found precious little protection. Rather, as often as not, the self-proclaimed governments were the most rapacious predators." Malhalvadon Stringfellow jumped up onto his chair. "Must we sit and listen to these slanders?" "You're welcome to stand," said Anakul in his unctuous voice. "But, pray, be quiet. It is the deponent's time to speak. You'll only protract matters needlessly if you continue to disrupt these proceedings." Grumbling, the halfling sat back down and Zaranda continued. "My caravan was illegally impounded when I attempted to bring it into Zazesspur. I was left nearly destitute. Under such circumstances, if one doesn't wish to become a beggar or go into crime or government, one must find a service that people need and supply it." She turned to the colorful multitudes ranked around the huge hall. "I must insist that the defen—that is, the deponent—face the council—" Enzo said.

Zaranda ignored him. "The people of Tethyr had neither safety nor security. Rivers and roads were blockaded as effectively as by an invading army. I could not set matters right myself; I had no army sufficient to such a task, nor means of raising one. Nor am I sure that way is best, for had I the force to impose order, would I not also possess the means of imposing in other ways, as the robbers who call themselves nobles do?" "What is all this?" Baron Zam demanded. "What of your sedition? What of your raising the countryside in rebellion?" "Sedition against whom?" Zaranda asked. "Rebellion against whom? Not the 'duly constituted government' of Tethyr—because it neglects to exist. "All I have done is attempt to provide the people with the means of defending themselves. That's the only way I know to achieve real security. Seldom in my life have I known safety that I did not provide myself. Who, after all, will care for you better than you yourselves?" She turned back to face the council and raised bound hands. "The people of Tethyr have responded. Many of them, it seemed, desired what I and my associates had to offer. There is no 'private army.' There is only a small cadre, my friends and employees, far too minute to threaten a mighty walled city such as Zazesspur. And there are common folk in the farms and villages and out upon the roads, well trained, armed, and organized to protect themselves, but lacking the means to sustain an aggressive campaign. "And there you have it, Lady Korun, gentlemen. The entirety of my plan, and of my intentions: to help the people of Tethyr free themselves from fear." Shouts and applause burst from the crowd. Hisses and angry shouts answered from council claques and Hairheads. The crier pounded the butt of his mace on the

floor and screamed for order until his face went red. Baron Hardisty stepped forward, clapping his hands. The din subsided, until the only sound to be heard in all the hall was the soft fall of his slippered feet and his solitary applause. "Very impressive, Countess Morninggold. Your passion is quite commendable. And also sad—inasmuch as it demonstrates that you have become a tool of the forces of anarchy that have so blighted our land. You speak of the impossibility of treason against the nonexistent government of Tethyr, and certainly this is true. But in spreading arms and broadcasting resistance among the populace, you seriously impede the establishment of such just and necessary government, and so, in a real sense, betray the people of Tethyr, whom you claim to help." "Order and government are not one and the same," Zaranda said. "You will address the lord of the city as 'my lord,' " Enzo instructed. Hardisty waved a hand, dispensing of formality. "The Countess Morninggold has told of the patchwork of governments, self-proclaimed nobles, she encountered on her return to Tethyr. Does this not eloquently bespeak the need for the reunification of the country, under a central government strong enough to suppress such petty tyrannies?" That provoked dark looks and mutters from the council table, since those self-proclaimed nobles had been comfortable sources of income for no few of the people who sat at it. "I don't doubt a central government could suppress petty tyrannies," Zaranda replied. "But would that necessarily be an improvement? With all respect, isn't it as likely to produce one big tyranny?" "Zaranda, Zaranda." Hardisty shook his head sadly. "Such cynicism ill becomes you. I wonder if your soul is altogether free of the taint of evil."

"In my life, I have done much that I regret," Zaranda said, "but little I'm ashamed of. Can everyone present claim as much?" "Insolence!" hissed Baron Zam. "Intolerable." "Let's put an end to this farce," demanded Hafzul Gorbon, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull's. "I'm inclined to agree," said Lady Korun, sprawled at apparent ease in her chair. "Clearly the woman's a subversive. Do we really need to hear more of her babbling?" "Ladies and gentlemen of the council, of Zazesspur—of all of Tethyr," Hardisty said, turning to address the onlookers, "hear me. Our land has come to a fork in its road. Before you lie two paths: my way, which leads through monarchy to order; hers, which leads to anarchy and ultimately dissolution. The time has come to choose. I trust in you—in all of you—to choose wisely. I believe you will turn away from the false promises of 'freedom' that the countess and her ilk hold out, and give yourselves into the care of those who have your interests at heart, and know how best to serve those interests." "Those who trade freedom for security in the end get neither," Zaranda said ringingly. "Who honors promises made to slaves?" Armenides rose from the midst of his white-robed acolytes. "Sir Chairman, if I might address the council?" The Marquis Enzo glanced at Hardisty. "Very well, Your Eminence." "The countess speaks with the voice of the past. We speak with the voice of the future. What need have the people of Tethyr for arms or the skill of arms? Such can only increase the burden on their souls. I beg of you, good sirs and ladies, disarm these poor people she has deluded before they do harm to others or themselves." "Listen to what he's saying!" Zaranda challenged the crowd. "What does this

government intend for Tethyr that it need fear a people enabled to defend themselves?" Enzo pounded the table and shouted for order. The crier grew almost apoplectic. City policemen seized Zaranda by the arms and hustled her from the hall. "What are they planning to do," she cried, "that they know you'll resist if you can?" The great bronze doors slammed shut on her words.

25

Through her barred window, Zaranda watched the blue planet Chandos, so near in its circuit about the sun that it showed not just a disk but a hint of roundness, rise up out of the east. Scarcely had it mounted the sky than the faint light of Anadia began to well up from the horizon. She thought of her observatory tower back home in Morninggold, wondered if she would ever watch the stars and playful planets from it again. Blinking to keep back the tears, she said, "You seem concerned, Your Grace." Seated at the table, the most recent of her steady stream of visitors raised his head sharply from his hand, like a man who's caught himself dozing off. "It is nothing, Zaranda Star. Or rather ... but I cannot allow personal considerations to cloud my vision of duty to city and country." "Which is to say the lord of the city pays too close attention to your daughter." "Enough!" snapped Duke Hembreon, jumping to his feet with alacrity a younger man might envy. "I have taken pains to see that you are treated well, but you are still a prisoner. Do not presume too greatly upon my goodwill." "Still a prisoner," Zaranda said, "and still charged with nothing." Hembreon frowned. "As of today charges were formally levied against you in council. I have brought a bill of particulars." He held up a scroll tied with a purple ribbon. "And why was I not present to answer those charges, as Zazesspurian law requires? I certainly didn't have any conflicting appointments." He failed to meet her eye. "There were special considerations—extraordinary circumstances. . . ."

"Just keep talking that way," Zaranda said mock-approvingly. "We'll make a chaotic of you yet." The old man's spine stiffened. "These are trying times. It is always easy to see which is the path of righteousness when one isn't actually called upon to make the choice." "I appreciate that. But are you certain the path you want is the one marked, 'His Royal Majesty, Faneuil I'?" "He stands for the rule of law. He stands for what Tethyr needs." "Does he? I say he's unleashed disorder on Zazesspur. And it's due to get worse." "On what do you base your reasoning, young woman?" He tried to sound sternly dismissive. He didn't quite make it. Got you, you thin-lipped old pillar of rectitude, she thought. Doubt was her ally. "He wants you to go on and declare him king. Yet various of your fellow councilors already have second thoughts about the wisdom of acclaiming him lord of Zazesspur. He'll perceive that, or Armenides will. He needs some new crisis to catapult him onto the throne, and knows it." " 'Crisis'? " The duke was too polite to sneer. "Crisis. I think Zazesspur's due for a dose of civil disorder, sooner rather than later. Something that will make the people cry out for a strong hand to restore order." She tipped her head to the side and tapped one finger against her cheek. "I think he'll use Ravenak's ruffians. They're like boulders balanced precariously on the very brink of a precipice, wanting only the tiniest zephyr to bring the whole mountainside crashing down." "Preposterous!" "You think so? Try this thought on for size: did anyone encounter a single darkling

on Zazesspur's streets before Hardisty began his climb?" "Woman, I will not stand to hear our new lord's name besmirched. Good evening. Officer of the watch, I wish to be let out at once!" Immediately bolts began to slide back on the far side of the door. "All I ask," Zaranda said, "is that you remember what I told you." He gave her a lambent-eyed look of disgust and went out. * * * * * Beneath her the bed turned to viscous blackness; without chance to react, she was swallowed up. And then she was falling, endlessly, endlessly—but not endlessly enough. Below her, vanishingly small but somehow clear, a shadowed shape writhed, greater black against blackness. No matter how you fight it, no matter what you do, you will come to Me, that hated voice hissed. Why struggle against the inevitable? You might spare yourself no little pain. Still she fell. As she fell, she seemed to glimpse scenes flashing past: a seething caldron whose contents she did not dare examine; foul creatures opening a grate that led to the streets from the sewers beneath the city; a procession of wailing children, yoked together neck to neck, shuffling forward toward a black galley lolling at anchor in some vast flooded cavern.. .. And always the blackness below, yearning for her, reaching for her with tentacles of black... . She was dashed into consciousness as if by a plunge into icy water. For a moment she lay gasping, so coated in sweat that she seemed in imminent danger of slipping off the bed onto the floor. Then her ears resolved the sounds that had brought her out of sleep. Bells. And a faint murmur, as of many distant voices raised in anger.

She rose and walked to the window. No planets were visible, and the moon and its bright attendants were absent. But by pressing her face hard against one wall and staring as far to one side of the window as she could, she could see orange light staining the sky, as if Selune were trying to rise in the south. Zazesspur was burning. * * * * * Zaranda sat back onto the sill. The morning sun lay warm on her back, despite being filtered by overcast. The smell of rain, past and future, came through the open window. "I'm sorry," she said, "about your shop, and most of all, about your father." Simonne Soiltender—"White Eyebrow" had been her father's nickname—sat on Zaranda's stool looking very small. She wore a leather jerkin over a saffron blouse and sand-colored hose. Her voluminous black hair was done up in a bun and covered by a bandanna whose gaiety clashed with her demeanor. "You of all folk are the last who owe apology," she said. She was turning her toothed-wheel holy sign of Gond over and over in strong, capable fingers. It was finely milled of steel, which the god held the noblest of metals, preferring its utility to the showiness of silver, platinum, or gold. "You warned him time and again." "And yet I might have helped precipitate his murder, by facing down those ravers in his shop last year." "Just as likely you forestalled it. Such folk want victims, not confrontation; it's weakness that arouses their bloodlust. My father's confirmed passivity marked him as a target. Once we mustered opposition, ill-armed and untrained as it was, the rioters fell back smartly enough." She let the medallion drop and buried her face in her hands. Tears leaked between

the fingers. "Oh, Father, Father. If only I'd had the strength to disobey you before it was too late!" Zaranda came to her and laid an arm around shaking shoulders. "Grieve, for you must. But don't burden your soul with regrets. You won't serve your father's memory by crippling yourself with might-have-beens." The priestess clung to Zaranda, and her slight but sturdy frame was racked by great, silent sobs. Zaranda gently stroked her friend's head. Her blue-gray eyes leaked a few tears of their own, but silently; she would do her grieving for White Eyebrow later, if she were still alive. At last the tremors dwindled, and Simonne pulled away. "You're right," she said. "Gond teaches us ever to look to the future." "Well said, my friend." Zaranda sat down in her chair across the desk from her visitor. "What do you see the future as holding?" "Extinction for the gnomes of Zazesspur," Simonne replied, "unless we fight back." Zaranda smiled. "Fighting back is a commodity I specialize in." Simonne nodded. "I know. I didn't come just to bear news of my father's death." She sat upright. "I wish to engage the services of Star Protectives to teach us how to defend ourselves. My father left some treasure hidden where the marauders couldn't get to it, and I have some small wealth of my own." "You needn't concern yourself—" Zaranda began. The priestess held up a hand. "Please. Followers of Gond give charity, but do not accept it. Nor is it wise for gnomes to come to you larger folk as supplicants; my father was right about that, as about so many things." "Indeed, your father was a wise gnome. And you're a worthy daughter. But let us leave the matter of payment for later; I'll trust you to pay, and if you so choose, you will

trust me not to gouge you." "So let it be done," Simonne said with a businesslike nod. "Now, my freedom of action's a bit curtailed right now, so when it comes to training, you're best advised to try to reach my people outside the city. In fact, since you insist on giving recompense, your so doing would be of great service to me, and go far toward repaying whatever help I render you." "We can do that. We prefer to live within the laws as much as possible, but as you know, we're not slavish. When the law becomes intolerable, it is our way to slide around insofar as we can." "I know." "So rest assured that we shall quickly contact your friends outside; walls and patrols cannot contain us." Zaranda gripped the table's edge for support; the flood of relief made her dizzy. Though her people could do nothing to help her, though the rumors of dissension and dissolution might well be true—still, what a relief to know how her friends fared. "Thank you. Now, you managed to extemporize a self-defense force to rout the Hairheads. That's an excellent start. I can tell you—" "A moment, please, gnome-friend." Simonne's large eyes were solemn. "The council—or at least Baron Hardisty—looks askance at attempts by the people to defend themselves. Can we safely discuss such matters, here in the heart of city hall?" Zaranda laughed out loud. "Of all my visitors, you're the first to question that. The powerful and the putatively wise have been tramping through my humble abode by the hour, working their jaws with never a thought that anyone might be eavesdropping!" She shook her head. "There are tricks I've heard of, speaking tubes built directly into a building to convey conversations to secret listeners. I've found no sign of such in my

cell, though I'm far from expert enough to guarantee we're safe. And I've sensed no dweomer play directed against me—but again, a sufficiently puissant wizard could cast a clairaudience spell and I'd never feel it." She shrugged. "But among my ever-so-candid visitors have been almost all the council. They saw no reason to guard their speech. Perhaps neither their intellect nor wisdom are such as to astonish all Toril, but I trust them to be astute in the matter of keeping their own hides intact." "Fair enough," the priestess said. "Now, what can you tell me?" For an hour Zaranda sketched out a plan for whipping up a serviceable self-defense force. "Now," she concluded, "a show of force—more, of determination—will most likely deter would-be pogrom-makers like the ravers; as you said, they seek sport, not the chance to see their own blood spill. But if you face organized aggression—" she meant the bronze-and-blues, but saw no reason to tempt fate by being unnecessarily explicit "—it's paramount not to confront them directly. Never meet strength with strength; instead give way like water, and like water flow around and in behind them. And, like water, you can erode them, given patience and resolve." The priestess rose. "Your words are sound. I will remember them. Thank you. Now I must go. I'll get in touch with your people as soon as I can." She turned to go. "One thing," Zaranda said. "I've been having . .. disquieting dreams.. . ." "As have we all." "During one especially bad one I had a vision: a black galley, moored in some half-flooded cavern beneath the city, taking on a load of stolen children." "I've heard the rumors," Simonne said. "Fell things go on beneath any city; that's the way of Faerun. But my dreams . . .

they seem to come from below." "The darklings come from the sewers." "So they do—but stay clear of them; you'll not have the strength to meet them on their own ground. The black galley, though—" "We can deal with its crew and accomplices, if indeed they're down there. Such evil must be stopped." The priestess showed a distinctly nongnomish grin. "And who knows? We may bring some fascinating bits of knowledge to light." * * * * * Come to me, the Voice sang, dry and insistent as desert wind. Join me. Think what I have to offer: the power to make of things what they ought to be. Lying on her back, Zaranda moaned and thrashed her head from side to side. There was no escaping the sibilant caress of that Voice. Come to me, Zaranda. You are mine already. Come to me and know the power; come to me and spare yourself the pain. * * * * * The opening of her cell door was like the breaking of a spell. She sat up, clutching sweat-sodden sheets to herself, throwing up a palm to ward off lantern light that seemed to pierce her eyes like spears. Shapes resolved from the glare as her eyes adjusted: Duke Hembreon, tall, cloaked, and grave, backed by city police. Others filed in until the small chamber was packed—Lord Hardisty, Armenides, Shaveli Sword-Master, the latter carrying a large leathern bag. "To what do I owe the honor?" she asked. The duke shook his magnificent white head. "Ah, Zaranda, to think that I believed you when you said you intended no treachery. Poorly have you served my faith."

She slid her legs over the bed's edge and sat all the way up, winding the sheet more carefully about her. "What are you talking about?" "We have brought you a small present, Countess Morninggold," Armenides said unctuously. The baron nodded. Shaveli opened the sack, thrust his hand in. It came out holding the head of Artalos the armorer by the topknot. "The Sword-Master's specials caught him attempting commerce with the enemies of Zazesspur and Tethyr," Hardisty said. "We have had a most enlightening conversation." The severed head opened its eyes. "Zaranda," it croaked. "I'm sorry. I thought I could help. Please—" Armenides clapped his hands. Artalos's eyes rolled upward in their sockets, and his long jaw hung slack. Gods! Zaranda thought. Simonne! Blood began to seep into the wad of sheet clutched in her right hand, where the nails had bit clean through linen into the palm. "Why have you done this to him? Even if he sought to reach my friends, they're no enemies of Zazesspur." Shaveli laughed. "I loved the look in your eyes when he opened his. Have you missed me, then, my pretty little countess?" "Faneuil, silence your cur!" snapped Hembreon. The Sword-Master looked poison at him. Ignoring him, the old duke stepped forward to stand gazing down at Zaranda with pain in his deep-sunk eyes. "Your Star Protective Services are encamped before the city," he said. "They swear to free you by force. A thousand strong they are—" Zaranda's laugh rang like a brazen gong of Thay. "A thousand against a city such as Zazesspur? What kind of threat is that? They might as well be a thousand children for

all the harm they can do to you behind your walls!" "—and more march hourly to join them, from all over Tethyr." She stood. "But that's absurd. If nothing else, Shield of Innocence knows better than to lead such troops against fortifications so strong, manned by regular troops." "Our intelligence indicates the orog no longer leads," Hardisty said. "And if we required further proof of your perfidy, consorting with a great-orc of the Thighbone-Splitter tribe would suffice to condemn you," Armenides said. "He's been accused of treachery in what these miscreants choose to regard as your 'kidnapping,' " the Lord of Zazesspur continued. "He is transported in chains. A mute ranger leads the rebels, and a half-elf bard speaks for him." Zaranda sank back to the bed and covered her face in her hands. "We should welcome the advent of all the rebels in Tethyr," Armenides said. "When they have conveniently gathered together in the open country around Zazesspur, Lord Faneuil will muster the civic guard and the knights of the city, and behold!" He held up his hands and flung open his fingers with the air of one unveiling a major miracle. "No more rebellion." "Zaranda Star," Duke Hembreon declared, "your treason is manifest. Therefore, not without regret, the city council of Zazesspur has decreed that you must pay the penalty. At noon tomorrow—that is, the day following this morning's sunrise—you shall suffer death by breaking upon the great wheel of justice in the midst of the plaza. At the same hour shall the lord of the city be crowned King Faneuil I of all Tethyr." She looked up. Her eyes gleamed with wetness, but her cheeks were dry. "Nothing your executioner can do," she said in a low voice, "will cause me half the pain of the tidings you've brought me." Shaveli's ugly face split in a sunny smile. "Don't count upon that, Countess," he

said. "For I'm the one who'll do the honors."

26

"I can't believe they're going to put Countess Morninggold to death tomorrow," the gangly, pimple-faced youth whispered loudly. The stinking water that lapped their ankles and the slimy sewer walls took his words and cast them in all directions, in the faces of the little party and bouncing down the passageway. "Is there nothing we can do?" A drop fell from the low-groined ceiling onto the back of Simonne's neck and rolled down it like an ice slug. She forced herself not to think of what it was. "Yes," she said more softly. "We can try to be quiet and not get caught. Beyond that—Gond teaches us to make the best use of what fortune places in our hands. We can but trust to his providence and our own resources." By jittering torchlight she surveyed her doughty band: gnomes interspersed with youthful humans and even a smattering of half-elves, faces green-tinted at the stench and knowledge of what was gurgling about their boots. Some of the non-gnomes were fellow Gond followers, others the priestess's friends. The way they clutched their motley collection of knives, clubs, swords, and short bows showed far too plainly for Simonne's taste that none of them was a fighter by training or experience. She looked to the figure by her side. It was even shorter than she, clad in a dark brown cloak with hood thrown back to reveal a head of chestnut curls. It held a hoodwinked bull's-eye lantern in one small hand. "You're sure this is the way, Nikdemane Birdsong?" The halfling nodded, a trifle impatiently. "Down this path, through the narrow passage that forks off to the left there yonder. It's the back way into a subterranean lagoon that feeds into the Sulduskoon and thence to the sea. There's an ancient stone

pier where we used to smuggle goods whose makers didn't care to purchase guild stamps or ask a syndic's leave to do business." "You'd not steer us wrong?" she asked, wondering what she would do if he did. He gave her a look of fine halfling disdain. "I'm a thief, tinker priestess. But I steal goods, not children. Not even bigfeet deserve to be served so." She nodded. She wondered at her own motivation in undertaking this mad caper. She suspected with a touch of chagrin that she and her followers shared a reason: the creed of their red-bearded smith god was Action counts! Yet they all did far more talking than acting. Here was their chance to take action that would truly count. Father, she thought, I don't think even you could disapprove. But withal, I do this for you. She gestured with her three-shot repeating pistol crossbow, recently invented by a fellow priest of Gond Wonderbringer. "Let's go. And please keep it quiet!" * * * * * Lying side by side on their bellies, Simonne and Nik Birdsong inched forward up a sloping passage uncomfortably low even for the gnome woman, although the halfling had walked insouciantly upright until both went prone for the final stretch. Gaining the lip first, the little thief gave Simonne a quick grin of vindication. As he turned back, the priestess saw his expression change to disgust. She writhed up beside him. The tunnel mouth opened twenty feet above the floor of a vast torch-lit chamber. The black galley bobbed gently alongside a mossy stone pier, tied fore and aft to protrusions that might once have been winged statues, but had long since worn to amorphousness—an indication of their age, securely hidden as they were from the erosive forces of wind and weather. The black square-rigged sail hung limp from the

yardarm, but there was no mistaking the stylized black nail and Z rune against a white circle—the emblem of the Zhentarim. Simonne's breath caught in her throat. There was also no mistaking the identities of the men busy herding a coffle of weeping, stumbling children up the gangplank and into the slave ship. All wore the pure-white robes of the priests of Ao. * * * * * Angry murmuring and clatter awoke Zaranda from a fitful but blessedly dreamless sleep. She rose from the bed, feeling as she did so an internal blow to the heart: this is my last morning. She sought to pass the shock off with a joke, murmuring, "Need they make such racket raising the wheel of justice?" as she shuffled to the window. Dawn was turning an overcast sky the color of sour milk. Down on the plaza men fought. Some wore the bronze armor of Hardisty's civic guard. Against them strove men in tradesman's garb, with here and there a black-shelled city policeman among them. Zaranda blinked and dabbed at sleepy eyes. When she looked again, the scene was the same. She marked dark, unmoving shapes strewn liberally across the plaza's sandstone flagging. Some only approximated the human form, not all of them closely. Raising her eyes, she saw pillars of smoke upholding the clouds. She sat sideways on the sill and watched. The battle flowed off the plaza and out of her field of view. Which side was winning, she couldn't tell, if indeed either was. Occasional armed bands hurried across the plaza, looking apprehensively over their shoulders. Now and again Zaranda saw a roil of activity away up one of the streets radiating from the central square. Try as she might, she could make no sense of what was happening. She gave it

every effort: better than contemplating the way her life would end a few hours hence. . .. The sound of three door bolts being shot back sent her heart into her throat. She gasped. Then she set her jaw, rose, and faced the door with chin high and shoulders squared. The door opened. Duke Hembreon came in. He wore plate armor that had once been enameled blue with fastidious white trim. Now it was blood-splashed and fire-blackened. His head was bare; blood from a wound stained pink the hair on the right side of his head. In one steel-gauntleted hand, he carried a broadsword with a notched, gore-crusted blade. "Good morrow, Your Grace," Zaranda said. "Has the council grown too impatient to wait for noon?" The old nobleman staggered across the floor and sat down with a thump and a clangor. He grounded his sword tip on the floor and leaned on the hilt as if the chair didn't offer support enough to keep him upright. "The council is no more," he said. "Zaranda Star, I owe you a mighty apology." She cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "Is that so? Well, Your Grace, I have been expropriated, pursued, persecuted, kidnapped, tortured, slandered, and sentenced to agonizing death. With all due respect, you'll have to do better than that." He glared at her. Slowly the fires of anger died from his blue eyes, and his great head drooped. "You are right, Countess Morninggold. More right than you know, for I must crave a boon of you." "A boon?" She laughed. "Start talking, Your Grace." "Where ought I to begin? Last night a party of armed citizens surprised a Zhentarim

slave galley taking on a shipment of kidnapped Zazesspurian children in a cavern beneath the city. Supervising the vile deed were men wearing the robes of Ao's supposed priesthood." "So Ao hasn't decided to take an active interest in the affairs of this plane after all." "The survivors confessed they were in fact priests of Cyric." Zaranda sucked in a sharp breath. "That's in character, I suppose. That upstart god loves deception for its own sake." The greatest evil deity currently known in the Realms, Cyric had been born during the Time of Troubles, even as Bhaal, Myrkul, and Bane, whose portfolios he had usurped, were destroyed. "And Armenides—?" The duke held up a hand. "In hiding. But more of that anon. Pray let me tell my tale in order. It is painful enough." Zaranda gestured him to proceed. "Scarcely had word of the discovery reached the council's ears than a frightful thing came to pass. Those children of our most prominent citizens who had joined the All-Friends rose up and began to slaughter their parents. Deymos, Baron Zam, and the Lady Korun are known dead at their offsprings' hands; Hafzul Gorbon stove in his only daughter's head with a mace as she stood over her mother's corpse with dripping blade, then lay down beside his wife and slit his own throat. Others—" He shook his head. "Gods! Tatrina?" He sighed. "She has vanished into the Palace of Governance, wherein Hardisty has crowned himself king and declared her his consort. At least I dare hope she has not been . . . affected." "I hope so as well. But why do citizens and constables battle blue-and-bronzes in

the streets?" "An hour before dawn, even as the last of the murderous youths and maidens were being subdued, darklings poured forth from the sewers in unimaginable profusion and began to slay. The civic guard got orders not to fight them. Many deserted; others tried to disarm citizens and constabulary and became embroiled in the fighting you saw. A number are fortified up with the usurper Hardisty. Most have barricaded themselves in their barracks and wait to see which way fortune's winds blow." He shook his head, like an old lion who has found temporary shelter from a pack of hounds who have harried him near death. "The hinges are blasted off the gates of all the hells. Earl Ravenak's swine rampage against nonhumans and foreigners. Artisans battle the syndics of their very guilds. The supposed forces of order fight one another. The scions of Zazesspur's finest families are turned to monsters by some means none can divine, have slaughtered the leaders of our city and been slaughtered in their turn. And all must be overthrown if the darklings are not stopped." He raised his head as if he had a tombstone yoked to his neck and looked at Zaranda. "It seems we are to know the Ten Black Days of Eleint again, all compressed into a single day." She went to the stool, sat down, and began to massage her temples. "So," she said. " The evil ran deeper than I imagined . . . than I could have imagined." She looked up at the duke. "What do you want of me?" "I have myself just come from fighting the darklings. We are sorely pressed. The issue—the very survival of Zazesspur—remains in the gravest doubt." "You want my help." "I beseech your help, Countess Morninggold. Though I fear that all the help you can possibly provide might not suffice to stem the evil tide."

She spread her hands. "I'd love to oblige, Your Grace, but I have an appointment to be spread out on a giant wheel and have all my bones broken in a few hours." Hembreon moaned. "You are pardoned. Your sentence of death is overturned and rendered null. We were deceived." "Has the council voted to nullify my sentence? You said yourself that most were unaccounted for." With surprising alacrity the duke whipped up his sword. "Whoever tries to gainsay me, I will strike down with my own hand. I warrant your life with my own. This I swear on my honor." "Very well." Zaranda nodded briskly. Turning to the table, she took up pen and parchment. "Send a patrol to convey this message beneath a flag of truce to my friends. Needless to say, you must also alert such forces as remain loyal to the council that we're on the same side now." The duke was too soul-weary to take umbrage at being ordered about like a scullery whelp by his erstwhile prisoner. "It shall be done." "It'll take time for our reinforcements to arrive. See if you can scare me up some spellbooks. I'll memorize such spells as I can while we wait." "You will not join the fight at once?" "You flatter me, Your Grace. Would my single blade make that much difference against numberless hordes of darklings? Especially since I'm without my magic sword?" She shook her head. "As it is, I don't know what good my few paltry spells might do, either. But I'll seize any advantage I can with both hands." The duke sighed, rose heavily. "I had hoped—" His voice trailed away, and he blinked back tears. Zaranda looked up from her writing. "Out with it."

"My daughter ... I had hoped—if there is any hope—that you might rescue her." "What if she doesn't want to be rescued?" The look of agony that washed over the old man's features brought her instant shame. "Don't worry, Your Grace," she said quickly. "The first item on my agenda is breaking into the Palace of Misrule over there and cutting King Faneuil the First and Last's black heart right out of his chest." She finished writing, signed the parchment with a flourish, and held it out to him. "After my friends get here." * * * * * A knock at the door roused her from a surprisingly deep sleep—surprising in that she had simply lain down to rest her eyes while waiting, and was not plagued by nightmares. Perhaps she was too tired to dream. Or perhaps the owner of that dry and loathly Voice had more pressing claims on its attention. She woke with a fearful start: they've come to take me and break me! By the time she remembered that those festivities had been called on account of reign—the reign of evil, to be exact—the door had opened and into the city hall clerk's office, which she had commandeered after her release, came Nyadnar. "It speaks well for your presence of mind that you can sleep under these circumstances," the sorceress said. "What surprises me is that I could sleep last night at all," Zaranda said, rising from the makeshift cot. "What can I do for you?" Day turned the pallor of Nyadnar's features marmoreal, giving her the weird, poignant beauty of an ancient statue brought to life. She wore her customary robe of midnight-blue velvet, and over it a gray cloak to shield her from the sporadic drizzle. From beneath the cloak she produced a bundle of books and age-yellowed papers,

bound up by a purple ribbon. These she laid on the table. "My early spellbooks," the enchantress said. "Any spells known to you, you will find therein." Zaranda stared at the bundle as if it might at any moment transform itself into a raging dragon. "The world must be spinning seriously out of balance," she said, "for you to take such measures on my behalf." "Don't leap to conclusions; that displays a lack of mental rigor," Nyadnar said. "It might be necessary that you fail spectacularly." "Then I'll have to try my best to disappoint you," Zaranda said with a she-wolf grin. "In the meantime, though, I thank you." * * * * * The sun was setting when another knock roused Zaranda from her studies. "What is it?" she called, knuckling sand-blasted eyes. A policeman opened the door. "His Grace the duke sends his regards, milady. He bids me tell you your friends approach." * * * * * "Well met, Zaranda Star!" called Farlorn the Handsome, waving jauntily from the back of his dapple-gray mare. "Your beauty is most resplendent, all things considered." Mounted on his dark bay, Stillhawk met her eye and nodded greeting. It took all her strength to keep her knees from buckling right there on the city hall steps. The pressure of tears unshed stung her eyes. The two men swung down from their horses and walked up to her. When Zaranda made no move to embrace them, the half-elf cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. "Where are the others?" she asked quietly. "Where are Shield, and Chen? Where's

Goldie?" The sky was gray as a gull's back, save near the horizon where fire held sway. The air was thick with the smells of death and burning and decay. The darklings stank like dead things even when alive, if alive they were. Even if Zazesspur survived, it would take time to eradicate their stench. "I thought you'd have heard," said Farlorn. "The beast betrayed you to the baron's men; we clapped him in irons and have kept him there ever since. The girl has been in a most powerful sulk since you vanished. She refused to accompany us today." Have I done wrong? Stillhawk signed. Zaranda touched his arm. "If so, not intentionally. I suspected Shield for a time myself. But I feel as if a wrong has been done." Farlorn tut-tutted and shook his head. "Ah, Zaranda. Once again, you're letting the softness of your heart weaken that hard head of yours—" "Hey! Zaranda! Randi!" Zaranda turned. Trotting across the plaza from the south came Goldie, bearing Chenowyn on her back. At their side loped Shield of Innocence.

27

"You're sure this is the way into the palace?" Zaranda asked. Farlorn's beautiful features assumed a long-suffering look by torchlight. "I didn't spend our previous sojourn in the city cutting out paper dolls. Naturally the palace attracted my interest, as a monument to elephantine bad taste if for no other reason. I made inquiry, and explored some on my own. That's one nice thing about trying to infiltrate buildings built less than an eon ago; it's a lot easier to buy a workman a jack of good ale at a tavern than it is to summon up his shade." Zaranda's party was recapitulating Simonne's sewer-crawl of the night before, which had precipitated today's crisis. Zaranda's group, while smaller, was much more seasoned. Farlorn led the way with a bull's-eye lantern in one hand and his rapier in the other, eschewing any armor but the leather jerkin he wore over a white blouse with lace at throat and cuffs. Beside him walked Stillhawk with an arrow nocked to his elvish longbow and long sword belted at his hip; as was his custom, he too wore no armor, though his heavy leather tunic gave some protection. Next came Zaranda, armed with a splendid if non-magical long sword from Hembreon's armory and a long-bladed dagger with a knuckle bow for parrying. Unless mounted, she hated a shield's encumbrance; her left hand held a torch. Her only armor was a steel cuirass. Chen followed, unarmored in loose blouse and trousers, with a dagger thrust through her belt, primarily for effect. She refused to be left behind, and given her service in springing the great orog, Zaranda didn't argue. Shield of Innocence brought up the rear. The orog was magnificent and fearful in armor which, like the scimitars in his taloned hands, he had crafted himself under the guidance of Torm, whose gauntlet was inlaid in gold in the center of his breastplate. He

wore a helmet close-molded to his head with cheekpiece flanges that left his pointed ears clear to facilitate hearing, and steel greaves and vambraces, all polished to a mirror shine. His expression was serene. If his imprisonment had engendered resentment in his mighty breast, it didn't show on his face. The tunnel running under the palace was high enough that all save Shield could walk without stooping. The smell was no less appalling for the comparatively short time the sewer had been in use, but Zaranda had endured worse. None of the others wasted breath on it either. Chen, who was not normally slow to speak up if things were not to her liking, had always been indifferent to smells, most notably her own, in the days before Zaranda brought her around on the hygiene issue. Farlorn, most aesthetically sensitive of the lot, displayed the loftiness of his contempt by not deigning to complain. The tunnel began to branch to serve the various parts of the vast structure. Zazesspur, with its wealth of innovative and assiduous artisans, had enjoyed running water and indoor plumbing longer even than most great cities of Faerun; it was a simple enough technic, involving no magic, unless one were Calishite and simply had to have one's needs served by a bowl of water summoning. The half-elf led them left, right, left again down passages that diminished at every fork, so that even Chen, shortest of the group, had to double over, and Shield had to waddle in a painful-looking squat. His placid look never wavered. " 'Ware upward," Farlorn called back over his shoulder. "Anything falling from above is unlikely to be the manna of the gods!" "Thanks so much for reminding us," Zaranda said in a low voice. Farlorn laughed musically. "And could you please be quiet? If Hardisty hears voices floating up out of his commode he's not going to think it's an angelic chorus come to sing his praises."

The half-elf grinned at her and, maddeningly, laughed aloud. His olive cheeks were flushed, eyes fever-bright. From experience, Zaranda knew that when the manic mood came upon him there was no containing him. She likewise knew that, while in such an exalted state he might take risks that seemed insane, he had never brought disaster on himself or his comrades. Yet. Just when it seemed Zaranda's thigh muscles were going to split straight across, Stillhawk and Farlorn straightened. Zaranda came up alongside them and found a round passage rising straight up. "What's this," she asked, "a giant's oubliette?" Farlorn shone the beam of his bull's-eye over metal rungs running up the tube's side to a circular wooden hatch ten feet up. "An access passage, so that workmen can enter the sewers in case of blockage." Zaranda drew in a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. "Once we're up, there'll be no turning back." She turned and embraced the others in turn. The rest exchanged handshakes and hugs. This might be the last chance to say good-bye. Stillhawk came to Shield of Innocence, paused, stuck out his hand. The great orc gripped him firmly, forearm to forearm. Then the orog turned to Farlorn. The half-elf sneered and turned away. Zaranda looked at him, then up at the hatch. "Locked?" "Of course. Did you think this would be easy?" "I thought it would be harder already." She shut her eyes and concentrated. It was difficult to summon the dweomer; fatigue dragged her down with leaden fingers. Get through this and you can rest all you want, she told herself. One way or another. She spoke the spell. The squeal of metal on metal sounded through the thick

wooden disk as a bolt withdrew. Farlorn sheathed his rapier, swarmed up the rungs like a squirrel, and tested the hatch. He spat a curse in Elven. "Still locked!" The words struck Zaranda like a fist in the belly. The breath chuffed out of her, and she bent over as if in physical pain, resting hands on thighs. She had had but the one knock spell memorized. "Farlorn, it's not like you to do so slipshod a job of scouting." "No one else did any kind of scouting at all." "That's fair enough," Zaranda said. She straightened and scrutinized the disk. Its blank, rough wood suggested nothing. "I can try to open it," Chen offered. "You haven't learned the knock spell," Zaranda reminded her. "Maybe I can use my other powers." "No. They're too unpredictable. And I've a feeling there are things within the palace for whom such a concentration of dweomer would be like tocsins ringing. I'm uneasy enough about the puny little spell I cast." "The great Zaranda Star, admitting defeat?" said Farlorn. "I don't believe it." "Don't," Zaranda said. "Yet. Still—we go in here, or try to batter down the front door." "Let me," Shield of Innocence said. He strode toward the ladder. Farlorn flowed down like a cat, jumped clear so as not to let the orog near him. Sheathing swords across his back, Shield climbed up. He tested the disk with his hand, then braced his feet on the rungs, laid the side of his head and his shoulder to the wood, and heaved. Veins bulged from forehead and great corded neck. His spine creaked loudly. Wood groaned like a soul in torment, and with a twang and a crash the hatch popped free. "So much for stealth," Chenowyn said.

"We had few choices," Zaranda said, "and now must play out the game we chose. Up, now, and quickly." The orog had already disappeared through the hole. Yellow lamplight streamed down into the sewer. Farlorn swarmed up, then Stillhawk with bow slung over his shoulder. Zaranda let Chen go next, keeping long sword ready, then followed She found herself in an octagonal chamber of about the same dimensions as Hardisty's receiving room on the topmost floor. Four shadowed passageways led out of the chamber. A pair of thick columns flanked each entrance about six feet in. Each pillar was fitted with a black-iron sconce in which a torch flared. The hatch was three feet across and six inches thick. Shield picked it up as if it were a serving tray and fitted it back into the hole. Two heavy brass slide-latches had secured it. One was neatly opened, the other a twisted ruin. "Put them back in place," Zaranda said. "We'll just have to hope nobody chancing by gives them too close a look." The orog did as he was bid. Which way? signed Stillhawk. "This way lies the rear of the palace," said Farlorn, indicating a corridor. "As good a way as any," Zaranda said, and led the group that way. There came a rumble, a friction squeal, and a thunderclap crash. Zaranda dropped to her knees, ears ringing. She snapped her head around. A five-foot-thick column of stone had dropped from the ceiling to seal the hatch. "Trapped!" she cried. "Farlorn, you've led us into a thieves' foyer!" In the Empires of the Sands it was customary for dwellings of pretense to be built so as to offer prospective thieves a means of ingress—not too easy, just enough to challenge the skills of a self-respecting rogue. The covert entrances led not to treasures but to traps,

of varying degrees of lethality. This one was obviously designed to capture, not kill. Feeling the dull throb of failure beginning in her temples, Zaranda gathered herself to dash for the corridor. "Correct, Countess Morninggold," a familiar voice said cheerily. "But not just any thieves' foyer." In the entryway before her appeared Armenides, white-robed and smiling. Armed men thronged the passage behind him. At the same time blue-and-bronzes stepped out from behind the pillars, leveling crossbows at the group. Zaranda stopped. She flicked a tiny pellet at the false Ao priest, murmuring height and range, and flung herself backward to escape the fireball's blast. The pellet struck the archpriest's sternum and bounced. It fell to the floor by his sandaled feet. He knelt, picked it up, sniffed it. "Bat dung and sulfur." He smiled. "Why, Countess, I do believe you've just tried to incinerate me." He laughed delightedly. "Did you not think other walls than the dungeon's might be imbued with the god bones of Tantras?" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Now I'll trouble you to put down your weapons," Armenides said. Someone walked past her. She opened her eyes to see the half-elf approaching Armenides. She scrambled to her feet. "Farlorn—no!" The bard walked between two crossbowmen, turned, and smiled. "Your concern is touching, Zaranda, my love. But quite misplaced. I have nothing to fear from my friends." "What do you mean?" "I mean we've all done our poor orc friend a grave disservice. He's a sincere servant of good, may all such die in agony—as will you anon, I might add. I'm your traitor."

"What are you saying?" Zaranda asked, stunned. "Consider the love of a woods-elf maid for a human man. Then consider a cow who can jump over Selune in a single bound: both have the same chance of existing. It was rape that engendered me, not romance." His dark eyes caught the torchlight like the eyes of an animal, and his features seemed feral. "I grew to adulthood scarcely tolerated by my true folk, my mother's folk—and worse, pitied by them. At last I performed deeds that all the pity in the wide green forests of Faerun would not serve to cover, and fled. Since then I have walked among my father's people, the ravisher's kind, and secretly I have paid my mother's debt a thousandfold." He looked Zaranda in the eyes. "Oh, you were sweet, Zaranda Star! Woman warrior, woman wizard, war leader, merchant—beautiful and haughty. What delight it was to bend you to my will, knowing always that some day I would bring you ruin." "What was done to your mother was terrible," she said in a level voice. "But why keep it clutched to your breast all these years like your most precious possession?" "Because it is my most precious possession! In hatred have I found all that I am; I have found a purpose, a destiny!" He reached inside his blouse, brought forth a medallion on which were embossed three lightning bolts branching from a central point. "When I was driven from my ancestral forest I consecrated my life to Talos the Destroyer. I dream of the day when humankind is cast down in blood and ruin, and the wilderness reclaims its own!" He let the medallion hang. "Long have I awaited my chance to strike a decisive blow. When we approached Zazesspur last year a Voice spoke to me in dreams. And I knew then that the time was come."

"A Voice?" Zaranda repeated. She swayed. "Now I serve the One Below," the bard said. "I serve the Whisperer in Darkness. In his name have I destroyed you." Armenides chuckled. "There. I'm sure we all feel better. Confession is so good for the soul. Now, please undo your sword belts and let them drop. You'll have no need for weapons where you're bound." With a guttural roar of rage, Shield of Innocence hurled himself forward. Chenowyn screamed. Crossbows thumped. No non-magical armor could turn a crossbow quarrel at this range. The milled-steel missiles punched through Shield's breastplate with loud clangs and buried themselves in his flesh. Bellowing, the great orc caught Farlorn's neck with one arm and swung him around. The half-elf screamed as crossbow bolts pierced him. Zaranda tore her borrowed long sword from its scabbard. The crossbowmen who had shot Shield and Farlorn stood flat-footed, the realization slowly dawning that they were now disarmed. Zaranda hacked them down as they turned to flee. Stillhawk, bow and quiver still slung, snatched his own sword off the floor and attacked. A blue-and-bronze, quicker on the uptake than his fellows, snatched out his heavy broadsword and thrust at him. He swept the blade aside with a mighty stroke and spun the man back, unreeling blood streamers with the return. Armenides stepped to the side. Behind him more crossbowmen aimed and loosed. Shield swung round, holding the feebly struggling bard before him. Half a dozen bolts struck the traitor. Some drove onward through metal to pierce the great orc's flesh. "This way!" Zaranda shouted, pointing her bloodied sword at the entrance opposite the one occupied by Armenides and his troops. Chen had drawn her dagger and crouched beside her mentor, menacing air. Zaranda grabbed her arm. "Let's go!"

Though Chen complied, the ranger was reluctant. Won't leave Shield, he signed. "No one's leaving anybody. Shield, bring a live one!" The orog reached out a black-nailed hand, grabbed a nearby guard by the scruff as if grabbing a rabbit. Then he backed across the octagonal chamber, clutching his captive and the now-limp bard, looking like a child with two rag dolls. Shoulder to shoulder, Stillhawk backed with him, facing the enemy as the civic guards wrestled back their crossbow strings. Zaranda practically flung Chen down the corridor. Shield and Stillhawk backed in as guardsmen finished cocking weapons and reached for fresh quarrels. Zaranda flung a handful of skunk cabbage leaves from her magic pouch, which Chen had brought her, past her comrades and onto the floor. Dense green smoke billowed. Zaranda patted the air frantically with her hands, signing, Down! Down! Stillhawk understood at once and threw himself flat, drawing the orog and his captive down with him. Zaranda tackled Chenowyn and pinned her to the floor. Steel bolts buzzed overhead to clatter off walls and ceiling. Zaranda lay a moment with blood drumming in her ears. None of the blue-and-bronzes had had the wit to reserve a shot in case their quarry was up to tricks. "Run for the cross-passage," Zaranda hissed as she jumped up. Her voice was raw from breathing the fringes of the stinking cloud she'd raised. "Head left. Go!" They did. For a moment Zaranda crouched, gazing at the body of Farlorn, sprawled on the floor. Then she followed her friends. She dodged around the corner. Shield stood in the cross-passage calmly pulling a crossbow quarrel through his left biceps. At least four projectiles jutted from his body. "Can you still walk?" she asked him. "Don't fear for me," he rumbled. Beside him Stillhawk pinned the prisoner to the

wall, his sword tip pressed to the hollow of his throat. "I'm fine." "You're not fine," Zaranda said. "You're badly hurt." Shield took her sword hand in one bloody claw, raised it to his tusked mouth, kissed it. "Waste no tears on me, Mistress," he said. "I'll lose nothing today that hasn't been forfeit for a long time." Coughing and choked curses echoed down the corridor. Zaranda stuck her head around the corner. Blue-and-bronzes were braving the noxious smoke. Several had torn the voluminous sleeves from their doublets and tied them over their faces. Two collapsed, retching, on the floor the instant they came through. Zaranda plucked another pellet from her pouch, spoke words, hurled it, and ducked back as the corridor filled with fire and screams. "Hardisty," she said to the terrified captive. "The false king. Lead us to him. And no wrong turns, or the orc will twist your head off." * * * * * Zaranda had misjudged the former Baron Hardisty. She was sure he would await the unfolding of events in his room on the uppermost floor, with his model city to keep him company. But he was king now, even if he'd had to crown himself, and would play the role to the lasts and stays. He had prepared himself a throne room on the palace's ground floor and a throne to go with it, and he occupied both when Shield of Innocence put his shoulder to the fancy double doors and crashed them open. A score of blue-and-bronzes stood between entrance and king, shifting weight from boot to boot and looking nervous. Behind them Tatrina sat slumped beside the huge gilt-washed throne. When the adventurers burst into the throne room, wild-eyed and bristling with weapons, she gasped, leapt to her feet, and tried to run to them.

The king caught her wrist. "Where are you going, my love?" he asked, baritone voice as beautifully modulated as if he asked if she wished to go for a ride in the country. "It's treason to desert your king. Or lese-ma-jeste at least; I've never been clear on the distinction." Zaranda pointed her sword at him. "Hardisty! You are deposed. Let the girl go and surrender, and we'll leave you with your life. Your freedom, even—if you'll help us stop the evil you set loose." King Faneuil put back his head and laughed. His crown was a surprisingly modest circlet of gold. "Always fanciful, Zaranda. Might I point out that you're outnumbered?" "Let's alter the balance, then," Zaranda said. She spoke mystic words and cast a pinch of sand at the guardsmen. Five slumped down, sound asleep, their halberds clattering to the marble floor beside them. The rest leveled weapons and charged. Stillhawk drew back his bow and loosed. Not for nothing had the king spent years as a fighter. Already in motion as Stillhawk pulled his bowstring, he rolled over the arm of the throne as the arrow sang past to strike the back and vibrate at the precise point his crowned head had occupied a heartbeat before. He came up with an arm around Tatrina's neck. "No, no," he said, wagging a finger at Stillhawk. "Don't try that again. Kill them." The last was to his guardsmen, who were already trying their best. Stillhawk had re-slung his bow and was standing off three halberdiers with his long sword. Shield drew his two scimitars and began to lay about him. Zaranda ran straight at the guards. One pulled up short, clutching his halberd across his chest as if unsure how to deal with this menace. In passing, Zaranda gave him a jab to the face with the studded knuckleduster hilt of her left-hand dagger, then parried an overhand cut from a second foe.

Towing his reluctant consort behind, Faneuil dodged behind his throne and ducked under the corner of a huge tapestry depicting him, crowned in a laurel wreath, standing guard over a tiny stylized Zazesspur with sword in one upraised hand and a white radiance, representing Ao, in the palm of the other. Zaranda slashed a guardsman across the fingers, causing him to shriek and drop his weapon. Another stabbed at her with his halberd. Zaranda beat the haft aside and lunged into a riposte that sent the tip of her sword through his throat. She was aware of Stillhawk on her left and Shield on her right working similar execution as they sought to win through and follow the king down his secret passage. Chen had played little role in the proceedings. When she grabbed at Zaranda's sleeve from behind, the older woman's reflex reaction was a flash of irritation. "Randi, look!" the girl cried. Zaranda turned her head to see more blue-and-bronzes flooding the throne room through the double doors of the main entrance behind them, flowing to either side of Armenides, who stood with arms upraised, voicing an incantation. By dint of long practice and hard-won experience, Zaranda had increased the suppleness and cogency of her mind enough that it could contain two fireball spells at a time. The effort in the thieves' foyer, aborted by the magic-deadening stones of Tantras, didn't count. She had one left in her, and she loosed it now. The blast scattered guardsmen like skittles. A sphere of red flame engulfed the false priest. His flesh blackened, flowed, burned away— Revealing his true form: a fiend with the body of a giant scorpion and the head of a bull, rearing eight feet above the rose-marble flagstones. His laughter filled the throne room. "This isn't good," Zaranda said.

"Go!" Shield roared. His blades were in constant motion, flowing about his body in intertwining loops that struck down any guardsman heedless enough to wander near. It seemed impossible that any foe could strike at him through such tapestries of steel, but his breastplate was gashed, and his face and body bled from a dozen fresh wounds. "Follow the king!" he shouted. "I'll hold them." The orog charged. You're only an apprentice paladin, Zaranda wanted to scream. And Armenides must be a puissant fiend indeed: even with the aid of Cyric, lord of deceit, it would require mighty magics for a servant of evil to produce the spurious miracles with which Armenides had bolstered his claim that Ao had grown active in this plane. But she knew she couldn't handle the monster. Any delay the great orc could inflict would increase the others' chances. Of success, if not survival. Stillhawk cut down the last of the king's guards who still showed fight. The rest had fled, and the sight of Armenides's horrid transfiguration only made them run the faster. Zaranda flipped up the tapestry's corner with her sword. A door yawned behind. A damp, cool breeze, touched with grave mold and brimstone, blew out of darkness into their faces. Zaranda saw one of Shield's blades lop a short-clawed nipper off Armenides's jointed forelimb. Her heart leapt. The creature has plenty more, she reminded herself. She bundled Chen through the doorway and down a steep stairwell. An instant later Stillhawk followed them into darkness. * * * * * Zaranda's fireball had killed or incapacitated most of the men Armenides had brought with him to the throne room. But not all. Four swarmed over Shield of Inno-

cence from behind, one jumping on his broad back, the others trying to pin his arms. He roared and swept his arms forward, dashing two assailants' heads together before him. A third clung to his left arm. He split his skull with his right-hand scimitar. The man on his back produced a single-edged dagger and began sawing at the orog's corded neck. Without relinquishing grip on his swords, Shield grabbed the man with both hands and raised him, squirming, above his head. Another guardsman, hair blackened, crinkled, and smoking from Zaranda's fireball, took a running start and thrust the spike of his halberd into the small of Shield's back. The orog bellowed and spun, torquing the halberd from the guardsman's grasp. He flung the man he held into the face of the one who had stabbed him. Then he reached back and plucked the weapon from his body. Armenides caught him from behind by the arms and the legs and hoisted him in the air as easily as Shield had lifted the blue-and-bronze. "You betrayed your people and your gods," the false priest said in the voice he had used in human guise, "and now I'll flay the flesh right off your soul." Blood spurted as pincers bit. Twisting in the monster's grasp, Shield lashed out with his right hand and opened a gash across Armenides's cheek. The bull-thing screamed in pain and dropped its prey as black blood jetted, smoking, from the wound. Shield landed on his back. A blue-and-bronze loomed above him, halberd poised for a downward thrust. The orog hacked the man's legs from beneath him. Then he arched his body backward, snapped forward, and so regained his feet. The monster towered over him. Shield raised his swords and charged. Pincers caught him by arms and legs, lifted him clear of the floor again. The orog bellowed rage. His muscles heaved with all their awesome strength, but this time the monster had made sure of its grip. Shield was held immovably while other pincers

made play. They cut the thick steel of his breastplate as if it were cheesecloth. The thing that had called itself Armenides of Ao worked on the orog for longer than was strictly necessary. Then it tossed the great limp shape aside and glided forward on many legs, to the secret passageway and down.

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The stairs led down through the dungeon levels Zaranda knew so well and on, to ever-lower reaches of echoing chambers and twisty corridors. The stonework ceased to be sharp-edged and new. The stones became rounded, lichen-grown, the mortar crumbly. Zaranda found herself wondering whether these catacombs were remnants of buildings razed to make way for the palace, or if they had entered the Underdark for true. Side passages branched occasionally to the left or right. There was no ambiguity about which was the main pathway, however. Nor the right one—periodically they would catch a glimpse of Faneuil and his golden-haired captive, well ahead and below. They had just begun descending a short flight of stairs when Stillhawk, bringing up the rear, grunted and fell across Zaranda's back. She screamed and lost her balance, and if she hadn't fallen against the wall she would have pitched headlong down the stairs. A figure appeared in the doorway they had just quitted, raising a nocked short bow. Chen flung out an arm and screamed a single syllable. Energy darted from her outstretched fingertip and struck him in the chest. With a cry, he fell backward out of sight. "I did it!" the girl exulted, grabbing Zaranda's arm and dancing up and down. "I hit him with a magic missile!" Zaranda squeezed her arm and smiled. "Well done." Stillhawk was on his feet, leaning against the wall. He broke off the shaft in his flesh and threw it down. Let's go, the ranger signed. At the base of the steps a door stood open. They passed through to find themselves

in a hemicylindrical chamber of glazed green brick, fifty yards long and maybe seven high. Lamps hung from hooks set high on the curved walls, their light hued purple by aged glass. The reek of sulfur was very strong. At the far end a door stood open. They ran for it. Echoes of their own footsteps pursued them. They had almost reached the door when an arrow grazed Zaranda's right ear. She looked back to see men with short bows kneeling at the chamber's other end and Stillhawk lying on his face with a thicket of arrows jutting from his back. "Vander!" she screamed, and halted. Chen grabbed her arm. "Zaranda, run! You can't help him." Arrows moaned past Zaranda's face and with musical pings struck the brickwork above and around her. The short bows weren't very powerful, and their trajectory was high; the low ceiling made it difficult to shoot with any accuracy even at this short range. Stillhawk stirred, rose to his knees, his feet. He turned, took an arrow from his quiver, drew it, and loosed. A bowman screamed and fell with the shaft in his throat even as a blue-and-bronze arrow struck Stillhawk through the thigh. Zaranda could stay and watch no more. Weeping, she and Chen darted through the door—and halted. It gave onto a landing perhaps ten feet by ten. Around its edges was open air—a cavern, so huge its ceiling and sides were only hinted at by reflected glints of the red glare cast by a river of molten lava that flowed past the foot of the stairs, a hundred yards below. Zaranda shook her head. "Lava?" she asked, incredulously. "Who'd expect to find live lava flowing beneath Zazesspur?"

"Look!" Chen called, and pointed. Barely visible for distance, dimness, and eye-watering fumes, the king and Tatrina were running away from them along the lava river. Without a glance back to where her old friend was conducting what was almost certainly his final stand, Zaranda started down the stairs. * * * * * Taking time to aim, Stillhawk shot down three more archers. He was struck four times in return. He backed toward the doorway, hoping to shoot from its cover. An arrow laid open the right side of his forehead. He reached the door, slipped around and out of the line of fire. At once he discovered that he stood on a tiny platform in a great cavern, and that he was out of arrows. He plucked one from his breast, nocked it, and swung out into the doorway. Guardsmen ran toward him. He shot the foremost, pulled another arrow from his body. As if to replace it, several more hit him. He shot two more blue-and-bronzes. The survivors got smart and went to one knee to improve their aim. Hit half a dozen more times, Stillhawk had to lurch back. His legs were rubbery, head light from loss of blood. Only the pain and his fierce determination not to let Zaranda down kept him alert. He tore yet another arrow from his flesh, nocked it, drew back the string, and swung out into the entryway once more. A sword whistled right to left and chopped the elven longbow in half. A small and ugly man confronted him. He had ginger mustachios, bandy legs, and a prominent, fleshy nose. Crackletongue hung in his heavily gloved hand, and the curved blade glowed as if white-hot, signifying the nearness of evil. Stillhawk dropped the useless halves of his bow and drew his long sword. "So you're the ranger," the shorter man said in a sneering voice. "You look more like

a pincushion to me." He advanced. Stillhawk backed away slowly, warily, till a foot came down with the heel on emptiness. "Nowhere left to run," the flamboyantly mustached man said. "Shall we try blades, or will you just jump?" Giving the ranger no chance to answer, the man thrust at his right eye. Stillhawk's wrist twitched. Long sword caught saber and knocked it aside. Shaveli Sword-Master raised his eyebrows and took a step back. "Not bad," he said, and pressed the attack again. He was devilishly quick. Crackletongue darted like a blue-white flame, but Stillhawk, wounded nigh death as he was, knew how to parry by the slightest rolls of his powerful wrist. He kept the crackling blade away from his flesh. At last Shaveli snarled in exasperation, "Have done! I have no more time for you!" He feinted for Stillhawk's knee, then thrust again for the eyes. When the ranger knocked his blade up, he reached forward, grabbed a handful of the arrows still jutting from Stillhawk's chest, and twisted. Stillhawk cried out in pain. Shaveli ran him through the heart. For a moment the ranger glared defiance at his tormentor. Then the light went out of his eyes, and his head lolled loose upon his neck. Gently—so that the larger man would not slip over the edge, carrying the magic blade with him—Shaveli lowered Stillhawk's corpse to the platform. He braced a foot against the ranger's rib cage and pulled his weapon free. "Friend Shaveli," a familiar voice called from the far side of the door, "bide a moment." The Sword-Master spun, and his eyes grew wide.

* * * * * Gasping from exertion and fumes, the two women reached the bottom of the many-switchbacked stair. Lava bubbled almost at their feet. The blazing heat from it seared the exposed skin of the faces and hands. "There." Chen pointed ahead. Smoke streamers coiled through the air before them, half-visible, making their presence known mostly by the way they stung the eyes. "A little door, perhaps a hundred paces on. It's open." "You must be able to see in the dark like a gnome," Zaranda said, coughing. The girl smiled hugely and nodded. "I always do well at night," she said. "Darkness doesn't bother me." Heat and brimstone made Zaranda's head spin, and her stomach sloshed with nausea. Her legs were as unsteady as dandelion stalks. Raising her boots from the black stone floor, polished to glassy smoothness by unguessable generations of feet, was like trying to lift the planet Glyph, rings and all. Her arms obeyed no less reluctantly, as though she were trying to move underwater—no, through a medium much denser than water. ... "Zaranda," Chen said, voice rising toward panic. "I can't move!" Zaranda forced her head around. It felt like trying to turn the head of the famed Fallen Idol, which lay in the river at the bottom of the gorge to which it gave its name. The monster that called itself Armenides stood on the last switchback, thirty feet above. Its eyes glowed yellow. Its bull head grinned at them despite the hideous smoking gash across the left side of its face. Many of its limbs were cropped or missing, but it seemed in small danger of running out of them. "Zaranda," it said, "dear Zaranda. Always more presumptuous than wise. Did you really think to pit yourself against the will of L'yafv-Afvonn? He's what lies behind that

door: the One Below, the Whisperer in Darkness—the nexus of the crisis, and the origin of storms. He is the One who rules the night; he has brought forth the darkling hordes of his own substance. He has made hideous the dreams of the miserable wretches who infest Zazesspur, and soon he shall make their realities even more so. I am as an ant beside his power and malice. And you—you are less than ants to me." He laughed, and the sound of his laughter filled the cavern and made the lava seethe and pop with redoubled fury. Zaranda fought to move, to fling her sword at him, or even a defiant gesture. But she could no more control her body than she could that of Elminster in his tower half a continent away. She and Chen were trapped inside the monster's will. * * * * * Shield of Innocence could not move his legs. That was all right. His arms were more than strong enough to drag him along the floor. And lying on his belly kept his viscera inside. Mostly. The stink of brimstone tore at nostrils more sensitive than any human's. He ignored it, as he ignored the pain and growing weakness. His small blue eyes shone with the purity of his purpose. A shape lay sprawled before him on the tiny square of stone poised above fire and blackness: Stillhawk the ranger, dead. Shield's eyes brimmed with tears. "O Torm," he gasped, "grant that I have not come too late!" Gently he lifted the forester's head and cradled it against his ruined breast. * * * * * "Well," Armenides said, still in that horribly cheerful voice, "it seems I control the two of you. What shall it amuse me to do?"

Shaveli and nine or ten short-bow-armed guardsmen stood ranked on the stairs above the false Ao priest—well above, for even they feared to approach so monstrous a being. To perfect her misery, Zaranda saw Crackletongue's distinctive blaze sprouting from the Sword-Master's fist. Contact with the magic sword should have inflicted painful injury on a man as devoted to evil as the torturer. Evidently his black leather gauntlets insulated him from harm. He saw her eyes fix on him, stuck out his tongue obscenely far, and wiggled the tip. "I know," the fiend declared. "I shall make you walk into the lava, one by one. Now, whom shall I do first? Ahh, but of course—the redheaded chit!" Eyes great, face pale as bleached linen beneath her freckles, Chen turned and took a slow step toward the river of molten stone. "Randi!" she moaned through clenched teeth. * * * * * Shield of Innocence took the bloodstained amulet from about his neck and laid it on Stillhawk's unmoving breast. "O Torm," he prayed, "O True and Brave, please listen! Your dog begs you, do not let this soul slip out of the world. No one is truer and braver than he, and we have—" He coughed up blood. "We have not enough hands to fight the evil that waits below. I know ... I have not served you long enough to earn the power to bring him back. And I won't ever, for this day I die, Lord. But please . . . please give him back his life, for his sake, for those poor brave women down there, for this whole world." Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Good Torm, I beg you!" A shimmer in the stinking air before him. A tiny point of radiance, intolerably bright, expanding to a miniature sun. The brilliance dazzled his light-sensitive eyes, threatened to burn them out, yet it filled his soul with warmth and peace such as he

had never known. Shield of Innocence, a voice said in his mind, who well have justified your name: you alone of mortals on this world have I addressed through all the ages, and you alone shall I so address. Torm hears you, and through Him, I hear. My name has been taken in vain. You have chosen to redress this evil, knowing what the cost would be. So be it: your wish is granted. The light flared, expanded, enveloped Shield so that it seemed he would be consumed by it, as by the heart of a sun. Then it went out. The ranger opened his eyes. "O Torm!" the orog wept. "O Ao All-Father, I thank you!" Stillhawk shook his head and moaned softly. Shield? he signed. "I am here. Live now. Your strength is needed." You are a true paladin, the human signed. In silent song shall I honor your name forever. Painfully, Stillhawk raised his right hand. The orog's claw engulfed it, and they gripped each other tight. Zaranda? the ranger signed. "Below. She needs your strength. You cannot rest yet." Shield— The great orc dragged himself to the precipice edge. Below him, dizzyingly far, he saw the fiend standing triumphant upon the landing—and below that, Chen walking step by excruciating step to her own destruction. He raised himself on his mighty arms, drew his legs beneath him, forced them to lift his bulk off the stone by sheer will. For a moment, he teetered on the verge. "Ahh!" cried Stillhawk, unable to make his tongue-less mouth form the word no. Shield of Innocence spread his arms and dived into emptiness.

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"Hmm," the monster said. "There's something strange about this one, something I can't quite put my finger on. Oh—I forgot." He held up a pincer and clacked it. "No fingers anymore. Foolish me." Chen raised her foot and held it poised above the yellow-glowing lava. A bubble popped. Liquid rock struck the sole and sputtered there, raising a stink of burning leather. "Care to test the waters first, my child?" the fiend asked. The girl pointed her toe like a dancer. It descended toward the lava. "Zaranda," the girl said, "I'm sorry I don't have the strength to fight him—" "No!" Zaranda screamed. Like a vast bat, a shadow swooped down from above. The outflung arm of Shield of Innocence struck the back of Armenides's neck. "Die, monster!" the orog roared as his hurtling mass swept the fiend from his perch. Both plunged into the lava with a splash of white-hot fluid. The spell of compulsion broke like a glass jar smashed against a rock. Zaranda lunged forward, grabbed the back of Chen's blouse, and yanked her from the brink. As they sprawled on the stone flagging, yellow-glowing gobbets splattered the place where the girl had stood. Zaranda picked herself up onto her knees. "Oh, Shield," she said. A single tear rolled from her eye. Zaranda hugged Chen fiercely. The girl lifted her head. Her eyes flew wide. "Randi!" Zaranda's head snapped round. Shaveli jumped lithely down from several steps up and stalked forward. Chenowyn leapt to bar his path, holding her knife both-handed

before her. The Sword-Master twitched Crackletongue back and forth. The blade hummed with energy. "Get her out of my way," he said. "You know what I can do to her." "Chen," Zaranda said, "no. This is between him and me. You can't fight him." The girl stepped back and lowered her arms to her sides. Then she drew herself to her full height and took a deep breath. The air around her wavered, and her eyes began to glow red. "Chen?" Shaveli cocked an eyebrow at the redhead. "Interesting. Are you trying to muster some magic against me, wench?" He jerked a thumb up over his shoulder. "Not wise." The half-score of guardsmen aimed drawn bows at Chen from the steps. "Any spell she casts at me," Shaveli told Zaranda, "will make her spring many leaks. Can't you clear the amateurs from underfoot? I'll give you a fighting chance." "Chenowyn, please," begged Zaranda, who had never seen the girl's eyes actually glow before. "He's right. Whatever wild talent you can muster now will only get you killed without helping me. Stand back and let me dispose of this filth." Chen's red hair stood up from her neck. Yellow sparks played through it. Then she slumped, and the fires died from her eyes and the lightning from her hair. She drew back from between the two. Shaveli laughed. "Bold words from one who so recently submitted to my caresses." "Don't flatter yourself, Shaveli. A man who has to let a whip do his fondling for him is less than half a man, no matter how big a blade he swings." Shaveli snarled and thrust forward in a long, liquid lunge. Zaranda danced aside, whipping out long sword and parrying dagger. Shaveli stamped his boot, cried, "Ha!" and aimed a lightning wrist cut at Zaranda's temple. She barely got her own sword in

the way; sparks from Crackletongue's blade showered her, lodged in her hair, and made wisps of stinking smoke. "A noble blade you carried, Countess," the Sword-Master said. "Too much so for the likes of you." He flicked the blade at her face. She threw the long sword upward to parry. Crackletongue whipped round and scored a deep gash transverse down her right thigh. He came on, magic blade weaving a tracery of light before him. With all her skill and speed, Zaranda managed to keep the stolen blade from her vitals, though it pinked her time and again, making her sword arm run with slippery blood, opening a cut in her right cheek. She was handicapped by the knowledge that she dared not allow Crackletongue to take her blade edge-on; fine though the weapon Duke Hembreon had lent her was, its steel could not withstand the magic saber's bite. He maneuvered her until she stood with her back to the lava river. Then he pressed, stamping and shouting, cutting and thrusting. When she felt heat that threatened to burn through the backs of her trouser legs, he feinted high and then slid forward, thrusting for her belly. Crackletongue's tip jabbed to within an inch of her skin, but she managed to hack it aside. The shining sword looped around and, with a ringing clang, lopped off her blade a handspan from the hilt. Shaveli saluted her with a flourish of the magic sword. "So, Countess, shall we dance? Or will you take another step back? The lava is kinder, I promise you." She threw the ruined sword at his face. He caught it effortlessly with his left hand. She jumped at him, grabbed his sword wrist, and plunged her parrying dagger hilt-deep into his belly.

"Yes," she hissed into his pain-contorted face. "Let's dance." His lips peeled back from bloody teeth. "The dance has just begun," he gritted. He reached across himself with his left hand, grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the dagger, and forced the blade back out of his body. Zaranda felt her wrist being turned until the dagger pointed at her own body. She was taller than the Sword-Master, but his strength was greater than hers. Inexorably the dagger point was forced toward her flesh. Sorceress and swordswoman as she was, Zaranda had found little time in life to study unarmed combat. Still, in her travels, she had gleaned a trick or two from the hand-fighting arts of distant Kozakura. The dagger tip touched her stomach beneath her breastplate's lower edge. Shaveli smiled a ghastly smile and pushed harder. In grappling the Sword-Master, Zaranda had moved several feet away from the lava. Now she shifted her left-hand grip from the man's wrist to Crackletongue's hilt and cast herself onto her back. Her not-inconsiderable weight drew the Sword-Master along. As he fell onto her, she put a boot in his stomach. Then she pulled with her arms and pushed with her long, strong leg. Shaveli flew over her head. She twisted Crackletongue from his grasp as he passed. With a despairing wail, he pitched headfirst into the lava. Zaranda rolled over and sat up. "At last," she said, "you've found yourself a willing embrace." Something moaned past her ear and went into the lava three feet in front of her. She gasped as molten-stone droplets seared her cheek. The bowmen on the steps above were drawing bead on her. One screamed and pitched forward off the stair. He landed with a whump on the

stone beside the lava and lay still. An arrow jutted from his back. His comrades turned to stare upward. Zaranda's gaze followed. "Stillhawk!" The ranger stood at the top of the stair, legs braced, a short bow in hand. He plucked an arrow from his breast, nocked, drew in one smooth motion, and shot a second guardsman through the forehead. The blue-and-bronzes cried out in consternation. Some shot back, others forsook bows for blades and ran up the stairs. None had any attention to spare for Zaranda and Chen; shooting with almost elven speed and accuracy, Stillhawk could drop them all unless they found a way to deal with him. The women ran toward the doorway, piled through it, and came up short. It was a great round bubble of a cave, ill lit by a smattering of torches in sconces hammered into the rough walls. By the far wall rose a glittering mound of treasure: gems, jewels, golden idols with gemstone eyes, a seeming infinitude of coins—silver, platinum, gold. Lying in the midst of the wealth, as in a nest, was a mass of glistening gray flesh almost thirty feet around. From the mass protruded things—beings. Duergar, drow, orcs, humans—they seemed to grow from the substance of the thing. Some showed as no more than bumps on the surface; others were all but fully formed. Three tentacles, each as thick around as Shield's torso, reared from the obscene bulk, bearing great-toothed jaws. Three eyes mounted on impossibly delicate stalks weaved above the mass. "What is it?" Chenowyn asked. "A deepspawn," Zaranda said. "I should have suspected." Near the mound crouched Tatrina, her eyes red from weeping. Her cheeks bled where her nails had gouged them. She appeared quite bereft of reason. "Where's Faneuil?" Zaranda asked.

Something erupted from the horror's flank. Zaranda jumped back, raising her weapons defensively—for all the good they'd do against a creature that huge. Slime sloughed away from the writhing thing. It was the upper half of Faneuil I, king of Tethyr. The head still bore its modest crown. The man spat filth and craned to look at the newcomers. "Zaranda!" he croaked. "Help me!" He stiffened. Tension seemed to flow from him. A blissful smile crossed his face. "Welcome," he said—and his voice was the Voice from Zaranda's dreams, dry as desert wind stirring sand. "I've waited a long time for you, Zaranda Star." "What in hell are you?" Zaranda asked. "Not in hell, but in your world. I am lord-to-be of Faerun. I am L'yafv-Afvonn." Chen wrung her hands convulsively before her breast. "What is that thing? What's going on?" "It's a monster called a deepspawn," Zaranda said. "It loves to feed on intelligent prey. And anything it eats, it can duplicate from its own flesh. A perfect copy of the original in every way—except that it exists only to serve its creator's will." She shook her head. "I should have seen it before. Here's where the darklings came from. And the All-Friends—those poor children were all replaced by spawn. Except Tatrina." "She won't remain the exception long," the false Hardisty said. "She'll be very helpful in persuading her self-righteous old fool of a father to accept your authority when you return to the surface. Except, of course, it won't be you at all, but another of my children." The head laughed uproariously. "What about the king?" Zaranda asked. "Useless fool. I shan't even bother to duplicate him."

Head and body went rigid again. Then Hardisty said in his own voice, "Kill. . . me." Zaranda stepped forward. Crackletongue flared and sparked and it lashed out. The king's head sprang from his shoulders and bounced to a stop at her feet. The mouths hissed. Fool! the Voice exploded in her mind. Two sucker-studded tentacles—as big around as the ones that bore the mouths, but vastly longer—shot from the pile in a spray of treasure to seize Chen and Zaranda. Zaranda felt another magical compulsion try to claim her, but bent all her will to fighting it and felt it pass. Resist as you will, the Voice said in her mind. It only adds spice. A third tentacle erupted forth. As Zaranda tried to hack at the tentacle that held her, the tip of the other grabbed her wrist and bent it cruelly back. Her fingers went numb; the sword slipped free. Now I will exact the price of your meddling, the Voice said. Rejoice that I must assimilate your flesh to replicate you, else your suffering would be protracted indeed. From outside the door came a drumming as of giant wings. Then screams, none in Stillhawk's voice. A guardsman appeared in the doorway. He took three steps forward on wavering legs. In the torchlight, Zaranda saw that his eyes stared between bloody parallel slashes that ran down the front of him from crown to crotch. He fell upon his face. A woman walked in. Black hair cascaded past slender shoulders and down the back of a midnight-blue gown. Her austerely beautiful face bore no expression. Nyadnar, the Voice hissed. You have picked a curious mode of suicide. The free tentacle quested for her. She raised a hand. "Don't even try. Look into my eyes, L'yafv-Afvonn, gaze upon my true soul. You can never hope to best me."

Never is a long time, mage. "We'll see." "Who is this?" asked Chenowyn, squirming fruitlessly to free herself of the tentacle wrapped about her slim waist. "Are we saved?" "No," Zaranda said in a leaden voice. "This is Nyadnar. She'll do exactly nothing." "It is not my way to act directly on the world," the sorceress said. She gestured at the dead guardsman at her feet. "Unless, of course, I'm compelled to defend myself." She walked to the wall opposite where Tatrina crouched, and stood as if carved. Now, said the Voice, where were we? A mouth-arm darted forward and seized Zaranda's feet in its jaws. * * * * * "No!" Chenowyn screamed as the horror began to feed her friend into its maw. Zaranda thrashed violently, but was swallowed up, inch by inch. The girl turned a tear-drenched face to Nyadnar. "You've got to help her!" she pleaded. "Please!" "That is not my way." "Let me go!" Chen drummed impotent fists on the tentacle that held her. Then to the sorceress: "I've heard her talk about you. You were her friend." "I have no friends. I can afford none. My responsibilities are too great." "You used her! How can you just let her die?" "I employed her services from time to time. She was rewarded suitably, even generously. Where she is now, she came to by her own choice." Slobbering, the toothed jaws had worked their way to Zaranda's hips. "She'll die! You have to do something!" "I cannot." A pause. "But you can."

"Me? I'm just a girl! What can I do?" "You are not just a girl, Chenowyn," the sorceress said. "As to what you can do ... whatever you choose." The jaws were about her friend's waist. Zaranda uttered a hawk scream of rage and frustration. "Damn you!" the girl flared. "Damn you, damn you, damn you! And damn you, too, you great big wad of filth!" Her body went rigid with rage. Her hair rose, and her eyes began to glow. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a grimace of fury.... And her jaws extended forward, telescoping. * * * * * Chenowyn's scream penetrated Zaranda's despair and brought her head around. Her apprentice was transforming before her eyes. Her skin was darkening toward a brilliant, shiny, red; at the same time it grew visibly thicker, scaly, with an oddly crystalline quality. Face and limbs grew longer, became toothy jaws, forelimbs and legs wickedly clawed. Her skull flattened and broadened, and two long back-curving horns sprouted from its rear. Nubs formed on her back and grew into great ribbed wings. The deepspawn found itself holding a small but very angry gem dragon. A mouth-arm darted for it, jaws spread wide. The dragon uttered a furious, piercing scream. A spray of brilliant red dust, like rubies ground to sand, gushed from its mouth. Tough hide and muscle were scoured from the deepspawn's mouth-arm. Skeletonized jaws fell to the floor. The monster drew back a stump gouting green blood. The dragon-Chen clawed at the tentacle about her waist. What an adolescent girl's

fists could not achieve, an adolescent dragon's talons made light of. Ruby talons shredded the tentacle. It let Chen go and jerked away. Chen's wings exploded from her sides, beat tentatively. She fell on her rump. Rising up on her hind legs, she thrust her head forward and breathed her spray of ruby dust against the neck of the mouth that had worked its way to Zaranda's armpits. The abrasive spray cut through the arm. The head fell to the floor, jaws working spasmodically. Zaranda began to struggle free. A tentacle lashed at Chen. Her jaws snapped it through. Then she flung herself at the monster, buffeting it with her wings, lashing it with her tail. The remaining tentacle snaked out, looped back, wrapped itself around the young dragon's neck. She uttered strangling sounds and beat at it with her wings. It held her up in the air while the surviving mouth-arm trumpeted a cry of triumph. Zaranda had extricated herself from the still-spasming jaws. Crackletongue lay on the floor nearby. Her right hand would not respond; she snatched the sword up with her left, screamed, "A star!" and slashed at the tentacle that was throttling Chenowyn. With a flash and a crack, a stink of ozone and burned fetid meat, the magic blade cut through the tentacle. The severed end dropped from Chen's neck to writhe on the floor like a snake with a broken back. The stump, spewing foulness, flailed wildly, knocking Zaranda against the wall. Chenowyn braced her legs, gathered herself, and breathed. Corundum spray enveloped the monster. The spawn-heads growing from it opened wide their eyes. They began to scream in a horrid cacophony of voices. The bulk heaved and flopped, trying to escape the awful torrent of ruby dust. Its skin abraded away, and then its flesh, and that which served it as bones, and its pulsating inner organs. The sprouting bodies withered to skeletons and went quiet.

A psychic scream burst like a sun exploding inside Zaranda's skull. Consciousness left her. * * * * * When she opened her eyes, Nyadnar was standing over her, gazing down with neither curiosity nor compassion. "Oh," Zaranda groaned. She sat up. She felt like Death on a bender. But she was alive, and nothing seemed broken. "Chenowyn?" "She is well, " the sorceress said, nodding toward the middle of the floor. A very normal-looking human girl lay curled about herself. "Just resting." "And L'yafv-Afvonn?" "Destroyed. Or at least, fled to another dimension to avoid dissolution. One from which he cannot return, should he even desire to, for a time longer than the span of your lives, and a dozen generations of your descendants." The girl moaned, jackknifed. Zaranda was up at once, running to her side, gathering her into her arms. "What happened?" the girl moaned. "What did I do?" "I don't know, honey," Zaranda said, "but it sure worked." "You have saved the balance of the world, which was in danger of being thrown hopelessly awry," Nyadnar said, "You have done well, my daughter." The others gaped at her. "Yes," the sorceress said, in a tone of voice like none Zaranda had ever heard from her. "You are my child, Chenowyn." "She's a dragon?" Zaranda demanded. "How could that be? She didn't so much as shimmer in Armenides's dead-magic room; she couldn't have held a polymorph spell. And she's no half-dragon. She's as human as I." "She is. She is also a dragon—as much as I."

Chenowyn jumped to her feet. "No! It's not true! I'm not a dragon! And stop talking about me like some . . . some thing that's not even here!" Zaranda seized her hand. "Chen, I love you, no matter who you are—and you will never be a thing to me. But you were a dragon. I saw." She straightened and faced the sorceress, one arm around the sobbing girl's shoulders. "How can somebody be both fully human and fully dragon? And what kind of dragon? She's not like any I've ever heard of." "She is a new thing in the world," Nyadnar said, "A thousand years ago I noted an alarming fact: while you humans are small, short-lived, and weak, and we dragons are great, long-lived, and powerful, your numbers were increasing rapidly, year by year, whereas ours diminished slowly, but steadily. "One solution—bandied about by the council of wyrms more frequently than it would reassure you to know—has been to eradicate your mayfly kind. I opposed this course of action. For one thing, by the time it came up for debate, I was morally certain it was too late—that were we to attempt any such thing, we should succeed only in hastening our own extinction. For another, I perceived your kind as having a function in the great system of the world, even as dragonkind has. "Yet I could see the two coming inevitably into conflict. I wished to preserve both races if possible. So I sought to see if I could somehow reconcile them. Many years have I spent in study, in contemplation, and in experimentation. The end result you see before you: a person who is both human and dragon. A super-being, if you will: a ruby dragon." Zaranda frowned. "I've heard that certain evil wizards of the Dalelands created an artificial woman by magic a few years ago. She didn't turn out as expected, if the story's to be believed."

"You speak of the woman who calls herself Alias of Westgate. I have interviewed her. She was indeed a less-than-pleasant surprise to her creators." The sorceress shook her head. "But the cases are nothing similar. There is nothing artificial about Chenowyn. By means beyond your comprehension I quickened her in my womb, carried her for nine months as a human woman, bore her in pain as a human mother." "And then you just . . . turned her out," Zaranda said. "When it was clear she was strong and would survive, I left her at the Sunite orphanage in Zazesspur." Nyadnar turned to the girl. "I hope you will understand, my daughter. I had to let you make your own way, to prove that this new order of being was viable. I had to let you show you could survive, though it tore at my heart to do so." "You mean I'm just an experiment?" Chenowyn wailed. "No, not at all. You are, as I said, an entirely new order of being. Possibly superior to anything that has existed on this plane before. And you are my daughter." "Don't call me 'daughter'! " The girl turned and bolted from the chamber. Zaranda ran after her. She got out the door in time to see Chen transform herself into a scarlet-hued dragon and fly upward. Zaranda looked sidelong at Nyadnar, who stood staring up into the cavern darkness. Her inhumanly beautiful—literally inhuman, Zaranda realized—features remained expressionless, but her alabaster hands were knotted into fists. "Nyadnar," she said gently, "you may've spent a thousand years studying how to give birth to her, but you have a lot to learn about being a mother."

Epilogue A Star

Night had returned to Zazesspur when Zaranda returned to the surface. A vast crowd thronged the civic plaza. Through the doors of the Palace of Governance, Zaranda emerged, supporting a gravely wounded Stillhawk. Tatrina followed, looking right and left, tentative as a wild animal. From far back in the crowd, a voice yelled, "All hail Zaranda Star!" The crowd took up the cry in a mighty cheer: "Hail Zaranda!" "I hope that wasn't one of our people," Zaranda said to herself. Duke Hembreon set a halting foot on the bottommost step of the broad concrete stairs. Tatrina's cornflower-blue eyes went wide. "Daddy?" she said. Then: "Daddy!" and she went flying down the steps into her father's plate-armored arms. "All part of the service, folks," Zaranda said. Suddenly she had to sit down on the top step. She managed to ease Stillhawk down to lie beside her. "Can somebody fetch a stretcher? My friend here needs care." An astonishingly beautiful woman in a low-cut crimson robe came bustling up the steps. She had long white-blonde hair done up in an elaborate gleaming coiffure, and a huge gaudy gold Sune pendant a-dangle between her not-particularly well-concealed breasts. A pair of strapping young men in red tunics followed her. "We shall personally tend this hero's hurts at the Temple of Sune Firehair," she said, clasping her hands before her bosom. "Ooh, he's so handsome!" Stillhawk, now altogether unconscious, was gathered up and borne away by the ingenue acolytes, trailed by the hand-wringing priestess. Well, Zaranda thought, I

guess it's no more than he deserves. He's had a rough day. On the long hike up from the Underdark, the ranger had told her of dying and being resurrected by Shield of Innocence. Having turned his daughter over to a covey of nurses and seen her carried off in a palanquin, Duke Hembreon approached up the steps again. Zaranda reached to her belt. "Here," she said, flipping the late King Faneuil I's crown to him. "You might be needing that." Hembreon fielded it without turning a hair. "It could be so." "What happened while we were gone?" "A sudden confusion overtook the darklings. They ceased attacking and fell into a listless state in which they were easily overwhelmed." He looked abruptly apprehensive. "You did dispel whatever evil loosed them upon us, didn't you?" "Oh, yes. It got dispelled good and hard. So did the late king, unfortunately." Hembreon's bushy white brows lowered. "You mean that? You mean to call his death unfortunate?" "I do. He was a good man. He just got in over his head." So to speak, she thought, and shuttered. "Some short while after the darklings lost direction," Hembreon went on, "many reliable witnesses claimed to have seen a small dragon, scarlet in color, take wing from the roof of the palace. Some said it was a red dragon; others, including the Lord Inselm Hhune, who himself once slew a red dragon, said it was no such thing. It has occasioned considerable debate over whether the apparition was a good omen or ill." "Oh, that was just my apprentice," Zaranda said. "She's definitely a good omen." The old duke blinked. Behind him Zaranda saw two more elderly noblemen

mounting the steps. "Good even, Countess Morninggold," said the taller, a very distinguished gentleman with a neat gray mustache. "I wonder if we might discuss an important matter with you." Zaranda gestured toward the crowded plaza. "As long as you don't mind discussing it in front of fifteen thousand people or so." "Not at all," the nobleman said. "In fact, the more who hear, the better. I am the Lord Inselm Hhune, and this is my friend and associate, the Lord Faunce." "Honored, my lords," said Zaranda. She made no effort to rise. She wasn't being rude, merely exhausted. "Lord Hhune, is it? Killed a dragon once, didn't you?" "Indeed. Now, Countess, we have a proposition to make to you." Lord Faunce, shorter and rounder than Hhune, dropped to one knee before her. "We crave that you do us the honor of agreeing to be crowned queen of Tethyr." Zaranda swayed. "I beg your pardon?" she said. "For some time Lord Faunce and I have belonged to a movement dedicated to restoring monarchy to the land of Tethyr," Hhune said. "Obviously, we had to keep our activities discreet until very recently. We had our reservations—" "Now more than vindicated," said Faunce. "—about the former Baron Hardisty, but we felt that restoration of the monarchy was of paramount importance, and so opted not to oppose him. Now, however, we are prepared to offer the crown to you without reservation. Your heroism has saved our land." "With all due respect, my lords," Zaranda said, "this is crazy. This morning I was a convict under sentence of death; I'm not even supposed to be alive." "I have already attempted to apologize for that unfortunate turn of events,"

Hembreon said stiffly. "That was a gross miscarriage," Faunce said, "and as members emeritus of the city council we add our sincere regrets that it occurred. On the other hand—" his eye twinkled "—the throne might not be considered poor recompense by some." "Oh, it's more than generous—can you please help me up here?" Hembreon aided her to her feet. "It's just that I'm having a hard time taking it seriously." "I assure you—" the duke began. Zaranda waved a hand at him. "I believe you." She took a few paces away, feeling a need for room. A small form pushed out of the crowd and knelt on the bottom step. It was Simonne of Gond. "I hope you won't hate me for saying this, Zaranda," she said, "but you'd make a very good queen." "I know you mean that as a compliment, Simonne, but—" The spectators nearby took up Simonne's words and made them a chant: "Queen Za-RAN-da! Queen Za-RAN-da!" In a moment it had spread across the square. Zaranda held her hands up. "Wait!" she cried. "QUIET!" The crowd subsided. "Didn't anybody listen to what I told the city council when I was being tried by them? You don't need kings or queens. You need to learn to look out for yourselves and one another. If you don't do that, nothing else means anything." The Zazesspurians looked at each other. The chant began again, slowly at first, rapidly swelling: "Za-RAN-da! Za-RAN-da! Za-RAN-da!" She shook her head in disgust. Hembreon tapped her on the elbow. She inclined her head toward him. "If you are not ready to be crowned," he said, "there is no need to rush into anything. But like it or not, you have just been acclaimed ruler of Tethyr." He smiled gravely.

"Would it not be wisest to accept your fate with grace?" "Well, several times today I've met kicking and screaming what I thought was going to be my fate. I guess it can't hurt to try something new." She turned to the crowd and held both hands clasped above her head—an idiot gesture, she thought, as if she had just won a footrace. "All right!" she cried as the chant subsided. "I'll do it! I'll be your chief executive, or whatever." The mob cheered rapturously. And then hundreds of hands were pointing skyward, and voices were crying, "Look!" in tones of mingled fear and wonder. Zaranda looked up. Selune hung overhead, in a state even the most confirmed pessimist would have to acknowledge was past half-full, with her Tears a glowing trail behind her. Against the moon's face a great shape wheeled, winged and dark. "Don't worry," she called to the crowd. "She's with me." She turned to Hembreon. "If you'll excuse me, I have some personal business to attend to." He frowned. "If you could find it in you to say a few words—" Brightening visibly, the old man stepped forward, raising his arms. "Friends, fellow Zazesspurians, countrymen and -women—" he began. The mob booed lustily. * * * * * As she reached the top floor, a young man in black police armor called out to her. In a burlap sack, he was carrying something large and round. "Countess? I'm Constable Watrous. We were sent in a few hours ago to secure the building from looters. We searched the quarters of the false priest Armenides—" His handsome young face went a shade paler. "You wouldn't believe what we found there." "Oh, yes I would," Zaranda said. "Now, what's on your mind?"

"Well, we found this there." He reached into the sack and lifted up the brazen head. "It, ah, it's been demanding to be brought to you." "And so I have, and I must say you took your own sweet time about it, boy." Zaranda sighed. "Hello, Head. It's been a while." "Well, now that you've dispatched L'yafv-Afvonn back to the depths of hell—my personal thanks, by the way; you can't imagine how trying it was being compelled to speak for that horror—but now that you've established yourself as one of the foremost heroes of the age—of this or any age, and should I say heroine? be that as it may—unquestionably you'll want to learn the secrets I have to offer—" Zaranda took the head from the youth, putting a hand over its mouth in the process. "Thank you, Constable Watrous. You did a good job." The youngster saluted, looked as if he wanted to say something, then turned and marched briskly away. "Rmmph!" the head said, so emphatically Zaranda shifted her hand. "That young man clearly admired you. However, if you have a taste for more mature companionship, I can certainly provide—" "Shut up," Zaranda said, "or I'll march you back down to the catacombs and chuck you in the lava." * * * * * The palace roof was flat. It was dotted with low cement blocks of varying sizes, to what purpose Zaranda couldn't imagine. Maybe they were meant to serve as pedestals for statues. They might just as well have been meant to serve some otherworldly evil aims of Armenides' or L'yafv-Afvonn's. From the noises drifting up off the plaza, a general celebration had broken out below. A familiar slight figure sat on one of the blocks, her back to the stairs. She didn't stir as Zaranda approached.

Chenowyn whipped around when Zaranda laid a hand on her shoulder. She made as if to knock it away, then covered her face. "Thank you for saving us today," Zaranda said. "That wasn't me," the girl sobbed. "That was some monster. Some freak." "That was you. You chose to help us. You found a way. I'm glad, anyway." "I hate myself." Zaranda shook her head. "Don't talk that way about my friend." "I'm nobody's friend. I'm not even real. I'm just a construct." "No," Zaranda said, hunkering beside her. "You're Chenowyn. You're a young girl; you're my apprentice; you're somebody I love and don't want to see hurt. And that's all that matters." Vast wings boomed. Zaranda looked up to see a great draconian shape settling toward them, scales glinting purple in the light of moon above and city below. The dragon touched down, and then a woman was walking toward them. Zaranda straightened. "An amethyst dragon? How come you're so obsessed with sapphires?" "I like sapphires," Nyadnar said. Her perfect features showed the first expression Zaranda had ever seen on them: puzzlement. "Why would I not like sapphires?" "Well, I'd figure an amethyst dragon would like amethysts, whereas a taste for sapphires would indicate—never mind." She walked back to where she had discreetly left the brazen head before approaching Chen. "Here," she said, tossing the artifact to the sorceress. Nyadnar caught the heavy object as if it were a child's rag ball. "Item delivered. You can arrange payment at your convenience; I'll be around. For a while, anyway."

"So you're Nyadnar," the head said. "I've heard a lot about you. And, I must say, now that I get a look at you—" The sorceress gestured. The head went inert in mid-indelicacy. "That's a good trick," Zaranda said. "Wish I'd known how to do that." "You will of course be paid," the sorceress said. "But you understand, my commissioning you to bring me the head was merely a pretext, all along, for—" Zaranda shot a meaningful side-glance at Chen. "Maybe we should save that?" "Oh," said the sorceress, who was also a dragon. She held out her hands to the girl. "Come with me, Daughter," she said. "Fly with me. You have proven yourself worthy, and more than worthy, to assume your legacy. Now I will teach you who you are, and what you are; I will awaken in you power unimaginable to lesser beings." Chenowyn stood. "I know who I am, and what I am: Chenowyn, apprentice to Zaranda Star. I chose to awaken my own power, thank you very much. If I have more, I expect to work it out on my own. Now, goodbye." Nyadnar stared, aghast. "But I'm your mother." Chenowyn frowned; for an instant her eyes gleamed red. "A mother doesn't demand proof of her child!" she cried. She grabbed Zaranda's hand. "There's only one person in the world entitled to call herself my mother: Zaranda. I'm staying with her. You do what you choose." She started walking toward the stairwell, tugging on Zaranda's hand. "Can we go? I'm hungry." "Sure, honey. We can do that." Zaranda looked back at Nyadnar. The sorceress slowly raised her head. To Zaranda's amazement, a perfectly formed amethyst was sliding down one cheek.

"Yes," Nyadnar said, "even dragons cry. And our tears are gemstones."

[The Nobles 03] - King Pinch By David Cook

Title: Escape From Undermountain (Forgotten Realms The Nobles, Book 3) Author: Mark Anthony ISBN: 0-7869-0477-1 / 978-0-7869-0477-8 (USA edition) Publisher: Wizards of the Coast

Prologue Well of Entry Jardis began to think that the three of them might actually make it. "Watch yourself up there, Trisa!" he called out. His booming voice echoed around the subterranean temple. As it had for five hundred years, the giant, sacred idol of Savras the All-Seeing sat upon its onyx dais in meditative repose. White stone hands rested calmly upon white stone knees, palms upward in a gesture of supplication. Blank stone eyes gazed from a placid stone face, while a single crystal shone like a star in the center of the idol's smooth stone brow. Everything about the enormous statue bespoke peace, reflection, and ancient wisdom. Never in its existence had the sacred idol of Savras the All-Seeing known the blasphemous touch of a defiler. Never, that is, until now. "Don't tell me my job, Jardis, and I won't tell you yours!" The red-haired thief flashed a look of emerald-eyed indignation at Jardis, then continued to climb nimbly up the stone idol. Mirth rumbled in Jardis's chest. That was the exact look she had given him years ago, when he had caught her trying to pick his purse. She had frowned at him in utter annoyance, as if he were the one who had done something wrong. In anger, he might have turned her over to Waterdeep's city watch. Instead he had laughed, and they had become friends. "I'm almost there!" Trisa called out as she scrambled onto the slope of the idol's shoulder. "Talk less and climb more, Trisa," Sulbrin said through clenched teeth. Rivulets of sweat poured down the wizard's gaunt face as he knelt before the statue. Green sparks of magic flew from his hands where he gripped the polished dais. "I cannot stave off the enchantment of the idol much longer." Oh, yes you can! Jardis countered silently. He knew Sulbrin better than Sulbrin knew himself. The wizard uttered doom far more readily than hope. Yet they could always count on him in a scrape—ever since he had helped them, two perfect strangers, in a bar fight. He'd given that nasty hobgoblin captain a magical hotfoot, and gave Jardis and Trisa the chance to escape. Long gone now were the days when Sulbrin was a scrawny mage's apprentice who couldn't cast two simple cantrips in a row. So were the days when Trisa was a freckled street urchin picking pockets for a living. Though Sulbrin was more spare than ever inside his drab gray robe, he radiated an aura of power. And there was Trisa, lithe as a cat in her supple leathers, her beauty as dangerous as it was bewitching. Just look at them now. Jardis grinned, shaking his head. Look at them? By Torm! Look at him! Back when the three had met, he had been nothing more than a stripling farmboy who had run away with his father's sword. And now? Face of a lad still, yes, but he could swing a two-handed glaive with one hand, hold steady a shield in the other, and not even breathe hard. He never bothered with armor anymore, except for the studded bracers on his wrists. Just his leather breeches, and two straps around his broad, bare chest so he could sling his sword on his back. That was all he needed to make his way. None of them were youths anymore. They were the Company of the Red Wolf. And damn them to the Abyss if they weren't going to be heroes. "All right, I'm there!" The thief perched atop the idol's left ear, bathed in a pearl-white glow. From a hole in the ceiling, filtering down from far above by device unknown, a single beam of

moonlight pierced the dusky air. The beam fell directly upon the crystal in the center of the idol's forehead: Savras's Third All-Seeing Eye. Shards of light radiated outward, basking the column-lined temple in diamondfire. "Remember my warning!" Sulbrin hissed. Concentration twisted his visage. Green magic still crackled around his clenched hands. "The beam must not be broken, or the doom of Savras will be upon us!" Trisa stretched her lean form. She reached for the glimmering crystal with one hand, while in the other she gripped a circular mirror fashioned of polished silver. Jardis watched, breath suspended. Sweat trickled down the naked muscles of his chest. It was unusually hot for so far below ground. Trisa's hands hovered above the crystal, just beyond the pearly beam of light. She shut her eyes in a brief prayer—no doubt to Tymora, Mistress of Fortune. Then, in one deft motion, she plucked the crystal from its socket and placed the mirror in its stead. For a frozen moment all three stared at the statue, waiting for the curse of Savras to strike them down. The beam of light did not so much as waver. The idol gazed forward in beatific serenity. Trisa thrust the crystal into the air. "I've got it!" she crowed exuberantly. "You're going to get it, all right, if you don't quit your gloating and climb down!" Sulbrin gasped hoarsely. "My magic is failing." "Hey, Jardis!" Trisa shouted. "Think fast!" She tossed the crystal in a glittering arc, then sprang lithely down from her perch. Jardis raised a big hand. His fingers closed around the jewel just as Trisa landed in a catlike crouch. Groaning in relief, Sulbrin withdrew his arms. The wizard's counter-spell shattered. Like a blazing serpent, white-hot fire shot upward from the dais, coiling around the idol in a coruscating spiral of crystalline death. Jardis gazed at the stone in his fist. It winked brightly, as if it were indeed a mysterious eye. Everyone had said they were fools to venture into Undermountain. It was said that only the mad and the desperate gambled their lives in the ancient maze beneath Mount Waterdeep in search of wealth and fame. Instead, the sane gambled on the fates of those who dared to go below. Every night the spectators gathered inside the Inn of the Yawning Portal. They crowded around the Well of Entry that led down into the uppermost halls of Undermountain, wagering on which bold adventurers would survive the journey into the labyrinth—and which would never be seen again. Fools they called us, Jardis thought with a snort. Yet here was the Third Eye of Savras in his hand. And who were the fools now? The Company of the Red Wolf would go down in the annals of Waterdeep. And perhaps, after this, they could even stop for a while. After all, they had been traveling for years now, finding adventure and a spot of coin where the road and chance took them. But the crystal was worth an entire chest of gold—more than enough for them to take it easier for a time. They could even open that shop they always talked about when they had drunk too much ale. Trisa could be the jewel-smith she had always wanted to be, and Sulbrin could sell powders and potions to his wizard friends. And himself? Well, life as an armorer did not sound so very terrible. He could get up late, work when he wanted, and not worry about what sort of foul creature he would have to kill next. No, it did not sound terrible at all. All they had to do now was get out. "We did it, Jardis!" Trisa said triumphantly. She helped Sulbrin, weary but beaming, to his feet. "We did indeed," Jardis said brightly, tucking the crystal into the leather purse at his

belt. "Now, let's get out of this pit." Together, the three moved swiftly between the two long rows of columns, toward the circular portal through which they had entered the temple. They were halfway to the door when the thunder struck. Eyes wide, they whirled around. The beam of light falling upon Savras's brow had transformed from cool white to angry crimson. So too had the swirling tendrils of warding magic surrounding the idol. Now, a bloody miasma pulsated in the dusky air of the temple. Again came the sound of thunder. A web-work of dark cracks snaked across the surface of the statue. The silver mirror shattered. Stone crumbled from the idol's serene visage, revealing a new face below—a grotesque mask twisted in supreme fury. At the same moment, the two stone columns nearest the idol tottered wildly and toppled inward, striking each other with crushing force. A heartbeat later, the next two columns in line fell inward, then the next, each striking the floor with a deafening crash. One after another, like a child's game of Tip the Tiles, the columns fell, approaching the Company of the Red Wolf with perilous speed. "The wrath of Savras is upon us!" Sulbrin cried. "Not as long as we can run!" Jardis shouted back. Pulling his companions by the arms, he lunged in a mad dash for the portal. As the three fled, columns crashed to the floor on their heels. Hearts pounding, they ran faster yet. Gradually, they began to outpace the toppling line of columns. Jardis grinned fiercely. They were going to— Trisa let out a choking cry of fear. "The door!" Jardis jerked his head up. His blood froze. Like the stone iris of a gigantic eye, the temple's circular door was shrinking. With a great roar, Jardis pressed forward, outpacing his companions, heavy boots pounding on hard stone. The portal continued to constrict with terrifying speed. Now it was ten feet across. Now eight. Now six. Jardis was out of breath and out of time. He launched himself into the shrinking door. Bracing his broad back against the rim, he pushed with both arms and legs. Knotted muscles stood out in strain. The rate of closure slowed but did not cease. In seconds the door would shear his body in two. "Run, Red Wolves!" Gasping, Trisa reached the door. She scrambled nimbly over Jardis. Sulbrin followed her a heartbeat after. Jardis glanced up, face pale, to see the last two columns toppling directly toward him. With a cry, he heaved himself over the edge of the door and through. The portal shut with a sharp snick! A second later came a great crash, as the columns shattered against the inside of the portal. But the door held. The noise faded into an echo. Pale green light flared to life, revealing their three faces. A cool wisp of magelight danced on the palm of Sulbrin's hand. They stared at each other, panting. Then, as one, they grinned. They had made it. "Shall we?" the wizard asked wryly. "Let's," Trisa said merrily, dusting herself off. "I think I've had my fill of Undermountain for a long time to come." Jardis laughed in agreement. Together, they sped swiftly through the gloomy maze of halls and corridors, retracing the steps that had brought them to the shrine of Savras. They passed through a crypt lined with dusty stone sarcophagi. Next was the chamber filled with candles, all mysteriously ever-burning. And here was the Hall of Many Pillars. They were close now. A few more twists and turns and they would be at the Well of Entry.

There waited the rope to take them back up to the Inn of the Yawning Portal, and to fame everlasting. Nothing could stop them now. "We're the Company of the Red Wolf!" Jardis shouted in jubilation. "Our names will never be forgotten!" Sulbrin rasped exultantly. Trisa howled with glee. "We're the greatest heroes that ever—" A shaggy gray form leapt squealing from the shadows, knocking the thief to the ground. Long yellow teeth flashed in the gloom. Jardis drew his glaive and skewered the thing. It let out a shrill shriek, then died. With a boot, he shoved the creature aside, gagging in disgust. It was an enormous rat, the size of a small pig. Yet a rat was still a rat—nothing to fret about. He reached down to help Trisa up. Suddenly he froze. The thief stared upward with blank green eyes. Blood spattered her face and clothes. Her throat had been torn out. "Trisa?" Jardis whispered in puzzlement. She couldn't be dead. How could she be dead? What about their shop? He knelt and roughly shook her shoulder. "Trisa!" Dim shapes scuttled just beyond the circle of Sulbrin's magelight. A hungry chittering rose on the dank air, along with a foul stench. Countless pairs of blood-red eyes winked in the dark. "We have to go, Jardis," the wizard said, in a choking voice. "It's too late for Trisa." Dazed, Jardis lurched to his feet. Then hunger won out over fear of light, and the rats attacked. With a shout of rage, Jardis swung his massive glaive, cleaving several of the rabid creatures in twain. Sulbrin spoke a guttural word of magic, and the wisp of magelight in his hand flared into a ball of green fire. He heaved it at the undulating gray mass. In seconds a half-dozen rats squealed as emerald flames licked at their mangy pelts. They scurried frantically around the hall, setting others ablaze. In moments the entire chamber was lit by flickering green light. Jardis stared in horror. Every inch of the vast hall was seething with gigantic rats. Fear redoubled, Jardis swung his sword in whistling arcs, barely beating back the ravenous creatures. Sulbrin raised his hand, readying another spell. He never had the chance to cast it. A rat leapt on him from behind, and the wizard cried out in terror as he pitched forward. In moments, his body was lost amid the gnashing throng of rats, his cry cut short. Tears streaming down his face, Jardis hewed at the rats, shouting in wordless rage. Blood oozed from a dozen small, stinging wounds. Yet somehow he kept the vermin at bay as he backed toward the archway that led out of the hall. He was nearly there. Only a few paces more. His glaive lodged in the body of one of the rats. The blade was torn from his hand and swept away by the surging mass. Weaponless, Jardis sprang back, scrambling over the living carpet of rats. Somehow he gained the archway, stumbling into the corridor beyond, but the rats followed. Jardis ran as blood poured into his eyes, blinding him. A rat leapt forward, gnawing the back of his knee, severing the tendons. Jardis cried out in agony, nearly fell, and lurched on. Another rat lunged for his back but missed, striking the leather purse at his belt instead. The purse tore open, spilling a spray of gold coins, as well as something bright and sparkling. The Third Eye of Savras. For a second Jardis hesitated. Without the crystal, all of this was utterly meaningless. But the horde of rats was mere paces behind. To reach for the crystal was to die. Clenching his jaw, he limped on. Then he saw the rope dangling ahead. Twenty feet above was a large hole in the

ceiling, and beyond that, golden firelight. The Well of Entry. Two dozen faces peered down at him from above, cheering—some for Jardis, some for the rats. With a bellow of rage and pain, Jardis threw himself forward, latching on to the rope just as rats flooded the chamber's floor. Arms bulging, he pulled his body upward. A moment later, he blinked the blood from his eyes—he had reached the top. Gripping the rope with one hand, he stretched the other toward the rim of the well. "Wait just a minute, friend," said a grizzled man who leaned over the edge of the well, blocking him. "You know Durnan's toll. One gold piece to go down, and one to come up. That's the rule." With his free hand, Jardis clutched at the purse at his belt. His fingers found torn, empty leather. He looked up in terror. "I've lost it all. But I can get more! Please, I—" The grizzled man stared down at him with cold eyes. "Cut the rope," he ordered. "No!" Jardis cried in horror. A knife flashed. The rope parted. A scream ripped itself from Jardis's throat as he plummeted downward. But we were supposed to be heroes! His scream ended as he plunged into the roiling sea of slavering rats. * * * * * So this is how the rabble lives, Lord Darien Thal thought in vaguely fascinated disgust. From his table in the shadowed corner of the Yawning Portal, he gazed with heavy-lidded green eyes at the crowd that filled the smoky tavern. A great shout went up from the throng gathered around the stone-ringed well in the center of the common room. Gold changed hands, and the gamblers grumbled or gloated as best suited their luck. Apparently some poor idiot had just met his demise in the dungeon below. No doubt the fool had been ill-equipped and ill-prepared to meet the perils that lurked in the labyrinth beneath Mount Waterdeep. Why couldn't these commoners understand that venturing into Undermountain was a sport best left to the nobility? But no, it was ever the compulsion of the poor to ape the wealthy. And if they had to throw away their lives in the process—well, they were meager enough, so what did it matter? With his left hand, Darien raised the dented pewter goblet that a serving maid had plunked down before him. His nose wrinkled in distaste. This swill passed for wine? He thrust the goblet back down, then noticed a ruffle of purple velvet peeking out from beneath the heavy black cloak in which he had wrapped himself. Hastily, he tucked the bit of velvet back beneath the cloak, then adjusted the deep hood that concealed his visage. It would not do to be revealed as a member of one of Waterdeep's noble families. Commoners would be too wary to speak to a lord. And speaking with the inn's coarse clientele was exactly what Darien needed to do this night. A curious excitement coursed through him. There was always a certain lurid thrill to slumming. A black beetle scuttled before him across the knife-scarred wooden table. Darien withdrew his right arm from beneath his cloak. The arm ended, not in a hand, but in a cap of polished steel that fit over the stump of his wrist. It was cylindrical in shape, without mark or adornment, save for a single slit on the end. Darien called it the Device. He considered his choices for a brief moment, then nodded to himself. The stiletto would do. With a click, a wickedly thin blade sprang from the slit in the Device. In one swift motion, Darien lashed out and skewered the beetle. He raised the blade, staring in fascination at the insect wriggling on the point. Its vain struggle made him think of the hapless commoners who sought glory in the depths below—fighting on when they

were already dead. With a sigh, Darien flung the beetle into a corner. Retracting the stiletto, he concealed the Device beneath his cloak once more. He supposed he was being too hard on these poor people. They had little enough to brighten their drab lives. Why begrudge them what small entertainments they could find? Certainly Undermountain was more than vast enough for nobles and commoners alike. It was only in recent years that venturing into the depths beneath Mount Waterdeep had become a fashionable—if perilous—sport. Yet it was well-known that the maze was far older than Waterdeep itself. Over the centuries, countless tales had been spun about the city beneath the city, though most were half-truths liberally sprinkled with falsehoods: outlandish tales of imprisoned dragons, monsters of metal, and subterranean forests impossibly bathed in bright sunlight. Still, nearly all the stories agreed on one point, and Darien supposed there must be some degree of truth to it—that the labyrinth now known as Undermountain was created by the mad wizard Halaster over a thousand years ago. No one knew from whence had come the one called Halaster. A few tales whispered in passing the name Netheril, the dread empire of sorcerers that legends told lay buried beneath the shifting sands of the Great Desert Anauroch. When Halaster had first come here, he found Waterdeep no more than a rude fishing village huddled by a natural harbor. Ignoring the villagers, the wizard ascended the slopes of Mount Waterdeep, and on a rocky shoulder he built a tower for himself, that he might continue his arcane studies away from all distraction. Yet—and here the tales agreed once more—the solitude of the tower was not enough. Whether compelled by magic, madness, or some burning secrecy, in time Halaster began to delve into the mountain beneath his tower. As the years passed, he dug ever downward, excavating vast chambers in which to work his magical experiments. Some say that as he went he struck delvings deeper and more ancient yet—the tunnels of dark elves and dwarves. From these he drove the drow and duergar, and claimed the tunnels for his own. Eventually, Halaster abandoned his tower, and the uppermost levels of his labyrinth as well. Deeper and deeper he went, driven by his secret needs, until he passed from all knowledge. Soon, hordes of dire, nameless creatures crawled out of the cold and lightless Underdark to haunt the empty corridors and chambers that the mad wizard had left behind. In later centuries, as Waterdeep grew from lowly village to teeming City of Splendors, it pressed against the rocky shoulders of Mount Waterdeep. Eventually, those who haunted the sewers beneath the city found places where the maze of foul waterways came in contact with Halaster's delvings. Knowledge of this fact soon spread among elements of the city's underworld. Thus the upper halls of Undermountain became a refuge for bands of criminals and cults dedicated to evil and forbidden gods. When the hidden Lords of Waterdeep finally assumed control of the city a century ago, most of these sinister organizations were rooted out and destroyed. After that, Undermountain was left to brood in its own silent darkness. That is, until Durnan the Wanderer ventured below. Durnan was the first to descend into Undermountain in recent times and return bearing tales of wonder and the riches to prove them. Seven times Durnan journeyed beneath Mount Waterdeep, and seven times he returned triumphant. At last he retired from the adventuring life and built his inn, the Yawning Portal, right over the entrance into Undermountain he had discovered. Some whispered that it was upon this very spot that the tower of Halaster once stood. All that was nearly twenty years ago. Now Durnan was a gruff innkeeper, not a hero.

Yet he kept the Well of Entry ever open. Would-be heroes came from all over Faerun to pay one gold coin and take their chances in the maze below. A few of them found wealth and fame. Most of them found death. Either way, lucre changed hands in the tavern above as bets concerning the adventurers' fates were settled. Nor were common freebooters the only ones drawn by the sport of Undermountain. Of course, not the least member of the nobility would be so gauche as to pay to use Durnan's public entryway. Many nobles had constructed their own private entrances into the labyrinth, and the rest curried their favor. To the nobility of Waterdeep, venturing into Undermountain to hunt trophies of kobold or goblin was no different than the manner in which country lords rode into their greenwoods in search of hart or stag. Always the nobles went in large, well-armed parties and ventured down only well-known passageways. There was little true danger in these excursions. It was an expensive and stylish game, and that was all. In contempt, Darien eyed a scruffy band of adventurers sitting at a nearby table, making drunken plans for their own descent down the Well of Entry. It was a game to them, too—though one with far greater rewards if they succeeded, and far deadlier consequences if they failed. Yet Darien needed to find one to whom Undermountain was not merely a game. He had to find one who could brave the deadly depths like no other had before. It was time to start asking questions. Rising, he moved slowly through the firelit common room, making certain he stayed fully concealed within his cloak and hood. Few gave him a second look. Travelers in disguise were hardly an unusual sight at the Inn of the Yawning Portal. Sitting alone in a corner was a bent-nosed man in a travel-stained leather jerkin. He looked like a suitable candidate. Darien hesitated only a moment, then swiftly sat down opposite him. Bent-Nose looked up, his beady eyes hazy with drink. "What in the Abyss do you want?" "Your advice," Darien replied smoothly from the shadows of his hood. The other man grunted in surprise. Clearly this was not a request he received often. "You see, I have lost something," Darien continued in a low voice. "Something of great value to me." At this, interest flickered across Bent-Nose's weathered face. "How valuable?" "Very." Bent-Nose scratched his scraggly beard. "And I suppose you're looking for someone who can find it for you." From the purse beneath his cloak, Darien withdrew a gleaming gold coin and placed it on the table. The man eyed the coin greedily. "Actually," Darien replied affably, "I already know where this thing of import happens to be. So the task is all the simpler. I only need someone who can venture there and retrieve it." The other man's hand inched across the table toward the gold coin. "And just where might that be?" Darien spoke a single, quiet word. "Undermountain." Bent-Nose's hand began to tremble. Hastily he snatched it back. "I can be of no help to you, stranger," he gasped hoarsely. "I'll not go back down there." His eyes went distant with remembered fear. "Do you hear me? I'll not go down there again!" Darien watched the trembling man with a mixture of pity and curiosity. He had seen

something below, something to break a man's will and send him seeking forgetfulness in drink. Something horrible. The pathetic wretch. "Fear not, friend," Darien said in disdainful mirth. "I would hardly ask you to undertake this task for me." He tapped the gold piece with a finger. "But tell me—who shall I send on this crucial errand? Are any of these worth the price?" He gestured subtly toward the various roadworn freebooters and adventurers who filled the inn. A strangled laugh escaped the other man's throat. "Those fools? Bah! None of them are worth the coin Durnan charges them to go down below. They'll come back mad and penniless. If they come back at all." His voice dropped to a mysterious whisper. "No, there's only one who might help you, stranger. Only one who could go down into a place like that, find what he's looking for, and come out . . . whole. But you'll not get him.'' Darien pushed the coin across the table. His voice resonated with intensity. "Tell me." For a long moment Bent-Nose eyed the gold piece and his empty ale pot in turn. At last he reached out his still-shaking hand and closed it around the coin. Within the shadows of his hood, Darien smiled. He leaned forward to hear the other man's whispered words. * * * * * As the hours wore toward midnight, Darien moved through the inn, swathed in his disguise, approaching others who he thought might be compelled, with a gold coin or a pot of ale, to speak. They were more than plentiful. He asked each the same question. Who, better than any other, might go deep into Undermountain and find what he was charged to seek? Many names were given in answer. Some were heroes who had never existed other than in legends. Others were sots who at present snored drunkenly in a corner of the inn. Neither were of any use to Darien. However, there was one name that was repeated again and again in awed voices. Artek the Knife. Darien had heard of the scoundrel before. Artek Ar'talen, known also as the Knife, had once been Waterdeep's most famous and elusive criminal. He had preyed most often upon the nobility, which made him all the more abhorrent in Darien's eyes, if not those of the common folk. It was said that there was no tower so high, no vault so secure, and no crypt so deep that Artek the Knife could not penetrate it and rob it clean. That made him the perfect candidate for Darien's task. There was only one complication. Artek the Knife had mysteriously vanished over a year ago. At last Darien found one who knew why. "The city watch finally caught him," the woman said, quaffing the ale Darien had bought her. By her leather garb and the myriad knives at her hip, she styled herself some sort of rogue. "I guess Artek wasn't as slippery as the stories claimed. The Magisters have him locked up in their prison." She clenched a hand into a fist. "And he can rot in there forever!" "Let me guess," Darien replied musingly. "Ar'talen enlisted your help in a robbery, promising to cut you in on the take, only to disappear with all the loot." Anger twisted her face, and by this he knew he had hit close to the mark. "He won't do you any good either," she spat. "The Magisters will never let you near him." "I wouldn't be so certain," Darien purred. "I am rather accustomed to getting what I want." Just then a burly freebooter careened drunkenly into Darien. The noble swore hotly, but the man only lurched onward to join several compatriots at a nearby table. Darien

turned back to the woman to see that her eyes had narrowed in sudden suspicion. Too late he noticed the silken ruffle now revealed where his cloak had been knocked aside. She grabbed the cloak, ripping it away. Even to one who did not know his identity, his high forehead and striking features clearly marked him a noble, as did his long coat of rich purple velvet and his raffled shirt of silvery silk. The rogue hissed the words like venom. "A nobleman." Instantly, a deathly silence settled over the common room. All eyes turned toward Darien. Inwardly he cursed the insolent woman. "I have no quarrel with you," he said coolly. Yet, he added to himself. She drew dangerously close to him. "No? Well, I have one with you—you and all your kind. I was only a child at the time, but I will never forget the day a nobleman cast my family into the street. He took everything we owned. Then he had my parents hauled away by the city watch. They were thrown into prison, and they died there. I remember standing in the gutter, crying. I didn't understand what was happening. And do you know what the nobleman said? 'Do forgive me.' " She shook with seething fury. "As if that could bring my parents back!" Darien stared at her flatly. "You must understand, my dear," he said in a bored voice. "A lord can hardly be expected to indulge a tenant who fails to pay his rent. You see, if one allows but a single maggot into his meat, he will soon find it putrid with flies." For a frozen moment, the woman stared at him in pale-faced rage. Then she reached for one of the curved knives at her belt. But Darien was faster and raised his right arm. Three barbed steel prongs sprang from the end of the Device. They spun rapidly, emitting a high-pitched whine. With a fluid, casual motion, Darien stepped forward and thrust the whirling prongs deep into the rogue's gut. He let them spin there a moment, then withdrew his arm. With a click, the blood-smeared barbs slid back into the Device. Her eyes wide with shock, the rogue sank to the floor. There she writhed in soundless agony as she slowly died. Just as the insect had on the end of the Device. With a fey smile, Darien whispered, "Do forgive me." He spun on a boot heel and strode through the silent common room toward the tavern's door. The rabble made no move to stop him. They didn't dare. And it did not matter that his disguise had been revealed. He had already gotten everything he needed. "So you have managed to land yourself in prison, Artek Ar'talen," he murmured to himself. "Well, that is a small enough problem. For me, if not for you." Laughing softly, Lord Darien Thal stepped out into the balmy spring night.

1 Heir to Darkness What a fool he had been to think that he could truly change. With your fingers, trace every crack and crevice in the walls of your prison cell. A dampness may signify weakened mortar, a puff of air an opening beyond. Notice how insects and other vermin come and go. Their paths may lead you to freedom, my son. He had thought it would be such an easy thing, like shedding an old cloak to don one of new cloth. After all, he didn't choose this course for his life. Since childhood, he had simply known nothing else. For a time it had seemed enough, though not because of the gold coins pilfered from velvet-lined purses, or the rings slipped from slender noble fingers, or the jewels spirited from guarded stone vaults. Money had always been the least of the rewards of his nightly work. Far more intoxicating had been the thrill. It flowed through his body like fine wine as he stole through darkened windows, crept down shadowed streets, or strode boldly across brilliant candlelit ballrooms toward his next unwitting quarry. Dissatisfaction had come upon him so gradually that for a long time he had scarcely noticed it. Even after the thrill of the hunt had dulled into boredom, habit had propelled him onward. It wasn't until he was nearly captured that he understood how reckless he had become. One moonlit night he had strolled along the silent avenues of Waterdeep's City of the Dead, wearing the expensive silken robes he had just lifted from a recently deceased nobleman. Only when the hue and cry sounded on the air did he realize that he had not even bothered to conceal himself as he walked. Struck by sudden terror, he had cowered in the embrace of a decomposing corpse in a half-filled grave as the City Watch ran past. He had escaped them, for the moment. Yet he knew it was only a matter of time before he grew so careless that even he could not elude the Watch when the alarm sounded. The truth was, part of him wanted to get caught. He was weary—weary of scheming, of running, of watching dread flare in the eyes of others when they recognized who it was that stood before them. That night, in the bottom of the muddy grave, wrapped in the rain-soaked garb of a dead man, he finally made a choice. From that moment on, he was a thief no longer. Now to the floor. Press your ear right against the stones. Then rap sharply with some hard object—a spoon, a pebble, even your bare knuckles if you have nothing left. Move a half-pace to one side, then rap again. Listen well as you do. A change in sound may indicate a space below. And a way out. He had not considered that nobody would believe him. But it made perfect sense, naturally. He had robbed the citizens of Waterdeep for years. What cause did they have to trust him? When the rumor spread across the city that he had given up his thieving ways, another rumor raced hot on its heels: it was all an elaborate ruse to lure the nobility into a false sense of security. They would leave their wealth unguarded, and Artek could thereby relieve them of it all the easier. Finally, he had realized there was only one way to make the people of Waterdeep understand that he had truly changed. He had to show them. His chance arrived unexpectedly. He was gloomily pacing the night-darkened streets of the North Ward, pondering his dilemma, when he turned the corner of a narrow lane and saw a gilded carriage standing at a halt beneath a stone archway. Instinct pricked the back of his neck, and he melted soundlessly into a pool of shadow. Then he saw them: two masked figures in black. One gripped the harness of the

horses as the animals stamped nervous hooves against cobblestone. The other reached through the open window of the carriage, roughly jerking glittering rings from the hands of a middle-aged countess, while her heavily painted face cracked in terror. Artek knew this was his chance. Surely saving a countess would win him a pardon for his past crimes, and prove himself reformed. He moved swiftly through the shadows, drawing a dagger from each of his boots. The man who held the horses was dead before he even felt the knife slip between his ribs, piercing his heart. The second looked up and managed to let out a cry of surprise before he was silenced by a knife in his throat. Kneeling, Artek retrieved the jewels from the dead thief's grip, then stood to hand them back to the countess. Then matters took an unexpected turn. The countess screamed. Artek tried to explain that he was returning her jewels, but she just continued to cry for help. Growing angry, he thrust the rings toward her, but she beat them away with wildly flapping hands, her shrieks rising shrilly on the night air. Too late, he realized his own peril. Whirling around, he saw torchlight approaching rapidly from either direction, and heard the sound of booted feet. Before he could act, a patrol of the City Watch appeared in the archway, while another rounded the corner. In seconds a dozen watchmen surrounded him, swords drawn. A cold knot of fear tied itself in his stomach as he became aware of the jewels he still gripped in his sweating hands. "It wasn't me," he said hoarsely. The watchmen only grinned fiercely as they closed in. Remember that every prison is merely a puzzle, and each has its own solution. To escape, all you must do is discover the answer that is already there. And while your face may be that of a man, never forget that the blood of the Garug-Mal runs in your veins. Ever have the orc-kindred of the Graypeak Mountains dwelled deep in lightless places. You have nothing to fear from the dark, Artek. For the dark is in you, my son ... With a clinking of heavy chains, Artek Ar'talen shifted his body on the cold stone floor, trying to ease the chafing of the iron shackles where they dug painfully into his ankles and wrists. As always, the effort was futile. He stared into the impenetrable dark that filled the tiny cell. Once a thief, always a thief. That was what the Magisters had said just before they sentenced him to spend the rest of his life in prison. On that day, Artek had finally realized that it was impossible to change. He would be whatever others thought him to be. Artek was not certain how long he had been in this place. Clay cups of foul water and bowls of maggoty gruel came rarely and at uneven intervals through a slit in the opposite wall, and could not be used to mark time reliably. Certainly it had been months, perhaps as many as six. In that time, he had explored the cell as far as his chains allowed, recalling everything about prisons his father had taught him as a child, but he found no hope. The walls and floors were made of flawless stone without crack or crevice, as if forged by sorcery rather than hewn by hand. Nor had his father's tricks worked upon the shackles, or the bolts that bound the chains to the wall. "I remember your words, Father," he whispered through cracked lips. "And damn your wretched half-orc soul to the Abyss, for they have failed me now." With a groan, he slumped back against the wall. His father had been right about one thing—the dark was in him. And in the dark he would die. It might have been minutes later—or perhaps hours, or even days—when a metallic noise ground on the dank air of the cell. Artek cracked his eyes. Chains jingling, he stiffly sat up. Had the guards finally brought him some water? He ran a parched tongue

across his blistered lips. It had been a long time. He eyed the place in the dark where the slit of faint light always appeared, and through which food and drink were pushed with a stick. Puzzled, he saw only unblemished darkness. Then the grinding sound ended with a sharp clang! All at once the perfect blackness of the cell was torn asunder. A tall rectangle of blazing fire appeared before Artek. With a low cry of pain, he shrank against the wall, shielding his face with his hands. "Looks like our little friend here is afraid of the light," said a coarse voice. "Isn't that just like a rat?" a second, wheedling voice laughed. At last Artek's brain grasped what had happened. For the first time since he had been locked in this cell, someone had opened the door. Blinking away stinging tears, he slowly lowered his hands, trying to force his eyes to adjust. Two hazy forms stood in the open portal. Guards, one with a smoking torch. Artek supposed the light it cast was in truth dim and murky, but to his eyes, so long in the dark, it seemed like a brilliant sun. Why. .. ? His lips formed the word soundlessly. Deliberately he swallowed, then tried again, straining to voice the sounds. This time the words came out as a croaking whisper. "Why have you come for me?" "Somebody wants to see you," growled the first guard, a tall man with a dog's drooping face. "What. . . what for?" "Rats don't ask questions," snapped the second guard, a corpulent man with beady eyes. "They just do what their betters tell them if they don't want new smiles cut around their necks." With a large iron key, Dog-Face unlocked Artek's chains from the ring in the wall. He jerked on them, pulling the prisoner roughly to his feet. Artek cried out as blood rushed painfully into his cramped limbs. He staggered, but another harsh jerk on the chains kept him from falling. Gradually the fire in his legs dulled to pins and needles. After a moment he could stand on his own, though only in a hunched position. Before his imprisonment, thick muscles had knotted his short, compact frame. Now, beneath his filthy rags, bones stuck out plainly beneath sallow skin. "Looks like prison food hasn't agreed with you, rat," Beady-Eyes chuckled. Artek eyed the gut straining against the guard's food-stained jerkin. "You might want to give it a try yourself," he said hoarsely. Beady-Eyes glowered darkly, sucking in his stomach. "Bring him out!" Dog-Face pulled hard on the chain, and Artek stumbled forward, barely managing to keep his balance. "I can't walk with my feet shackled," he gasped. "He's right," Dog-Face said. "And I'm not going to carry him." Beady-Eyes scratched his stubbled jowl. "All right. Unlock his feet. But don't get any ideas about going anywhere, rat." He took the center of the chain that bound Artek's shackled wrists and locked it to an iron band he wore around his own thick wrist. A yellow-toothed grin split his face. "You'll be staying close by me." In the corridor outside the cell, four more armed guards waited. They all looked to Beady-Eyes. It was clear he was their captain. He gave the order, and they began marching down a long corridor. Two guards led the way. Next came Beady-Eyes, who jerked cruelly at the chain binding Artek's wrists, followed by the remaining guards. Artek trudged silently, head bowed, shoulders slumped. "It seems there's little spark left in you, Artek the Knife," Beady-Eyes chortled in a bubbling voice. "No one would mistake the wretch you are now for Waterdeep's most

infamous rogue. It seems a year alone in the dark is enough to break even the greatest of scoundrels." Artek staggered dizzily. A year? A few months, he thought, perhaps even six. But an entire year of his life lost in that black pit? Deep inside, amid the hopelessness that had filled him during his confinement, there now ignited a single bright spark of rage. Remembered words—spoken by father to son—echoed in his mind. A good thief finds strength in weakness. Chains can be a weapon. And sometimes a prisoner's bonds may be turned upon unwitting captors. The party rounded a corner. To the left the wall fell away, and in its place was an iron rail. Beyond this was a vast chamber, its floor fifty feet below—the center of the prison of the Magisters, a place named the Pit by the city's criminals. Below Artek, five levels of cells lined the perimeter of the Pit, each bordered by a narrow catwalk. In the far wall was a massive stone slab of a door. At present, the door was raised, held up by a chain that passed through a ring in the ceiling and hooked to a large counterweight. A dozen armed guards stood before the open portal. Beady-Eyes tugged Artek's chains, leading him toward an opening to the right, away from the Pit. The spark blazed more hotly inside the prisoner, burning away months of apathy and despair. This, he realized, would be his only chance. He took it. Lunging to the left, Artek jerked sharply on the chain that connected his shackled hands to the guard's wrist. With a cry of alarm, Beady-Eyes stumbled toward him, giving Artek the slack in the chain he needed. The guards drew their swords, reaching for Artek, but they were too slow. With a shout, he threw himself past the iron railing and over the edge of the Pit. For a second he plunged downward, then abruptly stopped short. Above, Beady-Eyes shrieked in pain as he struck the iron railing. Arms above his head, Artek dangled in midair, suspended by the chain attached to the corpulent captain's wrist. "My arm!" Beady-Eyes squealed, his pudgy face bright red. With his free hand he clutched the iron rail to keep from being dragged over the edge. "He's going to pull my arm out of its socket! Break the chain!" The other guards stared at him. "Break it!" Beady-Eyes wailed. Dog-Face hurried forward, raising his sword. The blade flashed downward in a whistling arc. At the same moment, Artek swung his body toward the wall. Another shrill scream sounded above just as the chain gave way. Artek's momentum carried him forward, and he landed in a crouch on the catwalk bordering the highest row of cells. Glancing at the chain around his wrists, he saw that Dog-Face's blow had missed. The chain was unbroken, but at its center, still in the iron wristlet, was a severed hand. No wonder Beady-Eyes had screamed, Artek thought with grim mirth. He plucked the hand from the iron ring and tossed it aside. Shouts of alarm rang out across the Pit. Jerking his head up, Artek saw guards racing along the catwalk from either direction. There was no way past them without a fight, which left only one way to go. Gripping the edge of the catwalk, he lowered himself down, grunting with effort. His body was no longer accustomed to such rigors. Drumming footfalls approached. Gritting his teeth, he swung himself forward and dropped to the catwalk bordering the fourth level. At least his body had not forgotten everything. Angry curses drifted downward. A moment later, a pair of black boots dangled over the edge of the catwalk above. A guard was climbing down after him. Artek grabbed the man's boots and pulled. With a scream, the guard lost his grip and plunged

downward. A second later, he struck the hard stone floor forty feet below, and blood sprayed outward in a crimson starburst. The remaining guards above swore again but did not attempt to follow their companion. Artek looked up. Across the Pit, guards on each of the five cell levels raced in his direction. He leaned against the railing of the catwalk, his breath rattling in his gaunt chest. You may not have changed, Artek, he thought. But you're certainly not the man you used to be. Exhausted though he was, this was not the time to rest. He lowered himself over the edge of the catwalk and swung onto the third level. Emaciated arms reached out from iron-barred cells, but he ignored them. They would have to find their own way out. Arms aching, he lowered himself to the second level, then finally dropped to the main floor of the Pit. He staggered, then gained his feet. A few feet away, a grimy old man pushing a wheelbarrow looked up in surprise. The cart was filled with gray, lumpy slop, and the old fellow gripped a dripping wooden ladle in his hand. He had been making the rounds, flinging a ladleful of the fetid slop into every cell for the prisoners to eat off the floor. "That looks appetizing," Artek said wryly. The old man only gaped at him. A dozen guards poured out of a nearby stairwell and rushed toward Artek. He glanced at the door of the Pit. Another dozen guards stood before it. Now where? A good thief is imaginative, my son. If something seems impossible, consider it. The unexpected action is the hardest of all to counter. His black eyes drifted upward. A thrill coursed through him as he spied a way out. There was no time to consider it; the guards were almost upon him. "Excuse me," Artek said, pushing the stunned old man aside. He gripped the handles of the cart and, with a grunt, heaved it over. Putrid, gray gruel spilled across the stone floor, and the guards were running too fast to avoid it. Their boots skidded on the slimy swill, and they went down in a swearing tangle of arms, legs, and swords. Artek did not hesitate. He took the sword from the body of the guard who had fallen to his death, then raced to a corner of the Pit. A massive iron ball was tied with a rope to a ring in the wall. The ball was, in turn, attached to a long chain dangling from above—the counterweight to the door. Artek snaked his arm around the chain, then swung the sword, severing the rope from the ring. Instantly the counterweight rose into the air, taking Artek with it. Across the Pit, the guards before the door dove forward to avoid being crushed by the ponderous slab of stone as it descended. The counterweight came to an abrupt halt as the door crashed to the ground. Artek kicked his legs, swinging at the end of the chain in wider and wider arcs. At the end of the widest arc, he let go, tucking himself into a ball. He sailed through the air, landing inside the open mouth of the ventilation shaft he had glimpsed from below. Leaving behind the angry shouts echoing in the Pit, Artek crawled as quickly as he could through the narrow shaft. Though he couldn't be certain, he felt that it was gradually heading upward. The shaft had to lead to the surface at some point. He crawled on. Just when he thought his cramped limbs could go no farther, he glimpsed a square of golden light ahead—an opening. His heart pounded rapidly. Was that sunlight pouring through the hole? Artek couldn't remember what the rays of the sun looked like, and now freedom was mere yards away. In excitement, he pulled himself through

the golden opening, and suddenly felt himself tumble end over end through cold mists, no longer sure of where he was. After a moment of dizzying disorientation, Artek landed with a thud on a softly cushioned surface. "I see that you're right on time, Artek Ar'talen." Artek blinked away the fog in his head and saw that he was lying on a thick, expensive-looking rug. A sharp stench of lightning hung in the air. Artek jumped up, but the action was never completed. Brilliant energy crackled through the air, and a blood-red aura sprang up around him, pinning his limbs to his sides and rooting his feet to the floor. He was not outside at all, but in a small chamber filled with rich tapestries, gilded wood, and many other ostentatious displays of wealth and taste. Artek choked for air, feeling as if the breath were being squeezed out of him. Struggling, he lifted his head to gaze upon the faces of his new captors. They were a curious duo: a nobleman and a wizard. Effort racked the wizard's face as he concentrated on the spell of binding. Between his dark robe, hooked nose, and bald head, he looked like a great vulture. In contrast, the nobleman was strikingly handsome, with sharp green eyes and dark hair tied back from his high brow with a black ribbon. He was clad all in purple velvet and silver silk and, in a sophisticated affectation, had tucked his right hand beneath the breast of his long coat. He regarded Artek with calm but keen interest. "Allow me to introduce myself," the nobleman said in a smooth voice. "I am Lord Darien, scion of House Thal, high advisor to the Circle of Nobles." He inclined his head ever so slightly. Artek stared at the man as his thief's intuition made a sudden leap. "You," he spat between clenched teeth. "You're the one they were taking me to see." Darien nodded, drawing a step closer. "That is correct. You see, I have a bargain to offer you, Ar'talen. It would be a simple transaction—freedom from this prison in exchange for your services. Are you interested to hear more? If not, don't hesitate to say so, and I will be happy to deliver you back into the hands of the guards . . ." Artek swore inwardly. Why did nobles always enjoy playing such games, manipulating common people as if they were merely pieces on a lanceboard? "Calling the guards won't be necessary," he said. "And you can tell your hired vulture to call off his spell. I won't be going anywhere. You have my word." Darien turned to the wizard. "You heard him, Melthis. Remove the spell of binding." The wizard gaped at him. "But my lord, surely it is unwise to trust this scoundrel." Sparks of ire flashed in Darien's eyes. "Do you question my orders, Melthis?" The wizard's face blanched. "Of course not, my lord," he said fawningly. Hastily, Melthis weaved his thin hands in an intricate gesture, and the shimmering aura surrounding Artek vanished. He staggered, then caught his balance, drawing in a deep breath of relief. Darien led the way to a table in the center of the small chamber. He sat in a cushioned chair and motioned for Artek to take the chair opposite him. Melthis hovered two paces behind his master, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. "I imagine you are wondering how I brought you here," Darien began. Artek only gazed at him silently. That was exactly what he was wondering, but he did not want to give the lord the satisfaction of hearing it. "You see, I have made a study of your colorful career, Ar'talen," Darien went on. He pressed his shapely hands into a steeple before him. "I learned all I could of your daring exploits, and by so doing I have come to know you. I was certain that, once you were outside your magically warded cell, you would attempt an escape. By plotting the course on which the guards would lead you, and by studying parallels in your past

work, I predicted the route that you would take. From there, it was a simple matter to have Melthis bring you here." A smile coiled about his lips. "I must say, I am gratified to see my prediction proved so accurate." This caught Artek entirely off guard. Was he really so simple that his actions could be guessed by one who had merely examined his past work? "I don't know what you want of me, Darien," he growled angrily. If the nobleman noticed the omission of the honorific lord, he showed no sign of it. "But you should know that I'm not the thief I used to be. I'm not sure if I'm even a thief at all anymore." He plucked at the dirty rags that covered his emaciated frame. "Either way, I'm certainly damaged goods." Darien shook his head, laughing softly. "No, Ar'talen, you are not damaged. If anything, you are greater than you ever were before. For in being captured you have finally known humility. You have learned that you have limits. And that knowledge will drive you to reach beyond those limits all the harder." Artek did not answer. Darien had been right about him so far; perhaps he was correct in this as well. It was a disturbing thought, but one he could not quite dismiss. "So what do you want me to steal?" he asked darkly. "Nothing," Darien replied. "Rather, there is something I want you to find. Something of great value to me—and to all of Waterdeep as well." Darien motioned to Melthis, and the wizard filled two silver cups with crimson wine from a crystal decanter. Artek downed his in one gulp, then reached for the decanter to refill his goblet. It was expensive stuff, much better than prison swill. Darien sipped his own wine slowly as he spoke. "Three days ago, in search of sport, a hunting party consisting of several nobles and their attendants ventured into the upper levels of Undermountain. By accident, one of the nobles, Lord Corin Silvertor, was separated from the rest of the party. Before the others could search for him, they were set upon by a vicious band of kobolds and forced to retreat to the private entrance through which they had entered the maze. Subsequent forays into the same areas of Undermountain have revealed no trace of Lord Silvertor, and it is feared that he is lost." Artek shrugged his shoulders. He had no sympathy for nobles whose stupidity put them in danger. "And why isn't it feared that he found his way into the kobolds' stew pot?" "This is why." Darien set a small blue crystal on the table. A faint light flickered inside the gem. "This is a heart jewel," the lord explained. "They are magical stones, each linked to the one it is created for. This one belongs to Lord Silvertor. The light within pulses in time to his heart, and by that we know he yet lives. The nearer the jewel is to its master, the brighter the light. By the faintness of the light in this jewel, we know that Lord Silvertor is lost deep in Undermountain—deeper than any hunting party has ever ventured." Artek gazed thoughtfully at the pulsing jewel. "And I suppose you want me to go down and find your missing little lord." Darien nodded gravely. "It is imperative that we find him, Ar'talen." His voice dropped to a dire whisper. "You see, in two days' time, there is to be a vote among all the nobility of Waterdeep. The vote will determine who is to take the seventh seat in the Circle of Nobles, left vacant after the untimely death of Lord Rithilor Koll. Lord Corin Silvertor is the leading candidate for the seat—which is well, for among his rivals are those with dark ambitions. They see the Circle as a means to rule over all the city's nobility, and as a position from which to launch an all-out assault against the hidden Lords of Waterdeep." Darien's expression was grim. "Such strife would certainly tear

this city asunder. But Silvertor is loyal to the Lords of Waterdeep. That is why it is crucial that he be found in time for the election. The fate of all Waterdeep depends on it." Artek considered these words. "So if I go down into Undermountain and find this precious lord of yours, you'll give me my freedom. Is that the deal?" "No, it is more than that," Darien countered. "I am authorized by the Magisters to grant you a full pardon for all your past crimes. It would be as if you were never a thief, Ar'talen." Darien's sharp green eyes bore into Artek's own. "All you must do is say yes." Artek glared at the lord. Damn the smug bastard to the Abyss. What choice did he really have? It was exactly what he wanted—to have his dark past forgotten. There was only one thing he could say. He clenched his hands into fists and spat the word like a curse. "Yes." Darien leaned back, smiling toothily. "Excellent." He eyed Artek's gaunt frame critically. "But we must prepare you for your task. Imprisonment has left you ill fit for the rigors of this mission." He glanced at the red-robed wizard. "You may cast the spell now, Melthis." Artek started to spring from his chair, but he was too slow. Melthis raised his hands and uttered a string of words in the weird tongue of magic. Searing pain arced through Artek's body, and he fell to the floor, writhing. His flesh felt on fire, as if his bones and muscles were being molded like hot wax. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the pain ended. Gasping, he climbed to his feet. Something about the motion felt. . . strange. Artek gazed down at himself, and his coal-black eyes went wide with shock. His ragged clothing had been reduced to a fine dusting of ash, but this paled in comparison to the change in his body. It was as if he had never spent those long months chained to the wall, wasting away in the dark. His skin was not pale and jaundiced, but a deep olive. No longer was he a half-starved skeleton. Now, thick muscles knotted his compact frame. He flexed his hands, staring at the fingers. Moments ago they had been calloused stumps, covered with sores from worrying his chains, but now they were smooth and strong and whole. He looked at Melthis in amazement. Darien rose to his feet and slowly approached Artek. "Yes, I can see it," he murmured in fascination. "Though I would hardly notice it if I didn't know what to look for. You are handsome enough in a swarthy way. But the signs are there: brow ridges slightly too thick, jaw a little too protruding, shoulders a bit too heavy. And those eyes—the jet-black eyes give it away." The nobleman's lip curled up in disgust. "Orc blood indeed runs in your veins, doesn't it, Ar'talen?" Artek glowered but said nothing. He felt suddenly naked and exposed, and not because of his lack of clothes. Darien opened a trunk next to the table and pulled out a bundle of dark leather. He heaved it toward Artek. "Here. Put these on. I believe black is your favorite color." Artek put on the clothes: jerkin, breeches, and boots. The supple black leathers fit his body tightly but comfortably, as if made just for him. "Take this," Melthis said, pressing the heart jewel into Artek's hand. "It will guide you to Lord Silvertor. I have two other objects for you as well." He handed Artek a curved saber in a leather sheath. "This sword is enchanted, and will lend you strength against any enemy you may encounter." Finally he held out a small golden box. "And this is a transportation device. If you open it, a magical gate will appear. All you have to do is step through and you will be instantly transported out of Undermountain."

Artek belted the sword around his waist, then tucked the heart jewel and the golden box into his pocket. It was good to know that he had a way out of Undermountain if things looked bad. Darien nodded in approval. "There's only one more thing we need to do, Ar'talen. Hold out your arm." Artek eyed the noble warily, but did as he was told. Melthis rolled up the sleeve of Artek's jerkin. Then, using a quill pen and a jar of black ink, the wizard drew an intricate tattoo on his arm: a wheel depicting a stylized sun and moon, with an arrow next to it. In the center of the wheel was a grinning skull. Artek wondered what it could possibly mean. Setting down the pen and ink, Melthis held his hand over the tattoo and whispered a dissonant incantation. The lines of ink glowed with scarlet light, then went dark again. Artek felt no pain, only a cool tingling against his skin. "What was that all about?" he asked with a frown as Melthis moved away. A mysterious smile played around the corners of Darien's mouth. "Take a closer look at the tattoo, Ar'talen." Feeling a sudden chill at the nobleman's words, Artek looked. At first he noticed nothing unusual. Then he blinked in surprise. Slowly but perceptibly, the circle drawn upon his arm was moving, the sun and moon spinning around the grinning skull. "The tattoo is linked to the movements of the sun and moon in the sky above," Darien explained in cool tones. "No matter how deep in the ground you go, the wheel will move as they move. As you can see, the sun is just passing the arrow, for it is sunrise outside. If the sun passes the arrow twice more—that is, in exactly two days—the tattoo will send out a small but precisely calibrated jolt of magical energy. At that moment your heart will stop beating. Forever." For a moment Artek could only gape at Darien in open-mouthed shock. Then rage ignited in his chest. Artek lunged at the nobleman. At the same time, Darien pulled his right hand from beneath his coat. Artek froze. It wasn't a hand on the end of Darien's arm, but some sort of metallic device. Three viciously barbed prongs sprang from the end of the metal cylinder, whirling rapidly. "Killing me will get you nowhere, Ar'talen." The nobleman's voice was not angry, merely matter-of-fact. "I will have Melthis remove the tattoo only when you return from Undermountain—with Lord Corin Silvertor. Return without Silvertor, and I will do nothing." The whirling prongs drew closer to Artek's face. "Now, what do you say?" Hatred boiled in Artek's blood. The orc in him would not rest until he had exacted his revenge upon Lord Darien Thal. But that would have to wait; right now, there was only one thing he could do. Artek hissed the words through bared teeth. "Show me how I get into Undermountain."

2 Descent Into Danger The steep alley ended in a blank stone wall. "No offense, but this doesn't exactly look like an entrance into Undermountain," Artek noted dryly. He turned to watch as Lord Darien Thal and Melthis picked their way down the slimy cobblestones toward him. Dawn was breaking over the rest of Waterdeep, but in this deep alley in the Dock Ward, the shadowed gloom of night still held sway. Artek wished he could climb out of this hole and walk the city's open avenues, to feel the light of the sun upon his face. However, it was down into the dark that he was to go. "That is why I am a wizard and you are a dungeon rat!" Melthis hissed acidly. He clutched his robes up around his ankles to keep them out of the foul muck of the alley. "Recall your manners, Melthis," Darien chided as the two came to a halt. "Ar'talen is our friend in this, after all." Artek shot the handsome nobleman a black look. Friend was hardly the word he would have chosen. Darien only smiled his smooth, arrogant smile. Melthis approached the stone wall and began to mumble under his breath. After a moment the wizard tapped the back wall of the alley with his staff. Like ripples on a pond, concentric rings of crimson magic spread outward on the wall, radiating from the point where the staff had struck. The circles flickered and vanished, but one of the stones continued to glow with dim scarlet light. Melthis pushed lightly on the stone. There was a grinding sound, followed by a hiss of fetid air. A low opening appeared in the wall. The wizard shot Artek a smug look. "You'll forgive me if I hold my applause," Artek said in annoyance. Darien gestured to the dark opening. "All you need do is follow the passageway beyond, Ar'talen. It leads to one place only: the upper halls of Undermountain." "The transport device I gave you will return you to this place," Melthis added. "We will be waiting for you." Darien smoothed his elegant velvet coat. "Remember, Ar'talen, you have only two days to return with Lord Corin Silvertor. And if you fail to find him," he said, green eyes flashing sharply, "don't bother to return at all." Artek tried to swallow the bitter taste of rage in his mouth. "How do I know that when I do return you'll really have Melthis remove the tattoo?" he demanded. "You don't," Darien replied flatly. "Yet what choice do you have but to trust me?" Clenching his hands into fists, Artek resisted the orcish urge to tear the nobleman to shreds. He glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. Slowly, inexorably, the wheel continued to spin around the grinning skull. The sun had completely passed the arrow now. Less than two days to find the missing noble. Less than two days to live. "Be here," was all he said. Crouching, he passed through the opening in the wall into a cramped tunnel beyond. Behind him, Melthis uttered a word of magic. The secret doorway shut with a foreboding boom, sealing Artek in tomb-like blackness. For a long moment he stared into the thick darkness. Gradually his eyes began to adjust. Rough walls, loose stones, and scurrying insects appeared before him in subtle shades of red. He sighed in the dank air. During those long months locked in his cell, he had thought his ability to see in the dark lost forever, for his eyes had glimpsed nothing but impenetrable blackness. Now he knew that this had indeed been due to some enchantment bound in the stones of that cell. Like his thieving skills, his darkvision was a gift from his half-orc father. And one for which he was now grateful.

In a hunched position, he began moving down the low tunnel. Countless times it bent and twisted, until he lost almost all sense of direction. Yet some deep instinct told him that he was steadily heading westward—in the direction of Mount Waterdeep. At several points he was forced to crawl on his belly over heaps of rubble where the tunnel had caved in. The foul air was oppressive, and he breathed it in shallow gasps through his open mouth. Abruptly he came to a halt. The passageway, which had been level up to this point, suddenly plunged down before him at a steep angle. He eyed the slope critically. It would require some caution, but he could do it. Keeping his center of balance low to the floor, he inched his way over the edge of the incline. His boot skidded on a layer of slime. Artek's hands shot out, but it was no use. The walls and floor of the tunnel were both dripping with slick slime. The ichor was the same temperature as the cool stones, and so his heat-sensitive eyes had failed to detect it. His boots and fingers scrabbled furiously against the slimy surface. He nearly made it back up to the edge of the incline, but then he lost his grip and careened headlong down the steep slope. His curses rang off the walls of the tunnel as he slid rapidly downward. In vain he fought to slow his descent, wondering if at any moment he would strike a blank wall or some other obstacle with bone-crushing force. Out of control, he slid faster and faster. As suddenly as it had begun, the slope ended, leveling into a flat passageway once more. With a surge of dread, he saw that his fear of a trap was all too prophetic. Just ahead, the tunnel dead-ended in a wall bristling with pointed iron spikes. Despite the level floor, he was so covered with slime that he continued to skid, hurtling with fatal speed face first toward the spikes. With a yell, he reached back and fumbled for the saber belted at his hip. At the last moment he drew the blade and thrust his arms out before him, clenching his eyes against the coming impact. There was a deafening clang of metal on metal, accompanied by a spray of hot sparks. A brutal shock raced up his arms, jarring his shoulders painfully, as he came to a sudden halt. After a moment he opened his eyes. He looked up to see the tip of a spike a hairsbreadth from his hands. The sword was longer than the spikes, its tip striking the wall just before he struck the points. Pulling his aching arms back, he slowly sat up and slipped the saber back into its scabbard. "I guess that was the quick way down," he said weakly. He let out a nervous laugh of relief. Stiffly, he started to climb to his feet. That was when the floor dropped out from beneath him. Artek swore as he plunged downward. He had become stupid as well as rusty during his long imprisonment. Of course the spikes hadn't been the real trap. They were far too obvious. Their only purpose had been to distract him from the true trick—a weight-sensitive trapdoor. And it had worked perfectly. He flailed as he plummeted through cold air, wondering how many heartbeats he had until he struck bottom. Out of the corner of his eye, a large shape loomed beneath him. Instinct took command. Like a cat in midfall, he snapped his body around and reached out. His fingers brushed across hard stone, slipped—then caught in a sharp crevice. His descent abruptly halted. Once again pain flared in his shoulders, but somehow he managed to keep his grip on the crack. Searching blindly with his boots, he found a toehold and took the pressure off his throbbing arms. He leaned his cheek against the cool stone, breathing hard. That had been close. Too close. "How in the Abyss did I do this blasted thieving stuff for so long?" he groaned to himself.

He didn't know. But he only had to do this one last job, and then he could give it up forever. Shaking the vertigo from his head, he gazed around, his darkvision piercing the gloom. He was in the center of a large circular chamber, clinging to the side of some sort of irregular stone pillar. Had he not managed to catch himself, he would now be lying on the floor over forty feet below, gruesomely wounded or—more likely—dead. Craning his neck, he gazed upward. He could just make out the trapdoor through which he had fallen, perhaps twenty feet above. It was still open, but utterly out of reach. Not that it mattered. His goal lay in the opposite direction—deeper into Undermountain. A peculiar odor hung in the air, sharp and metallic, like the scent of the air before a storm. The smell troubled him, though he was not certain why. The hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. However, there was nothing to do but start climbing. He glimpsed two stone doors on opposite sides of the chamber, both closed. Hoping that one of them might lead to his quarry, he felt for crevices and protrusions and started inching his way down the pillar. He had gone no more than five feet when the lightning struck. Two blue-white bolts of brilliant energy rent the darkness asunder. Each sizzled hotly as it struck one of the shut doorways, then crackled around the chamber, ricocheting wildly off the stone walls. A searing bolt passed inches from Artek's face. He cringed against the scant protection of the pillar. Only it wasn't a pillar at all, he saw now in the blazing illumination. It was a gigantic statue hewn of seamless, dark red stone. At the moment, Artek clung to the shallow ridge just above its right shoulder blade. The statue's neck ended in a jagged stump, for the head had been knocked off long ago. But the torso and legs were muscled and powerful, like those of a god. The figure's hands—from which several of the fingers had been snapped off—were outstretched in a commanding gesture. It was from these that the two bolts of energy had emanated. After a few terrifying seconds, the lightning bolts burned themselves out in hisses of sulfur. Artek blinked, but all he could see were purple afterimages. The lightning had temporarily blinded his darkvision. At last the dull red shapes of the statue and walls came back into focus. With a sigh, he started down once more. Two more lightning bolts arced from the statue's hands to strike the doors and careen around the chamber. Clinging to the statue's back, Artek narrowly ducked one of the jagged arcs of energy as it crackled past. This time when the lightning dissipated he remained still, staring into the darkness while he counted his heartbeats. He made it to a hundred before the blue-white bolts struck again. Artek swallowed hard. This did not look good. Even assuming he could make it to the statue's feet without being struck by the magical lightning, the interval between strikes gave him just over a minute to dash to one of the chamber's doors. This would be more than enough—provided the door was not locked. However, if it was, and he could not pick the lock in time, he would be standing directly in the path of the lightning when it leapt from the statue's outstretched hands again. As if on cue, once more searing bolts of magic bounced around the chamber before vanishing. Artek racked his brain, but he could not see a surefire way around this trap. Had he been thwarted in his mission already? If so, he was rustier than he had feared. Think, Artek, he told himself urgently. You've got to think! It was no use. His mind was a blank. With a groan of frustration, he smacked his forehead against the hard stone of

the statue. He noticed two things. First, this idiotic action hurt. Second, it resulted in a hollow echo deep inside the statue. Artek jerked his head back, staring at the statue in astonishment. Quickly, he began running his hands across its smooth stone surface. It had to be here somewhere. Then his fingers brushed a small, slightly raised circle in the center of the statue's back. That was it. He mashed the circle with his thumb. There was a grating noise, and he was nearly thrown off the statue as a small, circular door opened between its shoulder blades. "Now this adds new meaning to the term back door," Artek quipped with a satisfied grin. He scrambled through just as lightning sizzled around the chamber again. Pulling the door shut, he sealed himself safely inside the statue. After a long moment his eyes adjusted. He stood at the top of a narrow spiral staircase. Descending the steps, he coiled deeper and deeper, soon certain that he must be far below the statue. Still the stairs plunged downward. At last they ended in an iron door. It was not locked. Tensing himself in readiness, Artek pushed open the portal. An empty corridor stretched beyond. Glancing around, he saw no sign of sharp iron spikes, trapdoors, or lightning-shooting statues. He drew in a deep breath. Maybe he could actually relax for a second. From a pocket in his black leather breeches, he pulled out the crystalline heart jewel. The sapphire light that pulsed in its center, though still dim, was brighter than it had been before. So Lord Corin Silvertor was still alive, and closer now, if some distance away. Holding the heart jewel out before him, Artek started cautiously down the corridor. Soon he found himself amid a maze of dank passageways and shadow-filled halls. High archways opened to the right and left. Corridors doubled back on themselves or ended abruptly in blank walls. Some stairwells led to nowhere, while others delved deeper into the oppressive dark. It was not at all difficult to believe that this place had been constructed by a mad wizard. There seemed no reason or plan to the vast labyrinth, unless it was to lead those who wandered its ways inexorably downward. As he went, Artek kept his eye on the heart jewel. A dozen times the light flickered and dimmed, and he retraced his steps until the blue gem began to glow more strongly once again. Then he would try his luck down another passageway or tunnel. It was hardly an elegant method, but it worked. Gradually the glimmer in the center of the heart jewel grew brighter. Slowly but steadily, he worked his way closer to the missing nobleman. He wasn't certain exactly when he first noticed the sounds drifting in the musty air. At first they hovered on the edge of consciousness, filling him with a vague and nameless unease. Finally they resolved themselves into distant yet distinct noises: an echoing boom like that of a slamming door, the grinding of unknown machinery, and high, wordless cries that were either screams of agony or inhuman, howls of blood-lust. Though the sounds were faint and far off, they were not enough so for Artek's comfort. One thing was certain—he was not alone in the maze. Half-remembered stories drifted to mind, tales told to him as a child by his father, of the lightless warrens of the Garug-Mal. In turn, Artek's father, Arturg, had learned the stories from his own father. His name had been Arthaug, and he had been a high chief among the orcs who lived beneath the Graypeak Mountains. From time to time, the orcs had raided human settlements at the foot of the mountains, capturing men and

women and bringing them back to the orc warrens to work as slaves, digging and tunneling. It was upon one of these human women that Arthaug had sired Arturg. Not long after this, Arthaug was deposed in an overthrow engineered by a rival orcish chief. Arthaug was forced to flee the warrens of the Garug-Mal, and he took young Arturg with him. Arthaug plotted for the day he would return to the Graypeak Mountains and become high chief of the Garug-Mal again. However, he died in exile—slain in a duel with highwaymen—without ever again laying eyes on the tunnels of his homeland. After his death, his half-orc son was left to fend for himself. Fully grown at the age of ten, Arturg was brutish in appearance. However, he could pass for a human man, at least in dim light. Remembering the power of the brigands who had killed his father, he made his way in the overworld as a rogue, though he never managed to rise far above petty theft. His companion was a human witch named Siraia, who died giving birth to Artek. Arturg raised Artek alone, teaching his son all that he knew of stealth and stealing. When Artek was seven, Arturg was caught robbing a rich merchant in Elturel. There he was beheaded, and with him died the dream of Arthaug. For Artek considered himself human, and he had no desire to return to the Graypeak mountains to claim rulership of the Garug-Mal. Yet it was not so easy for Artek to escape his inhuman legacy. Darkly handsome as he was, others still sometimes glimpsed the orcish blood that ran in his veins. And though, in time, he far surpassed Arturg in skill and success, he was still a thief, just like his father. In the end, his attempt to escape his heritage had been an utter failure, landing him in the prison of the Magisters. He had been stupid to think that he could ever change. He would not make that mistake again. "This is what I am," he growled under his breath. Gripping the hilt of his saber, he prowled down the dusky corridors of Undermountain, forcing the old stories from his head. He had a nobleman to find. Following the gleaming heart jewel, he passed through an open archway into a long, high-ceilinged room. Immediately his nose wrinkled in disgust. A vile odor hung thickly on the air. Something crunched beneath his boot. Kneeling, he peered at the object. It was a thin, papery tube, almost like a sheath of some sort. Examining it more closely, he saw dull green scales embedded in its surface. Alarm stirred in his chest. He had a bad feeling about this place. Hastily he tossed down the sheath. It came from behind, a rhythmic whirring sound, along with a rasping hiss. Artek spun on a heel. In the air before him hovered a brilliant green snake, leathery wings sprouting from its back flapping rapidly to keep the creature aloft. Crimson light gleamed in its dull reptilian eyes, and the thing opened its mouth, baring long fangs. He dodged barely in time to avoid the stream of vitriol that sprayed from the snake's mouth. The black liquid struck the wall behind him, smoking and sizzling as it burned deep pits into the hard rock. Artek stared at the melting stone in shock. There was another whirring noise to his left. He jerked his head around to see a second winged snake dart toward him through the air. The flapping sound grew louder, and dry hisses echoed all around. A dozen sinuous shapes drifted out of the shadows. Artek could only watch in horror as he was surrounded by flying snakes. His hand crept toward the hilt of his saber, though he knew it would do him no good. The creatures closed in, their bodies coiling and uncoiling menacingly. The snake's venom had burned easily through solid stone. Artek could only imagine what it would do to living flesh. Even as he watched, the flying snakes opened gaping mouths, baring their hollow fangs, ready to spray. "Duck!" a voice shouted.

Such was his terror that Artek did not even question the command. He dropped to the floor, curling into a tight ball. A fraction of a second later, a ball of blazing fire struck the flock of snakes just above his head. A blast of furnacelike air hit him. The creatures hissed and writhed as they were burnt to crisps, and the fireball dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. The blackened husks of the flying snakes dropped to the floor and did not move. Artek uncoiled himself cautiously. Ashes drifted from the backs of his hands where the hair had been singed away, but he was otherwise unhurt. He clambered to his feet, then looked up to see a woman walking toward him. Even if she had not just conjured a fireball, he would have mistaken her for nothing other than a wizard. A ball of blue light glowed on the end of the intricately carved staff she gripped, and myriad pouches, feathers, and bones hung from the leather belt around her hips. She was tall—a good head taller than Artek was—and sleek, with close-cropped brown hair. Her too-square jaw and crooked nose precluded prettiness, but there was something warmly compelling about her deep brown eyes. Her clothes were better suited to a young prince out hunting than a wizard or a woman—worn leather breeches, a full white shirt, and a gray vest. However, the garb was dirt-smudged and threadbare, as if she had been wearing it for a long time. Artek gazed curiously at his mysterious rescuer as she halted a few paces away. "I suppose that I should thank you for your help," he said cautiously. "I suppose that you should," she said with a slightly smug expression. "But in a place such as this," he went on pointedly, "it might be better to first ask how it was that you came upon me at just the right moment." She shrugged her broad shoulders. "That was easy enough. I was following you, of course. I have been for nearly an hour now." Artek frowned dubiously at this. "Call me a skeptic, but I'm not exactly a beginner in matters of stealth. And my ears are really rather good. I think I would have heard if you were following me." "Not if I had cast a spell of silence around myself," she countered with a crooked smirk. Despite himself, Artek laughed. He doffed an imaginary hat and bowed low, conceding his defeat. Her brown eyes flashed with mirth. "The truth is, I don't run into many other people down here," she went on. "And monsters make for dreadfully dull conversation partners before you have to kill them. It gets a little lonely. So when I saw you from a distance, I decided to cloak myself in silence and follow." She eyed the burnt remains of the flying snakes. "And it's a good thing I did. Fine company you would be if you had been melted into a puddle of black slime." With a shudder, Artek agreed. "By the way," the wizard added, "my name is Beckla Shadesar." Artek held his breath a moment. "I'm Artek Ar'talen," he said finally. She gaped at him in open surprise. "You're Artek the Knife?" Hastily she checked the pouches hanging at her belt, counting to make certain they were all still there, and regarded him suspiciously. "You know, I think you once swindled my old employer out of a casket full of emeralds." "It wouldn't surprise me," Artek replied dryly. "So have you come down here to steal things?" He shook his head slowly. "No." To his surprise she nodded, as if she actually believed him. "So why are you down here in Undermountain?" he asked carefully.

Her lips parted in a wry smile. "I think both of our tales might wait until we've had a bit of refreshment," she said in lieu of an answer. "I have a bottle of something I've been saving just for a special occasion like this." Artek hesitated, glancing at the tattoo on his forearm. By the position of the sun in relation to the arrow, several hours had passed. However, he supposed a few moments of rest would do more good than harm. Besides, he was curious to hear the wizard's story. "Lead the way, Beckla Shadesar," he said with a gracious gesture. Artek followed the wizard through a door in the far end of the hall into a dusty corridor beyond. As they turned a corner, Beckla suddenly cried out in alarm. "Artek, look out! It's on you!" The wizard reached out her hands and shouted a word of magic. Blue energy crackled from her fingertips, striking Artek's side. He let out a howl of pain, dancing around in a circle, swatting at his hindquarters. "That's not a snake," he gritted through clenched teeth. "That's the scabbard for my sword!" The wizard affected a sheepish look. "Oops." Artek glared at her. "You nearly set my rump on fire, and all you can say is oops?" She crossed her arms. "Well, I'm sorry," she countered petulantly. "Sometimes I make mistakes. I'm only human, you know. I suppose you're not?" Artek grunted. She couldn't know how close to the mark her question had hit. "I think I definitely need that drink now," he muttered. It wasn't far. At the end of a dim corridor was an iron door. Beckla waved her staff, and the door glowed briefly, then swung open of its own volition. "It's not much," Beckla said cheerfully, "but I call it home." She wasn't joking. Beyond the door was a cramped and dingy stone chamber. It was decorated with flotsam and jetsam scavenged from the ancient tunnels and halls: worm-eaten furniture, threadbare tapestries, and dusty shelves overflowing with moldering books and scrolls. Beckla motioned for Artek to enter and then followed, closing the door behind them. She waved her staff, and the portal locked with an audible click. "It keeps the wandering creatures out," she explained. "Otherwise, I'd never get a wink of sleep." They sat on a pile of musty cushions, and Beckla rummaged in a nearby chest. "I have some food, if you want it," she said. "It isn't great stuff, but considering that it's conjured out of thin air with a spell, I really can't complain." Then she held aloft a purple glass bottle. "Now this is the real thing. Dwarven firebrandy. I found it on some dead adventurers a while back. I think we'll get more use out of it than they did." Beckla grabbed two clay cups, blew the dust and spiders out, and filled them with the clear firebrandy. She handed one to Artek. They clanked the cups together, and the wizard downed her drink in one gulp. With a bemused smile, Artek followed suit. Instantly a delicious warmth spread outward from his stomach. Until now, his magically restored body had still felt slightly strange and alien, as if it weren't really his own. But the firebrandy melted his tense muscles, leaving him feeling extremely comfortable. Beckla refilled their cups. "So are you ever going to tell me what you're doing down here?" he asked amiably. He sipped his firebrandy. Suddenly, his mission did not seem quite so urgent. Beckla giggled, slurping from her own cup. "Actually, there isn't that much to tell. It isn't all that easy to make a living as a wizard these days. And I've taken some jobs I'm not proud of to make ends meet." She sighed deeply, leaning back on the grubby

cushions. "I have dreams, of course. Someday I want to have my own tower, and a personal laboratory so I can perform experiments, and devise amazing new spells that no one has ever seen before. I'd be one of the most famous wizards in all of Faerun." She shook her head ruefully. "But a tower and a laboratory cost gold—lots of it. And, unfortunately, that's one thing I haven't figured out how to conjure yet." The wizard sloshed more firebrandy into their cups as she went on. "A year ago, I took a job working for a moneylender in the South Ward of Waterdeep. His name was Vermik. He was vile-tongued and foul-tempered, but he paid well, so I put up with him. Vermik came up with a clever scheme. He had me ensorcell all the coins that passed through his shop to seem slightly heavier than they really were. That way he could shave gold dust from them, and no scale would reveal the trick. Though he took only a little from each coin, a great many went through his business every day, and he was making a killing. Until. . ." Her words trailed off. "Until what?" Artek asked. Beckla swallowed hard. "Until I transmogrified him into a green slime." Artek choked on his firebrandy. "You what?" "It was an accident," the wizard huffed defensively. "I didn't mean for the spell to go awry. He had a bad headache, and I was trying to help." "Like you were trying to help me when you thought my sword was a snake?" Artek replied smartly. She shot him an annoyed look but otherwise ignored the offending comment. "Anyway, I couldn't figure out how to change Vermik back. Personally, I think it simply brought his physical appearance in accord with the nature of his soul. Needless to say, his henchmen didn't appreciate the finer points of irony. In revenge, they came after my head. Because I'm rather partial to it myself, I decided it would be a good idea to look for a hiding place. I planned to lurk for a while in the sewers beneath Waterdeep. Then I stumbled on a way into Undermountain, and I figured there couldn't be a better hiding place." She held her arms out in a final gesture. "And here I am. I can't say that I like living in this pit. But at least I am living." "A year is a long time," Artek noted. "I imagine Vermik has given up the chase by now. You could probably return to the surface." "I would if I could," the wizard replied mournfully. "What I wouldn't give to breathe real air again—not this wet, moldy stuff that passes for air down here. I've heard there's a well a few levels up that leads to a tavern, but I've never been able to find the way there. Of course, the nobles have their own entrances into this hole, but they're well hidden. Besides, they only open if your blood is bluer than sapphires. Then there are the sewers. According to the rumors, the city's sewers lead all the way down here. Maybe they do, but once I spent five days slogging through sludge, only to end up right back where I started." She let out a forlorn sigh. "But that's the problem with Undermountain. It's a whole lot easier to get in than it is to get out, as you're bound to discover yourself." Artek reached into his pocket, fidgeting with the small gold box Melthis had given him. "I suppose now it's my turn to tell you what I'm doing here," he said jovially. Dimly, he noticed that his words were rather slurred. His tongue seemed oddly thick. He took a deep swig of his firebrandy, hoping that would improve things, then began his story. By the time he finished, Beckla gripped her cup, staring at him in astonishment. "You were locked in the Pit?" she said incredulously. After a second she burst into a fit of wild laughter. "That must have been terrible!"

"It was absolutely awful," Artek agreed, snorting with mirth. He tried to bring his cup to his lips, but his hand wouldn't seem to behave properly. "They served us gruel with live maggots. And that was on good days!" Beckla let out a howl of glee. She tried to refill Artek's cup from the purple bottle but missed altogether, spilling dwarven firebrandy on the floor. The volatile liquid quickly evaporated. "So how are you supposed to find this missing nobleman anyway?" Beckla managed to gasp. "With this." Artek pulled out the heart jewel and tossed it to the wizard. She fumbled with the glowing stone and finally managed to clutch it. "But he could be almost anywhere in this labyrinth. Even with the jewel, it could take weeks to find him." He thrust out his arm, pointing to the magical tattoo, grinning broadly. "And if I don't get back out in two days, this thing will kill me!" This statement sent them both into breathless paroxysms of laughter. "At least I have this," Artek choked through his mirth. He showed her the golden box. "When I find the nobleman, all I have to do is open this and a magical gate will appear, leading back to the surface." Beckla gazed at the box with wide eyes. "Oooh. That's very nice!" She looked from side to side, then giggled mischievously. "Listen, I have a secret to tell you." Artek leaned dizzily closer. "What is it?" She bit her lip, then smiled crookedly, speaking in an exaggerated whisper. "I know where he is. Your lost lord. He's not far. I could take you right to him." Artek sat up straight. Instantly the giddiness drained from him. That was the advantage of dwarven firebrandy, and the reason it was such a rare and expensive commodity. Its highly intoxicating effects ceased the moment one wished them to. He stared at her, his black eyes deadly serious. "You know where Lord Corin Silvertor is?" The wizard's face quickly grew solemn as she too willed away the effects of the firebrandy. "I do." Artek bore into her with his black eyes. He could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat, but she did not look away. Thief's instinct warned him that she was not telling him everything. But she was not lying. Of that he was certain. She did indeed know where to find the lost lord. "Take me to him," he said intently. "Take me with you," she replied in an even voice. For a silent moment the two gazed at each other. Then a reluctant smile spread across Artek's face; this time, it was not from the firebrandy. "It looks like we have a deal, wizard." Beckla beamed brightly in reply. She stood, gripping her wizard's staff. "All right, thief," she said crisply. "Let's go rescue us a nobleman."

3 Outcasts Artek and Beckla came to a halt before a high basalt archway shaped like a gaping mouth. Whether the maw was open in laughter or a scream was impossible to tell. Green mold clung to the stony lips, and black water dripped from jagged teeth. Distant sounds drifted through the archway: grunts, snarls, and high-pitched howls. They were almost like the noises of animals. Almost, but not quite. Beyond the mouth lay darkness. "This archway marks the border of the territory of the Outcasts," Beckla whispered. A faint blue radiance bathed her face, emanating from the wisp of magelight hovering on the end of her staff. "The Outcasts?" Artek asked quietly. The oppressive silence seemed a living thing. It did not like the intrusion of their words. "Who are they?" Beckla shook her head grimly. "What are they might be a more appropriate question." Artek gazed at her in puzzlement. Quietly, the wizard explained her cryptic words. "I think they were people once," she began. "But they were shunned by the world above and driven down beneath the city. I suppose it was because they were different. They were the city's malformed, its ill, its mad." She shook her head ruefully. "I don't know why people are so terrified of those who aren't exactly the same as everyone else. But they are. They fear difference, and hate it. I imagine that was what drove the Outcasts down. It wasn't their fault they were different, but it still made them pariahs. I think that over the years, one by one, the unwanted of Waterdeep retreated down into the sewers beneath the city, and many eventually found their way into the halls of Undermountain." Beckla gazed thoughtfully into the darkness with her deep brown eyes. "There's a whole world down here beneath the city," she murmured. "One that those who walk the daylit streets above have no idea even exists." Artek let out a grunt. He knew well what it was like to be despised simply because he was not like others. Would the Magisters have been so deaf to his claims of innocence had orcish blood not run in his veins? He could feel sympathy for the Outcasts, for those who had chosen to live in the dark below rather than be feared in the light above. "So it's these Outcasts who have Lord Corin Silvertor?" he asked finally. Beckla nodded, confirming his guess. "They're holding him prisoner deep in their territory." "Well, I don't suppose a ragtag band of misfits will give us much trouble," Artek said gruffly. At this, Beckla shook her head fiercely. "You don't understand, Artek. The Outcasts are not what they used to be. Anyone scorned by the world above is welcomed among them. But they hate those who are whole—those like us. And over the years that hatred has .. . changed them." A chill snaked down Artek's back. "Changed them?" he asked slowly. "How?" She gripped her staff with white-knuckled hands. "I think their hatred melded with some dark magic that lingers in these corridors even now, so long after Halaster created them. The very stones exude an evil enchantment like a foul odor. The Outcasts fled the world above because they were perceived as monsters. And over time, down here in the darkness, they have become just that. The atmosphere of Undermountain has twisted them. I've never laid eyes on any of the Outcasts

myself—few who do so survive. But according to the stories, they're not human anymore." Beckla could not suppress a shiver. Artek stared at her in grisly astonishment. "So why wouldn't they just kill Lord Silvertor?" he asked. "From the description I got, Silvertor is young and handsome. If what you've said about the Outcasts is true, they would loathe him." "Yes, they would," the wizard agreed solemnly. "But you don't know the whole story. The Outcasts don't kill those who intrude upon their territory." Revulsion choked her voice. "Instead they twist their bodies and minds, turning the intruders into Outcasts like themselves." This time it was Artek who shivered. It was a horrible image. "How do you know all this, Beckla?" The wizard flashed a wan smile in his direction. "I have my ways." He frowned at this enigmatic answer, and she let out a soft laugh. "Actually, it's no mystery," she explained. "I'm not the only one hiding out down here. And rumors tend to travel pretty swiftly through these dreary tunnels." Artek nodded, temporarily satisfied with her answer. An uneasy feeling gathered in his stomach. He glanced down at the dark ink tattoo on his arm; the arrow was now halfway between sun and moon. Already six hours had passed. He didn't like the idea of meeting up with the Outcasts, but he had little choice. If he wanted to live, he had to venture into their territory. He shot the wizard a questioning look. "Are you certain you still want to come with me, Beckla?" "That little golden box of yours might be the only way I'm ever going to get out of here." She crossed her arms, fixing him with an even gaze. "You could just kill me and take it, you know." Her lips parted in a crooked grin. "If I was going to do that, wouldn't I have done it by now?" Despite his fear, he let out a laugh. "I suppose so." Together, they stepped through the archway's gaping mouth. While elsewhere the dank air of Undermountain had been oppressive, here it was downright menacing. As they went, the darkness parted sluggishly before Beckla's flickering ball of magelight and closed turgidly behind them, like oily water in the wake of a ship. Artek found himself taking shallow breaths; he was reluctant to draw the noxious atmosphere into his lungs, as if once inside his body it might fester, filling him with its dark disease. He knew that they were not welcome here. The two walked down a twisting tunnel; its walls were strangely curved and ridged. A dark, glistening mucus covered them, dripping onto the floor, which was nauseatingly soft and spongy under their feet. In all, the tunnel seemed as if it had not been hewn of stone, but was alive. Artek felt as if they had been swallowed by a gigantic creature, and were now moving down its long, sinuous esophagus. Hot bile rose in his own throat. He tried to force the queasy image from his mind, but had little success. They had gone only a short way when the moist tunnel divided. They paused, and Artek pulled the heart jewel out of his pocket. The blue light glimmering in the center was stronger now. He moved a few paces down the right-hand passageway. The gem flickered. He retraced his steps, then padded down the left-hand tunnel. The glow inside the heart jewel steadied and strengthened. "This way," Artek whispered. Beckla followed after him, and the two moved down the slime-covered passage. Before long the tunnel forked again, and again. Each time Artek used the glowing

heart jewel to determine which way they should take. Soon they found themselves in a labyrinth of networking tunnels, branching and rejoining countless times in a chaotically braided pattern. Artek began to wonder if they could ever find their way back out if they needed to. He did not voice his fear. A distant thrum vibrated in the air. It was so low that they felt it more than they heard it, reverberating beneath their feet, almost like the sound of a beating heart. Otherwise, the winding tunnels were utterly silent. The grunts and howls that had drifted out of the mouth-arch had ceased. The quiet was even more disturbing. "Where are the Outcasts?" Artek hissed when the silence became almost unbearable. Beckla bit her lip nervously. "I don't know. But I almost wish they would just show themselves. I don't think facing them could be any more horrible than wondering and waiting." There was nothing to do but keep moving. The tunnel opened up before them, and they found themselves in a smooth-walled chamber. Glossy shapes were embedded in the wall, livid and throbbing, like huge organs. Sickened, they hurried across the squelching floor and moved through a circular opening in the far wall. Artek glanced at the heart jewel in his hand. The light in the center was so bright they hardly needed Beckla's magelight. The glow pulsed steadily, echoing the lost lord's heart. Silvertor was still alive. And by the rapid rate of his pulse, Artek guessed he was terribly afraid—as well he should be in this place. But the nobleman was close now, Artek was sure. They rounded a sharp bend, then skidded to an abrupt halt. Something was embedded in the tunnel wall, something alive. It writhed beneath a translucent sheath of tough mucus, like an insect inside a chrysalis. In dread fascination, Artek and Beckla approached. It was a person. For a moment, Artek thought it might be Lord Silvertor, but as they drew near, he saw that this was not so. It was a woman, some other prisoner of the Outcasts. She struggled vainly against the viscous bonds that held her within the wall. Her eyes bulged when she saw them, and she pressed her face against the clear sheath that covered her, stretching it. She opened her mouth, screaming. No sound came out, but Artek could understand her words by the movements of her lips. Help me, she was screaming. Please, by all the gods, help me. "We've got to cut her free!" Beckla cried. Artek reached for the saber at his hip. In horror, he froze. It was too late. Slick tendrils snaked out of the wall and plunged into the woman's body. They pulsed like veins, pumping her full of dark fluids. She screamed, convulsing violently. All at once she fell still. As Artek and Beckla watched in revulsion, her body began to change. Her skin dissolved, revealing glistening muscles and organs beneath. As if of their own volition, her body parts began to undulate, rearranging themselves into hideous and alien new shapes. The woman twitched and shuddered. She was still alive, but she was transforming into something else. "There's nothing we can do," Artek gasped, feeling sick. He grabbed Beckla's arm. "We have to go!" The wizard nodded jerkily and stumbled after him. They careened down the tunnel, passing more prisoners embedded in the moist, fleshy walls. All were in the process of being transformed; all were beyond hope. The tunnel opened into another chamber, one with pink walls and a ribbed ceiling. Thick green liquid bubbled in a pool in the center of the room. A caustic stench hung in the air, burning their eyes and noses. The jewel in Artek's hand flared brilliantly.

"He's got to be here!" he gasped, gagging on the stinging air. He spun around, searching the slime-covered walls. "There!" Beckla choked, pointing. They rushed to the far side of the chamber. A body was embedded in the wall, struggling beneath a taut, fibrous sheath. Artek peered through the covering, dreading what he would see. He glimpsed a young man with a pale face, golden hair, and terrified blue eyes. It was the lost lord—Corin Silvertor. "I think he's all right," Artek uttered in relief. "It looks like the transformation hasn't begun." "Then we've got to get him out," Beckla replied urgently. "And fast!" Artek drew his saber and slashed at the glistening sheath. It was tougher than he would have guessed. He pushed harder, until at last the tip of the blade penetrated the membrane. Clear yellow fluid oozed out. Clenching his jaw to keep from gagging, Artek slid the saber down, cutting open a large slit, and more ichor spilled out. "Give me a hand!" he cried. Together, he and the wizard reached into the slit, grabbing hold of Silvertor. They strained backward. At first there was resistance, but then, with a sucking sound, the young man slid through the opening in a gush of thick fluid. At the same moment, livid tendrils sprang out of the wall, searching blindly for living flesh into which they could pump their vile secretions. Clutching the lord, Artek and Beckla fell to the floor, hastily rolling out of reach of the waving tentacles. Breathing hard, they climbed to their feet, pulling Silvertor up with them. The young man wobbled precariously, then managed to stand with their assistance. Foul-smelling ichor dripped from his once-fine clothes of blue velvet and ruffled white silk. With trembling hands, he wiped the slime from his face. Even as Artek's swarthy looks denoted his orcish blood, so too the young man's fine, elegant features indicated his noble heritage. Lord Corin Silvertor smiled weakly as he gazed at Artek and Beckla. "I must say, your timing is impeccable," he said in a haggard but cultured voice. "I know not who you may be, but I must thank you for rescuing me. I am forever in your debt. Know that I and my family will lavish great rewards upon you for this deed. Anything you wish of me, you have only to ask it." "Anything?" Artek growled. "Anything!" Corin agreed enthusiastically. "Then shut up," Artek snapped. "We're not out of here yet." "What's wrong?" the lord gasped, his blue eyes going wide. Artek did not answer the question, but gazed around the chamber. "Can you hear them, Beckla?" he whispered. She nodded slowly. "They're coming." The word escaped Artek's mouth like a hiss. "Outcasts." All around the room, large bubbles appeared in the soft floor and walls. They swelled rapidly like blisters, their outer skins shining glossily. "I don't like the looks of this," the wizard said in a low voice. Artek only nodded. "What's happening?" Corin cried anxiously, wringing his hands. The other two ignored him. Reaching into a pocket, Artek pulled out the small golden box that Melthis had given him. He fumbled with the tiny latch, then swore as the box slipped from his sweaty hands. It fell to the slimy floor, slid, then came to a halt on the very edge of the pit of roiling green liquid. Beckla shot him a scathing look. "And here I thought thieves were supposed to be dexterous and graceful."

"Everyone has their off days," Artek snapped. With a wet, sickening sound, a blister in the opposite wall burst open. A twisted form climbed out, trailing sticky strings of ichor—an Outcast. It was a thing of grotesque distortion, all bubbling flesh, rubbery limbs, and glistening organs fused together in the vaguest mockery of a human form. Bulging eyes sprouting from a half-exposed brain focused malevolently on the three humans. The misshapen creature began dragging itself toward them. Another straining blister exploded, then another, and another. All around the chamber, Outcasts pulled their slimy bodies out of the walls and floor. Each lurched, jumped, or slithered forward as best suited its own contorted shape. A score of lopsided mouths grinned evilly, revealing countless teeth as sharp as glass shards. The Outcasts advanced, and Artek and Beckla retreated toward the boiling pit. Corin cringed behind them, whimpering softly. At least the twit was no longer blathering, Artek thought darkly. It was small consolation. Artek came to a halt, his boot heel on the very edge of the pit. He bent down cautiously and snatched up the golden box before it could topple over the rim. Eyeing the bubbling vat warily, Beckla lowered the end of her staff into the green liquid. There was a hiss and a puff of acrid smoke. Hastily she pulled out the staff, and her eyes went wide. The end had completely dissolved away. "I think we're in trouble, Artek," she gulped. "You don't say?" he said caustically. The Outcasts closed in. "Quick, Artek!" Beckla shouted. "You've got to open the gate!" She thrust her staff forward. A bolt of blue energy shot out, striking an Outcast only a few paces away. The thing let out an inhuman shriek, its flesh smoking, but it continued to lurch toward them. "I hope I don't have to know any magic words to use this thing," Artek muttered. This time he wrenched the lid open by force, breaking the finely wrought gold latch. Instantly a small silvery disk rose out of the box. The disk grew swiftly, floating in midair, until it was as wide as Artek's arms. Through its shimmering surface he could just make out an image: the stone walls of the alley where he had parted ways with Melthis and Darien Thal. There was no time for hesitation. "Jump!" Artek shouted. He grabbed Beckla's and Corin's hands and threw himself toward the disk. At the same moment the Outcasts lunged for them, and a rubbery hand brushed Artek's arm. Then he broke the surface of the shimmering disk and fell through the gate, dragging the others with him. It felt exactly as if they had plunged into icy water. The dim scene of the alley wavered before them, drawing nearer, as if they were slowly surfacing from the bottom of a cold, deep pool. Then, with a terrible wrenching sensation, the vision of the alley was torn away. The three spun wildly, as if caught in a fierce riptide. Artek cried out, feeling Corin's hand separate from his own, but his voice made no sound in the frigid void. The cold sliced his flesh and splintered his bones. Then all sensation vanished as the three plunged downward into endless darkness. * * * * * For countless centuries, the subterranean chamber had dwelled in dark and perfect silence. In all that time, no living thing had ever breathed the room's dank air, or disturbed the silken carpet of dust that covered the stone floor. Few creatures dared to live this far below the surface of the world. Here, within this forgotten chamber,

shadows had always reigned. Until now. A throbbing hum resonated in the air, shattering the ancient silence. A brilliant silver line appeared in the dusky air, causing shadows to flee to the corners of the room and cower. Crackling, the silver line widened into a jagged rift. Three large shapes tumbled out of the gap. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the blazing gate folded inward upon itself and vanished. The sharp smell of lightning lingered in the stale air. With a groan, Artek pulled himself to his feet and shook his head dizzily. Only once before had he ever felt this groggy, and that had involved a jug of blood-wine, a half-orc barmaid, and a dance called The Dead Goblin. After a moment, his darkvision adjusted, and he saw Beckla sprawled on the stones some distance away. Hastily he moved to the wizard, fearing that the fall had injured her, but his sharp ears caught a muttered string of strikingly graphic curses and oaths. He grinned, his slightly pointed teeth glowing in the darkness. Beckla was just fine. Gripping the wizard's hand, he hauled her to her feet. Wavering blue light flared to life on the end of her staff, illuminating the chamber. Nightmarish friezes covered the walls, and grotesque statues lurked in the corners. Artek shuddered. Whatever this place was, it had been created by a mad and evil genius. Beckla spoke with a frown. "Granted, it's been a while since I've been to the surface, but this doesn't exactly look like the streets of Waterdeep to me." "I don't understand," Artek replied in confusion. "When I opened the gate, I saw the alley where I left Darien Thal. We were heading right toward it. And then . . ." He shook his head, trying to remember the disorienting seconds after they had jumped through the gate. Beckla gazed at one of the friezes. The stone relief depicted a tangled mass of writhing bodies tumbling into a jagged pit. Nervously, she looked away. "I have a very bad feeling about this," she said grimly. "You're not the only one," Artek gulped. Beckla looked around in the dim light. "So what happened to the lump? I mean, the lord?" Artek glanced about. "Silvertor let go of my hand as we passed through the gate," he said. "The fool could have landed anywhere nearby." Suddenly, a cry of fear emanated from one of the shadowed corners of the chamber. "Help! Help!" a voice wailed piteously. "I've been caught by a terrible monster! It's going to eat me! Please, somebody—help!" Artek and Beckla exchanged looks of alarm, then dashed toward the corner. Artek's hand dropped to the hilt of his saber, while Beckla gripped her staff tightly. Artek swore inwardly. That foppish young lord was his one ticket to freedom—and to continued life. If the fool had managed to get into trouble already, Artek was going to ... well, he wasn't going to kill Silvertor—he needed the lord alive—but he would come up with something extremely unpleasant. Artek and Beckla reached the opposite corner of the chamber. The wizard's magelight pierced the gloom to reveal Lord Corin Silvertor, flailing wildly in midair, hanging by his coat from the jaws of a huge beast. His pale face was agape with terror. In the shadows behind him loomed a terrifying, evil shape that looked like a cross between a lizard and a wolf. For a frozen second, Artek stared in horror. Then laughter rumbled in his chest. Next to him, Beckla burst into peals of mirth. "What's wrong with you two?" Corin cried fearfully. "Can't you see that the dastardly monster has got me! So far I've been able to hold the foul beast at bay with my bare

hands, but I don't think that I can stave it off much longer! You've got to help me. Please!" This was too much for Artek and Beckla. They leaned against each other, shoulders shaking, howling with laughter. Corin gaped at them in terror and confusion. Then, aided by Beckla's glowing blue magelight, realization gradually dawned on him. The monster was made of stone. In the soft light emanating from Beckla's staff, the thing was clearly revealed to be a statue. Cracks covered its dusty shape, and one of its gnarled legs had been snapped off and lay nearby. The collar of Corin's velvet coat had snagged on a sharp tooth in the statue's gaping lower jaw, suspending the nobleman in midair. Apparently it had caught him when he tumbled out of the gate. "Well, isn't this awkward," Corin said sheepishly. "For you, at least," Beckla snorted. The nobleman gave her a wounded look but said nothing. Artek scrambled up the basalt statue and perched on its flat skull. He drew a dagger from his boot and cut the fold of blue velvet that had snagged the stone tooth. With a yelp, Corin fell to the floor, and Beckla helped the stunned lord to his feet. The nobleman did his best to arrange his expensive clothes, but they were torn and smeared with dark slime. He brushed his long, pale hair away from his high forehead. "You could have warned me before you cut my coat, you know," he said indignantly as Artek lightly hopped down from the statue. "I know," Artek said amiably, slipping the dagger back into his boot. Corin's blue eyes grew large at this impertinence. He stared at Artek and Beckla, then swallowed hard. "You two aren't dangerous, are you?" Beckla smiled nastily. "As a matter of fact, we are." Fear blanched Corin's boyishly handsome face. Artek shot Beckla an annoyed look, then turned back toward the nobleman. "Don't worry, Silvertor. We may be dangerous, but we came here to rescue you. This is Beckla Shadesar. You can tell she's a wizard by her peculiar notion of humor. She's on the run from her old master, who she turned into a green slime. And I'm—" He licked his lips nervously. Why didn't this ever get any easier? "I'm Artek Ar'talen." A strangled sound of fear and surprise escaped Corin's throat, and he hastily backed away. "You're Artek the Knife?" "Oh, get over it," Artek growled. Apparently this was easier said than done. Corin shrank against a wall, hand to his mouth, staring at his rescuers in turn, as if trying to decide of which he should be the more afraid. Artek turned his back on the nobleman; they had other matters to worry about. "So where do you think we are?" he asked Beckla. "The gate could have transported us anywhere on the continent of Faerun." She shook her head. "I'm not certain. But I have an idea. And I don't much care for it." "What is it?" "I'll show you." The wizard bent down and picked up a loose pebble from the crumbling floor. Laying it on her outstretched palm, she murmured an incantation. A pale white aura flickered around the pebble. Beckla drew in a deep breath, then blew on the stone. The aura vanished. The pebble was dark and ordinary once again. "I was afraid of that," Beckla sighed. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" Artek asked dubiously. She scowled at him. "As a matter of fact, you are. I just cast a spell of teleportation

on the pebble." "But it's still here." "Exactly. That's because the walls of this place are imbued with an enchantment to prevent anything from magically transporting in or out." "Wait a minute," Artek protested in confusion. "The walls of what place?" Beckla spoke a single grim word. "Undermountain." Artek swore an oath. Instinctively, he knew the wizard was right. This place had the same oppressive feel as the rest of Undermountain. No, it was even stronger. "The enchantment is Halaster's doing," Beckla went on. "The mad wizard wanted to make certain no one found an easy way out of his maze." "So how deep are we?" Artek asked hoarsely. "Let's find out," Beckla replied without relish. She whispered another incantation over the pebble, and it began to glow again. With a final word of magic, she cast the pebble into the air. It did not fall, but floated high above them. "The ceiling represents the surface world, and the floor the very bottom of Undermountain," Beckla explained. "The pebble will tell us where we are now." The wizard made an intricate gesture with her hand. The pebble began to descend. It continued to sink slowly as they watched in growing alarm. At last it came to a halt halfway between floor and ceiling. "Is that very deep?" Artek asked nervously. Beckla nodded. "If we were still in the halls where we met, the pebble would be no more than a foot below the ceiling." A haunted look crept into her brown eyes. "I don't think anyone has ever been this deep in Undermountain before. At least, not any who lived to tell about it." Cold dread filled Artek's stomach. "But that's impossible," he said emphatically. "You said that we couldn't teleport out of the maze. You didn't say that a gate would fail as well!" "A gate is different from a teleport spell, Artek." Beckla fixed him with a piercing look. "It should have worked. What did you do?" "It wasn't me!" he said defensively. "Well, somebody did something." At this Artek nodded, scratching his chin. "You're right. And there's only one person who might be able to help us understand exactly what happened." As one, Artek and Beckla turned to glare at Corin. "What?" the lord gasped in shock, clutching a hand to his chest. "You can't possibly believe that I had anything to do with this." "No, I don't," Artek replied gruffly. "But I think it's time we heard your story all the same." Corin mopped his face with the ruffled cuff of his coat. The effort did little besides smear around the grime, but the nobleman was oblivious to this fact. "Let's see," Corin began. "It all started when Lord Darien Thal invited me on a hunt into Undermountain. I had never ventured into Halaster's halls before, and I was thrilled at the prospect. It's all the rage these days, you know." Artek and Beckla rolled their eyes but kept listening. "The hunting party set out from Lord Thal's private entrance into Undermountain," Corin went on, his enthusiasm growing. "We were a grand sight. A dozen strong, and all bearing bright swords. Of course, I had my trusty rapier here." He patted the slender blade at his hip.

Artek barely managed to stifle a snort. A real monster wouldn't even feel the bite of that rat-sticker. Nobles, he thought derisively—they were all fools of fashion, and nothing more. "I was having an absolutely marvelous time." Corin's bright expression darkened. "That is, until I got lost. It was my own fault. I lingered behind to examine a fascinating stone vase—I think it was Third Dynasty Calishite—while the others continued on ahead. When I tried to catch up, the rest of the party was nowhere to be seen. We had been making for a place called the Emerald Fountain. I tried to find the fountain, hoping to meet the others there, but it was no use. And then," said Corin, shuddering, "the Outcasts captured me." "Wait a minute," Beckla interrupted. "Why were you going to the Emerald Fountain?" "It was Darien's idea," Corin answered. "He said it was a magical font, and that if I drank from its waters, I would gain wisdom beyond my years. I could do with a little extra wisdom, as I am to take the seventh seat on the Circle of Nobles in two days' time." "It's not wisdom you would have gained from drinking from the Emerald Fountain," Beckla said darkly. "Death is all you would have found in its green waters." "But Darien's my dearest friend!" Corin protested. "Why would he tell me to drink from the fountain if it wasn't safe?" Artek bit his lower lip. That was a good question. "Tell me something, Silvertor," he said. "If you were not present when the vote was held, who would ascend to the Circle of Nobles in your stead?" Corin shrugged. "Why, I imagine Lord Thal is the next in line. But what does that—oh!" The young lord's eyes went wide with sudden realization. Artek nodded. This was all starting to make sense. He plied Corin with more questions about Darien Thal and the hunting trip and soon pieced together a story. While he wasn't certain if it was exactly right, he knew it couldn't be far from the truth. Without doubt, Lord Darien Thal wanted the vacant seat on the Circle of Nobles for himself. He had invited Corin on a hunt into Undermountain, secretly planning for the young lord to meet with an unfortunate "accident," after which nothing would stand between Darien and the seat on the Circle. Yet Darien had not counted on Corin getting lost before the foolish young lord could be disposed of. That's where I came in, Artek thought angrily. Darien did not want to take the chance that Corin would somehow manage to stumble on a way out of Undermountain in time for the vote. He needed someone to go below and finish the job. All along it had been Artek's task not to rescue Corin, but to make certain that he never returned from Undermountain. The golden box from Melthis had not malfunctioned at all. The gate had taken them exactly where Darien had intended—deeper into Undermountain. "Guhr og noth!" Artek swore. It was an orcish oath, learned from his father. Rage boiled in his blood at the one possible conclusion. Lord Darien Thal had betrayed him.

4 Webs of Deceit Arms crossed over her chest, Beckla paced in agitation before a leering statue of some nameless beast. Corin watched, apprehension written plainly across his boyish face. "This is just wonderful," the wizard said acidly. "I thought you were going to get me out of this dump, Ar'talen, and now I'm deeper than ever." She let out a sharp sigh of exasperation. "I suppose that will teach me to trust a thief." Artek slumped against a wall. He stared blankly at the bas-relief carving of lost souls falling into the dark void of the Abyss. So this is how the line of Arthaug ends, he thought bitterly. Not in glory, ruling over the Garug-Mal once more, but in ignominy, alone and forgotten in a hole in the ground. Artek sighed dejectedly. He had been wrong to turn his back on the darkness within him. And this was the punishment that deed had wrought. "I'm sorry to have led you to a bad end, Beckla," he said hoarsely. "I didn't mean for it to turn out this way." The wizard paused in her pacing to glare hotly at him. "Oh, that's just great," she said disgustedly. "First you get me into this mess, and then you decide to just lie down and give up. You know, I don't think you're half the thief all the stories made you out to be, Artek Ar'talen." No, I'm only a quarter, he almost spat, but swallowed the words instead. "You said it yourself, Beckla," he said grimly. "No one has ever gone this deep in Undermountain and returned to tell about it. In an entire year, you couldn't find a way out of this maze's uppermost halls. So what chance do we have this deep down?" Beckla clenched her too-square jaw angrily but said nothing. After an uncomfortable silence, Corin cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said in a meek voice. "I know I'm hardly the most qualified person to offer an opinion on this matter, seeing as I'm the one who's theoretically being rescued here." He made a vaguely hopeful gesture with his hands. "But couldn't we at least try to find a way out of this dreadful place? It certainly seems like the reasonable thing to do." Artek let out a derisive snort. "You see this?" He thrust out his arm, pulling up the sleeve of his jerkin to reveal the magical tattoo. "In less than two days, this thing is going to kill me. And in less than two days, the nobility of Waterdeep is going to hold its vote, and Lord Darien Thal will ascend to the seventh seat on the Circle of Nobles." He jerked the sleeve back down, covering the tattoo. "Don't you understand? There's no point in trying to escape. Even if we could find a way out of this hole, it would certainly take us more than two days, and by that time I'd be dead. And if you managed to get out, Corin, I'm sure the first thing Darien would do in his new position of power would be to find a way to dispose of you." Chagrined, Corin fell silent and hung his head. "Well, that still leaves me," Beckla snapped. "Or had you forgotten? I certainly still want to try to find a way out of this pit." "Then be my guest," Artek grumbled. He turned his back on the wizard. Anger burned in her brown eyes. She ran a frustrated hand through her close-cropped brown hair. For a moment she bit her lip, considering something. Then, abruptly, she spoke several harsh, guttural words. "Morth al haugh nothok, Artek Ar'talen! Bettah al nothokari!" The words sliced at Artek like knives. It had been years since he last heard them. Drawing in a hissing breath, he spun around, advancing on the wizard. "Where did you

learn to speak that?" he demanded fiercely. Beckla stepped backward, momentarily startled by the fury blazing in his black eyes. Corin stared at the two in open alarm. Then, visibly, the wizard steeled herself. "I once traded spells with an orcish sorcerer," she said evenly, a sly smile on her lips. "Of course, I learned a few things other than spells from him. And I heard him use that oath once or twice." Artek shook with rage. Old memories surfaced in his mind, of a father berating his child for being too afraid to pick a rich merchant's purse. "Do you know what those words mean?" he choked. Beckla nodded solemnly. " 'Your heart is not that of an orc. It is that of a goblin.' I think that's an accurate translation, don't you?" She clucked her tongue at his shocked expression. "Come now, Ar'talen. Don't be so surprised. All the stories say that orcish blood runs in your veins." Artek opened his mouth, but he could find no reply. Only once had Arturg used those words with him, but once had been enough. There was no greater insult among orc kindred than to have one's heart compared to a goblin's. It was an accusation of cowardice, a brand of worthlessness. As a child, Artek had done everything he could to please his father in order to make certain that he never heard those hateful words again. Now this arrogant wizard had dared to speak them herself. "You have no right," he began, clenching his hands into fists. "And why not?" she snapped harshly. "It's all true, isn't it? You're the one who's giving up." She shook her head. "Maybe the stories are wrong. Maybe it isn't fell orcish blood that runs in your veins, Ar'talen. Maybe it's the blood of lowly goblin worms after all." The wizard had gone too far. Artek felt a fierce, primal fury stirring deep inside. As always, he fought to contain it, but this time it was no use. The rage welled up hotly in his stomach, burning as it coursed through his veins. A red veil descended over his eyes, and a rushing sound filled his ears. The dark, animal part of himself that he always kept carefully locked away now rose to the fore. It terrified him, but it was intoxicating as well. Raw power trembled in his limbs. His orcish side was free. Artek snarled, baring his pointed teeth, his handsome face twisted into a sinister mask. Corin let out a cry of fear, leaping backward. Beckla paled, shocked by the fury her words had unleashed. "Damn you!" Artek hissed, advancing on the startled wizard. Words sprang from his mouth as if someone else spoke through him. "You have no right. I am Garug-Mal! I will rend your flesh for this insult. I will splinter your bones!" Artek grabbed Beckla and shoved her roughly against a stone wall. His hands encircled her throat. The desire to kill seared his mind. The wizard's body shook, but she clenched her jaw and gazed unflinchingly into his eyes, refusing to show fear. This only enraged his orcish side further; his fingers contracted tightly. Beckla gasped for breath as her airway inexorably closed. No, Artek! Don't do it! The voice was faint and distant, barely piercing the roaring in his brain. He ignored it, gritting his teeth as he tightened his grip. Don't kill her! This time the voice was stronger. Uncertainty tinged his rage. He hesitated. This doesn't have to be you! At last he recognized the voice. It was his own—at least, that of his human side. For a second, dark and light halves warred within. Then, with a strangled cry, he tore his hands away from the wizard's throat and lurched back. Beckla stumbled forward,

clutching her throat, gulping in ragged breaths. Artek shuddered, staring at his clenched hands, sickened at how close to killing they had come. He looked up. Though her lips were tinged with blue, the wizard was grinning. "That was dangerous, Beckla," he said, his voice low and grim. "I could have killed you. I almost did. You took a foolish gamble." "But it worked, didn't it?" she rasped smugly. "Corin and I need you, Ar'talen. We have to stick together if we're to have any hope of getting out of here. I guessed that only a little orcish anger would burn through your stupid self-pity, and I was right." Artek scowled at her. "Well, you don't have to act so pleased about it." "Oh? And why not?" He had no answer to that, and settled for a sullen grunt instead. Risky as it had been, the wizard's plan had worked as intended. Despair and hopelessness had been burned away by his rage. Artek wanted nothing more now than to have his revenge on Lord Darien Thal, and the only way he could achieve that was to escape from Undermountain. He found himself returning Beckla's grin. As violent as his orcish side was, it had its uses. Corin gasped as he realized what the wizard had done. "Oh, bravo, Beckla!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together, tattered lace cuffs fluttering. "That was simply brilliant. A virtuoso performance." He snapped his fingers as an idea occurred to him. "Why, perhaps it would hearten Artek further if I uttered the same epitaph. Now, what were the words?" He braced his shoulders and lowered his voice, speaking the words with exaggerated bravado. "Malth al nothilk, Artek Ar'talen!" For a moment Artek and Beckla stared at the puffed-up lord. Then both burst into laughter. Corin frowned in confusion. "I don't understand," he sputtered. "Why are you laughing? Aren't you supposed to be absolutely furious with me? I just said your heart was a goblin's!" "No, you didn't," Artek replied. "Well, what did I say?" the nobleman asked indignantly. Beckla let out a snort. "You said, 'Your ears are made of cheese, Artek Ar'talen.'" The two broke into renewed peals of mirth. Corin stared at them with a hurt expression until Artek took pity on the lord. "Don't worry, Corin," he said. "We'll make an orc of you yet." He gave the young man a friendly slap on the back, and Corin stumbled forward, eyes bulging at the force of the blow. "Er, thank you," he murmured. "I think." His black leather creaking, Artek prowled back and forth. He knew what they needed to do—get out of Undermountain. Now, how by the Shadows of Shar were they going to do it? The obvious thing was to attempt to work their way upward through Halaster's mad labyrinth. However, according to Beckla's spell, they were terribly deep—deeper than anyone had gone and managed to return in nearly a thousand years. Artek didn't like those odds, and instinct told him that there was little hope in heading upward. But what other alternative was there? His black eyes glittered sharply. The inkling of an idea crept into his cunning mind. He turned toward the wizard. "Beckla, you said that Halaster enchanted the walls of Undermountain so that no one could magically teleport in or out." "That's right." "So how was it that the gate Melthis gave me was able to transport us so much deeper? Doesn't that mean that it is possible to teleport here?" The wizard shook her head. "No, it doesn't. Like I said earlier, gates are different. A spell of teleportation instantly moves a person or object from one place to another. And

Halaster's magic blocks such spells. But when you pass through a gate, you don't really move at all. Instead, the gate magically brings two different places close together. It's space that moves, not you." Artek frowned at this explanation. "I don't exactly follow you." "I suppose that's why I'm the wizard," she replied dryly. "Here, I'll show you." She reached out and grabbed the pebble that still hovered in midair from her earlier spell. She held her hands flat and apart, the pebble resting on her left palm. "Say I'm the pebble, and I want to get from my left hand to my right. If I cast a teleport spell, it's like jumping from hand to hand instantly." With a deft flick of her wrist, she tossed the pebble and caught it in her right hand. "But a gate works more like a window opening between two places. Effectively, it brings the two locations next to each other." She moved her hands until they were touching. "Then it's only a short step sideways from one place to the next." She tilted her right hand, and the pebble rolled onto the left. She tossed the pebble toward Artek. "Got it?" He snatched the pebble out of the air, then held it between his fingers, studying it thoughtfully. "Got it." He digested this new information, and gradually his plan grew clearer. "So instead of trying to find our way up through an endless maze, all we need to do is find another one of these gates." "If there are any others," Beckla amended cautiously. "There have to be others," Artek replied. "All the stories tell how Halaster abducted living things—people and monsters alike—for use in his magical experiments. He had to have some way to bring them down here. And from what you've said, a gate is the only way." Beckla crossed her arms over her white shirt, her expression skeptical. "I still say our surest bet is to head upward. But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look for any gates on the way." That was close enough for Artek. "Then it's settled," he said firmly. "Darien hasn't beaten us yet. And neither has Undermountain. One way or another, we're going to get out of here." Corin jumped excitedly. The lord had become quite caught up in Artek's stirring speech. "Oh, this is going to be positively fun!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I had no idea that getting lost could lead to such a marvelous adventure." Artek bit his tongue. Corin would find out soon enough for himself that this was going to be anything but fun. Artek had noticed earlier that there were no doors in the room—at least, none readily apparent to the casual eye. All four walls of the chamber were of solid stone, each covered with a grotesque frieze of tortured souls. But Artek was not going to believe their quest was over before it had even begun. He doubted that even a mad wizard would build a room without a door—what would be the use? Thief's instinct told him that there had to be a way out of the chamber. All they had to do was find it. "All right, let's search the walls and floor," Artek told the others. "There has to be a hidden door in this room somewhere. Look for anything at all that stands out or seems unusual in some way." He moved to one of the walls and began running bis hand over the bas-relief carvings that covered it, searching for any seams or inconsistencies in the stone. Corin and Beckla exchanged unsure looks, then followed suit. Each pored over his or her respective wall, attempting to find any sign of a secret portal. Before long, Artek's head throbbed with concentration. The friezes made it difficult. The intricate relief carvings of writhing bodies could be obscuring something—a crack, a hole, a gap—he might otherwise see. However, there was nothing to do but keep searching.

Just when he was beginning to lose hope, Beckla let out an excited whoop. "I think I've found something, Artek! There's a thin seam around the neck of one of these carvings. I think the head is some sort of knob. It looks like it could turn." That sounded promising. Artek hurried toward the wizard. "That's good, Beckla. But don't touch it yet. If the knob is a trigger for a secret door, it could be trapped. We need to check it out before we turn it." "Oh," Beckla replied as she snatched her hand away from the carving. "Oops." Artek halted in alarm. The last time Beckla had uttered that word, she had nearly set his hindquarters on fire. He shook his head slowly, staring at her. "Please tell me you didn't. .." Beckla grinned at him weakly. "I did." The wizard gestured to the twisted stone figure on the wall. Its screaming head now pointed backward. Artek lunged forward, reaching out to turn the figure's head back around, but it was too late. There was a hiss of stale air, followed by a low grating sound. The floor vibrated beneath their feet, and the three stared around the room in surprise. At first it was not apparent what was happening—until Corin voiced the truth. "Look at the walls!" the nobleman cried. "They're closing in!" Artek swore in alarm. The young lord was right. The chamber's two long walls were slowly but inexorably moving inward. Artek gripped the figurine, turning the head back around. It was no use. The trap had been sprung, and the walls continued to close in. Artek guessed they had no more than a few minutes before the slabs met and crushed their bodies to a pulp. The open stone mouths of the writhing damned no longer seemed to be screaming, but laughing. "Quick!" Artek shouted over the rumbling. "There's got to be another trigger, one that will stop the trap!" Hastily, he began searching one of the walls as it pressed forward. Needing no other inducement besides fear, Corin and Beckla leapt toward the other wall and did the same. As they searched, they were forced to keep stepping backward as the walls closed in. There were fifteen paces between them, then ten, then five. Frantically, Artek kept searching. He felt something brush his back. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Beckla staring at him with wide eyes. The walls were no more than two arm lengths apart. "That's odd," Corin announced. "The arm on this figurine looks almost like a lever." "Well, then pull it!" Beckla cried urgently. Corin put his hands behind his back. "Oh, no. Not before Artek checks it. You heard what he said before." Artek craned his neck, gazing with wild eyes at the nobleman. "Pull it, Corin!" he shouted. The lord shook his head. "If I pull that lever, we may find ourselves in worse trouble yet. You told Beckla not to..." "Never mind!" Artek barked. His back was against one wall, the other just four feet away. Three feet. Two. "Just pull the lever!" Corin sighed in exasperation. "Well, this is all very contradictory. But here goes ..." He gripped the stone arm and pulled the lever. The floor dropped out from beneath their feet, and the three plunged downward, screaming. The two walls met with a clap of thunder above their heads, grinding together with bone-crushing force. For a moment more they continued to fall through darkness. Then, with three grunts, they struck a hard stone floor. Artek groaned as he sat up. Magically restored though it was, his body still wasn't

used to all this falling and landing, if it ever had been. He probed gently with his fingers, wincing as he found numerous tender spots. However, nothing seemed to be broken. Pale blue magelight flared into being. Beckla slumped against a wall, gripping her staff, grimacing but whole. With painful effort, Artek turned around, wondering how Corin had fared. He stared in amazement as the nobleman leapt easily to his feet, briskly dusting off his tattered finery. "That was positively thrilling," Corin said exuberantly. "The danger! The excitement! The narrow escape!" His blue eyes shone brightly. "I don't suppose we could do it again?" "Are you sure we can't kill him, Ar'talen?" Beckla grumbled, slowly pulling herself to her feet with the help of her staff. "Don't tempt me." Joints and muscles protesting, Artek stood. Corin eyed the others speculatively. "You know, I'm beginning to get the distinct impression that neither of you likes me very much." "Wherever would you get such an idea?" Artek replied facetiously. "Oh, I don't know," Corin mused. "I suppose it's all this talk about wanting to kill me. One might construe that as an indication of dislike." "Really? What a fascinating interpretation." The nobleman beamed. "Why, thank you, Ar'talen!" Artek and Beckla exchanged meaningful glances. There was no need for words. By the glow of the magelight, the three stood at the beginning of a corridor. Smooth stone walls rose to a flat ceiling high over their heads. Artek could see the trapdoor through which they had fallen. It was now blocked by the bases of the thick stone walls that had nearly crushed them in the room above. The darkness was dense and stifling here, retreating sullenly before the magical light of Beckla's staff, and only a few paces at that. A rank odor like the putrid reek of decay hung in the air, so thick that it almost seemed to leave on oily residue on their skin and inside their lungs. It was a stench of evil. With no other options evident, the three started down the corridor. The tunnel plunged straight through the darkness, without openings or side passages. The sickening odor grew more intense as they walked, but there was nothing to do but swallow their bile and press on. Soft, ropy strands dangled from the ceiling. Artek guessed they were moss or fungal growth, for they glowed with a faint and noxious green light. They ducked to avoid the strands and kept moving. Though he couldn't be sure, Artek had the sense that the passageway was leading gradually downward. He swore inwardly. They needed to go up, but it seemed everything they did only took them farther down. It was as if Undermountain itself were somehow conspiring to pull them deeper. After a time, the inky mouth of a smaller tunnel opened up to the left. The fetid stench was stronger here, pouring like black water out of the side opening. Yet it wasn't just the smell that spilled from the tunnel—there was a malice as well, distant and faint, but chilling all the same. "There's something down there," Beckla whispered nervously. Corin nodded, his smudged face pale. "And whatever it is, I don't think it's terribly friendly," he added in a squeaky voice. "Just keep moving," Artek countered. He felt the malevolent presence as well. He wiped his sweaty palms on his leather jerkin and kept his sensitive eyes peeled. They continued down the murky passageway. The mouths of more tunnels opened to their left and right. Some were blocked by fallen rubble, and others were dry and dusty. But the same pungent reek wafted outward from several tunnels, as did the

aura of evil. Without deciding aloud to do so, the three picked up their pace. Then Artek detected it—a subtle shift in the movements of the air. "There's a space ahead," he whispered excitedly. "And a faint breeze. I think there's a way out. Come on, it's not far." The others needed little urging. They started into a jog, hurrying down the passageway. At the same moment, the aura of malice swelled behind them. They reeled, nearly overwhelmed by the vile emanations of hatred. Something was following them, and it was gaining. "Run!" Artek yelled. Gasping, they hurled themselves down the tunnel, the darkness following thickly on their heels. An eerie whispering sound echoed all around. Lungs burning, the three kept running. All at once the walls of the tunnel fell away, and they found themselves dashing across a cavernous chamber. Strange white shapes littered the floor, crunching brittlely underfoot. Dense clumps of the same strands that had filled the tunnel hung from the high ceiling like a weird inverted forest, filling the room with a ghastly green glow. Artek caught another wisp of fresh air, stronger now. Then he saw it on the far side of the hall—a faint rectangle glowing amid the gloom. A doorway. "Hurry!" he shouted, heedless of what might hear his voice. The eerie whispering grew louder, filling the chamber. Thick blackness poured out of the opening behind them like a putrid flood. Legs pounding, Artek outpaced the others. As he neared the doorway, he saw that it was covered with more of the same green, glowing strands. With a cry, he hurled himself at the portal. Instantly his cry became one of pain as bitterly cold threads burned the skin on his hands and face. The silken material stretched under the force of his impact, then abruptly snapped back, throwing him roughly to the ground. He stared up at the door in surprise, rubbing his throbbing hands. Then he leapt to his feet, drew a knife from his boot, and slashed at the chaotic weave that covered the door. The blade bounced back, jarring his wrist painfully. He had not so much as damaged one of the cords. "What is this stuff?" he said in hoarse amazement as the others came to a halt behind him. Beckla drew in a sharp breath, staring upward. "I think I know." The strange whispering grew to a maddening din. The threads hanging from the ceiling stirred. Ghostly shapes scuttled down the glowing strands. "Webs," Corin gasped. "They're spiderwebs!" As they watched in horror, half a dozen bloated forms dropped down from the tangle of webs above, while several more scurried from the opening through which they had entered the chamber. They were spiders, but like none Artek had ever seen. They were huge, each the size of a dog. Their bulging bodies, as pale and waxy as corpses, were eerily translucent, and their long gray legs trailed off into dim tendrils of gray mist. Dark saliva bubbled from their vague pincer mouths, and their multifaceted eyes shone malevolently, like flame reflected off black jewels. Whatever these things were, it was clear they were not truly alive, but wraiths, in hideous spider form. As they drew near, Artek realized the nature of the white shapes littering the chamber's floor. They were bones. Together, the three backed toward the web-covered doorway. "So, are you having fun yet, Silvertor?" Artek said darkly. "Actually, this is a little more fun than I had anticipated," the lord answered with a gulp. "Mystra save us," Beckla breathed.

The spiders advanced on their misty legs. Artek drew the curved saber Melthis had given him. The hilt tingled in his hand—it was the first time he had drawn it in combat. Warm energy flowed up his arms as red fire glimmered along the edge of the blade. A wraith spider lunged forward, and Artek swung the saber. The creature let out a mind-piercing shriek as two of its legs fell to the floor. For a moment, they twitched of their own volition, then evaporated into wisps of fog. The spider lurched backward. Beckla uttered an arcane incantation. Blue energy crackled from her fingertips. It struck two of the wraith spiders, but passed through their ghostly bodies. They continued to scurry forward. "My magic has no effect on them!" the wizard shouted in terror. "Nor does my rapier!" Corin cried as he thrust without result at one of the creatures. He retreated hastily. "Then work on freeing the door!" Artek gritted through clenched teeth. "I'll try to hold the spiders back as long as I can." He swung the saber in whistling arcs, and a dozen more many-jointed legs fell to the floor, turning to mist. The spiders advanced more slowly now, wary of Artek's crimson sword. The plan was working for the moment, but there were too many of the wraiths. It was only a matter of time until one got through. "I don't want to tell you your job," he growled, "but you might want to hurry, Beckla." "Quiet!" the wizard snapped. "I'm thinking." She studied the webs that crisscrossed the door. After a moment she nodded. "All right, if my magic won't work on these things, let's see what some good, old-fashioned, mundane fire will do." Beckla uttered a command, and the end of her wooden staff burst into scarlet flame. She thrust the blazing brand at the webs. Instantly the sticky strands ignited, engulfed by brilliant fire. In seconds they were burned to fine ashes, clearing the doorway. "It worked!" Corin cried excitedly. "Come on, Artek!" Beckla shouted. "Let's go!" Artek started to back away from the spiders, toward the now-open door. Then he suddenly froze. The saber in bis hands jerked violently. As if imbued with a life of its own, the blade danced forward, pulling Artek roughly with it. He tried to release the sword, but his hands were suddenly glued to the hilt. Seemingly of its own will, the saber swung at one of the wraith spiders. Artek stumbled wildly trying to keep his balance as he was carried along by the blade. "What are you doing, Ar'talen?" Beckla demanded frantically. "The door's open. We've got to go!" "I can't let go of the sword!" he gasped. "It won't let me retreat!" He lurched as the sword thrust itself at a spider, pulling him along with it. With a surge of rage, he realized the truth. "Damn Darien to the Abyss. This thing must be cursed!" Beckla let out a fierce oath. "All right, I'll see if I can use my magic to remove the—" The wizard's words turned into a scream as a pale form dropped down from above, landing on her back. Her cry was cut short as ghostly pincers dug into the back of her neck. Her body went limp, and she fell to the floor. The still-burning staff slipped from her fingers, rolling away. Out of the corner of his eye, Artek saw Beckla fall. He strained against the dancing blade in his hands, face twisted in effort, then managed to turn it on the spider that clung to the wizard. The saber sliced through the thing's bloated abdomen. It waved its thin legs, then exploded into a puff of foul vapor. Grim satisfaction turned to cold terror as Artek realized that his back was now toward the other wraith spiders. Sensing their prey's vulnerability, they chittered

hatefully, closing in. Artek knew he had mere moments to live. His eyes fell upon Beckla's burning staff, and an idea struck him. But he could not let go of the cursed saber. There was only one chance. "Corin!" he shouted. "Grab the staff and hold it over your head!" The lord stared at the approaching spiders, frozen in horror. He did not move. "Now, Corin!" Artek screamed. "If there is any drop of truly noble blood in your veins, do it!" The young lord blinked. Mechanically, he obeyed Artek's orders. He gripped the staff, then thrust the blazing end over his head just as the wraith spiders closed in. Flame licked the bottom of a clump of pale webs dangling from the ceiling. For a terrible second, Artek thought his plan had failed. Then crimson fire snaked up the hanging strands, and all at once the chamber's entire ceiling burst into roaring flame. Gobs of burning web dropped down, landing on the wraith spiders. They shrieked and writhed as they were engulfed in crackling fire. As his enemies were consumed, Artek felt the cursed saber release his arms. He thrust the blade back into its sheath, then bent down to scoop up Beckla's motionless form. He threw the limp wizard over his shoulder. "Run, Corin!" he shouted over the roar of the flames. This time the lord obeyed. They dodged falling clumps of blazing spider web and dashed through the door. Leaving behind the blazing inferno of death, they ran into cool darkness.

5 Ancient Footsteps When they no longer heard the roar of flames and the echoing shrieks of the wraith spiders, Artek slowed to a halt, still balancing the motionless wizard over his broad shoulders. A second later, Corin—unable to see in the thick gloom—collided with Artek's back. The nobleman stumbled, caught himself, then leaned against a slimy wall, clutching his chest and gasping for breath. Artek glanced down at Beckla's face. Her eyes were closed, her skin deathly pale. He couldn't tell if she was breathing or not. They needed to stop and rest, but not here, not in this open stone corridor. There was no telling what things might wander by and catch them unaware. They needed someplace out of the way, someplace safe. Then something caught Artek's eye. Set as it was into a deep alcove, he almost didn't notice it, even with the aid of his darkvision. It was a small wooden door. Resting behind a portal they could barricade would certainly be preferable to sitting in the middle of a drafty passageway. Artek made for the alcove, and Corin stumbled after him, feeling his way through the murk. The door was locked. Artek drew the dagger from his boot, slipped the tip into the iron lock, and gave it an expert twist. The door swung open with a groan. Beyond was a small chamber bathed in leprous green light that emanated from phosphorescent fungus clinging to the room's damp walls. It was not a wholesome light, but at least Corin would be able to see. They entered the room, and Artek shut and relocked the door behind them. "I must say, I've had better accommodations," Corin noted in a quavering voice. "But you can't beat the price," Artek replied dryly. There was little in the room but a few heaps of rusted metal and rotted wood. Atop one of the piles of refuse was a yellowed human skull. A drooping, frayed tapestry hung on one wall, and Artek yanked it down and spread it on the cold floor. As gently as he could, he laid the limp wizard down on the worm-eaten cloth. "How . . . how is she?" Corin asked quietly, hovering over them. Artek shook his head. It didn't look good. He laid a hand on Beckla's throat. Her flesh was as cold as ice, and he could feel no pulse. He held his dagger before her mouth, but the cool steel did not fog. She was not breathing. Artek turned her head, and on the side of her neck were a pair of small, dark wounds. "The wraith spider bit her," he said grimly. "I suppose the thing was poisonous." A tightness filled his chest, and his eyes stung. He had only just met the wizard, but she had helped him when he was alone, and he considered her a friend. "Beckla is dead, Corin," he said hoarsely. "No, she isn't." Artek glared up at the nobleman. "This really isn't the time for your boundless optimism, you know." Corin looked at him in surprise. "But I didn't say that," he gulped. Artek frowned. "Well, if you didn't say it, then who did?" "Hello there!" called a cheery voice. "It was me! I said it!" Artek leapt to his feet and Corin spun around. Both stared in confusion. There was nobody else with them in the chamber. "Over here!" It was the voice again: odd and hollow, almost like the sound of a low flute. "On the rubbish heap. No, not that one. This one!" Artek and Corin blinked in shock as their eyes finally fell upon the mysterious speaker—a yellowed skull. Lower jaw working excitedly, it hopped and spun atop the

pile of refuse. "Surprised, eh?" the fleshless skull gloated. "You could say that," Artek said cautiously, wondering if they were again in danger. The skull clattered its teeth happily. "Good! I like surprises! The name is Muragh, Muragh Brilstagg. At least, that was my name when I was alive. Of course, I'm not half the man I used to be. By Lathander, I'm more like an eighth! Some fool soldier cut my body away, and then went and threw my head in the harbor. The fish had a good time with me. Do you know what it's like to have your eyeballs eaten by eels and your brain sucked out by starfish?" The skull rattled its jaw, as if shuddering. "Let me assure you, it isn't much fun." Maybe the thing wasn't dangerous, Artek decided, but it certainly was talkative. He approached the skull. "You said that our friend isn't dead, Muragh. What makes you think so?" "I don't think so," the skull replied smugly. "I know so." And arrogant as well, Artek amended inwardly. "The wraith spiders may not be alive themselves, but they don't like to feed on the dead," the skull explained in a reedy voice. "Their venom only stuns—that way they can wrap their prey in webs and snack at their leisure." A chill ran down Artek's spine. The skull's words conjured a grisly image. He glanced back at the still form of the wizard. "So how long will it take for the effects of the venom to wear off?" "Not long," Muragh replied. "No more than three or four—" "Hours?" Artek interrupted hopefully. "Days," the skull said. Artek's heart sank. He couldn't simply leave Beckla here for three days with no one to protect her but a talking skull. It was too much of a betrayal—and that would make him no better than Darien Thal. But in three days he would be long dead. "Wait a minute!" Corin piped up. "I think I have something that might help." The nobleman fumbled about his grimy velvet coat, searching the pockets. "Aha!" he exclaimed, pulling out a small object. "Here it is." He held up the item—a glass vial, filled with a thick, purplish fluid. "What is that?" Artek asked dubiously. "A healing potion," Corin replied. "My family's healer gave it to me before I embarked on the hunt. I hadn't thought of it before—it wouldn't do much good if Beckla were dead. But if she's only injured . . ." Hope surged in Artek's heart. "Give me that," he snapped, snatching the vial from Corin's hand. Kneeling beside Beckla, he unstopped the cork and carefully poured the purple potion into her mouth. For an agonizing moment nothing happened. Then the wizard swallowed and coughed, her chest heaving as she drew in a ragged breath. Her eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright. "The spider!" she screamed. Artek gripped her shoulders tightly, looking her directly in the eyes. "It's all right, Beckla. It's over. We're safe now." For a moment she continued to stare in terror, then she sighed deeply and nodded, indicating she understood. She winced abruptly and lifted a hand to her brow. "My head hurts," she groaned. "Spider venom hangover," Artek said with a wry grin. "It will pass." "That's easy for you to say," she grumbled petulantly. The complaint, more than anything, assured Artek that the wizard was indeed well. "I think you had better meet our new friend, Beckla," he said. "Something tells me

you're going to find him very interesting." "Hello, wizard!" Muragh exclaimed. The yellowed skull hopped up and down while Beckla gawked in astonishment. Though it took far more words than Artek considered necessary, especially given their lack of time, they finally managed to glean the whole of Muragh's story. What was more, the skull happily provided even more details this time, and Artek read much between the lines. In life, Muragh had been a priest of Lathander—and at least as loquacious as he was now. He relentlessly pestered an evil mage to give up his dark ways, and the mage secretly cast a magical curse on Muragh. Shortly thereafter, Muragh's loose tongue landed him in a bar fight in which he received a knife in the heart, and his body was tossed into a dark alley. Though dead, Muragh found that he could still think and talk—apparently thanks to the evil mage's curse. However, if the mage thought that undeath would drive Muragh mad, he had erred. After decomposing for a week or so, Muragh was found by a drunken soldier. Of course, soldiers are a superstitious lot. This particular fellow—thinking the talking corpse to be a fiend sent to torment him for his sins—cut off Muragh's head and tossed it into Waterdeep Harbor. There, as Muragh so graphically described, the fish stripped the flesh from his skull. Eventually, he was found by the mermen who dwell in the deep waters of the harbor. Annoyed with his constant prattling, they took the skull to Waterdeep's City Watch, where Muragh fell into the hands of the duty-wizard. For a time the wizard kept Muragh, using him as a watch-skull to protect his library. However, when thieves broke into the wizard's tower, they stole Muragh, thinking him to be a thing of value. That was a mistake. They soon found that no one would pay good gold for a chatterbox skull, and tossed Muragh into the sewers. In time, the waters flowing beneath the city carried Muragh into Undermountain, and the skull had rattled around Halaster's labyrinth ever since. Occasionally, wandering creatures picked him up out of curiosity and carried him for a time, only to drop him before long in some new place. Eventually, he came into the possession of someone named Muiral. Though Muragh was extremely vague on this point, it seemed that Muiral grew weary of his incessant talking and locked him in this chamber. Here he had dwelled alone—until Artek and Corin discovered him. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is to have company again!" Muragh exclaimed. Though his ivory cranium was nearly devoid of flesh, a few wisps of rotted hair still fluttered atop his crown. "Moldy stone walls don't make for great conversation partners, and even I get tired of hearing my own voice after a dozen years." "There's a surprise," Artek murmured wryly. "So now you know what I'm doing down here," the skull finished. "What about you three?" After a moment's thought, Artek decided that it could do little harm to tell Muragh their tale. If the skull had truly dwelled for so long in Undermountain, perhaps he would know something of use. Artek quickly explained all that had happened, and ended by describing his plan to find a gate out. "Absolutely amazing," Muragh exclaimed. "Our story?" Artek asked. "No. Your plan. It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Artek's eyes narrowed at this insult. "And I suppose you could come up with a better idea?" "Of course," Muragh replied smartly. "A Thayan rock slug could come up with a better plan than that." Artek crossed his arms, fixing the skull with a dubious look. "I'm waiting."

Muragh did not need to be asked twice to talk. "Finding a gate out of here on your own is about as likely as growing wings and flying." Muragh cackled with laughter at this, teeth clacking. "Not that there aren't gates that lead out of Undermountain—there are. But you could hardly expect Halaster to simply leave them sitting around in plain sight. He was mad, not stupid. The only ones who might be able to tell you where you could find a gate out are the old wizard's apprentices. And that means you have to find one of the Seven first." The three gathered closer, listening as Muragh told of Halaster's seven apprentices. Nearly a thousand years ago, the wizard forsook his tower on the slopes of Mount Waterdeep and descended into the vast labyrinth he had created below. When he did not return from Undermountain, the Seven—powerful mages in their own right—boldly ventured into the dark depths in search of him. There they found magical tricks and deadly obstacles, and the deeper they went, the more difficult grew the riddles, the more perilous became the traps. The Seven soon realized that this was a test set for them by their master. Believing that whoever reached Halaster first would become his most favored—and thus heir to his most powerful magic—the Seven strove against each other. Each tried to go deeper than the rest and be the first to find their mysterious master. Whether or not the apprentices ever succeeded in finding Halaster, no one knew. Only one of the Seven ever returned from Undermountain: Jhesiyra Kestellharp, who became the Magister of Myth Drannor, an ancient kingdom whose ruins lay far to the East, near the realm of Cormyr. The other six apprentices remained in Undermountain, and whether they still searched, granted unnaturally long life by their magic, the histories did not tell. "It sounds as if these apprentices have the power to help us, all right," Beckla said when Muragh had finished his tale. "If any of them are still alive," Artek added. "Muragh, old boy," Corin said, addressing the skull as one might a servant. "You seem to know a great deal about this place. Can you take us to one of the Seven?" "As a matter of fact, I can," the skull replied glibly. "But I won't." Only by great force of will did Artek restrain himself from grabbing the insolent skull and heaving it against one of the stone walls. "Are you playing games with us, Muragh?" he said. "No, no!" the skull said hastily. "Believe me, you really don't want to meet Muiral." Muiral? Wasn't that the person who had locked Muragh in this room? Artek picked up the skull and glared into its empty eye sockets. "Let me get this straight," he said angrily. "You managed to annoy this Muiral with your chattering, and now you're afraid to take us to him because you think he will do something to hurt you. Am I right?" Muragh worked his mandible vigorously, but Artek held the skull tight. "You don't understand," Muragh whined fearfully. "Muiral won't just hurt me. He'll hurt you, too. Don't you see? He's the one who created the wraith spiders. And I guarantee you that there are more of them than you encountered in that chamber. Muiral loves spiders. He's part spider himself. I don't know how he did it, but he fused himself onto the body of a giant spider. He won't help you." Muragh shook pitifully in Artek's hands. "Please don't take me to Muiral. Please!" Beckla bit her lower lip. "I think he's telling the truth, Artek." "Have pity on the poor chap, Ar'talen," Corin added worriedly. "He's been through a great deal." Artek glowered at the skull. At last he sighed in exasperation. "All right, I believe you, Muragh. We won't go looking for Muiral. The truth is, I really don't care to face any

more of those wraith spiders." He shook his head. "But if we can't go to Muiral for help, where are we going to find another one of Halaster's apprentices?" "Actually, I have an idea," Muragh said cheerfully. The skull leapt from Artek's hands, fell to the floor, and rolled toward the doorway. "Well, don't just stand there," he said in annoyance. "Open the door. In case you hadn't noticed, I don't have hands." The three exchanged dubious looks. At last Artek shrugged. Following a talking skull seemed an unlikely way to escape from this maze, but he supposed they had little choice. He unlocked the door, then scooped Muragh into his arms as they headed out into the corridor. "We need to be very careful here," Muragh said in a hollow whisper. "Right now we're on the edge of Muiral's Gauntlet." "Muiral's Gauntlet?" Artek asked softly. "Is there an echo in here?" Muragh replied acidly. "Yes, Muiral's Gauntlet. The room where you encountered the wraith spiders is part of it, but only a small part, and not the worst. Not by far." The skull whistled sadly through his teeth. "Muiral's quite mad, of course. Searching for his master and failing addled his brain. What little sanity he still possessed after that was destroyed when he grafted himself onto that giant spider's body. These days his only pleasure comes from toying with the victims he gates down from the surface. He sends them into his Gauntlet and watches to see how far they can get through the maze of dangers he's created." "Let me guess," Beckla said uncomfortably. "No one ever makes it out of Muiral's Gauntlet alive." Muragh grinned, despite his lack of flesh. "Well, Muiral certainly wouldn't think it very much fun if they did." "So where are we going, if not into the Gauntlet?" Artek asked nervously. "This way." The skull tugged at Artek's hands, leading him toward the mouth of a side tunnel. "Before I ended up here, I got caught inside a gelatinous cube. Not a fun experience, by the way—very cold and slimy. It was the cube that brought me into Muiral's Gauntlet. I remember the path by which it slithered here. And I recall seeing something very interesting along the way." Artek glanced sharply at the skull. "Something interesting? What is it?" "You'll see," Muragh replied mysteriously. After this the skull became unusually reticent. Artek decided not to press for more answers, but rather to enjoy the quiet. His ears were ringing from Muragh's previous chatter. He walked stealthily down the narrow passageway, following the tugs and jerks of the skull in his hands, as Beckla and Corin came behind. Unfortunately, after the acid pit and the fire in the spider room, the wizard's staff was a lost cause. However, it seemed she could make do without it, for a wisp of blue magelight danced on her outstretched hand, lighting the way for the group. Guided by Muragh's tugging, they traveled through a tortuous series of dank corridors and murky chambers. Before long Artek lost all sense of direction. At first, here and there, they encountered glowing wisps of green webs dangling from the ceiling, and from time to time they caught a whiff of the same evil scent that had permeated the wraith spider lair. However, as they progressed, they soon left all traces of the eerie webs and spiders behind. Though still dark and stifling, the air here was no longer so oppressive and menacing. The three humans found themselves breathing a little easier. It seemed Muragh knew what he was doing. Artek glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. The moon had passed the arrow now. In the world above, night had fallen. Not that it really mattered—it was always night down here.

"How much farther, Muragh?" Artek asked quietly. "We're close now," the skull piped up brightly. "And you can quit whispering, you know. We left Muiral's territory behind ages ago." "Maybe I like whispering," Artek replied. "Suit yourself," Muragh sniffed. Artek started to clench his hands. How much force would it take to shatter an old skull, he wondered? "Hey, stop that!" Muragh complained. "You're giving me a headache!" By force of will, Artek managed to keep his fingers from squeezing. "Sorry," he grumbled. "I'm touched by your sincerity," the skull quipped sarcastically. "Now turn left here." They passed through an archway and found themselves descending a narrow spiral staircase. The steps were slick and treacherous. Several cracked beneath Artek's boots, and one gave way completely when Corin trod upon it. If not for Beckla's quick hand pulling him back, the nobleman would have crashed into Artek, and both would have gone tumbling breakneck down the steep staircase. The steps seemed without end as they delved deeper into the darkness. Finally the staircase stopped, and they stepped through an opening into a passageway so broad that it was not so much a corridor as an avenue. A line of basalt columns ran down the center of the hall, supporting the arched ceiling high above. The columns were skillfully carved into the shapes of trees, conjuring the illusion of walking down a sylvan boulevard under the shadows of dusk. Artek let out a low whistle, turning his head to try to take in the grandeur of the subterranean road. "I'll give Halaster one thing—he knew how to think big." "Actually, Halaster didn't build this passage," Muragh said. "It's even older than the mad wizard. This road was built by dwarves of the clan Melairkyn. In ancient days, they constructed an entire city here, called Underhall, far beneath the surface." "What happened to them?" Beckla murmured in awe. "No one knows for certain," Muragh replied. "They disappeared centuries before Halaster stumbled onto their delvings in the course of his excavations. Most likely they were slain by the duergar—dark dwarves who skulked in these halls until Halaster showed up. He decided he wanted Underhall for himself. Not being keen on sharing, Halaster eradicated the duergar like so many rats. After that, Underhall became part of Undermountain proper." Artek took a deep breath. The weight of years hung heavily on this place. He almost could hear the ghostly ring of hammers, drifting in the air like echoes from the past. "Is this what you wanted to show us, Muragh?" he asked. "No, over there," the skull said, clacking his jaw in the direction of one of the stone columns. Artek and the others approached the column. Scratched into the dark stone were several lines of strange, flowing writing. Beneath the writing was an arrow that pointed down the ancient road. The words looked somehow familiar, but Artek could not make them out. Whatever it was, it wasn't written in the common tongue. He shook his head, his annoyance growing. "Muragh," he warned, "please don't tell me that you brought us all this way just to look at thousand-year-old markings." "What's wrong with you, Ar'talen?" Muragh complained. "Can't you read what it says?" "No, I can't," Artek snapped. He glanced questioningly at Beckla. "Don't look at me," the wizard told him. "I can't read it either. Though I'm willing to

bet it's a naughty poem," she added with a disgusted glance at the skull. "Excuse me," Corin said suddenly, pushing past them to get a closer look at the column. He peered at the words with his blue eyes, then clapped his hands excitedly. "Oh, this is absolutely fascinating!" Artek and Beckla stared in shock at the nobleman. "You can read this, Corin?" Artek asked. "Of course," Corin replied smoothly, as if it were a silly question. "It's written in Thorass." "Thorass?" "That's right," the nobleman said. "Thorass, also known as Auld Common. It's the tongue our ancestors spoke long ago, and from which the current common tongue is derived. I learned to read it as a child, studying the old Silvertor family history. It goes back centuries, you know. In fact, it all started when—" "I'm sure your family's story is enthralling, Corin," Artek interrupted. "But we're in a bit of a hurry. Do you think you could just tell us what this says?" Corin studied the words a moment more, then nodded to himself. " 'On this, the fiftieth day of our search for our master, came we to this place,' " he translated. "That's it?" Artek asked. "That's it," Corin confirmed. "Oh, except for this." He pointed to the last two lines of writing. "The message is signed, Talastria and Orannon." "And who are they?" Beckla wondered. Artek made a leap of intuition. "I think I know," he said. "The message says that they came here in search of their master. Who could that be, except for Halaster himself? So Talastria and Orannon were two of his apprentices." "Whew!" Muragh groaned. "I thought you were never going to get it!" "You could have just told us, you know," Artek noted caustically. "What? And spoil all your fun?" Artek bit his tongue. It wasn't worth a reply. The important thing was that they had found the ancient trail of two of Halaster's apprentices. "Come on," Artek said. "This arrow must indicate the direction the apprentices were traveling in. If we follow, we may find what became of them—and maybe a way out, too." Together, they hurried down the underground avenue in the direction the arrow had indicated. Clouds of thick dust settled sluggishly in their wake. Their shadows, conjured by Beckla's pale magelight, rippled across the passage's walls like weird giants from an ancient nightmare. Artek tried not to look at them—this was an eerie place. In silence they continued on as countless tree-columns slipped by. It was Beckla who saw the words scratched into the wall beside a keyhole-shaped archway. The stones of the arch itself were oddly scorched and cracked. " 'It took us many days to destroy the fire elementals that barred this door,' " Corin translated slowly. "But now the way is clear, and our search continues, on this the fifty-sixth day of our quest.' " As before, the message was signed Talastria and Orannon. Beneath it, an arrow pointed through the archway. They stepped through the opening and into a dim corridor. Artek shivered. It was strange to be retracing the ancient steps of the two lost apprentices. Steeling his will, he started down the corridor. The others followed. After the loftiness of the main avenue, this passage was cramped and forbidding—apparently, it had been a lesser way of Underhall. Dark water dripped down the smooth stone walls and trickled across the floor. Unconsciously, the three humans drew closer together.

When they came to a flight of stairs, an arrow scratched into the wall pointed down. Talastria and Orannon had come this way. Artek led the others down a hundred slimy steps before the corridor leveled out and continued on again through the darkness. "What are all these strange silvery marks on the wall?" Corin wondered aloud. Though he spoke in a whisper, the sound of his voice hissed uncomfortably around the corridor. No one had an answer for him. Four more times they came to a flight of steps, each longer than the one before. At the head of every stairway, an arrow indicated that the two apprentices had descended it. Breathless, they reached the bottom of the fifth flight only after Artek had counted five hundred steps. It was there that they finally learned the answer to Corin's question. Another message was scratched into the hard surface of the wall. " 'We know not what day of our search this is, for all sense of time was lost to us in the arduous battle for the five stairs,' " Corin said, reading the ancient inscription. " 'Upon every step of every stair waited a fiend of the underworld, conjured by our master's magic. To gain but a single step, we were forced to slay a slavering fiend. We destroyed a hundred on the first stair, two hundred on the next. Never did we stop—save to rest briefly and restore our magic—until we destroyed the five hundredth fiend on the fifth and final stair. We are both gravely wounded from the ordeal, yet surely only something of the greatest worth could lie beyond such a terrible barrier. It is our belief that the end of our search is near at last. And surely, once we find our master, he will make us whole once more.' " "A fiend on every step," Beckla echoed with a shudder. "It must have taken the apprentices years to get past these stairs. The silvery marks on the walls must be scars left from the spells they cast to destroy the creatures." Artek nodded grimly. "Let's see what they found at the end of their search." It was not much farther. After a hundred paces, the corridor ended in a pair of massive stone doors. Emblazoned on the door were letters of gold. The letters spelled out two words that they all now easily recognized: Talastria and Orannon. The group exchanged uneasy looks, and Artek pushed on the doors. They swung open easily. Beckla held out her hand, and the flickering magelight illuminated the long chamber beyond. The sides of the chamber were littered with countless fragments of stone. Only after a moment did Artek realize that some of the fragments were shaped like clawed hands, others like leathery wings, and still others like grotesque heads—they were parts of gargoyles. Dozens of them had once lined the chamber, but now they were smashed to bits. At the far end of the room was a dais of dark stone, and on the dais rested two oblong boxes hewn of porphyry. No, not boxes, Artek realized. Sarcophagi. "It's a tomb," Artek said softly as he sensed the truth. "Talastria and Orannon thought they would find their master at the end of the stairs, on the other side of the fiends. Instead, all they found was their own tomb—no doubt created for them by Halaster himself." "That's a cruel joke," Corin said, aghast. "On us as well as on them," Beckla replied glumly. "I doubt a dead apprentice is going to be able to show us a gate out of this hole." "Don't be so hasty," Muragh replied testily. "There might be something in here that could help us." Artek drew in a deep breath. "I suppose it's worth a try. We came all this way, so we might as well spend a few minutes poking around." Together, they stepped into the tomb of the lost apprentices. It was an eerie place. Artek could almost imagine the two wizards, wounded and dying after their battle on

the stairs, stumbling into this chamber only to find the two waiting sarcophagi. Did they laugh madly as they laid themselves within their own coffins? Artek did his best to shake the disturbing image from his mind. While Beckla and Corin began poking around in the shattered remains of the stone gargoyles, he headed for the dais at the far end of the chamber. All at once an icy wind rushed through the tomb. With an ominous boom, the stone doors swung shut. Artek spun on a heel, staring back at Beckla and Corin in surprise. As one, the wizard and the nobleman gasped. A chill danced up Artek's back. "What is it?" he whispered, clutching Muragh tightly. "I think you'd better turn back around, Artek," Beckla gulped. Dread rising in his throat, Artek did as the wizard suggested. His heart froze. Even as he watched, the heavy stone lid that covered one sarcophagus slid to the side and fell to the dais with a crash. A moment later, the lid atop the other stone coffin followed suit. A dry, musty odor drifted on the air: the scent of ancient decay. Then, with majestic and malevolent slowness, a form rose out of each sarcophagus. Tattered robes of black cloth fluttered around withered forms, parchment-like skin peeled from gaunt faces, and gold bracelets clinked coldly on shriveled arms. "By all the blackest gods," Artek murmured in a mixture of awe and terror. "They're still alive!" "No," Muragh countered weakly. "Not alive." Crimson flames flared into being in the hollow pits of their eyes as Talastria and Orannon reached out their undead hands toward the defilers of their tomb.

6 Beauty Perilous "Run..." Artek tried to shout the word, but it escaped his lips only as a strangled whisper. Fear radiated from the far end of the tomb in thick, choking waves. He tried to back away from the dais, but his legs betrayed him. Against his will, he fell to his knees, bowing to the dread majesty rising before him. Behind him, Beckla and Corin did the same. Icy wind shrieked through the ancient chamber. Crimson mist poured down the steps of the dark dais, filling the air with a bloody miasma. Trailing tattered funereal garb and yellowed wisps of dried flesh, the long-dead wizards climbed from their sarcophagi. They stood before the stone coffins, orbless eyes blazing, pointing accusing fingers at the humans. Two keening voices rose in shrill chorus. Defilers! Trespassers! Foolishly have ye dared to transgress upon our domain! The words pierced Artek's skull, flaying his mind. He clutched his hands to his ears, but he could not shut out the deafening shrieks. Accursed breathing ones! Our guardians may be no more, but still ye shall not profane our tomb. Ye shall pay for this violation with your throbbing hearts! The undead apprentices stretched out their leathery hands, and scarlet energy crackled on the tips of their claw-like fingers. Artek grunted in fear as he felt a tugging deep in his chest. With stiff, terrible slowness, the mummified wizards took a lurching step forward. They reached their ragged arms out still further, hands blazing with fell magic. Artek screamed in pain. He threw his head back, arching his spine. His heart leapt wildly, straining against the inside of his rib cage, as if at any moment it would burst from his chest and hurtle through the air to the waiting hand of Talastria or Orannon. A moment later, Beckla and Corin echoed his cry, writhing as their own beating hearts were called by the dread wizards. The undead horrors continued to hobble forward, until they stood upon the very edge of the dais. The nearer they came, the more the pressure in Artek's chest increased. He gnashed his teeth in agony as a trickle of dark blood oozed from his nose. He could not breathe. So this is how it ends, he thought dimly. Dying at the hands of the dead. He might have laughed at the irony of it, but when he opened his mouth, he could only scream. The wizards grinned evilly, empty eye sockets blazing. A little closer, and their dire magic would be strong enough to rip the beating hearts from the chests of their defilers. Together, Talastria and Orannon took one more stiff step forward. Numb and dried as they were, their feet did not sense the stone step beneath them. The two undead wizards lurched forward at the unexpected drop. Their brittle feet crumbled upon striking the top step of the dais. Withered arms shot out as the apprentices fought to preserve their precarious balance. The sudden motion caused ancient sinews to snap like old bowstrings. Talastria and Orannon let out a terrible, soul-rending shriek, and then, like grisly puppets with their strings slashed, they pitched forward. Their desiccated bodies struck the sharp stone steps and burst asunder. Disarticulated bones rolled down the steps, crumbling as they went. By the time the remains of the two wizards reached the floor before the dais, all that was left were shards and scraps. For a moment, scarlet sparks of magic sizzled around the crumbled remnants of the gruesome mummies, but these, too, were soon extinguished. Yellow dust settled to the floor. After ten centuries, Talastria and

Orannon were truly dead. Artek slumped forward as the near-fatal magic released his heart. He clutched his chest, drawing in deep, ragged gulps of air. Gradually the wild throbbing of his heart slowed to a more steady pace. Turning his head, he saw Beckla and Corin pull themselves to their knees. The wizard wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her hand. Corin was hunched over, retching, but then he managed to straighten himself, his blue eyes wide in his pale face. Muragh had rolled a short distance away. "Well, I guess that will teach you to respect the dead," the skull said in a slightly smug tone. Artek did not even bother to reply, having had more than enough of dead things for the moment. Stumbling to his feet, he moved to help Beckla and Corin up. All were rattled by the experience, but no one seemed gravely injured. "Now what?" Beckla asked hoarsely after recovering some of her composure. Artek straightened his leather jerkin, then ran a hand through his short black hair. He gazed around the ancient tomb. "I can't say that I really care to hang around this place any longer than we have to, but I suppose we should look around. Talastria and Orannon may be dead for good, but there still could be something here that might help us." "Very well," Corin agreed weakly. "But if any more corpses pop out of coffins, we're leaving." For once the nobleman received no argument. Carefully they began to search the tomb, examining the walls and poking through the broken statuary. They had been searching for only a few moments when a sound drifted on the air: a low grunting interspersed with high-pitched squeaks and damp snorts. Artek froze. "Do you hear that?" he hissed to the others. Beckla nodded. "It sounds like some sort of animal," she whispered back. Corin stared at them in alarm. "I really think we ought to be going now," he gulped. Artek shook his head grimly. "Not without knowing what's likely to be following us when we do." He cocked his head, listening. There it was again: a grunting, shuddering sound from the far end of the tomb. Steeling his will, Artek pulled the dagger from his boot and stealthily made his way toward the stone dais. The animal sounds grew louder. Whatever the thing was, it was definitely lurking behind the dais. Clutching his dagger, Artek soundlessly ascended the steps. He moved carefully between the two stone sarcophagi and cautiously peered over the back edge of the dais. The sniffling sound reached his ears clearly now. Something gray, scaly, and muscular crouched in the shadows behind the dais. Artek's darkvision adjusted to the murk, and his jaw dropped in surprise. He backed away, hurrying down the steps, and returned to the others. "It's a gargoyle," he whispered. Beckla glanced at the shattered remains of the bestial stone statues that littered the tomb. "A gargoyle?" she asked in confusion. "Like these?" Artek nodded darkly. "Only it's alive." Corin clutched a hand to his mouth. "Alive?" he gasped through his fingers. "But what's it doing?" Artek frowned in puzzlement. "I'm not entirely sure. But I think that it's . . . crying." Beckla and Corin traded startled looks. "Crying?" they echoed as one. "Maybe you'd better come look for yourselves," Artek told the others. "I can't be certain, but I don't think it's too dangerous. If it was, it probably would have attacked us by now."

Beckla was game to try, but Corin had to be tugged along forcefully. "Hey!" Muragh piped up. "Don't forget me!" "I should be so lucky," Artek grumbled, picking up the enchanted skull. Keeping close together, they ascended the dais and peered over the back edge. Beckla held out her hand. Blue magelight drove away the shadows, revealing the creature below. In the light, Artek saw that it was indeed a gargoyle. The creature huddled on the floor with its back turned toward them. Its scaly hide was rough and gray as stone, and rock-like muscles knotted its powerful frame. Stubby bat wings protruded from its broad back, and onyx horns sprang from its knobby head. The gargoyle's gigantic shoulders shook as it grunted and sniffled. "The poor thing," Beckla sighed. Artek and Corin stared at her. "The poor thing?" Artek repeated in disbelief. The wizard glared at him. "It's sad," she replied in annoyance. At the sound of their voices, the gargoyle let out a snort and looked up. Both Artek and Corin jumped back, but Beckla did not so much as flinch. Somehow the creature's doglike face was more endearing than frightful. Sorrow shone in its glowing green eyes. "What's wrong with you?" the gargoyle growled in a gravelly voice. "Why are you just standing there? Aren't you terrified of me?" Trembling, Corin opened his mouth to speak, but Beckla elbowed him sharply in the side. The nobleman's mouth promptly snapped shut. "No, we're not," the wizard answered seriously. The gargoyle let out a dejected sigh, wings drooping. "I was afraid of that. Not that I'm surprised—I never was any good at guarding the tomb. Now I'm the last, and an utter failure." The gargoyle sniffed, wiping the dampness from its scaly cheeks with a clawed hand. "Corin," Beckla asked, "do you have a handkerchief?" "Of course," the nobleman replied in confusion. He pulled a slime-covered silk cloth from the pocket of his velvet coat. "But what do you—?" Beckla snatched the handkerchief from his hand, then hopped down from the dais. She held the cloth out toward the gargoyle. "Here," she said gently. The gargoyle stared at her in surprise, then hesitantly accepted the handkerchief. The creature lifted the grubby cloth to its long muzzle, then let out a trumpeting snort. When it was finished, it politely offered the dripping handkerchief back to Corin. The nobleman accepted it reluctantly, looking vaguely queasy. Artek watched all this with growing fascination. He crouched on the edge of the dais and eyed the gargoyle critically. "Excuse me," he said carefully, "but I was always led to believe that gargoyles were terrible and ferocious creatures—stone statues given magical life for the sole purpose of maiming and killing." "They are," the gargoyle agreed. Artek scratched his stubbly chin. "Well, no offense intended, but you don't exactly fit the bill." More tears welled up in the creature's glowing green eyes. "I know," it said forlornly. "Now look what you've done, Ar'talen," Beckla scolded him. "You've made him cry again." Artek shook his head in astonishment. He was having a hard time dealing with this. He gave the gargoyle a questioning look. "All right, then maybe you should tell us exactly what you are doing here, ah ..." "Terrathiguss," the creature finished. "Terrathiguss the Gargoyle."

"Well, at least your name is somewhat frightening," Artek acknowledged. "Do you really think so?" Terrathiguss asked. "Not much else about me is." Muscled limbs flexing easily, the gargoyle climbed onto the dais and gazed around the tomb at the shattered remnants of the other stone gargoyles. "I don't know what went wrong. We were all created at the same time. Talastria and Orannon made us, you see. They used their dying energy to conjure us into being, and ordered us to keep guard over their tomb. But I was the last one they made." The gargoyle shook its head ruefully. "And somehow I was different." "Different?" Artek asked. The gargoyle nodded solemnly. "Do you mind if I sit?" Startled by the creature's manners, Artek could only nod. With a clawed hand, Terrathiguss fastidiously dusted off a corner of one of the sarcophagi. Then the creature perched neatly on the stone coffin. "For a thousand years, my brethren and I stood guard over this tomb," Terrathiguss went on in his gruff yet oddly warm voice. "Oh, it wasn't as boring as you might imagine, for we spent most of that time in stone form. Time passes very quickly for us when we stand as statues. I suppose it's rather like sleeping for a living creature, though I can only guess." The gargoyle shrugged its massive shoulders. "Anyway, we became flesh only when interlopers entered the tomb. And then we promptly tore the defilers to shreds." Terrathiguss shook his head sadly. "At least, my brethren tore the defilers to shreds. At first I joined them, but before long I realized that it wasn't the same for me as for the other gargoyles. They seemed to truly enjoy rending hapless adventurers limb from limb. They would laugh loudly, and always fought over who got to eviscerate the last screaming victim. During the first century or two, I tried killing a few adventurers myself. But I only felt sorry for them, and I dispatched them as quickly and painlessly as I could." The gargoyle rested its knobby chin on a clawed hand. "As time went on, I took to just hiding behind the dais and letting the others do all the work. My brethren never seemed to notice. They were always too busy having fun." "But what happened to the others?" Beckla asked, glancing at the broken statues. "I'm not sure exactly," Terrathiguss replied. "None of us were. One day we woke up from our stony sleep to find that one of our brethren had cracked and crumbled during our slumber. After that, every time we awoke, we saw that another one or two had fallen to ruin while we were sleeping. I suppose it was simply age. Even enchanted stone can crack with time, and even magical creatures can die." "So you're the last?" Corin asked breathlessly. Caught up in the creature's tale, he had forgotten his fear. "I'm afraid so," the gargoyle said glumly. "I woke when you first entered the tomb, and I hid behind the dais. Now I see that I was the only one to wake. There were three others besides me when last we became stone. All must have crumbled since then." The gargoyle's voice turned into a sob. "What a cruel joke that I am the last! I should have attacked you when you entered the tomb. I should have protected my creators. Instead I hid like a coward, and now Talastria and Orannon are no more. I suppose I will crumble, too, now that they are destroyed." Beckla tapped her cheek thoughtfully. "I'm not so certain. It seems to me that if you were still under their power, you would have turned back to stone with their destruction. But you're still flesh. I think that perhaps you are free of them." The gargoyle glanced up at Beckla in surprise. "Free?" A look of wonder crossed his doglike face. The green light in his eyes flashed. "Free." He murmured the word again in amazement.

As the gargoyle contemplated the wizard's words, Artek drew the others aside. "So what are we going to do with it?" he asked quietly. "It's not an it," Beckla replied testily. "It's a him. I'm going to call him Guss." "Whatever for?" Artek asked. "Terrathiguss is too long," Beckla explained. "And it really doesn't suit him. He's much too nice to have that kind of a name." Artek shook his head, trying to follow her reasoning. "But why call it—I mean him—anything at all?" "Because we're adopting him," Beckla said crisply. "Oh, how delightful!" Corin exclaimed happily. "Are you insane, wizard?" Artek hissed. "In case you hadn't noticed, he's a gargoyle. We are not adopting him!" "Quiet, Ar'talen!" Beckla said crossly. "You'll hurt his feelings." Sputtering, Artek tried to come up with a sensible reply to this madness. Beckla breezed by him, approaching the gargoyle. "It's decided, Terrathiguss," she said cheerfully. "We're trying to get out of Undermountain, and you're welcome to come with us. I would like to call you Guss, too—it's a much nicer name for you. But it's all up to you, of course." The gargoyle leapt to his feet in surprise. "Well, I like Guss just fine," he gasped, "but do you really mean the rest? You want me to come with you?" Beckla nodded solemnly. "We do." "All of you?" Guss asked. He looked hopefully at Artek. Artek opened his mouth, but a sharp glance from Beckla made him rethink his reply. "Yes," he grumbled darkly. "All of us." "You might be sorry, you know," Guss said gravely. "I was created by dark wizards as a creature of destruction. I am evil by nature." Beckla smiled. "I rather doubt that." The gargoyle grinned back at her, displaying row upon row of sharp teeth. Somehow the expression was more charming than terrible. Artek was forced to admit to himself that Guss did seem friendly. And it couldn't hurt to have a gargoyle on their side. "Look at this!" Corin said suddenly. The nobleman had been rummaging inside one of the stone coffins, and his eager face was covered with dust. He gripped a tattered book in his hand. The others gathered around Corin as he opened the tome. The brittle yellow pages were covered with the same spidery writing as the messages the two apprentices had scratched on the walls. "I think it's their diary!" Corin exclaimed excitedly, thumbing through the book. Artek peered more closely at the tome, but he could not make out the ancient writing. "Can you read it?" Corin frowned, squinting at the murky text, then shook his head. "It's written in Thorass, all right. But I'm afraid the ink is too faded to make out more than a word or two. Perhaps I could—wait a minute! What's this?" The nobleman flipped back to the page that had caught his eye. It displayed a map showing twisting halls joining myriad chambers. "I think this is the great avenue of Underhall we were in before," Corin said, pointing to a broad passage. "What's this?" Beckla asked, pointing to a chamber with an X marked inside it and a line of text scrawled beneath it. Corin studied the words for a moment. "I think I can make this out," he murmured, then nodded. "Yes. 'To the lair of our sister Arcturia.' "

Artek looked up in interest. "Their sister? What does that mean?" Muragh bounced up and down in his hands. "Are you an idiot?" the skull piped up urgently. "Who else could be the sister of Talastria and Orannon besides—" "Another apprentice," Artek finished in amazement. He rubbed the top of the skull with his knuckles. "Good thinking, Muragh. Especially for someone who doesn't have a brain." "Thanks," the skull huffed in annoyance, squirming but unable to escape Artek's grip. "Well, what are we waiting for?" Beckla demanded, hopping off the dais. "Let's go find this Arcturia." At first, Guss was reluctant to step outside the door of the ancient tomb, fearing he would turn to stone. But Beckla gripped his clawed hand and coaxed him through the portal. Finally he crossed the threshold, then cringed, eyes clenched shut, waiting for doom to fall upon him. Nothing happened. When he opened his glowing green eyes and looked down at his hands, they were still scaly flesh. He looked up at Beckla in wonder, then gave her a toothy grin. Following the map, they made their way back up the five sets of stairs and down the broad, dusty boulevard hewn by the Melairkyn dwarves. Turning down a side passage, they wended their way through a maze of corridors until at last they came to the chamber marked on the map. There was nothing inside the small stone room but a round pool of dark water. "Don't tell me this was a wild goblin chase," Artek said glumly. Beckla cautiously approached the pool, held out her hands, and spoke several words of magic. The dark water suddenly shone with a radiant blue light. Beckla nodded in satisfaction, then withdrew her hands, and the light faded. "The pool is enchanted," she said, turning to the others. "While I can't be entirely certain, I think it's a gate." "Either that or it will transform us into two-headed slime worms," Artek said. "We probably ought to do a few tests before we jump in." "For once I agree with you, Ar'talen." The wizard started back toward the others. As she did, her boot heel skidded on the damp stones beside the pool. She reached out to balance herself, but it was too late. With a cry, Beckla fell backward into the dark surface of the pool. The others rushed to the edge of the pool. Artek peered into the murky depths. "I can't see her!" he said frantically. "And you won't, no matter how hard you look," Muragh replied, his reedy voice grim. "Not if this really is a gate." "But where has it taken her?" Corin asked, wringing his hands. Artek made a decision. "There's only one way to find out." The nobleman's eyes went wide. He started to back away from the pool. "Oh, no. You don't intend to—" "Grab him, Guss!" Artek shouted. The gargoyle caught the squirming lord in his stony arms. "Got him, Artek," Guss grinned. "Ready?" Artek gave a sharp nod. "As I'll ever be." He tightened his grip on Muragh. "Let's go." Together they leapt into the pool. Chill water closed over their heads, and they plunged down through freezing darkness. A brilliant light appeared below and grew rapidly into a silvery rectangle. Together they fell through the glowing gate. Artek's senses were abruptly turned on

their sides as he found himself not falling through the portal like a trapdoor, but rather stepping through it, as if walking past a sheer curtain of cool silk and into a shining room beyond. "Greetings, wanderers," said a shimmering voice. "Welcome to my abode." For a moment Artek was utterly disoriented. At last he blinked and saw that he and the others indeed stood in some sort of chamber, but he could make out few details. Everything was washed in glowing silver light. Then the light dimmed as a figure stood before them, and they all gasped. She was beautiful. Her skin was as green and radiant as emeralds, and long hair tumbled about her shoulders in waves of polished jet. She wore a pale, diaphanous shift that seemed to accentuate the lushness of her smooth body rather than conceal it. Blue wings—as fine as those of a dragonfly—fluttered gently behind her. Eyes as bright as the sun shone from her delicate, nymphlike face. Finally, Artek found his tongue. "Arcturia?" he murmured in wonder. Her laughter was like clear water on crystal. "Indeed, I am Arcturia," she said in her bell-like voice. "And who else had you expected to find beyond the gate?" Artek turned to glance at the portal behind them. It looked like a polished silver mirror hung within the carved stone archway, reflecting not this room, but rather the chamber with the dark pool. Even as Artek watched, the portal flashed, and the image changed, showing a shadowed hallway. After a few moments the silvery door flashed again. Once more the image shifted, now displaying a vast throne room. "Many gates lead to this one," Arcturia said in answer to his look of wonder. "But that need concern you no longer, for now you have found me. Come—you must be thirsty, hungry, and tired. I will take you each to a place where you may find rest and peace." Rest and peace. The words echoed deliriously in Artek's mind. Suddenly he could think of nothing else. It was exactly what they needed, but could they truly find it with one of Halaster's apprentices? Arcturia reached out a slender hand toward Corin, whose eyes seemed to glaze over as he looked upon her with a rapt expression of joy. She smiled and led the nobleman away into the silvery light. He did not resist. Soon she came back to lead Beckla and Guss away in turn. They did not resist either, and Artek found he could only watch them be taken away. He could not move, and he was not sure if he even wanted to. At last she came for Artek. She slipped her cool fingers into his. Come, her voice whispered gently in his mind, though her ruby lips moved only to smile. Muragh jerked in the crook of Artek's arm. "I don't like this," the skull hissed through yellowed teeth. His few wisps of rotted hair waved in agitation. "She's a little too friendly, if you ask me. Something is wrong here." However, the skull's urgent words were no more than a dull buzz in Artek's ears. As if in a dream, he seemed to float forward, following the green-skinned maiden. "Artek, don't do this!" Muragh cried out. "Listen to me, I know what—" Utterly unnoticed, the skull slipped from Artek's arm, clattering to the floor and rolling away. With an absent smile, Artek followed after Arcturia. As they proceeded, he caught brief glimpses of the others. Corin sat in a velvet chair at the end of a long dining table laden with pewter platters, crystal bowls, and goblets of beaten gold. His grimy clothes had been replaced by new finery of blue silk trimmed with silver braid, and his golden hair was neatly drawn back from his powdered face by a cloth ribbon. Two servants in elegant kneecoats waited upon him, heaping his plate with steaming delicacies and filling his cup with crimson wine. The

nobleman sighed happily, then dug ravenously into the rich feast laid out before him. Artek wondered if that was what life was like in House Silvertor. Then the scene passed by, and thoughts of the nobleman drifted from his mind. A moment later he glimpsed Guss. The gargoyle sat upon a greensward, surrounded by wildflowers. Bathed in the warm light of an unseen sun, Guss leaned contentedly against an oak tree. He plucked a purple flower and held it beneath his muzzle, closing his eyes in bliss as he breathed deeply. Artek thought he should call out to Guss in greeting, but Arcturia gently pulled him onward, and he quickly forgot about the gargoyle. They passed an archway through which Artek glimpsed a dim chamber. He could see Beckla standing before a wooden workbench. Her face was intent as she ground colored powders with mortar and pestle, and combined glittering potions in glass beakers. She held a crucible over a candle's flame, and glowing blue smoke billowed out to her evident satisfaction. It seemed that she was researching a powerful new spell. At last Arcturia brought him to a halt in front of a wooden door. Again her voice whispered in his mind, though her lips did not move. Beyond this door you will find all that you desire, Artek. Open it. . . The emerald-skinned woman seemed to fade away into the silvery light, leaving Artek alone. He gripped the brass doorknob. For a moment he hesitated, but it was as if he could not control his hand. A force was pulling him from the other side of the door. He opened it and stepped through. "Father!" a clear voice cried. "You're home!" A small form raced across the cozy, firelit room and flew into his arms. It all seemed so familiar. Artek found himself lifting the dark-haired boy into the air. "You're getting big, Arneth!" he said. He was not sure how he knew the boy's name, but he was certain that the boy knew him. "Yes, I am," the boy replied seriously. "What did you bring me?" Artek reached into his pocket and pulled out a brown paper packet, though he could not remember putting it there. "I hope this will do." Arneth took the packet and opened it. "Candy!" he exclaimed happily. "Thank you, Father!" The boy dashed away with his new treasure. A pretty woman in a green dress set a steaming bowl down on a wooden table. She looked up and smiled, her sun-gold eyes glowing. "Your supper is ready, Artek." Artek caught the woman in his arms and held her tightly. He felt lucky to have this warm home, bright son, and beautiful wife. It was all he had ever wanted in life. Why question things? He was going to enjoy it to the fullest. He glanced at the door through which Arneth had disappeared, then grinned broadly. "It's not stew I'm hungry for," he said wickedly, squeezing the woman tight. She laughed, filling the air with a tinkling sound, like the ringing of a crystal bell. "Very well, husband," she said. "But there is something I must do first. Wait just a moment, and I will return." She pushed him gently into a chair, brushed a soft finger against his lips, and disappeared through the door he had entered. Artek leaned back, sighing contentedly, dreaming of the pleasure that was to come. "Artek!" a distant voice said. "Artek, pick me up! Please!" The voice was so faint and hazy that he thought he had imagined it. He started to slip into his daydreams once more, but something nudged his foot. He looked down in surprise to see a skull on the floor, its jaw working frantically. For a moment he stared at the thing in amazement, but soon found himself bending down to pick it up. "Artek!" The skull hopped madly in his hands. "It's me! Muragh! Wake up, you fool!"

Memory flooded back into Artek's mind. "Muragh," he gasped in surprise. "What are we doing here? Where are the others?" "They're trapped in illusions, just like you are," the skull said urgently. "And let me tell you, rolling all the way here to warn you was not easy. You're all in terrible danger!" "Danger?" Artek asked. "What do you mean? And what's all this about illusions?" "Look through my eyes," the skull said. "Then you'll understand." "What do you mean?" "I'm not alive—illusions don't work on me," Muragh explained hastily. "There's a crack in the back of my skull. If you look through it, you can see out of the holes in my eye sockets. The magic in my skull will filter out the illusions you perceive. Hurry!" Artek still found himself unable to think clearly. He lifted the skull and, squinting, peered through the crack in the back of Muragh's cranium. Artek stood in shock. Still gazing through the skull, he looked all around. No longer was he in a warm, firelit chamber. It was a room, all right, but the walls were covered with mold. There was no fireplace, no door in the wall through which Arneth had run. There was a table and chair, but both were rickety and worm-eaten. The chill truth crashed over him in a wave, and a pang of loss clutched his heart. It was an illusion—the house, the fire, Arneth, all of it. All of it, perhaps, except the woman. "You said we were in danger, Muragh," he whispered intently. "Arcturia isn't what she seems," the skull replied. "She plans to use you and the others as subjects for her experiments." "Experiments?" "Yes! I heard her talking to herself after she left you here. She plans to—" The skull was interrupted by a clear voice from outside the door. "Here I come, husband," the voice purred. "I hope that you are ready." Artek stared at Muragh in terror as the door began to open.

7 The Black Dart The beautiful woman with sun-gold eyes stepped through the door, her green dress swishing softly. Artek smiled nervously, folding his hands behind his head and trying to lean back casually in the chair. Something sharp dug into the small of his back, and he grimaced in pain. A faint shadow touched her smooth brow. "Is something wrong, my love?" He forced a smile. "No, dearest. Only a passing sadness that you were away. But it has gone, now that you have returned." Her red lips coiled into a pleased smile, and she turned to shut the door. As she did, Artek whispered quietly out of the corner of his mouth. "Quit squirming, Muragh! You'll give us away." As Artek leaned against the skull to conceal it from view, Muragh's pointed jaw dug painfully into his spine. "I can't help it," came the skull's muffled reply. "Keep still!" Artek hissed. "Did you say something, my love?" the woman asked, turning around. "Uh, no," he said, loudly. "Good," she murmured in a sultry voice, moving toward him. "Talking is not what I had in mind." Sitting on the edge of the table, she leaned toward him and lifted a slender hand to the bodice of her gown, as if to untie the leathern laces. Then, with startling swiftness, she reached into the cleft of her bosom, drew out a shimmering green object, and thrust it toward Artek's face. It was a tiny serpent with ruby eyes and emerald scales. Artek grabbed her wrist and held it fast. The snake hissed, baring its fangs, mere inches from his face. "Why do you resist me, my love?" the woman crooned, straining against his grip. Evil light flashed in her golden eyes. "Because I do not care for poison snakes," Artek said through clenched teeth. He tightened his grip on her wrist. "You judge me wrongly, my love," she countered. "This is a dreamserpent. Its bite will bring you only sleep, so that you will not feel pain as I transform your exquisite body." "Transform?" Artek asked. "How?" Strange exultation twisted her beautiful face. "You are strong, my love." She ran the fingers of her free hand down his cheek, his throat, his chest. "I could do much with you. You could bear it. I would give you the arms of an ogre, the claws of a lion, the scaled armor of a dragon, and the poison stinger of a scorpion." She trembled with excitement. "You would be utterly magnificent!" She would make him a monster? Little did she know that he was already part monster. Crimson rage flared in his brain. "I will be nothing for you, Arcturia!" he cried. He leapt to his feet and slammed her hand—still clutching the dreamserpent—against the table. In one swift motion, he drew his dagger and plunged it downward. A shrill, inhuman scream pierced the air as Artek pinned the woman's hand to the table. Then the illusions that masked the chamber wavered and vanished, revealing the true nature of all within. The beautiful woman was gone. Her skin was still emerald, but now it was composed of overlying scales, like those of the serpent. Wicked spurs of bone protruded from her elbows, her shoulders, and her knees. Instead of hair, a writhing

mass of slimy black tentacles sprang from her head. Her wings were not a fairy's, but rather a foul insect's, and they buzzed spastically as she tugged to free her wounded hand. She shrieked again, baring long yellow fangs. Apparently, Arcturia had made herself the subject of her own experiments. Grabbing Muragh, Artek hurried through the door. No longer was the space beyond bathed in silvery radiance. The air was dank and murky, and fetid water streamed down the bare stone walls. The others were there, and they all looked up at Artek in shock and confusion. Beckla had not been experimenting with vials and beakers, but with broken sticks and dirty stones. Guss sat upon a heap of festering garbage, holding a clump of worms in his hand. And still in his grimy attire, Corin sat before a rickety table littered with cracked clay plates. The lord stared down at the bowl of putrid, black sludge he had been eagerly spooning up. His face went green. "What. . . what happened?" Beckla asked, shaking her head. "It was all an illusion," Artek explained. "Arcturia conjured visions from our fantasies in order to control us, so that she could use us for her experiments." "Experiments?" Corin echoed in a quavering voice. "I'll explain later," Artek said gruffly. "Right now we've got to get out of here." He looked up at the stone archway through which they had entered the mad apprentice's lair. The gate flashed, and in it they saw the image of the chamber where they had dived into the dark pool. "Come on!" he shouted, urging the others toward the portal. "Wait!" screamed a grating voice, bringing them to a halt. In dread they turned around. Arcturia stood before the open door of the side chamber, clutching her bleeding hand. "Stay!" she cried. "Don't you understand? I can make you beautiful. Like me!" "We're leaving," Artek growled. Rage and desire twisted her hideous visage. "If I cannot have you, then you will die!" she shrieked. Her golden eyes blazed malevolently as she clenched her wounded hand into a fist. Dark blood welled forth. Foul words of magic tumbled from her tongue, and the blood began to glow with scarlet force. "The gate!" Artek shouted in alarm. "Now!" They leapt for the portal just as Arcturia released her spell. Like a red serpent, deadly magic flashed from her wounded hand, speeding across the chamber to strike them down. Together, Artek and the others broke the gleaming surface of the gate. But just then, the image within flashed and changed. It was too late to stop. They fell through the gate as Arcturia's magic exploded behind them, shattering the archway. Screaming, they plunged down into nothingness. * * * * * Muragh said that six of Halaster's apprentices still lurked in Undermountain, Artek thought grimly. Just two more to go now. He stared at the magical tattoo on his arm. Even as he watched, the wheel of dark ink moved slowly around the grinning death's head. The stylized sun had just passed the arrow. Somewhere far above—just how far he knew not—dawn was breaking over the city of Waterdeep. One whole day had passed already. He had only one more day to complete his mission. Only one more day to live. He had found Corin Silvertor. That was something, at least. But they still had to escape from Undermountain, and it seemed they were farther from finding a way out than ever. A part of him wanted to give up, to lie down and die here in the darkness, but he was filled with rage at Darien Thal's betrayal. He could not quit, not now. The desire for revenge was too hot. Too strong. It would drive him on to the bitter end. He

supposed he should be thankful for his orcish side, but it was that dark and feral part of him that had got him into this mess in the first place. He pulled down the sleeve of his jerkin, concealing the tattoo. Artek surveyed his surroundings. Despite the murk, his darkvision let him see the rough walls of damp stone. The gate had dropped them into a natural tunnel of some sort, hewn by time and the flow of water. As quickly as it had appeared in midair, the sizzling gate had closed behind them. Neither Arcturia nor her crimson magic had followed them through the portal, but there was no telling where the gate had deposited them. For all they knew, they were deeper than ever in Undermountain. In the darkness, he could make out the shapes of the others nearby. Corin lay curled in a ball, hands pillowing his head., snoring blissfully. Artek shook his head, wondering if the young nobleman truly understood the danger they were in. Maybe to Corin, this was all simply a grand adventure, like the fantastic tales told by a wandering minstrel. Artek almost envied the lord. Would that he himself had lived such a sheltered life, and knew the calm of such ignorance. But he had not, and he knew better. Not far off, Guss kept watch in one direction down the tunnel, while Muragh rested on a rock facing the other direction. The gargoyle had cheerfully offered to stand sentry. "I've just woken up from a two-century long nap," he had explained. Muragh, in contrast, had been less than cooperative. "I won't be able to talk to you if I'm that far away!" the skull had complained. That was precisely the idea. Artek had ignored Muragh's protests and set him down on a rocky perch to keep watch. He could hear the skull faintly now, muttering to himself in wounded tones. In truth, Artek did not care for the idea of stopping to rest, but after the ordeal in Arcturia's lair, Corin had been swaying on his feet, and Beckla's face had been drawn and haggard. Much as he hated to admit it, Artek needed rest as well. Time was precious, but all the time in the world would do them no good if they dropped from exhaustion. However, he had not been able to find sleep as easily as Corin. With a start, Artek realized that Beckla's sleeping form was no longer next to that of the nobleman. He heard a rustling sound behind him and turned to see the wizard approaching out of the shadows, a wisp of magelight bobbing above her head. She knelt beside him. "I brought you some water," she said softly. "And something to eat." He accepted both gratefully, only then realizing how thirsty and hungry he was. The water came from damp moss, which he squeezed over his open mouth. The moisture produced was musty and bitter, but cool against his parched tongue. Beckla broke a piece off of some sort of round loaf and handed it to Artek. The food was soft, rich, and slightly nutty. He ate it ravenously. "Where did you find a loaf of bread?" he asked in amazement after finishing the last morsel. "Actually, it's not bread," the wizard replied. A weak grin touched her lips. "It's fungus." Artek's eyes grew wide. He tried to spit out the last mouthful, but it was too late. Grimacing, he felt it slide down his throat and into his stomach. "You could have told me," he grumbled. "Would you have enjoyed it so much if I had?" she asked. "No," he was forced to admit. Beckla broke off a piece of the fungus and popped it into her mouth. "It's really quite good. Besides, one can't be picky after living down here for a year. If it won't kill you, you eat it."

"Nice philosophy." They were quiet as Beckla finished eating. Eventually Artek found himself gazing at Guss's dark form. The gargoyle stood as still as stone, gazing down the corridor. "He can't be as good as he seems," Artek said quietly. Beckla looked up in surprise. "You mean Guss?" Artek nodded. "Guss said it himself—he was created to be a creature of evil. How can we be certain he won't suddenly turn on us?" Beckla sat cross-legged, arranging her tattered shirt and smudged vest. "It's not how you're born that matters," the wizard replied firmly. "It's what you do with yourself. That's all that really counts." Bitter laughter escaped Artek's throat. "Is that so?" he sneered. "Then why did the Magisters throw me in the Pit for a crime I didn't commit?" He did not let her answer, but went on. "I'll tell you why. It was because they knew orcish blood runs in my veins. In their eyes I was born part monster, and thus a monster I am bound to be." He shook his head ruefully. "And maybe they were right. Maybe I never will be anything else." Beckla was silent for a long moment. Finally she gave his clothes a critical look. "Have you ever considered wearing something besides black?" she asked. "What's the matter with black?" he asked defensively. "It's a very dignified color." "It's a well-known fact that only evil people wear black," Beckla replied. "You might consider trying white for a change. It could do wonders for your image." Artek let out a dubious snort. "I'll keep it in mind," he muttered. "So what about you? What's your unattainable dream? Back in Arcturia's realm, I saw you working happily with potions and powders—at least, you thought you were." Beckla was silent for a moment. At last she held out her hand. The shimmering wisp of magelight floated down to hover above her hand. She moved her fingers, and the glowing puff danced, changing from blue to green to yellow and back to blue again. Abruptly she waved her hand, and the light vanished. She reached out, motioning as if pulling something from behind Artek, and the wisp of magelight appeared in her hand once more. "That's a fancy trick," Artek said, impressed. Beckla released the light, and it floated above her head once more. "But that's all it is," she said ruefully. "A trick. A ruse to entertain commoners and simpletons, and nothing more." She bit her lower lip, staring away into the darkness, then finally turned to regard Artek with her deep brown eyes. "I'm a small-time wizard, Ar'talen. I know a few real spells, and I can fake a dozen more. But I can't do anything more than a thousand other would-be wizards can. Do you know what real mages, so mighty in their high towers and mystic laboratories, call people like me?" She shook her head in disgust. "Runts. That's what they say when they see us. If they bother to look our way at all." "You're good enough to have survived in this maze for a year," Artek offered. But Beckla's eyes grew distant, as if she had not heard. "Just once I'd like to be the mage in the tower," she whispered. "I would learn the deepest, most powerful spells, discover the mysteries of the most ancient artifacts, and create new magic the like of which no one has ever seen." She shook her head fiercely. "But even if I dwelled in the highest tower, I would not look down on those outside. I would open my doors to all the so-called runts. I would welcome them into my study, and teach them real magic, so they would never again have to hang their heads in shame when another mage walked by!" Only then did she realize that she had clenched her hands into fists. She fell silent, forcing her fingers to relax.

"You'd give anything for that, wouldn't you?" Artek asked softly. She swallowed hard and suddenly looked away, as if his words had cut her somehow. "We should be going," she said. "I'll wake Corin." She swiftly stood and walked away, leaving Artek to stare after her. Artek told Guss that they were ready to move on, then went to retrieve Muragh. He returned to find Corin happily munching on a piece of something soft and white. "What is this food that Beckla found?" the lord asked with his mouth full. "It's absolutely delicious!" Artek held in a smile. "I think it's some kind of bread." "I'll have to get the recipe," Corin said as he popped the last bite into his mouth. They were all ready, and Artek considered which way to go. The tunnel looked the same in either direction: jagged stone walls, damp floor, and stalactites hanging like teeth from the ceiling. It was Guss who had an answer. "Can't you hear it?" the gargoyle asked, cupping a clawed hand to his pointed ear. "There must be an underground river down there somewhere." Artek took a few steps forward and cocked his head, listening. He could barely hear a faint rushing noise, and new hope glimmered in his heart. All rivers, even those underground, must eventually run into the sea. This just might be the way out they were looking for. "Good work, Guss," he said, giving the gargoyle an affectionate slap on the back. Immediately he regretted the action—the creature's spiky hide hurt. He clutched his stinging hand. "Sorry about that," Guss said sheepishly. "My fault." Artek winced. "I forgot that you're made out of stone." He shook his hand, and the pain dulled to a throb. "Now let's get moving." Artek led the way down the tunnel, holding Muragh in the crook of his arm. Beckla followed on his heels, her magelight floating above her head. Corin came next, and Guss brought up the rear, keeping watch on the darkness behind. Before long the water on the floor became a swift-flowing rivulet. They were heading down—always down, cursed Artek inwardly. The sound of running water grew steadily louder, until it thrummed off the stone walls. Soon a damp spray drifted in the air, cool against their cheeks. They rounded a sharp bend in the tunnel, and the voice of the river became a thundering roar. A vast space opened before them. Beneath their feet stretched a steep, rock-strewn slope, and at the bottom raced a broad expanse of dark, frothy water. Beckla's blue magelight glinted off the onyx surface of the subterranean waterway. "This must be the River Sargauth!" Muragh exclaimed, practically leaping from Artek's hands as his jaw opened and shut in excitement. "The Sargauth?" Artek asked. Muragh managed to approximate a nod. "It has to be. Only the Sargauth could be this large. According to all the stories I've heard, it winds its way through the middle levels of Undermountain until it joins up with Skullport, the pirate city hidden in the sea caves that border Waterdeep Harbor. Once it passes through Skullport, the Sargauth flows out into the harbor." A thrill raced through Artek's mind. If the skull was right, then the river could be their means of escape. "How do you know all this, Muragh?" he demanded. "Is it the orc in you that makes you so positively dense?" the skull asked testily. "Remember, I spent a good deal of time floating in Waterdeep Harbor before the mermen found me. I know every underwater rock and cave in that big puddle."

"And I'm sure you'd tell us about every one if we give you half a chance," Artek said with a snort. Before Muragh could reply, he gripped the skull's mandible, holding it tightly shut. Ignoring Muragh's muffled grunts, he gazed at the dark river. Here was a road to freedom. All they had to do was figure out how to travel it. "We need to find a way to float on the river, to let it carry us out of this maze," he murmured, more to himself than the others. Apparently Corin heard his words. "Er, how about if we use that?" the nobleman asked tentatively. As one, the others followed Corin's pointing hand. Beckla quickly raised her magelight higher. Artek let out an oath. It was a ship. The ship rested by the shore of the river nearest to them, caught on a jagged spur of rock that jutted up from the dark waters of the Sargauth. It was a two-masted schooner, small, sleek, and highly maneuverable. Such crafts were a common and much-feared sight along the Sword Coast, for they were favored by pirates for their speed and agility. By the look of it, this ship had been trapped here for many years. The remnants of the sails hung listlessly from the masts in gray shreds like cobwebs. Most of the rigging had rotted and snapped, and blotches of black mold covered the hull like some leprous disease. The ship listed precariously to the starboard side, pressed against the rocks by the swift-moving current of the river. However, there was no breach visible in the hull. If the ship could be freed from the rocks, it might yet be seaworthy. Artek scrambled down the slick slope to the bank of the river, and the others followed quickly behind. Upon close examination he saw that the rocks had indeed punched a hole in the hull, near the prow of the ship. However, the gap was small and, at present, above the surface of the river. If its makers had known their craft, the ship would still be dry inside. True, once it was righted, the hole would be below the surface. Yet the ship likely could sail some distance before it took on enough water to founder, maybe even far enough to reach the sea. Dim but still visible, the ship's name was painted across the prow: The Black Dart. Artek smacked a fist against his palm. "This is it. This is our way out, I'm sure of it. All we have to do is find a way to free the ship." Beckla crossed her arms, surveying the vessel. "Easier said than done. I imagine her crew tried their best to free her from the rocks, and they couldn't manage it. A ship like this would have a score or two of sailors aboard. I don't know how the four of us could succeed where forty failed before." "You mean the five of us!" Muragh corrected indignantly. Artek squatted down, studying the ship. The wizard was right, of course. No doubt The Black Dart's crew had indeed tried to free her. An image drifted to mind of the pirate schooner laden with booty, its crew rough and merry, as it evaded the tall ships of Waterdeep's Harbor Watch. It sailed into a cave, meaning to hide in the underground waterways until the coast was clear. When the captain finally ordered them to sail back down the Sargauth, they found they were caught on the dark rocks, which their lookout had missed in the gloom. Despite their struggles, the ship remained caught between river and rock, like a piece of metal between hammer and anvil. Artek wondered what had become of the crew. Had they jumped ship, hoping the chill waters of the Sargauth would carry them back to lighted lands? Or had they remained here in the dark, dying slowly of starvation and madness? He shivered, forcing the latter thought from his mind. No crew of sailors would choose to remain here, he told himself. Not unless they were ordered to by their captain. And even then

they would probably mutiny. But it hardly mattered—Artek saw no point in exploring the ship. They probably would never be able to free it. He stood up with a sigh. "Maybe there's no use in wasting our time here," he said glumly. "Actually, I might be able to arrange something," Guss said. The others stared at the gargoyle in surprise. "I have a way with stone," the monster explained with a toothy grin. "I was conjured from it, after all." He pointed to the boulders that trapped the ship. "I'll go have a talk with those rocks over there. The rest of you get ready, just in case it works." The others exchanged curious looks as Guss wandered over toward the rocks. The aft section of The Black Dart lay only a few feet from the shore, and its deck was tilted in their direction. With a running leap, Artek launched himself into the air and managed to grab the edge of the deck. With a grunt, he flexed his arms, heaving himself up and onto the deck. He searched until he found a bit of rope that seemed only slightly rotted. Looping it around the aft mast, he threw the end over the side to haul Beckla and Corin up. Moments later, the two stood beside him on the slanted deck, Muragh clutched tight in Corin's white-knuckled hands. Neither nobleman nor skull had appreciated being hauled up like so much cargo. "Hold on, Guss!" Artek called out above the roar of the river. "We should look around first before we try anything!" The gargoyle, squatting on the jagged spur of rock that trapped The Black Dart, waved up at the others on the deck. Figuring that Guss had heard and understood, they turned to look for an entrance into the ship's hold. But the din of the river had drowned out Artek's words, and Guss mistook his call as a signal to proceed. He knelt atop the slick heap of boulders, and stroked the rocks with a hand, almost an affectionate gesture. He seemed to whisper to the stones. All at once, the massive boulders shifted. Leathery wings flapping, Guss rose into the air, hovering above the outcrop. There was a low groan, and a shudder vibrated through the schooner. Guss gestured toward the bank, and the rocks shifted again, rolling toward the edge of the river. As they did, the ship gave a violent jerk. Artek, Beckla, and Corin stumbled wildly, grabbing at railing, mast, or post to keep from being flung overboard. Timbers creaking, the ship began to right itself. The deck rose beneath their feet, became level, and continued to roll, tilting alarmingly to the port side. They screamed as they were tossed again. Artek feared the schooner was going to capsize, throwing them into the icy waters of the river. However, a moment later the ship rebounded, rolling back in the other direction. When it became level again, the schooner wobbled, then finally stabilized on its keel. With a grating sound, the ship slid past the rocks that had blocked its way. Dark water swirled around its hull as the schooner drifted out into the swift center current of the river. A damp breeze tugged at the tattered sails. Artek let out a cry of surprise—they were moving. "Guss!" he called, as the gargoyle settled onto the deck, stubby wings flapping. "I told you to wait!" The gargoyle slumped. "Oh, dear! I must have misunderstood. I'm sorry." Beckla smiled. "Oh, it's all right—we're moving now, and that's what counts. How did you get those stones to shift, anyway?" Guss shrugged his massive shoulders. "I just asked them if they would mind moving a few feet to the side, that's all. Rocks are really very cooperative, as long as you're polite." Beckla stared with mouth agape, clearly unsure how to respond. For his part, Artek

didn't really care how Guss had managed to move the rocks, or even that the gargoyle hadn't listened. Beckla was right—the ship was free, and that was all that mattered. Beckla tossed her glowing magelight into the air. The blue wisp rose to the top of the foremast, hovering there to cast its light over the ship. Rough walls of stone slipped rapidly by as the schooner sailed down the Sargauth. "Do you think the crew drowned?" Beckla asked. The deck was empty except for a few weathered crates and barrels, with no sign of the pirates who had once manned the schooner. "They must have abandoned the ship once it got stuck," Artek said. "I certainly would have. Maybe their bodies are strewn about the maze. Or maybe they're at the bottom of the Sargauth." "Now this is an adventure!" Corin exclaimed merrily. Without warning, the schooner lurched roughly to one side. Artek grabbed for a worm-eaten railing, barely managing to keep his feet. He turned around, then swore hotly. Corin stood at the prow of the schooner, hands on the ship's wheel. As Artek watched, the nobleman whistled cheerfully and spun the wheel around. The ship lurched in the other direction, drifting dangerously near the cavern wall. Artek stumbled forward. "Give me that!" he said, pushing the surprised lord away. Artek carefully turned the wheel, bringing the rudder back to center. The ship steadied, sailing down the middle of the river once more. "Were you actively trying to dash this ship against the walls of the cavern?" Artek growled angrily. "I was only trying to steer," Corin replied in a small voice. "Leave the wheel alone. Go over to those old crates and sit down. And don't touch anything else!" The nobleman nodded silently, then hung his head. He trudged toward the crates and sat with a sigh, staring at the deck. For a moment, Artek wondered if he had been too harsh with Corin. The lord was young, after all, and had only meant to help. Finally, Artek shook his head. He had other things to worry about. Moving to the rear of the ship, he examined the aft mast. The sails were rotted and rent with holes, but they might manage to hold some air. A stiff wind blew down the cavern in the same direction as the river's current. If they could position the sails right, they might add a little of the wind's speed to the river's, making their progress swifter. "Beckla, come help me for a moment," Artek said. As she approached, he pointed to a horizontal boom. "If we move this cross-mast, we might be able to catch some wind in the sails." Beckla nodded and gripped the boom. Artek turned around to untie a frayed rope. "Now push when I say—" His words turned into a cry as the boom struck the back of his head with a resounding crack. "Oops," said Beckla. Artek spun around to glare at the wizard, rubbing the back of his head. A painful lump was already starting to rise. "You know, I'm really starting to get tired of hearing you say that." Before she could reply, the ship suddenly tilted to the side again, nearly sending them sprawling to the deck. Artek looked up to see a figure standing before the ship's wheel. "Corin!" he shouted angrily, marching forward. "Didn't I tell you to keep your hands off that wheel? Now get away from the—" His words faltered as he saw the lord look up in pale-faced surprise from his seat on the old crates. If Corin wasn't steering the ship, who stood at the wheel?

As if to answer the question, the figure turned around and grinned. Artek's blood froze. The thing was clad in grubby breeches and a loose, tattered shirt that once might have been white. A grimy red scarf covered its head, and a curved cutlass hung from its cracked leather belt. It was a pirate, clearly long dead. Its bloated flesh was wet and rotted, and one eyeball dangled loosely from the socket. The sickly reek of decay drifted thickly through the air. Even as Artek watched, a chunk of putrid flesh dropped from the pirate's arm, falling to the deck with a nauseating plop. "Artek, I think you'd better turn around," Guss said grimly. Reluctantly, Artek tore his eyes from the undead pirate. He turned to see a trapdoor opening in the deck of the ship. More pirates climbed out, shambling as they spread across the deck. Artek counted ten of them, then twenty, then thirty, and still they kept coming. All wore rusted cutlasses at their hips. And all of them were quite dead. The crew of The Black Dart had not abandoned the ship after all.

8 River of Death Dropping stray gobbets of rotten flesh, the zombie pirates shuffled toward them. Artek heard a wet, squelching sound and glanced over his shoulder. Panic clutched at his heart. More half-decomposed zombies clambered out of a trapdoor near the prow of the schooner. The scent of decay wafted in the air, thick and choking. Clutching Muragh, Corin stumbled hastily toward Artek, Beckla and Guss close on his heels. Back to back, they all huddled together in a tight knot, staring in horror at the approaching zombies. "There must be at least forty of them," Artek said. "Sometimes I hate being right," the wizard sighed. "Well, this time your guess was dead on." "Must you use that word, Ar'talen?" Corin asked in a squeaking voice. "What word?" Artek demanded. The nobleman swallowed hard. "Dead." There was no time to reply. The zombies closed in, trapping them in a foul circle. Beckla raised her hands, ready to cast a spell. Guss extended sharp onyx claws. Corin tossed down Muragh and drew his slim rapier in trembling hands. Artek's fingers brushed the hilt of the saber at his hip. He hated to draw the cursed weapon, knowing that once he did he would not be able to stop fighting until all the zombies were destroyed—or he joined them in death. The pirates shuffled to a halt not a half-dozen paces away, exuding a noisome reek, and then one of their number shambled forward. By its tattered red kneecoat and the gold earring dangling from its moldy ear, Artek guessed that this zombie had been in life the captain of The Black Dart. A decomposed parrot missing most of its feathers still perched on the captain's shoulder, clinging with skeletal claws to the tarnished epaulets of the captain's coat. "Aaawk!" the bird gurgled. "Stooowaways, captaaaain!" "Aaaye, sooo theeey beee," the captain replied in a slurred voice. Writhing worms dropped from the zombie's festering lips. "Aaand yooou knooow whaaat weee dooo wiiith suuuch laaandlubbers." "Aaawk!" the parrot cried again. "Waaalk the plaaank! Waaalk the plaaank! Waaalk the pl—" The bird's bubbling cries ended abruptly as its rotted beak fell off. The captain pointed a bloated arm toward a group of about ten pirates. "Yooou. Taaake theeese stooowaways tooo theee plaaank. Theee reeest ooof yooou looouts, maaan yooour staaations!" Artek and the others watched in grisly fascination as the zombie pirates shuffled off to reenact the tasks they had performed in life. A dozen pirates climbed clumsily into the ship's rigging. Several promptly fell back down to the deck, landing with wet, nauseating thuds, then lurched to their feet to try again. Other zombies began swabbing the deck with ragged mops. They made little progress, for every time they cleaned an area to their satisfaction, a gobbet of their own putrid flesh dropped to the deck and had to be wiped up. Still other undead pirates manned the schooner's booms and lines. "Look out!" Corin cried in terror. They ducked just in time to avoid a whistling boom as it swung overhead. One of the nearby zombies was not so quick. The cross-mast struck it in the forehead, and its cranium burst apart like an overripe melon. "That's got to hurt," Muragh winced.

The zombie captain shambled toward the ship's wheel. "Ooout ooof myyy waaay," it groaned to the pirate who had been piloting the ship. The sailor tried to let go of the wheel but was too slow. The captain pushed it roughly aside. With a rending sound, the sailor's arms tore off at the shoulder and dangled from the wheel by their still-gripping hands. The armless zombie tottered away, its shoulders dripping yellow ichor. Disregarding the severed limbs, the captain grabbed the wheel and began steering. The schooner lurched wildly to the left, then gave a violent jerk, hull groaning, as the keel scraped against an underwater boulder. Beckla and Corin both grabbed hold of Artek to keep from being thrown to the deck. "Is that thing deliberately trying to run this ship onto the rocks?" Beckla cried. "Probably," Artek answered grimly. "But I don't think it's just the captain. Can't you hear it? The roar of the river is getting louder. I think we're approaching rapids of some sort." "Oh, wonderful," Beckla groaned. "This creaky old ship will be dashed to bits." "I think we have an even more immediate concern," Corin gulped. The ten zombies that had remained surrounded them, grabbing them with cold, damp hands. "Tooo theee plaaank," one of them moaned, its breath a fetid exhalation of rot. "Get your clammy paws off of me!" Beckla snapped. "I'll walk on my own!" She jerked her arm away from the zombie that held her, then gagged. The zombie's hand had broken off and continued to clutch her arm. With a cry of disgust, she shook off the putrid hand. It fell to the deck and scuttled away like a drunken spider. The zombies shoved them forward, leading them toward the port side of the ship. They stopped before a rickety wooden plank that protruded from the deck over the rushing waters of the Sargauth. Artek saw that the river was indeed giving way to rapids. The swift waters broke and frothed upon sharp spurs of stone. Once again the schooner jerked and shuddered, its timbers groaning alarmingly. They stood in a tight knot before the plank. Behind them the zombie pirates drew corroded cutlasses, barring any avenue of escape. "Maybe we'll be better off in the river than aboard the ship," Corin murmured hopefully. Beckla eyed the violent waters below, then shook her head. "We'd never survive the river. If we didn't freeze to death first, we'd be dashed against the rocks." "Excuse me," Guss whispered. "I have a plan. I know it's terribly rude of me, but would you mind if I went first to the plank? These fellows don't seem very bright, what with their rotten brains and all. I don't think they've noticed my wings." Artek stared at Guss in astonishment. Even in an emergency, the gargoyle was exceedingly polite. However, he had time for nothing more than a nod. One of the zombies brandished its cutlass menacingly. "Aaall riiight," the pirate droned in its mushy voice. "Whooo's fiiirst?" Guss raised a clawed hand. "That'll be me," he said cheerfully. "Be ready," he whispered to the others, then stepped onto the plank. The undead pirate followed after him, poking him with the cutlass, urging the gargoyle on. Finally, Guss ran out of plank. With a cry, he dropped down and disappeared into the gloom below. The pirate slowly turned around, grinning. Several yellowed teeth dropped from its rotting gums. "Neeext?" the pirate asked. Before the others could react, a dark form rose suddenly from below and struck the underside of the plank. With a look of dull surprise, the zombie pirate bounced into the air, then plunged downward to be swallowed by the roaring waters of the Sargauth. Wings beating frantically, Guss rose higher into the air.

"Now!" the gargoyle cried to the others, green eyes glowing ferally. Artek did not need to be told twice. While the remaining zombies gaped in dim-witted astonishment, he drew his saber and leapt forward, swinging. The sharp blade bit deeply into rotten meat, cleaving a pirate in twain. The two halves of the zombie fell wetly to the deck, twitched, then ceased moving. Directly behind him, Beckla shouted a harsh word of magic. Blue energy sprang from her fingertips and engulfed one of the zombies. It let out a shrill scream as its putrid flesh sizzled and bubbled, then it exploded in a spray of foul gobbets. "I think you overcooked that one, Beckla," Artek said in disgust, wiping bits of rotten meat from his face. "Sorry," the wizard replied, shaking shreds of zombie from her clothes. Though slow of thought, the seven remaining pirates had finally realized they were under attack. Raising their rusty cutlasses, they lurched forward. Artek raised the cursed saber, suddenly finding himself facing three of the creatures. Their blows were slow and clumsy, but they outnumbered him, and he was barely able to counter their swings. Two zombies trudged toward Beckla. She managed to roast one with another spell, then the other closed in. There was no more time for magic. She drew a small knife from her belt and dodged the swing of the pirate's notched blade. With a roar, Guss swooped down, plucked up one of the zombies assailing Artek, and tore it to shreds in midair. Artek momentarily froze, startled by the gargoyle's sudden ferocity. Then a cry of fear caught his attention. Artek parried several blows, then turned his head and saw Corin backing toward the rickety railing of the deck as a pair of zombies advanced on him. Artek tried to dodge the two pirates before him, but they blocked the way. He couldn't get to Corin. If the foolish lord died, then their battle was in vain. Corin nudged against the ship's railing and could go no farther. Leering hatefully, the two shambling corpses closed in on the nobleman. Shaking in fear, Corin thrust his rapier before him, gripping the hilt with both hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw, then proceeded to wave the sword in a fancy and ridiculously embellished maneuver—no doubt learned from some foppish fencing master who had never faced a real enemy in his life. The slim rapier whistled through the air, nearly invisible as Corin slashed, circled, and thrust with a bad actor's flamboyance. Finally he lowered the sword and cracked his eyes. The zombies only grinned, apparently unaffected by his efforts. They raised their cutlasses. As they did, the sword hand of one of the zombies fell off, sliced clean at the wrist. The undead pirate gaped at the oozing stump in mindless confusion. A moment later, its entire arm fell off at the shoulder. Then its nose slipped from its face, followed by an ear. Then all at once, the zombie fell apart into a score of neatly sliced pieces that tumbled quivering to the deck. Corin stared at his rapier in amazement. Though only four zombies remained, things still looked ill. Corin's second foe was too close for the nobleman to try another fancy maneuver. Beckla's knife was proving to be no match for the cutlass of the pirate who faced her. Still fending off the blows of a zombie on either side, Artek was unable to make headway against either. Guss hovered in midair, uncertain which of his companions most needed his help. There was time to aid only one. At that moment the schooner was swept into churning rapids. The ship lurched violently toward starboard, then a half-second later tilted toward the port side again. Corin fell sprawling on all fours. His foe clumsily tripped over him, flipped head over heels, broke through the railing, and tumbled overboard. The zombie facing Beckla lurched forward, impaling itself on her outthrust knife. She spun to the side, jerking her blade out of its body, and the pirate fell flailing over the side of the ship. Artek managed

to keep his feet planted on the heaving deck and took advantage of the confusion, severing the head from one of his flailing opponents. Now that only one zombie remained, Guss did not hesitate. The gargoyle swooped down from above and plucked up the last of the ten pirates. Clutching the creature in midair, he raked the pirate's belly with his hind claws. Entrails spilled out like dark snakes, but the zombie was not defeated. It swung its cutlass blindly. The rusted metal bit into the flesh of Guss's shoulder, then shattered. Guss let out a cry of pain as brilliant green blood streamed down his arm. He clenched his clawed hands, rending the zombie in two, then flung the still-squirming halves into the raging waters of the river. Breathing hard, Artek looked around. The rest of the zombie crew still went mindlessly about their various tasks, taking no notice that their undead shipmates had been destroyed, or that the prisoners were now free. The cursed saber jerked in his hands, tugging him toward the nearest zombies. Forcibly, he tried to sheathe the magical blade, his face twisting with effort. The muscles of his arms rippled and bulged, but it was no use—he could not release the saber. As long as there were zombies remaining, the cursed blade would force him to fight. The sword pulled him another step toward the nearest pirates. "I can't resist the saber much longer," he said through clenched teeth. "And I have a bad feeling that as soon as I attack one of the zombies, the rest of them will come after us." "You're probably right," Beckla agreed somberly, slipping her bloody knife beneath her belt. "I'll help you keep your ground." "No, stay back!" cried Artek. "I might hit you with the saber. That goes for all of you—keep away!" "Where's Guss?" Corin asked as he climbed to his feet. "Here I am!" a rumbling voice called from above. Stubby wings beating up a stiff breeze, Guss dropped down from the darkness and settled onto the rolling deck. Beckla moved quickly toward him, concern in her brown eyes. "Guss, you're hurt!" She examined the ragged wound on his arm. Bits of dirt and rust were embedded in the cut, and it already looked as if it were beginning to fester. "We need to clean this wound now. There's no telling what filth was on that zombie's sword." Guss wiped the sweat from his brow with a clawed hand. "There's no time." "What's going on?" Artek demanded, straining against the pull of the saber. His boots skidded on the slimy planks as he slid another foot forward. Once again the ship tilted wildly to the side, then slowly righted itself. "While you were recovering, I flew ahead of the ship to scout out the rapids," Guss explained quickly. The others listened in growing dread as the gargoyle described what he had seen. "We're in the worst of the rapids now—it doesn't get any rougher than this. I think we can make it. But up ahead, the cavern and the river both divide. Down the right-hand passage, the waters grow calmer." "And down the left?" Beckla asked nervously. Guss's long pause was as terrifying as the words that followed. "Farther down the left-hand passage, there's a great roar. The river drops over a huge waterfall. I don't know how high the falls are." The gargoyle licked his scaly lips with a green tongue. "I couldn't see the bottom in the dark." Artek swore, still fighting the saber's pull. "The captain has been keeping the ship to the left side of the cavern. He must be steering The Black Dart toward the waterfall." "But why?" Corin asked fearfully. "The ship will be broken to bits." "Why not?" Beckla replied. "The captain's already dead. What does he have to

lose?" Artek racked his brain until he hit upon a plan. It was not elegant—hardly the level of the crafty thieving jobs he had executed in the past—but it was all he could come up with. He struggled against the murderous will of the cursed saber. He had to remain in control only a few moments more, and then the blade could do its work. "Guss," he gasped. "Fly ahead of the ship and keep watch on our progress. Call out when we're near the fork in the river. Beckla, Corin—try to find a way to distract the crew. Use your imaginations! Anything you can do to gain their attention without getting yourself killed will work." "But what are you going to do?" Beckla asked urgently. "I'm going to try to convince the captain to change our course." With that, they set to their tasks. Guss rose into the air, wings flapping. He disappeared into the gloom ahead, though not before the others saw him grimace in pain and clutch at the wound on his arm. Grunting with effort, Artek managed to turn and point the quivering saber toward the prow of the ship. The zombie captain stood before the wheel, spinning it wildly as The Black Dart careened down the rapids. "There," Artek whispered fiercely. "That is our enemy. That is the one we must slay." To his wonder and relief, the saber seemed to understand his words. It jumped in his hands, ignoring the other zombies, and pulled him toward the pirate captain. This time Artek did not resist. He let the saber lead him toward the prow. It was time to stage a mutiny. * * * * * Beckla rummaged through a heap of crates, barrels, and assorted refuse. There had to be something here that would help them. What are you doing, Beckla? cried a voice in her head. This wasn't part of the deal. They're as good as dead. You should use it now! "There's still time," she muttered under her breath. "Time for what, Beckla?" Corin asked. The nobleman stood nearby, wringing his hands. Beckla swore inwardly. She was getting careless. That was the surest way to get herself killed. And getting killed was definitely not the point of this exercise. "There's still time to help Artek," she said firmly. Beckla flipped open the lid of an old chest. It was filled with rusted fishing gear, none of it worthwhile. She started to let the lid drop back down when two objects caught her eye. She looked up at Corin. "Can you shoot a bow?" she asked quickly. The young lord shrugged. "I studied archery as a lad, as all nobles do." A wan smile crossed his pale visage. "I wasn't half bad, if I do say so myself. Why do you ask?" "This is why." Beckla pulled a short bow and a quiver of arrows from the chest and thrust them toward a surprised Corin. The weapon was old, but the bowstring had been wrapped in oiled leather and was still sound. The arrows were rusted at the tip, and their shafts were warped, but they would do. Beckla grabbed a handful of greasy rags and handed them to the nobleman. "Tear these into strips and tie them around the tips of the arrows." While the lord did as she instructed, Beckla pulled a small wooden cask out of the chest. Liquid sloshed within, and she hoped the brand on the side meant what she thought it did. With her knife, she pried the cork out of the top of the cask, then bent down to take a sniff. Her head reeled as a sharp, spicy warmth filled her lungs. It was rum, all right—potent stuff, by the smell of it. Taking a deep breath to clear her head,

she recalled the words of a spell. Whispering in the arcane language of magic, Beckla weaved her hands over the cask of pirate rum. A blue aura shimmered around the cask as it slowly levitated off the deck. Guided by the motions of her hands, the cask drifted through the air. A sheen of sweat broke out on Beckla's brow. This was the most difficult spell she knew, and if it failed, she could not try it again. She moved her fingers in intricate patterns, weaving invisible threads of magic. It was all she could do to keep the enchantment from unraveling. As she concentrated, the cask floated over the head of a zombie swabbing the deck. Beckla twitched her fingers, and the cask tipped, dousing the zombie with a cupful of rum. Heedless of the liquid, the mindless creature continued to lurch about its task. Beckla weaved her hands, and the cask floated toward another zombie. Once again it tipped, pouring dark rum onto the undead pirate, soaking its rotten clothes. As she continued, Beckla tightened her control over the spell, and the cask flew more swiftly through the air, dousing zombie after zombie with the reeking spirits. Finally, the cask was empty. With a groan, Beckla released the spell. Her head throbbed with the effort, but there had been enough rum to douse only half of the zombies. She hoped it would be enough. "Now what?" Corin asked in puzzlement. He gripped the bow and a rag-wrapped arrow. Beckla pointed a finger at the arrow and said, "Urshak!" Instantly the tip of the arrow burst into flame. Corin almost dropped the bow in shock, but a stern look from Beckla made him tighten his grip. "Start shooting," she ordered sharply. Corin raised the bow, pulled back on the string, aimed at a zombie perched in the rigging above, and released. The flaming arrow traced a crimson arc through the air, then plunged directly into the center of the zombie's chest. For a second the pirate stared stupidly at the burning arrow embedded in its body. Then, all at once, the zombie burst into crimson flame. Limbs waving spastically, the undead pirate fell from its perch and plunged to the deck below, exploding in a spray of charred flesh. Beckla allowed herself a smile of dark satisfaction. The pirate rum was highly flammable, and made an excellent fuel. "Keep shooting, Corin!" she shouted. The startled lord lifted another arrow, and Beckla set it afire with a magical command. Corin released the arrow, and another writhing zombie was engulfed in a pillar of searing flame. The bow twanged again and again as Corin released a barrage of flaming arrows. The nobleman had not exaggerated his skill. His aim was perfect, and not a single arrow missed its mark. In moments more than a dozen zombies were ablaze, stumbling around the ship, sending up pillars of black smoke like foul torches. Many of the burning zombies tumbled overboard, just as Beckla had hoped. However, some of them ran into heaps of old crates or rotten sailcloth and set the materials alight. Other zombies moved haltingly to stamp out the new fires. However, even without being doused with rum, their dry, tattered clothes were flammable enough, and they only succeeded in setting themselves ablaze and stumbling off to start still more fires. Several burning zombies became entangled in the ship's rigging, and in moments flame licked up both of the schooner's masts. Corin shot Beckla a look of sudden fear. "I think your plan worked better than you thought it would." "So it seems," Beckla replied dryly. She looked at the rapidly growing fires, wondering if she had just succeeded in getting herself killed after all. * * * * *

Gripping the tingling hilt of the cursed saber, Artek stealthily approached the undead pirate captain. The zombie stood before the wheel of the ship, steering wildly, his back to Artek. As the wheel spun, The Black Dart tilted alarmingly to starboard. Just when it seemed the ship would capsize, the captain spun the wheel in the opposite direction, and the ship lurched back to port, running dangerously close to the left side of the subterranean cavern. A deep, throbbing roar now mingled with the frothy voice of the river. It could be only one thing: the waterfall. Artek continued to creep silently toward the captain. He needed just one uncontested swing to lop off the zombie's moldy head, and the ship's wheel would be free. Just a few more paces. Artek raised the cursed saber. Scarlet light flickered down its edge. Without warning, the decomposed parrot on the captain's shoulder turned its head. Its dead black eyes saw Artek, and the parrot opened its beakless mouth in a muffled squawk of alarm. Artek swore under his breath. The blasted, worm-eaten bird! He sprang forward, hoping to make his swing, but it was too late. The zombie captain turned with surprising speed and raised its rusted cutlass, blocking Artek's blow. Artek grunted as a jolt of pain ran up his arm. He stumbled backward, then caught himself. The captain was stronger than the other zombies, and seemed somewhat less decomposed. Perhaps it had been the last to die, hoarding the ship's dwindling food supplies while the rest of the crew perished one by one. Regardless, Artek now stood before a foe who would not be as easily defeated as the others. Artek crouched warily, looking for an opening. He feinted left, trying to draw the captain's attack in that direction. However, such subtle moves were quite lost upon the rotten-brained zombie. Utterly ignoring the feint, the captain charged forward. Artek barely managed to spin aside, avoiding the zombie's lumbering blow. Before Artek could fully recover, the undead captain charged again, cutlass raised. The move caught Artek completely off guard—no sensible opponent would move so madly, leaving himself completely open. Of course, the dead captain had no need to follow the rules of the living. Exploiting the opening created by the captain's upraised sword arm, Artek lashed out with his saber, slicing through the zombie's grimy coat and carving a deep gash across its chest. Once again he realized his mistake. Any living opponent would have stumbled back in response to this grievous wound, but the zombie, oblivious to pain, did not hesitate to charge. It swung its cutlass in a wild arc. Caught by surprise, Artek tried to lunge out of the path of the blade, but he was too slow. The dirty tip of the cutlass traced a stinging line across his left side. Artek gasped, his head reeling with sudden pain. He clutched at his side with his free hand, and his fingers came away wet with blood. Again he was forced to react as the zombie charged heedlessly at him. He parried a series of bludgeoning blows that left no chance for a counter-stroke. Artek tried to reach for the wheel, but he nearly got his hand cut off. Steadily, the captain's mindless advances pushed Artek backward, away from the ship's wheel. The throbbing roar grew louder, echoing deafeningly off the rough stone walls of the cavern. "Artek!" came Guss's voice from above, his shout barely audible over the watery din. "The ship is almost to the fork in the river. You've got to steer it to starboard or it'll head down the left-hand passage, toward the waterfall!" "Thanks for the reminder," Artek grunted as he dodged the captain's whistling cutlass. Movement caught the corner of his eye, and Artek risked a hurried glance over his

shoulder. New fear spilled into his stomach—a dozen bloated forms shambled toward him. With the attack on their captain, the zombie pirates finally took notice of Artek. With scurvy grins, they drew their cutlasses. Artek had to turn his head back to the captain, or lose it. With renewed urgency, he fended off the zombie's attacks and even gained some ground. However, he knew it was only a matter of moments until the other undead pirates reached him, at which time he would join the crew of The Black Dart in death. Without warning, crimson light flared behind him. Artek risked a second glance over his shoulder, and what he saw almost made him drop his sword in surprise. One of the approaching zombies had burst into flame. Writhing and burning, it stumbled away. Even as he watched, scarlet fire engulfed another zombie. All over the ship, pirates were being transformed into undead torches. The remaining zombies hesitated, then turned to try to stamp out the resultant fires with their clammy feet. Despite his predicament, Artek could not suppress a sharp-toothed smile—Beckla and Corin had done their work. Once again Guss's voice called from above. "Artek, you're almost out of time! The fork in the river is just ahead!" Ignoring the searing pain in his side, Artek attacked the captain with redoubled vigor, driving the zombie back toward the wheel. The schooner's keel grated against a submerged rock, and the ship gave a jarring shudder. Somewhere timbers cracked like old bones. Decayed limbs unable to keep their balance, the zombie captain stumbled backward against the ship's wheel. It was now or never. Artek sprang forward, letting the cursed saber have free rein. The blade struck once, hewing off the captain's sword arm. Then it swung again, severing the zombie's other arm. Finally, the magical saber pulled Artek forward in a mighty thrust. The blade pierced the pirate captain's heart, pinning the zombie to the center of the ship's wheel. "Artek, now!" Guss cried out from above. With all his strength, Artek grabbed the ship's wheel and spun it—along with the feebly flopping zombie captain—to the right. At the same moment a sharp angle of stone loomed in the darkness before the schooner. The dark waters of the Sargauth broke and divided upon the rocky wedge, half going right, and half going left. With a shout, Artek turned the wheel farther. For a terrified moment he thought the schooner was going to run directly into the sharp wedge of stone before them. Then, at the last moment, the rushing waters swept the schooner into the right-hand passage. There was a horrible splintering sound as the port side of the hull grated against the rough stone wall. Artek was tossed to his knees as the ship convulsed violently. Then the grating noise ceased and the shaking ended as The Black Dart sailed down calmer waters. Artek climbed to his feet, gazing in amazement at the placid river ahead. They had done it. "Ar'talen!" Corin cried behind him. "I think that we're in a spot of trouble." Artek turned to see Corin and Beckla hurrying toward him. Behind them, the entire aft section of the ship was in flames, thick smoke drifting in the air. Beckla's face was smudged with soot. "All the zombies are destroyed," she said breathlessly. "But we couldn't put out the fires. The ship is going to burn up!" "Not if it sinks first," Guss countered, landing on the deck before them. "The hull has been taking on water the whole time from the small hole in the starboard side. And when we struck the cavern wall, a large rip was torn along the port side of the prow. In a few minutes, this ship is going to be on the bottom of the river." Artek ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Death by fire and drowning? They had fought too hard for this victory to give up now, With an angry motion, he jammed

the cursed saber into its sheath. The blade did not resist the action, confirming that, indeed, the zombies were no more. As Artek madly considered their options, the walls of the cavern suddenly fell away. There was a queer, green-gold cast to the air, and Artek had the sense that they had just passed into some far vaster space. However, he could not see through the hazy curtain of smoke that hung above the schooner. "We'll have to abandon ship!" he shouted. "The river is calmer here, so we should have a chance. Make for the right bank." He grinned fiercely. "I sure hope everyone knows how to swim." "Hey, don't forget me!" a dry voice called out. As the deck listed, an off-white shape rolled toward them. It was Muragh. Guss snatched up the skull. There was a sound like thunder as the schooner's foremast cracked and fell flaming toward the deck. "Now!" Artek shouted. Guss flew into the air, and the others dove off the side of the flaming ship, into the frigid waters of the river below.

9 The Hunt Artek was the first to the shore. Dripping, he pulled himself out of the chill river and onto the sandy bank. He grimaced as he stood, immediately hunching over to clutch his injured side. The cutlass wound was not deep, but the gash burned as if someone had poured molten lead into it. Behind him, Beckla stumbled onto the shore, followed by a bedraggled Corin. "In the name of Mystra, what is this place?" the wizard gasped in an awed voice. "Are we dreaming?" the nobleman wondered, gazing around them. Artek frowned at their curious words. What were they talking about? Clenching his jaw against the searing pain, he lifted his head, and his oath of astonishment was added to theirs. They stood on the edge of an enormous cavern. At least, it seemed like a cavern—high walls of rough stone rose all around them. Yet there was no rocky ceiling arching overhead, no dim cavern roof dripping with stalactites. Instead, there was a smooth azure dome, tinged by a faint yellowish haze. In the center of the dome hung a blazing orb of fire that filled the cavern with a warm golden light. "Why, it's the sun," Corin breathed in astonishment. Artek took a staggering step away from the river, toward the edge of a dense forest that filled the cavern. Tall trees danced under the touch of a soft zephyr. Of course, he realized. The blue dome was the sky, and the white puffs were clouds. Familiar as it was, the sight was so unexpected that he had not even recognized it. "But this can't be," he murmured, shaking his head in confusion. "The River Sargauth keeps flowing from here. We haven't made it to the ocean yet. And that means we're still underground, beneath Mount Waterdeep." He shot an uncertain look at Beckla. "Aren't we?" The wizard nodded slowly. "I think so. There's no ocean in sight. And I would have noticed if we had passed through another gate." She gazed thoughtfully at the verdant forest. "Besides, this doesn't look like any place near Waterdeep that I know." There was a whirring of wings as a dark form swooped down from the sky. Guss landed on the pebbly bank of the river, Muragh in hand. The gargoyle staggered dizzily and dropped the skull. "Hey!" Muragh cried indignantly. "Try to be a little more gentle next time. These old bones are very delicate, you know." Guss paid no heed to the skull's complaints. He lifted a clawed hand, rubbing his skull. "What's going on, Guss?" Artek asked. Pain made him limp as he approached the gargoyle, and Artek was frustrated. The cutlass wound in his side was shallow. It shouldn't be hurting so much. "I bumped my head," Guss said in a groggy voice. "You did what?" Artek demanded incredulously. Guss swayed on his sharp-taloned feet. "When I saw all that space, I became terribly excited," the gargoyle explained. "I wanted to fly up into it, but when I got as high as the cavern's walls, I cracked my skull on something. I couldn't see it, but believe me, it was hard as stone." The gargoyle groaned, and still gripping his head, sat down hard on his tail. Curiosity flashed in Beckla's brown eyes. She opened her mouth to ask a question but was interrupted by a loud cracking sound. They all turned around. On the river, the

hull of The Black Dart had broken in twain. The burning halves of the ship sank swiftly into the water, hissing as they submerged. In moments the old pirate schooner vanished from sight beneath the dark surface of the river, sunk at last to its watery grave. Artek wanted to ask Guss more about the sky, but a wave of nausea suddenly crashed over him, and he too sat hard on the ground. Both he and Guss moaned in pain. The gargoyle let go of his head and clutched the oozing wound on his arm. Concerned, Beckla knelt beside them. "Both of you are burning up," the wizard gasped as she felt their foreheads. Muragh rolled toward them, coming to a halt on a small heap of gravel. "It's the zombie wounds," the skull said grimly. "It's begun." "What's begun?" Corin asked. "The transformation," Muragh replied, his mandible working. "A wound tainted with the filth of a zombie will fester. Gradually, the victim's body will start to die. But he won't stop moving. Instead, the victim will become a zombie himself." The others stared at Muragh in horror. Artek shook his head weakly. All his life, he had been part monster. He had resigned himself to that fact. But to become a zombie was a fate he could not bear. "Kill me," he begged hoarsely. "Kill me before it's too late." At last Beckla regained her senses. "Not so fast, Ar'talen," she said crisply. "I'm not going to give you two up for dead . . . er, undead just yet. Where's that vial of healing potion—the one you used to cure me of the wraith spider venom?" Artek tried to move, but he was too weak. His skin was burning as if on fire. Sweat poured down his face, but he felt terribly cold. "It's . . . it's in my pocket." "I don't usually do this sort of thing until I've known a gent for a while, but..." The wizard reached into the pocket of Artek's black leather breeches, and pulled out the glass vial. It was empty except for a few purple drops at the bottom. "Corin, do you have another one of these?" she asked the nobleman. He shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid that was the only one I had." Beckla tilted the vial, eyeing the residue critically. "I guess we'll just have to hope this is enough." The wizard unstopped the vial and poured a drop of the precious fluid on the angry scratch on Guss's arm. She spread the potion over the wound with a finger, then turned to Artek. With Corin's help, she managed to pull off Artek's leather jerkin. "Are you wearing a fur undershirt, or does all that belong to you?" she asked dryly. "Very funny," Artek growled. "You'd be hirsute yourself if you had orc blood in you. And let me say that I think it looks a lot better on me than it would on you." "I won't argue with you there." Perhaps because his flesh had been forged from stone, Guss's wound had only begun to fester. Artek's looked far worse. The shallow cut ran along his left side onto his muscular chest. The center of the wound was bright red, but the edges were disturbingly dark and gray—the color of a corpse's skin. Three drops remained in the vial, and Beckla used them all on Artek, spreading them carefully to cover the entire wound. "Now what?" Artek gasped. "We wait," Beckla replied gravely. "If it's going to work, it shouldn't take long." Even as she said this, Guss let out a grunt of surprise. Though still open and bleeding, the wound on his upper arm no longer oozed ichor, and the signs of festering had vanished. It appeared no more than a normal scrape. "I think something's happening," Artek said. A violet radiance glowed around the wound on his side, then abruptly vanished.

Like Guss's injury, the scratch was not healed, and still bled freely, but the alarming grayness was gone. Artek breathed a sigh of relief. His sweating ceased, and the preternatural chill left his bones. He shrugged his jerkin back on over his broad shoulders and stood. Corin clapped his hands together. "I'm so terribly glad that you two aren't going to become zombies," he exclaimed happily. "I believe I received my fill of battling undead on the pirate ship." The nobleman glanced in Artek's direction, and Artek had the sudden feeling that the young man was looking at him expectantly. What in the Abyss could Corin possibly want? Artek shifted uncomfortably, searching for something to say. "Well, you did a good job against the zombies, Corin," he muttered finally. "That was some fancy swordplay you used back on the ship." Corin's face lit up brightly at this compliment. He puffed out his chest and opened his mouth to reply. "Next time, you might even want to try fighting with your eyes open," Artek added sharply before the lord could speak. Corin's mouth snapped shut and his shoulders slumped. A crestfallen expression replaced the look of pride on his boyish face. Artek swore inwardly. Once again he wondered if he had been too harsh on the nobleman, but he couldn't concern himself every moment with Corin's sensitive feelings. He had more pressing concerns. Like getting them out of this place alive. Grumbling to himself, he turned away. "Well, we can't follow the Sargauth any longer," Artek said. "It loses its banks just past this shore. So we'd better start exploring," he said, leading the way toward the edge of the forest. "If we're going to find a way out of this place, we have to figure out where and what it is first." "Maybe we could build a raft from these trees and keep sailing down the river," Beckla suggested hopefully. "Not unless you can cast a spell and turn our hands into axes," Artek replied, eyeing the towering trees. "The only blade among us is this damned cursed saber. It would take me a year to cut down one of these trees with a sword. And in case you've forgotten, I have considerably less time than that before this thing stops my heart." He glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. After a moment, something odd struck him, and he gazed up at the sky. "That's strange," he said with a puzzled expression. "What's strange?" Muragh piped up. "Other than myself, of course." Artek pointed to his tattoo. The arrow was now midway along the circle between sun and moon. "According to this, it's high noon up above, on the surface. The sun should be directly overhead in Waterdeep. But here the sun is more than halfway past its zenith, and sinking. Reckoning by the sun here, it's a good four or five hours after midday." "Maybe something's gone wrong with the tattoo," said Beckla. "Maybe," Artek answered skeptically. "But that's not the only thing. Right now it's spring in Waterdeep, but the heat of this sun feels more like midsummer to me." Beckla did not have a response to this, and Artek decided it did not truly matter. His life was tied to the magical tattoo, and so it was all that mattered. According to the tattoo, he had half a day and a night to live. It was time to get moving. Leading the way, he plunged into the thicket of trees. The forest was even denser than it had looked from the outside. Trees grew close together, spreading their branches into a thick green canopy high above. In the dappled shadows below grew myriad vines and bushes, some covered with alien-looking blooms. Pale mushrooms grew from the rotting bodies of fallen trees.

None of the plants were any that Artek or the others recognized. The air was damp and muggy, and soon all of the humans were sweating profusely. Tiny, bothersome insects danced in the air, flying into their ears and up their noses, making them sneeze. As always, Muragh chattered ceaselessly as they went. However, Corin was unusually silent. The young lord walked quietly at the rear of the party, eyes cast down upon the ground. "So, tell me," Muragh went on in his reedy voice. "If we are really still underground, how is it that this forest can survive here?" For a change, someone actually answered the skull's question. "I don't know," Beckla said, shaking her head as she lowered a glowing hand. "However, as far as I can tell with my magic, nothing about these woods is enchanted. These are all perfectly normal, mundane trees. Somehow, they must be getting all the light and water they need to—" Artek held up a hand, silencing the wizard's words. He paused, listening with his slightly pointed ears. He heard something: a rustling, followed by the cracking of a dry twig. Something was lurking in the undergrowth just ahead. Whatever it was, Artek knew it was best to consider it dangerous. Whispering, he explained what he had heard to the others. They quickly formed a plan, and in moments were ready to act. Beckla pointed a finger at the bushes ahead and intoned the words of a spell. Shimmering darts of energy sprang from her fingertips and struck the tops of the bushes, instantly vaporizing them. That was Guss's cue. Snarling as Artek had instructed him, the gargoyle swooped down from a high branch where he had perched, diving toward the bushes. There was a hoarse cry of fear, and a shabby form leapt out of the bushes. Artek jumped from behind a tree, tackling the running form. His quarry struggled wildly, but Artek was the stronger, and he pinned the other to the ground. "No, don't take me to him!" cried a cracked and terrified voice. "Waukeen save me! I saw what happened to all the others. My heart! His tooth will pierce my heart! And his eyes. Too bright, his eyes. They burn as he crushes them in his jaws. They'll crush me, too!" So terrified was the voice that Artek was startled and moved to pity. He loosened his grip—though not so much as to lose control—and leaned back, gazing at his quarry. It was what was left of a man. He was clad in strange, flowing clothes that might once have been fine but now were filthy and tattered. His tangled hair was matted with leaves, and a scraggly beard clung to his chin. His gaunt body was half-starved, and dark eyes stared madly from his twisted face. Artek gazed at the broken man. "We're not going to hurt you," he said, gripping the man's shoulders firmly but gently. For a moment the madman struggled, then went limp. A look of wonder crept onto his haggard face. "You're not on the Hunt, are you?" Artek shook his head. "The Hunt? What do you mean?" "The Hunters from the Temple," the man said, licking his lips fearfully. "Have you not seen them yet? Ah, but you will. You will! Their god is a beast, and a master of beasts. And beasts we are to him." Weird laughter bubbled deep in his throat. The others approached cautiously and gathered around the madman. Artek allowed him to sit and studied his twisted face. Certainly this ragged fellow had seen something that had frightened him out of his wits. Artek wondered what it could be, and also how this man—and these Hunters he spoke of—had come to be here in this strange forest. The answer might give them a clue to a way out. "Can you tell us more about this Hunt?" Artek asked quietly. He gestured to the trees around them. "Or what this place is?"

The madman looked warily from side to side. "They'll be coming soon. We can't stay here." "Please," Artek urged gently. "It won't take long. And then we'll let you go free. You have my word." The other man's dark gaze bore into Artek. He spoke in an eerie voice. "No one is free in Wyllowwood. Not for long, anyway. I am the last. I know." The madman then began to speak in a chantlike voice. His tale was difficult to follow, for he spoke in disjointed sentences, and often interrupted himself with broken laughter or moaning sobs. From what Artek could piece together, the man's name was Solthar, and he had been a merchant of some sort. While Solthar was traveling, a sudden storm had come upon his caravan. Seeking shelter, he and the rest of the party had entered a cave—only to find themselves in this forest. They had searched for a means of escape, but to no avail. "Once you find yourself in Wyllowwood, there is no escape," Solthar said. "Unless you throw yourself in the icy river. Some did. Yes, some did, and they drowned. I cannot will myself to follow them. Soon perhaps. Soon. But not yet!" "But what about the rest of your traveling companions, Solthar?" Artek asked intently. "Did they all cast themselves into the river?" Solthar shook his shaggy head. "Oh, no. The Hunt took most of them. The Hunters will take you, too. Into the jaws of the beast they'll throw you. And then—snap!" He clamped his hands together, like a mouth closing, then trembled in fear. After this, Solthar spoke only in unintelligible fragments. They had learned all they could from the mad merchant. Knowing there was no use in keeping him, Artek told Solthar he could go. The madman shot them one last queer look, then scurried away, disappearing into the undergrowth. Artek rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It sounds like a gate, doesn't it?" he asked. "The cave that Solthar and the others stumbled through." Beckla gave a vague shrug. "Maybe. It's hard to say from his tale alone." Yet, for some reason, Artek was sure. Perhaps it was thief's instinct. "I think we should at least check it out. If we can find the cave, that is." He gazed expectantly at Beckla. Finally she sighed and nodded. "All right. If it is a gate, my magic should be able to home in on it. But if it isn't, we'll be wandering in circles, you know." Beckla spoke in the language of magic, and once again her hand glowed with a faint blue light. For a moment she shut her eyes, letting her hand float before her. It drifted slowly toward the right. "This way," she said, walking off into the forest. She ran headlong into a tree. "Ouch!" "Maybe you should consider opening your eyes first," Artek suggested. "Really, Ar'talen?" she replied acidly. "Why, you're absolutely brilliant." The wizard opened her eyes and, muttering under her breath, marched onward—this time avoiding the trees in their path. The sun above had sunk only a short way more in the sky when the trees thinned, and they found themselves on the edge of a glade. The short hairs on the back of Artek's hands and neck prickled. There was danger here. With a quick gesture he brought the others to a halt. Cautiously, he peered through a tangle of branches into the glade beyond. In the center, next to a small lake, was a compound of low buildings ringed by a wall of ruddy stone. Soaring above the other structures was a great dome painted bright crimson. Dark smoke rose from within the compound, and the reek of charred meat drifted in the air. It was an evil smell. Artek realized this place could only be the temple

of which Solthar had spoken in dread. Artek watched men enter from the opposite side of the glade. They wore crimson cloaks and rode toward the temple on black horses. They passed through an archway in the wall and vanished within. "I think we would do well to circle around this place," Artek whispered to the others. Plunging back into the depths of the forest, they gave the temple a wide berth. The trees drew nearer together, and the undergrowth thickened. Cruel thorns tore at their clothes and scratched their skin. Finally, because his stony hide was immune to the thorns, Guss was forced to lead the way, hacking out a path with his sharp onyx talons. Sweating and bleeding, the humans followed behind. Only Muragh was not bothered by the journey, tucked as he was in Beckla's pack, and his constant chattering was almost as tortuous as the march. Just when Artek was ready to give up in exhaustion and turn back, the trees came to an abrupt end. Before them rose a high wall of jagged rock. They had reached the edge of the vast cavern. In the wall was a narrow gap. Beckla's hand glowed bright blue as she stretched it out toward the opening. She nodded gravely. "There's magic in there, all right." Keeping together in a tight knot, they entered the mouth of the cave. The floor was dry and sandy, and the walls oddly smooth, as if scoured and polished by some ceaseless force over long years. They rounded a sharp bend and found themselves at the end of the narrow passage, which opened into a landscape beyond. It was a desert. The golden sun beat down upon wave after wave of sand. Dunes stretched like a great yellow ocean to a distant horizon. A parched, gritty wind blew into the fissure, chafing their skin even as it did the stone walls. Artek shook his head in awe and confusion. As far as he knew, the closest desert to Waterdeep was hundreds upon hundreds of leagues away. Wherever this place was, it was nowhere near the city. Beckla raised her glowing hand. A matching blue aura glimmered across the opening before them, almost like a thin pane of glass. "I think I understand now," Beckla said in amazement. She turned to the others. "This opening is a gate. And see? The sky here has the same yellowish tinge as the sky above the forest." Artek frowned in puzzlement. "But what does it mean?" "I know it's hard, but do try not to be so dense, Ar'talen," Beckla said with a scowl. "Don't you see? The entire roof of the cavern is a gate. The gate opens onto this desert. That's how the forest gets the light it needs to survive so far below ground. I suppose the necessary water comes from the river and the lake." Guss scratched his head. "So when I cracked my skull on the sky, that was really the cavern roof?" Beckla nodded in agreement. "That's right." "Wait a minute," Artek protested. "This doesn't make any sense. If the entire sky is a gate that lets through sunlight, why didn't Guss simply fly through into the desert beyond?" The wizard tapped her cheek with a finger. "I think I know the answer to that," she said finally. "Guss, why don't you try to step through the gate here?" "Oh, after you," the gargoyle said hurriedly. Beckla sighed in exasperation. "This is just a test, Guss. You don't have to be polite, you know." "Oh," the gargoyle said sheepishly. He shrugged his massive shoulders, then stepped through the gap. At least, he tried to step through. There was a blue flash, and he was roughly thrown backward into the others. "That's what I was afraid of," Beckla said glumly.

"What?" Artek grunted. "That I would get crushed by a gargoyle?" "Sorry!" Guss apologized, leaping off Artek and helping him to his feet. "Not you, Ar'talen," Beckla said in annoyance. "The gate. It obviously works in only one direction. People—and sunlight—can pass through to the forest. But they can't go back out. Just like Solthar said." Artek felt his hopes evaporate like water in the hot desert sun. "It doesn't really matter. This gate couldn't have helped me. Or Corin. Wherever this desert is, it's certainly more than a day's journey back to Waterdeep. And less than a day is all both of us have to get back." He laid a big hand on Beckla's shoulder. "But this could have given you a way out of Undermountain. I'm sorry." For a moment her brown eyes were troubled, then she shook off his hand. "I'll survive." Leaving the fissure, they returned to the edge of the forest. However, Artek had no idea where they should try to go. He was out of ideas. "Shall I lead the way this time?" Corin asked. Before anyone could answer, he drew his rapier and began hacking at the tangle of branches and vines before them. However, the thin blade merely bounced off the dense foliage. It flew from the nobleman's grip and landed quivering in the ground directly between Artek's legs. Corin's face blanched. Artek gripped the rapier and jerked it out of the ground. He did not have the time to deal with Corin's foolishness. His blood began to boil. He couldn't suppress his orcish rage. "I could try again," Corin said hopefully, reaching for his rapier. Artek did not hand the blade to him. "No, Corin," he growled. "Don't try again. In fact, don't try anything again." Baring his pointed teeth, he advanced on the startled lord. "Don't do anything, don't say anything—don't even think anything. Understand?" "But I—" Artek interrupted him. "No buts, Corin," he snarled viciously. "You've landed us in enough trouble already. Escaping is going to be hard enough without you getting us into worse straits with your antics. Haven't you gotten it though your silly noble head yet that you're—" Despite his anger, Artek clamped his mouth shut on the hurtful words he'd nearly uttered. It was too late. The damage had been done. Corin gazed at him with wounded eyes. "That I'm what?" the nobleman asked quietly. "Go ahead, Ar'talen. You can say it. After all, I've heard it often enough." Artek gazed at him in silence, while the others looked on in concern. Corin shook his head ruefully. "Fine, then. I'll say it myself. I'm worthless. That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? That I'm stupid, and soft, and utterly worthless." A look of defiance colored his pale visage. "Well, maybe you're right," he went on bitterly. "Maybe I am worthless. My father certainly would have agreed with you. Then again, you don't know me any better than he did. You don't know what my life has been like." He clenched his hand into a fist. "You don't know the first thing about me!" Corin drew a deep breath, forcing his fingers to unclench. A fey light crept into his blue eyes. "Well," he said calmly, "I won't trouble you any further. I'm sure you'll fare far better without my presence to hinder you. I wish you all the best of luck. Good-bye." With that, the young lord plucked the rapier from Artek's surprised hand, then turned and plunged into the forest. Artek started to lunge after him, but a hand on his shoulder halted him. It was Beckla. "Let him go," the wizard said softly. "Give him a little time to himself." Artek glared at her. "A little time to get himself killed, you mean? In case you'd

forgotten, that foolish young noble is the reason I'm here in the first place! He'll owe me big when we finally get out of here." Beckla thrust her hands on her hips, her brown eyes flashing with fire. "And in case you'd forgotten, it's because of your idiotic talk that he's run off into the forest." Artek opened his mouth, but he had no reply to her stinging words. She was right. "Well, you've botched things up rather nicely," Muragh said. "Don't worry," Guss said, his gruff voice reassuring. "We won't let him get too far ahead." Artek nodded silently. He moved a short distance from the others to think. Why had he said those harsh things to Corin? They sounded exactly like the sort of things his father had said to him when he was just a child. Arturg had been a hard teacher, and it had seemed Artek's thieving skills had never lived up to his father's expectations. Even when he had grown into a man, and his abilities had far surpassed those of his father, Arturg's voice had still echoed stingingly in his mind. As a child, Artek had vowed never to speak cruelly to another as Arturg had to him. Yet he had broken that vow with Corin, hadn't he? Like father, like son. Arturg would be proud of you, he told himself bitterly. He hung his head in shame. In the distance, an eerie sound echoed through the forest. Artek looked up. The sound came again—high, clear, and menacing. It sounded like the call of a hunting horn. "Did you hear that?" he asked the others. By their fearful expressions, they had. Dread growing, Artek gazed into the trees where the nobleman had disappeared. The sound of the horn had come from the same direction. "Corin." With a cry, Artek leapt forward and ran swiftly through the entangling forest. Beckla and Guss followed him as quickly as they could manage, but Artek moved with the strength and grace of a wild animal, ducking beneath low branches and leaping over fallen tree trunks. He soon outpaced the others. His nostrils flared as they caught a familiar, rusty scent—blood. He pushed through a thick curtain of vines, then skidded to a halt. It was Solthar. A long spear, decorated with crimson feathers, had pierced his chest, pinning his body to the trunk of a tall tree. His feet dangled limply a foot above the ground, and his head lolled forward, staring with blank eyes. He was dead. The vines rustled and parted as Guss and Beckla caught up with Artek. Both gaped in shock when they saw Solthar dangling from the tree. "He was right," Beckla said. "The Hunt did find him in the end." Something in the leaf litter caught Artek's eye. He bent down and picked it up. It was a small square of grimy silk. He swore under his breath. "This is Corin's handkerchief," he said grimly. He looked up at the suspended body of the madman. "The hunters Solthar talked about must have come upon Corin. The old man must have actually tried to help him." "I don't think it worked," Muragh said. Artek dug in the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a small blue stone—the heart jewel he had used to find the lost lord in the lair of the Outcasts. Blue light pulsed rapidly in the center of the crystal. Corin was still alive, but he was terrified. "Come on!" Artek growled. "We have to find Corin." Artek dashed through the forest again, running in the direction in which the gem's light was strongest. As he ran, he tried to recall what Solthar had said about these strange Hunters. "Their god is a beast, and a master of beasts. And beasts we are to him. His eyes. Too bright, his eyes. They burn as he crushes them in his jaws." Artek was filled with a deep sense of foreboding. He tightened his grip on the jewel. Instinct

burned in his brain, urging him to hurry. Without warning, the trees gave way to grass. Artek stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. He blinked and realized that once again he stood on the edge of the large clearing by the lake. In the distance lay the walled temple, its crimson dome gleaming like blood. A moment later, Beckla and Guss crashed out of the underbrush to stand beside him. As one, they stared in horror at the scene before them. Far across the green field, a gangly form ran desperately while three crimson-cloaked men on dark horses rode swiftly behind. It was Corin. The lord stumbled and fell sprawling on the grass. The horses leapt over him, then circled around as their riders laughed. Corin lurched to his feet and stumbled on. The hunters blew their horns and spurred their mounts after him. The bastards, Artek thought with a snarl. They were toying with the nobleman. Artek lunged into a run, racing across the field. He was far too slow. He was less than halfway there when the hunters tired of their game. One scooped up Corin, flinging the lord over his saddle, and the three riders rode through the archway in the temple's wall, disappearing inside. There was a distant but audible boom! as an iron door shut, sealing the opening. Artek stumbled and fell to the ground, utterly exhausted. Corin was alive, but Artek had lost him.

10 Jaws of the Wolf It was going to be just another job. Artek had pulled off dozens of capers like it—more than he could count. This would not be the easiest stronghold he had ever broken into, but he did not think it would be the hardest. There was only one difference. It was not gold he planned to steal, nor jewels, nor pearls. This time he was going to steal a nobleman. "We're going with you," Beckla said grimly, crossing her arms over her flowing shirt and gray vest. Behind her, in the thicket in which they had hidden themselves, Guss nodded solemnly. Muragh bounced up and down in the gargoyle's clawed hands to signal his agreement. "It's my fault he was captured," Artek growled. "Don't you see? It's because of my blasted orcish side that he's in trouble. So it's up to my other side to get him out." He turned his back on the others, not wanting them to see the pain that twisted his face. Why did he always have to war against himself like this? Even as he posed the question, he knew the answer. When he suppressed the orcish part of him, he became an overly idealistic fool, someone who stupidly trusted that others would believe his innocence without proof of his guilt. Yet when he allowed the orc in him to reign free, he was brutish and violent—a cretin who drove a young man to danger with his insensitive words. Fool or brute, he could be one or the other. But he could never be whole. Damn you, Artek, he cursed inwardly. Damn you, Arturg, and Arthaug before you. Yes, damn us all to the Abyss. The whole wretched family. I am what you made me, and I hate you for it. "I know this seems horribly rude," Guss said in a serious but polite tone, "but you'll have to stop us from coming with you." Artek let out an animalistic snarl. He did not have time for this! Hadn't they heard the ominous words of the madman? He glanced at the heart jewel; blue light still pulsed rapidly in the center, but that could change at any second. "Suit yourself," Artek growled finally. "But don't get in my way. The dark gods know I can't say what will happen if you do." Artek then began to move through the trees, keeping to the shadowed edge of the clearing as he circled around the temple. Beckla and Guss followed quickly after him. Finally, they reached the shore of the lake. Here the trees drew near to the temple—no more than thirty paces of grass lay between woods and walls. The gate was on the far side of the compound, and there were no watchtowers on this side. It seemed the priests were confident within their walled stronghold and that was well. Confidence led to conceit, which in turn led to carelessness. Artek squatted, leather creaking, and considered the best way to gain entrance to the temple. "I could fly over the walls," Guss suggested, sensing his train of thought. Artek let out a derisive snort. "And why not carry a gong with you so you can announce to all the priests that you're dropping in?" Guss's wings drooped and his toothy smile turned to a look of chagrin. "What about you, wizard?" Artek whispered acidly. "Do you know any spells that can whisk us inside the temple?" She fixed him with a sharp look. "I can cast a spell of teleportation. But you know as well as I that only a great mage could transport the three of us. Given my level of

ability, I could probably teleport a dead vole into the temple. Would that be a help?" That last question hardly needed the caustic irony she lavished upon it. Artek grunted. He had thought as much. The temple stood directly on the edge of the lake, and water lapped against the rear wall of the compound. Artek made a decision. Without warning the others of his intention, he moved swiftly through the trees to the shore and dove into the icy lake. With swift, strong strokes he swam underwater until surfacing before the pinkish stone wall. Moments later, Beckla and Guss rose from the lake beside him. Both gasped for breath, though Muragh seemed unfazed. Of course, the skull was used to long submersion. Not needing to breathe helped, too. Gritting his teeth, Artek began pulling himself up the wall. Guss gripped Beckla, who in turn held on to Muragh. Wings straining, the gargoyle rose into the air, keeping pace with Artek until they reached the top together. Clutching the edge of the wall, the four cautiously peered into the temple compound below. Below them was a series of low buildings constructed of the same rose-colored stone as the walls. The buildings were arranged symmetrically around a circular structure that dominated the center of the compound—the high crimson dome they had glimpsed earlier, supported by fluted stone columns. Evidently it was the main temple. Artek could see between the columns into the dusky interior of the temple, but glimpsed only dark figures moving around a flickering red glow. Whether it was shadows or smoke, the inner temple was filled with a gloom that even his eyes could not penetrate. Thief's instinct told him they would find Corin there. They froze at the sound of voices below. "With the new sacrifice, M'kar's count in the Hunt now rises to seventeen," said a deep voice. "I wouldn't count M'tureth out yet, M'ordil," a second voice replied. "M'tureth has captured but thirteen in the Hunt," a third voice said hotly. "Clearly M'kar has the favor of Malar." Artek drew in a hissing breath. Malar. So that was who these priests worshiped—they were disciples of the Beast God. This was worse than he had feared. The Magisters had outlawed the Cult of Malar years ago in Waterdeep because theirs was a bloody and violent religion. Malar was held to be the master of all beasts, but he did not love them. Rather, he considered them tools to be used as he wished in order to further his evil machinations. And, to Malar, humans were just another kind of beast. Banished from the city above, the priests must have found their way into Undermountain and continued their worship in secret. Just below them, three menacing figures came into view. They were clad in leather armor trimmed with bronze and had crimson cloaks about their shoulders. Feral beast masks of beaten bronze covered their faces. Each wore a mace at the hip, tipped with a heavy bronze claw, and white animal skulls dangled from their belts. One of the priests was enormous, the second of middle height but broad-shouldered, and the third tall but thin. An idea struck Artek. He looked at Beckla and Guss and saw that they were turning to look at him. Apparently they all had the same idea. They waited for precisely the right moment, then as one they heaved themselves over the top of the wall and dropped down. The three priests never knew what struck them. Artek dispatched his target with a sharp blow to the base of the skull, while Guss employed a crackling neck-twist and Beckla a heart-stopping jolt of magic. They quickly dragged the three bodies behind one of the low buildings. Moments later, three priests strode from behind the building: one short but broad, one tall and lean, and one large all over. A human skull now dangled among the animal

skulls attached to the shorter priest's belt. "Hee, hee!" Muragh giggled. "This is fun!" "Be quiet!" Artek hissed. He adjusted his bronze mask, making certain it covered his face. While he knew little of the Cult of Malar, he did know one thing—the penalty for desecrating a temple was death. It would not do to be discovered. His anger had cooled in the face of danger, and Artek found he was now glad for the presence of the others. Walking slowly but boldly, so as not to attract undue notice, the three wended their way among the stone buildings toward the crimson dome. As they went, they passed several other priests. Each time Artek's heart lurched in his chest, fearing discovery. However, each time the other priests merely saluted with a fist as they passed. The three impostors mimicked the action and continued on. Rounding a corner, they found themselves on the edge of an open square. Acrid smoke drifted in the air, along with the clang of hammers on metal. It was difficult to make out what was going on through the choking haze. Crimson fire glowed in what seemed to be forges, and hissing steam rose from bubbling vats. Artek suspected this was the smithy where the priests forged their masks and clawed maces. In the center of the foundry was a dark, gaping pit. From time to time, one of the workers approached the hole and tossed in an unwanted piece of refuse. Apparently, it was a garbage pit, and a deep one at that, for Artek never heard anything thrown into it strike bottom. Clutching their hands to the mouths of their masks so as not to breathe the noxious fumes, they hurried on. At last the crimson-domed temple rose before them. To Artek's surprise, no sentries stood watch around the column-lined pavilion. Apparently, here within the high walls of their stronghold, the priests of Malar expected no interruptions. Artek grinned fiercely behind his mask. It was going to be rather fun to rattle those expectations. Quietly ascending the marble steps that surrounded the temple each of the three stood behind a column and peered into the smoky dimness beyond. "The favor of Malar has shone upon the Hunt!" a majestic voice echoed from inside the dome. Artek's dark eyes gradually adjusted to the murk, and he bit his lip to keep from swearing at what he saw. In the center of the temple was a hideous statue wrought of black metal. The priests apparently created more than just masks and maces in their foul smithy. The statue had been crudely forged in the shape of a grotesque, gigantic wolf. Bloody light flickered in its slanted eyes, and rancid smoke poured from its gaping maw, as if some terrible fire burned in the pit of its belly. A dozen priests stood around the idol. Huddled at the statue's feet were two bound prisoners. Their faces were covered by bronze masks molded into expressions of terror. One of them was a man whose ragged clothes and scraggly hair recalled Solthar. The other was a slender man with long golden hair. Artek clenched his hands into fists—it was Corin. The priest who had spoken before wore a mask with a haughty expression. He gestured to the two prisoners. "Behold! I, M'kar, bring not one, but two beasts as gifts for the jaws of our lord, Malar!" The gathered priests murmured in appreciation. All, that is, except for one who stood slightly apart from the others. Somehow, his bronze mask seemed to frown. Artek guessed that had to be M'tureth—M'kar's rival. "Let the feeding begin!" M'kar thundered. Two priests gripped the bedraggled man. He struggled against them, but his bonds

held his arms and legs fast. It was no use. Together, the two priests lifted the man into the open jaws of the statue. There he lay, eyes wide with terror behind his mask, wondering what was to come. He did not have long to wait. "Is Malar hungry?" M'kar asked in a sinister voice. "Is he pleased with the gift?" One of the other priests reached into a bronze basin and drew out a handful of slimy, ropelike strands. With a queasy grimace, Artek recognized what they were—animal entrails. The priest flung the entrails onto the stone floor, then studied the patterns they formed. After a moment, he nodded. "The augury speaks clearly. Malar is pleased. Let the feeding begin!" With his clawed mace, M'kar tapped the statue's brow. A rumbling almost like a growl emanated from the statue, along with a hiss of steam, and then the jaws began to close. The prisoner screamed, straining against his bonds in vain. His screams were cut short as the wolf's iron jaws clamped shut. A moment later, the beast's maw opened slowly once more. The jaws were empty, save for foul smoke. The sacrifice had been accepted. Now all eyes turned to the other prisoner before the statue. Artek quickly backed away. They had only seconds to rescue Corin. He had an idea, but whether it would work or not was another matter. "Beckla, I could use that dead vole trick of yours now," he whispered. She stared at him in confusion. "The teleport spell, you mean?" "Yes. Only we need something for you to teleport. An animal of some sort. It doesn't have to be alive. In fact, it really shouldn't be." Guss let out a dejected sigh. "I found this a little way back. I was saving it for my lunch, but as long as it's an emergency .. ." He pulled a very dead rat from beneath his cloak, its limbs curled with rigor mortis. "That was going to be your lunch?" Beckla gagged, staring at the rat. "This is not the time to discuss gargoyle eating habits," Artek hissed in annoyance. "Now here's my plan. Listen close, Muragh. I'm going to need your help." Moments later, Artek boldly strode into the temple, leaving the others outside. The priests looked up at him in surprise. Corin lay within the jaws of the wolf, his blue eyes nearly mad with fear behind his mask. The augur held a handful of dripping entrails, ready to cast them onto the floor. "What is the meaning of this?" M'kar demanded. "You are not of the Inner Circle. I should have you fed to Malar for this insolence!" "It is no insolence," Artek said in a deep voice from behind his mask. He gestured to Muragh, who hung from his belt. "Malar has spoken to me through this skull. He does not care for you or your gifts, M'kar." Fury blazed in M'kar's eyes. However, behind M'tureth's mask, interest flickered in the cool gaze of the rival priest. Artek did not give M'kar a chance to respond. He lifted his hands above his head. "Give us a sign, Malar! Tell us what you think of M'kar's desire to rule us all!" A small object dropped out of the shadows above, landing with a plop on the stones—Guss's dead rat. Beckla had been right on cue. "Malar has spoken," the skull intoned in an eerie voice. "Heed the sign! Malar has spoken!" The priests gaped in horror at the skull. "Behold, it is a rat," Artek intoned while he had their rapt attention. "So that is what Malar thinks of you, M'kar." Murmurs of shock rose from the gathered priests, while wicked chuckles issued from M'tureth's bronze mask. M'kar glared at the laughing priest. "Did you arrange this little travesty, M'tureth?" he demanded in rage. "No, M'kar," M'tureth crooned. "It seems Malar has found a way to ridicule you

himself. Clearly, your gifts have won you no favor." "We shall see," M'kar spat. The priest moved faster than Artek had thought possible. Before Artek could spring away, M'kar swung his clawed mace and roughly knocked aside Artek's mask. The mask clattered to the floor, spinning away. The priests stared at Artek in astonishment. "An impostor!" M'kar cried. "Now!" Artek shouted. At that signal, a winged form flew between two columns, crimson cloak fluttering, snatching Corin from the jaws of the wolf. Guss flew back out while the priests stared in confusion. "Kill him!" M'kar screamed in rage. His words propelled the priests into action. As one, they lunged for Artek. In desperation, he grabbed the bronze vessel filled with entrails and heaved it toward the feet of the oncoming priests, spilling the contents of the bowl across the floor. The priests skidded upon the slimy entrails and went down in a tangled heap. Artek did not waste the chance. He ran out of the temple, and the others met him on the steps. Guss slashed Corin's bonds with his sharp talons. "That was fun!" Muragh giggled. "I like being a prophet of Malar." "You're going to be a snack of Malar if we don't get out of here," Beckla said breathlessly. "May I suggest that we run for it?" Guss proposed. "You may," Corin agreed weakly. A deafening noise rose from the temple. Someone was beating a gong of alarm. "Come on!" Artek yelled. They dashed in the direction of the gate but were brought up short by a dozen priests who had answered the alarm. Hastily they turned and ran in the other direction with the disciples of Malar on their heels. They careened into the smoke-filled foundry and abruptly came to a halt. On the far side of the square stood a score of priests, all gripping clawed maces. Behind them the other priests approached at a run. They were surrounded. "There's nowhere left to go!" Beckla cried. Artek's eyes locked on something in the center of the smithy. "Yes, there is!" he shouted. Grabbing the others, he lunged for the open garbage pit. The priests swung their clawed maces, but the weapons only whistled through empty air. Artek leapt into the hole, pulling the others along with him. He could only hope that the pit was as deep as he had thought it was. As it turned out, it was deeper. * * * * * Artek sat up with a groan. Bits of garbage tumbled from his shoulders. It felt as if his body had been trampled by a stampeding herd of Vaasan thunderhooves. "Where . . . where are we?" asked a tremulous voice. It was Muragh. The skull still dangled from the belt of Artek's priestly garb. "Good question," Artek said hoarsely. His darkvision adjusted, piercing the perfect blackness around them. They were in a small, rough-hewn cave. Beneath them was a heap of rotting refuse and rusting junk that had been tossed into the garbage pit so far above. Sudden panic clutched his heart. Where were the others? He shook his head, trying to clear away the disorientation of the nightmarish fall. Then he remembered. After they had leapt into the pit, leaving behind the bloodthirsty priests of Malar, the hole had angled, and they had slid wildly down a steep stone slope, unable to stop their descent. Once again, Undermountain had pulled them

deeper. Even Guss had been trapped, for the passage was too narrow for him to spread his leathery wings. It seemed they had slid for hours, plunging ever deeper into the bowels of the world. Then, without warning, the tunnel had divided. Beckla, Corin, and Guss had fallen to the left, while Artek and Muragh had bounced to the right. The screams of the others had vanished in an instant. A few moments later, the harrowing ride had come to a jarring end. The tunnel had ended, and for a moment Artek had fallen through empty air. Then he had landed atop the garbage heap. Foul as the refuse was, he knew he should be grateful, for it had cushioned his fall, leaving him with bruises instead of broken bones. Artek half-climbed, half-slid off the midden heap and stood stiffly. Sweat beaded on his brow. The darkness was hot and oppressive here. The weight of countless tons of rock pressed heavily from above. A sharp metallic odor hung upon the air, stinging his nostrils and burning inside his lungs. Then he heard a weird clicking sound that drew closer as he listened. He saw a dark opening in the far wall of the chamber—the source of the sound. "Do you hear that?" Muragh asked nervously. Artek nodded grimly. "Something is coming." "Quick!" the skull whined in terror. "Hide us!" "Wait a minute," Artek muttered. "I'm the one who should be afraid. You're already dead, you know." "And it's an experience I don't care to repeat," Muragh replied with a shudder. "Now move it!" Much as Artek would have liked, there was no time to reproach the imperious skull. Moving silently, he padded toward the cave's wall and pressed his body into a shadow-filled fissure. The eerie clicking noise drew nearer. A red glow appeared in the opening in the far wall. A moment later, two creatures scuttled into the chamber. Bugs—that was Artek's first thought. But they were like no insects he had ever seen. They were easily as large as a man, but flat and round, with small heads and eight appendages, two of which ended in strangely shaped claws. Each seemed to have a lantern attached to the back of its head, and it was from these that the ruddy light issued. In all, they looked like weirdly distorted sea crabs. The blotchy carapaces that covered their backs were the exact color of rusted iron. No, Artek realized in shock, their shells didn't simply look like iron. They were iron. And so was the rest of them. There was no doubt. His heat-sensing darkvision could discern the difference between living tissue and dead metal. Whatever these creatures were, they weren't alive at all, but some sort of mechanical devices. Yet they seemed to move with a rudimentary intelligence as they made for the garbage heap. To Artek's further surprise, a tinny voice emanated from the pincer mouth of one of the creatures. "Whrrr. Ferragans search for metal," it droned. "Good ferragans. Clkkk." "Yes, search fallings from above," the other creature echoed in a metallic buzz. "Scrrr. Find metal. Squch be happy. Bzzzt. Good, good ferragans." The crablike creatures—which were evidently called ferragans—scrabbled onto the garbage pile. Artek now saw that each bore two different types of claws: one shaped like a broad hammerhead, the other like a pincer with three multijointed prongs. With this latter claw, obviously designed for gripping, the ferragans began picking through the rubbish heap. When one found a piece of scrap metal, it reached back and placed it in a wire basket attached to its carapace, emitted a high-pitched clicking that sounded almost like gleeful laughter and then continued searching. Finally, their

baskets full, the two creatures clambered off the pile. "Clkkk. Good ferragans," they droned in mindless monotones. "Found metal. Whrrr. Good, good ferragans." The creatures scuttled from the chamber and were gone. Artek crept from his hiding place. He considered following the ferragans, then decided against it. What would be the point? Where could they lead him that would be any better than this pit? Either way, he had lost the others—and himself. There was no telling how deep below the surface they were now. The darkness seemed to creep into his heart, snuffing out his wan hopes. He would never get back to the city in time now. In disgust, he cast off the priestly garb of Malar. With a desolate sigh, he sat down on the foot of the garbage heap, setting Muragh beside him. "Why are you just sitting here, Artek?" Muragh said in puzzlement. "What's the matter with you?" He did not answer the skull. Instead he stared at the tattoo on his arm. The sun had just passed the arrow. In the world above, night had fallen. Just twelve more hours, and all of this would be over. "I wish it would just happen now, so I could get it over with," he whispered bitterly. "You wish what would happen now?" Muragh asked. "This," Artek growled, striking the tattoo with his opposite hand. "What's the point in waiting to die?" He shook his head grimly. "I wish I were already dead." "Don't say that." Artek stared at the skull in surprise. Muragh's reedy voice had dropped to a grim whisper. His lipless mouth no longer seemed to be grinning, but clenched in anger. His orbless eyes bore into Artek. "Don't ever say that," Muragh repeated darkly. "You don't know what it's like. You can't know. You can't." The skull shuddered, though whether in terror or rage—or perhaps both—Artek could not tell. He shook his head, unsure what to say. "Isn't this just perfect?" Muragh asked with bitter mirth. "Here you want to throw away your life, and I would give anything to have mine back. Even for just twelve hours. Whatever time I had left, even if it was only a minute, I wouldn't squander it. I would enjoy every second of it, and be grateful for what I had." Despite his lack of flesh, Muragh's expression was somehow rueful. "Life is always most wasted upon the living. The gods sure have a twisted sense of humor." Shamed, Artek hung his head. Again, he had proven himself utterly thoughtless. He might as well have been a rich man throwing away a loaf of bread in front of a starving beggar. Finally he looked at the skull. "What is ... what is it like to . . . ?" "What is it like to be dead?" the skull finished for him. "Is that what you want to know?" Artek nodded. For a long moment, he thought Muragh was not going to answer. Then the enchanted skull spoke in a low, eerie voice. "It's horrible, that's what it's like. It's cold, and dark, and empty, utterly empty. Maybe it's better for those who have truly departed. Maybe they manage to find some kind of peace. I wouldn't know. I'm half in the world of the dead and half out of it. I dwell in the chill of the grave, but I still gaze upon the land of the living. It's torture. I can see the light and warmth that I can never feel again." Sighing, Muragh whistled through his broken teeth and his few remaining wisps of rotting hair moved in the slight breeze. At last he went on. "The worst of it is the loneliness. I could bear it all if it weren't for that. Death is lonely. So terribly lonely. I know I can never be alive again. It's just a dream. But I wish . . ." It seemed impossible, but Artek thought he saw a bead of moisture trickle from Muragh's empty eye socket and run down his cheek.

Artek gazed at the skull with troubled eyes. All this time he had been wallowing in his own self-pity, cursing the lot fate had drawn for him. Yet here was one to whom fate had dealt a far crueler hand, and he bore it far more stoically than Artek ever had. Artek felt ashamed, and knew he should. He could learn a lesson from the skull. Even if he had only a short time left, he would not simply throw it away. "I can't pretend to know what you've gone through, Muragh," Artek said. He laid a hand gently on the skull's yellowed cranium. "But I want you to know that you aren't alone. Not anymore." Muragh worked his fleshless jaw, but for once the enchanted skull was speechless. Artek laughed softly, then scooped up the skull. "Come on. I don't know how far away the others are, but they had to land somewhere. No matter how far it is, we'll find them." His orcish eyes piercing the gloom, he moved stealthily through the opening through which the ferragans had disappeared and into a twisting tunnel beyond. He had gone only a short distance down the passage when Muragh found his voice. "Wait a minute, Artek!" the skull said. "There's something I need to tell you. I think I know where we are." Artek stopped and stared at the skull. "Well, why didn't you say so before?" "I didn't want to interrupt our touching moment," Muragh quipped. Artek had no reply. "Anyway," the skull went on, "I've never been here before, but if the rumors I've heard are even half true, then the name of this place is almost certainly Trobriand's Graveyard." Artek sighed, hoping this wasn't a waste of time. Now that he had shaken off his despair, every second counted. "And just who is this Trobriand person?" "He's one of Halaster's apprentices." Artek swore. "Didn't your father ever teach you a lesson about using foul language?" Muragh asked dryly. "Of course," Artek replied. "Where do you think I learned all these curses?" Ignoring the skull's groans, he thought about the implications of this new knowledge. Between the mad voyage of the pirate ship and the perils of the Hunt in Wyllowwood, he had all but forgotten their quest to locate one of Halaster's apprentices. If they could find Trobriand, maybe they could convince him to show them a gate out of Undermountain. "Tell me more," Artek said, his excitement growing. In the darkness, he listened as Muragh told all that he knew of Trobriand. There was not much. Trobriand was also called the Metal Mage, for his ultimate goal was to create mechanical beings that were stronger, faster, and smarter than any living creature. Over the centuries, this pursuit had both consumed and eluded him. While he constructed countless metal horrors that were swift and powerful, none approached the level of intelligence he desired. According to the rumors, the Metal Mage cast the failed results of his experiments down into a pit deep in Undermountain—a place thus known as Trobriand's Graveyard. "It doesn't sound hopeful," Artek said when Muragh finished. "But there must be some way we can contact Trobriand. I can't believe that he doesn't keep an eye on his old creations, just to see what they're up to down here. But first we must find the others." Gripping Muragh, he continued down the tunnel. Before long, a ruddy glow crept into the air. Clanging sounds echoed off the stone walls. Finally, Artek came upon an opening in the left side of the passage, and cautiously peered within.

In the chamber beyond, a pair of ferragans was busily at work. Artek could not tell if they were the same two he had seen earlier. They all seemed to look the same. One operated the bellows of a glowing forge, while the other hammered pieces of red-hot metal with its claw. In the corner sat a third ferragan who was missing several of its legs. "Clkkk," emanated a sound from the broken ferragan's pincer mouth. "New legs good. Scrrr." Evidently Artek was witnessing a repair job in action. He moved quickly past the opening. No alarm went up. No ferragans scuttled in pursuit. They had not seen him. He continued soundlessly down the tunnel. More chambers opened up to either side, and in several others ferragans went about their tasks: unloading wire baskets of junk, sorting through stray bits of metal, and forging new body parts. What these mechanical creatures lacked in wits they certainly made up for in industriousness. A shout suddenly echoed down the tunnel. It was not the drone of a ferragan, but a human voice. "Get your rusty hands off me!" Artek would recognize that tone of cutting indignation anywhere. It was Beckla. He sprang into motion and dashed down the tunnel. The walls fell away, and he found himself in a large cavern, its stony ceiling lit by a flickering crimson glow. A fierce heat wavered in the air, created by a bubbling pit of molten metal in the center of the chamber. Even as Artek watched, a ferragan dropped a chunk of iron into the pit. It melted and sank into the glowing pool. Then another sight caught his eyes, and his heart lurched in his chest. Three ferragans each dragged a struggling form toward the smoking pit. Two of the forms wore crimson cloaks, and all three wore masks of beaten bronze. Artek was surprised that the masks had not come loose in the fall down the pit. "Unhand us immediately!" the figure without a cloak cried imperiously. Corin. "Chhhk," one of the ferragans said. "This metal is reluctant." "Must not resist," another iron creature droned. "All metal must be melted. Vrrrt. That is Squch's rule." Dark realization struck Artek. Seeing their bronze masks, the dull-witted ferragans must have mistaken Beckla, Corin, and Guss for pieces of scrap metal. And now the creatures were going to melt them down.

11 Specimens Wizard, noble, and gargoyle fought against the pincers that held them, but living muscles—even those forged from stone—were of no use against hard iron. The ferragans clambered near the bubbling pit and raised their jointed appendages, preparing to cast their struggling burdens toward the vat of molten liquid. Beckla, Corin, and Guss would be burned alive. Artek had to do something. But what? Before he could think of an answer, a piercing sound—high and keening, like an alarm—filled the air of the cavern. The ferragans abruptly froze. In what seemed like terror, they stared at an opening in the far wall of the chamber, their glass eyes bobbing on the ends of wiry stalks. Clanking, a half-dozen hulking forms appeared in the far opening and scuttled into the cavern on multiple legs. Their shells were as bright as polished steel, and they waved great serrated claws before them and dragged flat, razor-sharp tails behind. To Artek, they looked for all the world like gigantic steel lobsters. They surrounded the three ferragans cowering near the pit of liquid metal. "HALT!" one of the creatures ordered in a thrumming monotone. "DROP!" commanded another. Clicking in fear, the ferragans opened their pincers, releasing Beckla, Corin, and Guss. The three fell to the floor mere inches from the edge of the fiery pit. They tried to crawl away but were stopped by the impenetrable line of lobster-creatures. "PRISONERS!" said one of the steel-shelled newcomers. "OURS!" Beckla tore off her bronze mask, and Guss and Corin did the same, staring at the creatures in horror. As they revealed their faces, pitiful squeaks and rattles rose from the three ferragans. "Clkkk! Not metal!" they wailed in their buzzing voices. "Bad ferragans! Whrrr! Prisoners for thanatars only! Not for ferragans! Scrrr! Must re-forge ferragans! Bad, bad!" Evidently consumed by remorse at their mistake—and their apparent failure to be good ferragans—the three crablike creatures lurched forward and heaved their rusty iron bodies into the pit of molten metal. They clicked and squealed, pincers waving, as their carapaces began to glow: first red, then orange, then white-hot. Melting, they sank into the pit and were gone. The remaining ferragans kept their distance, staring submissively at the lobster-like creatures that the others had called thanatars. While the ferragans were workers, the thanatars were obviously the police. "TAKE!" one thanatar commanded, and several others reached their serrated claws toward the three captives near the pit. Artek gripped the hilt of the cursed saber at his hip, but he resisted the urge to leap into the room swinging. He wasn't certain he could kill—disassemble?—even one of the steel-shelled thanatars, let alone six of the things. Yet he couldn't let them simply drag the others off to some dark prison. Once again Artek's dilemma was resolved as several more mechanical forms slithered into the chamber. Things are getting stranger by the second, he thought. The new creatures were sleeker than the others, as dark as polished jet, with sinuous, many-sectioned bodies and countless undulating legs. If the ferragans were crabs and the thanatars lobsters, then these new metallic monsters were giant silverfish. They had no eyes, but dozens of wiry antennae sprouted from their heads, waving before them. Clearly, the antennae were their primary sensing organs. "SILVERSANNS!" one of the thanatars intoned. Somehow the word resonated with

derision. "Not are thessse prisssoners, yesss?" one silversann said, in a hissing voice. "Ssspecimens are they," added another. "Ssstudy them we will. Take them not to prissson, yesss?" The thanatars glared at the silversanns, but they hesitated, their claws hovering over the prisoners. Artek sensed a rivalry between the strong-bodied thanatars and the obviously more intelligent silversanns. And right now that rivalry was the only thing keeping the others alive. The largest of the thanatars—and evidently their leader—advanced on the silversanns. "PRISONERS!" the creature said again. "OURS!" "Have them when done with our ssstudies you may, yesss?" a silversann replied. "Ssstudy, yesss?" echoed another. It stroked Beckla with its feelers. The wizard recoiled in disgust. "SQUCH!" the lead thanatar said in protest. "PRISONERS. OURS!" Squch. Artek had heard the ferragans utter that word earlier. It almost seemed like a name of some sort. It was as if the thanatar were saying that this Squch had granted them all prisoners. "But to usss ssspecimens Sssquch gave, yesss?" the leader of the silversanns countered. "Oursss ssspecimens are. Yesss, yesss?" Artek shook his head. Evidently, the silversanns thought this Squch person had given the captives to them. While he couldn't be sure, he guessed that Squch was the leader of all of the mechanical creatures. They certainly seemed to speak his name with reverence and fear. The thanatars waved their claws menacingly at the silversanns. The slinky mechanicals cowered—clearly they were not created for battle like the lobster-creatures—but they did not give any ground. Fear rose in Artek's throat. If there was a fight, Beckla, Corin, and Guss would be caught in the middle—and likely torn apart. "Quick!" Muragh hissed. "Do something!" "I'm thinking!" Artek muttered back. Then an idea struck him. There was no time to decide whether it was good or bad. Taking a deep breath, he left the safety of the tunnel and ran into the cavern. "Greetings!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. As one, all the mechanicals turned in his direction. "Great," Muragh mumbled. "You've got their attention. Now what?" Artek swallowed hard. "It seems that you're at a bit of an impasse," he said loudly. "Perhaps your leader, this Squch of yours, could help you resolve it. Why don't you ask him what to do?" The metallic creatures stared dumbly at Artek. His words were lost entirely upon them. Only the silversanns seemed to grasp part of what he had said, their supple antennae waving uncertainly. "You'd better speak to them in a language they can comprehend," Muragh whispered. Artek nodded. He tried again, choosing his words carefully and speaking in his best imitation of their tinny voices. "Prisoners?" he asked, pointing to his companions and then himself. "Specimens?" He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "Ask Squch. Squch knows." These words seemed to excite the mechanicals. The thanatars emitted high-pitched whistles, clacking their claws. The silversanns hissed sibilantly, feelers whipping back and forth. Artek watched in growing alarm, wondering if he had angered them.

"SQUCH!" the thanatars uttered. They seemed to nod their small steel heads. "SQUCH! TELL!" The silversanns rippled their sleek bodies. "Yesss. Asssk mussst we Sssquch, yesss. Tell usss will Sssquch what to do ssshould we. Yesss, yesss." Three thanatars picked up Beckla, Corin, and Guss, holding them securely—but not ungently—in their clawed appendages. Another thanatar moved toward Artek, and he suppressed the instinct to run as it reached out and lifted him off the floor. The ferragans clicked submissively, scuttling out of the way as the thanatars marched toward the opening through which they had entered. Antennae waving, the silversanns slithered behind. "It's good to see you, Ar'talen," Beckla said, her face drawn with fear. "But I sure hope you know what you're doing." Artek did not answer. He hoped he did as well. Either way, it was a gamble. But if anyone knew how to contact Trobriand, it would probably be the leader of these creatures. And that was Squch. The thanatars carried them through a winding labyrinth of rough-walled tunnels and irregular chambers. Here and there, thin veins of silvery metal marbled the stone walls. Artek guessed that this place had been a mine once, perhaps constructed by the same dwarves—the Melairkyn clan—who had built the vast city of Underhall eons ago. Artek shuddered. They must be far below Waterdeep indeed. Yet, remembering Muragh's words, he hardened his will. He would not give up—at least, not until the very end. At last they passed through a rough archway into a large natural cavern. Here the stone walls were riddled with serpentine veins of silver metal. Lanterns like those that were attached to the heads of the ferragans lined the perimeter of the cavern. Their light was reflected and somehow amplified by the thin veins of metal, filling the air with a dazzling silver glow. It was breathtaking. The thanatars came to a halt in the center of the cavern, the silversanns just behind. Opening their claws, the steely creatures dropped their burdens. The three humans, the gargoyle, and the skull dropped to the floor with various exclamations of discomfort and indignation. Before them was a shadowed hole in the floor that filled Artek with a sense of dread. Behind them, the thanatars and silversanns formed a half-circle, falling into an expectant silence. Without warning, two red-hot pinpricks appeared in the dark circle of the hole. A shadow stirred within, and an eerie rattling emanated from the depths. Then, with menacing speed, something climbed out. It was silver—as silver as the brilliant metal that snaked through the walls of the cavern. It was not unlike the thanatars, yet it was smaller, sleeker. And, Artek sensed, it was far more deadly. Its two clawed appendages were slender, even delicate, but gleamed sharply like polished knives. Six legs supported its shiny, multiplated abdomen. An armored tail curled up and over its back, ending in a cruelly barbed point. It was a scorpion, a gigantic silver scorpion. The thanatars lowered their claws and the silversanns drooped their antennae in gestures of submission. "SQUCH!" they spoke in reverence. "Sssquch, yesss. Sssquch!" "What have you brought me?" Squch demanded, pincer mouth moving. Unlike that of the others, the scorpion's speech was surprisingly intelligible, though clearly inhuman. "PRISONERS!" the thanatars intoned. "Ssspecimens are they, yesss?" the silversanns contradicted. "I will be the judge of that," Squch snapped.

Legs moving swiftly, the metallic scorpion scrambled forward. Artek reached out his arms, keeping the others from trying to get up and run. "Yes, you are wise, soft one," Squch said with a weird rattling that was almost like laughter. "I am a scaladar. To flee from me is a grave error." The scaladar lowered its barbed stinger, brushing the point softly across Artek's cheek. The reek of venom filled his nose. He clenched his jaw to keep from flinching—to move was to die. The scaladar laughed again and raised its stinger. "We won't flee," Artek said gravely. "You have my word." "Why have you intruded upon my domain?" Squch demanded, crimson eyes flaring. Artek licked his lips nervously. It was now or never. "We come seeking the wizard Trobriand." The silversanns hissed in terror, and the thanatars clacked their claws in agitation. Squch's stinger flicked forward, and the din instantly fell into silence. The scaladar loomed threateningly above Artek. "You dare to speak that name in my presence, soft one?" Artek exchanged uncertain looks with the others, then slowly rose to his feet. What did they have to lose? Gazing into the burning eyes of the scaladar, he told of their search for one of Halaster's apprentices and a gate out of Undermountain. When he finished, the scaladar laughed its brittle laughter again. "You are a fool, soft one," Squch replied. "Trobriand cares nothing for nonmetal creatures such as you. You would gain no help from him." Artek was not going to give up so easily. "You may be right, Squch. But with all due respect, I'd like to try just the same. Please—do you know where we can find your maker, Trobriand?" The scaladar's stinger trembled in sudden rage. A drop of venom fell from the barbed tip. It hissed and smoked as it struck the floor, burning a pit into the stone. "Do I know where you can find Trobriand? Do I know where you can find Trobriand?" Squch's silver armor rattled in fury. "If I possessed such knowledge, do you believe that I would still be here, existing in this wretched hole in the ground?" Artek backed away, shaking his head in confusion. The scaladar advanced on him. "Do you know what we are to Trobriand?" Squch droned furiously. "Trash! Refuse! Garbage! He created us. He forged our bodies. He gave us thoughts. Yet when he grew tired of us, he cast us down into this pit!" The scaladar waved a claw at the fearful thanatars and silversanns. "The Metal Mage discarded most of these walking scrap heaps for their stupidity. Oh, but not I! I was too clever, you see. That was my flaw. Trobriand feared my intelligence, feared that I would usurp his power. And he was right. I would have. And I will do so yet. Then I will rise from the ground, and lay eyes upon this city I have heard of in rumor, a city which has no stone above it, but only air, a city filled with foolish, pliable soft ones. Yes, I will gaze upon this city. Then I will make it my own." The scaladar's crimson eyes bore into Artek. "You come from this place, do you not, soft one?" the silver creature crooned in sudden interest. "Come, tell me about it. Tell me all that you know, and perhaps I will not kill you." Artek did not know what to say. It was clear that this creature was utterly mad—no wonder Trobriand had discarded it. Yet Artek sensed that there were some kernels of truth in the scaladar's ravings. Instinct told him that Squch had not exaggerated Trobriand's dislike for living creatures. Even if they could find the Metal Mage, Artek knew that Trobriand would not help them. "I'm sorry, Squch," Artek said carefully. "I'd like to help you, but we don't have time right now. If you let us go, we'll come back later and—"

"Stop!" the scaladar cried. "You underestimate my intelligence, soft one. You cannot deceive me with your transparent lies. If you will not freely tell me what you know, I will find another way to learn it." Squch waved a claw at the silversanns. "Take these foolish soft ones to your laboratory. Extract what knowledge you can from their heads. Once you have it, you may do whatever you wish with the rest of them." The silversanns chittered excitedly at this news. They snaked past the glowering thanatars and coiled their smooth antennae around the prisoners. Before Artek could protest to Squch, the silversanns dragged him and the others out of the cavern and down a dark tunnel. The prisoners tried to break free of the metallic strands that gripped them, but it was no use. The antennae were as strong as steel wire. The silversanns took them to a dim chamber and dropped them on the floor. One of the creatures shut and locked a heavy iron door—so much for the only visible route of escape. The chamber of the silversanns was filled with all manner of clutter: clay pots, cracked vials, broken staves, moldering books, and countless metal tools of inexplicable function. All lay carelessly strewn about or heaped into haphazard piles that seemed to have no obvious rhyme or reason. The silversanns gathered at one end of the chamber, speaking in sibilant whispers. Evidently, they were trying to decide how to extract the knowledge of their new ssspecimens, Artek thought grimly. Corin sighed glumly, sitting slump-shouldered on the cold stone floor. "I'm sorry, everyone," the young lord said ruefully. "This is all my fault. We wouldn't be in this scrape if I hadn't gone and dashed off into the forest like such a dolt." He looked up at Artek with sad blue eyes. "You were right, you know. And so was my father. I can't do anything well. But you needn't worry. I've learned my lesson. I won't try to help ever again." He sighed deeply. "I apologize for getting you into this, Ar'talen. For your sake, I hope you can get me to Darien Thal and force him to have that tattoo fixed. But for my part, I don't care if I ever see the surface again." The nobleman hung his head and fell silent. Guss gazed at him with worried green eyes, cradling Muragh in his clawed hands. Beckla shot a sharp look at Artek. It was clear she wanted him to say something. Artek just shook his head. Everything he had said before had been thoughtless and cruel. What could he say now that wouldn't simply cause more damage? It was better if he simply remained silent. With a sound of exasperation, Beckla stood up. The silversanns were still engaged in a secret debate, and the wizard took the opportunity to poke around in the heaps of clutter surrounding them. "Look at all this stuff," she said in sudden amazement. "What is it?" Muragh asked. She rummaged through one of the piles. "Broken wizard staves. Shattered wands. Cracked potion vials. Old spellbooks." The wizard looked up in wonder. "It's all magical paraphernalia." Artek quickly stood. "Is there something that might be able to help us?" Beckla frowned. "I'm not sure. Pretty much all of it seems to be broken or damaged. But there might be something of interest here . . ." She kept searching, and the others joined her. As far as Artek could tell, all of the items—staves, rods, magical crystals—seemed to have been deliberately smashed. Perhaps the silversanns had damaged the objects while trying to study them. Even a roomful of magical artifacts would do them no good if all were broken. Just then, Guss let out a grunt of surprise. With a claw, he plucked something gold and glittering from one of the piles. "Beckla, take a look at this. I'm not sure, but it looks

to me as if it's—" At that moment, the silversanns ended their debate and slithered toward them. Guss cut his words short, thrusting the object behind his back. The five prisoners stared apprehensively as the metallic creatures drew near. "Decided then are we, yesss?" one of the silversanns asked the others, the small pit of its mouth dilating and contracting to form the syllables. "Yesss, yesss," answered another. "More learn we mussst, before gain can we knowledge theirsss." The first silversann undulated forward, brushing Artek with its cold antennae. "Let usss then apart take them, yesss? Sssee we can how work they. Yesss, yesss?" Artek glared at them warily. "What do you mean, 'take us apart'?" "Take apart mean we, yesss?" the silversann answered blithely. "Disssasssemble your pieces. Mind you not, yesss?" Several silversanns pressed forward, each bearing weirdly shaped, sharp-edged tools in their antennae. Artek and the others exchanged looks of horror. They slowly backed away from the creatures. "We most certainly do mind," Artek countered nervously. "Worry not, yesss?" the leader of the silversanns hissed reassuringly. "Put we together back your bodiesss when done we are. Yesss, yesss?" The silversanns continued to close in, steel tools raised. Apparently they didn't understand that living creatures couldn't simply be taken apart like machines. And once they discovered that they couldn't just put their ssspecimens back together, it would be far too late. Artek gripped the hilt of his saber, wondering if the blade would have any effect against the hard plates that armored the creatures. One of the silversanns stretched a wicked-looking probe toward Beckla. "Get back, you metal worm!" the wizard cried. She shouted several arcane words, and blue magic crackled between her outstretched fingers. "Get back, or I'll melt you!" The silversanns let out a chorus of shrill shrieks. For a second, Artek thought Beckla's threat had terrified them. Then, in astonishment, he realized that their shrieks were sounds of delight, not fear. "Magic, yesss?" they cried excitedly, clustering around the wizard. "How cassst you did magic? Ssshow usss, yesss? Ssshow usss!" The silversanns continued to babble, but Artek could catch little of what the creatures said in their hissing voices. However, Beckla bent toward them, cocking an ear. As she listened, a smile gradually spread across her face. Finally she said something to the silversanns and they let out piercing squeaks of joy. They scuttled a short distance back, then waited expectantly. Artek leaned over to murmur in her ear. "What in the world did you say to them?" "I told them I'd teach them how to do magic," she whispered back. "You what?" "You heard me, Ar'talen." "I heard you, but I don't understand. I'm no wizard, but even I know that only living beings can wield magic." Beckla nodded. "I know that, and you know that. But they don't know that." Her smile broadened into a grin. "As it turns out, the silversanns are absolutely fascinated by magic. It's their favorite area of research. They've seen some of the thanatars' prisoners work it before, and they want more than anything to learn it themselves. Of course, no matter how faithfully they duplicate the words and movements of a spell, it will never work for them. It can't. They're not alive." Beckla gestured subtly toward the heaps of broken artifacts. "That's what all this

stuff is for. Somewhere along the line, they developed a crazy notion that when magical objects are broken, their magic is released. They sleep near these heaps of junk in the belief that, over time, they'll absorb some of that magic." Artek shook his head at this absurdity. "So what are you going to do?" "You'll see," she replied mysteriously. She approached the waiting silversanns. Corin, Guss, and Muragh looked at Artek questioningly, but he only shrugged his broad shoulders. He had no idea what the wizard intended to do. "All right, then," Beckla said crisply, addressing the mechanicals as she might a class of new apprentices at a school for mages. "Casting magic really isn't all that difficult. It's simply a matter of using the proper inflection. Now, follow my movements as best you can, and repeat after me." She weaved her arms in a complex pattern while uttering a string of words that, to Artek, sounded far more like nonsense than they did magic. The silversanns made a comic effort to mimic her hand movements with their whiplike antennae. A buzz rose from them as they repeated her words dutifully and, unfortunately, quite erroneously. "K'hal sith mam!" Beckla shouted in finish, raising her arms above her head. "G'sssar ziph mooli!" the silversanns repeated happily, waving their wiry sensory organs. A shimmering aura of sapphire light sprang into being around Beckla's body. Artek thought he saw the wizard wiggle her fingers. A fraction of a second later, a blue aura surrounded each of the silversanns. The creatures shrieked in glee, their countless legs wriggling in abject ecstasy. "Magic do usss, yesss?" they cried. "Wizardsss now we are, yesss? Ssspells cassst we! Yesss, yesss?" As the silversanns continued their jubilation, Beckla pulled the others some distance away. "What did you do to them?" Artek asked, staring at the creatures in disbelief. "Did you really teach them to cast a spell?" "Don't be a ninny, Ar'talen," she replied smoothly. "Of course not. That would be completely impossible. While I was having them repeat all that mumbo-jumbo, I worked in the words and movements of a real spell. It's just a simple aura of light. It'll fade in an hour or so. But it should keep them occupied until then." Artek laughed, clapping the wizard on the back. "Nicely done, Beckla," he said. The back of his neck suddenly prickled. He looked around just in time to see Corin abruptly turn away. Artek sighed, his high spirits quickly sinking. They still had to find a way out of this place, he reminded himself. Beckla moved over to see Guss and examine the object he had found earlier. Artek stooped to pick up Muragh and approached the wizard and the gargoyle. "It's a ring," Guss said, his green eyes glowing with excitement. "Are you two getting married?" Artek asked dryly. "No, not that sort of ring," Beckla scowled. "It's a magical ring." She held up a small circle of polished gold. "And it's not broken." Artek gazed at the ring, his own excitement rapidly growing. The ring was so small that the silversanns must have misplaced it among all the clutter before they could break it. "What do you think it is?" he asked. "I'm not sure," Beckla replied. "But I think I can find out." "It's awfully plain-looking," Muragh said critically. "I can't imagine it does much." Beckla gave the skull a curious look. "Maybe. Then again, sometimes appearances can be deceiving." As the silversanns chattered among themselves about their new magical "powers,"

the wizard sat cross-legged on the floor. She pulled out a grimy blue cloth from a pocket and spread it before her, placing the ring on it. Next, she drew out a small vial filled with yellow sand. She unstopped the vial and carefully poured out the sand, tracing a circle around the ring. Closing her eyes, she held her hands over the cloth. "Circles within circles," she chanted softly. "Meanings within meanings. Grant me your guidance, Mystra, Lady of Mysteries, Goddess of Magic. Help me understand the nature of the enchantment that lies before me." As the others watched in fascination, Beckla continued to chant, now in the ancient tongue of magic. After a moment, sparks of sapphire fell from her hands. They traced a slow spiral to the ring below, imbuing it with pale blue radiance. Lines of concentration furrowed the wizard's brow. Her hands began to tremble. Suddenly, her brown eyes flew open, and the blue sparks vanished. "Oh!" she gasped. "What is it?" Artek asked in alarm. Beckla shook her head slowly. "She usually doesn't answer when I ask her questions like that. At least not so clearly." "Who are you talking about?" Artek demanded. "Mystra," Beckla replied. Artek slapped a hand to his forehead in incredulity. "What? You're telling me that the goddess Mystra just spoke to you? She told you what this ring is?" The wizard nodded solemnly. "That's right. She is the patron goddess of wizards, after all." "I know that," Artek sputtered in disbelief. "But the gods don't just answer every little question you put to them." "Apparently, sometimes they do," Muragh quipped. The skull addressed Beckla. "It seems Artek here is having a little problem with the matter of his faith. But I'm sure the rest of us would very much like to know what Mystra told you." Beckla picked up the ring and held it gingerly in her hand. "It's a wishing ring," she murmured. The wizard's face suddenly seemed strangely troubled. "A wishing ring?" Muragh exclaimed. "But that's wonderful! It means we can wish our way right out of this dump. Come on! What are you waiting for?" "Not so fast, Muragh," Beckla countered. "It doesn't work that way. Remember those enchantments that Halaster bound into the walls of Undermountain, the ones that keep anyone from magically transporting out? Well, that goes for wishes, too. If we try to wish our way out of here, we'll probably find ourselves in some random part of Undermountain, and our wish wasted to boot." She lifted the ring, gazing through its open center. "There's only one wish left in this thing. We have to use it wisely." Artek scratched the dark stubble on his chin. He was still skeptical that the goddess Mystra had truly spoken to Beckla. But even if the wizard was wrong about the ring, it couldn't hurt to make a wish on it. And if she was right. . . He glanced at the silversanns at the far end of the chamber. The glowing creatures still slithered and undulated in ecstasy, completely oblivious to their ssspecimens. Artek turned back to the others. Then he had it. "The last apprentice!" he said, snapping his fingers. "The ring can't transport us out of Undermountain. But it can take us to the last of Halaster's apprentices! It's our only hope." Beckla arched a single eyebrow. "I thought you didn't believe that this is really a wishing ring. Have you changed your mind so soon?" He glared darkly at her. "You're not making this faith thing any easier, you know. How will the ring work if we don't even know who or where the apprentice is?" Beckla smiled smugly. "The ring knows."

"All right, we'll give it a try," he growled. "Beckla, you put on the ring. Now, let's all gather close so—" His words were cut short as the chamber's iron door burst open with a thunderous boom! It flew through the air and struck one of the silversanns, crushing the hapless creature against a stone wall. For a moment, its antennae twitched jerkily, then went still. A half-dozen steely forms lumbered through the gaping doorway, serrated claws waving menacingly. "SQUCH! WRONG!" one of the thanatars droned angrily. "PRISONERS! OURS!" intoned another. Razor-sharp tails swiping wickedly, the thanatars charged the silversanns. Apparently, the lobster-creatures had decided they did not care for Squch's decision concerning Artek and the others. The silversanns screeched in terror, waving their feelers wildly as they tried to slither out of the reach of the larger mechanicals. Several were too slow, and the thanatars caught them in their pincers and squeezed, cleaving their sinuous, metallic bodies in two. The halves fell to the floor, twitching feebly. The thanatars droned in what seemed like satisfaction. Then one of the lobster-creatures caught sight of the adventurers. "PRISONERS!" it droned. "GET!" The thanatars lunged forward, and the five companions gaped in horror. "Now, Beckla!" Artek cried. Jamming the ring on a finger of her left hand, the wizard opened her mouth. At first nothing came out but a fearful croak. She took a deep breath, then tried again. This time, faint words escaped her lips. "I wish ... I wish we were in the lair of the last of Halaster's apprentices," she gasped. The thanatars opened their jagged pincers, ready to snatch up the prisoners. But a sudden, brilliant flash of azure light sundered space. In an instant, the stony chamber, the writhing silversanns, and the violent thanatars vanished. For a single moment, humans, gargoyle, and skull were neither here nor there. Then came another blinding flash, and a new reality abruptly coalesced around them.

12 Fatal Game "Now where are we?" Beckla asked in amazement. "Near the end of our journey," Artek answered solemnly. They stood beneath a high stone archway. Behind them, a corridor stretched into endless shadow. Before them lay their goal—the lair of the last apprentice still in Undermountain. It was glorious. Walls of pale marble flecked with gold soared upward in vault after dizzying vault. An intricate mosaic adorned the lofty ceiling, depicting a fantastic sky: radiant day shone brilliantly upon one side, while night glittered with jewel-like stars upon the other. Light streamed down from the mosaic above—part of it sun-gold, part moon-pearl—refracting off the polished walls. It filled the chamber with shimmering luminescence. In keeping with the ceiling, the chamber's expansive floor was a patchwork of marble squares, alternating in a checked pattern between white-gold noon and onyx midnight. Each of the squares was perhaps three paces across, and the floor was bordered on all sides by a swath of mottled green marble. On the far side of the hall, set into a shallow nave, was a door of gold. Instinct told Artek that, for good or for ill, they would find the last apprentice beyond it. Tucked in the crook of Artek's arm, Muragh let out a reedy whistle. "I'll say one thing," the skull murmured in awe. "Whoever this apprentice is, he certainly has a flair for decorating." Over the centuries, no visible signs of age or decay had touched the grand hall, which seemed to indicate that it had not been abandoned. This, in addition to the sheer beauty of the chamber, boded well for their chances. Or at least, so it seemed to Artek. Together they conferred on a course of action—all except for Corin. "I'll just try to stay out of your way," the lord said meekly. He huddled just inside the stone archway, his back to the wall, staring down at his scuffed shoes. Artek sighed quietly, but he reminded himself that there was nothing he could do. They had come here to seek the help of Halaster's apprentice, so it seemed best to approach the wizard's door directly, without stealth. However, so as not to alarm the apprentice, they decided Artek should go alone at first. Then he would signal the others when he deemed it appropriate for them to follow. "Wish me luck," he said nervously. The others all did so—except for Corin. Taking a deep breath, Artek turned to stride boldly toward the golden door across the room. As he left behind the strip of mottled green marble where the others were gathered, his boot stepped first upon a square of black. He took another step forward, onto a square of white. Then he ran face first into some sort of a wall. Like sunlight glancing off a clear window, a plane of white radiance flashed momentarily in front of him. With a cry of pain he stumbled backward, onto the black square. "What in the Abyss was that?" he muttered in confusion, rubbing his throbbing nose. Whatever it was, it had hurt. Beckla stood up, a curious frown on her broad face. "It looked like a magical barrier blocked your way," she said. Artek tried moving onto the white square to his left. Once again a thin plane of white energy sprang into existence before him, blocking the way. The same thing happened when he tried to move to his right. Knowing what to expect, he did not smash his face

against the magical barriers. Perplexed, he turned around and stepped back onto the swath of green marble that bordered the floor. "Something very strange is going on here," he grumbled in annoyance. Beckla's eyes suddenly went wide with surprise, and Guss let out a low growl of shock. "You aren't kidding," Muragh said with a low whistle. Artek turned back around, and an oath escaped his lips. As he watched, something appeared out of thin air on the far side of the room. Images flickered into existence, wavered like desert mirages, then grew solid. No, not solid, for Artek could still see dimly through their ghostly forms. They stood in two straight lines upon the two farthest rows of black and white squares, one creature per square, sixteen in all. The eight in the first rank looked to be dwarven soldiers of some sort: long-bearded, horn-helmed, mail-clad, and bearing shimmering half-moon axes. Standing behind them in the rear row—one to each side—were two tusked, long-armed ogres; two silvery knights mounted upon black steeds and bearing gleaming lances; and a pair of stern-faced sorcerers in pointed hats. These six flanked two tall, imposing figures in the center of the back row. Flowing mantles fell from wide shoulders; glimmering crowns rested upon high brows; pale eyes gazed forward in steely authority. Proud they were, and cruel: a king and a queen. With terrible certainty, Artek knew it was going to be no easy task getting to the gold door across the room. Even if he could find a way to avoid the glowing magical barriers between white and black squares, he now had an eerie army to contend with. At the moment, the ethereal figures stood motionless, gazing forward with impassive, unblinking eyes. Yet Artek suspected this would rapidly change if he drew near. He fixed Beckla with a piercing look. "You had to wish us to the apprentice's lair, rather than to the apprentice himself." She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly. "Oops." Artek let out a groan of exasperation. "How did I know you were going to say that?" Beckla drew her eyebrows together in a scowl. "Look, Ar'talen. I was a little pressed for time. The thanatars were about to chop us to bits, if you recall. We really didn't have the opportunity to debate whether I should wish for this or that. We're lucky we made it out of there at all." She gestured toward the phantasmal army. "I think it would be more productive if we all directed our energy to the problem at hand." The wizard was right, but Artek shot her a nasty look all the same, just to let her know he was not happy. He crossed his thick arms across his black leather jerkin and studied the scene before him with dark eyes. "It's like some game the apprentice has prepared for us," he murmured to himself. To his surprise, someone answered him. "It's not just some game," said a quiet voice. "It's lanceboard." Artek turned around. It was Corin. The young lord gazed with his clear blue eyes at the eerie figures across the room. "Don't you see?" Corin went on timidly. "With those black and white checks, the entire floor serves as the playing board. And those figures over there are the opponent's playing pieces." Artek turned back toward the gigantic lanceboard. It made sense—the apprentice would not let just anyone enter his domain. They had to best the wizard at a game of lanceboard first. If they could do so, it was likely the apprentice would view them favorably. But something odd struck Artek. "If those are our opponent's playing pieces, then where are ours?" Beckla swallowed hard. "I think we're them." Even as her words chilled him, Artek knew they were right. No ghostly army had

appeared on their side of the marble gameboard. They themselves were the only playing pieces they were going to get. "Why don't I just fly across the room?" Guss asked. Wings flapping, the gargoyle rose into the air. He was no more than three feet off the floor when a plane of white magic flashed above him. He fell back to the green marble, landing with a grunt. "Oh, I suppose that's why," he winced, rubbing his scaly tail. "Well, this is just wonderful," Artek growled in disgust, running a hand through his short black hair. "I've never played a game of lanceboard in my life. I don't even have the foggiest notion of the rules." He looked to Beckla, but the wizard shook her head. So did Guss. Neither knew how to play the game. Artek's gaze drifted toward the yellowed skull he had set down on the green marble. "Well, don't look at me," Muragh said defensively. "I was just a lowly priest of Lathander in life." The others turned their eyes toward Corin. The young lord looked up in shock, his face drawn. "No," he whispered hoarsely, slowly shaking his head back and forth. "Not me . . ." Artek quickly moved forward and knelt beside Corin. "You know how to play lanceboard, don't you?" he asked intently. Corin opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. It didn't matter. Artek already knew the answer. Corin had recognized the gameboard and the playing pieces. Like every noble child, he had learned to play the game. "You have to help us, Corin," Artek said gravely. He gripped the young man's shoulders. "You have to help us get across the room. You're the only one who can do it." Corin tried to back away, but Artek's strong hands held him firmly. "But I can't," the nobleman gasped. "Don't you understand? If I make a mistake, you'll all be killed." "And if you don't try, we'll all die for certain," Artek growled. Tears sprang into Corin's eyes, along with a look of terror. "You don't understand. I can't do it. I tried ... I tried to be worth something, but I failed. You said so yourself." He shook his head. "He was right. He was always right. I suppose I deserved it," Corin sobbed. In sudden dread, Artek gazed at the noble. A coldness crept into his heart, and dark realization into his mind. He gripped the young man's shoulders more tightly, searching his frightened face. "What did he do to you, Corin?" Artek asked. "By all the gods, what did your father do to you?" Beckla, Guss, and Muragh stared at them in shock. A low moan escaped Corin's lips. "Tell me!" Artek demanded, baring his white teeth. This time he did not wait for an answer. With brutal force, he spun Corin around. He gripped the lord's dirty silk shirt in two hands and tore it apart. "Ur thokkar!" he swore in the language of orcs. Crisscrossing the skin of Corin's back were countless pale scars. Artek had seen enough thieves flogged in public squares to know what the raised weals were—lash marks. As a child, Artek had often received the cruel abuse of his father's tongue, and once or twice, Arturg had even struck him. But never this. Never had he suffered anything like this. Stunned, Artek released Corin. The young lord pulled the tattered remains of his shirt back over his shoulders, concealing the scars once again. Hesitantly, he looked

up with wounded eyes at Artek. For a moment, all Artek could see was a small, golden-haired boy in a corner, injured and afraid, trying with all his courage not to cry. "I had to bear it," Corin said finally in a quiet voice, barely a whisper. "I couldn't weep. I couldn't resist. I had to bear it because if I did, then maybe he would love me." Trembling, Corin continued, as if words long dammed up inside were now rushing from him of their own volition. The others could only listen in growing horror. "I was the youngest of three sons, you see. Corlus, my eldest brother, was to inherit the Silvertor estate. My other brother, Cordair, was the most like my father, being skilled at arms and gambling, and well liked by other men. And then there was me. "My mother died in childbirth when I was born. I think my father always blamed me for that. At least, I used to tell myself that he did. That way it all made some sort of sense—there was a reason that nothing I could ever say or do pleased him." As he spoke, Corin kept his gaze on the floor. "Most of the time he just ignored me and kept busy with Corlus and Cordair. But once a moon or so, he would come home reeking of wine, and feeling sour-tempered from losing at gambling. He would roar for me at the top of his lungs, and I didn't dare refuse to come. I would find him in his chamber, his riding whip in his hands. That was when . . ." Corin suddenly looked up at the others. A smile twisted his lips. "Fate is strange, isn't it? Who would have thought that my father would outlive my brothers? But Corlus died of the red fever, and Cordair got a knife in the heart when he was caught cheating at dice in a tavern by the harbor. Then this winter my father finally died. The physicians said it was the drink that did it. I came to him at his deathbed. And do you know what he told me? 'You are the one I should have outlived.' That was all he said. Then he died." Corin's gaze returned to his shoes. "My father's death left me as the sole heir to the Silvertor legacy. And to his seat on the Circle of Nobles. Our House is one of the oldest in the city, and there has always been a Silvertor on the Circle—the vote is a mere formality. I suppose I should have been happy. But I wasn't." He clenched his hands into fists. "I didn't want his House. I didn't want his blasted seat on the Circle. I could never please my father. How could I possibly please all of the other nobles in Waterdeep?" Forcibly, he unclenched his hands and let out a weary sigh. "The truth is, when Lord Darien Thal invited me on the hunt into Undermountain, I secretly hoped something would happen to me—something bad. I told myself it would all be so much easier that way." Wiping the tears from his cheeks, he looked at Artek. "And here I am," he finished softly. "I know you can never forgive me for getting you into this, Artek. But I want you to know that I am sorry—terribly sorry." For a long time, Artek could say nothing. All this time he had thought of Corin as a mere nuisance, as an object to be rescued and nothing more. In that, he had been no better than the young lord's father. Perhaps worse. He of all people should have known better. He knew what it was like to be scorned by one whose love he craved; he knew what it was like to learn to loathe himself. If Corin's father were still alive, Artek would have vowed to kill him. But vengeance cannot be gained from the dead, and the living are left to bear the scars inflicted. At last Artek drew in a deep breath. Maybe it was too late for him, but Corin was young. Maybe there was still time for the young man to find a sort of healing, to be whole. Artek reached out and gripped Corin's shoulders. He gazed into the young man's eyes and would not let him look away. "Listen to me, Corin," he said solemnly. "Listen to me, because I speak the truth. I was wrong. Your father was wrong. You aren't worthless. You have to believe that. I know that there are voices inside you, voices that tell you otherwise, but you have to

stop listening to them because they, too, are wrong. No one deserves what happened to you, Corin. Do you hear me? No one." At last Corin stopped struggling and held still within Artek's grasp. Artek kept talking. "Don't you see, Corin? We need you. All of us. You're the only one who can get us across that lanceboard. You're the only one who can help us." Black eyes bore into clear blue ones. "Please," he whispered. "Won't you try?" For a long moment, Corin sat as if frozen, staring with unseeing eyes. Artek despaired, fearing his words had fallen upon deaf ears. Then Corin's pale visage seemed to melt, and he blinked, drawing in a shuddering breath. At last he nodded. "I can't promise anything," he said in a hoarse voice. "But I will try." Artek could not suppress a toothy grin. He encircled Corin in his strong arms, embracing him tightly. The young man stiffened. Then, tentatively, he lifted his arms to return the embrace. "Excuse me, Artek," Corin gasped after a time, "but I'd like to breathe now." "Oh, sorry!" Artek exclaimed, releasing the young man from his grip. Corin stood, smiling shyly. "Actually, you're all rather in luck, you know. Though my father never placed much stock in it—it wasn't a blood sport, you see—I was something of a champion at lanceboard among my peers." He clapped his hands together. "Now, let's get started. We have a game to play." A new air of confidence and authority gradually crept into Corin's words and actions. For the first time since Artek had met him, the young man truly seemed like a lord. He surveyed the gameboard critically, forming a strategy. "This isn't going to be simple," Corin murmured, his expression one of intent concentration. "Our opponent has a full complement of playing pieces, and we are only four." "Make that five!" Muragh piped up, rolling toward the nobleman's feet. Corin actually laughed as he picked up the skull. "Ah, then there is some hope after all," he said. With crisp commands, he directed the others to their starting locations on the first row of the game-board. Artek took the King's position, and Beckla the Queen's, next to him. Corin placed Guss on the end, in the role of an Ogre, and took a Knight position for himself. Muragh, to his delight, was a Sorcerer. After this, Corin instructed each of them on the manner of their movement. "Artek, when you first stepped onto the board, it was where Muragh is now, on the starting square of a Sorcerer," Corin explained. "Sorcerers can only move along a diagonal. That's why you encountered the magical barrier when you tried to move forward and side-to-side." Artek nodded at the nobleman's words. As long as they moved according to the rules of the pieces they were playing, they should be able to walk across the board without encountering the glowing barriers. Corin continued to instruct them in the rules of their movement. As King, Artek could walk in any direction he chose, but only one square at a time. Beckla, acting as the Queen, could also move in any direction. However, she could go as many spaces as she wished. Upon learning of this advantage, she flashed Artek a smug expression. Guss, the Ogre, was informed that he could move as far as he wished along straight lines, but not along a diagonal, which was Muragh's sole ability as Sorcerer. Corin had taken the most difficult role for himself, for a Knight was forced to move in a curious pattern: two squares in a straight line, then one more square to either side. Once they knew the rules, they were ready to begin. "It looks like the starting move is up to us," Corin decided. "We're playing from

weakness, but that doesn't mean we can't act boldly. King, move one square forward." Artek stepped from his white starting square onto the black square before him. No magical barrier appeared to block his passage. He let out a sigh of relief. The moment Artek finished his move, an ethereal figure on the far side of the chamber abruptly began to move. One of the dimly transparent dwarves in the front row—Soldiers, Corin called those pieces—stepped one square forward, then halted, standing as still as before. "I was afraid of that," Corin said grimly. "Afraid of what?" Artek asked in growing dread. "This really is just like a game of lanceboard," the nobleman replied. "Every time one of us moves, one of our opponent's pieces gets to move as well." Artek shifted uncomfortably on the black square. "Wait a minute, Corin. Isn't the point of this game to capture your opponent's pieces?" The young lord nodded silently. "All right," Artek went on. "Then what happens to one of us if we're captured by another piece?" Corin took a deep breath. "All captured pieces are removed from the gameboard," he said evenly. The others shivered as the implication of these words registered upon them. A chill danced up Artek's spine, and he licked his lips nervously. Removed from the gameboard. It sounded very . . . final. "I guess we'll just have to keep from getting captured, won't we?" Artek said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. It was their turn again. "Sorcerer!" Corin called out. "Diagonal to your left, two squares. Protect your King." His mandible working furiously, Muragh hopped and rolled into position. As he came to a halt on his square, one of the ghostly Knights leapt the Soldier in front of it and sallied out onto the gameboard. Corin himself moved next, mirroring the enemy Knight's position. The knight moved again. Corin tracked him. This time another Soldier moved forward. "Ogre, ahead two and challenge!" Corin commanded. Guss obeyed, lumbering forward toward the middle of the board. One of the opposing Sorcerers drifted menacingly in his direction but could not have captured him anyway, for Guss and the translucent Sorcerer were on opposite colors. Corin shook his head. "This is difficult with so few pieces. Do you see, Artek? There's a clear diagonal between you and that Sorcerer—and that's the only way he can move. You're in danger now. However, I can move to protect you." "Wait a minute!" Artek protested. "Won't the Sorcerer be able to capture you then?" "If so, then our Queen will be able to take him," Corin replied with only a slight quaver in his voice. "We'll have to hope our opponent is not yet ready to sacrifice one of his pieces." Before Artek could argue further, Corin moved two and then one, ending up standing between Artek and the enemy Sorcerer. Fortunately, Corin's reasoning proved correct. The Sorcerer did not capture Corin. Instead, it moved diagonally back one square, taking itself out of Guss's path. "Good, we've got our opponent on the retreat," Corin said. "Now is the time to keep pressing forward." Following Corin's directions, they executed several more moves, making good progress across the board while avoiding the opposing pieces. Then one of the enemy Knights galloped silently forward, lance aimed menacingly at Artek. Corin let out a sharp laugh. "It seems our opponent grows impatient. The Knight is

in your path, Queen, and Ogre is protecting you. Capture him!" Beckla swallowed hard, straightening her vest. "Here goes nothing," she said dubiously. The wizard steeled her shoulders, then moved boldly forward, stepping onto the same square as the enemy Knight. The Knight lowered its lance toward her, but its horse reared back, opening its mouth in a silent scream. A gout of green fire sprang up from the floor, consuming the Knight as it rose toward the ceiling. A moment later, the magical fire vanished. Beckla stared at the faint scorch mark on the floor—all that remained of the Knight. "Something tells me we definitely do not want to get captured," she said. The others could only nod in agreement. They continued to move across the board, but their progress was slower now. Corin was deep in concentration, and sweat beaded on his smooth brow. It was becoming steadily more difficult to avoid capture. Artek took an opposing Soldier, and Guss a Sorcerer—both opposing pieces were consumed by pillars of emerald flame. "Queen, move two to your left!" Corin called out. Just as Beckla started to step in that direction, the nobleman shouted in alarm. "Wait! Stop!" Beckla halted, no more than an inch from the edge of her present square. "I'm sorry," Corin said breathlessly. "You'll be exposed to their Ogre from that position. I didn't see it until it was almost too late." Corin studied the board again. Seconds stretched into long minutes. The others watched him in growing alarm. The nobleman muttered under his breath, going through move after move in his mind. It seemed he could find none that would not result in capture. Finally, he looked back at Artek, his expression grim. "I'm afraid we're out of choices. There's only one thing I can think of, and I'm afraid it's a rather risky gambit. If it fails, we're lost." Artek gazed at him unflinchingly. "I trust you, Corin." For a moment, it almost seemed a faint smile of gratitude touched the young lord's lips. He nodded. "Very well, then. It's time to gamble our King. Let's just hope they take the bait. King! Ahead one!" Artek did as instructed. In response, an opposing Soldier moved one square out of the way. In sudden alarm, Artek saw that he was surrounded on three sides. An enemy Knight, Queen, and Ogre were all in position to capture him. It had been his last move. There would be no escaping. "We've lost," he said, his hopes dying. "Not yet!" Corin cried out. "It seems you've forgotten the same thing our opponent has." He pointed toward a small yellow object that for some time now had sat unnoticed near the side of the gameboard. "Now, Muragh!" Grinning toothily, the skull rolled forward, moving in an unobstructed diagonal line—straight toward the enemy King. The ghostly King's mouth opened in a silent cry of surprise and fear, but it could not move aside. Muragh careened directly into the ethereal form. The King's arms spread wide as a blazing column of green fire sprang from the floor beneath its feet. A second later, many more pillars of emerald magic shot toward the ceiling, each consuming one of the remaining enemy game pieces. As suddenly as they had appeared, the columns of fire dissipated—the ghostly figures were no more. Artek stared in wonder. They had won. With no opposing pieces, all they had to do now was avoid the magical force walls by moving correctly. They made their way swiftly across the gameboard and stepped onto the swath of green marble bordering the far side. Artek gripped Corin's shoulder. "You did it," he said with a fierce grin. Corin smiled. "I did, didn't I?" he asked in amazement.

Their jubilation fell into silence as their eyes turned toward the golden door in the wall. It was time to see what waited beyond. Together they approached the nave. Any thought of one of them going alone had been dismissed without discussion. There was no doorknob, so Artek reached out to push on the door. Just as his fingers brushed the smooth, gold surface, the door swung silently inward. A puff of dry air rushed out, and they stepped into the space beyond. The chamber was small, with no other doors or openings but the one through which they had entered. The walls and floor were of the same gold-flecked marble as the outer hall. The only furnishings were a table and chair hewn of polished onyx. A male figure sat in the chair, slumped forward over the table. His rich velvet robes had long ago decayed to tatters, and his withered skin clung like old parchment to his yellowed bones. Rotted gray hair drooped over his bony shoulders. It was the last apprentice. And by the look of him, he had died in this room long centuries ago. Artek shook his head sadly. Had it all been for nothing—the entire perilous game of lanceboard? He didn't know why he was surprised. He really should be getting used to disappointment by now. "Look," Beckla said softly. "There's something in his hands." She approached the mummified apprentice and carefully removed an object from the grip of his brittle fingers. It was a small, silver disk with thin writing engraved upon one side. They gathered around Beckla to read the words: The deeper you go, the deeper I get. If you jump sideways, you may find me yet. —H. Without doubt the H at the bottom stood for Halaster. Evidently, this riddle was a clue that the mad mage had left behind to help his students find him. Only it seemed this apprentice had died trying. Artek glanced down at the inky tattoo on his arm. The wheel continued to spin slowly, inexorably. The moon had long passed the arrow, and now the sun drew near. By his best guess, it was no more than an hour until daybreak in the city above, no more than an hour until the tattoo sent out a fatal jolt of magic, stopping his heart forever. For all he knew, the last apprentice had spent centuries trying to solve Halaster's riddle, and without success. Artek doubted they could answer it in a mere hour. He shook his head sadly. The others sighed. There was no need for words. They had run out of apprentices, and out of hope. "Well, now what?" Muragh piped up finally, unable to bear the gloomy silence. "Are we all just going to stand here moping at each other until we turn to dust?" "No, the rest of you shouldn't give up," Artek said solemnly. "You may yet find a way out of Undermountain. You've still got a chance, but I'm afraid I don't have one much longer." "Neither do we, really," Beckla replied darkly. She glanced at Corin, a strange sorrow in her eyes. "I haven't seen much food or water in this part of Undermountain. We won't last for very long without both." After a moment, Artek nodded gravely. He respected the wizard too much to argue with her. She and Corin might be able to keep searching for a few more days before thirst and exhaustion overcame them. But only if they were lucky. Artek turned toward Guss and Muragh. The gargoyle gripped the skull tightly in his clawed hands, worry showing in his glowing green eyes.

"Even after the rest of us are . . . gone, you two don't have to quit searching for a way out of here," Artek told them seriously. "You can keep looking for as long as it takes. Eventually, you're bound to find a gate that will take you out of here." Beckla ran a hand through her close-cropped hair. "I'm afraid that won't do them much good," she said sadly. "Muragh and Guss aren't alive in the conventional sense of the word. Neither of them could pass through a gate without a living being accompanying them." Artek hung his head in sorrow. So they were all doomed together. He started to sink to the floor in despair. Then, like a bolt of lightning, it struck him. He stared at the wizard, as if looking for an answer. Something was not right. "Wait a minute, Beckla," he said in confusion. "If Guss can't go through a gate all by himself, why did you send him to test the one we found in the cave in Wyllowwood?" The question caught the wizard entirely off guard. Her mouth opened in surprise, and she stumbled backward. After a moment, she tried to sputter an explanation, but Artek cut her off. All this time, something about the wizard had been bothering him. Something had been nagging at the back of his mind, but he had been too busy to really consider it. At last, he knew what it was. "That gate would have worked for some of us, wouldn't it? Don't lie to me anymore, Beckla," he hissed, baring his pointed teeth in a feral snarl. "I know now that you already have. Your hair gives you away. When we first met, you told me that you had lived in Undermountain for over a year. And your clothes look it. But your hair is short, as if it had been recently cut. Don't try to tell me that you did such a fine job with the edge of your dagger." Beckla did not deny his words. Instead, she braced her shoulders, gazing at him, deep remorse in her brown eyes. "Damn it, Beckla!" Artek snarled. "Tell me what in the Abyss is going on here!" The wizard took a deep breath. "I've betrayed you," she said.

13 Horned Ring Crimson rage surged in Artek's head, and blood pounded in his ears. His orcish side howled in silent fury at the utterance of the cursed word—betrayed. He gripped the edge of the onyx table, knuckles white, teeth clenched. He could not let go. He did not dare. There was no telling what violence his hands would commit if he did. He glared at Beckla with smoldering black eyes. "Tell me," he commanded hoarsely. They were the only words he could manage. The others stared at Beckla in astonishment, trying to comprehend what was happening. At last, the wizard nodded. Pain burned in her brown eyes, but her shoulders were straight, her too-square jaw resolute. "I'll explain everything," she said solemnly. "I know now that I can't lie to you anymore. Though once I tell the truth, I imagine that you'll most likely decide to kill me. Not that I could blame you. There's only one thing that I ask. Just let me finish before you . .. deal with me. I think you owe me that much." "No promises," Artek hissed. His arms trembled. He wished to let go of the stone and crush a living throat instead. "Just talk." Beckla sighed. "As you wish," she said simply. "Not everything I told you was a lie." She shook her head ruefully. "Some of it was all too true. I am indeed a small-time wizard. I've been kicked out of more mage schools than I can count, usually for lack of money." A sardonic smile twisted her lips. "Though once or twice it was for telling the master mage just where he could stuff his wand. In case you hadn't noticed, I can be a little abrasive at times." "Oh, I hadn't noticed, really," Guss murmured politely. Beckla winked at the gargoyle in gratitude. Then her expression grew grim. "All right, here's the part you don't know," the wizard said, crossing her arms across her grubby shirt as she paced before the table. "It wasn't by chance that I happened upon you in the upper halls of Undermountain, Artek. But it really was blind luck that I was there in time to help you with those flying snakes. The truth is, I haven't spent the last year in Undermountain. I came in by a private entrance no more than two hours before you entered the maze yourself. Before that, I had been informed of Corin's whereabouts. You see, it was my job all along to lead you to the lost lord—that's what I was hired to do." "Hired?" Artek asked. "Hired by whom?" Beckla paused and then spoke without emotion. "Lord Darien Thal." An animalistic snarl ripped itself from deep in Artek's throat. Somehow he had known he was going to hear that foul name again. He let go of the table, bearing down on Beckla. Only by great effort did he keep his shaking hands at his sides. The others looked on, mouths agape. "So what did he offer you?" Artek hissed. "A tower of your own? The finest tutors of magic? Money to purchase all you needed to research your precious spells? Was that it, wizard? Did he offer to buy your dreams for you?" "Yes," Beckla whispered. She gazed, not at Artek, but into space, as if she could see a vision of all she had ever desired floating before her. "He promised to make me a great wizard, a mage of renown. All I had to do was lead you to Corin. Then you would use the transportation device he gave you, which would take you deeper into Undermountain." Part of Artek's anger was lost to confusion. "I don't understand. If your job was to get

us lost deeper in Undermountain, then why did you come with us? And why did you help us every time we were attacked?" "Lord Thal didn't want to leave anything to chance," Beckla explained evenly. "At first, he wanted me to lead you both to your deaths, and to bring back proof of your demise. But I refused him on that point." "How kind of you," Artek spat bitterly. Beckla winced at his words but went on. "We decided that I would go with you through the gate, to make certain you did not return to the surface before two days had passed. By then, the nobles would have held their vote, and Lord Thal would have been elected to the Circle. And the reason I helped out in all those scrapes is easy enough—I was protecting my own neck." Corin stepped forward, his boyish face both worried and perplexed. "But I still don't understand, Beckla. Why in the world would you agree to such a task? Once you were lost with us, how were you supposed to escape from Undermountain yourself?" "With this." She drew something from a pocket of her vest and held it up. It was a bronze ring inlaid with small rubies. Two small prongs stood up from the center of the ring like curved horns, holding a larger ruby between them. Artek stared at the ring in shock. "You mean, all this time you've had a way out?" Beckla nodded gravely. "This ring has the power to gate whoever wears it out of Undermountain. I could have left you at any time. But I didn't. I don't suppose that counts for anything, but I wanted you to know. "I had always thought that I would give anything for my dream, but I know now that a dream at any price isn't a dream at all—it's a nightmare." She hung her head. "Do what you will now," she whispered softly. Artek bared his slightly pointed teeth. He raised his big hands before him. He knew now what would be the wizard's punishment for her betrayal. Corin and Guss reached for him, as if to hold him back, but he shook them off. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He sprang forward, catching the wizard in his arms, and with his orcish strength began to squeeze her— in a rough but warm embrace. Beckla's eyes grew large with astonishment, as did those of the others. Artek laughed, lifted the wizard off the floor, and spun her around. At last, he set her down. She gripped the table dizzily to keep from falling. "I don't understand," she gasped. "Aren't you angry with me?" "By all the fires of the Abyss, you'd better believe I'm angry with you, Beckla Shadesar. You should have told us before about that ring of yours. It could have saved us a rather large amount of trouble. But the fact is, you didn't betray us. You could have, but you chose not to." He reached out to squeeze her hand. "And that's all that matters." Color crept slowly into Beckla's cheeks. A smile stole across her lips, and a mischievous spark flashed in her brown eyes. "I think Lord Darien Thal is going to be in for a bit of a surprise." She held up the magical ring. "Let's get out of this dump." The wizard pressed one of the small rubies on the ring, and it popped out, falling into her hand. Thrice more she did this, then gave a ruby to each of the others, sticking Muragh's in his bony ear hole. Finally, Beckla put the ring on her right hand. They gathered close as she held up the ring and spoke in a commanding voice. "Gate—open!" The ring flashed. In the air before them appeared a glowing line. The line widened into a doorway filled with billowing gray mist. "All right, everybody," Beckla cried. "Hold on!"

Together they leapt through the misty portal and fell into the nothingness beyond. Once again, Artek felt the terrible, bodiless cold that gnawed at the very center of his being, but it lasted only a moment. There was another flash, and a crackling hole opened in midair, a gap in the very fabric of the world. The five tumbled through the hole and struck a hard stone floor. "Can't you program these things for softer landings?" Corin complained as they stood. "I'm really not certain I can take much more . . . oh." His words faltered as they gazed around. A rough-hewn corridor stretched into shadow in either direction. Pale fungus clung to the walls, and dark water trickled across the floor. Artek swore vehemently. "I don't understand," Beckla said in confusion. "The ring was supposed to take us to the surface, but this still looks like—" "Undermountain," Artek spat, finishing for her. He shook his head and almost laughed. Almost, but his chest was too tight with the bitter irony of it all. What fools they were! "Don't you see, Beckla? Haven't you figured it out yet? He's betrayed you, too." The wizard's face blanched. Then anger ignited in her eyes. She spoke a single, hateful word, as if it were a curse: "Thal." Artek nodded grimly. "It makes sense. He couldn't have allowed you to live—you knew that he had arranged Corin's demise. So, he made certain that you would never escape from Undermountain either." A great heaviness came upon Artek, weighing him down. "Well, it looks as if Darien has beaten us to our little surprise. He has defeated us after all. But I suppose it was well that we tried." He glanced at his tattoo—less than an hour left. At least he would not have long to wait for his end to come. The others would not be so lucky. It was hard to believe now that the legacy of the Garug-Mal truly ran in his blood, because the darkness held no comfort. It was cold, and bleak, and utterly empty. "Wait just a second," Muragh piped up suddenly. "Guss, pick me up. Beckla, hold up your hand. I need to take a look at that ring of yours." The others regarded Muragh in vague curiosity, but they did as he instructed. The skull peered at the ring with his empty eye sockets. "Hmm," he muttered through his broken teeth. "I was afraid of that," the skull pronounced finally. "Afraid of what?" Artek asked, not certain he had the energy to play the skull's guessing games anymore. "This is a Horned Ring," Muragh replied. "Not a common find in Undermountain, but not so rare either. Halaster made quite a few of them." "Wait a minute," Artek protested. "You mean Halaster himself made this thing?" Somehow the fleshless skull managed to look annoyed. "Granted, I don't have lips, so sometimes I tend to mumble, but I'm pretty certain that's what I said." Beckla studied the ring with new interest. "If it won't take us out of Undermountain, what will it do?" "Take us down," Muragh replied. "A Horned Ring will gate you anywhere you want to go in Undermountain, as long as it's below where you are at the moment. With every jump, it takes its wearer deeper." Artek looked at the skull in sudden shock. "What did you say?" he demanded hoarsely. "Really, Artek," the skull grumbled. "Why don't you clean the orc cheese out of your ears? I'm getting awfully tired of repeating myself." But Artek was no longer paying attention to the skull. He paced quickly over the

damp stone floor, his mind working feverishly. "Of course!" he exclaimed, smacking his forehead with his hand. "That's the answer!" "The answer to what?" Beckla asked. "Halaster's riddle," he replied in growing excitement. "Remember? 'The deeper you go, the deeper I get. If you jump sideways, you may find me yet.' " "I think maybe you've jumped a little too deep yourself," Muragh noted acerbically. Artek ignored him. "Don't you see, Beckla? You said it yourself, back when you were explaining to me the difference between teleporting and using a gate. Teleportation is a fast but direct journey between places." He brought his hands together. "But using a gate is like jumping—" "Sideways," Beckla breathed. Artek snapped his fingers. "Exactly! That's the key to finding Halaster. If every use of the Horned Ring takes you deeper, eventually you would have to reach the deepest part of Undermountain. And where else would the Mad Wizard be except at the very bottom of his own maze?" "Do you think we really dare disturb Halaster himself?" Corin asked, a startled expression on his smudged face. "It's our only chance," Artek replied. "He's the only one who could transport us out of here. What have we got to lose?" "You can count me in," Guss said with a grin. "Me too!" Muragh added. "And me," Beckla said firmly. Corin smoothed his grimy, tattered silk shirt, then gripped the rapier at his side. "Well, I'm not about to miss all the fun." Artek surveyed the determined faces of the others. He had entered Undermountain alone. Never had he expected to find such allies, such friends, in its dark depths. His heart swelled. "Let's do it," he said. They gathered close together, making certain each still had a ruby. Then Beckla raised the ring. "Gate!" she ordered. "Open!" The misty portal appeared before them. "Here goes nothing," Artek murmured. Together they jumped through. They fell sprawling to the floor of a great cavern. An acrid smell hung in the dank air. Artek heard a strange clinking sound and looked up. Glittering blue scales armored the vast, sinuous body of a blue dragon. Like sapphire sails, leathery wings spread open in a menacing display. Red eyes flaring hotly, the dragon stretched its serpentine neck, rising off the mountain of gold, silver, and jewels upon which it sprawled. "Thieves!" it shrieked in a deafening voice. The dragon opened its toothy maw, preparing to kill them with its deadly breath. "Beckla, the gate!" Artek cried. "Open it!" The wizard needed no prompting. She shouted the words. Instantly, the glowing portal appeared in the air before them. They threw themselves toward the billowing mists just as a terrible crackling filled the air. Blazing bolts of blue lightning emanated from the dragon's maw, sizzling toward them. Just before they were engulfed by searing, sapphire death, the magical fog swallowed them. Dragon, cavern, and lightning vanished. They quickly lost count of the jumps they made using the Horned Ring. Sometimes they landed in musty stone corridors and dim tombs. Other times they

found themselves suddenly facing snarling abominations ready to rip their throats out. Once, they plunged into bone-chilling water, and another time they landed on a small basalt islet lost amid a sea of molten lava. Each time, Beckla quickly resummoned the gate, and they leapt through, passing from one peril to another in dizzying succession. Then they landed on a stone floor. Thick clouds of dust billowed sluggishly around them. They were in a cobweb-filled antechamber. By the look of it, no one had set foot in this place in centuries. But there was no time to waste—they had to keep jumping. "Gate, open!" Beckla called out. The portal appeared, and they lunged through. They landed on a stone floor. Thick clouds of dust filled the air around them. Artek blinked in surprise. It was the same antechamber they had landed in a moment ago. The jump had taken them no deeper. Then he realized why. "We're here," he said. This was it. The very bottom of Undermountain. As they stood, their eyes fell upon a small, nondescript wooden door set into one wall. There was no other exit. The five exchanged uncertain looks but there was only one thing to do. They approached the door, and Artek turned the brass knob. The door swung open. "Blast it—company!" hissed a cracked voice. "I must have forgotten to reset the poison-spiked welcome mat again. Well, don't just stand there like you don't have the brains of a black pudding among you. Shut the door. You're letting in a draft!" They were so startled by these words that they could only numbly obey. Closing the door, they took a step into the chamber beyond. No, not chamber, Artek corrected himself. Make that laboratory. If there was any rhyme or reason to the laboratory, it was beyond Artek's comprehension. Chaos ruled supreme here. Vials and beakers balanced precariously on makeshift tables fashioned from moldering books. Weird objects cluttered crooked shelves: mummified animal parts, jars filled with staring eyeballs, and small stone idols with leering expressions. A bucket carelessly filled with jewels sat next to a glass case that enshrined a collection of toenail clippings. Candles had been stuck with melted wax to every available surface: floor, shelves, books, jars, and the skulls of articulated skeletons. However, they seemed to cast more smoke than light, filling the room with flickering shadows that tricked the eye. In all, it was like the locked attic room of someone's mad uncle—peculiar, musty, and vaguely sinister. Then Artek saw the old man. It took some concentration to pick him out from among the mess. He was clad in a drab black robe that was belted crookedly around the waist with a frayed bit of rope. Scraggly gray hair hung loosely over his stooped, bony shoulders as he bent over a wooden table, muttering and cackling to himself as he worked on something hidden from view. Artek guessed that the man was a lackey of Halaster's. However, if he was a doorman, he wasn't a very good one. The fellow seemed to have completely forgotten about their presence. After a moment, Artek cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said hesitantly. The old man continued to mutter to himself, poring over the table before him. Gathering his courage, Artek took a step forward. This time he spoke more loudly. "Excuse me, but we're really in a bit of a hurry. We were wondering if you could tell us where we might find Halas—" The old man looked up, twisting his head to peer back over his shoulder. His ancient face was nearly lost beneath a long gray beard and spiky eyebrows— all Artek could make out was a bladelike nose and two colorless eyes as cold and piercing as

ice. "What?" the old man interrupted. "You're still here?" He blew a snort of disgust through his ratty mustache. "I must have forgotten to oil the trigger on the boulder over the door as well. Well, if you're not going to have the decency to die, at least stop being such a nuisance with all your chatter. Can't you see that I'm working? Now make yourself useful and hand me that." He thrust a bony finger toward a small jar of black paint on a nearby shelf. Before Artek even knew what he was doing, he hopped forward to obey the command. Chagrined, he brought the jar of paint to the ancient man. Artek craned his neck, but could not quite glimpse what the other man was working on. It was something very small. After a moment, the old man cackled in glee. "Done!" Scooping up several tiny objects into a withered hand, he marched with surprising swiftness toward an opening in the far wall and disappeared beyond. Artek exchanged curious looks with the others. After a moment's hesitation, they followed after. Stepping through the opening, they found themselves not in another chamber, but on the edge of a vast cavern. A red-gold light hung upon the dank air, but it appeared to have no source. Artek blinked in astonishment as the others gasped behind him. Arranged in haphazard fashion around the cavern were a score of tables, every one a dozen paces long and half again as wide. Sprawling atop each of the tables was what appeared to be an intricate maze. Artek approached one of the tables and shook his head in wonder. This wasn't just any maze, he realized. It was Undermountain. "What in the name of all the gods is that?" he asked in awe. From the center of the cavern came a shrill cackle of glee. "It's my masterpiece!" the old man cried. "My most marvelous toy ever. Impressed, aren't you? Well, you should be!" Rendered in tiny but perfect detail, every single one of the vast labyrinth's many subterranean levels lay before Artek. He had never seen anything so wondrous in his life. The model was roofless, so that he could gaze within, and every wall, every door, every minuscule stone had been fashioned with exquisite care from wood and clay and paint. Tiny figurines populated the miniature halls and chambers: skillfully rendered monsters and adventurers, each no taller than the knuckle of a finger. So flawless was the model that Artek felt almost like some great god, peering down upon the diminutive world of mortals below. "Look!" Beckla whispered in amazement. She and the others had wandered around, gazing at other levels resting on other tables. The wizard pointed to a chamber filled with tiny trees fashioned from bits of green moss. "I think this is Wyllowwood." "And this must be the River Sargauth," Corin added from nearby, pointing to a thin strip of glittering blue fashioned from crushed sapphire. "And here's the tomb where you found me," Guss said excitedly, pointing to a small chamber at the end of another table. "It's times like these that make me really wish I still had fingers," Muragh muttered to no one in particular. Artek shook his head in disbelief. "Everything's here. Everything. It's absolutely perfect." The old man approached. "Of course it is," he said. "I made it, didn't I? And it's taken me quite a few centuries to get it just right, if I do say so." Startled, Artek stared at the ancient man. A chilling suspicion began to coalesce in his mind.

Just then the old man glanced down and frowned. Near the center of the table, a band of adventurer figurines faced a dozen clay goblins. "Humph! I don't like those odds." The old man reached into his pocket and drew out a strange-looking pair of shears. Opening the handles, the shears extended like an accordion, stretching toward the figurines. A cruel light flashed in his eyes as he squeezed the handles together, and the blades of the shears snapped shut, lopping off the heads of three of the adventurer figurines. Only one remained intact. The old man let out a burst of maniacal laughter, retracting the shears. "That's better!" The others watched with growing discomfort as the old fellow wreaked further havoc upon the miniature Undermountain. He moved from table to table, flooding rooms with water, melting wax monsters with the flame of a candle, and smashing tiny adventurers at random with a silver hammer. All the while, he let out hoots of malevolent glee, as if it were all a capricious game he was inventing as he went along. A small white mouse suddenly scurried down a tiny corridor in one of the models, squeaking shrilly. "Ah, Fang, there you are," the strange old man said, clucking his tongue. "You've been hiding again, haven't you? You know I don't like it when you hide. Next time it may be bang with my silver hammer." The old man picked up the mouse and held out a tiny object. It was a miniature sword. "Go give this to the warrior on level four, chamber sixty-two. I don't want her to die just yet. She's been far too much fun." He set the mouse back down on the table. "Now shoo! Shoo! And don't hide the next time I'm looking for you." Fang let out a decidedly recalcitrant squeak, then took the sword in its mouth before scurrying away through the tabletop maze. Meanwhile, Corin had been studying the miniature labyrinth on a nearby table. "I've always simply adored models," he murmured. He pointed to a dark circle of polished onyx. "What's that?" he asked in delight. The old man peered over the young noble's shoulder. "That's Midnight Lake." "And what about this?" Corin pointed to a tortuous series of chambers and corridors. The old mage let out a snort. "That's the Gauntlet of my idiotic half-spider apprentice, Muiral. He never could find me. But then, none of them did. Poor students one and all, they were." Artek and Beckla exchanged shocked looks. However, Corin wasn't really listening. "And how about this?" He pointed to a small square that glowed with an eerie green light. The old man glowered at him. "You're certainly full of questions, aren't you? That's Wish Gate. It will take you anywhere you wish to go." Artek's pointed ears pricked up at this. "Even out of Undermountain?" he asked. "I said anywhere, didn't I?" the old man grumped. "Now, I've had more than enough of your questions. I'm quite busy, you know. So be quiet—or get yourselves killed. Do anything, as long as you just stop pestering me!" The others drew away, gathering on the far side of the cavern. "Did you hear him?" Artek asked softly. "He called Muiral his apprentice. It can mean only one thing." Corin's eyes suddenly went wide. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. "You mean that's ... I was talking to ... this old fellow is . . ." Artek nodded grimly. "Halaster himself." His gaze moved to the ancient mage. Halaster was chortling over his model. Artek shook his head. The Mad Wizard wasn't simply a name, he realized. Halaster truly was

mad, an old man playing a child's game, his days of power and glory long forgotten. Muragh let out a dejected sigh. "If he's Halaster, then we're doomed. I think he's more than a little touched, and not particularly nice. He'll never help us." "What about that Wish Gate?" Guss suggested. "Couldn't it take us out of Undermountain?" "Probably," Beckla answered. "But only if we could get to it. Judging by the model, it looks to be miles away from here. And it's much higher than we are now. The Horned Ring won't take us there." Artek made a decision. "It doesn't seem Halaster much cares for company. I'm going to ask him if he'll transport us to Wish Gate. He just might do it, if for no other reason than to get rid of us." It seemed they had little choice. Keeping close together, the five approached the ancient mage. Mad as he was, he was still a legendary wizard, and not a figure to be trifled with. Artek cleared his throat nervously. "I'm sorry to disturb you again," he said as politely as he could manage. "I know you're getting rather weary of us by now." The old man paused in the midst of pouring acid over a group of melting dwarf figurines. "What clued you in?" he snorted. Artek risked continuing. "Well, there is a way you can be rid of us for good. All you have to do is transport us to Wish Gate and—" "Bah!" Halaster spat. "I can come up with something far more interesting than that. But thank you for reminding me. It's about time I used these." From the pocket of his robe, he pulled out the small objects he had been working on earlier. They were figurines, like the ones scattered throughout the various levels of the miniature Undermountain. Artek leaned closer, squinting. He saw now that one of them was a tiny man: broad-shouldered, with black hair and black eyes, dressed all in black leather, with a curved saber at his hip. Blinking in shock, he realized that the figurine was him. Four more diminutive figurines rested on Halaster's palm: a short-haired woman in a white shirt and gray vest; a willowy young man with golden hair; a bat-winged gargoyle; and a grinning skull no larger than a pea. "How do you like my newest playthings?" the mad wizard cackled. "They're not bad likenesses, if I do say so myself. I'm going to have great fun with these. I'm rather sure of it." Before Artek could wonder what he meant, with two fingers the old man picked up the gargoyle figurine. He scanned the maze on the table before him, which depicted one of Undermountain's many levels. "Ah, this will do!" He placed the gargoyle figurine inside a small chamber next to another figurine carved in the shape of a flame. Guss vanished. The others stared in astonishment. One moment the gargoyle was there, standing beside them, and the next moment he wasn't. There was no flash, no thunder, no sparkling magic. Guss had simply and completely disappeared. Humming an eerie tune under his breath, Halaster took the figurine of the golden-haired man and, stretching his arm, set it down in the model, on the edge of a chasm. This time it was Corin who vanished. This display before them was not merely a model of Undermountain's levels—it was Undermountain. By means of his vast magic, Halaster had bound the miniature and the real mazes inexorably together and what happened in one labyrinth happened in the other. Given his madness, Halaster probably thought this no more than a game. He was like a cruel boy burning his toy soldiers for fun, but each of the figurines he

manipulated represented real, living beings: animals, monsters, and men. And now he had created five new figurines to add to his amusing little playhouse. Artek lunged for the model to snatch up the likenesses of Guss and Corin, hoping that would return them to the laboratory. A thin sheet of crimson magic sprang into being between him and the table, throwing him violently backward. He clambered to his feet in time to see the mad wizard place the tiny skull figurine in a chamber next to a green pool. In the blink of an eye, Muragh was gone. This time Artek lunged for the wizard himself. Once again crimson magic flashed, tossing him backward like a rag doll. Unperturbed, Halaster set the figurine of the short-haired woman in a chamber lined in shining silver. Beckla shouted in horror, but her cry was cut short as she vanished from sight. Artek watched in dread as Halaster took the remaining figurine—the man in black—and reached toward the model. Though he knew it was futile, once more Artek threw himself at the ancient mage. He was only halfway there when, laughing with wicked glee, Halaster set the figurine atop a miniature stone column. Everything blurred into gray. * * * * * Guss backed against the stone wall as the fire elemental danced closer and closer. The air in the cavern shimmered, and it felt as if he were inside an oven. Guss had tried to take flight, but he had been brutally buffeted against a wall by an updraft spawned by the roaring heat. He could see no other exits. There was no escape. The elemental was mesmerizing, even beautiful. He almost thought he could see a lithe figure whirling in the center of the white-hot corona. He supposed it was better this way. It was wrong to live on after all his brethren had passed into stone, but now it would not be much longer. Behind him, the stone wall began to sag. Rivulets of liquid rock dripped downward. Searing pain filled Guss's body as the fire elemental danced nearer. Just a few more moments. Then he would return to the stone that had spawned him. Like the wall, he, too, began to melt. * * * * * At least it was an adventurous way to go, Corin thought. With white-knuckled hands he clung to the edge of a precipice. Darkness yawned beneath his feet. Somewhere far, far below he could hear the sound of water, but it was a long way down. His boots scrabbled against the cliff face, but it was no use. The stone was too smooth. He tried to pull himself up, but the darkness seemed to drag him downward. There wasn't enough strength in his arms and what little remained was quickly waning. At last, his fingers could hold on to the sharp edge no longer. His hands started to slip, then let go. His last thought was of how he wished he'd had a chance to say good-bye to Artek and the others. Then he plunged downward, falling into deep—but not endless—darkness. * * * * * Muragh stared at the rising pool of bubbling green liquid. "Of course you're staring, you ninny," he muttered to himself. "You're a skull. You don't have eyelids. Staring is all you can do." Even before the emerald fluid touched the old bones of a nameless creature—dissolving them in an instant—Muragh had known it was acid. He had hopped and rolled as far as possible to the edge of the small, circular stone room, but he could go no farther. The acid continued to rise. "I wonder if it can hurt to die when you're already dead?" he asked himself nervously. With every second, the edge of the hissing pool drew nearer. It looked as if he was

about to find out. * * * * * Beckla knew that this was what it was like to go mad. Countless faces leered at her from the jagged, shardlike mirrors that covered the walls, floor, and ceiling of the chamber—all horribly distorted. Bloated, bloodshot eyes stared at her, and twisted mouths laughed in silent mockery. They were hideous. Yet still more hideous was the knowledge that the faces were her own, each one a broken reflection of her own horrified visage. Beckla spun dizzily, but in every direction the horrid, shattered faces gazed back at her. Screaming, she sank to the floor, and the sharp-edged mirrors that covered it sliced her knees. She tried shutting her eyes, but that made it even worse, for then she could feel all the loathsome eyes boring into her flesh. She opened her eyes and reeled again. It felt as if at any moment her mind would shatter like the crazed mirrors, breaking into a thousand distorted pieces from which a whole could never again be reconstructed. She had to get out but could see no doorway. Only eyes, mouths, and faces, faces, faces. Sobbing, she hunched over. As she did, a reflection caught her eye. A thought pierced the growing madness that clutched her brain. Perhaps there was a way after all.

14 Gargoyle's Gift Artek stood atop a stone pillar. He was in a vast, dimly lit hall. A line of freestanding columns stretched in either direction, each perhaps ten paces apart. Like the one Artek stood upon, all ended abruptly, supporting nothing but thin air. If there was a ceiling to this place, it was lost in the gloom above. With his orcish eyes, he could just make out the floor of the hall below. It was writhing. Even without his darkvision he could have guessed the nature of the slithering shadows by the dry hissing that rose on the air—snakes. There were hundreds of them, thousands. And more than a few of them were probably venomous. Glancing down at the dark tattoo on his forearm, he saw that the sun was nearly touching the arrow now. Dawn was just minutes away. And his death with it. Artek flinched at a sudden, reverberating boom! There was a long moment of silence, followed by a second crash. Then came another, and another. His jaw fell in grim surprise. It looked as if something else were going to kill him first. The pillars were falling. Even as he watched, one of the columns farther down the line tilted in his direction and struck the column next to it with a thunderous cracking of stone, causing this column to begin to fall as well. It was a chain reaction—one by one, they were all going to topple. The tenth column from him began to fall. Then the ninth. He turned, took as much of a running start as the constraining surface allowed, then leapt to the top of the next pillar. Letting his momentum carry him forward, he tensed his legs and sprang to the pinnacle of the next pillar in line. Behind him, the columns continued to topple. The seventh farthest from him fell. Then the sixth. He kept jumping. His lungs burned with effort. The fourth column behind him crashed to the floor, and then the third. He could not jump fast enough—the columns were gaining on him. A few seconds more and he would crash to the snake-strewn floor below with a thousand tons of stone. Then he saw it hovering in midair just ahead: a glowing square filled with billowing gray mist. He blinked in confusion. How could this be? There was a deafening crash and the stone beneath his feet gave a violent shudder. He fell sprawling to the top of the pillar and nearly went flying over the side. He gripped the edge, hauling himself back up. As he did, the column tilted wildly, then began to trace a smooth, fatal arc toward the floor below. The pillar was falling. With a desperate cry, Artek sprang up and forward with all of his strength. For a terrified moment, he thought he wasn't going to make it, but then his body broke the surface of the gate, and he fell down into gray emptiness. As before, his body seemed to dissolve away. He had no substance, no flesh—only a naked, quivering consciousness to be flayed raw by the bitter cold. Thankfully, the horrible sensation lasted only a second. There was a flash. The reek of lightning filled his nostrils, and he fell hard to a stone floor. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet. A trio of trolls stood before him. They reached out with long arms, baring countless filthy, pointy teeth. With a cry of alarm, Artek fumbled for the cursed saber at his hip and drew it with a ring of steel. He did not wait for the trolls to attack first. He swung the saber, striking the arm of one of the creatures. The limb snapped with a brittle sound and fell to the floor. The troll did not so much as blink. Its companions were equally still. Artek stared in puzzlement. Cautiously, he approached the creatures, tapping one with his saber. It tottered, then fell backward. As it struck the floor, it shattered. Clay, Artek realized in amazement. The trolls were made of clay. The cursed saber

did not compel him to attack the harmless figures. As he stared down at the broken monster, he noticed that the floor looked odd. He scratched the stones with the point of the saber, and a thick line of gray curled up, revealing brown wood below. It was paint. What was going on here? Before Artek could think of an answer, there was a sizzling sound as a gate appeared in the air above. A form dropped through, landing on the floor with a soft oof! It was Beckla. He quickly helped the wizard to her feet as the gate flashed into nonexistence. The wizard's brown eyes were wide and staring, almost mad. At last she shuddered and looked at Artek. "Where are the others?" she gasped. Even as she said this, three more gates crackled into existence. Each spat out a single figure before vanishing. Corin and Guss groggily picked themselves up, while Muragh rolled in a dizzy circle. The young nobleman blinked in bewilderment. "I don't understand. I was plummeting to my death. Then a gray square appeared below me and I fell into it and . . . and here I am." "I was about to be melted into slag when the same thing happened to me," Guss said with a shudder. Wisps of smoke still wafted from his scaly hide. "And I was on the verge of being dissolved into skull soup," Muragh said in a quavering voice. "What is going on?" Artek wondered. "Where are we?" "We're in Undermountain," Beckla said in awe. "I can see that," Artek replied dryly. "No, not the real Undermountain," Beckla countered. Her forehead crinkled in a frown. "Though I suppose we are there, too." "Make up your mind," Artek said. "Don't you see?" Beckla circled the chamber, studying the clay trolls, the painted walls, the wooden floor. "We're inside the miniature." She waited for the others to absorb this fact and then went on. "It was the Horned Ring," the wizard explained. "I thought that if each of us still had a ruby from the ring, there was a chance it might be able to gate us all to the same place. So I concentrated on Halaster's cavern as I invoked the ring. And it worked. It brought us all here." She ran a hand through her short hair, gazing around. "Only something went wrong. The magic that binds Halaster's model of Undermountain must permeate the entire cavern. I think there must have been some strange interaction between the Horned Ring and that magic." In shock, Artek stared at the clay trolls. He had thought them to be statues, but now he knew that wasn't so. They were figurines—the kind with which Halaster populated his model of Undermountain. This entire room was no more than a few inches long. "By all the bloodiest gods!" he shouted, whirling to look at Beckla. "Do you mean to tell me that each of us is now the size of one of Halaster's figurines?" The wizard nodded grimly. "In a word, yes. And I imagine that, somewhere in Undermountain, there are now five life-sized clay replicas of us, falling off cliffs and getting dissolved by acid. Somehow the interference between the model and the ring has caused us to switch places with our figurines." Artek staggered, leaning against a painted paper column for support—this was too much. "At least it won't be much work to bury me," he said in a slightly manic voice. "No need to dig six feet. Six inches will do fine." "Wait a minute," Corin said. The nobleman paced quickly back and forth, his face lined in thought. "This might not be as bad as it seems."

"Apparently, you have a better imagination than I do," Beckla noted dubiously. "Actually, my idea is really rather simple," Corin went on. "Halaster seems to have taken great care in making this miniature an exact working replica of Undermountain. Don't you see?" He paused meaningfully. "It's perfect in every way." "Spit it out, Corin!" Muragh griped. "What are you getting at?" Artek looked at the young man in astonishment. "I see what Corin means," he said. "Wish Gate!" "Indubitably!" Corin cried. "Of course!" Beckla exclaimed. "Halaster has taken almost pathological care in recreating every detail in this model—there's no reason to believe that the miniature Wish Gate won't act just like the real one." Artek glanced up. Hadn't each of the models been roofless? All he saw above them was a hazy, red-gold glow. He turned to the gargoyle. "Guss, do you think you can fly up and see if you can spot Wish Gate?" Guss nodded enthusiastically. Stubby wings flapping, he rose into the air. Crimson magic crackled. The gargoyle let out a yelp of pain and dropped back to the floor. "The magical barrier," Beckla groaned. "It must work from the inside as well as out. Only Halaster can move something in and out of the model." Artek was not about to give up so easily. "Well, we'll just have to find our way out of this level the hard way, like mice in a maze. Come on!" Forcing himself not to look at the tattoo on his arm, he kicked open the door and dashed into the painted hallway beyond. The others were right on his heels. They ran down corridors painted in imitation of damp, moldy stone, passing countless figurines: monsters with glass splinter fangs, wizards gripping toothpick staves, and heroes wielding sewing-needle swords. Artek let his orcish instincts guide him as he tried to home in on their target. Finally, he came to a halt, and the others stopped, panting. "We've been making steady headway in one direction this whole time," he said between breaths. "We've got to be near the edge of the maze by now." Guss walked up to the wall before them, eyed it critically, then lashed out with a clawed fist. His hand punched through paint and wood. Ruddy light poured through the opening. "Looks like you're right, Artek," the gargoyle said with a grin. Artek peered through the opening. Guss had punched through an outer wall and they were indeed on one edge of the maze. Just beneath was the edge of the table upon which this level sat. Beyond that, the drop to the floor below seemed hundreds of feet, not the three or four he knew it to be. "Help me widen this," he said, tearing away a chunk of wood. The others lent their hands to the task, and in moments the opening was wide enough for them to crawl through. Once on the other side, they balanced precariously on the edge of the table. "Hey, how come we haven't turned big again now that we're outside the model?" Muragh asked in annoyance. Beckla answered his question. "I don't think we'll return to our normal size until we're finally out of Undermountain—that should break the connection between us and our figurines." "There!" Corin said, pointing across what seemed a vast gap to the next nearest table. "I think that's the table that holds the model of the Wish Gate level." Artek shook his head doubtfully. "I suppose it's no more than three feet to that table, but it might as well be a mile. How are we ever going to get across?"

"Guss the gargoyle, at your service," Guss announced cheerfully. He hovered over them, leathery wings flapping. "I hope you don't mind, but I'll have to take you one at a time." Their laughter fell short as a gigantic shadow loomed over them, blotting out the light. A great craggy moon rose over the model, two smaller pale spheres embedded in its surface. Only after a second did Artek realize that it was not a moon at all but Halaster's wrinkled face. The wizard was bending over his model. A gigantic, wrinkled hand stretched in their direction. They cowered against the wall of the maze as the hand loomed nearer. One careless swipe, and they would be flattened like bugs. Artek clenched his jaw, trying not to scream. The hand hovered directly above them, then continued on, reaching to manipulate some objects elsewhere in the maze. Artek forced himself to breathe again. Halaster had not seen them. But they might not be so lucky next time—they had to hurry. Artek tried not to think about the seconds slipping away as Guss valiantly ferried each of the others across the gap to the other table. Finally, it was Artek's turn. Though Guss was clearly growing tired, he did not complain, and at last set Artek down gently on the table's edge. They shrank into the corner between wall and tabletop for a moment, but no shadow loomed above. Apparently, Halaster had not noticed their little adventure. The magical barrier had prevented Guss from setting them down within the maze, so Beckla blasted a hole in the wall of the model with a spell. They crawled through the smoking gap, into the labyrinth beyond. "You got the closest look at the model, Corin," Artek said. "You lead the way." For a moment, a look of uncertainty crossed Corin's face. Then—with visible effort—he squared his shoulders and nodded. "All right, follow me." Artek grinned. Two days ago, Corin would never have accepted such a responsibility—the young lord had grown on this journey. Ignoring their weariness, they ran down painted hallways and punched through doors of stiff paper. Nothing stood in their way now. They were almost to Wish Gate. They turned the corner and found themselves facing a gigantic white beast with blood-red eyes. It gnashed its long, yellow teeth and saliva trickled from the corner of its mouth. The five stared in horror. This was no clay figurine. Emitting a high-pitched squeak, the creature lumbered toward them, dragging a pink, ropelike tail behind. Understanding broke through Artek's terrified stupor—this was no monstrous abomination of the underworld. It was Fang, Halaster's pet mouse. But the creature was now thrice their size, making it a monster indeed. It seemed angry at their intrusion upon its territory. Its claws scrabbled against the floor, gouging the gray paint. Baring its razor-sharp teeth, it lunged for them. With a roar, Guss lashed out an arm, swiping Fang's pink nose with his talons. The mouse squealed in pain, raising its bloodied snout into the air. The five dashed into a side chamber. They shut the stiff paste-and-paper door, hoping it was enough to keep the mouse at bay. A moment later, they heard a scratching outside. "We have to keep going down this corridor," Corin whispered urgently. "It's the only way to Wish Gate." Beckla shook her head. "We'll never get past Halaster's little pet." Artek clenched his hand into a fist, punching the wooden wall. He could not believe that they had survived so many perils only to be defeated by a mouse. "There is a way," said a gruff voice. The others looked up in surprise. It was Guss. "I could go out into the hallway first and run in the opposite direction. That way, the mouse would follow me and the rest of

you could get to the gate." "But that thing will kill you!" Beckla cried. Guss's serious expression did not waver. For a moment he was silent, and then he spoke in quiet words. "During all those centuries I dwelled in the tomb of Talastria and Orannon, I always thought there was something wrong with me. I couldn't bring myself to slay the tomb's defilers as my brethren did. I thought... I thought it was because I was a coward." The gargoyle gazed at the others, his green eyes glowing brightly. "But that's not true. I simply had never met anyone whom I wanted to protect. Until now." The gargoyle reached out to grip Beckla's hand gently in his own. "Please," he said softly but insistently. "Let me do this thing. It is what I was created for." Beckla snatched her hand away. Corin and Muragh gazed at the gargoyle with shock. Sorrow weighed heavily on Artek's heart, but a smile touched his lips. Guss knew who he was now—truly, deeply, with all his stony heart, Artek thought. Would that he could say so much. He would not deny Guss's chance to be whole. Artek laid a hand fondly on the gargoyle's spiky shoulder. "Maybe you were created from evil, but you're a good creature to us. Never forget that." Gratitude filled the gargoyle's eyes, but there was worry as well. "You would do well to heed your own words, Artek Ar'talen." The others made their farewells then, though time forced them to be quick. Beckla's good-bye was the most tearful, and she was reluctant to release the gargoyle from her embrace. "I'm going to miss you so much, Guss," she said quietly. "And I you, Beckla," the gargoyle replied, squeezing her tight in his stony arms. "You, more than anyone, have taught me that I can be what I choose to be. Thank you, Beckla Shadesar. Remember me." She shook her head fiercely. "How could I ever forget you?" But she could manage no more words beyond that. The gargoyle flashed a toothy grin and extended his onyx talons, truly looking like the fearsome creature he had been created to be. But the same kindness glowed in his eyes. "Here I come, Fang!" Guss bellowed. "Your doom is upon you. And its name is Terrathiguss!" The gargoyle shredded the paper door with his claws and leapt through the tatters. The mouse squealed, its bloody whiskers twitching. Guss ran down the corridor. The mouse scrabbled after him while the others dashed into the hallway, watching in horror. Guss was fast, but the mouse was faster still. It pounced, landing on the gargoyle. The two caught each other in a terrible embrace. Guss's talons raked across the mouse's belly, staining its snowy fur with crimson. It shrieked, then dug its teeth into the gargoyle's shoulder, and green ichor flowed. Wrestling with each other, the two creatures crashed into a wall. Thin wood splintered. As one, mouse and gargoyle tumbled through the hole and were gone. Artek was first to the gap in the wall. Beckla and Corin—who held Muragh—were a half-second behind. Together, they peered through the hole. Beyond the edge of the tabletop, on the floor far below, lay the mouse, its fur drenched with blood. It twitched once, then lay still. Scattered around the mouse were a dozen jagged shards of gray stone, stone that looked just like the remnants of a broken statue—the statue of a gargoyle.

Clutching a hand to her mouth, Beckla turned away. Corin cradled Muragh in his arms. By force of will, Artek swallowed the lump of sorrow in his throat. There would be time for mourning later. He gripped Beckla's hand. "Let's go," he said. The others nodded, and they started back down the hallway. Moments later, they burst through a paper door and into a small room. Wish Gate hung on the far wall like a shimmering emerald mirror. Artek looked down at his tattoo. The sun had brushed the arrow. How long did he have now? Three minutes? Two? There was no time to waste. He gripped hands with Beckla and Corin; the nobleman held Muragh in his other hand. They approached the shimmering gate. "Where are you going to wish us to?" Beckla asked. Artek bared his pointed teeth; the expression was not a smile. "If it works, then you'll see." Fixing his wish in his mind, he tightened his grip on the others. Then, as one, they leapt into the gate. This time the nothingness was green. Then blue. Then black as ice at midnight. The cold was worse than before, and far, far longer—crueler than anything they had felt. Artek thought it would freeze his very soul to splinters, and his consciousness dwindled, like a dying spark lost in a winter night. Then, just as the spark wavered on the edge of being extinguished, cold dark became blazing light, and the universe exploded. Falling through a sizzling aperture, they landed on a cushioned surface. Artek blinked and looked down. It was a thick, luxurious rug—an expensive one, by the look of it. His feral grin broadened. He recognized this room. The wish had worked. With a snarl, he leapt to his feet. Corin and Beckla pulled themselves up behind him. They were in a gaudily decorated room filled with gilded wood, rich tapestries, and ostentatious displays of gold and silver. Before them stood two men. One was clearly a wizard: bald-headed, hook-nosed, and clad in a brown robe. The other was tall and elegant, with dark hair and gleaming green eyes, fashionably clad in purple velvet and silvery silk. He had frozen in the act of putting on a thick, black walking cloak. "Going somewhere, Lord Thal?" Artek asked. Only for a second did shock register upon the lord's handsome face. Then his visage grew smooth once more, his hooded green eyes glittering like a serpent's. A cruel smile coiled around the corners of his lips. "Artek Ar'talen," he said with an almost imperceptible nod. "Exaggerated as the stories concerning your prowess seemed, it appears now they underestimated you." Artek took a menacing step forward. Beckla and Corin flanked him on either side. "Save the compliments, Thal," Artek spat. "They're wasted on me. There's only one thing I want from you." Thal affected an expression of mock regret. "Oh, do forgive me. But I really am in a bit of hurry. I have an important appointment to keep." Wicked laughter rose in his chest. "It seems that a foolish little titmouse of a lord has turned up missing—hardly a great loss, I know—and in his stead I am to be elected to the seventh seat on the city's Circle of Nobles." Corin hung his head at Darien's cutting insult. Worried, Beckla glanced over at the young man. Artek laughed bitterly. "What was it you told me when you first offered me this task, Darien?" He snapped his fingers. "Ah, yes. I remember. 'Among Silvertor's rivals are

those with dark ambitions. They see the Circle as a means to rule over all the city's nobility, and as a position from which to launch an all-out assault against the hidden Lords of Waterdeep.'" "Well, then," Darien said with dark mirth. "I did not lie about everything." Darien's wizard gripped his staff. "Shall I dispose of this refuse for you, my lord?" "Hush, Melthis," Darien crooned. "Be polite. These are our guests, after all. Besides, in just a few more seconds, the worst of them will be disposed of for us." Artek glanced at his dark tattoo. The sun was nearly centered upon the arrow. The windows of Darien's mansion glowed deep red—it was almost dawn. Artek walked up to the dark-haired lord and thrust out his arm. "Have your vulture take it off, Darien," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Now. If you don't, I swear, you won't outlive me." Darien sighed deeply. At last he nodded. "Very well, if you put it that way." He turned toward the bald-headed wizard. "Melthis?" "Yes, my lord?" "Die," Darien said flatly. The lord pulled his right arm from beneath his heavy cloak, and three whirling prongs sprang from the end of the burnished steel Device where his hand should have been. Before Artek could react, Darien plunged the spinning prongs into the wizard's chest. Melthis jerked spasmodically, his eyes going wide in disbelief, his mouth opening silently. Darien pulled the bloody Device back. Melthis slumped to the floor, blood pouring from the ragged hole in his chest. The wizard twitched once, and that was all. "Damn you, Thal!" Artek shouted in fury. "Why?" Darien's smiled with an almost mad glee. "Melthis was weak and stupid. Had you threatened my life, he might have capitulated and given you what you wanted, removing the tattoo. But now there is no chance of that." His voice rose exultantly. "The seconds are slipping by, Ar'talen. Can't you feel them draining away, one by one? You've lost. If you were wise, you would use these last moments to make peace with whatever uncouth gods you orcish rats worship in your rancid little holes in the ground." Beckla raised her hands to cast a spell. "No!" Artek roared. "He's mine!" Orcish rage cast its blood-red veil before his eyes. Drawing the saber at his hip, he lunged forward. He swung the blade in a whistling arc, precisely aimed to sever the lord's neck. But before it connected, the saber jerked in Artek's hand, wrenching his arm painfully. The blade changed direction of its own volition, and Artek twisted his body, barely managing to keep from severing his own leg. "You are a fool, Ar'talen," Darien laughed. "You should have known you could not harm me with that blade. I was the one who gave it to you, after all." Artek tried to cast down the sword. He would squeeze the life out of Darien with his bare hands if he could just release the cursed blade. But it was all he could do to keep the saber from turning on him again. Darien tossed his cloak back, holding the bloody Device before him. He started moving for the door. "Out of my way—all of you! Waterdeep is going to be mine. And no one can stop me." There was a sharp ringing of steel. "I can," someone said. All turned in surprise. It was Corin. He stood before Darien, rapier drawn. Gone from the young man's face was all the pale uncertainty of before. Authority blazed in his brilliant blue eyes, and despite his ragged, grimy clothes and smudged cheeks, his nobility seemed to shine forth. For all of Darien's rich velvet and silver silk, he looked

like a lowly beggar next to Corin. Mocking laughter escaped Darien's throat. "You can't kill me, boy. And even if you could, you wouldn't. You haven't the guts. Now scurry back to your little House of Silvertor, and perhaps, when I rule the city, I might let you live. After all, you're really not even worth killing." Corin said nothing. He gripped his rapier tightly, his jaw set in firm resolution. The Device buzzed on the end of Darien's arm. For a protracted moment the two stared at each other, deciding who would make the first move. Without warning, Darien let out a cry of pain. He hopped on one foot, clutching the other with his hand. A pale, round form gnawed with yellow teeth at the flesh of his ankle: Muragh. With his left hand, Darien grabbed the skull and hurled it across the room. Muragh struck a wall with a sickening thud, then fell to the floor. After that, the skull did not move. Muragh's teeth had done little damage, but Darien had been thrown off balance and Corin did not waste the chance. His rapier flashed in a bright arc, severing Darien's right arm above the wrist. The Device bounced to the carpet, its steel prongs still whirling violently. Darien stared in horror at the gory stump of his arm. He clutched it to his body and stumbled back against a polished mahogany wall. The cruel arrogance in his eyes was replaced by terror as Corin advanced, leveling his rapier at Darien's chest. Darien shook his head slowly, tears streaming from his eyes. "Please," he whined piteously. "Please, Lord Silvertor. I beg of you. Have mercy!" Corin hesitated only a moment. "No, Darien," he said quietly. "Mercy is for innocents." Darien opened his mouth to scream, but was cut short by the whiplike sounds of Corin's rapier. Corin withdrew the blade. For a moment it seemed his blows had done nothing—Darien stared forward with an almost peaceful expression. Then blood began to flow from a dozen wounds on his arms and torso. A line of crimson appeared around his neck. Cleanly severed, Darien's head rolled to one side while his body slumped to the other, and both fell to the floor in a rapidly growing pool of blood. "Do forgive me," Corin whispered. The rapier slipped from his numb fingers as he stared at the grisly scene he had wrought. Artek lifted the cursed saber. He willed his hand to release the hilt. To his amazement, the blade fell to the floor. Then he felt it: the first pinpricks of pain in his arm. His eyes locked on the tattoo. The sun was centered squarely on the arrow now. Sparks of crimson magic sizzled around the lines of dark ink, and he shuddered as blazing agony traveled swiftly up his arm, reaching toward his heart. Now that he had finally come to the end, he found that he was not afraid anymore. Perhaps it was because he finally knew who he was. And it was Guss who had shown him, with his noble sacrifice. If a gargoyle could be good, then so could Artek. It didn't matter what one was created to be. What mattered was how one lived one's life. He knew now that he didn't have to choose between being good and being part orc. He could be both. Artek threw his head back, calling out to the heavens. "Arturg! Arthaug! My fathers before me! I come to you!" "No!" a voice screamed. It was Beckla. The wizard rushed toward him as he fell to his knees. She raised her hand. Something gold and crimson shone on her finger. "Gate!" she cried. "Open!" As she spoke the words, a glowing square filled with billowing gray mist appeared

before them. Deadly crimson magic crackled around Artek's tattoo. He arched his spine in agony. His heart jerked in his chest. Filled as he was with pain, he almost didn't notice as Beckla grabbed his arm and thrust it into the shimmering gate. The wizard held his arm fast, keeping the magical portal from pulling Artek fully into its cold mists. Instantly, Artek's pain vanished. The fire in his arm turned to ice as his flesh melted away in the nothingness beyond. His heart gradually slowed to a steady pace. Finally, the wizard pulled his arm out of the swirling mists. The gate sizzled and vanished. Artek stared at his arm in wonder. The tattoo still marked his flesh, but the crimson magic was gone, and the image no longer moved. Golden daylight spilled through the glass windows into the room. Dawn had come and he was still alive. "What happened?" he asked in amazement. Relief flashed in Beckla's brown eyes. "Our bodies become incorporeal when we pass beyond a gate," she explained. "I figured that the tattoo's death magic couldn't work if there was no arm for it to travel up." "Good reasoning," he murmured, flexing his arm. "Lucky guess," she replied with a smirk. "The spell was set to work at a specific time. That time has passed. I think the magic has been negated. It's just a mundane tattoo now." Artek grinned at her. "You're really not a bad wizard at all, you know." "And I'm going to get even better," she said. From the pocket of her vest she pulled out a score of folded parchment sheets. "I picked these up in the lair of the silversanns, in Trobriand's Graveyard. The spell-books there were all torn up, but some of their pages were still whole. Every one of these is a new spell, Artek, enough for years of study." She carefully tucked the papers back into her vest. "Maybe I won't ever be the greatest wizard in the city. But I'm well on my way to becoming a good one." Artek could only laugh in agreement. They stood up, looking to Corin. The nobleman, tears streaming freely down his dirty cheeks, turned away from Darien's corpse. Artek's mirth was replaced by concern. "Are you all right, Corin?" he asked quietly. The young lord nodded, roughly wiping the tears from his cheeks. "I am now—thanks to you, Artek. I won't ever let anyone tell me I'm worthless again." Artek said nothing. He reached out to grip Corin's shoulder. After a moment, he tousled the lord's hair. "Don't you have a vote to be getting to?" he asked. "As a matter of fact, I do," Corin replied, suddenly beaming. He glanced down at his ragged clothes. "I'm not exactly dressed appropriately, but it will have to suffice. I've decided that I really don't care if I please the other nobles or not." Beckla cast a sideways glance at Artek, then stepped toward the lord. "Do you mind if I go with you, Corin?" she asked, her eyes shining. Corin grinned shyly, then nodded. "I would like that very much," he replied gently, taking her hand in his. Artek gaped at the two in shock. "But I thought women always fell for the roguish type!" he sputtered. Beckla winked slyly at him. "Not in this story, Ar'talen. I need a dose of goodness in my life." Artek could only shake his head, his expression both chagrined and bemused. "Oh, before I go," Corin said, "you should know that my first action in the Circle will be to recommend that a certain Artek the Knife receive a full pardon for all past crimes. The fellow will have a completely clean start." Artek looked up at the young man in surprise. "He won't waste it," he said.

Corin nodded solemnly. "I know." Without further words, Corin and Beckla dashed from the room and out into the dawning streets. For a moment Artek stared after them, feeling terribly alone. He wondered how it was possible to feel so glad and so sorrowful at the same time. At last, with a sigh, he turned to leave. "Hey!" a reedy voice piped up. "Don't forget about me!" Artek swore. How could it have possibly slipped his mind? He hurriedly knelt and picked up the skull. "Muragh, are you all right?" "I'm going to have a nasty headache," the skull groaned. "And believe me, when all you are is a head, headaches are no fun. But I'll be all right." Artek grinned, his spirits rising. It looked as if he wasn't so alone after all. Picking up the skull, he headed outside. The city was just beginning to stir, getting ready for the day. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen so bright a morning. "So," Muragh said, his jaw working, "did I ever tell you about the time the mermen in Waterdeep Harbor used me to play an impromptu game of finball?" "No," Artek laughed. "But I'm sure you will." "Well," the skull chattered happily, "it all began when I had the misfortune of getting eaten by a swordshark..."

[The Nobles 04] - The Mage in the Iron Mask By Brian M Thomsen

Title: The Mage in the Iron Mask (Forgotten Realms The Nobles, Book 4) Author: Brian Thomsen ISBN: 0-7869-0506-9 / 978-0-7869-0506-5 (USA edition) Publisher: Wizards of the Coast

Prologue

Donal Loomis was a dwarfish gnome of a man, which is not to say that he claimed any blood lineage to either the dwarves or the gnomes but rather that his overall appearance, unfortunately, seemed to emulate the least favorable attributes of both races. With his bulbous features, stunted stature, and obese waistline, he was easily considered an unsightly wart on the face of humankind. The jagged facial scars that decorated his hairless head, unsightly reminders of the painful removal of tell-tale tattoos, did not help the ugliness of his physical appearance. Had he not retired to "the Retreat" he would have been a focal point for ridicule and persecution almost anywhere he went. The Retreat, as the members called it, was originally a place of study, refuge, and retirement for those who wished to devote their lives to the study of mage-craft and other magical arts. Scholarship alone, however, ceased to be enough of a reason for being or means of survival in the dour political climes of the Moonsea region, and the elder wizards who founded the Retreat many years ago decided that it had become necessary to widen their membership to certain other members of society who might help to subsidize their institution through financial endowments, political protection (whether by favors, military aid, or just good old-fashioned blackmail), or diplomatic influence. As a result, the institute of learning and refuge also became a place of sanctuary for political outcasts whose assets or knowledge could benefit their foundation, spies from the south or the west en route to the east or vice versa (Harpers were usually particularly welcome temporary guests whose incurred debts were always paid in a timely and generous manner); or just a convenient and permanent hiding place for offspring born on the wrong side of the blanket by royals or soon to be royals whose legitimate heirs had reason to worry about potential rivals.

As long as the accounts were met, no questions were asked, nor information given out. As a result, numerous members of the peculiar institution who had come to accept their lives of study had no knowledge of their parentage or lineage, and possessed memories solely of their lives within the monastic walls, nor did they desire such information nor opportunities for adventure. Loyola Ignato, one of the Retreat's founders and, according to legend, a mage of some note, had prided himself on his abilities to indoctrinate the young and inexperienced into the ways of life in the monastery. He was known to boast that if you gave him a youth between the ages of two and twenty, the Retreat would have him for life, and many nobles were more than willing to accommodate him. Without exception the Retreat had never lost an initiate to temporal temptations that lie beyond the monastic walls. Donal, however, was not one of these members for he had actually chosen the sanctuary of the Retreat (seeing few alternatives) for himself, and, furthermore, was more than partially acquainted with his own lineage and parentage, no matter how hard he tried to forget. The self-labeled wart of humankind rubbed the scars that adorned his bald and wrinkled pate. I wore my tattoos with pride, he thought to himself, if I regret anything it is their removal. With them, I had respect, power, and prestige despite my godsforsaken appearance. Donal sighed. And with them, I was soon a marked man, he continued in his reflection. Such is the case when one finds oneself on the wrong side of a revolution, and Szass Tam was one lich who definitely didn't forgive and forget. Donal had had his telltale tattoos painfully burnt off his facial skin, and had applied for sanctuary at the Retreat, supplementing the mercy and pity that the elders felt

toward him with promises of devotion and the sharing of numerous secrets of conjuration. To them, he was just another poor wizard who had fallen victim to hard times and misfortune, and so he was accepted and put to work to earn his keep. Originally the former Red Wizard had had illusions of safety in his anonymity, and dreamt of secreting a small fortune by which he could leave the Retreat and live out his days in a secret location at a higher degree of comfort, but these hopes were soon dashed when Nathor, a fellow conspirator from that ill-fated revolution had also turned up at the steps of the Retreat. Donal still remembered the Thayan refugee's rant to the elders trying to make them understand his dire straits. "Have you gazed upon the Runes of Chaos, beheld the thing which sits upon Thakorsil's Seat, held the Death Moon Orb in your trembling hands, wielded Nyskar's Nightblades, entered the Devouring Portal and walked the Paths of the Doomed, or sat at the left hand of Szass Tam during the Ritual of Twin Burning?" The others had felt pity toward him, and suggested that he be taken in until he could be handed over to the authorities as a madman in need of incarceration. Donal knew differently. "I have done all these things," Nathor had confessed, "and each day I pray for forgiveness, and each night at sunset I pray for deliverance from the evils that stalk me. I pray, but I fear that no gods will listen." Donal still remembered the chill that went through him when their eyes met. From that point on, the refugee remained silent, almost as if he had gone into a fear-induced catatonic state. The emissaries from the asylum were due to arrive in four days. Nathor disappeared after three days, and was never heard from again.

Since that day, Donal had been perplexed. An optimistic individual with a touch of cruelty might have chuckled over the situation. Perhaps Nathor had recognized him and leaped to the conclusion that he was a spy from Thay who had been sent after him. Little did the poor fool realize that he too was a wizard in hiding with probably an even higher price on his head. Though Donal was cruel enough to laugh at the unfortunate and mistaken Nathor (an opportunity which the much-maligned and trod-upon self-proclaimed wart on the face of Faerun would have been more than eager to seize upon), he was far from optimistic. Donal was a realist and realized that his days of anonymity at the Retreat were numbered, and he quickly seized upon an opportunity to remove the danger that he knew would quickly be coming from the East, and perhaps make plans for a more comfortable future. An opportunity soon presented itself when Donal had to take his turn as an elder of the Retreat and make the half-day journey into Mulmaster to deliver the monthly tithe. (Only elders were allowed to venture from the Retreat, as the more youthful interns were prone to distractions that might persuade them to forsake the life of scholarly pursuits, and at his eighty-plus years, Donal more than qualified as an elder). As per usual, Donal tried to make his journey as swift and as inconspicuous as possible. His progress, however, was held up by one of the numerous connubial festivals that was celebrated by the thrice-yearly reunion of the High Blade and his bride from the Far East, and Donal's most direct path out of town was blocked by a parade in their honor. Donal at the time did not expect to feel honored or blessed by actually seeing the city's nobility, but rather just waited impatiently to resume his journey. A chance view

of the High Blade himself, however, quickly changed his mind, and from that point on devious wheels of planning and deceitfulness began to turn with a plan that would grant him safety and security for the rest of his days. * * * * * Donal cursed the chill of the night air, as he checked the hiding place for the pack that held all of his worldly possessions. Everything was in order, and he hoped that the escort would arrive promptly. It had not been easy to manipulate the schedule so that the young mage-in-training, Rassendyll, would follow him on watch duty, nor had he been able to make all of the necessary other preparations without alerting any of the Retreat's brethren to his machinations and preoccupations. The drug was already in the jug of ale that the watch was allowed to partake of to ward off some of the night's chill, and Donal had made sure that Rassendyll's meal had been well salted earlier that evening. Once he had been relieved of duty, Donal would join his pack in hiding, and wait for his successor on guard duty to nod off by the sleep draught, at which point he would be free to open the gate, and meet his expected escort. Donal had just returned to his place at the gate, when an eager young wizard crept up behind him. "Boo," the young mage said, startling the older wizard. "Hope I'm not late." Donal closed his eyes, and bit his tongue to hold back a curse or incantation of rebuke for the young wizard. After less than a moment's hesitation, he turned around, and warmly confronted the young wizard who would prove to be the means of his deliverance unto safety and prosperity. "My dear Rassendyll," Donal fawned, "you gave me such a fright." "Sorry, magister," the younger wizard replied, obviously repentant for his previous

action, "but I have also shown up early for my watch." "How thoughtful of you," Donal replied, hoping that he had succeeded in removing all traces of sarcasm from his words despite the intent that existed in abundance within. "It's all right," Rassendyll replied, "I couldn't sleep anyway. My mouth has been exceptionally dry since evening meal, and no matter how many trips I've made to the well, my throat still remains parched." A little bit of salt and some Thayan spices usually have that effect on you, Donal replied in his thoughts, and then said out loud. "Why don't you try a sip of ale? I seem to recall a land of miners where all forms of spirited beverages were outlawed except for ale, and do you know why?" "No, magister," the younger wizard replied, fearing that he had just re-entered some imaginary classroom in the mind of the older wizard whose kindest of nicknames was "doddering Donal." "Because it was the only thing that would slake their thirst after a dusty day in the mines, that's why," Donal replied, then added, "so drink up." "Care to join me?" the younger wizard offered, jug already in hand. "I think not," Donal replied, then adding to avoid all suspicions, "I am heading to bed, and, at my age, beverages have a way of making themselves the most temporary and inconsiderate of houseguests." "Come again magister?" "They like to come and go as they please, and quite often at that," Donal replied with a chuckle. "Enjoy your rest." "And you yours," Donal replied heading back to his cell. "And you yours."

* * * * * When Donal had passed the corner of the inner hall and was thus obscured from the watchful eyes of the younger wizard, he quickly took to the shadows and secreted himself in his hiding spot, out of sight, but well within earshot. In no time at all, he heard the sound of his future salvation: Rassendyll's snoring, and the whistle of a lark. The lark is one of Faerun's most common birds of the morn, and since it was still well into the middle of the night, Donal quickly recognized the signal from the Thayan agents on the other side of the gate. He pursed his lips together, returned the signal, and let them in. "He is over here," Donal instructed, not wasting time with introductions. "Quickly bind his hands behind his back with silken cords." The shadowriders quickly complied; their telltale beards, and dirty and greasy manes quickly revealed their identities to the older wizard. Mercenaries, he thought. Dirty hands for dirty work. "You should also gag him," Donal instructed with great authority, now that he knew that they were merely hired help, "and perhaps put a sack over his head as well." They once again quickly complied, and hoisted the dead weight that was Rassendyll up onto the back of a horse, and bound him to the saddle. "Where is my mount?" Donal insisted, pausing only to pick up his pack. "We mustn't keep the Tharchioness waiting." The tallest of the mercenaries, who had remained mounted and in the shadows all during the abduction of the young wizard, stepped down from his steed as if to offer it to the self-described wart on the face of Faerun. "You are right," he replied drawing closer to Donal, "we mustn't keep the Tharchioness waiting."

As he drew closer, Donal began to make out the emblematic tattoos that adorned the tall one's cheeks, and the wig that had fallen off his pate and was now resting in the cowl that drooped behind his robe. Donal dropped his pack, and opened his mouth as if to cry out. "She sends her regards," the tall one said, quickly removing a crystal wand from the folds of his robe, and thrusting it into the portly wizard's abdomen, then ripping it upward until it had succeeded in splitting the lower half of the old wizard's heart, and then adding, "but she regrets that you will not be joining us. She has this thing about traitors to the cause of Szass Tam, and specifically not giving them a second chance to betray us." The tall one regained his mount in as little time as it took for Donal to fall to the ground. As the shadowriders disappeared into the darkness, their hoofbeats diminishing in the distance, Donal quietly died with a faint trace of a smile on his cruelly misshapen lips, his final thought acquiescing to the insight of the Tharchioness, followed by a chuckle at a secret joke, and a last groan of pain that delivered him unto his expected damnation. * * * * * Rassendyll came to in less than an hour, his body aching from the jostling caused by the steed he was bound to, and the awkward positioning of his bound body upon it. He tried to cry out, but couldn't because of the horse's bit that had been fastened to his face as if he were some uncooperative plow horse in need of direction. Had his head not been covered with a sack, he would have realized that it was still the middle of the night. As it was, the only sense left to him for observation was his hearing, and as the shadowriders rode in silence, it too didn't seem to be of much help . . . until, quite

unexpectedly, his steed stopped in unison with the rest of the party, and a commotion seemed to break out. "Who goes there? Show yourselves," the young wizard thought he heard through the muffling effect of the sack. This was followed by a screech of horses, several clashes of steel, and more than a few cries of pain, as a party of superior force soon overtook his abductors, and mercilessly slaughtered them. Rassendyll could barely maintain his joy. He still had no idea why he had been abducted, nor how, nor where he was right now. The only thing he knew was that he was being rescued. "Where is Donal?" he heard. "Back at the Retreat. I killed the traitor." "Thank you for saving me the trouble." This was followed by one last shriek of pain, and one last whispered order. "Take half of the company back to the Retreat, and kill everyone. No one must escape, and be sure to leave this behind." Had the young wizard not been blinded by the sack that encompassed his head, he would have undoubtedly noticed the speaker (obviously the group's leader) handing his lieutenant a blood-stained crystal wand which Rassendyll, had he been conscious at the time, would have recognized as the weapon that had been used to kill the traitor Donal. As it was he saw nothing, and, petrified with fear after hearing the plans for slaughter, tried to maintain his wits in hopes that an opportunity for escape might present itself. A thundering herd of hooves galloped off into the distance and before he knew it, Rassendyll was once again tossed around as the party he was now an unwilling member of raced onward into the night.

* * * * * Rassendyll lost all track of time as the riders raced the dawn to their destination. As the stallions slowed down to a trot, the young wizard thought he could distinguish from the cacophony of sounds that included the clopping of the horses' hooves and the verbal spurs of the riders, a change in the ground upon which they rode, the sound of a gate being raised, and a cock crowing in the distance. As the gate closed behind them, he felt the horse that bore him stop, and felt an eeriness at the peaceful silence that pervaded the early morn. The stillness of the air gave way to the distinct odors of industry, smoke, sulfur, and fish. They must have brought me to some city, the young wizard discerned, but where? Mulmaster? Hillsfar? If only I knew how long I had been unconscious. A few footsteps and the sound of a blade being withdrawn from a scabbard struck terror into his heart. Why did they take me all this way just to kill me? he thought, trying to make sense of his situation. Surely if they had intended on killing me they would have done so before now. Concentrating deeply, as the magisters had shown him, he sought out with his mind the source of the sounds. In his mind's eye he saw a one-eyed soldier with long black hair standing right next to him, sword raised as if to strike. Fear took control of the young wizard, and as his mind's eye blinked, he felt himself try to scream, forgetting the restraining bit that was still safely lodged in his mouth. He felt the breeze of a slash pass by his head, a moment of instability as if he had lost his balance, and then the rude concussion of meeting the cobble-stoned ground. "Pick him up," he heard. "It wouldn't make much sense to have carried him all this

way just to let him be trampled in the courtyard by the horse that bore him." This was accompanied by a malevolent chorus of laughter, as rough hands wrangled him to his feet. "I think he's awake," one voice said. "Not for long," another replied. Rassendyll tried to brace himself for the anticipated blow, felt a sharp pain to the back of his head the likes of which he never felt before, and was consumed by the darkness that had already blinded his other senses. * * * * * A bucket of water to the face did the double duty of reviving him and drawing his attention to the fact that the sack had been removed from over his head. His entire body ached, his arms long wrenched from their sockets by the constraints of the silken bonds. He tried to move and stretch his cramped muscles, but found his freedom impaired by what seemed to be a massive wooden yoke and frame that anchored his limbs in a semi-sitting position that provided him with no room to relieve or relax his protesting limbs and also restrained his head from moving. He thought he could discern a wooden collar that was acting as his neck yoke. The underside was tormenting his shoulders and collarbone with splinters, while the topside seemed cool and smooth as if it were lined with a metal plate. The bit had been removed from his mouth, but the tightness of the yoke further inhibited his attempts at crying out. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the light thrown by the torches that illuminated the chamber. His captors were behind him, and cast long and threatening shadows on the wall before him. "Our esteemed guest is awake. Isn't the resemblance uncanny?" one of the shadows observed.

"Donal didn't lie. I guess even greedy liars and knaves occasionally tell the truth," the other replied, "but I guess we shouldn't ask our friends from Thay for their opinions on this subject." "Are you awake?" the first inquired. "I should think that you would want to thank Sir Melker Rickman for rescuing you from those wretched mercenaries from Thay." The source of the voice came around to Rassendyll's left, just out of sight. "I'm sorry that you have been treated so roughly, but one can't be too careful. You see, there are certain laws here in Mulmaster governing the comings and goings of you mage types, so certain precautions have to be taken. I'm sure that by now your wrists must be raw from the restraints that have kept you from using your hands since last night, and I must apologize. I have, however, taken steps to alleviate the problem. Send in the smith." The young wizard saw the back of the other pass in front of him as he left to fetch the smith. He returned almost immediately, and this time Rassendyll was able to discern that this one-eyed soldier with long black hair had been the same person who had led the party that had stolen him from his original abductors. He was accompanied by a burly wizard who bore two large metal plates with him, as well as a hammer and a pouch that jangled as he moved. The soldier seemed to lead the burly wizard, and the reason became obvious when he stopped in front of the yoke and frame that restrained Rassendyll. The burly wizard was as blind as a bat, his eye sockets still bearing the singe marks from where some flaming coals had been put to rest for some, what must have been interminable, period of suffering for Ao knows what reason. "You know why you are here," the voice from behind commanded. "Begin!" The burly wizard replied with a garbled noise of assent, for his tongue had been

burnt out as well during the same period of excruciating torture, and began to place the two metal plates into slots in the yoke around the young wizard's neck, one directly behind his head, and one in front. Once they were perfectly balanced in place, the burly wizard began to run his hands over the metal surfaces, mouthing incantations as he worked. Slowly the metal began to heat up, and soften. With hands that had forged numerous talismans and weapons of enchantment, the wizard smith began to mold the two plates to fit the contours of the young man's head. At first, Rassendyll felt a slight sensation of warmth against his cheeks, which quickly became a torturous burn followed by a stifling oppression as the metal closed over his mouth and nose, preventing him from breathing. Before he could cry out or choke, his nostrils and mouth were assailed by the muscular fingers of the burly wizard smith as he poked holes through the metal, molding and smoothing the edges so that they just barely intruded into his breathing apertures. He followed in the same suit with the eye slits whose placement was slightly skewed by the young wizard who kept his own orbs of vision shut tight in an effort to prevent himself from suffering the same fate that had befallen the smith. When the two halves of metal were in place around the young wizard's head, the wizard smith said aloud a new incantation, flexing his fingers in the air with various and sundry subtle motions. Once again Rassendyll felt the metal pressing up against his cheeks and the back of his head. Then he felt his skin begin to itch around his neck and scalp as if a thousand chiggers had begun to take their bloodsucking positions along the surface of the skin. He next heard the scrape of four bolts being placed in slots that connected the front piece to the back, which was immediately followed by a cacophony of clangs

as if he had been strapped to the belfry back at the Retreat during the noonday chimes. Even after the blows of the hammer had stopped, the ringing in his head continued, only gradually dissipating over time. "Are you sure the mask has adhered to his skull?" the soldier demanded. The wizard smith grunted in assent, running his hand across the back of the tortured Rassendyll's head, and around his neck as if to say "here, and here." "Good!" said the voice from behind. "Call the guards." The soldier left once again, and returned with three of Mulmaster's most trusted and ruthless soldiers of the company known as the Hawks. "Unbind him!" the voice ordered. Rassendyll went limp as the Hawks began to extricate him from the yoke and frame. The itching and gnawing of the skin that had been adhered to the metal was slowly retarding to a mild annoyance that paled in comparison to the soreness that his limbs felt from being bound. As this was alleviated by the Hawks, a new annoyance came to torture him. The voice, he thought, it sounds so familiar. Is it possible I have been tortured by someone I know? Once removed from the frame, the young wizard straightened and flexed his appendages to return circulation to the outermost limits. Control soon returned to his hands and fingers, as he quickly formulated a plan for fighting back in the manner he had been taught by his magisters at the Retreat. The wizard smith is blind, so if I act quickly enough, I might be able to cast a spell that will overpower my captors before they have time to react. Almost instantaneously, Rassendyll brought his now unbound hands into action,

flexing them in readiness for one of the numerous attack spells he had been taught. Clearing his now unbound throat he readied himself for the incantation that he sought from the files of his mind. Fear seized him. He could not remember any of the spells or incantations! It was as if his entire education had been erased. "As I mentioned before," the voice instructed with a certain degree of cruel calmness, "we have certain ways of handling mage types like yourself, here in Mulmaster. This lovely mask that conceals your oh-so-attractive features also deadens all of your magical abilities. You have to admit that it is slightly more comfortable than being bound and gagged all the time. Guards!" The Hawks immediately grabbed him, one on each side. The voice came up behind him again, delicately gauntleted hands feeling the edges of the two halves of the metal mask. "Fine craftsmanship," the voice observed. "Form-fitting, yet feature obscuring. Too bad you didn't allow much room for his beard to grow. Eventually it will probably choke him, but by that time I am sure I will have no further use for him. Guards, take him away." Rassendyll wrenched himself away from the guards to confront his oppressor. The eye-slits in the mask necessitated that he only view objects directly in front of him. Maneuvering himself into position, he faced his antagonist dead on, and fainted dead away, for he realized that he was confronting a man whose features were identical to his own. "Throw him into our deepest dungeon," the High Blade ordered. "The wing in which we house the other madmen, vagrants, and detritus of society." The Hawks complied.

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Rassendyll was tossed into a damp cell whose light was cast from a torch down the hall, its illumination barely creeping in through the guards' peep hole and the slot through which the slop that was considered food would be passed. The weight of the mask bore heavily on his neck and shoulders, throwing him off-balance and dampening all of his perceptions. His body hurt, and he was racked with questions about his fate. Clearing his throat, he cried out in torment and confusion, "Why? Why? Why?" A lone voice answered him from one of the cells down the hall. It said gruffly, with a basso bellow reminiscent of a thespian or an opera star, "Will you keep it down? An actor needs his sleep."

PART ONE

The Prisoner, the Thespian, & the Traveler

1 A Friend in Need

On a Mulmaster city street:

"Oh thank you, Mister Volo," the pudgy thespian Passepout exclaimed, his bulgy flesh bouncing beneath his tunic as he tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and his previous night's lodging, the prison known as Southroad Keep. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along to bail me out." "Think nothing of it, old friend," Volothamp Geddarm replied to his former bond servant, pausing only a moment to adjust the beret atop his curly scalp before adding, "and I thought I had cured you of that Mister Volo stuff." "No," Passepout corrected. "You cured me of calling you Master Volo. The title of 'mister' is the least form of respect I deign to use for my savior and salvation." "Again," the impeccably dressed master traveler of Faerun (if not all Toril) instructed, "think nothing of it." "But you don't understand, Mist. . . uh, Volo," the thespian insisted. "It was horrible being locked up in a dungeon cell alongside madmen, vagrants, and the other detritus of society." "Believe me," Volo countered, "there is far worse company you might have been keeping in Southroad Keep's subterranean dungeon, and not all of them are prisoners either." "It was horrible, dehumanizing, and torturous." "How long had you been incarcerated?" the master traveler inquired. "Overnight," the pudgy thespian answered in righteous indignation, "and I didn't get

a wink of sleep. An actor needs his sleep, you know." "So I've heard." "Of course," Passepout continued to rant. "The cell was hard and damp, the food was low-grade slop." "How terrible for you," Volo concurred half-heartedly, occasionally fingering his well-groomed beard with the hand that he had free from tending the traveler's pack that bounced as he strode. "It was," the actor agreed, missing the sarcasm that was conveyed by the master traveler's mischievous grin. "And if that wasn't bad enough, there was this madman bemoaning his incarceration all night, and he was accompanied by a horrible clanging as if someone were beating his cell walls with a coal bucket." "The nerve of that poor soul." "Indeed," the thespian continued. "I am quite sure that this incident has scarred me for life." Volo looked around at the dark and smoke-filled streets of what had been nicknamed the City of Danger, put his arm around his boon companion, and tried to put the fellow's one-night incarceration into proper perspective. "Surely, the legendary son of Catinflas and Idle, scourge of the Sword Coast, expert ballplayer and star goalie of Maztica, and circumnavigator of all Toril; not to mention master thespian, and sponsored actor and artist of the House of Bernd of Cormyr, will be able to put this behind him," the master traveler encouraged, trying not to be too sarcastic in his tone. "Of course you are right," Passepout conceded. "It would take more than one torturous night's incarceration to scar me for life." "Indeed," Volo agreed, then changed the subject, asking, "by the way, how are

things with your position in the Bernd family household?" Passepout looked sheepishly at his traveling companion, mentor of the road, and savior many times over, and confessed. "I am afraid that I am no longer in the Bernd family's employ." "What happened?" "I didn't do anything wrong, really." "Well surely Master Bernd is a fair man, and his son Curtis is quite fond of you. I'm sure either of them would have stood by you." "Curtis was away on his honeymoon with Shurleen," the thespian explained, slightly wistful about the wedding of the woman whom he had at one time thought to be the love of his life, "and my problem wasn't with Master Bernd, but rather with the authorities in Cormyr itself." "What did you do now?" "Well, remember Sparky and Minx, the Bernd family cats?" "Of course," Volo replied, "two nobler felines I've never met." "Indeed," the thespian explained, "but there was a certain maid that I had taken a fancy to. Her name was Marissa, and she was quite pretty." "Of course." "Well," the portly thespian continued, "Marissa complained about the additional work that she had to do cleaning up after them, and mentioned her concern that the two felines might have kittens, and thus increase her workload, resulting in less time for me." "So?" "So I did what we always used to do back in Baldur's Gate." "Which was?"

"I had them spayed." Volo fingered his beard, and commented, "It is a very serious crime—in all of Cormyr—to interfere with the reproductive capabilities of a feline." "As I soon learned," the hapless thespian replied. "The maid threatened to tell the authorities of my deed unless I vacated the premises forthwith, and so I did. It turned out that a certain young stable hand that she fancied, thought himself an actor, and it was all just an elaborate scheme to put me in the doghouse, and him in the main house. If you know what I mean." Volo shook his head in gentle amusement, and urged his companion on. "So what then?" "The maid was quite insistent about going to the authorities, so I figured it would probably be prudent of me not to wait for Master Bernd's return. So I left a note of apology and took to the road, to experience life in the theater known as Faerun, once again." "This way," Volo interrupted, indicating that it was time for them to turn the corner. "I've just checked in to the Traveler's Cloak Inn." The great traveler paused for a moment, scratched his chin, and added inquisitively, "But somehow you knew that, or else how would you have known to leave a message for me about your predicament. How did you know that I would be staying there?" The thespian beamed proudly, and answered, "One thing I certainly learned from our trip was that the legendary Volothamp Geddarm always travels in style, and only favors the most noble of establishments with his presence." The greatest traveler of Faerun shook his head in gentle amusement, and conceded, "But of course. And the Traveler's Cloak Inn is indeed the best place in Mulmaster. At fifteen gold pieces a night, it better be. But this still doesn't explain how

you knew that I would be in Mulmaster." "Well," the portly actor explained, his voice dropping markedly as a pair of soldiers passed them going in the opposite direction along the avenue, "while I was enjoying the free and easy life on the road, I came across a leaflet that mentioned that a local bookseller was having a reception for a cookbook author who was on tour, and that the reception was being sponsored by the firm of Tyme Waterdeep, Limited, who I remembered as your publisher. Since it was a cookbook author, I naturally figured that there would be plenty of food there, so I decided to crash." "Crash?" "Attend without an invitation." "Oh," Volo replied, "and they just let you in?" "Well, not until I mentioned your name, of course." "Of course." "The food wasn't very good anyway, low-fat fungus flambe, and such, but I ran into a guy named Pig who claimed he knew you." "Imagine that," Volo mused. "Now call me suspicious, but I am not inclined to take a person at their word, particularly when they make claims of greatness." "Like knowing Volothamp Geddarm?" "Of course," Passepout asserted. "No telling what a rogue might claim these days." "No one would know better than you." "Of course," the actor conceded. "Anyway, he claimed that you and he had made a journey through the Underdark together, and that that trip had been the inspiration for the book. When I asked him where you were, he said that you were probably working on your guide to the Moonsea, and so, voila, we make contact."

Volo chuckled to himself. Imagine, he thought, my two most reluctant traveling companions running into each other. I can't wait to hear Percival Woodehaus's version of the story. He then said aloud to his friend, "Well its just lucky for you that Mulmaster was my next stop. Originally it wasn't, and I wouldn't have gotten here for a month or more." "I shudder to think of it," the portly thespian replied. "More than a night in that hellhole would surely have been the death of me." "What did they arrest you for anyway?" "Acting, without an official permit." Volo nodded in agreement, and said, "And of course in order to get the official permit, you would have had to pay the theater tax, which, of course, you couldn't afford." "Exactly." "Sometimes I think that Mulmaster should be called the City of Taxes instead of the City of Danger," the great traveler declared, a bit too loudly for his paranoid companion who was overly conscious of the excessive number of city guards that seemed to be out on the streets. Volo, noticing the uneasiness of Passepout, quickly changed the subject. Turning his attention back to his boon companion he said, "Enough of this idle chatter. On to the matter at hand. The Traveler's Cloak Inn is two doors away, and I have taken the liberty of changing my reservation from a single to two adjoining rooms. A few hours' rest, and you will be ripe and ready for some festing tonight. We can talk over old times, have some new times, and make plans for future times, for tomorrow I must leave." "You think of everything Mist . . . uh, Volo. But why must you leave so soon?"

"Oh, I'll be back," the traveler answered. "I'll probably even keep the rooms on reserve until I return. You can, of course, avail yourself of their use in my absence." "Wonderful!" Volo smiled at once again hearing his friend's favorite expression, and ushered Passepout into the best inn in town. *

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Around Mulmaster, the Tower of Arcane Might, and at the Traveler's Cloak Inn:

While the master traveler made arrangements for the next few days of his research, the pudgy thespian spent most of the afternoon sleeping in the most comfortable bed that he had had the honor of lying in since he left the luxuries of the Bernd estate many months ago. Volo's research included stopping by the local taverns, inns, and festhalls to gain a few recommendations for accommodations. He was very careful not to reveal his true identity everywhere, as some of the establishments would later be graced with an incognito visitation, by him, for purposes of giving them a fair evaluation for their inclusion in his upcoming Volo's Guide to the Moonsea. Volo also made it a point of checking in at the legendary Tower of Arcane Might, the guild hall for the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Volo had earlier received honorary "Cloak" status from the Senior Cloak Thurndan Tallwand in exchange for the noted author's silence concerning the source of various secret entries in his legendarily suppressed work Volo's Guide to All Things Magical. By checking in informally as an honorary Cloak, the master traveler hoped to avoid future problems around Mulmaster with its strict rules on magic use, while also maintaining a low profile that would enable him to

come and go as inconspicuously as possible with the rigid regimens of the often-called City of Danger. As expected, Tallwand was unavailable, at least according to his secretary. "I am sorry," said the officious wizard who acted as Tallwand's secretary. "The Senior Cloak is very busy, and can not see you today." "That's too bad," Volo, the ever courteous traveler, replied, "but I really did want to say hello." "I am afraid that is not possible," the secretary replied, and returned to the work that was on his desk. Volo stood for a moment and fingered his beard, the wheels of thought whirring in his head. He suspected that Tallwand was indeed eavesdropping on his conversation with his wizardly lackey. He just wanted to see him for a moment. He decided it was time to fight dirty. In the few moments that Volo took for contemplation and cogitation, an older wizard had entered the Senior Cloak's antechamber. He was a sour old coot who seemed very impressed with himself. No doubt he was older and stonier than the Tower of Arcane Might itself. "Ah, Mage McKern, you are here for your appointment," the lackey recognized. "Let me just check with the Senior Cloak. I am sure he will be with you momentarily." Volo sighed loudly and said aloud, "I guess I will have to have the article published without giving Thurndan a chance to review it." The master traveler sighed again, and started to head to the door. The Senior Cloak, who was indeed eavesdropping on the goings-on, immediately burst through the door. His face was a mask of enthusiasm and surprise desperately trying to hide a look of embarrassment and fear over what he had just heard.

"Volo!" he hailed. "What a surprise! Come right in." The master traveler reversed his steps and said, "I didn't want to disturb you. I am sure you are very busy, and . .." "Not at all," Thurndan replied, putting his arm around the shoulders of the mischievous author and ushering him into his office, pausing quickly to turn to his secretary and whisper, "Reschedule whatever you have to." As he crossed the threshold the master traveler heard the secretary saying, "I am sorry Mage McKern, perhaps we can reschedule for next month...." *

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*

Volo's meeting with Tallwand was quite short. The master traveler made up an article that he hoped the Senior Cloak might take a look at. The Senior Cloak quickly assented, relieved that it had nothing to do with his earlier transgression that had made its way into the notorious All Things Magical, and then set about getting rid of the master traveler as fast as possible. Volo, satisfied that no one would now be able to dispute that he had indeed checked in at the Tower of Arcane Might and equally eager to be on his way, verbally recognized the Senior Cloak's busy schedule and agreed to hurry along, promising to return at some later date when they would both have some time to swap stories and spells. The master traveler was quite full of himself as he passed the secretary who had tried to bar his way. Volo chuckled, realizing that the lackey was probably staring daggers at him. That will teach him to try to get in the way of the master traveler of all Toril, Volo thought proudly. Still preoccupied with his own elan and facility, Volo didn't even notice accidentally bumping into the sour old mage whose appointment he had usurped. Had he done so

he probably would have apologized. Instead he continued on his oblivious path, not even hearing the vitriolic curses that were being spewed behind his back. * * * * * Upon returning to the Traveler's Cloak Inn, he was immediately greeted in the dining hall by the now refreshed Passepout, whose pleasant afternoon nap had added fuel to his already voracious appetite. "Volo!" Passepout yelled. "Over here!" I must remember to go alone on my visitations that require a low profile, the master traveler reminded himself, and then joined his friend at the opulently laid table. "Dela darling," the portly thespian called to the barmaid, "Please set a place for my friend here, and bring more food. He might be hungry." Turning his attention to the recently seated Volo, he whispered, "I think she likes me. I have a way with barmaids." "I remember," the master traveler replied. "You were always quite the ladies' man." Dela quickly set a place for Volo, and was about to return to the bar when Passepout gave her a friendly pat on the rump, and said, "Very nice, my sweet. Play your cards right, and I'll put in a good word for you with the management." Dela gave Volo a long-suffering look, and said, "You sure he's a friend of yours, Mr. Geddarm?" "Afraid so," the master traveler replied. "Well, please advise him to keep his hands to himself," she instructed, and regained her place at the bar. Volo looked to his friend, and said admonishingly, "Well, you heard her." Passepout was affronted. "Imagine her nerve!" the indignant thespian boomed. "I have a good mind to have a word with the owner about her." "She is the owner," Volo instructed.

"Oh," said the chubby thespian warily. "Do you think I should leave? Or maybe apologize? A few well chosen compliments might go a long way, her being female and all." "Just let it pass," the master traveler instructed. "Dela is a good sort, with a keen business sense, and no desire to alienate any potential paying customers. You can't ask for more in an innkeeper in these parts." Passepout nodded, and continued the inhalation of his meal. Volo put his napkin in place, and joined in the dining experience. After a few more mouthfuls, Passepout once again struck up a conversation. "I only arrived here yesterday," the chubby thespian confessed. "Is there anything I should know about these here parts?" "Plenty," the master traveler replied. "But first a question: why did you come to Mulmaster to begin with?" After a swallow and another quaff of ale, the portly thespian explained. "Somebody around Westgate told me that there was plenty of room for my sort of trade in the Moonsea area." "You mean acting, of course," the master traveler clarified. "Of course," Passepout replied. "I learned my lesson after that little stay in Baldur's Gate, when you last came to my rescue." "Go on," Volo urged, not wanting to experience another exuberant outbreak of undying gratitude from the chubby actor, nor relive his last jailbreak experience. "So I said to myself, 'Self, where should we go?' Zhentil Keep was obviously out of the question. I mean, who is willing to pay good money for drama when your city is in ruins." "Agreed."

"And Hillsfar didn't exactly seem to fit the bill." "For sure," the master traveler replied, wondering if there was still a price on their heads for impersonating Red Plumes, the city watch, the last time they were there. "And Phlan already has a resident thespian, Ward T. James." "Ward T. James?" Volo repeated inquisitively. "Never heard of him." "He's a big guy, like me," Passepout explained, patting his expansive tummy in illustration. "He tours with a group called the S.S.I.—Stupendous Stagecraft Incorporated. They are most famous for their Pools series of plays that set the great classics of Faerun in a mud pit." "Great," the master traveler said, quickly taking out a pad and jotting down a few notes. "High drama and mud wrestling all rolled into one." "So that ruled out Phlan," the actor finished heaping another pile of food onto his plate, to further usher it into his never-filling gullet, "which basically just left Mulmaster as the major metropolis at hand." Volo swallowed, picked a crumb out of his neatly trimmed beard, took a napkin and wiped his mouth, refilled his mug with ale in case any parchness beset him during his lecture, and began to fill his boon companion in on Mulmaster minutiae. "I can understand your reasons for choosing Mulmaster, now that you have explained it to me," the master traveler offered, "but I would still recommend that you pick another place to ply your trade. As far as I'm aware no one ever tells anyone to go to these here parts unless they really never want to see them again." "I'm sure that's not the case," Passepout protested. "Olive, who recommended this area, was quite fond of me." "I'm sure," said the master traveler, not wanting to start an argument, "but Mulmaster is known as the City of Danger for a very good reason. If you thought the

Red Plumes of Hillsfar were bad, wait 'til you get a load of the Hawks." "Well, I did last night," the thespian countered. "They weren't too bad as far as a city watch goes." "No, my friend," Volo corrected. "You were probably taken in by regular soldiers. The Hawks are the High Blade's own storm troopers. Rumor has it that he regularly dispatches them to do his dirty work throughout the Realms. Let me give you a little history. "Mulmaster was founded—by various influential merchant groups—in the Year of Fell Wizardry, as a trading fortress way station between the Moonsea, the River Lis, and the Dragon Reach. It managed to not only survive, but thrive during the years of unrest, and eventually, in the Year of Thunder, made a bid for complete domination of the Moonsea, only to be put back in its place by the combined forces of Sembia, Hillsfar, Phlan, Melvaunt, and Zhentil Keep." "Scrappy little place," the thespian commented between mouthfuls. Volo continued in his recitation of exposition text that he no doubt had already composed for the guidebook in progress. "There was much finger pointing after their failed attempt at expansionism, and out of the anarchy arose the formation of a single seat of power, to rule over the others. This leader was to be called the High Blade, who was to work in conjunction with the other ranking nobles who from that time on were known as the Blades. The first High Blade took power in the Year of the Wandering Wyrm, and quickly assassinated any of the Blades who didn't agree with his way of doing things. From that point on the Blades were nothing more than a puppet ruling council." "Wonderful," the thespian observed, "so that's why he needs those shock troopers around to protect him."

"No, my friend," Volo corrected. "That's the job of the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Any mage in the city of fourth level or higher is immediately recruited to their ranks, or else." "Or else what?" Volo made a motion as if he was slitting his throat with the bread knife. "Oh," said the chubby thespian, beginning to think that maybe leaving town would be a good idea. "The current High Blade is a fellow by the name of Selfaril Voumdolphin, who succeeded his father into the job after assassinating him. That was back in the Year of the Spear." "Did he then marry his mother? I seem to recall a play about something like that." "I'm afraid not," the gazetteer replied. "This is one case where life does not mirror drama. He did recently marry though, to an equally powerful young lady by the name of Dmitra Flas." "Never heard of her." "She's also known as the First Princess of Thay, and the Tharchioness of Eltabbar, or just the Tharchioness for short. It was a major diplomatic coup for both Mulmaster and Thay." "Wonderful." "She spends most of her time back in Eltabbar, and he's been known to continue to play the rogue with the wandering eye despite their matrimonial vows. She visits here three times a year. I believe she just arrived yesterday for her most recent visit. Both sides claim that they were wedded due to their mutual respect and love for each other, but I wonder." "The problem with you, Volo," Passepout said sagely, "is that you are no longer a

romantic. If she just arrived back in town yesterday, I bet we won't see hide nor hair of either of them for a while. This is obviously a case of true love winning out despite personal differences in upbringing and breeding. I'll bet they can't wait to see each other." Volo chuckled at his friend's naivete. "If you say so, my friend," the gazetteer replied. "True love conquers all," the thespian spouted. The master traveler took another quaff of ale, and was instantly reminded of the message he had once read from a Kara Turan fate biscuit that was capable of more believable profundity than his corpulent companion's observation. Volo thought aloud to himself, "I wonder how the newlyweds are getting along." Passepout resumed eating.

2 Newlywed Games

In the High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

He was alone in his private study, a room secret to all but his closest advisors (which did not include his wife, the Tharchioness). His robes of silk and fur already smelled of tobacco and musk. Selfaril Voumdolphin was in deep thought. The resemblance was striking. It was almost like looking in a mirror. True he had the bearing and build of a weakling, as most wizards did, and his whiskers and his mane were more akin to a hermit's than the well-maintained locks and beard of the High Blade, but in all other respects this young man was the High Blade's perfect twin. Damn you, father, he thought to himself, cursing his sire. You were almost the perfect High Blade, always with a secret backup plan to assure your own ascendancy and that of your line. We were alike in many ways. No wonder I had to kill you. Had I not acted fortuitously, you would, no doubt, have discerned my future plans and plotted to replace me with your other son. We are alike in many ways, but I am the better High Blade. He heard the bookcase that functioned as a secret door move, and assumed that Rickman had returned, as the Hawk commander was the only one other than himself who knew how to work that entrance. He did not bother to turn around. Such things as common courtesy were not required of the High Blade. "The resemblance was uncanny," Selfaril muttered. "Yes, your majesty," Rickman agreed. "Donal, that chancre, wasn't lying."

"Imagine his gall," Selfaril said, finally turning to face his one-eyed right-hand man. "First, he betrayed the Retreat and offered the young mage to the agents of my dear bride, and then, not satisfied with the price they offered, he came to us for a better deal." "For which you were more than willing to comply, sire," the Hawk assented. "They offered him amnesty, we offered him wealth." "And neither of us planned on keeping our word, anyway. Donal was a fool, and a greedy one at that." "Agreed, your majesty, but his shortcomings were definitely our advantage." "Indeed," the High Blade agreed, taking a seat in a chair that had been one of his father's favorites. "Have you taken care of the rest of the loose ends?" "Yes, sire," the Hawk captain assured. "A company of my best men have just returned from the Retreat. They gained entrance under the pretence of investigating the apparent Thayan raid of the night before. The elders were ever so grateful for a prompt response to the attack, and offered my men their full cooperation. With their guard down, it was relatively easy for my Hawks to carry out your orders." "All slaughtered, then?" "Yes, sire." The High Blade tapped his forefinger to his temple as if to force out a single drop of thought. "I hope that there weren't too many other secret guests like my father's other heir and rival to my sovereignty. I understand the monastery was also used as an occasional way station for Harper agents, and I have no time to deal with their peskiness at this point." The Hawk captain quickly dispelled the High Blade's concern. "I took the liberty of instructing one of my men to leave behind the crystal wand that had been used on the

Thayan turncoat Donal. It's Thayan design, and the blood of that slug will no doubt focus the possible blame for this little bloodbath on more easterly sources." "Well done, Rickman," the High Blade complimented. "Take a seat. You have been very busy, and very productive." The Hawk captain bowed in thanks, and took his place across from the High Blade, adding, "and of course I have seen to the unfortunate demise of our friend the blind wizard smith whose exceptional handiwork adorns the head of our secret guest." " 'Tis a pity," Selfaril agreed, "but there is no sense in not being careful." "Agreed," Rickman acknowledged, glad that he was not being perceived as overzealous in his performance of his duties. "So what are your plans for the dispensation of your twin brother, if I might inquire, sire?" "My twin brother," Selfaril mused. "It's funny. Up until just this moment I never thought of him quite that way. I mean, sure, he has to be my brother, my twin, but as far as I am concerned, he is merely my father's other son, my rival, a challenger to my throne. Tell me Rickman, do you have any brothers?" "One, your majesty, but he is dead. His name was Jeremy." "How sad," the High Blade replied in an unsentimental monotone. "Not really, sire," the Hawk corrected. "As he was the first born, he received all the privileges. That is why I entered the military. It was either there or a monastery." "Your loss was Mulmaster's gain." "In more ways than one, sire. When father died, Jeremy inherited it all. In my then capacity as sergeant of the guards, I had him thrown in irons, charged with high treason, and executed a week later. My father's estate was, of course, seized for the state, and I appointed myself as custodian. I was soon promoted, and it was turned over to me as my fiefdom."

"You're not just saying this to earn my favor, are you, Rickman?" "I wouldn't think of it, sire," the Hawk said proudly. "All you have to do is check the civil records." "Of course," the High Blade observed in a jesting manner, "one who has already engaged in fratricide would never stoop to falsifying civil records." "Of course not, your majesty," the Hawk replied, jovially adding, "that would be against the law." "But of course." The murderers' conversation was interrupted by the quick sounding of three chimes. The High Blade cursed. "It's the Tharchioness, no doubt," Selfaril offered. "I left strict orders with Slater—my valet—to ring me if she inquired of my whereabouts. Word has no doubt already reached her about last night's thwarting of her plans, and she, no doubt, wants to pick my brain about what happened." "Do you think she suspects that we are behind what happened?" "No more than I would suspect her of wanting to depose me," the High Blade replied with a grin, coming to his feet. "Come with me. Let us seek out my still blushing bride, and let the game of cat and mouse begin!" *

*

*

*

*

In the Tharchioness's Boudoir in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The Tharchioness was not amused. It was bad enough that she had to endure the damp and smoky gloominess of Mulmaster for yet another one of her thrice-yearly connubial stays, but now to be

surrounded by such incompetence was definitely not to her liking, and she had no intention of tolerating it. She had purposely cut short her stay back in Eltabbar overseeing the rebuilding of her beloved city after the devastating earthquake of a few months back because of the so-called opportunity that had been presented to her ambassador by that traitor to the Thayan cause and the sovereignty of Zulkir Szass Tam, Donal Loomis. Her just recently executed ambassador with whom the traitor had made contact had been overly optimistic, and had presented his plan as an antidote to the oppressive yoke of matrimony that she had endured for diplomatic reasons with the slimy High Blade of the city to the west. Szass Tam had explained the necessity of her courtship and marriage to the foul westerner as the first step toward an active Thayan presence in the Moonsea area. The powerful lich lord would then be able to extend his influence farther southward to the Dalelands, while exerting further pressures on the other tharches toward an ultimate goal of the unification of all of Thay under his eternal rule. She had been more than willing to assist him in this ultimate goal, even if it meant subjecting herself to the bondage of matrimony. Unfortunately, both of them had underestimated the equally acquisitive ambitions of the High Blade, who saw Mulmaster's Tower of the Wyvern as the jumping-off point for his own expansion of power and authority both south and eastward, power which he had no intention of sharing with his bride, or the real power behind her throne. The now deceased ambassador had presented such a simple plan. A double for the High Blade existed. Why not abduct him, and persuade him that it would be more advantageous for him to follow orders from them than to die an excruciatingly torturous death at their hands? They would then secretly substitute their puppet for Selfaril;

placing him on the throne while the real High Blade was secretly spirited away to the east. According to Ambassador Vitriole, the traitor who had presented this opportunity was mortally in fear of his life, and as a result, could be trusted to follow their exact orders in exchange for their lifting the sentence of death from his misshapen shoulders (which was immediately agreed to with the full knowledge that a new plan would be carried out on the spot once his usefulness had come to an end). Donal might have been a traitorous, cowardly fool, the Tharchioness thought to herself, but Vitriole was a fool as well for underestimating his traitorous ways. They deserved each other's company in death. Had I had a competent ambassador in place, I wouldn't be in this delicate position. But no, I had to come to Mulmaster early to face my beloved husband when I displaced him as the ruling power of Mulmaster. Now what am I going to do? The First Princess of Thay gently applied a bit of perfume behind her ears, knowing that the westerner who was her husband would find it distracting. For a similar reason, she had also chosen to wear her silken robe with the plunging neckline that flattered her ample breasts and drew further attention to her eye-catching cleavage. I must use everything at my disposal, she thought in agitated resignation, once again cursing the incompetence of her minions that necessitated her sensual theatricality. Her moments of silent reflection on her current predicament were interrupted by the cautious arrival of her new ambassador to Mulmaster. "First Princess," the new and fearful ambassador said tentatively, "you requested my presence?" "No," the Tharchioness replied acidly, "I said that I wanted you at my disposal, here

and now. You do know what happened to your predecessor, don't you?" "Yes, your highness," the ambassador acknowledged, trying not to show that he had just soiled himself out of sheer terror and fear. The Tharchioness, born Dmitra Flas and now also known as the First Princess of Thay, was legendary in her cruelty, and the execution of Vitriole was only the most recent of her acts of intolerance toward what she considered to be traitorous incompetence. Anything that hindered Szass Tam's ultimate plans was considered to be treasonous within the tharch of Eltabbar, and treason was always punishable by death. The Tharchioness gave the ambassador a quick once-over. His Mulan lineage was apparent. Rumors of non-Mulan spies in Thay were rampant, and precautions had to be taken. His hairless pate was adorned by the long-since faded tattoos of what once must have been magically-empowered images of phoenixes in flight. Now they were just inked drawings on a wrinkled and pale skull. Great, she thought to herself, another spineless political appointee who has long since passed his age of usefulness. Why don't they ever send me someone who is young and vibrant rather than another impotent husk of a boot licker? The Tharchioness looked him in the eyes, dead on. He dropped to the floor, cringing in an absurd amalgam of abasement and terror. The Tharchioness rolled her eyes, her contempt turning to cruel amusement, and said, "Well, it doesn't look like you are long for this job, and you know what that means?" "Yes, your Tharchioness," he managed to get out through trembling lips and chattering teeth. "Find my husband, corpse maggot, and do it fast," she ordered, revelling in the

sheer terror her latest ambassador felt toward her. "I haven't laid eyes on him since I arrived yesterday." "Perhaps he is avoiding . . ." the quivering mass offered. "I don't recall giving you permission to speak, corpse maggot!" "No, your Tharchioness." "So don't just cower there, find him!" she screamed, sending him out of the room at a break-neck pace that was, no doubt, largely propelled by complete and utter terror. The Tharchioness laughed for a moment, her thoughts temporarily diverted from the precarious situation at hand. "And while you're at it," she said aloud with a grin, though the ambassador had long since left, "clean yourself up. You can't seek the High Blade smelling of excrement. He might mistake you for one of his subjects." * * * * * The Reid Room in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The two heads of state met in the receiving room, their entrances carefully orchestrated and timed by their retinues so that neither seemed to have been left waiting for the other. "Darling," the Tharchioness cooed. "My Thayan beauty," the High Blade countered, "I was not expecting you for another month." "I just couldn't stand being away from you," she replied, her cruel lips pursed in fake kisses for the husband she hated. "That makes two of us," he agreed with just a hint of a leer that the retinues would no doubt mistake for lust, rather than contempt. "How goes the rebuilding of Eltabbar?"

"Slowly." "Earthquake, wasn't it?" "Right as always." During the entire exchange neither the husband nor the wife had come any closer to each other, and still stood on opposite sides of the room. They tentatively drew closer together, still halting well before they had reached an arm's distance. He first noticed the scent of a new perfume as they entered the room, while she recognized the foul stench of his tobacco. Their eyes never left each other, like two jungle cats each waiting for the other to be the first to blink, at which point the other would strike a lethal blow. She's even icier than usual, the High Blade thought. She is probably already aware that her plan has gone awry. Usually he can't remove his eyes from my breasts, the Tharchioness contemplated. Now he won't break my stare. He knows something and is trying to see if I know it, too. I mustn't give myself away. The subtle standoff was interrupted by the arrival of some Arabellan Brandy. The High Blade seized the opportunity to seemingly relax, and poured his bride and himself a snifter each. The Tharchioness sipped. "Mmmmmm," she purred, licking her lips. "I'm glad it is to your liking," he said in mock gallantry. "I always try to provide you with the best Mulmaster has to offer, but sometimes plans do go awry, as you no doubt have recently experienced." The Tharchioness maintained her composure, and in a tone that she thought of as schoolgirlish (which, incidentally, turned her stomach every time she used it), she

inquired, "What could you mean, darling?" "Why the earthquake, of course," he replied, hesitating just a moment before adding, "dear." "Of course," she said in agreement, realizing the subtext of taunts that he was beginning to bedevil her with. "It's a funny thing though," he persisted, "one's misfortune is sometimes another's boon." "To whose advantage is an earthquake?" "Why those who are paid to make the repairs afterward, my sweet," the High Blade replied in his most subtly condescending tone. The Tharchioness decided that she needed more time and information before further dealing with the delicate matter at hand. The High Blade obviously knew something, but of what and how much, she was not certain. She decided to change the subject. Delicately dipping her finger into her snifter of brandy, she held it out for her husband's consideration. "Care for a taste?" she purred. Gently taking the proffered hand with its anointed digit in his two hands, he slowly brought it to his lips, and bestowed a kiss. "I thought you'd never offer," he replied breathlessly, then turned to the crowds that had followed them into the receiving room and instructed the retinues, "Leave us! Matters of state and diplomacy can wait until later. Much later." In less than the time it took for their lips to meet, they were alone and on the receiving room settee. No further words were exchanged, and delicate situations were temporarily

postponed. * * * * * In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:

Rassendyll's eyes had finally grown accustomed to the dim light of his cell, and the iron mask that enshrouded his head no longer shifted with every movement he made. It was as if the metal of the domed skullcap had taken root in the back of his head, allowing less movement in the face of the mask as well. The ringing had finally stopped in his ears from the ceaseless clanging that had ensued during his period of hysterics when he had beaten his head against the wall in despair. The strong iron metal of the mask had protected his head from any major damage or concussion, and all that remained of his temporary outbreak of insanity was a nagging headache. The edges around his eyes chafed his sockets, while the slits that barely functioned as access points to his mouth and nose pressed back against his face providing the smallest windows of entry for air and other sustenance. He vaguely remembered the comment his twin had made about the lethality of his beard's growth, and resigned himself to the eventuality of his fast-approaching demise. "Death," he called in a volume equal to his outbreak of the night before, and immediately regretted it as his own words seemed to echo within the skull that the combined mask and bone of his head had become. He stopped, pulled himself up short, and steeled himself for another round of beseeching the gods. "Death," he called in comfortable, hushed tones, "please take me now, and spare me the suffering of waiting." "I'm not death," a voice interrupted from behind, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to come in and set a spell. When you get to my age, tunnel crawling is hard work."

Rassendyll quickly turned around, and saw the source of the voice. An old dwarf, whose pure white hair and beard were as long as his entire body, was halfway through a hole in the wall that had been formed from the removal of one of the massive stone bricks that made up the foundation. The young mage was speechless, but this didn't stop the dwarf, who quickly regained his feet, strode over to the new prisoner, and introduced himself. "Hi," he said jovially, in a tone that was quite out of place for the dark dungeon. "I'm Hoffman, from the Seventh Dwarven Abbey. I've been a prisoner down here for I don't know how long. What's your story?"

3 A Weakened Retreat

Along the Road from Mulmaster to the Retreat:

After the feasting at the Traveler's Cloak Inn was over, the festing began with a tour of some of the local hot spots such as the very popular Wave and Wink (nicknamed the W&W) and the Smashed Plate. Realizing that he had many days of work and research ahead of him, Volo took it fairly easy, managing to attract no attention to himself amidst the crowd of Mulmaster revellers. Passepout, on the other hand, gave free reign to all of his desires with all of the joie de vivre of the recently released prisoner that he was. His eyes and his appetites, however, were much larger and stronger than his strength and his stamina. By midevening, the chubby thespian was quite unconscious, and the master traveler had to enlist the help of three very strong young laborers and one extremely sturdy cart to get him back to their night's lodgings. The following morning, Volo rose before dawn, assembled his pack and scribbled down a hasty note assuring the stout thespian that he would return in a few days. He grabbed a fast breakfast, which Dela was more than willing to provide, and left the inn. The master traveler rented a horse from a nearby stable and set out for his next destination. The sun was just inching over the horizon when the most famous gazetteer in all Faerun passed Southroad Keep. Nodding to the city watch, who didn't pay him much attention as they were more concerned about the apparent tardiness of their relief, he passed through the city gate, and was on his way. The absence of the city walls and buildings removed all obstructions from the force

of the wind, and Volo quickly drew up a spare blanket that he had packed just for this reason, and draped it around himself as if it were a cape. Fastening it in place with a clasp, and then placing one hand on his beret and one hand on the reins, he spurred on the steed with a quick kick and "giddy-yap." Volo looked around him as he rode, taking in the scenery, and mentally assembling descriptive passages and entries for the guide. The mountains, he thought to himself, seem to create some sort of wind tunnel. The breezes off the Moonsea were magnified by the funnel effect as they roared through, making everything seem colder than it should be. I must remember, he noted, to include a cold weather warning and a warm clothing advisory in the book. With the exception of the mountains themselves, the rising sun had very little to illuminate on the landscape through which the master traveler rode. Mulmaster was surrounded by rocky, barren lands which further magnified the gloom of the smokey industrial city. The sure-footed stallion had little problem making its way over the rugged and unforgiving ground, with only a minimal amount of direction from its well-traveled rider. Even though the smoky fog of Mulmaster was far behind and out of sight in no time at all, the gloom and bleakness of the jagged terrain remained as Volo continued on his way. The skies were almost as uninhabited as the ground, with only the occasional bird of prey or vulture breaking up the grey monotony that reached upward as far as the eye could see. The master traveler seemed oblivious to the lifelessness around him, and contented himself with putting together new and different phrases to describe the barren landscape. Occasionally he would pass an abandoned farmhouse or inn, and would wonder what ill-fortuned farmer or hostler was foolhardy enough to try to ply his

trade there. Further on in his journey, he began to pass larger abandoned structures that almost resembled Southroad Keep. From the research notes that he had prepared prior to setting out on his journey, he knew that they were monasteries and habitats for contemplative orders that had long fallen by the wayside. There must have been something about the austerity of the landscape itself that attracted the ascetic, introspective, hermit types that had the swelled the orders that had filled these citadels in years gone by. I guess they came looking for the meaning of life, didn't find it, and left, leaving their monastic dwellings behind, he thought. The great gazetteer smiled. Maybe I'll include something in the guide about these places being haunted to sort of make things more exciting. Local legends have to start somewhere, he surmised. As Volo and his steed approached what remained of a stone arch that had in some earlier era provided egress for some now long bygone structure, the great gazetteer heard a scurrying like the scrambling of rats on a cellar floor. The master traveler smiled, and reached into the inner pocket of his cloak, the tips of his fingers caressing one of the numerous blades he had secreted on various parts of his person. Company, he thought to himself. Guiding the horse closer to the arch rubble, Volo allowed himself to slump down in the saddle as if he had fallen asleep, while tightening his hold on the reins to keep control of his steed in as inconspicuous a manner as possible. Easy pickings, the master traveler thought to himself, usually leads to careless thieves. He heard the scurrying on his left and above, and readied himself for the attack. A last scratch of a scurry from above, followed by a grunt, clued Volo in on a moment's notice that the outlaw who was stalking him was leaping down on to his not

unsuspecting prey from above. The master traveler quickly spurred his steed forward, upsetting the dim-witted brigand's planned interception, causing him instead to go crashing to the hard stone ground below. Once again at a moment's notice, Volo reined in his steed with one hand, this time quickly turning his mount around to face the inept assailant, while flinging a throwing blade with his freed hand. The blade met its mark, passing through the shoulder fabric of the black haired brigand's cloak, lodging its tip in the seam between the stones in the road, and staking him to the ground while barely scratching the less than deserving oaf. Dazed and bewildered, the thief looked up and began to quake in his threadbare boots, beads of sweat trickling down his face from razor cut locks of ebony as he waited for another blade to make its mortal mark. "What is your name, O inept felon?" Volo inquired. "James," the thief sputtered. "Well, felonious James, or perhaps James Felonious since you do seem to be rather backward," Volo blithely explained, "I'm afraid that business demands that I go this way, and since the authorities that I would have to turn you over to lie back from whence I came, I'm afraid that I will have to leave you behind." James the Felon tried to get up but was still held in place by the blade-staked cloak. "I can't get up!" the bewildered and dense brigand cried, unaware that it was his own cloak that was holding him down. "That's right," the master traveler replied. "I have cast a static cling spell that is causing the ground to grip you up against it." Volo spurred his steed again, and began to set off at a light trot.

"Don't leave me here!" the thief cried. "I'll starve!" "The spell will wear off soon enough," the master traveler assured, then added, "and when it does you better hightail it out of these parts. I'll be passing back this way again soon, and I'd better not find you around." "What if someone should come upon me before it wears off? I'm helpless!" the thief cried louder. "I wouldn't worry about that," Volo replied jovially. "From what I've seen and heard, the brigands that favor these here parts are a rather inept bunch." After a few moments Volo looked back in the distance. From what he could make out the thief was still struggling on the ground. The master traveler allowed himself a chuckle, and continued onward. Others might have passed through the area at a faster pace, but not Volo. This was in no way due to the potential speed of his steed, but rather by the personal choice of the rider himself. The master traveler was a stickler when it came to local flavor and color, and he had no desire to rush through it at the risk of missing something, even if the flavor of the landscape was bland and its color was gray. I must remember to include a warning about brigands in the book, the master traveler noted. After all, not all travelers are as observant—or as adept at handling such situations—as myself. * * * * * Sometime past midday, the master traveler came in sight of his destination: the isolated monastery known as the Retreat. The leisurely pace with which he had traveled obviously caused him to arrive while the various hermits of the place were on their lunchtime break deep within the monastic walls, as no one was in sight in the fields around the old stronghold.

I guess I should have sent word to wait lunch on me, the master traveler reflected with a chuckle. Maybe if I can catch the eye of one of the members on watch, a place will already be set for me by the time I arrive. A chill unlike the one caused by the Moonsea climatic conditions passed down the spine of the master traveler. That's odd, he thought. No one seems to be on watch. Even during meals there is always someone on watch. Volo put his two fingers up to his mouth and let loose with a birdcall almost identical to that of the Bowl-headed Greenwood, a bird indigenous to Shadowdale. He repeated the call, listening carefully for a reply. None came. He immediately realized that something was not right. Where could they be? he thought to himself. The elders would always respond to a Harper signal of distress, even when it isn't given by a Harper. The network of secret agents dedicated to preserving balance in Faerun were longtime allies of the old mages therein. Surely the Harpers could never fall out of favor with them. Where could they all have gone, and why wasn't anyone responding to his call? Quickly reaching into his cloak to assure himself of the readiness of yet another blade, Volo urged the horse onward at a slower pace, eyes and ears wide open and ready for danger. The gate of the Retreat had been left wide open, and though the rocky terrain obscured any tracks that might have otherwise been left, the dried spoor of numerous horses was still evident by the series of rails that were normally used for the tethering of steeds.

Volo dismounted, and, with reins still in hand in case he had to make a quick return to the saddle and an even faster egress, approached the evidential detritus, and stooped down to get a closer look at it. As I recall, the master gazetteer (who also considered himself to be a more than adequate detective) reflected, it rained just two days ago. Whatever caused the Retreat to be evacuated must have occurred since then, or else this fertilizer would have been washed away. Righting himself and stepping carefully so as to avoid treading in the evidence at hand (or underfoot, as was the case), Volo approached the gate. Before he had even gained entrance, he realized that he had been mistaken about the Retreat's evacuation, for there, just inside the gate, was the not quite two-day-old corpse of the Thayan exile who had been known as Donal Loomis. As two rats were feasting in the orifices of the elder's face, Volo saw no need to bend over for a closer examination. He knew the monk was dead and saw little reason to further turn his travel-worn stomach. With a dagger in hand, the brave gazetteer stepped over the body, and ventured further into the stronghold that had been known as the Retreat. The further he went the more bodies he found, each gutted like a pig for a Mayday feast. The master traveler used his free hand to bring a neckerchief up to his nose and mouth to help fight back the gall that was rebelling in his stomach. Maintaining his composure, he tried to piece together what must have happened. I would immediately jump to the conclusion that the Retreat had been attacked by some foreign force, he thought, but there seems to be no sign of a struggle. My second theory, he went on, would have been that they were the victims of a surprise attack, perhaps in the middle of the night, but all of the bodies are attired in their day wear, and the gate and stronghold walls show no signs of being breached, jimmied, or assailed.

Whoever engineered this horrible bloodbath must have been granted entrance by the elders in broad daylight, and therefore were assumed by the elder on watch to have been either allies, or harmless. I guess the elder on watch was mistaken. Scanning the residue of slaughter, Volo thought he recognized one of the corpses. He was about to stoop to get a closer look when he barely saw a moving blur out of the corner of his eye, and reacted in a second, raising his dagger to a defensive posture. He was half a second too slow. The master traveler felt the coolness of a steel blade against his windpipe, and heard an authoritative voice say, "Drop it, or breathe blood." Realizing he had no alternative if he wished to live long enough to get to the bottom of the bloodbath, and to eventually complete his guide to the Moonsea, Volo dropped his dagger, and prepared to do whatever the other visitor to the Retreat requested. He felt the blade pressing harder against his throat. * * * * * In the High Blade's study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The High Blade rose late that morning, having spent a strenuous night with the Thayan serpent that months ago he had accepted as his wife. He sought out the privacy of his study as he wished to avoid all of the court, social, and political commitments that occurred whenever he and his consort were reunited. Though he was more than aware of the necessity of such obligations and functions, he nonetheless desired time to more adequately formulate his plans against his she-devil wife who had sought to neutralize him. Wishing a report on his most important prisoner, Selfaril sent for Rickman. The captain of the Hawks responded immediately.

"You summoned, sire," said the one-eyed Hawk. "How is my brother?" the High Blade inquired, not making eye contact with his second in command. "As you left him, my lord," Rickman responded, surprised at Selfaril's use of the moniker. "My man in the Cloaks informs me that, given normal circumstances, the mask should have dampened all of his magical abilities to non-existence by now. He is now no more of a mage than either you or I." "What a pity for him after all of those years of study," Selfaril observed in an emotionless monotone. "Of course, the mask also serves the other purpose of obscuring his identity from prying eyes, as you yourself planned, sire," added Rickman. "So that no one will ever know that I have a brother," the High Blade interrupted, completing the thought of his right-hand man, and once again surprising the Hawk with his use of the fraternal label. Changing the subject, Selfaril said, "You know Rickman, for most people, family is their main source of comfort and survival. I, on the other hand, never knew my mother, killed my father, have imprisoned my brother, and am plotted against by my wife." "Most people are inferior pawns whose very existence is only validated for as long as they are useful to superior men such as yourself, High Blade," Rickman asserted. "Indeed," Selfaril agreed absently. Rickman remained in place, waiting for the High Blade to issue new orders, but Selfaril remained silent, as if preoccupied with other matters. Growing uncomfortable with his master's prolonged silence, the captain of the Hawks hazarded a question. "Your majesty," Rickman inquired cautiously, "have you confronted the Tharchioness with your discovery of her conspiracy yet?"

"No," Selfaril answered quickly, snapping out of his preoccupied malaise. "I haven't finished planning how to turn it to my greatest advantage yet. Ideally I would like to use it to rid the city of all of those diplomatically immune wizards she has seen fit to bring here, exempting them from my control, while sending an occupational force to Eltabbar to exert our own battery of diplomatic influence. As you no doubt realize, this is more than just a wife wishing to kill her husband. This is war." Rickman was surprised at the recent amount of anger and emotion the High Blade had made evident. What had started out as a political chess game with what was initially considered to be a worthy opponent had quickly escalated into a ruthless shadow war. Rickman was in a quandary as to what he should offer to do next. "Should I have some of my men arrange for the removal—permanent or locational—of the Tharchioness?" he inquired. "Not just yet," the High Blade answered. "We must play this situation very delicately." "What if I were to send two of my men back to the Retreat to investigate the unfortunate slaughter of that order of contemplative mages. They could discover the Thayan wand that was left behind, and report it to their immediate superiors who would then pass this discovery up through the chain of command...." "And with gossip being what it is in the lower ranks, passing out into the unwashed masses as well." "Indeed, sire," Rickman agreed. "Maiden rumor will spread, fermenting public outrage against the Thayan murderers. I will have Wattrous and Jembahb dispatched immediately. Neither of them are known for their discretion." "Indeed." "In regards to rumor, sire," Rickman continued. "Wouldn't it be wise to remove any

threat of it interfering with our plans?" "To what do you refer?" "The prisoner, sire," the Hawk captain explained cautiously. "Though his appearance is obscured, he can still talk. Perhaps he should be further isolated from the other prisoners in the dungeon." Selfaril shook his head and chuckled. "I really don't think that is necessary. A trip to the dungeon is a one-way journey for the hopeless, penniless, and terminally unfortunate. What are the odds of someone getting out, and even at that, what of it?" Rickman became quite serious. "Through my sources, I have learned that the prisoner in the cell next to your brother was released yesterday. An unemployed actor I believe." "What of it? If he heard anything at all it was the ravings of a madman. I find very little reason to fear an unemployed actor who probably knows nothing, nor anyone, of importance." "Just the same, your majesty, I would like to assign one of my spies to keep an eye on him, at least until your plan has come to fruition." "Fine, fine," Selfaril responded. "Spy on him, kill him, whatever you desire. Just don't waste my time with it." "Yes, your majesty," the captain of the Hawks answered dutifully. "And the Tharchioness? Does the same hold true for her?" "No, Rickman," the High Blade responded with a lascivious grin as he recalled the night before. "I'm not quite finished playing with her just yet." *

* * * *

In the chambers of the First Princess of Thay in the Tower of the Wyvern:

"Your majesty," the fearful ambassador hesitantly interrupted the Tharchioness's late morning meal. She had awakened to find her husband already departed from their bed, and was not in a very good mood at all. "What is it, worm?" she spat back with the venom of a recently disturbed cobra. "You requested an update, your majesty . . . from our spies?" The beautifully evil Tharchioness stood up, towering over the gelatinous bulge of her obsequious ambassador, spitting back: "And?" 'Well, your majesty," the ambassador replied, trying to maintain some composure while averting his eyes from hers, only to find them now locked on the satin V of her gown, and the ample breast that rested behind it. "Rumor has it that a group of riders were seen outside Southroad Keep on the early morning after the night of the abduction. Other sources indicate that there is a new prisoner in the keep's dungeon." "Has anyone been dispatched to verify the identity of this prisoner?" "Yes, y-y-y-your majesty," the ambassador stuttered, "but according to an easily bribed guard named Smagler, he is just a madman." "And you trusted an easily bribed guard named Smagler to know the truth about an exceptionally sensitive matter like the imprisonment of the High Blade's own twin brother?" she barked, ready to arrange for the cowering diplomat to join his predecessor in the job. "No your majesty," the ambassador quickly replied, a tone of pleading in his voice. "I then sent another of our spies to verify the identity of this madman, and see for himself. So he gained access to the dungeon, and snuck a peek into the new prisoner's cell." "And. . ... ? You try my patience! What did he look like? Was he the High Blade's twin?"

"We do not know, your majesty," the ambassador said meekly. "What do you mean we do not know? Was our spy captured?" "No, your majesty. I just finished debriefing him." "Well, what then?" "It was the prisoner, your majesty." "What about him? What did he look like?" she interrogated, losing her temper, and pummelling the pudgy ambassador with closed fists about his bald head and stooped shoulders. "I don't see what could have been so hard. The High Blade is the most recognizable of all this city's wretches!" "He wore a mask, your majesty. A magically resistant, iron mask," the ambassador cried between sobs and moans of pain. "No matter how hard my spy tried, he just couldn't penetrate its ensorcellments." The Tharchioness instantaneously regained her composure. "He must be our prisoner, or else there can be no reason why my loving husband would be obscuring his identity." "My spy also observed that the mask seemed to have a magical dampening effect within, as well as without." The Tharchioness chuckled sinisterly. "My husband has always been uneasy around magic. It is only to be expected that he would hobble the abilities of the mage-in-training." With her fingertips, the First Princess gently massaged the tattoos that adorned the left side of her completely bald pate. "The fact that his identity is concealed from the outside world is a point in our favor. It indicates that my dear husband is uneasy about his presence, and has no desire for his lovely citizens of Mulmaster to be made aware of it. We too must keep the

existence of his brother secret." The Tharchioness turned and faced her ambassador who was regaining his composure after the physical interrogation that he had just been put through. "What of your spy?" she inquired calmly. "I killed him," the ambassador replied, adding, "You stressed that absolute secrecy must be maintained, your majesty." "Good," the Tharchioness agreed. "For the time being, secrecy must be maintained at all costs. Leave, worm. Your presence nauseates me." "Yes, your majesty," the ambassador replied obsequiously, as he backed out of her ladyship's private chambers, dreading the day when his own usefulness would no longer outweigh the Tharchioness's desire for secrecy. * * * * * In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:

Rassendyll looked at his strange visitor. The dwarf seemed inordinately cheerful for a prisoner in a dungeon, or at least so thought the imprisoned young mage. Perhaps he was a spy. The dwarf spoke again. "I can't see your eyes with that funny coal bucket on your head, but I still think I can tell what you're thinking. You're probably saying to yourself, 'Self, who is this crazy old coot?' Well, I already answered that question, but I don't mind repeating myself. My name is Hoffman, and I am formerly of the Seventh Dwarven Abbey—of which I was senior abbot and protector of the legendary Seal of Robert, I might add—and I have been a prisoner down here for quite a long time, since before something that someone told me happened, the Time of Tremors, or something." "You mean the Time of Troubles," the masked prisoner corrected.

"I might do, I might do," the dwarf assented. "You're probably also asking yourself, 'Self, can I trust this crazy old coot? Is he a spy? Is he a madman?' Well the answers to those questions in order are : yes, no, and maybe. The Seventh Dwarven Abbey was attacked by Zhent agents, and I alone survived. Once I had ascertained the safety of the Seal, I came to Mulmaster in search of help. The powers that be claimed I was a spy, threw me in the dungeon, and forgot about me. It is a fate worthy of a sole survivor ... in a cosmic sense. Don't you agree?" "I'm not sure," Rassendyll responded, not realizing the apparent similarity of their situations. "Now what did a fine young fellow like yourself do to wind up in a place like this?" Hoffman quickly inquired. "I don't know," Rassendyll replied, "and how do you know if I'm young or not?" The dwarf started to laugh. "Heckuba," Hoffman swore between guffaws, "just about everyone around here is young compared to me." Unexpectedly, the dwarf's laughter was quickly halted and replaced by a racking cough that seemed to shake the former abbot's entire body. Rassendyll immediately came over to him in hopes of casting a spell to help him, but quickly realized he was unable to, and instead settled on putting his arm around the dwarf and helping him into a recline on the floor of the cell. As soon as the coughing fit seemed to subside, Hoffman cocked his head to the side as if to listen for something, and said in an urgent whisper, "Quickly, the guards are coming, and they mustn't discover me here or it will go badly for both of us. I must return to my cell. Help me over to the tunnel, and return the stone to its place blocking it. I promise to return shortly, once the coast is clear."

Rassendyll helped the old and now obviously infirm dwarf over to the tunnel, through which the visitor quickly scurried. The masked prisoner had no sooner replaced the stone to its proper location, when a light was flashed through the small window in the cell's door. "You there," a stern voice bellowed, "take your plate or go hungry, madman. Whatever you choose doesn't matter to me." The light remained in the window, while Rassendyll crawled on hands and knees to the door. A plate had been placed at its base, and the young mage was barely able to reach it through a narrow slot in the door. The guard moved on as he began to eat. The food was rancid, and probably the most inedible sustenance that he ever encountered in his entire cloistered life, but as it had been over two days since he had last eaten, he managed to choke it all down. Once his meal was over he replaced the plate through the slot at the base of the door and looked back at the stone that he had just recently put in place in hopes that the jolly gentleman with the long white beard would return as he had promised. * * * * * In the Captain's Quarters in Southroad Keep:

Rickman was not amused. "Blough, what do you mean that itinerant thespian has disappeared?" he shouted. The fearful Hawk maintained his composure, even though he knew that he had just told his commanding officer information contradictory to what he wanted to hear, and repeated his report. "The thespian, a certain Passepout, son of Idle and Catinflas, was bailed out yesterday by person or persons unknown. After leaving the custody of the keep, he

apparently disappeared. The city watch at the gate has no record of his having left Mulmaster in the past twenty-four hours, and he is not on the registry of any of the local inns. A drunkard matching his description may or may not have been at the Wave and Wink last night, but other than that we have no leads." "Did you check the most recent roundup of vagrants that were picked up after tavern closing last night?" "Yes, sir," the efficient Hawk replied. "I even checked with the officer on duty for last night's round up. According to him, Lieutenant Boston, the streets were free of human debris before sunrise. If he had passed out, he would have been found, sir." Rickman made a minor adjustment of his eye-patch as he was wont to do while thinking. The thespian was obviously in hiding, but why? Surely he didn't have an inkling that his presence among the living was no longer desired by the Mulmaster powers that be. Where could he be? "When he arrived in Mulmaster was he alone, or with someone?" the one-eyed Hawk captain inquired. "According to the city watch officer who was on duty at the gate at that time," Blough answered, "he was alone." Rickman readjusted his eye-patch once again. Tension usually brought on a certain degree of discomfort in his now vacant eye socket, as if the missing eye had somehow returned with an exceptionally annoying feeling of irritation and itchiness. No stone must go unturned, the captain of the Hawks thought to himself, or the High Blade will have my head. "Are there any other aliens who have arrived in Mulmaster within the last three days?" he demanded. "I assume you mean above and beyond the normal merchants who travel in and out

of the city like clockwork, paying the necessary duties as they sign in and out on schedule." The captain of the Hawks answered with a quick nod. "Well, there is the entire entourage of the First Princess of Thay," Blough answered, adding, "and because of their diplomatic immunity, none of them had to register ..." Great, Rickman thought to himself, the High Blade will have my head for sure. "... and there is one other," the efficient Hawk added, "a travel writer by the name of Volothamp Geddarm. According to the city watch on duty at the gate, he left Mulmaster early this morning, but has maintained his accommodations of two adjoining rooms at the Traveler's Cloak Inn for at least an additional week, paid in advance." Volothamp Geddarm, the captain of the Hawks repeated to himself. Why does that name sound familiar?

4 Miss Alliances

At the Retreat:

Volo did exactly as the voice he now recognized as female instructed, dropping the blade from his hand, and moving his arms away from his sides, palms out and empty. All of this was done slowly and carefully, without any sudden movements. The master traveler of all Faerun (if not all Toril) had no desire to drown in his own blood. "Spread your legs further apart," she ordered. "Glad to," the master traveler answered, complying. As he felt a slight decrease in the pressure against the blade that was still resting against his throat, he slowly tried to turn his head so as to get a look at the fellow visitor to the slaughterhouse that had been known as the Retreat. "Eyes forward!" she barked. "Sorry," he answered, once again complying, as he felt a deft hand giving him a practiced body frisk. Volo, in an attempt to ingratiate himself with the overly cautious woman, started to volunteer certain information about what he was holding. "I have a bando—" "Quiet!" "Sorry." Her practiced hands undid the bandolier of blades that the master traveler always had concealed under his cloak, dropping it to the ground. She also quickly removed several of his other concealed surprises (though missing a few that the master traveler

thought better of volunteering). The frisking done, the mystery woman made a strange request. "Remove your hat," she ordered, "and do it slowly." Volo slowly followed her instructions, eyes still forward, and legs still spread apart. With beret in hand, he felt her hand gently tug at his beard, and run through the flowing locks that covered the top of what he thought to be considered as one of the more handsome heads of Faerun. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about you being one of those murderous wizards from Thay," she said. "You can turn around, but very slowly, hands still away from the sides of your body, and no funny stuff." "Gladly, my dear," Volo answered in his most charming tone, as he slowly turned around to face the woman who had come very close to slitting his throat. "Your wish is my command." She was slightly taller than the master traveler himself, and was attired in a garb more suited to a ranger than the ravishing beauty that she was. Her tight leathers enveloped an obviously well endowed and maintained figure, and her flowing brown hair seemed to reach the base of her back, barely obscuring the long sword that was sheathed behind her. Drawing on his extensive knowledge of all things public, and most things private and secret in Faerun, Volo hazarded a jibe. "Is that a long sword," he asked with a light gesture from his left hand, then added jovially, "or are you just happy to see me?" The female ranger ignored the double entendre, and answered simply, "What if it is?" "Then Storm Silverhand sends her regards," the master traveler responded, "as I

assume that I am addressing Chesslyn Onaubra." "How do you know the legendary bard of Shadowdale?" she interrogated. "Know her," Volo quickly answered, trying appear more at ease than he really was. "I've stayed at her farm on numerous occasions." He then quickly changed the subject, shifting focus back to the armed and deadly woman who was standing in front of him. "Rumor has it that you can hurl that long sword for a distance of up to fifty feet. How much of an exaggeration is that?" "It isn't an exaggeration," she replied, letting her guard drop ever so slightly. "And what is the name of this loquacious friend of Storm Silverhand's who seems to know so much about me?" Volo quickly replaced his beret, which sat atop his head just long enough so that he could once again remove it with a flourish and a bow saying, "Volothamp Geddarm, master traveler of all Faerun, at your service." The Harper secret agent known as Chesslyn Onaubra shook her brown locks with a guarded laugh and an amused chuckle and said, "I should have known." Extending a hand of friendship to the master traveler, she added, "And what brings the master traveler and scourge of the dopplegangers to the Moonsea?" "A new book," he answered, jovially accepting the Harper's proffered hand, "what else? Though it would appear that more is going on here than would usually be included in one of my travel guides." "Agreed," Chesslyn assented seriously, withdrawing a blood-stained crystal wand from her pack and holding it up for the master gazetteer to examine. * * * * * The Office of the High Blade in the Tower of the Blades:

"Sire," Rickman cautiously interrupted, "a word with you if I may?" "What is it Rickman?" the High Blade answered impatiently. The rigors and demands of dealing with the lesser nobles who, in the eyes of the people, really ruled the city, always left him in a bad mood, and he always saw interruptions to his business affairs as merely means to prolong his own bureaucratic misery. "In private, sire?" the captain of the Hawks whispered with a degree of urgency. "As you will," the High Blade assented, and quickly dispersed the nonessential politicians with whom he had been dealing with quick directions. "Leave me now," he ordered brusquely, "and don't return until you have a concrete plan for restoring our navy in half the time you are currently projecting." "Yes, sire," the nobles all said in unison, though the looks on their faces indicated that such a task was almost impossible, and that they would be spending the next few weeks avoiding the High Blade in order to dodge his wrath when he discovered their gross failings. They quickly fled the office of their supreme commander. "Well, that should keep them out of my hair for a while," the High Blade said with a fiendish chuckle. "Now what did you deem to be so important that it was worth incurring my ire by interrupting the second most unpleasant part of my day?" "The second, sire?" "The first being waking up to discover myself next to the Tharchioness, who still happens to be breathing." "Yes, sire," Rickman acknowledged, quickly returning to the matter at hand. "In an effort to, how shall I say, tie up all of the loose ends, I am afraid that I have discovered one that is not all that easy to tie up." "How so?" "That thespian who was released yesterday."

"Yes?" demanded the High Blade, beginning to loose patience. "We can't locate him." The High Blade could barely contain the rage that had been building within him since he had first discovered his wife's plot against him. The captain of the Hawks hastened to continue his debriefing. "My spies have narrowed down the source of his sanctuary to two possible allies in the city." "So he is still in Mulmaster?" Selfaril asked. "Are you sure of this?" "The city watch at the gate is quite confident he has not left the city walls since his release from Southroad Keep." "Well that is a small consolation," the High Blade acknowledged. "Who are these possible allies? Spies and agents within the city perhaps? Maybe a Harper agent?" "No, your majesty," Rickman replied with great confidence and surety. "My sources are quite confident that organizations such as the Harpers and their ilk have no presence within the city walls of Mulmaster. The Cloaks constantly scan the area with their psionic surveillance, and have always come up empty. Harper interference is the least of our problems." "Go on," the High Blade instructed, relieved that one of his fears was unfounded, though still perturbed by the amount of dancing around the truth that Rickman seemed to be doing. "So who are these potential allies of this common itinerant thespian whom your men saw fit to release?" Rickman tried to skip over the reference to the incompetence of his men and continued. "Since we have safely ruled out all normal residential city inhabitants, this reduces our suspects to recent arrivals to the city." "Agreed."

"Unfortunately, your majesty, our most likely candidate is one of your wife's people, or more specifically someone in her entourage." Selfaril's composure began to slip again. "You mean this so-called harmless itinerant thespian was a Thayan spy!" he shouted, confident that the soundproof walls of his office prevented anyone from eavesdropping. "Your men released from their custody a Thayan spy!" "No, your majesty," Rickman quickly tried to explain. "What I meant to say was that your wife's people, for some reason presently unknown to us, might be offering him refuge." Selfaril winced at Rickman's repeated use of the phrase "your wife's," but continued his interrogation nonetheless. "You said there were two possible allies for the thespian within the city. Who is the other one?" "A writer of some renown who arrived at the city the day after the thespian. One Volothamp Geddarm, guide book author and world traveler," the captain of the Hawks explained. "Curiously enough, he seems to have secured himself accommodations for two, though the city watch reported that he entered the city alone." "Well, have him arrested," Selfaril ordered matter-of-factly. "If he knows the location of your harmless thespian, we'll no doubt get it out of him with torture. If not, we will at least have succeeded in ridding Faerun of one more annoyance. If there is one thing worse than an itinerant actor, it's an itinerant writer. Believe me, he won't be missed." "Unfortunately, at least according to the city watch, it would appear that he has already left the city, though there is every indication that he plans on returning as he has maintained his lodgings at the Traveler's Cloak Inn, paid in advance." Selfaril fingered his carefully coifed beard with a neatly manicured fingernail that he

kept sharp enough to draw blood. "Issue a warrant for his arrest and for the thespian as well," the High Blade ordered. "Search his lodgings immediately and confiscate his belongings. If anyone asks what he is suspected of, be vague, but leave the implication that they are both involved with a plot to kill my dear sweet wife, just to make it interesting." "Yes, your majesty," Rickman replied, admiring the deceitful mastery that the High Blade choreographed as he tightened the noose around the Thayan bitch's neck. "And are there any new instructions concerning your brother, sire?" The High Blade gave his second a glare that could only be described as a death look. "Rickman," Selfaril said in an ominously controlled voice, "you are quite valuable to me, but not so valuable that I would hesitate having you permanently removed in a millisecond should the mood strike me. It would be in your best interest to refrain in the future from the use of any familial terms in my presence. Do you understand?" "Yes, your majesty," Rickman replied, his lone eye averted and downcast. "As for the prisoner," Selfaril concluded, "there are no new orders. I can't imagine that we will have to keep him alive much longer. Soon he will be used to embarrass the Tharchioness by exposing her seditious plot, and after that, he will be disposed of. For the time being, he's harmless, and he's not going anywhere." * * * * * At the Traveler's Cloak Inn:

Passepout, though he had slept well past the midday point, was still quite groggy, and slightly queasy from the previous night's merriment. A sensible individual would probably have taken things easy, until his hangover had

passed. Unfortunately the chubby thespian's mammoth appetite had no desire to be ruled by common sense, and as a result Passepout soon found himself in the dining room placing a food order that at once combined the sustenance and bulk of a midnight snack, breakfast, brunch, and lunch. "You'll be sorry," the usually understanding and accommodating Dela advised. The chubby thespian just harumphed back at her, trying to clear his head of the miasma of Morpheus, and paying no mind to the worldly wisdom offered by the best hostler in all Mulmaster. When the plate was placed in front of him, he immediately dug in without so much as a thank you or other acknowledgement for the efforts of the hard working innkeeper. True to the advisement of Dela, he was midway through his second plateful when his stomach revolted, and his faced turned a sickly color of pea green. Dela, who had been keeping a close eye on her least favorite guest of the moment, decided that she had taken quite enough abuse up to this point. She strode over to the chair that was straining under the weight of the heavy thespian and, taking him by the collar, none too gently escorted him to the door. "There will be no getting sick in the Traveler's Cloak Inn for as long as I'm still the proprietor," she sternly instructed. "I don't care if you are a friend of Volothamp Geddarm's, or not. You are an embarrassment to all of the well-mannered gentlemen who have passed through these doors before you. I don't care where you go, just don't come back here until you have learned yourself some manners." The portly thespian tried to protest but found himself unable to hold back the upcoming deluge from his stomach and formulate words at the same time. Passepout instead concentrated on just keeping from passing out.

Releasing the actor's collar, and with a little bit of encouragement from the sole of her shoe, Dela propelled the green-faced thespian out into the Mulmaster city streets, where the human projectile quickly wandered off, and passed out. Moments later, Dela's afternoon tea was interrupted by a contingent of Hawks with a warrant for the arrest and confiscation of goods for both Volothamp Geddarm and Passepout, son of Idle and Catinflas. Dela, the perfect innkeeper, informed the guards that both guests were no longer on the premises, and that if either of them returned, she would immediately inform the local authorities. Mentally she added in her own mind, once I've warned them and sent them on their way, of course. Dela had no desire to alienate either the local authorities or her guests, which is probably why she was considered to be a model innkeeper for all Faerun. * * * * * In the dungeon of Southroad Keep:

A light was flashed once again through the window in Rassendyll's cell, when the guard retrieved the plate that had previously borne the slop that had been dinner. As the footsteps of the guards retreated off into the distance, Rassendyll waited for the return of his visitor. Seconds stretched into moments, moments into hours, hours into immeasurable blocks of time that felt like years, yet the abbe Hoffman did not return. Rassendyll reflected as he waited. Before the arrival of the dwarf, he had despaired and welcomed death, accepting it and his own continued captivity as inevitable and beyond his own ken.

The appearance of the cheerful dwarf had changed all of that. Maybe his inevitable fate was not all that cut and dried after all. True, his magical abilities and secrets had left him, and he was imprisoned in a hideous mask of iron in the bowels of a Mulmaster dungeon, but no matter what he had thought before, he was far from helpless and the time for action had arrived. Rassendyll decided that it was time to take control of his destiny for the first time in his cloistered life. If an old dwarf has the spark of life within him, why not a mage-in-training? Checking the small window in the door for a guard who might overhear his actions, and finding the coast to be clear, he moved away the blocking stone from the tunnel entrance, and with great care to avoid the telltale sounds of metal on rock caused by the hitting of the mask against the dungeon wall, Rassendyll shimmied through the entrance and crawled through the dwarf's tunnel. The girth of the dwarf's torso necessitated a wide tunnel so the masked prisoner had little trouble moving through it. Within seconds, he arrived at its apparent end, and carefully pushed a stone not unlike the one on his end of the tunnel away, and hauled himself up into the dwarf's cell. Hoffman was resting with his back against the cell wall. His eyes were closed and his breathing was unduly labored. Rassendyll's heart sank. It appeared that his newly found reason for living was in his final hours. As the masked mage moved the stone in place, he accidentally hit his head. The clang, soft as it was, announced his presence, and the dwarf opened his eyes. "I have company, I see," Hoffman said with a weak grin. "Good manners required that I return the neighborly visit," Rassendyll replied,

approaching the infirm dwarf. He was shocked by how sickly the dwarf now appeared, when he had seemed so robust, not counting the coughing fit, when he had visited Rassendyll's cell earlier. Hoffman instinctively read the look of surprise that existed beneath the mask on his fellow prisoner's face. "I hope you don't mind me not going to the effort of casting a keeping up appearances spell. It would take a bit too much out of me at the present moment." "Not at all," Rassendyll replied, his grin obscured by the iron mask. "You were going to tell me how you wound up with that coal bucket on your head," the dwarf reminded him. "A blind wizard smith put it on me at the direction of a cruel but handsome looking man who resembled myself." "Tell me a little more about this good looking fellow, the bad guy. You can fill me in about yourself a little later." "He was dressed in silken robes with fur trim, and around his neck was a pendant of a blood-encrusted dagger. The blood was made up of red gemstones. Rubies, maybe," Rassendyll tried to recall. "That pendant represents the office of the High Blade of Mulmaster. I believe that the tormentor who looks just like you is the tyrant Selfaril himself. Rumors pass occasionally through these dungeon walls, and I recall that he ascended to the throne after killing his own father," the dwarf explained. "Are you sure that you resemble him?" "Indeed," Rassendyll replied. "If I could remove this mask, I would show you." "Don't even try," Hoffman advised with a cough. "It is clearly ensorcelled. I'm afraid that not even during my younger years would I have been able to defeat a spell as

strong as this one." "It also seems to have removed all of my own spellcasting abilities." "You were a spellcaster?" the enfeebled dwarf inquired. "A mage-in-training," Rassendyll explained. "I had been in training for my entire life. Now, all those years have been wasted." "Maybe not," Hoffman asserted. "Though the ability to do is desirable, the ability to wield and recognize is also of great benefit." "I don't understand." "The enchanted metal of the mask acts as both an insulator and a leeching conductor of your magical abilities and spells. It prevents any spells formed within from being cast out, while conducting the knowledge and innate powers from within, onto its metallic surface, and eventually causing them to dissipate in the air around you. What it doesn't do is prevent you from using the general knowledge you obtained in your studies, such things as recognizing spells that are cast by others or using magically powered artifacts and objects." Rassendyll chuckled at the dwarf's optimistic observations. "Little good those vestiges of my training will do me here," he said, trying not to sound too despairing in the presence of the obviously dying dwarf. "Don't be too sure," Hoffman replied, his voice weakening rapidly. "My years of tunneling around here are coming to an end. Originally I had an agreement with the former resident of your cell, that when my time had come I would aid him in his escape from this hateful place." "What happened to the former resident?" Rassendyll asked. "He died at the hands of an overly playful guard, whose solution to the boredom of his regular duties was torturing the prisoners. In Kupfer's case, he went a little too far."

"Oh." "When a person dies in the keep, their body is placed in a sack with a weight and dropped down the same drain that the garbage goes. It leads to an underground canal that eventually empties out into the Moonsea. The dead are bagged and weighted before the dinner service, and then collected on the same trip they retrieve the plates. I've seen it happen many times over, and it runs like clockwork. You can tell when it happens. The guards ring a bell to signal that someone has to bring down a sack and a weight." "Kupfer and I," Hoffman continued, "hatched a plan that when one of us died, the other would sneak into the cell, and trade places with him in the sack, on the off chance that there was a chance of surviving the underground trip out to sea." "Was Kupfer a dwarf too?" Rassendyll asked, intrigued by the plan. "No," Hoffman answered, his voice hardly a whisper, "he was a firbolg." "Don't you think they would have noticed the difference in the size and weight?" "Not with this, they wouldn't," the dwarf explained holding out a charm. "Don't touch it. I'm not too sure how long it will last in close contact with that mask of yours. It transmits an aura of disguise so that, for a limited amount of time, the guards will believe that the burden they are carrying is actually the mass of the previous bearer of the charm." The dwarf carefully placed it back in the pouch beneath his beard, making sure that the young used-to-be mage-in-training saw exactly where he kept it. "Now quickly return from whence you came," Hoffman instructed, "and just let old abbe Hoffman die in peace. I am old and it is about time. When you hear the bell, wait for the dinner service to begin, and then hightail it on over here. Drag my body back to your cell, being sure to place it in the darkest corner possible. We only have to be able

to trick the watch once. Then take my place in the sack, and go with Dumathoin, my son. Perhaps you will be able to find someone who can remove that coal bucket from your head." Rassendyll was saddened by the weakening condition of his newfound friend. "Maybe you're being a bit premature about this whole thing," he offered. The dwarf shook his head slightly. "Nope," Hoffman replied, starting another frightful coughing fit. "Afraid not. I'll be gone by dinner, and with any luck you'll be gone not too much later." "Why should I benefit from your death?" a tearful Rassendyll asked. "Because it would be a darn no good waste of a near perfect escape plan, that's why," Hoffman replied. "Now back to your cell, and let me die in peace." Rassendyll returned to his cell to meditate on the opportunity that had been presented to him. His thoughts were soon interrupted by the clear tolling of a bell. It tolls for he, Rassendyll thought to himself, and he steeled himself for the hours ahead. As Hoffman had indicated, the evening meal came like clockwork, and as soon as he heard the guards move on, he set his plate to the side, and shimmied back down the tunnel. Hoffman's body had already been placed in the sack, a weight carefully attached to its end. Carefully, the masked prisoner removed the body of the dwarf from its low-budget shroud, being sure to remove the charm from around its neck. He then pushed the corpse of his recently acquired friend back through the tunnel and up into his cell where he placed it, as instructed, in the shadow-most corner. He then placed his plate back outside of the door, and raced back down the tunnel, pulling the blocking rock

back into place behind him, and rushed at breakneck speed back to Hoffman's cell hoping that he would be able to beat the guards there, be disguised by the powers of the old dwarf's charm, deceive the guards, and survive the trip downstream and out to sea. He realized that all of the odds were long, but knew that the gamble would be worth it because it was the only game in town and he was no longer content to just wait for death. No sooner did he cinch the sack shut from the inside, than Rassendyll heard the lock to the door of the cell being opened, and two guards coming inside. Rassendyll clutched Hoffman's charm to his bosom, desperately trying to keep it from making contact with the magic-leeching iron mask. Please work long enough to get me out of here, he prayed. With a heave-ho one of the guards hoisted the burial sack over his shoulder, magically unaware of its newly added bulk. "Good riddance," said the guard who opened the doors for his corpse-laden associate. "That's one less prisoner to keep an eye on." "And one less dwarf to blight Mulmaster," the other added, as they ventured further into the keep's bowels, toward the entrance to the sewer. Rassendyll could smell the stench of sewage getting closer when he heard the guard who was carrying him complain: "Gee, I must be out of shape. This dwarf is getting awfully heavy." Rassendyll prayed that the spell would last just a little while longer. The guard stopped for a moment, and the masked prisoner expected to have his presence revealed at any moment. One guard opened a trap, releasing an aromatic draught of sewage stench. The

other guard shifted the weight of his burden and carefully, so as not to entangle himself in the shroud's downward descent, dropped what he thought to be the corpse-filled sack down into the sewer below. Before the sack made its splash in the water below, Rassendyll thought he heard an alarm sound in the chambers above. His disappearance had been discovered, but he was already on his way down the drain and out to sea.

5 Under Currents

In the Tharchioness's Boudoir in the Tower of the Wyvern:

"Your majesty," the ambassador said in urgent hushed tones, momentarily forgetting the breaches of protocol that he had just committed. "Silence, worm!" the First Princess of Thay ordered. "My husband is on his way. My spy in the Tower of the Blades believes that he intends on confronting me with evidence of our conspiracy." "But your majesty—" "Silence! Do you wish to join the ranks of your predecessors? Don't try my patience! I must concentrate before he gets here. It will require all of my feminine wiles to distract him." "The prisoner escaped!" the ambassador blurted out, just as the Tharchioness's backhand made contact with his doughy cheek. "What did you say?" she asked, her hand poised to strike again. "My spy in Southroad Keep just informed me that all havoc has broken out due to the escape of a certain prisoner. Two guards have already been executed for gross incompetence." "Have they recovered the prisoner yet?" "Not according to my sources, your highness," the ambassador answered, his head still ringing from the last blow. "Is there anything else I should know, worm?" "Only that the last words of the executed guards were that they were sure he was

dead—drowned, or something." "Did they find the body?" "No," the ambassador answered cautiously. "They believe it was washed out to sea." The Tharchioness stroked her own brow seductively. Well, this does change things, she thought. No body, no evidence. No evidence, no conspiracy. It would appear that my dear husband has snatched a stalemate out of the jaws of victory. I will have to comfort the dear lad. The Tharchioness let loose a fiendish laugh, and continued to apply her makeup. The ambassador took the opportunity of his mistress's distraction to escape from her boudoir with his life in hope that she had already forgotten his several infractions of protocol. Once in the safety of the public hallway, the ambassador breathed a sigh of relief at having cheated death yet again. *

*

*

*

*

In the Courtyard Between the Towers of the Blade and the Wyvern:

"What do you mean he's gone?" the High Blade demanded. "We believe him to be dead, sire," Rickman explained. "My experts believe that the sheer weight of the iron mask would have made it quite impossible for him to swim, and that he would undoubtedly have drowned before he even reached the open sea." "How can we be sure?" Selfaril demanded. "We can't, sire," the Hawk captain conceded. "The men responsible for this severe foul-up have already been executed." "That is not good enough," the High Blade blustered. "Your Hawks have been

slipping. First, they could not hold onto a possible witness to our plans, even though you yourself thought him to be nothing but an itinerant thespian. Now, they have allowed the prisoner to escape." "There was no way he could have survived, your highness. It is obvious that we underestimated the suicidal lengths a desperate man would stoop to." "Indeed," the High Blade answered. "Rickman, I am holding you personally responsible for cleaning up after this mess. There must be no evidence left that the prisoner ever existed." "At least he is not in Thayan hands, sire." "That is small consolation. Evidence of their seditious plan was all I needed to castrate my bitch of a wife. Now things are just back to status quo." A Thayan courtier appeared out of nowhere. "Your majesty," the courtier said, "the First Princess is waiting for you in her boudoir. She saw you coming across the courtyard from her window, and was troubled by what was possibly detaining you. Is everything all right?" "Everything is fine," the High Blade announced with a roll of his eyes that only Rickman noticed. "Tell my dearest bride that I will be there directly." The courtier gave one final message. "Sire, the First Princess said to tell you that she would be counting the minutes," the Thayan said, and returned to his post. As am I, the High Blade thought, to your death! Selfaril turned back to Rickman, delaying his trip back to his wife even further. A thought had just crossed his mind, and he was grinning in fiendish glee. "Have your men returned from the Retreat with the bloodstained wand yet?" he inquired.

"No, your majesty," Rickman replied. "Notify me immediately when they do," Selfaril instructed. "The Retreat was under Mulmaster's protection, and I would hate to see the unfortunate slaughter of those wizards turn into a diplomatic hot potato, if you know what I mean." "Yes, your majesty," Rickman replied, understanding what the High Blade was planning. "It wouldn't be the same as a plot against the throne." "No," Selfaril agreed, "but sometimes we have to settle for the next best thing." * * * * * At the Retreat:

"Where did you find that?" Volo asked the lovely Chesslyn. "Over by the ugly monk's body, out by the gate," she replied. "It's obviously Thayan in origin. That's why I checked your head for tattoos. I thought you might be one of those Red Wizard murderers." "So you believe that this mass slaughter was the product of a Thayan invasion?" "That's what it looks like to me," she replied. Volo fingered his beard and thought for a moment. The master traveler was no stranger to matters of bloodshed and the like, having survived numerous deadly altercations on his journeys around Toril. Pteramen, murderous Mazticans, and deadly dopplegangers—he had survived them all. "That still doesn't explain why there was no sign of a struggle," he asserted, suspicious of the circumstances at hand. "Though the elders of the Retreat welcomed all refugees, I see little reason that they would open their gates to an armed contingent of Red Wizards. I—" "Quiet!" she hushed with great urgency. "I hear horses. We'd better hide."

Volo looked from side to side, and then at his trusty steed. "What should I do with him?" he inquired in a whisper. "In here," she instructed, quickly leading him to a shed, then explaining, "It's where I put my horse when I heard you coming." "If you heard me coming, why didn't you respond to my whistle?" "Later," she answered. When they had stowed the master traveler's horse next to that of the secret Harper agent, they closed the doors, and took a ladder up to the shed's roof. "This gives us a perfect vantage point to see and hear our new arrivals without being seen or heard ourselves," Chesslyn explained. "Are you sure?" the master traveler asked. "Well, it worked when I was watching you," she replied. They had no sooner reached their vantage point when the Hawks named Wattrous and Jembahb entered the courtyard. "Look at this mess!" Wattrous said. The older weasel-like Hawk was barely able to control the gorge that was working its way up his throat. "What are we supposed to be looking for?" the younger and taller Hawk inquired, apparently oblivious to the stench of the rapidly rotting bodies. "Captain Rickman said there should be something by the body of the bald guy at the gate," the shorter and senior Hawk instructed, "but there doesn't seem to be anything there." "How did he . . ." Chesslyn said a little louder than Volo felt comfortable with. "Quiet!" the master traveler hushed, then added in a whisper, "Later." "Well, if it's not here, let's leave," Jembahb said. "This place gives me the creeps." Volo cupped his hands together, and blowing through them, carefully made the

sound of an undead specter advancing into the daylight. He could tell that Wattrous recognized the sound; the Hawk instantly became wide-eyed and frantically looked from side to side. "Good idea," he quickly replied to his junior Hawk, valiantly trying not to show his fear, but then adding, "but you have to be the one to tell Rickman." "No problem," Jembahb replied as they remounted their horses. "But where will you be?" "I have business in Hillsfar," the weasel-like Wattrous quickly replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. He thought to himself, knowing how Rickman dealt with an undesirable report, maybe Hillsfar wasn't such a bad idea. Perhaps he could join the Plumes. Jembahb was a nice enough guy, trusting and naive, and would, therefore, be the perfect scapegoat for their failure to complete their mission as directed. Yes. Hillsfar would be just far enough to save his own skin. As the two Hawks set off back for Mulmaster, the Harper secret agent and the master traveler lowered themselves from their hiding place. * * * * * The Sewers Beneath Mulmaster:

Rassendyll felt a sensation of falling rapidly through midair, which was quickly followed by the slap and splash of the weighted burial sack's contact with the rapidly moving river of sewage-spoiled waters. The thick viscosity of the underground fluid coated the burial shroud amniotically, without managing to permeate the sack itself. As a result, as long as the masked prisoner was able to hold the top cinch of the sack tightly closed, no air was able to escape, and for at least a few brief moments Rassendyll was able to breathe within the

linen-lined bubble that was cascading through the underwater tunnels of Mulmaster. The masked prisoner realized that he had to time his escape from the sack very carefully: too soon and he would be wasting precious drops of air that he might need before finishing his journey out to sea; too late and he would find himself too far below the depths of the icy Moonsea, and long drowned before reaching the surface. The sheer power of the sewer stream propelled the bag and its contents forward, the leaded weight that was attached to it occasionally dragging against the bottom of the downward tunnel. Battered, bruised, and bounced around, Rassendyll struggled to listen to the tell-tale tones of the burial rock that would eventually drag the sack to the sea bottom. He knew that when the sound stopped and the ride smoothed out, that the course would have changed from forward to downward, and that only seconds would remain for him to escape and head to the surface. It was only when he turned his head to the side and felt the drag of the iron mask against the linen lining did he remember that he too would be weighted down even after he left the sack. As this moment of realization hit him, he realized that the change of course had begun. Seeing no rational alternative, he braced himself for the liquid onslaught, opened the sack, and valiantly kicked toward the surface, the weight of the mask resting heavily upon his shoulders. * * * * * On the Shore of the Moonsea:

Passepout's head hurt. The last thing he remembered clearly was staggering out of the Traveler's Cloak Inn, and walking down an alleyway. From there, things seemed to blur. Pressmen

hitting him over the head. Passing out. Waking up on a boat. Getting sick to his stomach. Being thrown overboard. It had not been a good day. Somehow aided by the buoyancy of his bulk, he had managed to float ashore. The hefty thespian groaned as he rolled his bulk on to his side for a cursory survey of the area. He opened his eyes for a quick look, and closed them even more quickly than he had intended due to the glare of the sun off the surf. He felt like a beached whale after the tide had gone out. What could go wrong now? he thought to himself. Carefully opening his eyes again, and shielding them from the setting sun, he surveyed his surroundings, and discovered that somehow his foot had gotten entangled in a pile of rags and a metal bucket. Shaking his foot to get it loose, he was met with a surprise: the pile of rags and the coal bucket had started to move. The stout and brave thespian quickly returned to unconsciousness as he fainted.

PART TWO

The Swordsman, the High Blade, his Wife, & his Brother

6 In Morning

The High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

A new day had just dawned and once again the High Blade had stolen from the connubial chamber that housed his cursed marriage bed and loathsome spouse prior to first light—in order to avoid any possibility of having to converse with his despicable bride—and proceeded to his morning meal. Slater, his valet, whose sleeping accommodations varied from night to night so as to be available at his master's first stirring, had anticipated the High Blade's impulse and had risen from the folded-down pallet outside the door of the couple's chamber prior to his master's stirring. The faithful servant held his master's silk and fur morning robe in readiness for a quick escape to the secret study where Selfaril could enjoy the early morning serenity. Once his master was safely ensconced in his study, Slater was free to fetch the High Blade's breakfast without fear of his master being disturbed by anyone but his closest confidantes, which, of course, did not include the Tharchioness. The sun had just peeked over the horizon, thus signaling the next change of the city watch, when Selfaril's breakfast arrived, not borne by Slater as he had expected, but by Rickman. Selfaril immediately realized that the captain of the Hawks must have been bearing important information or he wouldn't have risked the High Blade's ire at having his breakfast interrupted. He also realized that the information at hand would probably not be to his liking. "Ah, Rickman," the High Blade said, addressing his right-hand man with

deprecating sarcasm, "perhaps, you are auditioning for a new position that is more in line with the limited abilities of you and your men." The captain of the Hawks held his tongue for a moment to allow the invective that was almost on his lips to pass into silence to be replaced by a simple, "If that is what you wish, sire." "I wish for many things," the High Blade responded, beginning to dine off the tray that the captain was carrying. Rickman's inner instinct for survival prevented him from interrupting the High Blade by placing the tray on its usual place on the table. "I wish that I had never married that traitorous she-devil," the High Blade continued. "I wish that I had acquired Thay as my domain rather than the Tharchioness as my bride. I wish that the ineptitude of your men had not bungled away the means by which my wishes might have been fulfilled." Rickman stood stone-still, despite the tongue-lashing that coupled the strain that the heavily laden tray was bringing to bear on his awkwardly poised forearms. He knew that the High Blade already acknowledged his own disgust with the stupidity, ignorance, and ill-luck of a few of his men who had already borne the lethal brunt of his own anger. Having finished two eggs from which he had taken his time delicately removing the shells, Selfaril drank a draught of juice, and, with a swipe of a napkin, wiped the breakfast residue from his mouth. "Don't just stand there holding that tray," the High Blade ordered. "Put it down and pour me a cup of coffee." Rickman did as instructed and turned around to pour the pot. "You may as well pour yourself a cup as well," Selfaril added, the sharpness of his tongue slowly disappearing.

"As you wish, sire," the captain of the Hawks answered, adding, "I don't mind if I do." When he turned back to face Selfaril, and placed his cup in front of him, he noticed that the High Blade's robe had loosened when he had used the napkin, and that three apparently fresh parallel lacerations of no less than three inches each were visible on his master's bare chest. The High Blade was scratching them absently, not even realizing what he was doing until he noticed Rickman's stare. Rickman quickly averted his eyes, and returned his attention to the placement of the coffee cup. "Oh, sit," Selfaril instructed with a dismissive gesture. Rickman sat, his body still at attention. Inwardly he was bemoaning his momentary lapses in decorum: his overly familiar acceptance of the High Blade's offer to join him in coffee, and his conspicuous staring at the scratches. Selfaril discerned the uneasiness of his very necessary right-hand man, and immediately tried to set him at ease. He had punished him enough for the moment, and further castigation could wait 'til later. The High Blade took a drink of his coffee, then set it down on the desk before him. Once again he began to scratch at the scabbed lacerations on his chest. Rickman's eyes involuntarily followed the path of Selfaril's hand, then quickly darted back to the High Blade's eyes which met his own dead on. The High Blade maintained his locked-on stare for a moment, blinked, then cast his own eyes down on the source of his epidermal irritation, and with a chuckle slightly tinged with exasperation, resumed scratching. "The First Princess was a little ferocious in her friskiness last night," the High Blade explained with a grin. "Blast, if only she didn't have a brain she would be a perfect wife."

"Sire?" Rickman responded, not quite sure of how he was supposed to react. "I mean it," Selfaril continued, trying to put the captain at ease. "It's a pity that she wants to depose me as much as I want to depose her." The High Blade swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and feeling almost fully awake, readied himself for the first disappointment of the day. He asked, "Well Rickman, breakfast is finished. You may ruin my day now. What is the latest on the situation at hand?" Rickman drained his own cup, and began his report. "My information is mixed at best, sire," the captain of the Hawks explained. "Has anyone discovered my brother's body yet?" "No, sire, and I am confident that no one will. The harbor has been filled with ships as of late. Several of them are from our allies who have agreed to assist us in the rebuilding of our navy, while others are from certain other interests whose press gangs we have allowed to harvest our detritus in exchange for certain considerations. My spies in the ranks of both have indicated no sightings of bodies in the harbor or beyond. I believe it is safe to assume that his drowned corpse is either hung up in a subterranean sewer alcove, or safely resting at the bottom of the Moonsea itself." "You must be right," Selfaril agreed, scratching his chest. "I realized that the mask would be the death of him, just not quite that way." "According to my experts in the Cloaks," Rickman expounded, "the mask itself is only adhered to the flesh that surrounds the back of the skull. Once the flesh has decayed, the mask will separate and fall off. At that point, the features of your brother's face will have already fallen prey to the appetites of the scavengers that crawl along the bottom of the Moonsea. It will have ceased to be recognizable and, therefore, no longer of any use to anyone." "Well, that is one small consolation," Selfaril acknowledged. "What about that

missing actor?" "Still unaccounted for, the same for the writer, I'm afraid," Rickman replied. "Though without the prisoner, any claims by them would be unsubstantiated. They cease to be a major threat, particularly with foreigners." "Agreed," the High Blade assented, "but I still want them dead. One can't be too careful." "Agreed, sire," the captain repeated, adding. "I assure you that they will soon be joining the ranks of those men who have failed to perform up to your expectations." "Good." "If I might also mention, your majesty, those ranks have just swelled with another addition." "Who have we executed for their incompetence this time?" "A Hawk by the name of Jembahb, sire," Rickman explained. "He was one of the two men I sent to retrieve the Thayan crystal wand as evidence of the Tharchioness's people's involvement in the slaughter at the Retreat." "What did he do?" "He returned without the wand. He claimed that he couldn't find it, even though they were clearly told where it had been left. The other Hawk, a weasel named Wattrous, appears to have deserted. No doubt he realized the penalty for failure. A price has been put on his head, and I expect to have it on my mantle shortly." "Good." "Before his sentence was meted out, Jembahb did mention running into a thief on the way back to Mulmaster who claimed to have been paralyzed by a great and powerful wizard whose appearance matches the description of that writer Geddarm. Unfortunately the incompetent failed to bring him in. I have men patrolling the area with

orders to retrieve him." "That will have to do," the High Blade acknowledged, not happy with many of the implications. "As to the incriminating evidence of Thayan involvement in the slaughter at the Retreat, I have dispatched another assignment of Hawks to scour the place, and then burn it to the ground. If we are unable to find that which we seek, we will at least remove any evidence that might incriminate us in the unpleasant matters that have taken place there." "Indeed," Selfaril acknowledged, "it would appear that at the present time we will have to settle for a return to the status quo as a temporary victory." "Unfortunately," the captain said, his eyes downcast in shame, "I am afraid that I will have to agree with you." "It amounts to a stalemate with my mate, and I hate stalemates almost as much as I hate her." * * * * * Off the Road Twixt Mulmaster and the Retreat:

Honor Fullstaff arose from his slumbers, and stretched, noticing the warming rays of the already risen sun. He hadn't intended on sleeping so long (despite the fact that he always did), and, blaming it on his sumptuous meal of the night before (which was no more sumptuous than his normal dinner fare) resolved to make better use of his early morning hours on the morrow (a daily resolution), and perhaps partake of an predawn walk that might help to reduce his physical bulk that he feared was rapidly going to flab. Fullstaff rubbed his eyes, stretched again, and scratched his still solid chest, his

finger combing the wooly vest of his chest hair "Hal! Poins!" he summoned his servants. "Fetch my robe, my jug, and my sword!" A twin chorus of "Yes, milord!" was heard in the antechamber followed by the scurrying of slippered feet, scampering in pursuit of their master's wishes. Hal arrived first and helped the six-foot-six former gladiator into his robe, then quickly exited to fetch his master's sword. Poins immediately took his place, and handed over the jug of ale to the former captain of the Hawks so that he could slake his thirst after his long night's respite. Fullstaff drained the jug in four gulps, and held it out to be received by Poins, whose unburdened hands had tied his master's robe so that it would no longer flap open and possibly impede his swordsmanship. After a hearty belch, the master tutor of all things swordsmanlike reached out and grasped the broadsword that Hal held out to him, and quickly began to twirl it as if it were no larger than a throwing dagger. The two servants, following their strict routine for this time of day, quickly took four steps back to allow their master room to move and maneuver. Once Fullstaff had achieved a certain centrifugal force with the massive broadsword swirling in one hand, he reached out with the other and quickly flipped the sword from his right hand to his left, without interrupting the baton-like swirling of the massive broadsword. "Now!" he instructed, and the two servants jointly hurled a second broadsword at the master, which he quickly caught with his right hand, and immediately started to twirl in the opposite direction. The muscles on the arms of the over sixty-year-old veteran of many a battle, stretched and firmed at the joyous exertion and strain, as Fullstaff's jaw became set

and tightened into a grin that emphasized both the physical trial, and the adrenal ecstasy that the master swordsman was feeling. Faster and faster the blades flew through the air, twirling and twirling with their orbits intersecting like the gears of a gnomish machine as Fullstaff swapped them from hand to hand, their twirling never stopping, their blades never making contact with each other. Faster and faster the master swordsman drilled, until a single bead of sweat began to make its appearance on his forehead. "Halt!" he ordered, as he brought both blades to a simultaneous standstill, his shoulder muscles almost spasming at the added exertion that was required to stop their rapid motion. As was typical of this daily ritual, Fullstaff had stopped their movement in mid-twirl, and had finished with the two broadswords crossed, barely one inch apart, elbows at his sides, arms crossed back at the wrists, and the blades resting a fraction of inch from the master swordsman's vein-mottled nose. Without a word from their master, the two well-trained servants quickly stepped forward, and each accepted a broadsword. They then reverentially placed them in their scabbards, and fetched the next two weapons the master needed. Poins handed Fullstaff a saber, as Hal placed a dagger in his master's palm. Brandishing the saber he made a series of practice slashes from side to side as he tossed the dagger hilt-over-blade several times, his head never moving from its eyes-forward placement as the blades flew through the air like well-practiced falcons. "Now!" he instructed, and the two servants threw a melon and an apple at the master. The melon was slashed in two, while the dagger claimed the apple, catching it fast to the point. Fullstaff paused for a fraction of a second while the two servants once

again stepped forward, this time to retrieve the two melon halves. They were no sooner back in their place than the master swordsman tossed the dagger-bisected apple into the air and quickly slashed it in mid-flight, chopping the apple in two, and freeing the dagger blade from its fructose prison. As the two halves of the apple fell to the ground, he plucked the simultaneously falling dagger out of the air, catching it twixt two fingers on its blade point. This was followed by similar drills with rapiers, epees, axes, and scimitars. As the pile of sliced fruit grew, so did the beads of sweat on the master swordsman's brow. The final drill involved a complicated sword maneuver where Fullstaff caught ten daggers thrown one at a time by the two servants twixt the blades of two sabers, being careful to nick nary a blade, nor allowing any of them to make contact with the ground. When the drill was over, Fullstaff had five daggers in each hand, as well as the saber securely brandished therein. "Enough!" the master swordsman announced, and Hal and Poins quickly accepted the many bladed weapons from their master. As Poins gathered up the lethal practice weapons, Hal fetched a towel, and wiped his master's brow. "That felt wonderful!" the former gladiator exclaimed. He loved the feeling of sweat on his brow and his chest, and revelled in the scent of his own manly perspiration. "Well done fellows! Well done!" The two servants bowed as was their routine. They were as practiced at Fullstaff's mid-morning workout as the master swordsman was himself. Neither said a word throughout all the maneuvers, realizing that a single distraction, mistake or slip could cause either their own injury or death or that of the master they loved dearly. Fullstaff slipped out of his robe, and toweled off his bare and glistening chest. Poins was in place with a heavier robe, while Hal set a pair of sandals at his feet.

Robe-clad and belted, feet shod in sandals, the master swordsman stretched again. "I think I'll sit outside while Hotspur finishes his breakfast preparations," he bellowed in a friendly tone. "As you wish, milord," they said in unison. Poins quickly made his escape to aid Hotspur in the kitchen, while Hal led their blind master to his favorite seat, out by the villa's gate. The sun's rays were warm and glorious as it neared its peak above the horizon. The master swordsman took his place as if on guard duty for his morning vigil of solar absorption, the warm rays reflecting on his still glistening body. * * * * * The Tharchioness's Boudoir in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The First Princess had risen in solitude hours after the First Blade had stolen from their chambers like a thief in the night. She was glad that he was gone, and hoped that her labors of the previous evening had not been for naught. The High Blade was always under the mistaken impression that she never rose before the noon hour, and she had no intention of disabusing him of this notion. She had always asked not to be disturbed until then, and he had naturally assumed that it was the sanctity of her slumbers that she wished to preserve. Such was not the case. Her mornings in Mulmaster betwixt the hour of her husband's departure and her own appearance at the midday meal were important, as they were the hours that she set aside for planning and consultation with her own advisors. The High Blade's courtiers gossiped among themselves about the many frequent visitors to the First Princess's boudoir, and she did little to discourage them. Their

assumptions of promiscuity shielded her from their possible detection of her seditious plans, and did little to elevate their opinions of the High Blade who they now saw as just another simple cuckold toyed with by his opportunistic wife. A cautious series of knocks at the door indicated that her advisors had arrived. Slipping into her sheer silk robe, she went to the door and bade them enter. The ambassador that she referred to as a corpse worm (and who she assumed would be executed at her whim sometime prior to her return to Eltabbar) led the group of three into her boudoir. The three males did their best to avert their eyes from the partially open silken robe that did little to hide the beauty of the form that resided beneath it. Mischa Tam, the only female among the advisors, noticed their discomfort and made subtle eye contact with her superior and shared a silent laugh with the Tharchioness who considered such silly prudishness to be hypocritical at best. The First Princess rearranged her silken wrap cinching it at her waste. She had no desire to provide any of her advisors with an excuse for not devoting their full attention to the matters at hand, even when such things did provide the Tharchioness and her female companion with much amusement. "Reports," she commanded. "Perhaps you would prefer to wait for the arrival of breakfast. . ." the wormlike ambassador began to suggest, but quickly changed gears in response to the Tharchioness's withering stare. "As you wish, your majesty. It would appear that the High Blade's men have been unsuccessful on three charged accounts and men have been executed as a result." The Tharchioness licked her lips as if savoring some rare delicacy. "I can always count on my husband being just as demanding as I am," she replied to no one in

particular. "Yes, your majesty," the ambassador continued. "Their continued search for the body of the prisoner has turned up naught, and they have accepted that it will never be recovered." "Thus we are back to square one." "Yes, your majesty," the worm continued quickly, "though the High Blade has also ordered a search for a certain thespian named Passepout and a travel writer named Volothamp Geddarm. There have been vague suspicions that these two might be related to the prisoner in some way." "Hmmmn," the Tharchioness muse. "Find out more. I want them located and apprehended before my husband gets his sweaty hands on them." "Wh . . ." the ambassador began to question, then thought better of it. "Yes, your majesty." "You may leave," the Tharchioness instructed. The ambassador became flustered, and said, "But there is more to report." "The others will see to it." The ambassador understood now that he was the only one being sent away, and almost asked for permission to stay for breakfast, but thought better of it. "Yes, your majesty," the worm acknowledged, backing out of the boudoir in an almost ludicrous series of bows and abasements. When he had left, the Tharchioness broke into peals of derisive laughter that was soon augmented by that of her advisors. The sheer grossness of the overt cowardice of the ambassador had set the rest of the group at ease, and they were now prepared to get down to work. "Now that we're alone, we can proceed," the Tharchioness announced.

"What about our new ambassador?" Minister Konoch inquired. "I fear that he is no more capable than his predecessors." "Exactly," the Tharchioness replied, "and he will therefore be the perfect scapegoat, should my beloved husband become suspicious." "Or if we fail," added Mischa Tam, with a grin that suggested the cat who had just swallowed the canary. "Szass Tam is even more an enemy of failure and incompetence than you are, First Princess." "Indeed," the Tharchioness replied, now slightly ill-at-ease. * * * * * On the Road Back to Mulmaster from the Retreat:

Upon completing a thorough examination of the Retreat's grounds, Volo and Chesslyn had decided to pass the night together before heading back to Mulmaster in order to allow the Hawks Jembahb and Wattrous a wide berth on the road, thus assuring their own safety and anonymity. Both the master traveler and the Harper agent had ample experience doing things that would hedge their bets in order to maintain their secrets. In their respective lines of work their continued survival often depended on it. With the first rays of dawn, the two packed their kits and prepared to set off for Mulmaster. As Chesslyn swung herself into her saddle she asked her new found riding partner, "Did you encounter anyone on the way here?" "Just a felon named James who thought me an easy mark," the master traveler replied. "Well, we can't be too careful," the Harper agent instructed. "We'd better not retrace your steps. Let's take the long way back. I know a place just outside the city where we

can hole up for the night." "Sounds good to me," the wily gazetteer agreed, relishing the continued company of the attractive woman. "I'm due back at the temple by tomorrow midday," Chesslyn continued as they rode out of the Retreat's gate, "so it would probably be better if we left separately tomorrow." "Why?" Volo asked, trying not to sound too disappointed. "It wouldn't look right for a guard at the Gate of Good Fortune, in service of Tymora, to be seen traveling in close company with an outsider, particularly given the circumstances at hand." The master traveler, realizing that she was right, nevertheless countered with an argument. "But surely being seen with the legendary travel writer Volothamp Geddarm is not that out of character for one of Tymora's minions." Chesslyn abruptly stopped her steed, and turned to face Volo, her look and bearing betraying her seriousness. "I have survived as a Harper agent in Mulmaster for quite a while, and I have no desire to risk betraying my true identity. To do so would invite the placing of a price on my head. My presence in Mulmaster as a set of ears, and an occasional helping hand, is invaluable to many, and not just the Harpers, given the current political situation." "But surely . . ." Volo started to argue, then abruptly changed gears. "How have you managed to escape detection? I mean, if things are that dicey, why haven't the Cloaks picked up on your presence before now?" Chesslyn reached inside her blouse, and removed an amulet that was nestled inconspicuously between her breasts and held it out for him to see.

"Because of this," she explained, continuing in her tone of grave seriousness, "my amulet of non-detection. It's probably my most important possession. If Storm hadn't mentioned you to me the last time we met, I probably wouldn't have acknowledged you at all. I don't make friends easily, and am exceedingly careful about who knows I'm a Harper and who doesn't." The master traveler fingered his beard for a moment. He realized that it was futile to argue, particularly since she was entirely right, and he was just being lasciviously selfish. "An amulet of non-detection, eh?" he asked. She replaced it back into its safe hiding place, as the master traveler followed its journey with his eyes. "Always wanted to get my hands on one," the master traveler continued, adding, "the amulet, I mean. That accounts for why you were able to get the drop on me so easily back at the Retreat yesterday." Chesslyn chuckled. "And I thought it was because of my superior skills as a ranger," she countered with a smile. He replied only with a grin, glad that there were no hard feelings. They once again continued on their way, Volo urging his steed forward so that they could ride side by side for as long as the narrow road would allow it. After all, they didn't have to part until the next sunrise, and much mutual enjoyment of each other's company could take place until then. Volo struck up a new topic for discussion. "So," he asked, "what do you think those two buffoons were looking for yesterday?" "Probably the crystal wand," she replied. "Rickman is Selfaril's right-hand man, and the head of the Hawks. He probably sent them to investigate the slaughter. Kind of

funny, though. My confidential sources are the best in Mulmaster, and I didn't know that anything had happened there. I was there just on the merest of coincidences. I had promised one of the elders that I would deliver his winnings to him, once they exceeded a certain amount." "Come again?" "Only the elders of the Retreat were allowed to come to Mulmaster, and then only on a rotating basis as the need arose. One of the elders, Damon of Runyon, would stop by the temple on his visit and leave a series of bets with very specific instructions. When his winnings reached a certain point, it was my place to bring a portion of the kitty to him, and, for a tidy fee, to bring out new betting instructions. He was pretty lucky, at least up until now." "Obviously." "So, anyway. He must have been surprised at the attack." "At least." "As surprised as we were to discover it." "Right." "So how did Rickman know to send some men to investigate it?" "And how," Volo added, "would they know to look for something as specific as the bloodstained Thayan crystal wand?" "Unless," Chesslyn continued, "he knew what they would find, and how would he know..." ". . . unless he himself was involved." "Agreed," the Harper agent concurred. "Curiouser and curiouser. The sole piece of evidence, the bloodstained wand, may not point to Thayan perpetrators since it might have been placed there by allies of Rickman."

"Which still doesn't explain the reason for the attack on the Retreat and merciless slaughter within," Volo added. "Or why, beyond the obvious, Rickman would want to pin it on the Thayans." Volo fingered his beard once again, this time in confusion. "What's the obvious?" he asked, unashamed of his ignorance. "Rickman is Selfaril's right-hand man, and Selfaril hates Thayans," Chesslyn answered. "But he's married to one," Volo countered. "That's right," she replied with a grin. "Sometimes life's a bitch, ain't it?"

7 Past Tenses

In the Office of the Captain of the Hawks in Southroad Keep:

"Captain Rickman?" inquired an out-of-breath Hawk by the name of Danovich who hoped that the news he bore was sufficiently urgent to warrant disturbing the second most feared man in all of Mulmaster. "What is it?" the captain of the Hawks demanded without looking up from the surveillance reports that seemed to form a blotter of paperwork upon his desk. "You requested updates on the searches for the escaped prisoner, the released prisoner known as Passepout, and the travel writer Volothamp Geddarm?" Danovich asked tentatively. Rickman looked up, his stern visage betraying the throbbing that resounded within his tortured brow. "So I did," he said in a sarcastic tone. "Let me guess, they are all now in custody, along with Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul." "Uh, no sir," Danovich answered, not comprehending Rickman's sarcasm, "and I only have updates on the three I mentioned. Should I add Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul to the list?" "Just give me the report," Rickman demanded, a touch of weakness and exasperation in his voice. He couldn't help but be reminded of the inferior quality of men under his command since the Year of the Bow, when their fleet was destroyed by forces from Zhentil Keep. Back then men didn't just obey orders, they understood them as well.

"On the status of the escaped prisoner and the travel writer," Danovich reported officially, his mustached upper lip trembling, "there is no change. The escaped prisoner is still presumed dead, and the travel writer has not returned to Mulmaster since his observed exodus early yesterday morn." "As I expected," Rickman observed, "but what of the itinerant?" "According to one of our spies upon a Sembian merchant vessel of the name Tanyaherst, the former prisoner Passepout was shanghaied by a press gang, pressed into service, and subsequently thrown overboard when it was determined that he would be more of a hinderance than an asset on their journey eastward." "Go on," Rickman urged in stern seriousness. "He was thrown overboard, evidently still groggy from the physical persuasion that was inflicted on his cranium during his recruitment. Given his condition, and the deadly Moonsea tides, he is presumed dead. Officially, unless we want to challenge it upon the ship's return to Mulmaster, he will be listed as missing after an unfortunate shipboard accident." "Any other interesting tidbits?" "Well," Danovich answered tentatively, "the itinerant named Passepout was actually an actor by trade." "What does that have to do with anything?" Rickman demanded. "Nothing," Danovich replied sheepishly, "just that I, too, was trained in the theater." Rickman rolled his eyes to try to suppress his rage at the incompetence and feeblemindedness that seemed to abound within the ranks of his men. "Anything else?" he said, half under his breath. "No sir," Danovich reported. "Then back to work!"

"Yes sir," the Hawk replied doing a quick about-face, a smile crossing his lips as he left his superior's office, thankful that he, unlike previous men in his position, had not incurred the captain's wrath. Rickman stood up and, hands clasped behind his back, strode to the lone window of his office, stopping only briefly to summon his batsman by means of the signal cord. The batsman, Roche, arrived in a flash, finding his captain contemplating the sky over Mulmaster. "My instinct tells me that a storm seems to be moving in," Rickman asserted. "The weather scryer in the Cloaks has predicted as such, sir," Roche said officiously. "Any word on the condition of the sea?" "According to the last report from the Lighthouse, high tide is just now coming in. The seas are choppy, and a mariner's advisory has been issued. The Moonsea is quite unforgiving of those who challenge her, even under the best of conditions," Roche responded, confident in the degree of detail expected by his captain. He had been in service to Rickman for close to eight years. "What odds for survival would you give someone thrown overboard during such seas?" he asked, still staring out the window. "Slim to none, sir," the batsman retorted. "Just as I thought," Rickman replied, turning to face Roche. "Nothing is ever certain. You may go, Roche, but please put in a change of orders for the soldier who was just in here." "Lieutenant Danovich, sir?" the batsman confirmed. "Yes." "Where will his new posting be, sir?" Roche inquired, a pad instantly in hand to take

notes. "Use your own judgment, Roche," Rickman answered, once again taking his place at his desk, and starting once again to go through the surveillance reports. "Just make sure it's an assignment far from Mulmaster, with a very small survival quotient." "Yet another one-way assignment, sir," Roche confirmed. "You draw up the papers and I'll sign them," Rickman said with a sense of finality. "It is the only way to weed out the incompetents from this man's army." Roche returned his note pad to its proper place in his uniform pocket, executed a perfect heel-toe pivot about-face, and silently left the office of the captain of the Hawks to carry out his master's will. * * * * * On the Moonsea Shore:

For Rassendyll it had all seemed like a dream. The viscous membrane that had held out the poisonous onslaught of liquid sewage during his flush-propelled journey under Mulmaster was quickly washed away by the strong Moonsea currents. Once his exodus from the sea-bound burial shroud had been successful, the sack began its weighted, oneway journey downward. The cold sea water instantaneously inspired an adrenalin surge in the iron-helmeted prisoner, and his body began to shiver violently. Rassendyll realized that he had no leisure moments to allow himself the luxury of the anaesthetic effects of aquatic thermal shock, and with every ounce of strength that existed in his being, he frantically kicked toward the surface. He knew he had to maintain control, for to panic was to die. It was just as important for him to maintain a vertical position as it was to continue to

scissor-kick his way surfaceward. The least deviation out of a vertical position would result in the sheer weight of the iron mask dragging his body downward head first. With the weight centered on his shoulders, his neck muscles taut to keep his iron-encased head in place and erect, his lungs exploding from lack of air, and his arms and legs valiantly pumping him upward, the young mage concentrated his efforts on maintaining the energy upward. The mask prevented him from feeling the air of the surface when he managed to break the Moonsea surf, and his lungs had refilled themselves with air before he consciously realized that he had made it. The flash of recognition interrupted his stroke and at the precise moment of victory, he immediately re-submerged, the weight of the mask fighting the natural buoyancy of his body to meet a deadly equilibrium beneath the water's surface. Rassendyll remembered the surge of strength, a last jolt of adrenalin fueled by the two lungfuls of oxygen before he re-submerged. He remembered struggling back to the surface, frantically looking for something to hold onto, something to add to his own buoyancy to compensate for the added mass of the mask that, despite his escape from the dungeon, still threatened to be the instrument of his death sentence. Vaguely he remembered seeing the shore in the distance, and hearing the faint sound of breakers on the shore. He remembered the despair of thinking that it was too far, his strength quickly waning, his body trembling. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness when a great sea mammal seemed to pass by, riding the surf shoreward. With his last focus of energy he reached for a fin, hoping that the whale would drag him to safety like so many other sailors of Faerun's nautical lore. Then he blacked out.

His ragged breathing, occasionally interrupted by coughing and the spewing of salt water, awakened him to the knowledge that somehow he had survived the trip to shore. He tried to move, and quickly regretted it, for every muscle in his body was cramped and contorted from its quest for survival, and further agitated by the awkward posture it had wedged itself into once it had reached shore. The iron mask had become entangled in seaweed, and had wedged itself into the sea-softened sand of the shore at an extreme angle to the rest of his body. His entire being yearned for more time to replenish itself, and Rassendyll would probably have remained unconscious longer, had the surf not returned to reclaim its rightful place at the high tide line. Have I been lying here for a full day? he thought, realizing that it must have been the previous day's high tide that had delivered him to safety. The high tide and the noble sea mammal, he recalled, trying to get his bearings, working out the kinks in his neck, and clearing away the seaweed and sand from the openings of the second shell of facial skin that the mask had become. Rinsing his head in the shallows that would have previously brought his death, he carefully cleaned the mask and bathed as much of his face as he was able to, given the limited access afforded by the mask's apertures. Reluctantly his vision began to clear, and he was able to look around. He first looked to the sea, and to his relief saw only the waves, and two seagulls diving for prey. Had I not made it, he reflected, they would probably be perched on me, their beaks searching for the tender filling that lies within the iron shell of the mask. It is better that they content themselves with their regular diet. His thoughts suddenly turned to images of his savior, the noble whale that must

have beached itself to assure him of his salvation. If it is still alive, he thought, I must return it to the surf or it will die. Energized with what he thought to be his debt-required duty, he looked away from the waves, toward the shore, to find the beached leviathan. Out of the corner of his eye-slit he saw a large white mass that seemed to be smaller than he remembered his albino mammalian savior to be. Staggering to his feet, his body protesting every effort, he dragged himself toward the white blob, blinking to clear his vision. He looked down and laughed. It was his savior, he realized, but it was no whale. It was a man. Rassendyll continued to laugh out loud at his own misconception, a laugh that was uncontrolled and free, the first that he had allowed himself since the moment of his abduction. The roar of his humor, coupled with the roar of the surf, and the moist lapping of its eddies, awoke the fainted-unto-sleep Passepout, who opened his eyes and, seeing Rassendyll standing above him, quickly took on a look of abject panic and fear. Rassendyll quickly stopped laughing, and, realizing the panic that was evident in his savior's face, quickly said, "I mean you no harm." The near valiant thespian swiftly replied, "Well, that's good. What are you doing with a coal bucket on your head?" Rassendyll took another step closer to the still prone Passepout to assist the actor in coming to his feet. The thespian immediately misinterpreted this as a threatening act and, perhaps, a response to what the iron masked fellow inferred as an insult. Thinking on his feet (or on his back, as it happened), the thespian quickly added, "Not that it's unattractive, I mean to say. Of course, not everyone could carry off this

look, but on you it's quite impressive; one might almost say 'singular.' " Rassendyll was amused by the verbal antics of the fellow, who undoubtedly had no idea that his natural buoyancy had not only saved his own life but Rassendyll's as well, and he was certain that his face would have conveyed this grateful amusement to the dripping and corpulent gent had it not been obscured by the infernal mask. The mask, however, did not muffle the laughter that was once again escaping his lips. Passepout smiled, taking the masked fellow's amusement as a good sign, and accepting his proffered hand and assistance at getting to his feet. "Oooofff!" he exhaled as he got to his feet. "Why thank you, kind sir, for your gracious assistance!" "Think nothing of it, my mutually waterlogged colleague," Rassendyll replied, noticing some threatening clouds that seemed to be approaching from the sea horizon. "It looks like a storm is brewing. We probably should try to find some shelter." Passepout remembered the warm and comfortable bed back at the Traveler's Cloak, and the unceremonious exit from the inn at the urging of Dela's boot sole. "Good idea," the soggy thespian agreed. "Any ideas where?" Rassendyll quickly looked around, noticing a few buildings and ships in the far distance. One of the buildings was a lighthouse, and, if memory served the former Retreat student, nearby was a small barracks housing no less than thirty-six soldiers. "That-a-way," the masked mage instructed, pointing in the opposite direction along the shore. "Fine," Passepout agreed, following the iron-masked man. "I hope we are not too far from Mulmaster," he added, not realizing that they were headed in the opposite direction from the city.

Not far enough for my tastes, Rassendyll thought to himself as he set off down the shoreline. * * * * * The Tharchioness's Apartment in the Tower of the Wyvern:

Once Ministers Konoch and Molloch had finished their reports, the Tharchioness dismissed them so that they could attend to the inane duties of state that passed as the excuse for their presence in Mulmaster. The First Princess was always concerned with the pretense of diplomacy which had succeeded in obscuring the presence of her spies and conspirators in the court despite the equally thorough spy network of Hawks and Cloaks that was available to the High Blade. Mischa Tam remained behind to assist the First Princess in the preparation of her appearance for her obligatory court appearances, aiding in the application of cosmetics, and the choosing of the proper gown for the ceremonies of the day. "What to wear, what to wear," the First Princess murmured absently, as Mischa held one gown after another up against herself, thus serving as a live mannequin. "The citizens of this abysmal hamlet have certain expectations that I must live up to. I am the great beauty who seduced their High Blade, the eastern, exotic witch whose mystical powers hold him in her thrall. I am both their queen and their enemy. Their nationalism demands that they both love me and hate me." "So many demands on a single woman," Mischa commented in a neutral tone that succeeded in masking any implication of either sarcasm or sympathy. "On a married woman, sister," the Tharchioness corrected. "Remember it was the will of Szass Tam that bound me to the infernal bonds of matrimony." "Of course, dear sister," Mischa acquiesced. "The battles for the expansion of

Thayan interests are sometimes fought in the bedroom, as well as on the battlefield." "With the High Blade, there is very little difference." Both sisters laughed at the Tharchioness's humorously apt remark. Settling on a quilted silken gown of green, blue, and turquoise, the First Princess sat at her vanity seat so that Mischa could paint her face in the appropriate cosmetic color scheme. The First Princess closed her eyes, and pursed her lips. Mischa knew what to do, and was not to be distracted by idle conversation until she was done. Mischa began to apply the base to the Tharchioness's cheeks and forehead. The First Princess's silence came more from a desire to enforce a certain class formality in their relationship rather than from any honest concern about Mischa's need to concentrate on her task. As the Tharchioness's half sister through an unidentified assignation on their mother's part, Mischa Tam realized that she had very little claim to actual nobility, and even less to the authority of a tharch such as her sister. She was neither as potent a magic-wielder or as popular a politician as the First Princess, and she was reminded of it every day of her life, and accepted her fate of never being more than the one who was referred to behind her back as the Second Half-Princess, and the sister of the Tharchioness. She sighed and accepted the limitations of her station, at least for the present time. It was fortunate that the First Princess didn't know that her half sister secretly hated her, and was patiently awaiting the day when she would replace her in the favor of the illustrious Szass Tam. Well, Mischa thought, at least I don't have to be an enforced concubine and brood mare for some smelly infidel like Selfaril. The last eye line in place, Mischa announced, "Done." The Tharchioness opened her eyes, to assess her own appearance in an ornate mirror.

"So, sister," the First Princess said, "am I beautiful enough to distract my wretch of a husband?" "Of course, sister," she answered. "Will I bring a stirring to his loins?" "Don't you always?" she replied. "Not that it has done me any good," the Tharchioness observed. "Once I am with child, the High Blade will cease to be a necessary participant in my marriage bed. I will train his heir to take his place on the throne, the same way Selfaril succeeded his father." "Only this time, the new High Blade will be Thayan," Mischa pointed out. "In all eyes but those of the wretched citizens of Mulmaster. He will be one of them by birth." "A brilliantly conceived plan," Mischa said, secretly knowing that the High Blade's heir could just as easily be raised by his beloved aunt as by his vain and pompous mother. When the time comes, she thought to herself, Szass Tam himself will choose. The Tharchioness rose to her feet, and once again admired her appearance in the mirror. "You have done me well, sister," she complimented. "Now all we have to do is wait for the charms that we have ordered." I am very good at waiting, the half sister observed silently, and my time will come. *

*

*

*

*

At the Private and Secluded Residence of Sir Honor Fullstaff, somewhere between Mulmaster and the Retreat:

Fullstaff walked into the kitchen where the dwarven cook named Hotspur was busy in preparation for the evening meal. "Something smells splendid," the blind swordsman exclaimed, as he used his keen senses of perception to home in on an open pot that had a ladle in it, and was thus easy access for sampling. Hotspur was a creature of habit, and Fullstaff knew that he always kept the ladle resting in the first pot on the left. "I wouldn't be sampling anything in that pot, master," the dwarf replied. "And why not Hotspur?" the master replied with a certain degree of mock haughtiness. "Is this not my kitchen?" "Indeed it is, milord," Hotspur replied, his back to the master, his concentration focused on the chopping at hand. "And are these not my pots?" the master inquired, slowly lifting the ladle to his lips, careful not to spill a drop or make any sudden noise. "Indeed they are, milord," the dwarf replied, then explained, "but that one does not contain your dinner." "Well, then, my insubordinate cook," the master interrogated, the ladle poised a fraction of an inch from his lips, "what does it contain?" "My socks," the dwarf explained. "They got stained when I was making wine out back, and boiling them is the only way I'll ever get them clean." Hotspur, his focus still on the vegetable-chopping at hand, smiled as he heard the ladle drop, making a subtle splash in the laundry-filled pot. "And don't go sampling any of the other pots, master," the dwarf instructed in a similar tone to the one his master had adopted earlier. "One of them contains your old sword belt. Poins and Hal believe that they may be able to stretch it to a more suitable length for your expansive girth, once the boiled water softens it."

"Just as well," the master replied. "Without my occasional midafternoon snack, their expansive efforts on my belt's behalf might prove to be unnecessary." "Besides that, milord," Hotspur reminded, "you have company coming to join your evening repast." In a fraction of a second Fullstaff removed a dagger from his belted scabbard, tossed it in the air, snapped his fingers, and returned it to its place. He said, "Oh, that's right. Old McKern is stopping by for dinner on his way back to the Retreat. I hope, in addition to the sumptuous meal that you have prepared for me, you have also prepared something sensible and strained for the old wizard. When you get to his age, there is no reason to tax one's intestines." "Indeed, milord," Hotspur replied, choosing to omit mentioning that he knew that his master and the old wizard were indeed the same age. Secretly he looked forward to overhearing the old former captain of the Hawks swapping made-up memories with the former Cloak, who had been retired to the Retreat almost as long as the master had been blind. Their both being put out to pasture at the same time had formed a bond that made them seem like friends for life, despite the fact that they had never actually served side by side during their tours of duty. Realizing that his slight desire to nibble and sample did not warrant the risk of a sip of cleaning water or boiled leather, Fullstaff left the kitchen, and followed his long-memorized route to his practice studio. Undoing his robe, he bellowed loud enough to be heard throughout the entire villa, "Hal! Poins! It's time for my afternoon practice session. Hurry up boys! I want to be finished with enough time left so that I can take a bath before my company arrives!" I'm sure Master McKern will appreciate it, Hotspur thought to himself, as well as anyone else caught down wind.

The soft padding of slippered feet, followed by several huffs and puffs and the clash of steel, let the dwarf know that practice had begun, and that the ladle could be returned to its proper place, the risk of nibblers now nil, as the chronic perpetrator was otherwise engaged. * * * * * In the Apartment in the Tower of the Wyvern that the High Blade shared with his Wife:

"The First Princess of Thay approaches," a eunuch elven herald announced. "Well, it's about bloody time," the High Blade hissed to the captain of the Hawks, who was stationed at his side. "She knows I hate to be kept waiting, particularly in my own home." "Unfortunately, your majesty, it is her home as well," Rickman whispered in return. "The fact that it annoys you is probably why she does it." The doors to the suite flew open with a slight push of mystical wind, and Selfaril and Rickman stood up to receive the Tharchioness, who entered flanked by her lady-in-waiting, Mischa Tam. "Darling," the Tharchioness cooed, her arms open to receive her husband. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting." "You, my dear," Selfaril replied with all the sincerity of a polygamist professing his chastity, "are always worth waiting for." The two met, once again in the room's center, and exchanged their requisite kisses that never involved their lips actually touching each other. Selfaril was the first to resume insincere spousal blandishments. "If all women looked like you after sleeping in all morning," he expounded, "all of the men of Faerun would gladly forego having their breakfast made for them."

"A simple woman such as myself," the Tharchioness replied, "has few duties more important than maintaining her desirability in the eyes of her husband. I only regret that it denies me the pleasure of your company when I awake. An empty bed is a poor follow-up to a sleep of dreams." "I am sorry, dear, but you know that duty demands that I attend to affairs of state even before the cock crows." "And after, and during," the Tharchioness replied, adding, "With all of your duties, one might think you could do with a respite ... or perhaps a retreat?" "If only I could spare the time," Selfaril countered shrewdly, then, with an expansive gesture toward the her lovely half sister, added, "You are blessed with the lovely Mischa Tam as a sister. I, alas have no one to substitute for me. After all, it's not as if I had a brother to call my own." "Such an idea," the Tharchioness replied. "I don't think I would be able to stand it. One of you is heaven. Two of you would be ..." "Interesting?" he interrupted. "A challenge," she replied, her hand beginning to play with a Thayan pendant that hung around her neck, thus drawing her husband's attention yet again to her desirably ample cleavage. "Well met," he replied. The two spouses stared into each other's eyes, both conveying their animal attraction, and cunningly trying to read the other's mind. Their desires were so similar, and they both knew it. It was a pity that their ultimate goals were mutually exclusive. A courtier approached Rickman and whispered in his ear. "Your majesty," the captain interrupted, "various envoys await your and the princess's arrival in the antechamber. They bear gifts and petitions from far-off lands

and important companies." "Must we?" the Princess asked her husband with a pout. "We must," he replied with a restrained leer. "Than we shall," she answered, and arm-in-arm they entered the antechamber, doors forced open by the gentle yet powerful breezes that were conjured by the Tharchioness. Out of routine and protocol, the captain of the Hawks and the lady-in-waiting also joined arms and followed them inside, neither realizing that they were sharing similar impressed thoughts about the exceptional acting ability of their respective lord and lady. * * * * * Along the Back Roads Twixt the Retreat and Mulmaster:

Volo and Chesslyn had been riding for hours, exchanging the idle conversation that strangers sometimes engaged in when they wanted to appear more at ease with one another than they really were. Conversation of the slaughter at the retreat, and the mysterious goings on in the Mulmaster area, soon gave way to tales of youth and adventure far from current shores. The route that Chesslyn had chosen lengthened their journey by at least half a day, and as the sun began to make its descent towards the horizon the master traveler decided it was time to query his traveling companion about their possible accommodations for the night. "Well, I must thank you for this marvelous impromptu tour of the Mulmaster area back roads and byways," the master traveler said. "I'd label it the scenic route, but unfortunately there's not much to look at."

"We agreed that it wasn't worth the risk being seen together, given where we were coming from, and all that has happened," the Harper agent admonished. "Yes, yes," the master traveler agreed amiably, then added with a leer. "I'll call it the 'Lover's Route.'" "The Lover's Route?" she asked, giggling with an air of incredulity. "Sure," the master traveler replied, "the route one takes when wants to be alone ... or perhaps when one wants the circumstances to dictate an unexpected extra night on the road. Which reminds me, you mentioned that you knew a place that would provide us with discreet overnight accommodations." "Indeed, I did," she answered assuredly, "and discretion is guaranteed." "My! A place out here in the middle of nowhere, where we don't have to worry about being seen together," Volo answered, taking his own turn at mock incredulity. "Not by the lord of the manor, at least," she added. "What's that?" Chesslyn smiled, and explained. The road had leveled off slightly, and she seemed to be able to trust her steed to lead itself along the intended route. "Have you ever heard of Blind Honor?" she asked. "Sure," the master gazetteer replied, then paused for a moment, and ventured an explanation. "It's when something is so sacred between two people that both are bound by honor never to reveal their—" "It's a person," she interrupted. "Never heard of him," he conceded. Chesslyn threw her head back and laughed. "Imagine that," she declared. "I've stumped the master gazetteer of all Faerun." "Of all Toril," Volo corrected. "Here, let me get out my notebook. I can ride and write

at the same time." "I don't think so," Chesslyn ordered, reining her horse around so that she was once again confronting the master traveler with direct eye contact. "Our discretion is mandatory. If I find a listing for the home of Honor Fullstaff in your upcoming guide to Mulmaster, I'll . . ." "Cleave me in twain," the master traveler offered, immediately replacing his notebook in his pack before he had even finished extricating it. "Something like that," Chesslyn affirmed with a smile that did not undercut the seriousness of her message. The Harper agent once again righted her horse, and proceeded along a parallel path to that of the master traveler. "Well, between just you and me, and not for publication, under any circumstances, who is this Blind Honor guy?" Volo asked, a slight bit of impatience evident in his tone. Eyes set ahead on the trail yet to be traveled, Chesslyn began her explanation. "Simply put, Honor Fullstaff is the master swordsman of all Faerun," she asserted. "So why have I never heard of him?" "He's been retired since before you began your illustrious career of belles lettres." The master gazetteer made a mental note to try to remember as many specific details about the sword wielder as possible. With any luck, he imagined, he would be able to gather corroborating information from other sources. After all, a tale told a second time nullifies a promise of silence to a former source. "He began his illustrious career in the gladiatorial arenas of Hillsfar where coming in second leaves one with a very short career." "And life," Volo added. "I forgot that the master traveler has already been there, as well as everywhere else," she acknowledged.

"With no clue to his true parentage," she continued, "who probably either died in the arena before he came of age, or on some oppressive slave plantation, Honor realized at an early age that he had a natural propensity toward the mastery of all things bladed. He was on his way to an undefeated career in the arena when he led a slave revolt, thus instigating the escape of over half of Hillsfar's gladiators." "I bet the Red Plumes were none too happy." "Not at all," she conceded, "but the powers that be realized that a band of gladiators who could engineer their own escape from the arena were probably of more value to Hillsfar as allies than as outlaws. They offered Honor and his comrades a contract as a mercenary force, and they accepted." "Not a bad move for the former lead act for the afternoon bloodbath," Volo conceded, making a mental note to have someone check on the gladiatorial victory records for the pertinent years for the book currently underway. "As with most mercenary bands, attrition, opportunism, and disparate goals eventually caused them to break up, and Honor accepted a position in Mulmaster, with the Hawks, where he quickly rose through the ranks, and became the right-hand man of the High Blade himself." "Selfaril?" "No," Chesslyn corrected, "his father." "Whom Selfaril killed to take the throne himself," Volo interrupted, trying to show that he wasn't a complete dullard about all things Mulman. "Right," the Harper conceded, "but you're getting ahead of the story." "Sorry." "Legend has it that Merch, that's what Selfaril's father's name was . . ." "I'm aware of that," Volo replied in slight indignation.

"Sorry. As I was saying, Merch and Honor were said to be closer than brothers. In addition to handling the day-to-day operations of the Hawks, he also supervised the City Watch, and was responsible for the security of both the City and the High Blade himself, a turn of events that did not necessarily please the then-head of the Cloaks, an aristocratic mage by the name of Rathbone who saw the safety and security of the High Blade to be his sole responsibility. Honor's low-born background didn't help matters in the eyes of the egotistical wizard, who set about to remove the master swordsman from his position." "You don't want to tick off a jealous wizard who feels his position is in jeopardy," the master traveler agreed. "So Honor found out," Chesslyn confirmed, as she continued the tale. "Honor used to always supervise the forging and tempering of his own weapons, and it was on one such occasion that there was a terrible explosion. Miraculously no one was killed, but Honor was blinded beyond the limits from which any available cleric could cure." "Thus, his new moniker: Blind Honor." Chesslyn continued: "Rumors ran rampant through the Mulmaster court of Rathbone's complicity in the explosion, but nothing was ever proven. The Cloaks once again became responsible for the security of the High Blade, and when Honor had recovered sufficiently to get by on his own, he resigned his commission and left the city, reportedly to spend the rest of his years in retirement." "Whatever happened to Rathbone?" the master traveler inquired, recalling that his name was not among those listed in the current Cloak registry in Mulmaster. "He committed suicide," Chesslyn explained. "He held himself responsible for Merch's assassination. His main motive for replacing Honor, at least in his own self-justifying mind, was the overall safety of the High Blade, and when he failed to

prevent the High Blade's death, I suppose he asked himself the question of whether or not it could have been avoided." "And the answer was 'yes,' " Volo offered, "if only Honor had still been by his side." "Rathbone was found dead in the Tower of Arcane Might. He had hung himself. Soon thereafter Thurndan Tallwand was appointed Senior Cloak, and he immediately pledged his support to the new High Blade Selfaril, and thus the transition of power was complete, at least as far as the citizens of Mulmaster were concerned." "They didn't mind that there was a murderer on the throne?" Volo asked incredulously. "Well," Chesslyn explained, "Merch himself was far from an angel, and the fact that Selfaril was his son was looked upon as just a slight deviation from the normal rules of ascendancy." "That slight deviation being patricide," the master traveler commented. "Wasn't the first time, and probably won't be the last," the Harper agent conceded. "So the old swordsman, now blind, went into retirement, living out the rest of his days in peaceful isolation and seclusion?" Volo ventured. "Not bloody likely," Chesslyn corrected. "One might say that he set himself up as a martial alternative to the Retreat." "Come again?" Volo queried. "He bought himself a villa, and set himself up clandestinely as a master teacher of the bladed arts. Usually no more than one student at a time, tenure of stay to be determined solely at Honor's discretion. His students have included kings and thieves, and their tuition has varied from debts of gratitude to villas in Cormyr." "Not bad," Volo said. "Those who can no longer do, can at least teach. Not bad for a former master swordsman."

"I never said former," Chesslyn corrected. "He still is more than a match for anyone, with choice of bladed weapons, and as a teacher he is the best." "That's a rousing endorsement from a master of the long sword such as yourself." "Honor taught me everything I know," Chesslyn said reverentially, "and I'm sure he will have no problem with us stopping by for the night. He has plenty of spare rooms, and is always amenable to offer hospitality to friends of friends who can be trusted." Chesslyn delivered her last remark with such a withering degree of seriousness that the master traveler began to think better of featuring the legendary swordsman in his upcoming guide book. Perhaps confidentiality should be preserved in some cases. Chesslyn reined in her horse, shaded her eyes from the midafternoon glare, and scanned the horizon. "We should be there right about sundown," she said. "Knowing Honor, he'll be out front catching the last few rays of the setting sun before sitting down to a sumptuous dinner feast. We'll be just in time to join him." "Can't wait," the master traveler said, eager to meet the teacher who had instilled such admiration in one of his students.

8 Mates, Masks, Musk, & Meals

In the High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The conspiracy of the moment over, both threat and advantage now neutralized, Selfaril felt a palatable taste of normalcy as things returned to the status quo. He still hated his wife, and she him. Eltabbar and Thay were still distant opportunities and menaces for the glory of Mulmaster and the High Blade himself. He had grown used to the game of cat and mouse that he and his bride played. It excited him more than he liked to admit, and he was sure that she felt the same way. Why else did he always feel an adrenal rush whenever she was around? What else could account for the mixed feelings of excitement and revulsion he experienced whenever she entered the room? For him, love was an abstract concept, not at all alien, just different from that normally felt by others. It required respect; yet did not the best of enemies command respect? It caused a physical attraction, yet did not the flame attract the moth to its death? Love and death: they were intricately tied in his mind. Looking back he remembered wanting to be like his father, the great leader who taught him by example and was revered by all his subjects; Selfaril had accomplished this goal by killing his father and taking his place. Family was the greatest threat of all, yet he felt a certain emptiness within, almost as if something was missing. Perhaps it was the fate of his brother; could this be what had

left him feeling incomplete? Though he had been assured that his twin must have drowned during his futile escape attempt, how could he be sure? There was an emptiness inside Selfaril, an incompleteness. Less than a month ago he had not even known that his twin existed, and now the stranger was forever on his mind, and all because the sheer incompetence of his men had cost him the ecstatic pleasure of seeing his brother die. Selfaril shook his head in remorse over the experience he had been denied. Oh well, he thought, I still have my wife.... * * * * * On the Back Roads Outside of Mulmaster:

As the clouds began to move in on them, and the sun inched closer to the horizon, Rassendyll and Passepout pressed onward. The iron-masked escapee realized that he and his overweight traveling companion would have to avoid any of the numerous Mulmaster outposts, or he would soon find himself back in the dungeons of Southroad Keep. The combination of the sand, salt, and seaweed that had taken to roost in the collarlike ring of the mask's neck piece was rubbing raw his skin adjacent to it, causing an extremely uncomfortable mixed sensation of burning and itching. As he reached the rise of the next hill, having first scanned the area to assure it was deserted, he paused once again to rub at the chafed area. "Is your neck bothering you?" the out-of-breath thespian asked, as he too reached the rise, adding tentatively, "Why don't you just take the helmet off? I'm sure you can't be that ugly. If you don't want to be recognized, well, don't worry about me. A famous actor such as myself knows all about traveling incognito to avoid overzealous fans. I'll

keep your secret, whatever it is." Rassendyll looked at the amusing fellow, and said, "You're a famous actor?" "That's right," Passepout replied, with an out-of-place flourish and semi-bow. "Passepout, only son of the legendary thespians Idle and Catinflas, at your service." "Never heard of you," Rassendyll replied, still distracted as he rubbed the raw spot in search of relief. "You know," the thespian ventured, "if we were back in Cormyr, I'd know the perfect thing to rid you of that dry, flaking, skin problem you have. It's heartbreaking watching you suffer. A friend of mine by the name of Seau Raisis had that problem." "What did he use?" "Well," Passepout answered, scratching his head as if to stimulate a memory, "as I recall there was a cleric, named Oleigh if I remember correctly, who would treat Seau's problem by rubbing it with oil that he made specially for such ailments." "Did it work?" "I think so," Passepout replied, "but I can't really be sure. After the oil of Oleigh was applied he never complained about the problem again, but. . . ." "So it must have worked." "Not necessarily; that is, I mean to say the problem was taken care of, but it might not have been cured by the oil." "What then? I mean, if the problem with his neck abrasion went away and he never complained about it again, why do you doubt the effectiveness of the cleric's treatment?" "He was beheaded." "The cleric?" "No," Passepout explained. "Seau. At least his neck rash problem was taken care

of." Rassendyll looked at the pudgy thespian and laughed once again. Passepout smiled back, almost at ease in the company of the masked stranger. "Well I for one would rather avoid such treatments and cure-alls as the one that worked on your friend Seau." "Indeed," the pudgy thespian agreed. "By the way, what is your name, or at least what should I call you?" Rassendyll thought for a moment, glad that the mask obscured the thespian from seeing the wary change of expression on his face. He himself was no actor, and he was sure that his face would have conveyed the indecisiveness he felt about whether he could trust this funny fellow or not. "You can call me Rupert," Rassendyll answered, "Rupert of Zenda." "Well met, Rupert of Zenda," Passepout returned. "Can't say I recognize the name." "Hope not," the masked escapee replied inadvertently. "What was that?" Passepout inquired. "That coal bucket you're wearing gives you a bad case of the mumbles, if you know what I mean. By the way, why don't you take it off?" "I wish I could," Rassendyll retorted, "but I'm afraid that it's stuck." "Too bad," the thespian replied. Rassendyll scanned the area once again. He didn't like the looks of the storm clouds that seemed to be rapidly bearing down on them. We should be on our way and looking for shelter, he thought. Passepout in the meantime had concentrated his visual faculties on the ground around where they sat. Seeing exactly what he was looking for, he struggled to his feet and walked back over the ridge, picking up a sturdy branch. Rassendyll noticed his

efforts once he returned. Good thinking, the masked escapee thought, he found a walking stick. Rassendyll was about to stand up when he felt Passepout trying to wedge one of the ends of the branch under the metal collar. "Hey! Cut that out!" Rassendyll exclaimed, not wishing to add the discomfort of splinters to his long list of woes. "Just hold still," Passepout assured, continuing to try and wedge the branch between the masked man's collar and his clavicle. "Once I have it wedged in place, I'm going to put my weight on the other end of the stick, using your shoulder as a fulcrum. It should force it off in no time." "Which? The mask or my head?" "The mask, of course. Now just sit still." Rassendyll quickly wiggled out from under the awkward hands of the pudgy thespian, and got to his feet. Passepout appeared bewildered at his sudden retreat. "What's the matter?" the thespian implored. "I just wanted to help." Rassendyll shook his head, and said, "Thanks anyway, but it wouldn't have worked." "How can you be sure?" Passepout asked. "It's been magically bound to my skull. I fear it won't come off without separating my head from my shoulders as well." "I'm sorry," Passepout apologized. "I didn't know." "No reason you should have." "I bet you got on the wrong side of a powerful wizard of some sort." In return Rassendyll murmured something indecipherable, as he began to remove

splinters from his shoulders. "Me too," Passepout replied as if he understood what the masked man had said. "I've run afoul of a few myself. Now, of course, the likes of Elminster and Khelben are indebted to me, but even so, you can't trust a wizard." "Oh, no?" Rassendyll responded, cocking his head at an awkward angle so that he could look the thespian straight in the eye. Passepout paled. "You're not one of them are you?" he asked in a panic. Rassendyll thought for a split second about his current condition, and laughed. "I guess not," he replied with a chuckle. "At least not for the time being." He then quickly added, with a mischievous, almost conspiratorial tone, "I used to be, though." Passepout joined in his chuckle, and said, "That's all right. I used to be a thief." Thunder began to rumble in the distance. "Then let us steal away," Rassendyll replied, "and find shelter." "Good idea, Rupert," Passepout concurred, then asked, "I can call you Rupert, can't I?" "But of course," Rassendyll answered after a moment's hesitation. He then thought, I'll have to remember that that's my new name. The thunder rumbled again, as the two continued their trek in search of shelter. * * * * * In the Tharchioness's Boudoir in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The Tharchioness was primping for dinner when her half sister Mischa Tam entered. The First Princess finished buffing her scalp, and began to touch up the exotic eye

liner that framed the seductive windows of her soul. "Dear sister," Mischa said tentatively, hoping that the First Princess was not in one of her many moods that would have made this sudden, unannounced intrusion a gross act of insubordination. "What is it, Mischa?" the First Princess asked impatiently, yet not necessarily hostilely. "I have been giving your—I mean our—situation a great deal of thought." "Which of our situations?" "The existence of stumbling blocks that are succeeding in preventing the Thayan annexation of Mulmaster." "You mean the High Blade." "Yes," Mischa agreed, then added quickly, "your husband." Mischa felt her half sister brace, her back growing erect like a viper about to strike. She realized that she would have to tread lightly if she wished to succeed in the deadly cat-and-mouse game of family and politics. "What about him?" the First Princess demanded, turning around to face her half sister, her eyes fixed like a jungle cat contemplating its prey. "Well," Mischa started, averting her eyes from her sister's predatory stare, "as I recall, your mission was to seduce the High Blade, and gain control of the throne of Mulmaster." "Yes," the First Princess replied, clipped and clear. "It was at your own suggestion that the seduction was metamorphosed into a diplomatic liaison cum marriage that would form an alliance between Eltabbar and Mulmaster." "Correct," the First Princess acknowledged. "This is what Szass Tam and I agreed

upon. It was our mutual feeling that such an official alliance would be more advantageous. I do hope you are not wasting my time with a simple regurgitation of the plans to date. My memory is quite acute and needs no prodding." "I would never presume to doubt your cognitive processes or powers of retention, First Princess, but I am curious about one thing.. .." "And what is that?" the Tharchioness demanded, all matters of primping temporarily set aside. "Why is it taking so long? It is almost as if you are enjoying this game of prey and predator at the expense of the ultimate objective. Rumor has it, I fear, that you have become fond of the High Blade, and that perhaps your focus has become distracted or, how shall I say . .. channeled into other pursuits." The First Princess did not respond, maintaining an icy stare that seemed to lower the temperature of the room well below the freezing mark. Mischa quickly changed her tact. "Of course I don't believe such stories, but I fear that they may reach the ears of Szass Tam himself." "I have never given Szass Tam any reason to doubt my loyalty!" "Of course you haven't, dear sister," Mischa said, her tone becoming disarmingly comforting, "but you have been married for quite a while now, and still you have not yet become with child, thus securing Thay's stake in the throne of Mulmaster. I am not saying that I believe this, but some of your ministers have speculated that perhaps you are artificially postponing such a conception, as you are enjoying the prerequisite maneuvers too much." "Who dares to sully my name and honor?" the First Princess demanded. "Who is not important, dear sister," Mischa insisted. "What is important is how

things might look to those back east. Though I admire your ingenuity in this plan involving the High Blade's twin—" "It was not my plan!" "Sorry, First Princess," Mischa apologized in a conciliatory tone. "I did not wish to imply that it was. After all, if it had been, it would surely have succeeded; still, your endorsement of it might still look like an unnecessary detour from the original plan, without the necessary approval of back east. Once again, I must point out that your actions might be construed as an unnecessary and dangerous dalliance for your own amusement." The Tharchioness stood up, and turned her back on her sister to contemplate her wardrobe for her evening meal with her husband, and the festivities that would surely follow. "The game of diplomacy is dangerous in both the throne room and the bedroom," the First Princess said, her back still to her sister. "One must always wear the proper armor." "Yes, dear sister." "The High Blade is also prone to wearing armor. For some reason, even after our exchange of vows he does not trust me. Can you imagine that?" The First Princess unhooked a gown of the sheerest Thayan silk Mischa had ever seen. "We were supposed to be dining in private tonight," the Tharchioness instructed, "but matters of state have interfered. I guess I will have to find something more appropriate to whet my spouse's appetite, lower his guard, and raise his ardor." "No one has ever questioned your ability to do that, dear sister," Mischa confirmed. "Yet, you still have not been able to complete the mission that you have been sent on,

and I have been thinking. . . ." "About what?" the First Princess demanded. "If, indeed, even in times of great ardor the High Blade is on his guard. ..." "Yes?" "Perhaps he needs to have that guard lowered." "By what means?" "An enchanted charm perhaps." The First Princess threw her head back and gave forth a derisive laugh, the likes of which she usually reserved for the mentally defective, freaks, and idiots who were brought forth for her amusement (or for particularly wormlike ministers). "Of course," the Tharchioness said in mock-naive revelation. "Oh, wait a minute, maybe I did. That's right, I did, and then I dismissed it because it wouldn't work, but thanks anyway dear sister. I'll remember to summon you if I have a need for someone with an acute grasp of the extremely obvious." "But, dear sister, why do you dismiss my suggestion so lightly?" "Because it is doomed to failure." "How so?" Mischa asked in a sincere tone that masked the contempt that she felt for her half sister's deprecating manner. "Because of the damned Cloaks who have sworn their allegiances to protecting the High Blade, that's why. They would detect such a charm the minute it was brought into the city. Even though our people are exempt from searches, we are nonetheless closely watched, and even our most sophisticated mages would be noticed bearing the necessary amulets when they entered the city gate." Mischa tapped her bald temple with the lacquered fingernail of her index finger, as if pausing to think deeply. After a practiced pause, she feigned revelation, and said,

"That is true, but what if nothing was brought into the city? What if the charmed object was constructed here, married with a personal piece of the High Blade himself within these walls, and cast in the privacy of your own bedroom. Surely the Cloaks are not watching you there too, and the High Blade does not exactly strike me as the type who has spent a great deal of time being schooled in the matters of high magic." The Tharchioness braced again, followed by a slow, ecstatic chill that went through her body as if the recognition and anticipation of the action to come was as good as the experience itself. The pink serpent of her tongue moistened her dewy lips in anticipation. "Once charmed, he would disregard his armor," the First Princess said softly, almost as if she were voicing her thoughts to herself. "Possibly, dear sister," Mischa said in encouragement. "And then he will be mine!" * * * * * At the Villa of Honor Fullstaff, Somewhere between the Retreat and Mulmaster:

Fullstaff was enjoying the pale warmth of the day's last rays of the sun. McKern, his guest for the evening, had arrived at the expected hour, and was now busily cleaning away the road dust in preparation for the sumptuous meal that he knew would be ready at sunset. As this was not the first time that he had joined the old swordmaster for dinner, he was more than aware that Fullstaff was a creature of habit who expected his meals on the same schedule each day. A late arrival might be welcomed to join in the feast, but usually Fullstaff would extend the invitation with a full mouth and gesture to enjoy that which remained of the leavings. Time, tide, and dinner at Fullstaff's

waited for no man. The blind swordsman stood up from his chair and approached the veranda's edge. As always, he wished to absorb every sensation possible as the day drew to a close. Behind him wafted the sweet aroma of the meal to come, and in front of him the clean scent of the deserted countryside. Behind him was the cacophony of pots and pans as Hotspur, Poins, and Hal prepared the table, and in front of him the gentle sweeping brush of the wind relocating granules of the road outside of his home. Honor took a step farther out. An unaccustomed observer might have feared that the blind man might fall off the veranda's edge, but those who knew "old blind Honor" would entertain no such worry. Honor had long ago memorized the number of steps between his chair and the edge, and his exacting remaining senses could feel the textural difference that indicated the edge was there. As always, Honor merely wished to feel the breeze that was obscured and deflected by the villa's wall. He felt the cool caress of the wind on his left cheek, and turned his head to face it. "A storm's coming," he said out loud to no one in particular. "It will probably reach us by the second course." An almost nonexistent noise was picked up by his right ear when he turned his head to catch the wind. "Two horses are approaching," he reported, "both bearing riders. I guess that guests are like the storm. It never rains but often pours." * * * * * "Chesslyn, what a wonderful surprise!" Fullstaff hailed from the villa's gate. "And just in time for dinner, too!" "Of course," Chesslyn replied good-naturedly as her steed approached the blind swordmaster. "Why else do you think I'm stopping by now? Surely it's not to renew

acquaintances with an old friend." "Of course not," Fullstaff replied. "And who's your young friend? By the click of his heels against his stirrups and the unusual flapping of his cape, I would say that he's not from around here." Volo reined his steed closer to Chesslyn and whispered, "I thought you said he was blind." Chesslyn went to hush her traveling companion as the blind swordmaster boomed, "Blind I am, though not deaf!" Volo immediately went on the defensive and tried to apologize for his thoughtlessness. "I'm sorry sir, I—" "Didn't realize that a living legend such as yourself would have such acute senses to compensate for your blindness, nor that you would look so young and virile. That's what you were going to say, right?" Fullstaff said, finishing the gazetteer's sentence with words of his own choosing. "Of course, sir," Volo said with a smile, now set at ease in the presence of the blind swordmaster. "Thought so," Fullstaff replied, "and it's not 'sir', it's Honor. Now, Chesslyn, come and give a dirty old man a hug." The Harper agent quickly dismounted with a facility that belied the fatigues of a long day in the saddle, and ran up to the broad old swordmaster, giving him a kiss full upon the lips, which he returned with great zeal and an accompanying bear hug. Their lips unlocked, she slid against him and turning around so that she comfortably rested her back against his chest, the hilt of her long sword barely missing the chin of her former teacher.

"Is that a long sword," Fullstaff asked, "or are you just happy to see me?" "Both," Chesslyn purred. How original, Volo thought to himself sarcastically as he dismounted, then strode over to the embracing couple. Chesslyn disentangled herself from the arms of her former teacher. "Honor," she said, "I'd like you to meet a new acquaintance of mine, Volothamp Geddarm." "I knew you weren't from around here," Fullstaff asserted, vigorously clasping the master gazetteer's hand in his muscular paw and pumping it vigorously. "It's not often that we host a famous author in these parts." "Oh, you've heard of me," Volo said in mock modesty. "Who hasn't heard of the master traveler of all Toril, and author of Faerun's best selling travel guide series," said the master swordsman releasing the author's hand before his writer's arm had been overtaxed too much. "Have you read . . ." Volo started to ask, then thought better of it given the blindness of his host, and tried to change the subject, "... I mean ..." "Read any of your books?" Fullstaff jumped right in. "Afraid not. I prefer potboilers and cookbooks." "Oh," the master traveler answered, not quite sure as to whether to take the bear that walked like a man seriously. "You don't do yourself justice, Honor," Chesslyn corrected, then turned to Volo and explained. "Honor has one of his aides read to him every night. He's read all of the major authors of the Realms." Except me, Volo thought to himself. "Well, time's a'wastin', and dinner should be on the table right about now. Hotspur

has prepared something from this new Underdark cookbook that everyone is talking about," Fullstaff announced. His arm once again around the lovely Harper agent, they headed off toward the villa's entrance. The blind swordmaster stopped for a moment, then turned back to face the quite confused master traveler. "You're more than welcome to join us," Fullstaff offered. "And to answer the pertinent questions that are on your mind, so as not to delay dinner any longer: I recognized the gait of Chesslyn's mount and the scent of the soap that she uses on her saddle. As to knowing that you were not from these parts, I failed to recognize your cologne, and I am fairly familiar with the likes of such things that are available in these parts. Finally, no you don't have to worry about me. Chesslyn is one of my favorite former students, and she is like a daughter to me, and I am more than aware of her discreet assignations. The fact that this is an unplanned visit leads me to believe that she was purposely taking the back roads back to Mulmaster so as not to run into anyone. Ergo, discretion is required, so discretion will be maintained. So without further ado, let's eat." With that, the master swordsman resumed his beeline to the dining room, Chesslyn still on his arm, and the master traveler following close behind. The table was set for a feast, which had he not known better, Volo would have taken for a banquet party for ten. Fullstaff took his place at the head of the table, with Chesslyn at his right hand. The master of the villa motioned that Volo should take the seat on his left. They had no sooner sat down than places were set for them by the omnipresent Poins and Hal, who were well accustomed to accommodating new arrivals at their master's table with little or no notice.

"Poins and Hal will prepare rooms for you after we dine," Fullstaff explained. "Make any wishes known to then and they will do their best to accommodate you." The master swordsman was about to say something else when he cocked his head to the side as if listening for something. This was followed by the now audible sound of footsteps entering the room. "How rude of me!" the gregarious host said in a self-deprecating tone. "In my enthusiasm for Chesslyn's unexpected visit, I have neglected my other guest for the evening. What a terrible host I am! Please forgive me." Fullstaff stood up, and gestured to the other end of the table where a new visitor was approaching the table. "Chesslyn, Volo, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, Mason McKern of Mulmaster," the gracious host boomed. Volo and Chesslyn turned in the direction their host indicated. Both of the discreet travelers held their breath in sudden shock and surprise as the illumination from the table's candelabra revealed the face of their fellow guest at their host's evening meal. Volo recognized him as the sour old geezer whose appointment he had usurped on his way to checking in with Thurndan Tallwand. Chesslyn recognized him as one of the senior Cloaks. The two travelers looked at each other in silent, controlled panic. "Introductions accomplished," Fullstaff announced retaking his seat, "Let's dig in. Plenty of time to talk and get to know each other later."

9 Dinner & Denouement

In the Dining Room of the Villa of Honor Fullstaff, Master Swordsman, retired:

The tension in the air was palpable The stern man named Mage Mason McKern gazed ominously at the two travelers in shock Volo and Chesslyn exchanged looks, each indicating an instinctive combination of fear and readiness They were both survivors and ready for any turn of events "Now, now, there is no reason for tension here," Honor instructed. "So, I committed a social gaffe. Wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. Besides, it's my house and this is my table, and McKern, you know very well that dining at my table requires promptness. So eat." "No," McKern answered, "please forgive me. I should have been on time. I had no idea that there would be other guests. Ms. Chesslyn Onaubra, I believe, of the Temple of Good Fortune." The mage turned slightly to face Volo, and said, "And you are?" Honor interrupted. "Eating!" he bellowed in a tone that could not be mistaken for anything but an order. "As you should be. There is plenty of time to exchange pleasantries with Chesslyn's young companion later. Besides that, it is impolite to talk with one's mouth full." The blind swordmaster resumed the filling of his cheeks with delicacies from the table. "Sor—" McKern began to say, but thought better of it when he felt Honor's sightless

stare drilling an accusatory hole through him. Quickly, the mage began to partake of the feast. Chesslyn and Volo exchanged glances again. Volo mouthed the words "Chesslyn's young companion?" to which the Harper agent replied with a suppressed giggle. Their silent exchange completed, both began to fill their plates, and, immediately afterwards, their mouths and stomachs. The table was set with every manner of delicacy imaginable. Volo found it hard to believe that this was just an average meal at the table of Honor Fullstaff. In all his travels throughout Toril, he had never partaken of such a feast, and prior to this he had fancied himself an expert epicure. The plates were passed back and forth like cards at a gaming table, and Poins and Hal deftly retrieved, replaced, and refilled them with new contents as dispensed by the able hands of the dwarven cook Hotspur. Only once did a dish rest on the table for longer than a minute after it had been emptied of its contents while Hal and Poins fumbled with a particularly slippery soup tureen. The host said, "Turnips," which were the contents of the empty bowl, and it was immediately refilled by the ever-ready Hotspur. Volo was amazed at the sensory superiority of his host. Without the aid of sight he could still identify the contents of an empty bowl, perhaps by scent or by the sound it made when it hit the table or by the placement of the sound in relation to the other bowls on the table. The master traveler was awed, and now realized his folly in expecting that a swordsman such as Honor would have been forced into the atrophy of sedentary retirement by a mere inconvenience such as blindness. The mage named McKern interrupted his masticating for a moment and asked, "Might I have a spot of wine, please?" Honor stopped eating and cast his knife to the table, making a clang as it bounced

off the side of the plate. "I am appalled Mason! I will serve no wine before its time!" the host bellowed. The servants and guests stiffened in silence. The host seemed honestly indignant and offended. Volo hoped that the swordmaster was not prone to violent outbursts over trivial matters such as this, as he had seen many age-demented warriors fall prey to in their declining years. The master traveler's fears were unnecessary. With all eyes upon him, Honor's stern visage stretched into the smile of a trickster, and a bold and boisterous laugh escaped from the venue that had formerly served as a way station for the delicacies of the table, on their way to the host's stomach. "Ha, ha, ha," he roared, "but seriously Mason—only I get to call the great Mage McKern, revered senior Cloak of Mulmaster, by his first name—as I was saying, I have saved a marvelous after-dinner wine for dessert, and I have no desire to waste it on a palate that has already been plied by the pleasures of the fermented fluids of the grape." The guests all joined in their host's levity with an unpracticed laugh in unison. "Now," Honor ordered, "back to the matters at hand. Resume eating. Hopefully Mage McKern will not interrupt our gastronomic exercises and enjoyments again." By the third course Volo realized that the only way to survive the opulent meal was to pick and nibble, rather than to fill one's plate and expect to empty it. Too bad Passepout isn't here, he thought. I bet he could give old Fullstaff a run for his money in the appetite arena. A roar of thunder was heard outside, then a crash of lightning followed by another thunderous roar, and the sound of sheets of water being thrown against the roof high above their heads.

"I do believe it's raining," McKern announced in a manner more akin to a scholar positing a theorem than a dinner guest speculating on the obviously prevailing weather conditions. "Mason, I shall not tell you again," Honor ordered, his clipped tones revealing the slight evidence of his irritation at the continued interruptions to the silent sanctity of supper time. Honor had no sooner resumed eating when the sound of a door knocker resonated through the hall. McKern was about to speak the obvious, as he was prone to do, when Honor Fullstaff saved him the trouble. "Oh, let me guess, dear Mason," the host said, not even trying to hide the sarcasm from his tone, thus revealing the quick waning of his temper over the interruptions. "I bet you believe that there is someone at the door. Poins, please see who it is, and Hal, please set a place for them." *

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*

Passepout and Rassendyll had just made it to the edge of the grounds that surrounded the villa of Honor Fullstaff when the storm that had been following them announced its presence overhead, and let go its torrents of rain by the barrelful. Passepout had been drenched before, and did not fear getting wet again. The thunder and lightning however spread fear throughout his very essence. At the first crack of lightning and roar of thunder, Rassendyll was quite surprised to see his rotund traveling companion speed forward in search of cover and protection from the louder and more destructive elements of nature. In the seconds it took for his eyes to recover from the lightning's flash, Rassendyll observed that Passepout had already gained the entrance to the villa.

"Yo, Rupert!" Passepout hailed. "You'd better get that coal bucket of a head over here. Aren't you afraid that it might attract a spare lightning bolt or two?" Rassendyll hadn't thought of the danger inherent in his head gear and acquiesced to the suggestion of the rotund thespian, quickly joining him at his side, underneath the overhang that sheltered the entrance to the opulent, yet isolated villa. The architecture of the stately villa reminded the masked escapee of the Retreat, and its isolated location, what Rassendyll reckoned to be a quarter day's journey from Mulmaster, probably lessened the risk of it being held by one of the High Blade's minions. Still, Rassendyll thought to himself, discretion was probably the safest course to take, as one could never be too careful. "Wow! Get a load of this knocker!" Passepout announced, impressed with the door ornament. Before his companion could recommend the modulation of his tones, the stout thespian had already picked up the hanging gargoyle from its perch and mistakenly let it slip between his fingers so that it came crashing back to its place with a reverberating thonk that was doubtlessly resonating throughout the halls of the villa. "Oops," Passepout apologized. "Well, with any luck someone will be home and be able to offer us shelter from the storm, and maybe even something to eat. It is about supper time after all, and I am famished." Rassendyll was at a loss for words. He knew that he lacked the time to adequately convey to his traveling companion the dangers that might lurk within. The stout fellow was obviously ruled by his appetites, and had no idea that a death sentence probably awaited them both if they were to fall back into the clutches of the High Blade and his men. Still, the villa was isolated, the masked escapee thought. Maybe it will be safe within. It might at least be safer than it was outside, given the thunder, lightning, and

rain. Maybe we can wait out the storm here inconspicuously, and, when it passes, be on our way. Rassendyll reached to finger his beard in contemplation when his fingers struck the barrier of the mask. "Damn!" he said out loud, and then thought to himself, well, so much for my hope of just passing for an itinerant traveler. "What's the matter?" Passepout asked. "I think I hear someone coming." A flash of inspiration struck Rassendyll, and out of desperation he decided to try his idea. "Quickly!" he ordered. "Give me your blanket!" "Okay," the thespian complied, a look of confusion on his face, "But I am sure that it will be warmer inside." Rassendyll began to wrap the blanket around his head as if it was a combination turban, kerchief, and veil. He continued to wrap until only two slits for the eye holes of the mask, and one for the mouth managed to poke through. As he finished his wrapping he noticed the look of confusion on his companion's face. "It's an old custom," he explained, making it up as he went along. "From Zenda?" Passepout asked. "I guess so," Rassendyll replied, frantically tucking the edges of the cloth into his shirt, around his neck, and down his back. "Uh, where I come from it is considered impolite to enter a stranger's house unless one has one's head covered with a veil." "Oh, sure," Passepout said unsurely. "I've heard of that. By the way, where is Zenda?" "Hush!" Rassendyll urged. "Someone is opening the door." * * * * * Honor's dinner guests could hear the voice of one of the new arrivals the minute the

door was opened. The echoes of the halls and the noise of the storm outside, however, muffled and distorted the sounds before they reached the main hall. As the new arrivals approached, the sounds of their steps became clearer and the voice of one became more recognizable. When the two drenched traveling companions entered the dining hall, Volo immediately recognized his old friend Passepout who he thought he had left back at the Traveler's Cloak Inn under the watchful eyes of Dela in Mulmaster. A flash of recognition was likewise immediately noticeable on the thespian's face. A panicked revelation crossed the master traveler's mind. What if my simple friend announces my presence in the company of McKern? Will this reveal more than Chesslyn desires and increase the risk of her exposure by the Cloaks? His fear turned out to be unwarranted. Volo tried a preemptive strike. "Passepout!" he hailed. "Have you eaten yet?" "Vo—" the thespian began to answer, but quickly changed his priorities. "Food! And I am so hungry!" Honor immediately interceded. "You are both obviously hungry from your travels. We are eating, and meals are not meant to be interrupted, no matter what some of my house guests seem to think. Sit down and dig in. Poins and Hal will fetch you plates. I am sure Hotspur has prepared enough for all. Eat. We can get to know each other later." Passepout and his facially turbaned companion dug into the meal. Volo was relieved, having survived yet another hurdle in the challenge of maintaining his inconspicuousness. He marveled at Honor's immediate offer of hospitality to anyone who happened to drop by. Seeing that his old friend was enjoying

the meal, he allowed himself another look at the old swordmaster, and noticed something. While Poins and Hal had attended to the new arrivals, Hotspur had inconspicuously placed a sword and dagger well within the reach of their host. Even the gracious Blind Honor obviously didn't believe in taking too many chances. Before returning to the gastronomical matters at hand, the master traveler also took a moment to visually examine Passepout's newly acquired traveling companion. The blanket veil gave the fellow—at least he appeared to be a fellow—a rather curious appearance. I wonder who he is? the master traveler thought, and then resumed eating. Honor ruled the dinner table like the family of Azoun ruled Cormyr: with great vigor, long reigns, and acquisitive tendencies. When his own plate was clean, and Hotspur's bottomless serving dishes empty, the otherwise gracious yet dictatorial host felt free to sample off the leavings of his guests' plates, much to the great relief of Chesslyn and Volo who found themselves full before the midpoint of the meal, and Rassendyll, whose progress was greatly inhibited by his turban-bound visage and the size of the mouth hole in the mask. Passepout and the mage Mason McKern gave the host a run for his money however, cleaning their plates with a gusto almost the equivalent of that displayed by their host. When all the plates were empty, and Hotspur now occupied with the cleaning of the kitchen and the plates, Honor Fullstaff stood up and patted his firm yet expansive abdomen vigorously. "Well done, Hotspur," Honor bellowed the compliment. "Well served, Poins and Hal. Well eaten, my esteemed guests." Honor approached Passepout, and coming up behind him, gave him a firm, bearlike

swat on the back. "You have already earned my respect, good sir," the host complimented. "It takes quite a voracious eater to keep up with the likes of McKern and myself." "Thank you, good sir," Passepout countered, "and thank you for your hospitality, but. . . when did you say that dessert would be served?" Honor barked out another jovial laugh. "Soon," the host replied, "soon. As I recall, your name is Passepout." "Correct sir," the thespian replied, "Passepout, son of Idle and Catinflas, at your service. Perhaps you have seen me on the stage." Volo inwardly groaned at his friend's faux pas. "Afraid not," the jovial host replied. "I'm afraid that seeing anyone on the stage is one activity that is greatly hampered in its enjoyment by those with the misfortune of being blind, such as myself." "You're blind?" the thespian said in astonishment. "Afraid so, not that it seems to get in the way much," the host replied, not conveying any sense of embarrassment over his handicap. McKern appeared on the other side of the still-amazed thespian. "Tut, tut, my fine fellow," the Cloak said to the thespian. "No reason to be amazed. My friend Fullstaff here is an accomplished fellow, no getting around it, but he is not that much an anomaly. My own brother is also blind as a bat, and is quite the master of magic metallurgy back in Mulmaster." Rassendyll quickly drew in his breath in surprise. Could this be the brother of the one responsible for this infernal mask? he thought, bracing himself for further pertinent revelations in the evening ahead. McKern scratched his head for a moment as if engaged in thought. "Passepout," he

said out loud, repeating the thespian's name, "for some reason that name seems to ring a bell." "Perhaps you have seen me on stage," the thespian asserted. "No," the mage said, "seems to me I just recently heard your name around Mulmaster. Oh well, it couldn't have been important." Passepout, slightly disheartened at the quick dismissal of his possible fame as a thespian, quickly reasserted his main concern. "You were saying about dessert, good host?" "Oh, yes," Fullstaff replied. "It will be served in my study, a place of peace and quiet and contemplation where old soldiers and old mages such as myself and McKern can regale you younger folk with tales of past heroics and derring-do. The boys are fetching our puddings now. Shall we go?" "I'm still waiting for my wine," a slightly cranky McKern reminded, adding, "It's time." "Indeed it is," Fullstaff agreed. "To the study we go." Passepout followed McKern as he hastened to the study to get a seat in one of the more comfortable chairs. Fullstaff followed, then turned back when he realized that the others were still rooted in their places at the table. "Chesslyn, you know the way," the host called back. "Please show your friend, and Mr. Passepout's friend, the way." "Sure, Honor," the Harper agent replied. "Thank you for the splendid meal," Volo called after the host. "Nothing of it, nothing of it," Honor called, already on his way. "My thanks too, your lordship," Rassendyll chorused. Fullstaff stopped in his tracks for a moment as if he had just thought of something, but then shook his head, and called back, "As I said before," and continued along the

hallway. "Shall we?" Chesslyn said, standing up. "We shall," Volo agreed, taking her arm. "Care to join us, stranger?" the master traveler asked good-naturedly. "Don't mind if I do," Rassendyll answered. "And the name is Rupert, Rupert of Zenda." "Well met then, Rupert. I knew you weren't from around here," Volo replied. "The face cover is a giveaway," Chesslyn offered. Volo began to finger his beard, and said, "I've traveled a lot, and I can't say that I recall a place by the name of Zenda." "I'm not surprised," Rassendyll answered, quickly changing the subject by saying, "I hear dessert calling. Shall we?" "We shall," Chesslyn and Volo said simultaneously, then looked at each other and began to laugh. The three set off after their dining companions. * * * * * Honor Fullstaff's study was far from what you would expect from a retired recluse's place of contemplation, but was in keeping with the remarkable abilities of their host, at least in the minds of Rassendyll and Volo. It was a veritable arsenal of bladed weapons, decorated with all sorts of military memorabilia and commendations tastefully arrayed in various display cases, mountings, and stands, complimented by several overstuffed chairs and numerous end tables that seemed to have been tailor-made for holding after dinner treats and cordials. When the threesome arrived, the others had already settled into their chosen post-dinner modes. In the few minutes that had elapsed since the group had split in

half, Passepout had already polished off two puddings, and had safely ensconced himself in an overstuffed settee that Volo assumed had been imported from far-off Kara Tur or possibly Zakhara to the south. The cushions reallocated themselves to support the thespian's bulk in such a way that no doubt provided the heavyset actor with luxurious comfort, but would also hinder him from being able to right himself later on. The master traveler anticipated more than a bit of huffing and puffing on his own part when Passepout called upon him for assistance. Mage McKern was sitting in a slightly more austere throne that might have at one time functioned as a sedan chair, and was sipping a glass of dessert wine, smacking his lips in zealous appreciation after each swallow. Honor Fullstaff was not seated, and was instead pacing around the room juggling four daggers in the air while carrying on a conversation with McKern. Volo thought he noticed their jovial host cock his head to the side slightly when they entered the room as if to signal that he had indeed sensed their presence. "Have a seat, have a seat," Honor heralded while not interrupting his juggling exhibition. "Anywhere will do. There's even a double, Chesslyn, for you and your friend, though I will not tolerate it if you two ignore the rest of us for the simple pleasures of each other's company." Chesslyn looked at Volo and rolled her eyes at her teacher's misconception of their relationship, but nonetheless ushered the master traveler over to the double-seated couch. "Pish tosh, Honor," McKern interjected, "leave them be. And besides, all eyes in the room are on you and your magnificent manipulation of the blades." "Are they really?" Honor asked coyly, with a trace of a chuckle in his tone. "Mmmmphyph," Passepout offered, his mouth full with the start of his third pudding.

"Agreed," said Honor, who shifted the orbit of the blades from in front of him to behind him and then back again without so much as a hesitation in his breathing. "I am quite impressed," Volo said to the host, "and I've seen quite a bit in my travels." "Oh, have you now," Honor responded. "Did you hear that Mason? The young whippersnapper claims to have been around. Maybe he's not necessarily the type of fellow who should be hanging around our Chesslyn." Our Chesslyn, the Harper agent thought. "Could be," McKern replied, and turned to face Volo. "You seem to be a bit familiar. Perhaps we have met before?" "Perhaps," Volo replied carefully, adding, "after all I do get around." McKern gave a hearty laugh at the witty rejoinder, and then turned his attention to Rassendyll. "I was just filling Honor in on the latest goings on in Mulmaster. Evidently a prisoner has escaped, two vagabonds are being sought, and there is rumor that there is unrest in the High Blade's marital chambers." Honor quickly joined in. "McKern here is one of Mulmaster's older Cloaks," Fullstaff explained, surreptitiously adding yet another blade to his juggling assortment. "We've known each other for years, and, in fact, both served under the previous High Blade." "Selfaril's father," Chesslyn interrupted to annotate for Volo. "Now there was a High Blade," McKern reminisced. "He wasn't the type to go off and marry some bald-headed sorceress from the east, of that I am certain." "Indeed," Fullstaff concurred. "I miss the old devil." The gracious and jovial host interrupted his juggling for a moment to quaff an entire

goblet of the dessert wine that McKern had been slowly savoring. When the cup was empty, he removed two sabers from their stanchions and began to twirl them in close quarters. "And you sir," Honor said to the seated Rassendyll as he resumed the show of his expertise, "by your tone, you are either quite congested or your head is bound in blankets. Which is it?" "The latter, your honor," Rassendyll replied, "or at least something like that. It is the custom of my people." Midway through Rassendyll's second sentence, a shocking thing occurred. There was the clang of steel on stone. Honor Fullstaff had dropped one of the blades, and was bracing the other, hilt in hand as if he was ready to deal some sort of mortal blow. "What are you doing here?" Honor demanded of the masked and disguised escapee, the tip of his blade poised bare inches from his blanket-swathed head. The others were speechless. "I will not repeat the question," Honor said drawing back the blade as if readying a slash. "Honor," the shocked Chesslyn asked, "what is it?" "Yes, old boy," McKern added, standing up and hastening to his old friend's side. "What is the matter?" Honor remained braced, and ready to strike. "I thought I was the only one blind here," the swordmaster declared. "Are you all deaf as well?" "Again, I ask you," McKern repeated, concerned more for the agitation of his old friend than for the danger that loomed over the head of the turbaned guest, "what is the matter?" Honor Fullstaff laughed out loud. This time however the tone was no longer jovial,

and was, in fact, quite sinister. "Why don't you tell them, Selfaril?" Honor said to the masked man. "What?" the shocked escapee asked, as the onlookers stood by, puzzled at their host's actions and allegations. "Surely I am not the only one here to recognize the High Blade through his tawdry disguise," Honor said firmly. "The custom of my people indeed. I'd recognize your voice anywhere. Prepare to die for the murder of your father." To the shock of the others, Honor drew back the saber once more, and launched into a killing blow.

10 Reports, Instructions, & Revelations

In the High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

"Permission to speak frankly, your highness," Rickman requested. "What is it now?" the High Blade demanded. "My men apprehended a felon by the name of James just before nightfall," the captain of the Hawks explained. "In addition to having claimed to have seen the travel writer named Geddarm when he left the city, he also claimed to have spotted two men who resembled drowned rats walking away from Mulmaster along the Moonsea shoreline. The description of one of them matches that of the itinerant thespian by the name of Passepout." "Go on." "At first we suspected that the other drowned rat was Geddarm, but James firmly denied this, saying that it was not the same person he had earlier encountered." "Did he talk to the two, as you call them, drowned rats?" "No, sire," Rickman explained. "He was hiding in wait for easier prey. He didn't like the odds of two against one." "Indeed," Selfaril commented. "Maybe he was mistaken the first time. Perhaps the fellow that he previously encountered was not Geddarm. Maybe he was mistaken then." "I don't believe so, sire," Rickman replied, reaching into his tunic and withdrawing a throwing dagger. "He claimed to have taken this off the first fellow." The captain of the Hawks handed the dagger to the High Blade who drew it closer to

examine it. Clearly etched into the hilt of the bladed weapon was the monogram VG. "Two questions," Selfaril petitioned. "Yes, sire." "Where do you suppose this Geddarm fellow was heading after he left the city, and where do you suppose he is now?" The captain was prepared with an answer. "The felon pinpointed his encounter with the alleged Geddarm as taking place on a remote road that I am not unfamiliar with." "Oh?" the High Blade said, an eyebrow raised in evidence of peaked interest. "It's the road to the Retreat," Rickman explained, "and as much as I was able to extract through our various means of persuasion, it was roughly within a few hours of when Wattrous and Jembahb were supposed to be there. I fear that this Geddarm fellow is the reason for their inability to find the bloodstained wand that would have implicated our friends from the east." "The fools," Selfaril hissed. "The bleeding incompetents." "Before he died, Jembahb mentioned that he thought the Retreat was haunted. Something about strange noises and such. Obviously this Geddarm fellow was in hiding and managed to trick the two half-wits. I fear that we have underestimated this clever travel writer." "Do you believe him to be a Harper agent?" "Perhaps, sire," Rickman answered. "Cyric knows they would love to have an agent in your city." "You have already mentioned that Jembahb is no longer a risk, due to his incompetence. What about Wattrous?" "An assassin has been dispatched," Rickman replied. "A reliable one, one of my

best. Stiles should have Wattrous . . . removed by the end of the week. Our spies have already tracked him to Hillsfar where he is seeking an appointment. The only one he will receive is with our discreet executioner." "Good," Selfaril said with a tone of demanding finality. The High Blade stroked his neatly-trimmed goatee in deep thought, then continued his inquisition. "Were you able to get anything else out of James the felon?" he demanded. "No sire," Rickman apologized. "I'm afraid that he lacked the constitution to survive our thorough cross-examination. Ironically, his body was disposed of at the same time as the late Jembahb." "So we still don't know who the third conspirator is?" "No, sire," Rickman replied. "I concur that Geddarm and Passepout are obviously in league with each other. The third fellow's identity is still a mystery." "It would be just my luck for it to turn out to be my brother, back from the grave." The High Blade allowed himself a cruel laugh at his own absurd conjecture. "Would you like to suggest a course of action, sire?" Rickman inquired. "I want this Geddarm and Passepout brought into custody, but I don't want them killed until I know their whole plan. Understood?" "Of course, sire." "I need to know what they know about your men's visit to the Retreat, my brother, my wife, and anything else that might endanger the security of Mulmaster." "Of course, sire." The High Blade shifted in his throne and readjusted the sash of the silken robe that covered his dressing gown and protected him from the draughts of the Tower of the Wyvern. It was getting late and his bride awaited. As with all of the nights they shared together, it was an occasion that he looked upon in mixed proportions comprised of

lust, self-loathing, fiendish delight, and suicidal bedevilment. Readjusting his sash one more time, and without looking up at the captain of the Hawks, whom he regarded as the only person in the entire city that he fully trusted, he said, "You may go. The she-devil awaits." "Permission to speak frankly, once again, sire," Rickman asked, adding, "just for a moment?" The High Blade answered without looking up. "Yes?" "I sincerely wish that I could remove the threat that exists for as long as you are married to that witch." Selfaril looked up at his right-hand man, and said, "I appreciate your concern. She will no doubt try another ploy to subjugate me, but it will take time. At the present time we have the theoretical upper hand. In spite of the bungling of those below you, we are no worse off than we were before. At the very least we have foiled their plan, and removed a rival to my throne. For the present time, they are forced to accept the failure of their plans. Our stalemate is their defeat, at least temporarily. I intend to enjoy the respite that exists between plots in hopes of formulating one of my own that will give me Eltabbar, and from there, all Toril." "Agreed, sire," the captain of the Hawks conceded, "it's just that I fear the danger that you place yourself in whenever you lay with her." "I know, Rickman," the High Blade agreed, "but it excites me, and there is very little else that does anymore." * * * * * In the Apartment in the Tower of the Wyvern that the High Blade shared with his Wife:

In the spare hours since dinner, the First Princess once again sought the counsel of her half sister and Mischa was more than willing to lend her assistance and advice. "Dear sister," Mischa cooed, the formality of titles ignored in favor of disarming familiarity, "what can I do for you?" "It's not for me, Mischa," the First Princess corrected, "it is for our cause, and the will of Szass Tam." "Of course, First Princess," the half sister replied. "I will need your help in procuring the necessary means to enchant my husband. As always we must be discreet. He is very suspicious and not easily distracted." "I will enlist the greatest of our wizards to the cause," Mischa replied, adding "Discreetly, of course." "Everything must be prepared so that the spell may be consummated within these walls or else the Cloaks will surely detect it, and we will be doomed to failure." "Might I recommend a distraction," Mischa suggested, "to occupy them elsewhere?" "Fabulous idea," the Tharchioness replied, licking her lips and stroking her forehead tattoos with her exotically lacquered nails. "I know the perfect dupe. How about my roly-poly ambassador." "A marvelous idea, sister." "Once my husband's guard has been lowered, I will be able to conceive his child. If the High Blade is still willing to do my bidding afterward, so much the better. If not, he can be disposed of." "And like his father before him, he can be replaced on the throne of Mulmaster by his own son," Mischa extrapolated. "My son," the Tharchioness repeated, "the first of a long line of Thayan High Blades."

"Long may Szass Tam rule." "Yes," the Tharchioness agreed, adding silently, "and myself as well." * * * * * In the office of the Thayan ambassador to Mulmaster:

The Thayan Ambassador wept at his desk. "Why me?" he cried out loud. "I entered the foreign service to stay out of danger. I even picked Mulmaster because, through the First Princess's marriage, I was sure we would never be at war." The note from the First Princess had been vague:

Worm,

The inefficiencies of yourself and your predecessor have caused us great discomfort. Fear not. I have a plan by which you may redeem yourself, either through its success, or your martyrdom. Long may Szass Tam rule. This is your last chance. —The Tharchioness

The wormlike civil servant picked up the official note from the Tharchioness and read it one more time. As he did, it burst into flames, singing his fingers. The worm licked his burnt fingertips like a monkey who had tried to catch a flame. Whatever the Tharchioness wanted him to do, he knew it wouldn't be easy, and he

didn't like the mention of martyrdom. The sinking pit in his stomach soon sent chills throughout his body. Save for the trembling, he stayed petrified in place, waiting for further instructions from his princess. * * * * * In the Bed Chamber of the High Blade and First Princess of Mulmaster and Thay, respectively:

The High Blade had begun to snore, signaling that he had entered a deep sleep. Quietly and carefully, so as not to disturb her heinous husband, the Tharchioness stole from their luxurious bed, pausing only momentarily to wrap herself in a silken quilted robe to protect her body, still moist with perspiration, from the late night Mulmaster chill. Listening for any change in the rhythmic rumbles of her husband's exhalations that would signal his awakening, she quietly tiptoed to her boudoir vanity and softly sat on its stool, careful to keep all noise to a minimum. Silently she picked up a silver cuticle file from its hiding place, and began to carefully remove the small flakes of her husband's skin from under her fingernails. With the precision of a surgeon or a gemstone craftsman, she placed the flakes in a small ivory pin box whose appearance innocently blended with the other decorative containers that lined the base of the mirror. The snores of the High Blade grew louder as he sunk into an even deeper sleep. Shall I chance it? she thought. Why not? The Tharchioness reached under the vanity table and carefully extracted a crystal dagger from its hiding place. Running her finger gently and gingerly across the blade to ascertain that it was razor sharp, she crept back to the bed where her husband

soundly slept, blissfully unaware of his helplessness, and the danger that hovered over him. I never thought it would be this easy, she said almost silently under her breath as she raised the blade in preparation for its intended mission. The High Blade's eyes fluttered for a moment and his lips curved into a sly smile. He's dreaming, she thought, probably of the subjugation of myself and all of Eltabbar. With all in readiness, she maneuvered the blade down, slicing at her spouse with care and accuracy. The High Blade snored again, and turned over in his slumbers. How fortunate, she thought. You've never been this accommodating before. With two fingers of the hand that did not hold the crystal dagger, she carefully picked up the lock of her husband's hair that she had just snipped off with the blade. Sure that she had not left any telltale hairs behind, she stole back to her vanity table, placed the hairs in the small box with the flakes of skin, then returned the box to its hiding place among the other knickknacks. Her mission for the evening successfully completed, she returned to her place in the marriage bed, and gleefully went to sleep, dreaming of the successful fruition of her plans. * * * * * In the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

The blind swordmaster was in the midst of his lethal swing when an invisible force came between him and the masked Rassendyll. "Honor," the senior Cloak cautioned, "this is your home, and in it we must follow

your rules, but I will not stand idly by while you behead this fellow until you explain to us what is going on." The enraged Honor tried to swing and strike again only to find the same invisible barrier. This only added further to his rage. Quickly he turned around to face Passepout. "And you must be one of his Hawks, ready to watch his back, and follow his murderous orders. Well, at least I can rid the world of you!" the swordmaster yelled as he took a running start to strike and cleave the petrified and portly thespian in two. When he was a half-step's distance from the thespian, his blade was at the top of its arc and just about to start its deadly descent, when the dull thud of metal hitting skull was heard, followed by the thump and thud of Honor Fullstaff hitting the ground. Volo thought he saw an oblong blur pass through the air as the long sword flew hilt over blade through the air on its intended course. The swordmaster's former student replaced the long sword in its appointed spot on the mantle. Her expert aim, incredible ability, and indelible accuracy had guided the long sword as if it were a simple dagger as she threw it through the air. Her split second calculations had also enabled her to judge its path and orbit so that its heavy hilt would make contact with the blind man's head, knocking him out but leaving him relatively unharmed by the deadly blade. Volo turned to the female Harper and whispered, "I heard you were an expert at heaving long swords but I never dreamed that you could pull off an incredible maneuver like that." "Remember," she answered in an equivalent and hasty whisper, "don't believe everything you read. From what I understand, most writers are born liars." By this time Poins and Hal had arrived, and, after assessing the situation, began to

help their master into an upright position, and then onto one of the sturdy couches that was available. Slowly, the old swordmaster began to come around. Passepout nudged Rassendyll, motioned toward the hall signaling that he was about to make a hasty escape, and turned to go, only to take a hastened step forward and immediately run into an invisible wall not unlike the one that had stopped the swordmaster's first blow. McKern looked at Passepout and Rassendyll sternly and said, "Neither of you are going anywhere until I find out what is going on here, even if I have to call to Mulmaster for reinforcements, and something tells me that more than one person in this room would not be in favor of that." "I don't know what got into him," Chesslyn told McKern. "Sure, I've seen him angry before . . ." "Anybody who has known him has," the mage acceded. ". . . but such a rage," she continued. "Only once have I witnessed such animated anger from him, and that was after a night of too many libations and reminiscences of his days in service to Selfaril's father . . . but this time he hasn't had hardly anything to drink." "It would appear that the reason lies beneath the turban," McKern observed. Turning his attention to Rassendyll, he instructed, "I have been forced to cast a spell against a dear friend in defense of your life. If you wish to keep that which I have protected, remove your mask." Rassendyll realized that he had no choice. The old senior Cloak was a formidable opponent for the best of the wizards back at the Retreat, and without the use of his own powers, Rassendyll had very little recourse. Shaking his head in resignation, he warned, "I will remove what I can," and began to

undo the turban. Volo inched over to Passepout, and whispered, "Who is this guy?" "Rupert of Zenda," the thespian replied, then added, "and I thought that you were a barrel of laughs to travel with." "Where did you meet him? I thought you were going to wait for me back at the Traveler's Cloak Inn." "Dela and I had a lover's quarrel," the thespian extemporized, "so I temporarily became a dislocated person. I ran into Rupert on the Moonsea shore. I thought we were heading back to Mulmaster, but I guess Rupert had other ideas." Chesslyn, feeling a little guilty for bludgeoning her former teacher, had joined Poins and Hal at Honor's side as the retired swordmaster gradually came around. "What happened?" Honor asked groggily. Poins looked at Chesslyn, then answered, "You hit your head, sir." "On what?" he inquired, still not thinking quite clearly. "On . .. something," Hal answered carefully. "Oh," the swordmaster said, as if the question had been answered to his satisfaction. Rassendyll had finished unwrapping one layer of cloth, and had begun to undo the second, under the watchful eyes of Mage McKern. As he unwrapped, the shape of the iron mask became more and more defined, until, fully unsheathed, the metal head cover was fully revealed. "That's all I can do," Rassendyll stated. "I wish I could do more." Mason carefully examined the metal handiwork that adorned the man's head. "Why does he have that on?" Volo asked Passepout. "I asked him the same question," Passepout answered.

"And?" "He ran afoul of a wizard," the thespian explained, "and now he can't take it off. Something about it being bound to his skull." The master traveler, in his research for Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, recalled reading about such masks. If memory served him, he seemed to remember that they usually did more than just hide one's face, but also dampened one's ability to perform magic. Legend had it that in olden days such masks had been used on imprisoned wizards to render them vulnerable to torture and interrogation. Honor had just fully regained his senses after the final covering had been removed from the mask. He sat quietly surveying the situation, the watchful and restraining presence of Hal and Poins supporting him on either side. "Do you remember what happened?" Chesslyn asked her burly mentor. "I remember being hit on the back of the head," he said with a twinkle, then added, "You're still pretty handy with a sword hilt, aren't you, dear?" "I was taught by the best," she cooed. "Indeed you were," he conceded. "Stay right there or risk my wrath," McKern instructed Rassendyll, and then headed over to his old friend. Honor saw him coming, and quickly put up his hand. "I know, I know," the retired swordmaster said. "As senior Cloak you are bound by your office to protect the High Blade, but I really thought you would be allied with me on this matter. Selfaril killed our best friend, and the murder of a High Blade must be punished." "Be quiet, you old fool," the mage said in a derogatory tone that was obviously saved for only the best of friends. "What makes you think that this fellow is Selfaril?"

"I'd recognize that voice anywhere," Honor countered. "He sounds just like his father." McKern scratched his head for a moment. "Now that you mention it, his voice is awfully familiar," the mage agreed. "It's Selfaril, I tell you!" Honor insisted, restraining himself from flying into the uncontrollable rage that he had previously allowed to overtake him. "There is another possibility," Mason said turning to Passepout and Volo. "So, you two know each other?" Volo answered, "You could say that." "I remember clearly now," Mason stated. "The Hawks are looking for both of you. You are Volothamp Geddarm, a writer of some kind, right?" "And if I am?" McKern just shook his head, saying, "Let us not waste time with such foolishness. Neither of you has anything to worry about from me. Though I am sworn to protect the High Blade, I have no desire to do his dirty work. If he has dispatched the Hawks to find you, you can be guaranteed that it is dirty work indeed." "Why are they looking for us?" Volo asked, his eyes surreptitiously darting across the room to make contact with Chesslyn. She was equally attentive for the answer. "I'm not quite sure," McKern replied judiciously. "Something about an escaped prisoner." "That would be me," Rassendyll confessed, seeing no reason to continue the charade. "My name is Rassendyll, formerly a student at the Retreat." Chesslyn jumped into the conversation. "The Retreat," she offered. "That's where I met Mr. Geddarm here. We decided to travel together back to Mulmaster out of concern for our own safety"

"Why?" the senior Cloak asked with all the delicacy and demanding nature of a grand inquisitor. "Because of what we found there," Volo answered. "What did you find there?" Rassendyll interjected, more scared than he had been since he left the Retreat. "Everyone was slaughtered," the master traveler explained. "Not a single person was left alive. We found a blood-encrusted crystal wand that was left behind." "Thayan raiders, no doubt," McKern observed. "No doubt the High Blade's men will deal with them." "That's what we thought," Chesslyn inserted, "but while we were there, we observed two of the Hawks apparently looking for the wand as if they knew what to look for. Neither of them seemed even remotely concerned about the dead bodies or what had taken place there. It was as if they already knew that it had happened." "Indeed, that is odd," McKern agreed. "As of this morning, there was no word about an attack on the Retreat, and, given the concerns of the Cloaks, that is extremely odd indeed. No doubt if it had been an attack by Thayan raiders certain political concerns would have brought it to our attention." "Maybe the Tharchioness had arranged a cover-up, or perhaps the High Blade was withholding the information from the public until his bride had once again returned to the east," Chesslyn posited. "Or maybe the High Blade himself was involved," Honor added with a sense of knowing finality. The blind swordmaster then turned his attention back to Rassendyll. "You there," he said. "If you are a student mage of the Retreat, why were you spared, and imprisoned?" "I have no idea," Rassendyll replied. "The best that I can remember is falling asleep

on watch, and then waking up bound and blindfolded in transit. My abductors were then attacked on the road by those who I initially thought to be my rescuers. As it turned out, they were the High Blade's men, and bore me away to prison where a blind mage put this accursed mask of iron on me." McKern interrupted, his eyebrow arching in interest, "Did you say a blind mage?" "Yes," Rassendyll replied. "He did as he was told, under the watchful eyes of the High Blade. When he was done, I could no longer remember a single spell, let alone wield my magic." McKern approached Rassendyll and examined the collar piece of the mask carefully. "I thought it looked familiar," the mage replied. "It is my brother's handiwork. What else do you recall?" "Only that the High Blade seems to be my twin." Honor stood up, pushed McKern out of the way, and confronted the seated Rassendyll directly. A quick scan by Chesslyn revealed that he had left the numerous bladed weapons out of hand, and therefore probably did not intend a repeat performance of his prior attack. The blind swordmaster stared with unseeing eyes into the iron-masked face of Rassendyll, and said, "What do you mean 'twin?' " "We look exactly alike, save for his trimmed hair and beard. We are dead ringers." Honor chuckled. "Indeed," he said, "this resemblance would have undoubtedly led to your death." "He said that I would eventually choke on my own beard," Rassendyll recalled. "No doubt an appealing thought to our esteemed High Blade." Honor turned toward the direction from whence he had last heard Chesslyn's voice, and said, "Chesslyn

dearest, would you please bare our masked man's shoulder please." Chesslyn complied without asking why. The sane and knowing Honor Fullstaff who had been her teacher had returned, replacing the rage-driven mad swordsman who had made an appearance earlier that evening. She knew that he had a reason. When Honor heard her completion of the deed, he turned toward Mage McKern and said, "Do you recognize that birthmark in his armpit?" "But I thought he was . . ." Passepout said, none too discreetly. "I am, my fine epicure," Honor retorted. "I have no need for the use of my eyes to validate that which I now know to exist." McKern raised the masked man's left arm, and gasped. "It is the birthmark," the mage confirmed. "I thought so," Honor said, and extended his hand to the masked man. "You have my sincerest apologies. I could have borne you no greater insult than to mistake you for your brother." "My brother?" "Yes," Honor said, "you are the other son of Merch, my dearest dead friend, the former High Blade. You are, therefore, the heretofore unknown twin brother of the ruthless murderer Selfaril." Honor took a step back and called to his men. "Hal and Poins, get Hotspur and fetch us a keg of my best Halruaan ale. We have much to discuss this night!"

11 Tankards of Memories

At the Villa of Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

As they waited for the ale to arrive, they splintered off into separate groups. Volo introduced the very confused Passepout to Chesslyn. The master traveler was careful to conceal the young lady's Harper affiliation as he was more than acquainted with the chubby thespian's pronounced lack of discretion. Poins and Hal had set off to help Hotspur with the monstrous keg of Halruaan ale that their master saved for occasions of exceptional note, while the blind swordmaster and the senior cloak argued in hushed tones. Through all of this the iron-masked man remained silent, pondering his fate, his identity, and the recent turn of events. He was conscious of the discreet glances thrown his way by Volo, Chesslyn, and Passepout. He was forced to acknowledge that these strangers might be his only chance for reaching safety and freedom. Hal and Poins reentered the room, helping to balance the monstrous keg that the dwarf cook bore on his back. The threesome maneuvered it over to a place next to the trophy wall, and inserted it into a sort of harness that seemed to exist specifically for this purpose. As Hotspur fiddled with the recently attached spigot, Hal and Poins distributed mugs to the rest of the group and each became filled with the delicious libation from the Shining South. By the time everyone had been served, Honor and Mason had reached some sort of agreement, and had taken their places in the impromptu circle of chairs that had formed around Rassendyll. Accepting his tankard from Poins, Honor downed it in a single quaff and wiped away

the foam from his bearded jowls. "Ahhh!" the blind swordmaster said in appreciation as he handed the empty tankard back to his servant who immediately set off to refill it. "You can't beat the Halruaans when it comes to ale, a fact that I am sure you are more than aware of, Mr. Volo's-Guide-to-Wherever." The master traveler was slightly startled, then amused at the sudden reference to his reputation and repertoire made by their host. Indeed, he thought, our host is quite cagey and knows much more than he lets on—about a lot of things. "I agree," the master traveler concurred aloud, "though I personally prefer the brew from a different part of the south, Luiren." "Ah, but too many halflings can spoil the brew," Honor replied, accepting his second brimming helping. The masked man's fear and uncertainty gave way to his own impatience. "All this talk of halflings and brew is well and good," Rassendyll said with impertinence, "but I really do wish you would get on with whatever you plan to get on with." Honor stiffened, and Passepout feared that the swordsman was about to enter into another rage. His fears were quickly allayed when he saw the wide grin spread across their blind host's face. "Told you," Honor said to McKern. "Even has his father's lack of patience." "Indeed," the senior Cloak concurred. "More and more, I am inclined to agree with you, and set aside my own misgivings." "I knew you would, old friend," the blind host said, then turned his attention to the rest of the group. "I'm sorry. Please forgive us. Old men are prone to share old times and memories, both the good ones, and the bad, whenever the opportunity arises, no

matter how discourteous it happens to be. Still, that is no excuse, and I beg that all of you will accept my apologies on behalf of Mason and myself." Honor downed his second tankard of ale, once again emptying it in a single quaff, whispering instructions to send his appreciation to Hotspur for a job well done, as he went about deftly refilling his own mug. Refilling it faster than a Baldur's Gate bartender, he strode over to the seated mage in the iron mask who was the focus of all their attentions, and said, "Most of all I beg your forgiveness, and request your indulgence for just a little while longer. You are among friends now. Mason and I will protect you, as we should have protected your father." Rassendyll felt the gentle bear paw of the blind swordsman on his shoulder, and looked up into his unseeing eyes. For some reason, he felt a profound sense of security. He believed the words that the generous host spoke. Honor gave Rassendyll's shoulder a gentle squeeze, much as a teacher would give a star pupil to signal some private affection, and took what would have been considered a sip in comparison to his earlier draughts from the brimming tankard, only draining it of half its contents. He then returned to the tap to top it off, and took his place back in the circle. "Mason," Honor said, "why don't you fill everyone in on our friend's background? I'm sure they will find it quite interesting." "Agreed," the old mage replied, then added, to the masked man, "I am sure that you would like to know a little about your parentage, wouldn't you?" "Of course," Rassendyll replied. "Of the many things I learned at the Retreat, that was not one of them." "Well, old friend," Honor encouraged Mason McKern, "get on with it." * * * * *

In the Thayan Embassy in Mulmaster:

The worm of an ambassador had not expected to be summoned so soon after receiving the note from the First Princess. He was even more surprised to be approached in his chamber by the Tharchioness's sister. "The Tharchioness instructed me to come to you immediately, as you are her only hope," Mischa Tam explained in tones of hushed urgency. "Of course," the ambassador said, beaming with pride, relieved at Mischa's message, eyes glued to the curves of her body, which were subtly visible against the silken robe that barely concealed her nakedness. "The First Princess knows that she can call on me at any time, day or night ... as I invite you to do also, my dear Mischa." Mischa Tam maintained her composure while burying a shudder of revulsion that ran through her inner core at the advances of the wormlike ambassador. She was sure that until her arrival, he had been dreading the next contact with the Tharchioness, anticipating a suicide mission of some type. Even though he did not realize it, his initial anticipations were more than accurate. "My dear ambassador," she cooed, "I wish I could take you up on your generous offer, but my pragmatic nature, I'm afraid, gets the best of me. You know how jealous the First Princess gets. She would have my head or worse if she caught me giving undue attention to one of her favorites." One of her favorites, the ambassador thought, I should have known. I never dreamed that she felt that way about me. Obviously she is a woman prone to sadistic affections toward those who strike her fancy. If necessary, he mused, I could get used to that. "Time is fleeting, and I owe it to the Tharchioness not to dally unnecessarily, even if

it does prolong my time with you," the First Princess's half sister whispered, her ironic tone lost on the corpulent and soft civil envoy. "Here is the packet of information that I promised to deliver for her. She so wants you to clear your name, and the successful completion of your mission will do more than that. After all, a Thayan hero would make a perfect First Princess's consort. Don't you think?" The slow-witted ambassador became confused. "What hero?" he asked. "And what about the High Blade?" "Why you will be the hero, of course," she cooed, kissing him gently on his doughy, bald pate, and then, with a sigh, adding, "I'm sorry. I just couldn't control myself." "Quite all right," the blushing, lusting ambassador sputtered. "And the High Blade," she concluded. "Well, that is what is probably in the message. I must go now." "No," the ambassador urged, "surely you can stay awhile. The Tharchioness need not know." "As much as I would love to," she countered, "I really can't. Nothing must deter you from the planning of your mission." The ambassador looked at the unopened message that had been handed to him, and said resignedly, "Oh, yes, my mission." "And when it is over, no one will deny you anything, not even the Tharchioness." "Indeed," he replied, his greed overcoming any fear about the prospective contents of the packet. "It is the will of Szass Tam," she said, as she slinked out the door of the ambassador's suite. "Indeed," he repeated to himself, trying to savor the image of Mischa and combining it with that of a similarly compliant First Princess. "Indeed."

Had the ambassador escorted the Tharchioness's half sister to the door, he might have been able to hear her derisive laughter once she turned the corner down the hall. Looking down at the packet in his hand, and with a gradual return of the anxiety that churned in the bottom of his stomach, he began to open the seal so that he could learn of the fate that awaited him. The pervasive terror returned as he finished the missive which burst into smokeless flames no sooner than he had fully digested its contents, incinerating the instruction on the spot. The despair that he felt more than distracted him from the painful searing of his fingertips. * * * * * At the Villa of Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

Drinks refilled, the blind swordmaster sat back in his chair, and began to tell a tale. "Everyone hereabouts," he began, with a quick nod to Volo, "and thereabouts, who might have done their research, knows that I was the captain of the Hawks under the former High Blade. You might all have by this time made the correct assumption that it was during that tour of duty that I first became acquainted with my good friend Mason McKern, now senior Cloak, then just a plain old mage who lived with his brother, known throughout the inner circles of the Moonsea region as mage smiths of inordinate skill and mastery." "Once again my good friend is overly generous in his praise," McKern interrupted. "It has always been my brother who possessed the mastery of forged metals. I am, and have always been, but a simple caster of spells." Honor directed an unseeing glare toward the senior Cloak.

"I am the one relating the pertinent history at this time, and it is only my opinion that matters. I would greatly appreciate it, old friend, if you would maintain a courteous conduct of silence, for I would experience no pleasure in physically encouraging you to do so by giving you a fat lip, if you get my drift." McKern was about to reply, thought the better of it, and instead embraced the silence that was requested. "Now, as I was saying," Honor continued, "these things are easily known by many, as is the heinous fact that Selfaril killed his father in order to succeed him on the throne with the same amoral, opportunistic glee with which he entered into matrimony with that sorceress bitch from the east, the First Princess of Thay." Passepout leaned in close to Volo and whispered, "I guess there is no question about our host's feelings toward Mulmaster's incumbent administration." "I might add at this point that I would have no trouble dealing with new friends in the exact same manner as I would old friends," Honor said pointedly, but without changing his storyteller tone, pausing just a moment to take an uncharacteristically small sip of his ale. Even the sometimes dull Passepout, for whom matters of subtlety were usually matters of mystery, understood his meaning and joined the others in the reverential silence of attentive listening. "But what of Selfaril's father?" Honor continued. "From whence did he come, and where are the tales of his heroics? It is almost as if all trace of the glory that was Merch Voumdolphin has been expunged from public record. And what of his wife, the mother of Selfaril? Whatever became of her?" Volo felt that he was sitting in on a hard-sell session by his publisher to some unenthusiastic bookseller. He wished that he could take out his handy notebook, but

thought better of it. Though it sounded as if the makings of a bestseller were about to be laid out before him, he realized that this was neither the time nor the place for such whimsical maneuvers of ambition, and a quick glance at the iron-masked man reminded him that this was indeed a matter of life and death. What good would a bestseller be if the author never lived to see its completion, submission, or publication. Honor took a more ample drink of ale, and wiped his jowls with his sleeve in a somewhat vulgar manner that at once conveyed his appreciation of the drink and affirmed to the crowd at hand that this was indeed his home and thus he could do as he well pleased. "Now that I have your attention, and I thank you for your indulgence of a blind old man, I will answer the aforementioned questions." "Merch and I shared our early years of formative education, for he too was a graduate of the Hillsfar gladiatorial arena. Though I led the revolt, he planned it, preferring to leave me the glory and gusto of leadership. Once we had escaped, I founded our mercenary band while he took advantage of his less notorious persona to insinuate himself into merchant society by romancing a certain Mulman aristocrat's daughter. In no time they were married, and Merch had safely slept his way up the ladder of Mulman high society. "There was only one small problem: unbeknownst to him, he had already fathered two sons from a slave girl he had lain with during off hours at the arena, and these offspring were still imprisoned back in Hillsfar." "It was I who first found out about these two infants that had just been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and I hastened to Mulmaster to alert Merch. Needless to say, he was horrified, torn by his duty to his newly-acquired wife—who was already pregnant—and the illegitimate spawn of his loins."

Mason McKern lightly tapped his friend on the arm, and politely asked, "May I fill in for a few moments?" Honor smiled. "Of course, old friend," the genial host replied, "you've more than earned that right." McKern cleared his voice and continued the tale. "At that time," the senior Cloak said, "there was a pair of very young mages-in-training in the employ of the household into which Merch had married. They had pledged their services to the head of the household in return for certain financial endowments that had been bestowed upon their other brother, a high-level mage by the name of Loyola who wished to start a private refuge and place of study." "The Retreat," Volo inadvertently blurted aloud. "That's right," the senior Cloak acknowledged, adding, "and you need not fear a 'fat lip' from me. If nothing else, old age has at least given me tolerance." Honor harumphed. "That said," Mason segued. "I shall continue. Over the years of his employment in the household, the younger of the brothers, the sighted one as he was known, had also become the confidant of the young lady of the household." Honor took this opportunity to take up the tale. "Merch decided that duty demanded that he rescue his sons from the futile doom of being raised in the slave pits of Hillsfar where eventual death in the arena was considered to be one of the more favorable options. He told his pregnant bride about his sons, and she approved of his desire to return with his old comrade-in-arms to retrieve them. But she feared that he was ill-prepared to return to the life of a warrior after having spent several months without the practice of a blade at hand." McKern again took over.

"So, she asked the two mage brothers to forge an enchanted weapon that would imbue its bearer with great facility and lethal mastery of the bladed arts. The brothers complied, forging a weapon whose blade was combined from the melted-down blades of several of Mulmaster's veteran swordsmen, including that of the bride's father, whose title of Blade bespoke more of his own experience with one than such a title conveys today." "When your father took the blade in hand," Honor interrupted, directing his words at the iron-masked man, "he became a swordmaster the likes of which Mulmaster had never seen. Together with his old comrade-in-arms, Honor Fullstaff, he returned to Hillsfar, raided the slave compound, and rescued his infant sons, who at the time were still less than two months old. Triumphantly, he and his comrade returned with the babes in hand to a prearranged spot where they could meet up with his bride and her trusted confidant." McKern resumed his telling of the tale. "The rendezvous took place as planned and Merch was reunited with his bride who accepted the twins with open arms. Honor and myself decided to leave the happy little family some time to get acquainted. Unfortunately, the young mother-to-be fatally miscarried while we were absent, leaving the soon-to-be High Blade grief stricken, but with two small sons from a previous affair." Honor picked up the chronology from there. "On that very night a plan was hatched. Merch remained in the safe house for another month. Mason was dispatched back to Mulmaster with news of the premature birth of a son. We considered it to be too risky to pass both the twins off as her issue, so you were sent into hiding. A trusted ally was sent to bring you to the safety of the Retreat where you would be cared for in secret until your father cemented his position

in Mulmaster. Later, the body of our ally, your guardian, was discovered on the shore of the Moonsea. We assumed that you were borne off by outlaws, and never conceived of the possibility that you made it safely to the Retreat." "Loyola was always closemouthed about arrivals, or at least so we later learned," Mason amended. "Honor and I now believe that he planned on keeping your existence a secret until such a fortuitous time that he needed more leverage in Mulmaster. Apparently he died with his ace in the hole still a secret." "Selfaril," Honor continued, "was assumed by his father's in-laws to be the son of their daughter's union, and he was raised with all of the privileges of an heir to a Blade. I remained at your father's side, as his second in command, and trained the army that he raised to lay siege, unsuccessfully of course, to the Zhentarim and other less than cooperative Moonsea states. I was even your brother's tutor in the way of the sword, though I now curse the day I first laid eyes on him." The tale had come to an end, and silence pervaded the room, until the opening of the door signaled the return of Poins and Hal, who came to inquire if another keg was going to be necessary. Honor broke the awkward silence. "It is late," the blind swordmaster said, "and we all have much to digest. Poins and Hal will escort you to your rooms. Mason and myself still have some matters to discuss. We will see you all at breakfast." Rassendyll raised his hand, as if requesting permission to proffer a question. Realizing that the blind man was unable to see him, he said loud and clear, "Sir, if I may. . . ." Honor strode over to the source of the question while it was still in progress and, putting his arm around the iron-masked man, interrupted, "I realize that I have

probably just set your mind reeling in all sorts of directions. Poins and Hal will provide you with a sleep draught so that you may rest." Turning his attention to the rest of the group, he added, "All of you . . . we will have much to discuss tomorrow. Rest now, while you can." Volo looked at Chesslyn, then at Passepout and Rassendyll, and shrugged. Chesslyn smiled, took the master traveler's arm, and set off down the hall to the room she usually stayed in. She knew that Poins, Hal, and the others would be following shortly. * * * * * In the Thayan Embassy in Mulmaster:

From her hiding place down the hall, Mischa Tam patiently waited for the maggot-like ambassador to begin carrying out the instructions detailed in the note. Her patience was soon rewarded. She spotted the quivering and shivering gelatinous mass of a wizard leave his apartment and set off down the hall, the fear of damnation and torture in his eyes. His lips were moving as he muttered some incomprehensible prayers to save his miserable excuse for a life. When he was well out of sight, Mischa slinked back to the door of his apartment, and carefully let herself in. The door was unlocked, which was no surprise given the man's incompetence. A quick look around the rooms immediately drew her back to the place he had been standing when she had left. Casting her eyes down to the carpeted floor, she found what she was looking for—the pile of ashes from the note she had brought. Extracting a small brush and a sheet of paper from a pocket in her gown, she proceeded to bend over and carefully brush up the ashes onto the sheet of paper. When she was positive

that she had indeed recovered every single ash, she set them onto a bare spot on a nearby desk. Muttering the words of a spell of reconstitution over the ashes, she stood back and watched the note reform. The original note now intact, she placed the other sheet of paper on top of it, passed her hand over it, and once again removed the paper. The note appeared as before with one minor alteration: the signature at the bottom having changed from that of her half sister to that of the ambassador's predecessor. As the High Blade's men were unaware of his recent demise, no questions would be asked of its validity. Mischa Tam smiled and licked her lips as she examined her handiwork. The note contained clearly written plans for the ambassador to assassinate the High Blade. The discovery of this would clearly obfuscate their more subtle plans of the gentle sorcerous coopting of Selfaril. Mischa laughed softly. 'Tis a pity, she thought, that my sister's name has been removed, but it would not suit Szass Tam's goals at this time to point fingers at her. It is important that this plan be attributed to a splinter faction led by intransigent ambassadors who are opposed to the coming together of the two great powers. My sister will get her just desserts eventually. Mischa looked around the room for another moment, and softly said aloud to herself, "Now, where would a great master of deceit like that worm dispose of confidential papers." Laughing one more time, she crumpled the reconstituted and altered note, and threw it into the wastepaper basket, then, after peeking through the peephole of the door to make sure that the coast was clear, she picked up the trash basket and left the apartment, setting the container with its crumpled evidence in its appointed place for pickup.

A fast look in both directions assured her that she was alone, and once again licking her lips in anticipation of the rewards for a job well done, she hastened back to her own apartment.

12 An Evening's Just Rewards

At the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

"Hey, Volo," Passepout called after his friend, "wait for us." "Damn!" the master traveler cursed under his breath, thinking, just inches from a clean getaway! "Your friend seems eager to talk to you," Chesslyn said, unentangling her arm from that of the master traveler. The roly-poly thespian caught up to them, quite out of breath, and was followed closely by the iron-masked man named Rassendyll. "We were just on our way to bed," Volo said, trying to give his former companion of the road a subtle wink. "How did you know the way to the bedrooms?" asked the very dense Passepout. "Oh," Chesslyn explained, "I've been here before, and I was showing Volo the way." "Oh," answered Passepout, the stars of infatuation beginning to twinkle in his eyes. Rassendyll put his arm around the thespian. "I'm sure that Poins and Hal will be along shortly. We can wait for them to show us the way." "Here they are, now!" Passepout exclaimed, "just in the nick of time." Poins approached Chesslyn, saying officiously, "Miss Chesslyn, the master has instructed that you should enjoy the comforts of your usual room. Mister Geddarm and the others will share the students' quarters." "But. . ." Volo began to protest, but was cut off by the secret Harper agent. "It's all right," she said softly. "It's late, and Honor was quite specific that we should

all get a good night's rest, because tomorrow will be quite busy. It's for the best." "I guess," Volo said, unsure. " 'Til morning," Chesslyn replied, giving Volo a light peck on the cheek. "What about me?" the thespian asked moonily. "Of course," Chesslyn said, giving him a quick peck as well, and offering the masked man a quick handshake in lieu of a kiss against the metal barrier that obscured his cheek. With a quick wave, she disappeared down the hall. "This way gentlemen," Poins said, starting down the hall in the opposite direction in which the young lady had gone. The threesome followed the servant of Honor Fullstaff, eager to get started on a well-earned rest. The room they arrived at resembled the typical barracks quarters of a young students' hall. The three quickly found suitable accommodations on beds that were only slightly smaller than their adult-sized bulks. Passepout accomplished this by putting two of the cots together. Poins gave each the promised sleeping draught, and turned the light off as he left. Volo was just about to pass into slumber when he heard his friend whisper his name. "What?" the master traveler answered, trying not to be too terse. "You know that Chesslyn?" "Yes," Volo answered, not really wishing to be reminded of the company that he would have preferred to be sharing at this very moment. "I think she likes me," the clueless thespian said. Volo just rolled his eyes, and replied, "How could she not?" After less than a moment's pause, and in the middle of a yawn, the thespian

concurred, "I guess you're right." Passepout didn't see Volo shaking his head in disbelief, as he turned over and embraced a deep slumber. * * * * * In the Office of the Captain of the Hawks in Southroad Keep:

After two hours of unsuccessful tossing and turning, Captain Rickman returned to his office to do some paperwork, considering that to be a more productive alternative to lying sleepless in his bed. The halls were empty, and the chill of the Moonsea winds brought a coolness to his chambers that necessitated his drawing a blanket around his shoulders to keep warm. The single candelabrum that provided enough light to work by could not possibly also adequately heat the room. "Brrr," the Hawk captain said aloud as he settled into the chair behind his desk, his mind not really on the paperwork that lay before him. For months now, Rickman had been growing progressively more worried about Mulmaster's stability. The rebuilding of the navy was proceeding at a slower pace than even he had anticipated, and there was talk of civil unrest among the common folk, who still had not accepted the desirability of their alliance with Eltabbar. For many, the diplomatic incentive of this alliance was overshadowed by the misalliance that was construed as the High Blade's marriage. Initially, Rickman had every confidence that Selfaril knew what he was doing. The plot for the annexation of Eltabbar, and the subjugation of the Tharchioness, had seemed both sound and desirable, but now the captain of the Hawks was beginning to feel uneasy. Rickman did not like the game of cat and mouse that the High Blade seemed to

enjoy playing with his bride. Everything would have been much easier had he just confronted her with his knowledge of her treasonous plans, forcing her to abdicate to him the throne of Eltabbar . . . just before her execution for treason; but the High Blade had decided against this pragmatic course of action, and as a result that which had been a winning endgame was left as a fool's stalemate with both sides at the same point they were when the game started. Eventually, Rickman realized, Selfaril would come to his senses and look for a scapegoat, and no minor functionary like Wattrous or Jembahb would do. The captain of the Hawks knew that his days as the High Blade's right-hand man were numbered, and, therefore, his days among the living were equally numbered. He only hoped that a plan for his own salvation would present itself. His prayers (perhaps to Cyric, perhaps to Bane) were answered with an unexpected knock on his chamber door. "Come in," he responded, his voice gravelly with night congestion. The door opened and a spineless informant that Rickman recognized as his man in the Thayan embassy entered. "Sir," said the man, whose name was Lendel, "I came by to drop off some recently acquired intelligence of great importance. I was going to drop it off at our usual place, the Warrior's Arena, but decided it couldn't wait. I had hopes of leaving it under your door so that you would see it the first thing tomorrow morn, but when I saw the light flickering under your door. I felt that it was best to deliver it to you personally." "What is it?" the captain demanded. "Even though it is late, I hope you took precautions to avoid being followed. It would serve Mulmaster naught if we were to lose our ear within the enemy's embassy." "I took every precaution I could," Lendel said obsequiously, "but I felt that this was

worth the possibility of blowing my cover. Even so, I am fairly sure that I have managed to arrive here unobserved." The captain of the Hawks stood up and said, "Then what is it?" at the same time noting to himself that perhaps the security around his own office should be increased. "Here," Lendel said, taking a step forward and proffering his hand, which held a crumpled up note. "I found it in one of the ambassadors' trash." Rickman read the note with great interest. "Do you believe it to be authentic?" he demanded. "Yes, captain," Lendel answered. "This particular ambassador is not what anyone would call very bright. His carelessness is Mulmaster's gain." "Agreed," said Rickman, tapping his forehead with the note as a plan began to present itself. "Remind me, Lendel," he asked, "who is your contact within the Hawks?" "Lieutenant Wattrous, sir," Lendel replied. Rickman walked around the desk and put his arm around the spy's shoulder. "And other than him," the captain inquired, "who in Mulmaster knows your true affiliation?" "Just yourself, sir," Lendel replied officiously. "I have been very careful about that." "Good," the captain of the Hawks replied, patting the spy on the back. "You have done well, and in doing so have made things much easier on me." With another pat on the spy's back, Rickman silently withdrew his dagger, and quickly slashed the throat of the surprised and shocked Lendel, who tried to gurgle a protest, a question, then a scream, but to no avail. His throat was already clotted with blood. "Sorry about that," the calm captain apologized. "In another time and in another place you would have gotten a commendation. Unfortunately at this time, and in this

place, you are a liability. Rest assured, however, that the new High Blade will look upon your memory fondly ... as I take the throne." The slain spy slid to the ground, as the captain of the Hawks returned to his desk. Quickly, Rickman took the crumpled note and set it next to one of the candelabrum's flames. When it was aflame, he carefully set it in a dish where it safely converted itself to smoke and ash. Rickman began to talk to himself out loud as he practiced his explanation. "Imagine my surprise," he said. "When I returned to my office, I found this Thayan lying in wait for me. It was only through sheer luck that I was able to dispatch him before he me. I'm afraid that I have many enemies in the Thayan camp, unlike our High Blade . . . the High Blade ... oh, I see no reason to alarm him. It's not as if his life were in any danger." The Thayan bastards would carry out their assassination, and Rickman would be ready with a few trusted men, to seize the throne in the name of Mulmaster, ending this eastern affair once and for all. The First Princess and her lot would be executed for treason, and he would ascend the throne. "Mulmaster needs a High Blade who will think with his head, the way you used to, Selfaril," Rickman declared to the empty room. "Mulmaster needs me, and I will graciously serve." Blowing the ashes out the window, Rickman took several short, fast breaths, disheveled his robes, and set off down the hall to alert the night watch about the altercation that had just occurred in his office.

PART THREE

The Plan, the Plot, & the Ploy

13 Morning Maneuvers

In the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

Eventually exhaustion had been sated, and the sleeping draught began to wear off. Rassendyll drifted into a lighter mode of sleep that was disturbed every time a movement would upset the center of balance of the heavy mask that encased his head. Despite the fact that he could not recall having ever slept in a more comfortable bed (for his quarters at the Retreat had always been in keeping with the ascetic ways of the older contemplative mages), he was unable to find a position that would allow him to return to the arms of Morpheus. Realizing that he had received about as much rest as he was going to, he sat up in the bed and waited 'til he heard footsteps in the halls outside, before leaving the room that he had shared with the world-traveling Volo and the snoring Passepout. Making as little noise as possible, he opened the door and made his way down the corridor to the main hall in which dinner had been served. The hall was empty, though he could hear the clatter of pots and pans in the nearby kitchen, where Hotspur the dwarf was undoubtedly making preparations for breakfast. Most of the torches from the night before had almost burnt down to their holders, which common sense told the masked man meant that sunrise would be upon them at any moment. Having nothing better to do, and not wishing to disturb his slumbering companions, Rassendyll retraced his steps to the foyer where he and Passepout had first entered the villa and stepped outside to watch the golden dawn. As he walked out to the gate, a blanket held firmly around his shoulders to protect

him from the dawn's early chill, he looked off to the horizon where he saw the beginnings of a new day. Odd, he thought to himself, less than two days ago I despaired of ever seeing another sunrise . . . now here I am, and it is beautiful. So engaged in the rising of the sun was Rassendyll, that he did not even hear the telltale approach of footsteps coming up behind him. The senior Cloak McKern, aware of the seemingly oblivious state of concentration of the iron-masked man, decided to announce his presence more forcibly. "Young fellow," McKern hailed before he had reached the subject of his and Fullstaff's private conversation the night before, "mind if I join you in your enjoyment of one of Toril's early morning attractions?" "Not at all," Rassendyll replied. "Isn't it picturesque?" McKern recognized the tone the young man had adopted in his admiration for the sun's wonder—the same tone taken by his own brother when he reminisced about his sighted days. "Indeed," the mage replied, putting his arm around the young mage's shoulders to try to set him at ease. So entranced was Rassendyll with the morning sun, that extra becalming efforts by the mage were completely unnecessary. "So you were a mage-in-training at the Retreat?" McKern asked. "More than in training," Rassendyll corrected. "I was more than qualified to leave the Retreat as a full mage, had I so desired." "Or if such an opportunity had been offered to you?" Rassendyll closed his eyes in realization. His teachers had never presented him with the option of leaving. Had the events of the past few days not come to pass, he would probably have spent the rest of his days engaged in study at the Retreat. "Even if it hadn't been," Rassendyll said haughtily, "I was more than a match for

other mages of my age." The iron-masked man immediately became deflated when he realized what he had said. "I was," not "I am." All of his years of study had come to naught, unless.... "Good and gracious sir," Rassendyll beseeched of the senior Cloak, "can you help me to retrieve the spells and powers that I seem to have lost? I studied for so long, and so hard. All I was ever taught was to be a mage, and I would no longer have a reason for living if I have to consider a life as anything else." McKern chuckled. "No longer have a reason for living?" the senior Cloak repeated. "What about the sunrise and her sister the sunset? Are they not reason enough? The world has much to offer even the simplest of men, let alone someone with your lineage." Rassendyll did not have a reply for that common sense wisdom. The senior Cloak put his arm around the masked man and said, "I am afraid that no one can undo what the mask has already done to you. Everything that you have learned through your studies, the proficiencies that you acquired, the spells you learned to cast, the incantations that you had memorized, have all been leeched out of you by the magical conductivity of the iron mask." "Then all is lost," Rassendyll said in despair and resignation. "I am now useless. I would be better off dead." Mason McKern gave the young man an encouraging squeeze as one might do with a discouraged brother. "Yes, that which was there before is now lost," the mage conceded, "but look at it this way. Think of a bottle of fine wine, properly aged, and cared for. Imagine that the seal on the cork breaks, and slowly, because of the angle the bottle is stored at of course, the contents of the bottle, the finest wine in the land, is allowed to leak out, and evaporate."

Rassendyll turned his head so that he could look into the mage's eyes through the narrow eye-slits of the mask, as he did not see how this story was supposed to be encouraging. "Now, the wine steward discovers what has happened," Mason continued. "The wine is gone, the bottle is empty." "So?" Rassendyll asked still failing to see the point that the mage was trying to make. "What about the bottle?" the mage asked. "Is it not still a bottle?" "Well yes, but..." "Can it be refilled and resealed?" "Well, yes, but. . ." "True, it would take time, more wine of course, and a desire to maintain the usefulness of the bottle, but would it not be possible?" Rassendyll tilted his head down and looked at the ground, and conceded the mage's point with a slight nod. "It's your choice," Mason acknowledged. "There is nothing to prevent you from starting again provided you want to, and I advise you to think about that. You never really chose to become a mage; the Retreat made that decision for you. For the first time in your life, the choice will be yours." Rassendyll kept staring down at the ground, and asked woefully, "But what about the mask?" "We will see that it is removed," Mason replied. "I recognize the mark that designates it as being the handiwork of my brother. He will remove it quite easily." Rassendyll brightened slightly, but still did not look up. Mason continued, "And I guarantee that we will have it off long before your beard

causes you more than a minor irritation." "It already does," Rassendyll pointed out. Mason chuckled. "Well, at least you're not choking on it, as your brother desired," the senior Cloak countered. "Stop looking at the ground. You are wasting the sight of a beautiful sunrise. Choose to enjoy it now, and afterwards we shall dine." Rassendyll looked up and enjoyed the rest of the dawn's early light, feeling a bond of closeness with the old senior Cloak that he had never felt with his teachers back at the Retreat. * * * * * When Volo awoke he discovered that Passepout was still sound asleep and snoring loudly, while their iron-masked roommate had apparently already risen. Pulling his pack together, he followed the scent of freshly baked muffins, and arrived back at the dining hall where Chesslyn and Fullstaff were just beginning their breakfast. "Morning," he hailed as he once again took a place at the table right next to that of the secret Harper agent. "And to you, sir," Honor replied, seemingly oblivious as Chesslyn and Volo exchanged smiles and silent greetings. "I trust you found your accommodations acceptable." "Better than some," Volo replied, and with a wink to Chesslyn added, "and not as good as others." "Oh, that's right," the host replied, "you are a travel author after all, and therefore always ready to rate the rooms, so to speak." Volo thought carefully, and quickly adding, "I meant no disrespect, sir. I apologize if I might have seemed overly critical." Honor belted forth a hearty laugh that immediately set the gazetteer at ease.

"No offense taken, my boy," Honor boomed. "Chesslyn was right. You are a well-mannered sort." A groggy Passepout entered the room, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "And good morning to you, oh master thespian of the heavy-stepped gait," the host haled. "Your breakfast will be here momentarily." "Uh, yeah," Passepout acknowledged, "thank you." The thespian took a seat across from Chesslyn and Volo and quickly brightening for a moment, added, "and a good morning to you, fair maid." Chesslyn rolled her eyes, and secretly squeezed Volo's hand under the table. "I trust you slept well," Volo said to his old friend. "You seemed to be out like a light when I got up." "Indeed, I was," the thespian replied, "until the booming sounds of good company encouraged my wakefulness." "Not to mention the roar of a stomach tempted by the aroma of early morning muffins," Honor observed. "Dig in, dig in. The bowls will be replenished as the need arises, my portly friend, and there is more than enough for everyone." A full mouth and a swallow later, Passepout garbled, "Ufgphmmp." "Come again?" Volo asked. "He asked where Rassendyll and McKern were," Honor translated, and then turned in the direction of the young thespian. "They should be here shortly. Mason always was a sucker for an early morning constitutional, and I assure you he's never made a practice of missing breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day you know, provided you don't sleep through it." "Aghmphlghj." Volo and Chesslyn once again turned to Honor for the translation while the portly

thespian continued to feed his face. "Well, of course Rassendyll is probably with him," the blind swordmaster replied. "You might not realize it, but they do have a lot in common. Wait! I hear their approach now." All seeing eyes in the room turned to the empty doorway. Ten seconds later Rassendyll and McKern entered. Volo shook his head in astonishment, and whispered to Chesslyn, "How does he ..." "... do that?" Honor finished. "My hearing is quite acute. The wise men say that when you are deprived of one of your senses, it is easier to develop your others. Let's do an experiment while Poins and Hal bring some more muffins so that the sun-gazers can sustain themselves as well." Honor quickly stood up and strode to a set of foils that were hanging on a wall fixture in crossed-swords fashion. Taking one in each hand, he called out, "Mason!" "Over here, old boy," the senior Cloak answered. Turning slightly, the blind swordmaster said, "Then you must be there," tossing the foil directly to the slightly bewildered Rassendyll whose catching of it was more a tribute to the swordmaster's precise aim, than to any quick thinking on the young man's part. Mason took a step away from the masked man just as Honor shouted, "On guard!" and rushed toward the surprised Rassendyll. The iron-masked man held the foil up in front of himself and protested, "No! You don't understand. I've never been trained in swordsmanship or anything." "Of course, you haven't," the blind swordmaster retorted, using the iron-masked man's voice to zero in on his position, while carefully sensing with the foil as if it was some sort of divining stick. "Up until this point you've been a wizard-in-training, and

swordsmanship would be grossly inappropriate." "I am a mage, not a wizard-in-training," Rassendyll protested loudly, his foil just barely deflecting a shadow thrust from the master, "and wizards and mages don't use swords or foils, not even in jest." "Who's jesting?" Honor said, in a tone markedly more serious than the one he exhibited while he had been seated at the dinner table on the night previous. "Since your head has been shelled in that cast-iron insulator, you're no longer a mage, if you ever were one, that is. All you are now is a marked man whose brother, and several others, I'm sure, want dead. Defend yourself!" Honor lunged just slightly to the left of the terrified Rassendyll, the blade of his foil just making slight contact with that of his intended prey. Rassendyll leaped back and held the foil forward, allowing himself more space between himself and the blind predator. Turning his wrist slightly without even realizing it, he adjusted his grip a bit to allow for a little more control of the foil. Volo, remembering the uncontrollable rage that their host had exhibited on the night previous, moved to intervene, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. Quickly turning to see the source of his restraint, he was surprised to see that it was Chesslyn. The look in her eyes told him to hold back, Honor Fullstaff knew what he was doing. A scan to his left showed that Mason had further withdrawn to a more advantageous place for observation, and a scan to his right indicated that Passepout had interrupted his meal, and seemed to be frantically looking for a way out that would not put him any closer to the sword fight. Instead of approaching the duelists, Volo instead sidled over to his former traveling companion, and making eye contact, nonverbally advised him to stay in his place.

Passepout complied, but was so uncomfortable, he did not resume his meal. With a series of pokes, prods, and slashes, Honor Fullstaff had maneuvered Rassendyll to a spot in the room from which, unnoticed by the spectators or the other participant, Hal and Poins had cleared away all furniture that might interfere with their movements. Fullstaff obviously had the playing field memorized, and wished nothing to get in the way of the test that he had planned. When all had reached a certain point that Fullstaff had set, he lunged forward and with a loud cry, began to attack with full slashing fury. Rassendyll, despite his lack of training, parried back as the sightless swordsman rallied a nonstop series of attacks, slashing the foil through the air as if it were a saber. Chesslyn joined Volo on the other side of Passepout and whispered over the thespian's head and into the master traveler's ear, "He's just testing him. Had old Blind Honor really meant business, he wouldn't be treating his foil as if it were a saber, and I assure you he more than knows the difference." "I don't doubt you," the master traveler replied, "but testing him for what?" "I'm sure we will find out," the Harper answered. "Indeed, all three of you will," interjected the senior Cloak who had joined the onlooking threesome, "but for now, just enjoy the show." Volo could not help but be impressed by the pure artistry of the blind man's swordsmanship. Each attack was calculated to make its appearance within the visible sight limits provided by his opponent's mask, while never appearing to be anything artificial or staged. As Rassendyll parried and launched counterattacks, Honor deftly blocked each thrust, miraculously anticipating the path of his opponent's foil without the benefit of sight. Even Passepout was eventually impressed. "He's pretty good for a blind man," the

portly thespian commented as he began to sneak bites of hot muffins that had just arrived at the table. "There never was any question of that," Chesslyn countered, "but watch Rassendyll." Volo immediately noticed what Chesslyn was referring to. The iron-masked man was more than rising to the occasion. His awkward blocks and haphazard attacks had been replaced by more organic moves, mirroring the fluidity of his opponent. As Honor upped the degree of difficulty of each attack, Rassendyll countered, reclaiming lost territory, and gradually forcing the swordmaster back to the center of the room from which he had originally started. "Enough!" the master swordsman announced, dropping his guard for a moment, and then quickly raising the foil in a salute to his opponent before turning to the left and the waiting hands of Poins who returned the foil to his proper place. "Back to breakfast. My keen sense of smell has determined that the second round of succulent muffins has indeed been delivered." A quick glance to the left by the breathless Rassendyll revealed the presence of Hal who quickly recovered the foil from his hand, and placed it in its matched home next to Honor's. "Come, come!" Honor ordered with nary a shortness of breath. "Breakfast is waiting, and believe me there is nothing that stirs the early morning appetite like a gentle workout with an evenly matched opponent." The exhausted Rassendyll returned to the place at the table that he had occupied the night before, and after wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel provided by the ever-present Hal, he took a long swig of juice and reached for a muffin to sate his recently incited appetite.

* * * * * In the High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

"Ah, Rickman," Selfaril said as the captain of the Hawks entered the High Blade's private refuge, "I understand there was a bit of a problem last night." The High Blade had summoned Rickman at the same time that he had ordered his breakfast and, true to form, the captain of the Hawks had beaten the morning tray by a matter of seconds. "A problem, sire," replied Rickman, adding, "I'll take that," as the valet entered the study. Slater bowed slightly and handed the tray bearing the High Blade's breakfast to the captain of the Hawks, then quickly retreated from the study. Rickman placed the tray in front of his sovereign, and removed the napkin that covered the tray of tasty early morning delicacies. "Care to join me," the High Blade asked in an uncharacteristically jovial tone. "Slater can easily fetch another tray." "No, thank you, sire," Rickman replied, "I have already eaten, but thank you for your generous offer, and, if I might say, you are in a fine mood this morning; rested and renewed, if I do say so myself." "Do you really think so?" the High Blade said. "I must say that it was a most satisfying night, if the Tharchioness's scratches on my back are any evidence. And as they say nothing stirs the appetite like ..." ". . . the rest of the virtuous and pure?" Rickman offered. Selfaril, his mouth full of pastry and jam smiled, swallowed, and agreed. "But of course. But this is not why I summoned you. Slater informed me that there was a trespasser in High Road Keep last night." "Really nothing to concern yourself with, sire," the captain of the Hawks assured,

making a mental note to be more wary of the High Blade's valet. "I am afraid that I may have made myself a few too many enemies among the Thayans. One such fellow was lying in wait for me in my office, but I dispatched him easily." "Really?" the High Blade said, "I am impressed." "Nothing, really," Rickman replied, and began to relate his carefully constructed explanation that interweaved truth with his own clever fabrications. "A few weeks ago I ran into this Thayan at the Warrior's Arena tavern, at least I assume he was Thayan by the tattoos and such. He claimed to be a civil servant of some sort working for the embassy. I didn't think much of it at the time, though as I recall he did seem to be trying to bait me into an altercation. Mindful of your concerns for the delicacy of diplomatic matters, I let his remarks roll off my back." "Well done," the High Blade remarked. "All of our opposition to those bald-headed barbarians must be done in secret." "Of course, sire," Rickman agreed, then continued with his fabrication. "Well, last night, not being able to sleep, I decided to go back to my office and get some work done, when lo and behold I found the Thayan lying in wait for me. With a cry of 'This will be for the insult of the other night, and for all my people,' he came at me with a dagger. I reacted quickly and killed him first. The body has been discreetly disposed of to avoid any diplomatic unpleasantries. It was all nothing really, though I do admit that I am more than a little surprised that word of my minor altercation has already been detected by Slater." "Yours are not the only set of ears in service to the High Blade," Selfaril commented. "So you don't attach any significance to the event." "None, sire," Rickman said confidently. "I have in the past, and probably always will, attract my fair share of enemies, in bars as well as on the battlefield. I can take care of

myself." "I'm glad to hear that," the High Blade replied. "Many of the Blades and the Cloaks fear for my well-being, particularly due to the presence of so many Thayans in town. Tomorrow night, the First Princess and I will be hosting a public reception, for soon she must return to Eltabbar for something to do with that earthquake. I would hate to have to postpone the reception and her departure for security reasons." "I really don't think that will be necessary," Rickman replied. "This was only an isolated and personal matter, nothing that should concern a High Blade." "Well then, you may go," Selfaril said. "It would appear that the unpleasantries and worries of the past few days have fairly faded away, and I can get back to the more personal matters of state." "That is the High Blade's duty," Rickman said deferentially, adding silently, and you won't be troubled by it much longer. * * * * * In the Dining Hall of the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordsman, retired:

As Poins and Hal began to clear the table, and Hotspur the dwarf began the neverending task of preparing the next meal, Honor Fullstaff leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach vigorously as if to outwardly encourage the inward savoring of the breakfast feast that he had just devoured. The group had been strangely quiet since the unannounced exhibition of Rassendyll's swordsmanship. Even Passepout seemed cowed into silence, managing to avoid any embarrassing remarks that might get him in trouble, or, even worse, make him the object of some other previously unannounced test from the swordmaster. Once, during the end of the meal, he stole an encouraging look at his former

companion Rassendyll, but gave up trying to make contact as the presence of the mask seemed to make such contact impossible. Volo continued to take in the entire scene. Throughout the meal Honor and Mason occasionally exchanged some meaningless banter on the good old days, and the good lives that they had led up to this point. The master traveler looked at Chesslyn as if to ask, what are we waiting for, which was only met with a shrug by the secret Harper. He was about to ask that same question of their host when the awkwardness was interrupted by the arrival of a fourth heretofore unseen servant who arrived in the dining hall out of breath, and hastened to deliver a folded piece of parchment to the master swordsman. "Thank you, Bardolph," the blind host said as he accepted the message. "You may rest now. You've had a busy night." "Thank you, milord," Bardolph said, bowing slightly and hastening out of the hall to his quarters for a well-deserved slumber. Honor Fullstaff unfolded the note, and gently passed his fingers over its surface as if trying to detect any imperfections in the grain with his fingertips. "Yes, yes," he said aloud as his fingertips did their slow-paced dance on the parchment's surface. "It is as we discussed, Mason. Though Bardolph was unable to locate your brother, my friends in the Company of the Blind have indeed confirmed the matters at hand." Volo looked to Chesslyn as if ready to ask a question. The secret Harper beat him to it. "Who are the Company of the Blind, Honor?" Chesslyn asked her former teacher. "Surely you don't wish to know all of my secrets, young lady?" the host answered coyly. "They're just a useless bunch of sightless men who provide the ears for certain concerns in Faerun who are willing to pay for their services. Occasionally I broker

some information through them, for them, or from them. Those who are deprived of sight must stick together." Volo was impressed. An entire network of sightless spies and informants that was previously unknown to him, the greatest gazetteer in all Faerun. He could already see his publisher, Justin Tyme, salivating at the exclusive news that would be trumpeted in his next guide book. Rassendyll stood up and reached across the table to pick up the recently delivered note to scan its contents for himself. Honor offered no objection as the iron-masked man took it from his hand. "It's blank!" exclaimed the surprised Rassendyll. "Not really," Honor explained. "The message is imprinted for unseeing eyes alone. Feel the little bumps on the parchment. There is the blind man's message." Rassendyll ran his fingers over the parchment, his fingertips sensing the irregularities in its surface, yet unable to decipher the subtleties of its message. "What does it say?" Rassendyll demanded. "I think that we have kept these youngsters waiting long enough," Mason pointed out. Passepout, Chesslyn, and Volo all looked at each other, the same thought emblazoned on their minds. Indeed, it had been quite a long time since any of them had considered themselves to be youngsters. "In a moment," Honor said, delaying just a while longer. Honor stood up from his place at the table and approached Chesslyn, his hand affectionately seeking out her cheek. "Chesslyn, my favorite student, I have no desire to set you at risk," the swordmaster stated.

"What do you mean, Honor?" she asked sweetly. "Unlike the other youngsters here, you are a citizen of Mulmaster." "So?" "The penalty for treason, or even conspiracy to commit treason, is death by torture. I will understand it if you feel that your obligations to the state prevent you from taking part in what I am about to propose." "Treason?" she repeated incredulously. "Yes," Honor said. "I realize that you are apolitical, and though skilled with the sword, you have chosen to make your way in as quiet a manner as one who lives by the sword can. If you wish to excuse yourself before I bring the conversation at hand to the forbidden subject of treason, I will understand. You have chosen to live in Mulmaster after all." Chesslyn looked at Volo as if to send a silent message, as if to say, see, he doesn't know everything about me, and then said to her former teacher. "You have taught me well in the past. If the lesson in now treason, then let's make the most of it." "Good!" Honor exclaimed. "Then treason it is, and as for the rest of you, have no worry. The penalty for conspiring to overthrow the High Blade is merely death, minus the torture. In that regard it is sometimes better not to be a citizen." Rassendyll, Volo, and Passepout all had one question on their minds, a mixture of disbelief, confusion, and terror (in the case of Passepout) more than evident in their thoughts. What have we gotten ourselves into?

14 Treason, and Making the Most of It

In the Private Quarters of the First Princess of Thay in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The Tharchioness had just begun her day-long preparations for the reception that was being held that evening, and for the very important night that would follow thereafter. The charm with which she intended to enslave her husband and his kingdom was to be assembled in three parts which could then be fused together within the privacy of their bedchamber. She had already obtained the necessary bits of skin and hair that would be used to bind the spell to Selfaril, making it harder for anyone else to detect. If all went well, after tonight the High Blade himself would be an unnecessary part of the equation as she would already have custody of his heir deep within her own womb. The Tharchioness heard the door to her boudoir open. From the scent of the perfume that wafted in from the hall, she knew that the visitor was her half sister. Without turning away from her vanity mirror, the Tharchioness inquired, "Is all in order?" "Yes, dear sister," Mischa Tam replied. "That worm of an ambassador is ready to carry out your will. My spies within his retinue have told me that he has managed to obtain access to a secret passage to your husband's private study where he will be able to lie in wait for him after tonight's reception. I have also taken the liberty of ascertaining that the captain of the Hawks has the same information, so if by chance the worm should actually pose a threat to dear Selfaril, his right-hand man will be able to intervene. The captain—"

"His name is Rickman," the Tharchioness interrupted. "Uh, yes, First Princess," Mischa acknowledged, "was attacked himself last night, and will obviously be on the lookout for further attempts." The Tharchioness turned to face her sister. "I don't recall ordering an attack on him," she said severely. "We didn't," Mischa explained, "though rumor has it that it was indeed a lower-ranking member of our embassy staff. It would appear that it was merely a personal matter between the two men." "I see," the Tharchioness replied. "It is nice to see that other members of my retinue share my feelings for my husband's lackeys." The Tharchioness returned to her cosmetic concerns. "Will all be ready with your part of the piece?" she inquired. "Of course, First Princess," Mischa replied, the hatred of her sister growing even stronger due to the dismissive manner of her half sister. "I will send Elijakuk to fetch it after the reception. I will then be ready to help my dear husband relax after his narrow brush with death." "I await, and serve," Mischa answered. "You may go." "Thank you, First Princess," she acknowledged, bowing as she backed out of the apartment, thinking silent curses condemning her half sister to neverending torture. * * * * * At the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

Honor looked at the expressions of disbelief on the faces of his guests, with the exception of Mason McKern, with whom he had drawn up the plan of action.

"There is to be a reception tonight honoring the High Blade and his bride, and as a distinguished veteran of past defenses of Mulmaster, I have once again been invited to attend, and as has been the case with all previous receptions, so has my dear friend senior Cloak Mason McKern. Unlike those previous occasions, however, this time we will actually attend, and in my company will be my latest star pupil in the ways of the sword," explained Honor, with a tip of the hand to Rassendyll who started to protest only to be silenced by a gesture from the swordmaster. "Allow me to continue before I entertain questions," the swordmaster instructed, pausing just a moment to clear his throat with a sip of juice from a mug borne by the ever-attentive Poins who appeared out of nowhere to heed his master's wishes. "My good friend Mason will cast a disguise spell on the iron mask worn by Rassendyll so to all outward appearances it will look like a dress helmet for an obscure order of knights in whose employ I have occasionally served, as a teacher to their squires. I have the rest of the dress uniform available here so that the disguise will be complete." Fullstaff paused for another drink, and then shifted slightly in his chair so that he was more or less facing Passepout, Volo, and Chesslyn. "You, Mister Geddarm and Mister Passepout, will be turned in to the city watch as there is a warrant out for your arrest. Miss Onaubra will do the honors, in disguise of course. I have no desire to put her at risk." I wish you could say the same for the rest of us, Volo thought, deciding to hold his tongue. "You will undoubtedly be incarcerated in Southroad Keep, probably on the same level that previously housed Rassendyll." "Wonderful," Passepout replied sarcastically, "I was wondering when I could go

back. The Mulmaster jail has so much to offer." Volo jabbed his traveling companion in the ribs with his elbow. The chubby thespian got the message, and kept his comments to himself. "Given all of the affairs of state that have to take place at the reception tonight, I am sure that Selfaril will not be able to get around to tortur—I mean, interrogating you until tomorrow, by which time Mason here will have already rescued you with the help of his brother, whose apartment is within the dungeon of the keep itself... so that he can be available for any smith work that might require a resident wizard." Volo couldn't help noticing that the blind swordmaster had once again made dismissive allusions to the possibility of torture for himself and his companions. "Mason will then lead you two to a subterranean chamber where Rassendyll and myself will rendezvous with you. There are secret tunnels and passages throughout the city, several of which lead directly to the High Blade's private study. We will proceed to that location, where we will await the arrival of the High Blade and force him to turn over the throne to Rassendyll." The man in the iron mask glanced at Volo, Passepout, and Chesslyn. Though his face was obscured, they surmised that his expression mirrored theirs—being one of astonishment. Mason interjected himself into the presentation at this point. "You have to understand," the senior Cloak began, "we only have the best interests of Mulmaster at hand. Patricide is not a legitimate means of ascension to the throne, and it has succeeded in tainting the current High Blade's entire reign. This absurd matrimonial union with that beastess of Thay, his wanton and ill-advised offensives that have destroyed our navy, and this reign of fear that has pervaded the inner circles of the court, Hawks, Cloaks, and Blades alike, all have weakened Mulmaster's de-

fenses so that it is now both vulnerable and detested. "It is not too late to change this course," he continued, "and with Rassendyll on the throne, most of the harm can be undone." Mason then turned and directed his comments directly to Volo and Passepout. "Should Mulmaster fall to that she-witch, the Tharchioness, there will be nothing to stop her and her infernal Red Wizards from laying siege to all Faerun, at which point Mulmaster's problem becomes shared by all of Toril." Volo listened earnestly to the old mage, and realized, despite his melodramatic presentation, that he had a point. Passepout was about to once again declare a stance of passive and uninvolved neutrality when the master traveler stifled him with a hand across his mouth. The hand contained a hard roll which, under the circumstances, the corpulent thespian began to devour as he was now unable to speak. "All Chesslyn has to do is turn us in to the city watch, and you'll do the rest?" the master traveler asked. "Now, Volo," Chesslyn began, "you know I can take care of—" "That is all," Honor assured. "If there was a way that we could engineer this coup without your assistance we would, but unfortunately we are a bit shorthanded at the moment, and a blind old man and a decrepitly ancient wizard can't do it all themselves. You and Passepout are our inside reinforcements. Unless we are able to remove the mask from Rassendyll here, all will be lost. No one will learn that he is the High Blade's brother, and he will die a miserable death, choking on his own beard." Volo looked at Rassendyll, then at Chesslyn, and then at Passepout, before saying, "All right, we're in." Passepout looked at Rassendyll anxiously, but didn't protest, though Chesslyn did

hear him mutter a sarcastic, "wonderful" under his breath. Mason then went over a preliminary map of the keep to acquaint Volo and Passepout with the intricacies of the architecture. The two were then washed and bathed by the able-handed Poins and Hal, fed, and dispatched to Mulmaster in the custody of an old crone with a crossbow who sounded, to the very discerning ear, suspiciously like Chesslyn Onaubra. * * * * * On the Road Back to Mulmaster:

"Why do you and I have to be the reinforcements?" Passepout asked his boon companion. "Why couldn't Fullstaff have sent Poins, Hal, Hotspur, or any of his other lackeys?" "Probably," the master traveler of all Toril answered, "because he didn't want to risk anything happening to them." Volo and Passepout's hands were tied to the saddles of their horses in such a way that unless they sat perfectly upright and still, they would fall off and be dragged under the hooves of the surefooted stallions of the stable of Honor Fullstaff, whose servants did the binding, in Honor's words, to make their captivity convincing. Chesslyn's long sword was hidden on a pack mule that followed closely behind so as not to arouse the suspicions of the guards at the gate, and in its place was a modified crossbow. Along the way, Volo passed the time with stories of exploits similar to his own that he had picked up in various taverns around Toril. Chesslyn's weapon at hand reminded him of one that he had heard recently. "I remember an article a while back that I read about a man with a crossbow who

searched all Faerun in hopes of finding the meaning of life, but instead found love, laughs, and friendship," he began. "What was it's title?" Chesslyn asked. "On the Road with Crossbow, Hope, and Lamour." "Lamour?" she queried. "It means female love interest in some foreign tongue." "Oh," she replied wistfully. Volo could almost make out the towers of Mulmaster peeking up in the distance, and rashly chose this moment to make his move. "Speaking of love, laughs, and friendship," he said quickly, slurring over the first "l" word, "when this is all over I was wondering if maybe you and I could spend a little more time getting to know each other." "What do you have in mind?" she asked coyly. "Maybe dinner?" he asked carefully. "I have an even better idea," she countered, "how about. . ." The tete-a-tete of the two travelers was interrupted by a loud snore issuing forth from the unconscious Passepout, who, despite the bumpy road had somehow managed to fall asleep in the saddle. Chesslyn and Volo turned in his direction, and in doing so noticed an advance squad of Hawks approaching, no doubt a patrol for the city watch. Chesslyn put a finger to her lips, indicating discretion, and whispered, "Later." It was the last word to pass between them, as the oncoming Hawks took possession of the two prisoners, promising their old crone captor that she would be notified when the reward for their capture could be picked up. The two Hawks talked about how they planned to split the reward between

themselves as they rode into Mulmaster with the bound Passepout and Volo. In less than an hour the two travelers were sharing a dark and damp cell in the bowels of the dungeon of Southroad Keep. * * * * * In the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

Mason worked his magics on the iron mask that encased Rassendyll's head. When the spellcasting was complete, a mirror was brought out of storage so that the masked man could admire the handiwork that had been performed. Gazing into the mirror, Rassendyll couldn't believe his eyes. He immediately raised his hand to the mask, to feel whether it had tactually changed as well. It hadn't, but to all outward appearances the flat, stark, blank face of the mask's surface had been transformed into an ornately engraved faceplate on an even more elaborately emblazoned helmet. Honor approached the still bewildered former mage, ran his fingers over the mask's surface, and turned toward the direction of Mason McKern. "You're slipping," the blind swordmaster commented, "it feels the same." "True," the senior Cloak replied, "but to the naked eye, it is now a work of art. The glamour surrounds the surface of the metal, without ever making contact with it." "Then it will do," Honor acknowledged, and called to Poins. "Are his tabard and leggings ready?" "Indeed, milord," Poins replied, and began assisting Rassendyll in the donning of the uniform of a Knight of the Order of the Hard Day. Moments later, Rassendyll was completely masked in his knightly disguise. "Only one last touch remains," Honor said aloud, turning slowly to accept a locked

case from the arms of Mason. Honor held the case out flat, and placed it into the outstretched arms of Hal who acted as a podium stand for the heavy box, his hands and arms stiff and unwavering under its oaken weight. Carefully and gently, Honor opened the case and withdrew a samite-draped object which, with the gentle assistance of Mason, he began to unwrap. "This was your father's sword," the blind sword-master explained. "No one else has used it since the day he died. It has been waiting for you. Hold it, use it, and it will remember." Rassendyll gripped the sword, gently swinging it through the air in a wide arc as the memories, abilities and skills of its former owner coursed through his body. Rassendyll was still absorbed in his gentle practice when Mason turned to Honor and whispered, "We should be getting changed for the reception. Let's leave them alone to get acquainted."

15 Guards, Guards, & Custodians

In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:

"So these are the two aliens that we have been looking for," stated Rickman as he looked into the dark and dank cell that housed Volo and Passepout. "Yes, Captain," the guard replied. "The fat one has been here before." "Then he must be the vagrant Passepout," Rickman said. "Are they alone in there?" "I believe so, captain," the guard answered. "You believe so?" Rickman replied, on the verge of rage. "What do you mean 'you believe so?'" "Well you see, captain," the guard explained, "the cell has been vacant for a few weeks, but the last prisoner we left in it was never found." "Did he escape?" "No, captain, we believe an unusual fungus ate him. There is something growing in the back darkness and, as best we can determine, it is carnivorous. The last we heard from the previous inhabitant was a scream in the darkness. By the time we got some torches to investigate, all that was left in the cell were his boots . . . and that fungus." "How amusing," Rickman commented. "Captain," the guard inquired as the captain of the Hawks turned to leave, "should I warn them to stay away from the dark parts of the cell?" "Don't bother," Rickman instructed, not even bothering to turn around. "It will just mean less work for the torturer tomorrow, that's all." * * * * *

"Did you hear that?" Passepout whispered frantically to his friend. "Indeed I did," Volo replied, apparently unperturbed by the fungoid threat that lurked in the darkness. "I thought I noticed some mushrooms back there, and was just about to treat myself to some for dinner." "Well, then," the master traveler offered cheerily, "it's a good thing you didn't. A mushroom meal is what you wanted, not to be a meal for a mushroom." Volo heard a nervous titter of laughter from the unamused thespian, who moved as close as possible to the door, as both prisoners sat and waited for their rescue. * * * * * The Reception Hall in the Tower of the Wyvern:

Fullstaff and Rassendyll had just reached the end of the receiving line to greet the High Blade and First Princess when a herald announced that the affair was coming to an abrupt end. Honor tapped the shoulder of one of the guards in attendance, and asked him what was going on. "Golly, I'm really not sure, sir," the guard replied, recognizing the decorations on Honor's tabard as belonging to a veteran of the Hawks. "Both the High Blade and the First Princess seemed rather preoccupied to begin with. You know, as if they would rather be doing something else." "Imagine that," Honor muttered, trying to mask his concern over the change in plans. "Then Captain Rickman arrived and told the High Blade that two wanted criminals had been captured, and that they were scheduled to be tortured tomorrow."

Honor heard Rassendyll draw in his breath. "And then the High Blade seized the opportunity to leave, and announced that he would take care of all of the arrangements himself." "Did the High Blade, perchance, mention when he planned on doing this?" Honor asked. "I think he is on his way over there now," the loquacious guard added. "Captain Rickman said that he was otherwise engaged, but the High Blade didn't seem to be concerned, and left muttering something about if you want something done right, you might as well do it yourself." "I see," Honor replied, keeping a firm grip on Rassendyll's arm to keep the disguised twin from panicking. "Thank you for all of your assistance. What is your name so that I can put in a good word for you with the High Blade." "Well, golly," the guard drawled. "That would be mighty nice of you." "Not at all," Honor replied quickly, getting ready to turn and leave. "The name is Nabors," the guard answered, "but my friends call me by first name which is GoMar." "Indeed," Honor replied, shaking the young man's hand, and then quickly turning to usher himself and Rassendyll out of the Reception Hall. "We will have to move fast," the blind swordmaster instructed, as they hastened down the corridor. "We're just lucky that I know a shortcut." * * * * * In the Staff's Quarters of Southroad Keep:

Mason McKern knocked on the door to his brother's apartment and was instantly alarmed as the door swung open, apparently unlatched.

How odd, the senior Cloak thought. Normally my brother is a stickler for security. The appearance of the room was even more unsettling. Even to the least observant visitor, it was obvious that the room had not been occupied for at least a day. The pallet had not been slept on, the hearth was left untended, and a half-eaten meal that looked as if its diner had been disturbed in midbreakfast had crusted over. Next to the meal's bowls and plates was a book of some kind which Mason assumed was his brother's spellbook or personal journal. In reality it was both. Mason was about to open it when a voice from behind him called. "You there! What do you think you're doing?" Mason turned around to confront the interloper who immediately recognized him. It was Dwight Wrenfield, Southroad Keep's custodian. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir," Dwight apologized. "I didn't know it was you." "My apologies," Mason said calmly, "I should have stopped by your cell to let you know that I was here." "Oh, that's all right," Dwight replied, "I was just collecting spiders before dinner, and saw that the door was ajar, so I decided to check things out. I assume you are here to pick up your brother's personal effects." "Uh, yes," Mason answered guardedly, picking up the volume that lay open on the table. "It was a shame about his accident and all," the wide-eyed and slow-witted caretaker consoled. Mason's heart sank. Something must have happened to his brother, but since time was of the essence he would have to wait to find out what happened. "Uh, yes," Mason said softly, as he hurried to his prearranged meeting place. "I will

have to return later to attend to the other matters at hand." "No problem, sir," Dwight replied. "You and your brother always treated me like gentlemen. I will. . . " Mason McKern chose not to hear the last words of the custodian as they formed a cacophony with the pit-pat of his own steps on the stone floor.

16 Fungus, Fugitives, & Fencing

In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:

Volo heard the approach of guards, their boots making a distinctive military sound on the stone floor. He nudged Passepout into consciousness. "What?" the groggy thespian inquired. "Either our rescuers are coming in disguise," Volo whispered, "or something has gone very wrong." The master traveler and his longtime companion heard the bolt and locks being undone on the door. Quickly Volo took to his feet and, grabbing Passepout by the scruff of the collar, retreated into the darkness of the unlit part of the cell. "What about the fungus?" the thespian desperately implored, only to be shushed by the gazetteer. The door to the cell opened, and Volo recognized the backlit silhouette of the guard that he had heard talking earlier in the day. "The High Blade has decided to move the interrogation up to tonight. I understand that he plans to torture them himself. They must be hiding back there somewhere," the guard asserted to his junior officer. "Go get them." The junior officer, obviously blissfully unaware of the dreaded fungus, proceeded into the darkness-obscured rear of the cell, where he tripped over the cowering body of Passepout. "I found one," the younger guard called back, still backing up, not realizing he was quickly approaching the fungus-encrusted wall of the cell. "The other one has to be—"

The young guard's report gave way to a scream of outrageous pain and surprise. As the guard's backward journey brought him into contact with the wall-anchored fungus, it had latched onto his unsuspecting body and stubbornly refused to let go. The young man screamed again as the fungus began to dissolve any living tissue with which it came in contact. The senior guard stepped forward to help the junior officer, but quickly thought better of it as the young man's screams turned to a horrible sound that could only be described as a sickly combination of sucking and chewing. He turned to fetch reinforcements. Frantic to make his own escape, Passepout bolted forward like a charging bull. The force of his bullet-like flight literally bowled the still-turning senior guard over, tossing him in the air, and causing him to follow a head over heels path that sent him rolling back into the sucking fungus, right past the watching eyes of Volo. Before he knew it, the senior guard had joined his junior as wall's the main course. Passepout, meanwhile, still not looking where he was going, collided with Mason McKern who was just entering the cell. The senior Cloak saw him coming, managed to brake his stride, and braced himself against the door frame, blocking the stout thespian's charge of egress. Volo stepped forward, out of the darkness. "What kept you?" the master traveler queried. "Something must have happened to my brother," the mission-obsessed mage replied, "but I found his spellbook. I am sure the key to releasing the mask from Rassendyll's head is in here somewhere." Mason opened the book, and his expression immediately darkened. The pages were all blank.

*

*

*

*

*

Selfaril strode through the subterranean halls of the dungeon of Southroad Keep, muttering to himself. "Why didn't Rickman alert me the minute that they were apprehended?" he asked himself, his gruff tones echoing off the stone walls. "Perhaps he has finally outlived his usefulness. A position such as his might lead to a lust for more power, and acting on such a desire would not be convenient for me. . . ." The High Blade knew the subterranean passageways by heart, having played beneath the city during his carefree childhood years. He often found the below-the-surface byways to be a much more agreeable method of getting around town, as it limited the necessity of his interaction with the common rabble. Without retinue or bodyguard, he traveled with confidence, safe in the security and protection afforded by his own dagger and sword, one in a concealed holster, the other bouncing in its scabbard at his hip. A few minutes' walk, and two turns to the left, then up a staircase, and he should arrive at the cell. "I hope that they will have the prisoners ready for me," he muttered. "Incompetence always puts me in a bad mood." * * * * * Volo ran his hand over the pages of the blank book. "Just our luck," Passepout said, regaining his composure after the unsettling chain of events in the cell. "I guess we won't be able to get the bucket off his head." "No," Volo corrected, "we will just have to take the book to Honor so that he can translate it for us. I can feel the letters of the language of the blind imprinted on these pages. We'd better make for the rendezvous point."

"What were the guards doing here?" Mason asked. "Apparently Selfaril was bored and decided that a little entertainment would do the trick, so our interrogation was moved up to tonight." "Then we will have to hurry," Mason said urgently. "He's probably on his way as we speak." Mason led the way down farther into the bowels of secret, passages that existed beneath the keep's dungeon. The senior Cloak was in the lead, Passepout close behind, and Volo brought up the rear. They had just descended a torchlit staircase when Volo heard footsteps approaching from above. The master traveler paused for a moment to look back, and saw Rassendyll and Honor about to descend the staircase after them. Volo called to their co-conspirators and waved, but unfortunately due to the iron mask that covered Rassendyll's face, couldn't see the look of concern on the secret twin's face. He turned back toward his traveling companions to alert them of the arrival of their allies, when he felt a sharp blow to the top of his head as the hilt of the High Blade's sword came crashing down on top of his beret clad skull. The master traveler blacked out, his legs going limp, and his body rolling down the stone stairs like a broken puppet, his limbs all akimbo. * * * * * Rassendyll saw his evil twin brother gaining on the unsuspecting Volo and tried to warn him, but it was too late. Thinking quickly, he drew his father's sword from his scabbard with one hand, while extracting Honor's side foil from its holster as well. Honor was a bit startled at first, but quickly realized that they were under attack, and flattened himself against the wall until he got his bearings on the battleground and the attacker. He did not even feel the removal of his side-arm due to the twin's preter-

naturally light touch. Selfaril stood his ground, not aware that the helmeted knight was indeed his twin brother. The High Blade assumed him to be just the latest mercenary sent to train under Fullstaff, and decided to offer the stranger an opportunity to change sides. "What ho, fair knight," Selfaril hailed, "I have no gripe with you. Throw in with me and I'll guarantee you a commission in the Hawks." Rassendyll advanced down the steps, keeping silent. "Well," the High Blade replied, "if that is your decision." Selfaril lunged forward, charging forward over the body of the fallen Volo. Rassendyll excellently parried with one rapier, while attacking with the other. The High Blade dodged at the last possible moment, losing his footing slightly, and slipping to the bottom of the staircase. "Well done, Sir Knight of the Hard Day," Selfaril taunted as he backed away from the foot of the staircase. "The blind old man has taught you well." Rassendyll joined him on the stone floor, Honor creeping behind him to stand alongside Mason, while Passepout rushed up the stairs to aid the fallen Volo. The two swordsmen crossed swords again with Rassendyll thrown off balance by a slashing blow of steel to the side of the mask. "Maybe that lesson rings a bell," the High Blade jested evilly. Rassendyll righted himself quickly and responded. "I have never taken a lesson in the ways of the sword," he replied. "I've inherited all of my moves from our father." The High Blade's twin set upon his brother with the fury of a whirling dervish. Selfaril had to use all his skill and cunning to parry each move. While the two brothers fought, Mason handed his brother's spellbook to Honor who scanned each page with his hand until he came upon the spell to unmeld the mask.

Finding the proper spell he quickly told the procedure to Mason who ran to the still-fighting Rassendyll, and placing his hands on each side of the mask, said an incantation, and quickly removed the two pieces that had been melded to the young man's skull. Rassendyll was relieved to finally be free of his burden, but had no time to enjoy his release, for while Mason had worked his magics the evil High Blade had taken off down one of the subterranean tunnels. Rassendyll turned to assist Volo who was just coming around when Honor yelled at him sternly. "We'll take care of him," Honor boomed. "Go after your brother." Not pausing for a response, Rassendyll rushed into the darkness in hot pursuit of his murderous brother.

17 Just Desserts

The Tower of the Wyvern:

Selfaril raced through the subterranean tunnels deep beneath Mulmaster until he reached a side passageway leading upward. A few steps inside, he felt against the cavern wall until he touched what to the naked eye would have been a long-abandoned sconce. Gripping it firmly, the High Blade turned it to the left. The sound of a pulley creaked into reluctant compliance, opening a hidden door that revealed a ladder hanging from above. Turning the iron sconce back to its original position, Selfaril hurried inside and began to climb upward in the darkness, not even noticing that the secret door behind was still slightly ajar, held open by some inward mechanism of the pulleys that had jammed after years of limited use and zero maintenance. When some previous High Blade had this passage installed, he probably intended to use it as a possible escape route from the sanctity of his study, Selfaril thought. Isn't it ironic that my first use of it is for the exact reverse? The murderous High Blade climbed further onward and upward through the secret space that existed between the walls that separated the rooms within the Tower of the Wyvern, occasionally scuffing his boots against the tunnel wall. Anyone on the other side of this wall, he thought, will probably complain of hearing rats or vermin scurrying in the night. I'll assure them that they will not be bothered again. The ladder was anchored to a ledge upon which the High Blade hoisted himself. Not

pausing to rest for even a second, he crawled forward through a curtain obscured from view by the tunnel's darkness, and entered his study on hands and knees through a false wall inside the hearth that was used to heat his inner sanctum. It's a good thing I didn't order Slater to have a fire set before the reception, he thought with a chuckle, then set his mind to the matters at hand. I'd better summon Rickman and his Hawks to rid the tunnels of my verminous brother and his cohorts before anymore mayhem is started. Standing up, and stretching for just a moment, Selfaril closed his eyes and took a breath. Just a little out of shape, Selfaril realized, but then again even my best Hawk would be out of breath after such a workout. The High Blade relaxed for a moment and pulled the bell rope that would send a signal to Rickman's quarters (which, unbeknownst to the High Blade, were quite vacant), then plopped himself into his chair to await the arrival of his right-hand man. No sooner did Selfaril issue a sigh of relief at having finally arrived in the safety of his sanctuary, than he was greeted with a shock. The wormlike Thayan ambassador stepped from behind a set of curtains and reached forward, thrusting a crystal wand into the High Blade's chest that severed his heart in twain. The last thing he remembered in his life was the distinct taste of the blood filling his windpipe and mouth, and a feeling of dampness on his breast as his silken tunic failed to absorb the onrushing blood from the pump within his chest that had not yet realized it should stop beating. * * * * * Rassendyll raced after his murderous brother in the darkness, relying only on his hearing to guide him in the proper directions. The cool air from the tunnel felt good

against the skin of his face, luxuriating in the absence of the metal second skin that it had become accustomed to. The formerly iron-masked man stopped short. He no longer heard the skit-skat of running steps in front of him. Remaining absolutely silent, even holding his own breath, Rassendyll listened carefully for any new sounds. A new noise had been added to the subterranean cacophony of plips, plops, and echoes ... an irregular scuffling sound like a spoon scraping against the inside of a jug, or a muffled striker making occasional contact with the inside of a bell. As he listened, the sound seemed to be getting farther and farther away in a seemingly upward direction. Silently and carefully as possible, so as not to lose the trace of the new sound, Rassendyll backtracked along the passageway, his hands searching and sweeping along the wall for some variance in the tunnel's make up. He stubbed his finger on the still unrighted sconce, and noticed the barest of crevices in the wall. Reaching inside he forced the door open further, and feeling around, immediately discovered the ladder. He quickly pulled back his hand as the ladder continued to dance back and forth for a few seconds, before coming to a hanging rest. Whoever was just using this seems to have arrived at his chosen destination, Rassendyll thought. Still in hot pursuit, the High Blade's twin brother paused for a few seconds more, listening for new movements on the ladder, then proceeded to climb upward to where he now knew his brother had fled. * * * * *

Rickman watched the assassination of High Blade Selfaril from his safe haven of the closet through which he normally entered the High Blade's sanctuary when the utmost secrecy was required. The ambassador had hidden himself behind Selfaril's chair, barely obscuring himself from view with the help of a hanging tapestry that provided a barrier of insulation between the seated High Blade and the cold and drafty stone walls of his chambers. The stupid ninny, the captain of the Hawks thought. Selfaril will certainly notice the unusual tumor that seems to have grown on the wall behind the tapestry. If he sees that worm, I may have to lend a hand in his disposal. Rickman thought that he knew all of the secret passages in and out of Selfaril's study until he saw the High Blade make his entrance on hands and knees through some passage within the hearth. I will have to have the local engineers make up a floor plan for all of the entrances and exits to this room once I become High Blade, he noted mentally, adding as an afterthought that they would have to be executed when it was completed. Selfaril was out of breath and distracted as if he had been in a chase and was only now able to take a rest. As a result he failed to see the tumorous bulge against the wall that was the more-or-less concealed assassin. A feeling of warmth and joy entered the captain of the Hawks' heart when he saw the wormlike ambassador plunge the crystal wand into the High Blade's heart, recognizing it as the twin of the one that had been left at the Retreat barely a week ago. The High Blade is dead! Long live the High Blade! he thought, his own dagger ready to silence Selfaril's assassin. Next he would sound the alarm, alerting Mulmaster to the tragedy that had occurred; that an agent of the First Princess has killed her husband.

Just as he was ready to make his grand entrance, the sound of scuffling came from the hearth, and a second figure entered the secret chamber. * * * * * Rassendyll felt the slickness of sweat on his face as the exertion of the past few hours began to take its toll. All of my training in the Retreat never prepared me for this, the High Blade's twin thought, pausing for only a moment to get his breath. Holding the ladder firmly with one hand he wiped the perspiration from his brow and face with the other, simultaneously slicking down his recently unshorn whiskers with the discarded sweat before resuming his climb. Another few steps upward, he felt the end of the ladder and carefully pulled himself up onto the ledge to which it was anchored. Fighting the desire to stop and rest again, Rassendyll frantically scanned the darkness for some indication of where to go next. A hint of a crack of light to the left provided the only clue so, carefully feeling forward on hands and knees, he crawled to it until he felt the fabric of a curtain, which he lifted up just enough to slip under it. Rassendyll crawled forward, momentarily blinding himself with the light of the High Blade's study. Withdrawing back slightly into the shade of the hearth, he allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment before once again penetrating the room. When he opened his eyes he saw the feet of a robed individual standing by a great desk. Carefully and silently he took to his feet, ready to do battle if necessary. * * * * * The wormlike ambassador turned when he heard the noise from the direction of the hearth—only to confront the man he thought he had just killed bearing down on him with a sword. The ambassador looked at the figure slumped in the chair, the crystal wand still

embedded in its chest, and then back at the apparition approaching from the hearth. They are one and the same! the Red Wizard realized. He has already come back from the dead to acquit his honor! Frantically, the portly and soft Thayan civil servant retreated to the place on the wall against which he had previously hidden, but was unable to slip back behind the tapestry. He thought for a moment that perhaps he could extract the wand from the corpse's chest, but quickly realized that it would do no good against one who had already been killed; and besides that, the corpse's double was already upon him. The wormlike ambassador embraced the darkness of fear and panic and fainted dead away, falling to the floor inches from the feet of the approaching twin of the High Blade. * * * * * Rassendyll glanced down at the pathetic heap of flesh that was his brother's assassin, and then looked to the corpse of his brother, the stain of blood slowing in its spread across his chest. "I only wish that it had been my own hands that had the honor of taking your life," Rassendyll said out loud to his unhearing twin. A voice from behind the nearly exhausted Rassendyll replied, "I am sure you do, and, I assure you, you aren't alone in that wish." Rassendyll spun around, careful not to become entangled in the mass of flesh that was the Thayan ambassador's unconscious body, and immediately recognized the figure stepping out of his closet hiding place as the man who had accompanied the High Blade on the night upon which the events that would forever change his life had begun. "We meet again," Rickman said acidly, "and might I say the beard becomes you

much more than the mask your brother insisted upon." * * * * * Far below the High Blade's sanctuary, four figures pressed onward through the darkness, trying to catch up with the twins. Without the benefit of a torch, or even the fleeting traces of sound left by the one being pursued, the party was unable to keep up given the lead and pace that the younger men possessed. The four hastened guardedly through the black of subterranean night. Honor led the group, who linked hands in order to stay close together. The blind swordmaster used his acute senses of hearing and touch, and his excellent memory of years earlier to retrace the route he took along these paths many years ago. "Merch was always fond of these tunnels as a means of getting around Mulmaster without being seen. If I know his damned son Selfaril, and I believe I do, he will no doubt be heading to the High Blade's study," Honor asserted, his voice echoing through the underground chambers. "Don't you think you should lower your voice?" Passepout said in a hushed tone. "No," the blind swordmaster replied, "I am using it to help keep my course. Given the shape and width of the tunnel around us, I am fairly certain that we are going in the right direction as the echo of my voice is traveling further to our rear than it is in front of us." Volo thought he understood the principle that the aged Fullstaff was using and decided to make a mental note that he should study and experiment with it before undertaking his Guide to the Underdark. "Now if memory serves," Honor instructed, "there should be a ladder hanging against the wall to my left." "Here it is," Passepout announced proudly.

"Good," Honor replied. "Now up we go." "Up?" asked the stunned thespian. "Indeed," the blind swordmaster confirmed. "Now scoot. The High Blade's study awaits at the top of this ladder, and Rassendyll may need our help." Passepout paused for a moment to look up. The fact that he couldn't see the top of the ladder frightened him to death. "Now!" Honor insisted. "We're burning daylight!" Passepout shot up the first few steps of the ladder at a speed that surprised the rest of the group, causing Volo to chuckle at both Honor's jibe, and the panic that had urged the thespian into action. "I'll go next," McKern replied, pausing only long enough for a body length to separate him from Passepout before joining the climb upward. "Now you," Honor told Volo, "and don't look down. I'll see you upstairs." Volo waited for the prescribed body length to separate himself from the old mage, and joined the climb, proceeding accordingly. The progress upward continued slowly, with the older mage and the corpulent thespian stopping every few steps to take a breath. On one of these intervals Volo paused for a moment to look down at Fullstaff, who he was sure would be climbing right behind him. The ladder below the master traveler was completely empty. * * * * * The wave of exhaustion Rassendyll felt from his ordeal thus far threatened to envelope him, as he fought to remain alert and conscious in the presence of this new threat. With false bravado, he brandished his father's sword. Rickman laughed.

"That's funny," the captain of the Hawks retorted. "I always thought that mages were forbidden to handle such vulgar and impure weapons as a saber—oh, that's right. . . your brother already took care of that little detail. You are a mage no more." Rassendyll took a step forward, careful to disentangle his feet from the body of the Thayan coward, his saber ready to strike. The captain of the Hawks laughed again. "Oh dearie me!" Rickman exclaimed sarcastically. "A simpleton new to the sword is coming at me. I must defend myself." Faster than the weary Rassendyll's eyes could follow, Rickman leaped and pivoted at the same time, and proceeded to hurl himself against the wall of the study. In the blink of an eye the human projectile had landed on the edge of the hearth, grabbed a pair of crossed swords from the wall, and propelled himself back in the direction of the High Blade's twin. Rassendyll ducked barely in time to avoid being skewered as part of the villainous Rickman's acrobatic act. "Well done!" the knave hailed. "I don't want this to be too easy. After all it isn't every day that I get to kill the two assassins who plotted against and killed my liege." Within a second, Rickman launched himself back at Rassendyll. The High Blade's twin raised his father's saber to deflect both blades, parrying the first while blocking the second with the hilt. "Not bad for one so new to the artistry of the blade," Rickman jeered. "If you weren't so obviously tired you might actually make a worthy opponent." Rassendyll shook his head quickly, trying to clear the cloud of exhaustion that pressed down upon his entire being. "Come, come," Rickman offered sarcastically. "Why don't you attack this time?

Maybe I should mention that your beloved Retreat is no more. All of your brethren were slaughtered. And shall I mention that I was the one who ordered their deaths?" Rage gripped Rassendyll as a new rush of adrenaline sent a lightning bolt of energy through his entire body. With all the fury of a berserker in a blood rage, he leaped forward, blade slashing through the air that separated him from the object of his fury. Rickman was prepared for the attack and sandwiched the saber's slicing strike between his own two blades, deflecting the efforts of the novice swordsman, and sending him spinning to the side. The captain of the Hawks could not resist further toying with his prey, and booted him in the rear as he spun by, sending the brother of the High Blade sprawling, Rassendyll barely held on to the sword of his father. "So sorry you tripped," Rickman mocked. "Killing well takes practice. Now let me see. Over the past few days I have killed a Thayan traitor ..." Rassendyll scrambled to his feet. "Ordered the deaths of the entire inhabitants of a monastery ..." The High Blade's twin thought he detected a sound from the hearth through which he had entered the room, but kept his eyes focused on the purveyor of bladed destruction in front of him. "Ordered the deaths of some of my own men, just to keep a few things secret..." Rickman sprang forward again, slashing at his prey, the tip of his blade nicking Rassendyll at the edge of his scalp. "How clumsy of me!" he taunted. "I bet you wish you had that iron mask on now." The captain of the Hawks hesitated for a moment as a new thought just crossed his mind. "Oh dear!" Rickman mocked. "I seem to have lost count. Did I mention that I also killed another of your kind? The blind wizard smith who fashioned that mask for you!"

"No!" The shout from the hearth startled both of the duelists, as McKern tried to race into the room having just climbed up the ladder moments in time to hear the taunting admission of Rickman to murdering his only brother. Rickman spun toward the hearth, ready to slice and dice the Cloak who was frantically trying to enter the room and extract his own vengeance. The captain of the Hawks was focused on this latest intruder, but failed to observe the now-prostrate form of Passepout, who had fallen forward at the mage's scream. The thespian had had the misfortune of being in front of the now enraged wizard and had belly-flopped out of the hearth and onto the carpet directly in front of the rampaging swordsman, catching Rickman's foot in his wake. Rickman realized this latest obstacle too late to stop himself from pitching forward. His frantic attempts at regaining his balance only succeeded in making his head come into contact with the hearth ledge, knocking him out. Both of his swords fell point first beneath him, skewering the prostrate form of the helpless Passepout as Volo peeked out from the secret entrance to observe the unfortunate proceedings. "No!" The master traveler now cried in vain. He could not stop the body already in motion.

18 Covering Tracks

In the High Blade's Chambers in the Tower of the Wyvern:

Volo rushed to the side of his impaled friend, scrambling past the equally horrified Mason McKern, and around the other two prostrate forms that littered the floor near the hearth. The master traveler unceremoniously cast the groggy form of Captain Rickman off the body of his obese and decidedly prone boon companion. Rickman began to groan; the concussion of the contact of his head against the hearth only succeeded in knocking him out for a moment, and in no time he would be in a groggy state of consciousness. "Oh, my head!" he mumbled as his hands vainly tried to make their way off the ground and up to his pate. "Ohhhhhh." Volo ignored the blackguard's cries of pain, and knelt by his boon companion, trying desperately not to look at the hilts of the duelist's two swords that swayed like flagpoles on the mountainous summit that was the body of his beloved Passepout. "Oh, son of Idle and Catinflas," the master gazetteer cried. The thespian opened his eyes, and a grimace of pain immediately passed over his face. "You are alive old friend!" Volo said softly, not yet sure how serious the thespian's wounds were. "Just barely," the son of Idle and Catinflas replied weakly. "Is there anything I can do, old friend?" Volo asked. "No, dear Volo," Passepout said a trifle dramatically. "Just allow me to pass from this life, here and now, in this pool of blood."

Volo felt on the verge of tears, and held the dying thespian's hand up to his face. "Courage, dear friend," he implored. "You are still warm, perhaps McKern can save you." "No," the master thespian insisted, "I already feel death's cold shadow as my heart pumps its last few ounces of blood into the river that feeds this pool of blood." Pool of blood, the master traveler thought to himself, it sounds so familiar. Volo looked down at the area around his bisected friend. The floor was dry, and nary a trace of blood was visible. Quickly the master traveler cast back the cloak from his prostrate friend's body, and observed the placement of the two blades, one sandwiched between two tree-sized thighs, the other nestled in the right armpit. In both cases, the thespian's skin was barely nicked. The master traveler laughed. "It serves me right, you lucky knave," the master gazetteer replied, as his thought-to-be-dying friend sat up with great vigor. " 'Twasn't luck, 'twas skill," the thespian replied. "It is imperative that a skilled actor know how to avoid an oncoming blade in a dying sequence if one wishes to have much of a career on the stage." "Pool of Blood was the title of one of the plays in your repertoire, if I recall correctly." "Indeed, it is," the thespian replied, "Ward's Folly, also known as The Pool of Blood, a real slaughterfest of a show." Out of the corner of his eye, Volo saw McKern. The old mage was still staring at the slowly recovering form of the captain of the Hawks, muttering under his breath. "You killed my brother," he murmured. "An honest man, a craftsman, a humanitarian. He served Mulmaster as best he could, trusting his superiors, and now

he is dead. He never saw it coming. My name is Mason McKern. You killed my brother; prepare to die!" As the grief-possessed mage rambled on, his rage increased, his fingers began to flex, and his exclamations of grief dissolved into arcane incantations. Rassendyll immediately recognized what was happening. "Back off Volo, Passepout!" he ordered. "Get away from the bodies!" Volo sprang to the side, while the chubby thespian responded with a quick roll to the right, seeking shelter behind a chair. The High Blade's twin approached the mage, who was in turn approaching Rickman. "Calm down, McKern," Rassendyll urged gently, trying not to notice the smoke that seemed to be coming from the old wizard's fingertips. "This is neither the time nor the place for a fireball." "Leave me be," Mason said sternly. "Your father's killer is dead, and my brother's killer should join him." For the third time in less than half an hour, a person announced their presence to the inhabitants of the room with a loud, prohibitive command. "No!" The mage, former mage, gazetteer, and thespian turned toward a sideboard located on the other side of the room which had just started to swing forward to reveal yet another secret passage, out of which stepped the imposing figure of the blind swordmaster, Honor Fullstaff. "The sentence of death will be carried out, old friend," Honor Fullstaff said with great certainty, "but not just yet. I am afraid that he might still be of use to us for just a little while longer."

McKern was torn between his desire for vengeance and the common sense preached by his old friend. The stern look on his old friend's face cast the deciding vote, as the old mage had no desire to cross Honor Fullstaff when he had already let his position be known. "Agreed," the old mage assented. "What's our next move?" * * * * * In the Apartment of Mischa Tam in the Thayan Embassy in Mulmaster:

Mischa Tam was beginning to get nervous. The cat's-paw who had been dispatched to attempt the assassination of Selfaril should have botched the job by now, she thought. Even if he had somehow managed to surprise the High Blade, surely he would not have been able to overpower him. And what about the Hawks? She had made darn sure that Rickman was aware of the plot as well and would be able to intervene and arrest the quivering maggot. A heinous thought crossed her mind. What if, somehow, the incompetent had succeeded? The First Princess would surely have her head, that is, if any of the Thayans managed to make it out of Mulmaster alive. Though the death of Selfaril was undoubtedly the eventual goal, timing was of the essence, and at the present, the time was not right. Mischa removed a talisman from inside her robe, and stared into its multi-faceted surface. "Do I dare to see through the eyes of the worm?" she whispered. She had to know. Mischa took out a piece of skin that had formerly belonged to the ambassador and

placed it on the talisman. She paused for a moment, reliving the disgust she felt at the measures that she had to take to obtain this living souvenir of the maggot, shuddered, and placed it onto the orb. The skin immediately melted into the talisman's surface. Wasting no time she held the orb up to her eye, and looked into its opaque surface as if it were a magnifying crystal. All she saw was darkness. Mischa considered the possibilities. Perhaps he is already dead, or unconscious . . . but unfortunately that still doesn't solve the problem. Concentrating with all her scrying powers, she once again looked into the orb, trying to backtrack through the images that had been recorded by the maggot before he had been enveloped by the darkness. The shadows gradually cleared. First she saw a dishevelled and unkempt High Blade ... a hearth... the High Blade better groomed, but obviously fatigued ... a crystal wand striking home into the heart of the mortally wounded Selfaril! Mischa dropped the orb in a panic. The fool actually succeeded in killing my sister's husband! A knock on her chamber door interrupted her panic. "Who is it?" she said with mock calm. "It is I, Mischa," announced the messenger, "Elijakuk." Mischa opened the door to allow in the Tharchioness's chancellor. "What is it?" she demanded, still trying to hide her own uneasiness. "The First Princess sent me for your part of the project," he said gravely. "I believe she desires to use it tonight. She fears that our window of opportunity is rapidly diminishing."

Mischa stifled a laugh at the inadvertent irony of the chancellor's last statement, and thanked Szass Tam for the news. My sister does not yet know of the fate of her husband! she thought in exultation. There may be a chance for me yet. Maintaining her composure, the Tharchioness's half sister went to her vanity table, reached into a secret compartment, and extracted the disk that she had treated with the appropriate oils and herbs to accomplish her part of the spell. She wrapped it in a silk scarf and handed it to the chancellor. "Her desire is my command," she said reverently. "My part is now complete." "The First Princess will be pleased," Elijakuk acknowledged her with a bow that included a pause to appreciate the Tharchioness's sister's ample cleavage. "Szass Tam be with you." Mischa cracked her best seductively serpentine smile. "And with you," she said sweetly, "but tarry no longer. We mustn't keep the First Princess waiting. She knows best. If she believes that time is of the essence, then who are we to dispute it?" "Indeed!" the chancellor agreed, a satyrlike smile on his lips. "Shall we go?" "No," she countered with a touch of mock regret. "You will travel faster and more discreetly, on your own. I will wait here to carry out any further orders from the First Princess should she desire me to do so." "I will return with further instructions," the chancellor said, giving Mischa's hand a quick kiss accented with a touch of the tip of his tongue, adding, "with great haste." "I will await," she responded with mock eagerness, as she closed the door behind him and let out a sigh of relief. Collecting her thoughts, her composure regained, the Thayan sorceress set about

gathering her things, for she had no intention of being around when the detritus flew from the waterwheel. "My sister will need a scapegoat and I have no intention of being available for that honor," she said aloud. In a matter of moments she had packed all she needed, and within the hour she had already stolen herself from the city of Mulmaster like a thief in the night, hoping to make the court of Szass Tam in enough time to state her case before the Tharchioness had issued her death warrant. The chancellor was quite disappointed later in the evening when he returned to her chamber having completed his appointed mission. When she failed to respond to his gentle taps on her door, he increased the force of each of the blows until he became afraid that he would wake up a neighboring minister before arousing the lovely Mischa. He quickly concluded that she must have already fallen into a sound sleep, and that a good night's rest would do him good as well, so that he would be amply refreshed when they resumed their tete-a-tete on the following day. Unbeknownst to him, he had missed the lovely Mischa by mere moments, and would never have the pleasure of seeing her again. * * * * * In the High Blade's Chambers in the Tower of the Wyvern:

Honor took Mason aside and exchanged furtive whispers with him as the others looked on, assuming that he was trying to calm his old friend down. Rickman, who had almost returned to consciousness was encouraged to remain out cold by Passepout, who utilized a firm blow to the captain's head with a ceramic bust that had been resting on a table near the mantlepiece. The portly thespian,

unfortunately misjudged the trajectory of the bust's blow, and nearly broke his own toe when its deflected path caused it to impact his foot. Volo and Rassendyll shared a stifled grin at their friend's minor misfortune, and then quickly moved to his side to console him and applaud his fast efforts in dealing with the deceitful Rickman. By the time the three had finished ascertaining that Passepout's foot was not even sprained, nor very badly bruised, McKern and Fullstaff had finished their exchange, and asked for all of their attentions. "Our paths herewith must diverge," the blind swordmaster maintained. "With Selfaril dead, we must quickly move to put Rassendyll in his place as the new High Blade of Mulmaster. What better way to do so than by having him assume Selfaril's identity?" "But. . ." Rassendyll began to protest, but quickly hushed when Honor's upraised hand signaled him to wait a minute. "Mulmaster without a High Blade in place would be easy prey for all takers in the Moonsea region, let alone the imperialist hungers of Azoun in Cormyr, and the residential threat of the Thayans, who already have exerted undue influence in our fair court." Rassendyll nodded in agreement, realizing that the older swordmaster was indeed correct in his assessment of the situation. "Therefore, we must slip you into his identity as quickly as possible," Mason added. "Honor and I will be right at your side all the time." "What about us?" Passepout interjected with a gesture indicating that he was referring to himself and Volo. "Indeed," Mason acknowledged with a nod. "Indeed," Honor seconded, and began to relate the second part of his plan. "In order for our plan to work, Mason and myself will have to be at Rassendyll's side at all times,

in case anyone should question him on some matter of state or of Selfaril's own business or history that our dear former mage may not be acquainted with. Unfortunately this leaves us with a task that we will be unable to perform. We beg that you please take care of it for us." "What is it?" Volo inquired, not sure that he could really trust that Honor had not already triaged his and Passepout's survival as being detrimental to the future greater glory of Mulmaster, as he so eloquently seemed to term it. "The body of Selfaril," Honor instructed, "must be disposed of so that no one ever discovers that the now former High Blade is dead." Passepout began to turn green at the thought of having to carry the body of the man who just earlier that evening had tried to kill him and his friends. "What do you propose?" Volo pressed, certain that Honor had already formulated a very specific plan. Volo was not disappointed. * * * * * In the Tharchioness's Boudoir in the Tower of the Wyvern:

"As you requested, First Princess," said a minister by the name of Greenstrit, having received the disk from Elijakuk. He handed the remaining part of the enchanted amulet to the Tharchioness. "Where is Mischa Tam?" she inquired, as she placed the disk into its proper setting. Separately the parts held little magic beyond the typical glamour spell that was an inherent part of all of the jewelry of Thayan noblewomen. "I thought for sure that she would want to be present for the total conjugation of all our efforts." "Elijakuk said that she awaits your bidding in her chambers," said the obsequious

minister. "After all, we can't be present for the full implementation of the spell." The Tharchioness cast a stare at him that could only be described as a death look. The minister embraced silence, and quietly prayed that his life would be spared. The amulet took on a subtle aura indicating that its empowerment was complete and the Tharchioness smiled, momentarily forgetting the minister's transgression. "The plan really was quite inspired," the Tharchioness admitted. "The fusing of several spell parts together—a glamour aura, a fertility orb, and a will binder, each developed in isolation so as to not attract the undue attentions of the infernal Cloaks . . . but not even they can secure Selfaril's own bedchamber from my magics. Since the will binder, anchored to my dear husband by the flakes of his own skin that were obtained during the height of passion at no undue expense of my own, never left our apartment, in its weakened, solitary form, there was no reason for anyone to be suspicious. I assure you no one will have the opportunity to detect it before I have put it to good use, which should be in a matter of minutes if I know my infernal husband." "Then I will leave, First Princess," Greenstrit said, turning to exit before another thought had entered her mind. With an obsequious bow, he hastened from the room. "Indeed," the Tharchioness replied absently, then added with a smile, "we can deal with your transgression later." The minister was no longer within earshot of the issuing of his death warrant. * * * * * Selfaril's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

Honor spoke with confidence, assurance, and authority. It was obvious to all present that he had no intention of considering anything less than the complete acceptance of his plan.

"As Mason and myself must remain with Rassendyll to assure the success of his masquerade, I am afraid that the task of disposing of the body in question must fall to you two non-sons of Mulmaster." "What about them?" Volo asked seriously, nudging the bodies of the wormlike ambassador and weasel-like captain of the Hawks who were both still enjoying the oblivious state of unconsciousness. "They must remain here," Honor said emphatically. "Mason will temporarily befuddle their brains with a feeblemind spell. They can then both be turned over to the proper authorities and charged with attacking the High Blade. No one will question the veracity of that story, and no one needs to know that they succeeded, since an attempt at the act itself commands the same sentence as its successful completion." Not even Passepout had to question what that sentence would be. "Okay," said Passepout agreeably, "we need to get rid of the body. I'm sure that Volo can manage that with no problem on his own. He is very resourceful after all. He and I can meet up later at some tavern or other. Yes, indeed, that sounds like a good plan, so I guess I can be off and running. This entire ordeal has increased my already ample appetite." Volo chuckled. He knew that Honor had other, more definitive plans in mind. "Surely you will not leave your friend on his own to complete this task?" Honor said sternly. "He doesn't mind," Passepout answered quickly, turning quickly to Volo. "Do you?" "Well. . ." the master traveler began to answer. "See," said the corpulent thespian. "Now if you will excuse me—" "Enough!" ordered the blind swordmaster. "Precautions must be taken. Both of you are to ferret the body back through the tunnels from whence we came, to the room in

which we removed the iron mask from Rassendyll's head. You are then to carefully place the halves together around the head of our now deceased High Blade. It will weld itself back together, and this well-known face will be permanently obscured until normal decomposition takes its toll." Passepout began to interrupt. "But. . ." Honor proceeded as if he hadn't heard the objection. "You will then carry the body out the other door of that chamber. Not the door that you entered, mind you, the other door. Follow the tunnel 'til you reach what appears to be a sewer hole. Drop the body down there. The current will bear it out to the bottom of the Moonsea in no time, far from prying eyes and dangerous minds." Rassendyll shuddered at the memory of his own journey through Mulmaster's sewer system. "From that point on, you two can find your way to the surface and do as you wish," Honor concluded. "Your services will no longer be required by that point." Volo fingered his beard for a moment to contemplate the alternatives. There weren't any. He had no desire to incur the immediate wrath of Mason and Fullstaff who seemed to have taken charge of the matters at hand by protesting the proposed plan of action. In order to prevent total anarchy, or worse yet, the further spread of Thayan tyranny, Rassendyll had to ascend to the throne. Honor's plan was sound, and no other choice was available for himself or Passepout. "The plan sounds fine," Volo finally concurred, "but how will we find our way? You were our guide on the trip to get here and, though I'm not a bad trailblazer if I do say so myself, I'm afraid that along the way I failed to notice any telltale signposts in the darkness, if you know what I mean." "We've already thought of that," Mason replied, reaching into his tunnel-soiled robe

and extracting an orb of luminescence. "This will light your way. As long as it glows gold, you will be on the right track. If it begins to fade, double back until the glow is restored to its previous luminescence, and then choose a different route. I am sure that you will be able to follow its guidance." Passepout snatched the orb from Mason's hand and volunteered, "I'll carry the orb, you carry the body." Volo chuckled. He had forgotten how fast the pudgy fellow could move when encouraged by hunger, fear or self-preservation. He concurred, and began to ready the body for transport. "Mind if I wrap the corpse in the curtains?" the master traveler asked. "It will make it easier to carry and a lot less messy. Bloodstains are so hard to get out of cloaks these days." "As you will," Honor replied, his tone dead serious. The master traveler began to wrap the corpse, then paused a moment, and turned back to the blind man who had taken charge. "Just one question, Honor," Volo added. "How did you get up here so fast? You didn't take the ladder we did. I looked back while climbing and you weren't there." "My good friend Merch had installed a pulley-operated lift on the other side of the chamber that let me off on the other side of the wall of that closet. Unfortunately it can only carry one at a time, and time was of the essence, so rather than fighting over its use, I sent the rest of you up the ladder and employed it myself." "Does that mean we can use it instead of the ladder?" Passepout asked hopefully, remembering his own feelings of vertigo during the ascent. "I'm afraid not," Honor replied with out a trace of regret in his voice. "The pulley automatically resets itself, and dispatches the lift back to the bottom of the shaft."

"Wonderful," the chubby thespian said dolefully. "You'd better be off," Honor instructed, adding, "good luck." "And to you as well," Volo returned, tarrying a moment to specifically single out Rassendyll with, "and especially to you." "Thanks," the former mage-in-training acknowledged, "and thanks for your help." "Don't mention it," the master traveler replied, hoisting the curtain-wrapped body of the dead High Blade over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As he left he couldn't resist adding, "and give my best to the Tharchioness." A look of panic crossed Rassendyll's face at the thought of what he was about to do, but neither Volo or Passepout saw it, as they had already begun their descent back down the ladder to the bowels of Mulmaster.

19 Changing Blades

In the Study of the High Blade in the Tower of the Wyvern:

"Now get a hold of yourself," Honor told Rassendyll. "Mulmaster needs you." "But I am not High Blade material," the former mage-in-training insisted. "A week ago I was just another scholastic at the Retreat, learning the wizardly craft." Mason approached the surviving twin from the other side, and put his arm around him. "Those days are gone. You have taken up your father's sword, and must live up to his legacy, rather than stain it like your brother." "But all of my studies," Rassendyll insisted. "I was to be a mage just like you." "Is that what you chose?" Honor inquired. "As I recall, that was a fate that was thrust upon you. Now, as fate would have it, a different future awaits you." "You have already proven yourself as heir to the sword mastery of your father, with a little help from the weapon's own memory of course. Soon that training will become as much a second nature to you as the wizardly arts once were," Mason assured. "It was due to the treachery of others that your own father was killed, let alone your brethren at the Retreat, and my own brother. Their deaths must be avenged, against all who dare to defile our beloved Mulmaster." Rassendyll looked at the two old men in whom he now had to place his trust. Both had been friends of his father, and both put Mulmaster and its glory above all else. He had to admit that neither quality was anything less than admirable, and that their sole objective was just. Mulmaster needed a High Blade, and he was the only one who would be capable of

pulling off the masquerade. "I know what you are thinking," Mason said, "and you are right except in one respect. This will no longer be a masquerade. You are the High Blade, the son of Merch Voumdolphin, and Lord Protector of Mulmaster. The masquerade took place while your brother held the throne. Your father would have wanted you to succeed him; why else were you sent to be schooled in secrecy if not to one day return and succeed him?" "What about the Tharchioness?" Rassendyll asked, absently cooperating with Mason as he began to undress the surviving twin. One of the High Blade's robes and a basin of water had been readied while they were talking. "She is to all outward appearances your wife," Honor admitted, "but such matters of diplomacy as your marriage must be dealt with gently." "I hate her, and all that her Red Wizards stand for!" Honor and Mason looked at each other and smiled. "That is good," Honor admitted, "and it will be my job, with Mason's help, of course, to make sure that you continue to think so clearly, for the good and solidarity of Mulmaster, let alone the entire Moonsea." Rassendyll nodded in agreement, but repeated his question. "But what about the Tharchioness?" "I am sure you will be able to deal with her," Honor assured. "After all you are the High Blade, aren't you?" "Indeed, it appears so." Honor smiled. "Let us call your valet," Honor instructed. "You should be well cleaned up by the time he arrives. The two assailants can be turned over to him, and you can launch your new life."

Mason put his hand up to the surviving twin's head, and muttered a few words. Instantaneously, Rassendyll felt the onrush of a cacophony of unrelated messages. "There," Mason said, "just a little background to help you along. I'm sure you can pick up the rest in medias res." Rassendyll reached across the desk, and felt for a stud that was hidden between the drawers. He pressed it to summon his valet. "And so it begins," the High Blade said, already beginning to feel the weight and responsibilities of office that had not been shouldered for a very long time. Then a new thought crossed his mind. "What about Volo and Passepout?" he asked evenly. "They will not be a threat, I assure you," Honor replied. "I don't want them harmed," Rassendyll ordered, "unless it can't possibly be avoided, and then only if the security of Mulmaster is in jeopardy." "Agreed," the two elder men said in unison, neither wishing to clarify their answer. * * * * * Beneath the city of Mulmaster:

The normally indefatigable Volo began to tire of carrying Selfaril's corpse and opted to drag it after several wrong choices in the darkness had caused them to backtrack several times. "Maybe I should be the navigator," Volo offered to Passepout. "I am the master traveler after all." Passepout considered the offer for a moment. The slight bit of appetite that he felt back in the High Blade's study had metamorphosed into a ravenous hunger, and he had no desire to delay its satiation any longer than he had to, nor did he want to carry

the body either. "Why don't we just leave it here?" the pudgy thespian suggested. "No one will find it. We don't even know where we are." "That's the exact reason why we can't leave it here," Volo answered. "That light in your hand is programmed to lead us on a certain path. Do you want to risk running afoul of a powerful mage's magics?" Passepout didn't have to answer and returned his focus to choosing yet another underground corridor, hoping desperately that the orb would not begin to dim once again. * * * * * The two travelers and their deceased burden finally found their way back to the room in which Mason had removed the iron mask from Rassendyll's head. The two halves of the magically insulating/leeching metal were still right where they left them. "Well, we certainly took a roundabout way to get here this time," Volo concluded. "That which took us bare minutes before, seems to have taken hours now." "My stomach feels like it has been days," Passepout said, as he went to fetch the halves of the mask. "Careful," Volo advised sharply. "I know, I know," Passepout said with a pout. "I have to keep the two halves of the mask apart until we have them in position around the stiff's head." "That's not what I was referring to." The exasperated Passepout turned around and placed his hands on his ample hips, and said in his most long-suffering voice, "Well, what then?" "The luminescent orb," Volo replied. "Keep it away from the mask. We don't want our only source of light to go out on us do we?"

"I didn't think of that," the thespian admitted, and carefully placed it on the ground between them. As Volo unwrapped the head of the corpse, Passepout brought the iron mask's two halves over to him, one at a time. "Would you like to do the honors?" Volo asked, already knowing the answer. "No," the thespian replied with a shudder. "Well, I'll need your help anyway," Volo countered. "I'll lift the stiff's head off the ground. You set the mask half underneath it. Then I'll lower its head back down, and place the other half on top. Agreed?" "Agreed," Passepout said reluctantly. Like clockwork the two went through the procedure as outlined by Volo. Though Mason had clearly told them what would happen when the two parts were placed in contact with each other, both of the travelers were awed by the magical glow that began to permeate the metal and fuse the two halves together. Once the glow had dissipated, Volo lifted the corpse into a sitting position to observe their handiwork. It was then that the two travelers noticed that they had put the iron mask on backwards with the sight and breathing holes affording them three clear little windows to the back of the dead High Blade's head. Volo looked at Passepout, who returned his scathing look. "Well, it's not like he's going to need to do much seeing or breathing," the thespian offered, "given his current condition and all." The master traveler chuckled. His friend did indeed have a point. Taking a deep breath, he heaved the now heavier corpse back onto his back, and the two travelers set off through the door that they had not used to enter the chamber. * * * * *

As luck would have it, the traveling twosome made the right choices in the dark, and in a matter of minutes they had located the open hole to the sewer. "Whew!" Passepout said aloud as he looked down the hole. "This really stinks." "Then this must be the place," Volo replied, unceremoniously dropping the iron-masked corpse down the hole. After a few seconds they heard what sounded like a far-off splash, at which point they knew that the man whose last goal had been the rebuilding of the Mulmaster navy, was embarking on his final journey out to sea. "Where to now?" Passepout asked. "I'm hungry." "Back to the surface, I guess," Volo said guardedly. The master traveler was not surprised when, seconds later, the orb's luminescence went out completely. It was possible that the spell that Mason had cast on it had been adversely affected by the magic-leeching mask ... or perhaps it had simply fulfilled the task that had been assigned to it. Volo turned his attention to keeping his frightened friend from panicking, and frantically tried to formulate a plan that would return them to the daylight and salvation. The master traveler had no desire to spend the rest of his days in total darkness, no matter how few they might turn out to be, but there was equally no sense in wandering around in the dark without the benefit of a torch or talisman. As Passepout began to cry, the master traveler tried to think harder for a possible solution. * * * * * In the Bedchamber Shared by the High Blade and the Tharchioness, in the Tower of the Wyvern:

Rassendyll entered his brother's bedchamber, prepared for the next trial of the

neverending night. "I've been waiting," the Tharchioness said seductively, "and you know how I hate that." "We have a slight problem," he said, still no more than a step inside the chamber. "I was attacked in my study." The Tharchioness drew her hand up to the talismanic brooch that rested nestled between her silken breasts. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice the epitome of concern. "Yes," he replied. "I was meeting with an old associate of my father whom I have decided to take on as an advisor. Together, we subdued the blackguards." The Tharchioness's ears perked up at the word "blackguards." "Did you say blackguards, as in more than one," she inquired. "Yes," Rassendyll replied, "one of mine and one of yours." The Tharchioness's fingers began to massage the broach in a nervous, rhythmic pattern. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly. "It appears that one of your ambassadors and the captain of the Hawks seemed to have been planning a coup," Rassendyll replied, repeating the story that Honor and Mason had advised him to tell. "Are you sure you are all right?" she asked, kneeling up on the silken sheets of their marriage bed. "I don't know what I would do if you had been killed." "I'm just a little winded and a bit tense from the ordeal," he replied, "so I think I will be sleeping alone tonight." The Tharchioness thought quickly and knew the proper response. "I understand," she said sweetly, "but will you at least kiss me good night?" Rassendyll assessed the shapely form of the woman who was his brother's wife, his

eyes immediately drawn to the talismanic brooch that seemed to be casting off an aura of some kind. She noticed his eyes' fixation on the brooch, and said, "Do you like it? I had it specially made." "It's very nice," he replied, wondering what the focus of its enchantment was, "but I should be going." The Tharchioness pouted, and said, "The kiss?" "Of course," he replied, stepping forward to comply. The Tharchioness stood before he could bend over, and quickly enveloped him in a total embrace, her lips locked on his, her tongue dancing into his mouth. He tried to match her passion touch to touch, pausing for a lingering moment as if he actually loved her and was trying to prolong the interval before they had to part. He felt her firm and ample bosoms rubbing against the chest that she had discreetly bared by pulling his robes apart, the metals of the amulet making contact with his skin. They parted after a moment, and he opened his eyes. The Tharchioness was smiling, confident of her victory. On the matrimonial battlefield of wills and diplomacy, she would emerge the victor. Mulmaster would be hers. "Well, I'll see you in the morning," he replied, and began to head toward the door. The Tharchioness was momentarily speechless. "Don't you want to stay?" she sputtered, trying to understand what could have gone wrong with the spell. "Of course I do," he replied, "but I have much to attend to tomorrow." Rassendyll paused for a moment, and added sharply, "and I am tired, I thought I had explained that!"

"Yes, my High Blade," she said instinctively. Rassendyll left the chamber. He correctly surmised that the brooch that she had been wearing must have had some charm spell attached to it that was designed to work on his brother. He made a mental note that he would have to be especially careful in dealing with her sorcerous ways in the future. Once the door had closed, the Tharchioness let loose with a string of obscene epithets directed at the incompetence of all of her ministers. The amulet had not worked and they would pay! Little did she realize that it would be the last time she would see the man she thought to be her husband in the privacy of their bedchamber. * * * * * Beneath the City of Mulmaster:

Volo put his arm around his corpulent friend. The grown man had stopped crying and seemed resigned to the fact that the two of them would die together in the darkness. Despite the telltale rumblings of his impatient stomach, nary a complaint or whine issued from his lips. Idle and Catinflas would be proud, thought the master traveler. Volo passed the time with his friend relating tales of his expedition to the Underdark. What seemed like hours passed, and still the master traveler was without a plan. The irregular contours of the ground and walls, and the frequent underground cliffs overlooking bottomless pits made groping around in the dark unadvisable. Had he had ample time to prepare for this excursion in the darkness, there would have been numerous precautions against situations such as this that he would have taken, but unfortunately such was not the case.

The master traveler's thoughts drifted back to Honor Fullstaff and Mason McKern. He was still not quite sure if they had planned for this to happen once he and Passepout had fulfilled their mission, but was quite confident that neither member of the old guard of Mulmaster had the least bit of concern for himself or his friend's lives now that their task had been performed. In fact, to a certain degree, they might even be more comfortable with their now assured permanent silence on the matters that had recently transpired. Volo sighed, but Passepout seemed not to notice, having slipped into an almost catatonic state of despairing acceptance. The master traveler was fairly confident that he could find their way back to the sewer hole and would have been willing to accept the risks involved in surviving the subterranean trip out to sea, had he not also been confident that his dear friend would never have survived such a journey. If no alternative came to them shortly, they would have to take the risk. Passepout bolted upright, his nose sniffing the air. "What's that?" the portly thespian asked urgently. "What's what?" the master traveler responded. "I smell breakfast rolls," Passepout replied. Volo sniffed the air, but was unable to detect a change in the aroma of their locale. He feared that his friend was beginning to hallucinate, until he heard what seemed like the soft patting of slippered footsteps on the underground path. "Well, can you smell it?" the thespian asked desperately. "Hush!" Volo commanded. "I think someone is coming." "Friend or foe?" Passepout asked in a quivering whisper. "I don't know," Volo answered, "but we'll find out soon enough. Whoever they are

they're coming closer." Volo looked in the direction that he and his friend had come from, and saw the beginnings of a torch's glow entering the chamber in which they now sat, soon followed by the silhouette of either their savior or the latest threat to their existence. "Well, it's about time I found you two," Chesslyn said, a bit of good-natured impatience in her voice. "Breakfast is almost stone cold." The Harper secret agent reached into her pack, and handed the two travelers breakfast buns. Passepout devoured his immediately, and looked longingly at Volo's. The master traveler gladly offered it to his friend, who gratefully accepted. Volo stood up, and hugged their savior. "What took you so long?" he said happily. "I'm a good tracker," she replied, "but not that good. Honor sent a message instructing me that what had transpired over the past few days had never taken place, and that it was only because I had been his favorite student that he knew that I would understand. He then made mention of his being grateful for my part in the beginnings of the restoration of Mulmaster to its former glory. That was it." "I see." said Volo cautiously. "Since he never mentioned you or Passepout, I naturally assumed something had happened," she explained, "and since you still owe me that chance to get to know you better, I decided to trace your steps from where I left you the other night and, voila, here I am." "In the nick of time, I might add," Passepout interjected. "I had despaired of ever eating again." Chesslyn handed him another breakfast bun and turned her attention back to Volo. "Do you think it's safe for us to return with you to Mulmaster?" the master traveler

asked guardedly. "I think so," Chesslyn answered. "Though Honor might allow you to disappear without a trace, I don't think he would actually lift a hand to have you removed, given the current business in court. It might attract too much unwanted attention. You should be safe around town for at least the next few days." "Just enough time for us to get further acquainted," the master traveler offered. "My thoughts exactly," she agreed with a smile. The two held romantic eye contact in the shadowy subterranean chamber, until Passepout once again injected himself into their conversation. "Do you think you can show us the way out of here?" he asked. "Certainly," she replied, handing him the last of the buns, "just let me rearrange my pack and we can be on our way." "Wonderful!" the chubby thespian replied. As the Harper secret agent attended to her preparations, Passepout turned to his traveling companion and whispered assuredly, "See, I told you she liked me." "Indeed," the master traveler replied, giving his friend a good-natured pat on the back. "Indeed." "Wonderful!"

Epilogue

Over the previous few days Mulmaster was a flurry of activities. Two different executions were held with the normal accompaniment of festive fanfare. Former captain of the Hawks Sir Melker Rickman was executed for conspiracy to incite treason. He was hung from the scaffold in front of the keep that had housed his offices. The customary last words of the accused were dispensed with as the prisoner's tongue had been removed immediately upon his incarceration. His lifeless corpse was allowed to hang in state for a full day before the annoyance and public health concerns necessitated it be removed. Farther down the road, and a day later, the Thayan embassy added to the festivities when the Tharchioness hosted an execution of her own as former ambassador and envoy, Joechairo Lawre, a wormlike politician of the worst sort, was publicly incinerated at the stake by a fireball cast by the First Princess herself. The crowd that gathered was quite impressed since nary a cry of mercy or anguish escaped the Red Wizard's lips as the flames engulfed him, the crowd being quite ignorant that his tongue, also, had been removed upon his arrest. As he was a Thayan national, he was thus executed by a duly empowered representative of Thay, and it was not necessary for him to be charged, or the execution justified. Among the members of the court, there was rumor that the charge was similar to that of Rickman; or perhaps it was just, according to those who knew the ambassador, simple incompetence. The Mulman mob didn't really care about justifications or the whys and wherefores—they just turned out for an afternoon's entertainment. Curiously enough, the High Blade and his bride presided over both occasions. The crowds interpreted this as further evidence of the diplomatic alliance that began

with their nuptials, a sense of mutuality of their governmental responsibilities, and the development of a further closeness between the leaders whose marriage of diplomatic advantage may have evolved into something deeper between the two individuals. Rumors abounded among the mob that they had mutually agreed that the time had come for them to assume the responsibilities of parenthood. Those closer to the respective thrones thought otherwise. The paradoxically amorous/antagonistic dynamic that had existed between the two had seemed to vanish overnight, and with its departure came several noticeable changes in their retinues. In addition to the arrests of Rickman and Lawre, both entourages underwent a change in personnel. A blind old swordmaster and former Hawk by the name of Fullstaff was appointed as chief advisor to the High Blade, and an equally geriatric mage by the name of McKern was appointed first consul, much to the chagrin of Senior Cloak Thurndan Tallwand. The overnight ascension of these two former retirees was looked upon with some amazement by the High Blade's court, particularly since both individuals, though officially still citizens of Mulmaster, had had next to no involvement in the government for more years than anyone seemed able to remember. The changes to the First Princess's party were mostly in the form of deletions. Mischa Tam, as well as several ministers who had formerly been considered among the First Princess's inner circle, were noticeably absent. The ministers had evidently opted to return to Eltabbar at very short notice, while the Tharchioness's half sister felt the need to avoid that domain and seek the counsel of the great Szass Tam instead, a move that those in the know realized to be tantamount to choosing between the lady and the tiger. A new ambassador of obviously weak character had made an appearance, and the lower level Thayan functionaries were already taking bets on his

life expectancy. The third day of festivities was brought to a close by a public address by the High Blade himself in which he swore to return Mulmaster to its former days of glory. He then went on to announce that due to the priority of accelerating the rebuilding of the navy, the city would be unable to offer any financial assistance to Eltabbar during their recovery from their devastating earthquake. The needs, security, and goals of Mulmaster were always to be the first concern, and it was his intention that nothing was to get in its way on its chosen path to become the power center of the entire Moonsea region. The crowd cheered, failing to notice the icy glare that the Tharchioness cast in her husband's direction. He then went on to declare that the First Princess would indeed be cutting her conjugal visit short so that she could attend to her own matters of state back in Thay. He pointed out that it was important that all realize that matters of state must come first, and that in all things the glory of Mulmaster was to be his number one concern. Fullstaff and McKern exchanged a secret wink and a conspiratorial grin between themselves as they saw their long-term goals and wishes finally coming to fruition. The crowd cheered again, and no one noticed that the Tharchioness and her aides had quietly left the stand and were probably already on their way back to Mulmaster. Over the past few nights the First Princess had had more than enough time to pack, as the High Blade had chosen his private quarters to spend his nights in solitude. Though Selfaril had commanded the respect of the mob on numerous occasions, no one could recall a time when he had earned as much acclamation as the High Blade did on this day. Worries of the encroachment of Thayan interests on Mulmaster's sovereignty were put to rest at last.

The High Blade went on to conclude that the following day would also be a holiday in honor of his father, the former High Blade, for whom respect and praise was long overdue. The next day would begin their journey onward to the glory of all Mulmaster. The High Blade took a seat, exhausted at the emotional speech he had just given. Fullstaff and McKern gave his shoulders a subtle squeeze of encouragement and affirmation. Rassendyll knew that he had a tough job ahead of him, but that was the least a High Blade owed his city. *

*

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*

*

"I never thought of Mulmaster as much of a party town," Passepout said. "I guess first impressions can be misleading, especially when your first night is spent in jail." The master traveler chuckled and replied, "I have to remember to put that in my next book under 'extremely useful axioms for travelers.' " Passepout laughed, adding, "And of course I will be given proper attribution." "Of course," Volo replied. "Maybe I can talk my publisher into another book. The Words, Wisdom, and Observations of Passepout, son of Idle and Catinflas." "The Famous Thespians," the rotund actor corrected. "It has to be Idle and Catinflas, the Famous Thespians." "Of course, old friend," Volo said, slapping Passepout on the back just as he was about to quaff yet another tankard of ale. "How else will anyone know which Passepout we are talking about?" "Or which Idle and Catinflas," the rotund actor added. Changing the subject just slightly, the thespian asked, "Do you really think Tyme Waterdeep, Limited would publish it?" "I don't see why not," the master traveler said, holding back a fiendish grin so as not to betray his levity. "They seem to have done well with The Underdark Diet, and given

the scope of the contents of the book we are now discussing, it's not as if it will require a huge investment in paper or printing time, it being such a short book and all." "Agreed," said Passepout in all seriousness, "and if it doesn't cost them that much to do, they will be able to pay me more." "Of course," Volo replied, adding a single sticking point, "once you've turned the book in." "You mean I have to write it first?" "Of course." Passepout became visibly disheartened, refilled his tankard, and turned his attention back to the merriment at hand. Speaking of books, Volo thought, I'd better make sure that my notes are properly in order. Instead of my guide to the Moonsea, a book-length expose on the goings-on in Mulmaster will no doubt top the charts and line my pockets with gelt in no time. The master traveler's dreams of wealth were interrupted by the arrival of Chesslyn with whom he had shared almost as many festivities as he had the risks, dangers, and adventures of the days previous. "Volo," she said sweetly, "may I have a word with you?" "But of course," the master traveler said guardedly. He had no desire to break the poor girl's heart, but figured that the time had come to let her know that he wouldn't be sticking around, and that, though he would always cherish the memories, he didn't believe in making any commitments that would result in the diminishing of the options that might make themselves available to him. The master traveler put his arm around the secret Harper, and the two wandered away from the crowd. Volo looked back, saw that Passepout was making conversation with yet another serving wench, and decided that his traveling companion would be

safe for at least the next few minutes. Arriving at a tree whose branches managed to droop in such a way as to provide an enclosed and secluded seating area for those agile enough to maneuver themselves within, the two settled in away from the mob for their tete-a-tete. "Will this do?" the master traveler asked, brushing a lock of the swordswoman's hair away from her face with the back of his hand. "Looks good to me," Chesslyn replied. "Secluded, private, just the thing. The locals call it the Necking Tree." The master traveler sighed. He really didn't want to hurt the feelings of his latest conquest, but all unfinished business had to be resolved before he moved on. In his best helluva guy tone, he began to let her down easily. "You know, Chesslyn," he started, "we have shared some times that many would be jealous of, and I would like to think that we have grown close enough that we can tell each other anything, and that is why I must..." "My thoughts exactly," Chesslyn interrupted, "and that is the only reason why I feel that I should be the one to let you know what has been decided." "Now I know that . . ." The master traveler was startled. "Decided? Who decided what?" he asked, shaking his head to try to make sense of the situation. "My superiors, back in Shadowdale," she replied. "That's the who," Volo said tentatively. "What's the what?" Oh no, she didn't, the master traveler thought to himself in a panic he managed to keep secret from Chesslyn. I've always heard the rumor that Harpers had to ask their superiors for permission to marry, but. ... "Now, Chesslyn," Volo said cautiously, "I hope you didn't rush into anything. I always prefer to proceed with caution in all matters, looking before I leap, etc."

"That's what I figured," Chesslyn said confidently, "that's why I knew you wouldn't mind if I sent a message to Storm back in Shadowdale about your involvement in the goings-on and all in case there were any concerns that you should be made aware of before even considering doing a book on Mulmaster." "What?" "The what is your book," she replied seriously. "My superiors, and indeed Elminster himself, feel that you should forget that any of the events at hand ever happened." Volo shook his head in confusion. "I don't understand," the master traveler replied. "I thought..." ". . . that it would probably be the basis of a great book," Chesslyn interrupted again, "and it probably will, but for the sake of the balance of power in the Moonsea region, and perhaps all of Faerun for that matter, it is a story best left untold. To everyone but those who were involved, and my superiors of course, nothing has happened." The master traveler's head was still buzzing in confusion. "But I thought," he sputtered, "you wanted to talk about us, and . . ." "... that I would intercede for you," Chesslyn interjected, "and I did, but balance is more important than personal gain. Surely you agree, don't you?" "Well, yes, but..." Chesslyn stopped for a moment as if a new thought had just occurred to her. Her expression softened. "That is what you were referring to," she said softly, "about us?" Volo leapt at the opportunity to save face. "Of course," he said in mock confidence, quickly averting his face so that she couldn't look in his eyes. "Still, you have to admit that such a book would have great potential." "Enough potential to get you in even more trouble than you were over Volo's Guide

to All Things Magical," she pointed out, "and I was instructed to point that out to you." "Point made," Volo acknowledged, his voice showing the dejection he felt. Chesslyn put her arm around the depressed author, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Don't be so glum," she said. "You can still do the book that you originally intended to, and you have to admit you enjoyed some good times while doing the research." Volo quickly regained his composure, and with a bit of false bravado, responded, "Agreed. Maybe not the best of times, but certainly not the worst of times." "Well, I had a good time," the Harper admitted. "And I did too," the gazetteer assented, "and now it's time to move on." "Agreed." The two shared a quick kiss in the privacy offered by the Necking Tree, and then returned to the hustle and bustle of the mob to rejoin Passepout. As they walked back, Volo shared a few softly voiced thoughts with the Harper agent. "You know," he pointed out, "there is no guarantee that Rassendyll will make a more peaceful High Blade. With all that talk of returning Mulmaster to its former glory, who knows what can happen?" "Agreed," Chesslyn answered. "And Fullstaff and McKern are both nice guys and all, don't get me wrong, but they aren't exactly the type of guys who aren't willing to have the end justify the means." "Why do you think I didn't let them know of my Harper affiliation?" she pointed out. "Even though Honor was my nearest and dearest teacher and mentor, I only share that little secret tidbit with those nearest and closest to my heart." Volo brightened for a moment, and immediately hid his reaction, as there were some things the master traveler felt embarrassment about acknowledging.

As they approached the spot from whence they had come, Volo saw Passepout get slapped by a serving wench and saw a burly bouncer about to add his own two cents' worth of contusions to the beleaguered thespian. "Duty calls," Volo replied, as he set off to help his friend. "For both of us," Chesslyn answered, squeezing the master traveler's hand. "Farewell." " 'Til we meet again, and may it be soon." "Agreed." With nary another kiss the two parted, and set off to right the matters at hand, Chesslyn back to the temple where she worked, and the master traveler to aid the about to be assaulted Passepout, his boon companion, and once again, friend in need.